Ice Ice Baby!

As the plane touched down, I gazed out the window, i wanted to remember my first impressions of Iceland.

The first thing I noticed whilst looking out of my small window was it was covered in a thin film of ice, like crystals they shinned in the moonlight... the penny dropped- this is why they call it Iceland.

After disappointingly going through passport control and receiving only a standard EU stamp when I was in pursuit of something much more exotic, I boarded a coach bound for the YHA- the bus driver, extremely jovial given it was 1:00am delighted in taking me.

With eyes glued to the window, I noticed a low rise landscape of grey pebbled ash buildings with only the occasional splash of colour and neons lighting up the black night.

From my window the influence of American culture surprised me- hot dog bars, pizza and American kebab shops made up most of the food outlets i saw from the bus. The roads were wide and i could not help but thinking i was in an Artic version of Canberra. Not surprising that Reykjavik has a population just over 100, 000 is built by a harbour (that looks like Lake George) and is surrounded by mountains (although ice capped).

Up early the next morning after only a short sleep, I went on a whale watching adventure, braving the cold in my pink puffa jacket that Jen gave me- I resembled a walking doona. I boarded my boat and was quickly overcome with cold- lucky for me i was given all in one fishing overalls- tre sexy but I did manage to regain the feeling in my legs.

Dolphins played by the boat and i was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of some minke whales diving near by. Unfortunately, my usual quick action with the camera was lost- perhaps because my arms were near freezing and i only got one picture where you can make out clearly 3 dolphin fins.

By afternoon I was exhausted and skipped my planned sight seeing trip to Reykjavik preferring sleep to a city that looked empty and uninspiring by night.

That evening i went to the blue lagoon, Iceland's most famous sight. Situated near a power station, it is a lagoon with milky aqua water that smells like egg farts to the untrained nose (I heard later it was sulphur- it stinks).

I did what all people do and rubbed silica mud onto all exposed parts and received a nice body mask, I sat in the sauna and delighted in the steam room- not a bad way to spend a Friday night and watch as the sun set in shades of pinks and yellows that you never knew existed against a barren black landscape.

On Saturday,I went into the wilderness and braved the severe cold, sleet that whipped your your face like a cat of nine tails and rain that got you drenched in seconds. I saw Guilfoss a spectacular waterfall, an old volcano and i went to Iceland's largest lake- the scenery at times reminded me of the dartmoores in in the UK- it is vast, empty and the land of big sky country- it feels like you can see forever.... snow capped mountains, icey ledges, rocks, cliffs and moss all in abundance. You could be forgiven for thinking it could be the set of the next mad max film, so rugged and beautiful it is.

I learnt a lot abut Iceland during the day- it is self sufficient in carrots, has over 75,000 horses and had its first cockroach epidemic in 2003.

By nightfall, having amassed a group of friends comprises some Americans, a couple of English and some Spaniards we hit the town in earnest- bur only after finishing a couple of bottles of vodka... after dancing at some of the hippest clubs in town we collapsed in bed at 5:00am just in time for a few hours sleep.

Up at 7:00am I was off on my next adventure.... a visit to the biggest glacier in Europe- the day was spent wavering from exhaustion to pure delight. At the glacier I drove a skidoo across the landscape- managed to go sideways a few times (thought that would impress the boys) and hit 80 kilometres at my top speed. At times the sky was not separated from the snow and it felt like walking on fairy floss.

I ended my day gasping at the briliance and beauty on the edge of a massive waterfall (i forget its name now) but it was breath taking.

I stumbled home just in time for a few hours sleep before my 7:00am flight back to London.

Truly a wonderful weekend!

XX

The local

just a snap of the pub two doors down from my house....

At home now

Today I am at home sick from work, I am suffering from a head cold and have spent most of the day oscillating from sleep to blog and back to sleep again.

I thought I was about time I did some maintenance on my site and given that my Internet and PC are now both working at home- look out.

I can't promise the excitement or the adventure that I provided you with from Asia.

The last few weeks have seen me really dig my nails into London- little routines have developed and I feel like an official resident. Signs include the fact that I recently received my National Insurance number in the mail... similar to a tax file number, I also have a 12 month mobile phone contract and I own more books than one could ever read in a lifetime.... i just love them!

This weekend, James Rigney, George Nguyen (Uni Mates) and I checked out the Temple Walk About- a terrible brand of Australian themed pubs that broadcast the best sport-noticed the prominance of setanta Conor... unfortunately I missed watching the swans live but I heard about their defeat... we watched Liverpool take on Arsenal.... and old favourite Peter Crouch got an amazing hat trick- is there nothing he cant do.... boys???

I have let myself love soccer and am learning the talk and will enter fantasy football tipping contest next season... boys send your tips... I would love to teach English boys in my office a lesson. Conor maybe i could enter the same team you do??

On Sunday, James and I went to Hoxten Square- apparently the coolest place for people to be seen in the east end on Sunday afternoons. I laughed out loud at the cool kids in abundance- it seems that fashion here whilst similar to Sydney is so OTT. If i see another person in fluro tight jeans i will vomit... and the sun glasses... white sunnies never suited anyone, least of all a pastie English people!

It seems that people try and look ugly on purpose and choose to wear colours that don't match, fabrics that clash and shapes that are wrong on purpose- i wonder if it is for attention or the look? I realise now that i am turning into an old lady and i will soon be the one that says 'turn it down' and 'in my day' ....

I am off to Iceland this weekend, which should be spectacular- i will go to the blue lagoon, wat ch whales, ride a snow mobile across a glacier and take a trip to the golden circle...a lot for one weekend. I toyed with the idea of a side trip to Greenland but i figure one Arctic adventure per month is enough for the kid.

Write of Iceland soon.

XX

Back on Track

I wanted to stick some more pics on here to document my daily life.... the view from my bedroom

more apologies

view on my street-in snow

Since arriving in London, I have not written very much, not because of lack of inspiration, the city buzzes with energy and it feels like every day I discover something new; about the place; myself; or both.

I like the adventure and the knowledge quest this city has become to me. It feels like I am always finding something new, looking at the same things but each day seeing the light reflect things another way and things feel like they are becoming clearer every second I am here. Pangs of joy readily escape when I discover a new short cut, or simply how things meet up together… the other day I discovered china town hiding just behind Soho.

The feelings of suffocation I felt I suffered seem to have evaporated and I whilst I am still battling the mundane in many ways it is just so much more exciting here... for the moment.

My job is going well but has been a massive adjustment. I have discovered I know nothing about the market or my clients and the processes at my office feel so anti user that my first few weeks have been hard. Couple this with the fact that most brits seem to be more reserved and just not Australian… it has been an exciting but challenging time.

The more time I spend at the office the more I like it, I am beginning to feel apart of the team slowly but things are so different in my office than they were in Sydney that I have struggled at times. Put simply- I loved NC, I loved going to work and laughing till I cried almost everyday and realizing that this won’t ever happen here has been hard.

On the up side, I have spent my weekends doing what I love best- anyone who has ever traveled with me knows about my propensity for a great walk. Today I strolled up to Primrose Hill which gives one a stunning view of the entire city… the horizon is dotted with more landmarks in one vista than you could think possible, the eye, St Pauls, the zoo, Regents Park and Kings Cross all play in the same skyline.

Afterwards, I wandered around colourful streets with buildings in varying pastel shades, noting provadores, fromagires and bakeries where I will spend my pounds... when I have more of them. Before I knew it I was in Camden- the home of the punk, tartan and black fishnets replaced the Georgian mansions and you could be forgiven for thinking you had stepped back in time. Camden is electric, narrow streets teaming with the curious, the bargain hunter, the tourist and the locals all wandering together like sardines on a Sunday afternoon.


Later I strolled down to Oxford Circus and finally and to my beloved Marylebone High Street- a gorgeous street filled with expensive boutiques with pretty window displays you could get lost in. I stopped in my new favourite book shop (Daunts Books) ad the recommendation of my cousin and fell in love with the arched windows and old fashioned ladders on wheels. Next stop, the Oxfam book store where I overloaded myself with Jane Austen (something’s never change- when you assumed I had read them all… twice), Capote, Kerourac and JD Salinger et al.

There is something I love about being surrounded by books, it feels like surrounding yourself with friends- shelves loaded with people you will soon love, loathe or leave. Shelves loaded with people you loved and lost, characters you will remember years after they came into your world- so much like life. I guess that explains why I forced my dad to except 10 boxes full of them, ready to be loved again on my return.


On my way home, I stopped at Waitrose a posh supermarket and picked up some ingredients for my gourmet hot beef salad. It was delicious.

My house is fantastic, a great relief. My flat mates are unreal and it does feel like a home, somewhere I know I am going to be happy in. My old friend James Rigney is staying with me (we went to uni together) and he remarked that is very similar to my old digs at Abercrombie street- which is a fair comparison and probably explains why I loved it the second I saw it- it is kinda run down, the floors are not quite level but it is charming even though the walls are in need of a paint- and the furniture could have been purchased at the Tempe tip.


My room has become an oasis- it measures about 8 meters by 5 meters- is bathed in light and overlooks a retro electrical company. With mint green walls and one that is a slightly odd shade of federation green that despite my initial revulsion I have learned to like. Whilst furnished out of an Ikea catalogue, it has a certain charm generated by the odd Asian souvenir I lugged on my travels. The house is situated on the same street as one of London highest towers- it is well and truly in the middle of everything and yet in still feels like a village.


My street is littered with cafes, shoe repairers an old launderette, 3 quaint pubs and it is within spitting distance of Regents Park. I also live in the shadow of greatness and my suburb Fitzrovia was once home to George Orwell, Virgina Wolf and George Bernard Shaw.

Yesterday, I did something terribly spontaneous but great. I went to the travel agent to book some holidays for Easter and a long weekend in May and despite going in there with the intention of going to Egypt, morocco, Tunisia, Russia, or Greece- I am now going to Turkey and Iceland… random but exiting, I am still comprehending the fact I can travel and still work… anyone with tips on Iceland please pass them on!

It is good to be alive. Well, that’s about it from me- Hope you are well, my real home is in my thoughts.

I am sorry

I am sorry to my fans for not posting lately. I will be better i promise.

I am settled in London and having a ball. I have moved into the nicest house, a 200 year old Georgian building that is full of charm and character. I am sharing with 2 amazing boys... who are such a blessing.

Gareth who work in music publishing and is the epitome of cool- a skinny pant wearing drummer and Andy a funny, charming Liverpudlian who can fix anything (including washing machines when KP breaks them).

The flat is in W1, the best post code the city has to offer and is right near Regents Park, Great Portland Street and Oxford Circus and close enough to everything to make walking practical even when it is zero degrees.

I have wireless Internet at my flat and I am lucky enough to listen to abc stremmed online, I love hearing the traffic reports as I prepare for slumber- weird that everything is in reverse.

I went to Oxford last weekend and it felt like going home. It was great to be in the countryside and surrounded by the familiar in such an unfamiliar time.

I am managing to fill most nights with some form of activity, from visiting friends to drinks with my colleagues i feel like I am getting settled.

I am off to an Australia day party on Friday night which should be wild, I hear that people tend to celebrate national days here more than they do at home.

I will give you all the BIG update soon...

In the meantime,

I will be thinking of you in your sleep.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

Every day up until Christmas I was praying for snow. I seemed to gain a slight obsession with mother nature and began researching about when you can tell it is about to snow so i would be prepared... werid i know.

I was spending Christmas in a small Swiss village near St Galland in Appenzel (where the cheese comes from). Excited by Robbi (my cousin in laws predictions) of the ground being covered in snow, I couldn't wait and felt like a kid again. I was worried that it was too warm as it was about 3 degrees in Zug.

On Christmas eve we left Jen''s for the two hour journey and the scenery was amazing; mountains; lakes and snow covered trees were in abundance and I was well and truly in fairy land.

We were joined by some other cousins- Caroline and Pino (from Bondi) and their two gorgeous girls Isabella and Claudia and it was so wonderful to be around family again. Caroline and the girls had just spent a year living in iskia (off the Italian coast) and the girls had learnt to speak Italian and brought so much fun to our Christmas adventure.

Christmas was incredibly luxurious, on arrival at the village that was entirely white we went for a scenic walk and played in the snow. It was an previously unseen beauty, the type that takes your breath away (maybe that was because it was so cold). Next we had a sauna, which involved getting really hot and running into the cold pool, drinking a beer and repeating the process. Finally we sat down to a never ending feast of fish, caviar, ham, potatoes and loads of other yummy treats.

Next it was time for presents and i was spoilt rotten, considering I was away from home. That night i spoke to my family and my my brother got my nieces and nephews to sing me jingle bells down the phone- i couldn't hold back the tears and their cute little cartoony voices made my Christmas unforgettable.

The next morning, after one of the nicest breakfasts in the history of breakfast where i even ate reindeer from Lapland we set off on our drive to St Anton an Austrian ski resort in the alps.

When we got there, we loaded the luggage into the chalet and set about cooking our Australian meal. We had roast turkey and veggies followed by Australian delights including caramello koalas and tim tams.

Welcome to Switzerland

After almost smashing the world record for the 500 metre dash with 40 kilos of luggage in transit in Berlin because my connecting plane was 2 hours late, I was ecstatic to see my stunning cousin Jen waiting for me at the airport in zurich with a sign that read WELCOME TO SWITZERLAND KP. I have always wanted a sign like that to be waiting for me and my first impressions of Switerland shpowed me that dreams can come true.

Jen's gorgeous face beamed as I approached and we chatted all the way to her apartment in Zug, a small fairy tale town on a picture perfect lake back dropped by mountains outside of Zurich.

Robbi, Jen's husband was picking up their brand new car and when we got home we went for a spin in their white Land Rover Defender, every boys dream come true.

Jen is one of the most thoughtful and generous people i know and she had prepared for my stay complete with a teddy bear, chocolates and hidden pre Christmas presents under my pillow... it was so nice to be home!

Budapest

KP on the Shoot
Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

I arrived at Budapest airport very keen and excited to see an old friend from Oxford, Mark is living in Budapest at the expense of his London law firm who sent him to Hungry on secondment.

We met near the Opera House on Andrassy Uta (the Champs Elysees of Budapest, and spine of down town Pest, a street filled with designer boutiques and stunning Christmas lights).

The Callas Cafe was stunning, gorgeous high ceilings, white tiled interior and dark wood furniture. I ordered a traditional Goulash soup, it came with a thick layer of grease on the top that kinda just floated there but was delicious.

Afterwards, Mark showed me to his palatial apartment and I mean PALATIAL, it was a real treat with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Opera House and more rooms than one single person ought to have.

That night, Mark and I arranged to go out for dinner with his friend, another English lawyer also living in Budapest on secondment. We went to a stylish restaurant called Mokka and I proceeded to have the wild bore, compared to the nasty pictures I have seen on the net subsequently the pig taste quite gentle.

That night, after dinner Mark delivered some chocolates to his friend and had a night cap despite saying he would return home, he spent the night and I was left in the palatial apartment by myself. I awoke several times convinced that the phantom from the opera (from across the road) had decided to haunt me instead. The apartment made more noises than I remember any other home letting out. The heating rattled like an old train, and the light fitting in my room was broken and several times I was a woken to my light flashing on and off quickly.

The following night, Mark and I ate at Menza, a funky restaurant that you could be forgiven for thinking was in London or Sydney. I was surprised to see how sophisticated and global Budapest had got in the five years since my last visit, gone were the preforming monkeys at the train stations, the weary looking faces and run down apartment blocks, replaced with a city on the brink of prosperity. Chain stores were in abundance, the same stores that line the high street in every European city, H&M, Zara, Clinique and top shop are on every corner, I also notices an abundance of cranes, perhaps on vacation from Berlin an indicator of the enormous growth and development that had been stimulated through Hungary's inception into the EU.

The next night, Mark and I went to the ballet at the Opera House and I dressed up a treat, we saw the Nutcracker and for a few hours I was back watching the Bolshoi ballet at the Sydney Opera House with my mother aged 5, memories came flooding back, a good sound track always does that... well done Tchaikovsky.

Afterwards, we decided to have dinner at Menza again (because it really is that good) and Mark went back to the office to do what corporate lawyers do best... and called me later to say he was leaving the office.

Mark was late and in typical KP fashion, I managed to strike up a conversation with three empowering and wonderful women sitting near by. The women were great value and consisted of a publisher from Melbourne, a forgien news correspondent from Germany and a photographer from New York.

Together we drank glass after glass of red wine and had a wonderful night.

The girls I met at the bar were angels to me and they spent the next 4 days showering me in attention and friendliness which is good when your host is a corporate lawyer with little or no free time.

Bianca even asked me to do a photo shoot, Palma took me to the Christmas markets, Mags engaged me in good old aussie conversation. It was an unforgettable week.

Back in Berlin

Berlin has always been my favourite city in Europe. Maybe it is unfair to say that (to the rest of Europe that is) but it is a city synonymous with fun and I have always loved the feeling you get when you are there that you are literally watching and apart of something growing.

Once when I was there I counted 20 cranes in a single photograph. I love cranes. Sometimes I wish I was one and at other times I feel like I am one, especially when travelling alone and watching life at a distance.

Cranes are Berlin to me, though this time when I was there I did not spot any, I am sure they are still there, somewhere, I just wasn't looking.

My European brother Goetz picked me up at the airport. I loved seeing his 6 foot 5 frame smile at me from the gate. He picked my bag up like it was a feather.

We walked towards the car and I did what I have done every time he has picked me up at the airport... I went to sit in the drivers seat by mistake, he motioned the keys towards me and together we laughed ... he had got me again and this time I was travelling there from Europe.

The air was cold on my cheeks and made my nose go red. I watched as little puffs of white air escaped everytime I breathed. We talked the way two people do when they have not seen each other in 5 years, sentences poured out that were rarely finished.

Goetz drove quickly to an amazing apartment in Kliespark, an abundance of light and space straight from a magazine greeted me when we turned the key. It was mine to house sit whilst my European sister Linda's travelled around Pakistan.

Afterwards at my request we went straight to my favourite bar (maybe in the whole world), The Slumberland near nollendorf platz, a bar where the entire floor is covered in sand, the walls are lined with kitch pictures of Jamaicans and Africans with afros doing 1950's and 60's hair commercials.

The girl behind the bar gave me a double take, it was Dianna the same bar tended from 2001 (actually she has worked there for 13 years), she almost jumped over the bar and gave me a massive hug and kiss. Welcome home and what are you having was all she had to say.

Tired from a early start to the day I planned just a quiet drink or two, soon the bar began to fill with more old friends and before I knew it I was being shouted drinks from all corners. 3 am came and went and somehow I managed to slide of my chair, avoid the sand pit and stumble home.

I love the fact that Berlin is the land of the late drinkers and rather large beers.

The next night we went to a club called 'tobe', we met in Krutzberg and headed to the mitte (pronounced Mitter.. it is East Berlin) where the air was kinda hazy and the music was bob Marley, reggae and dance hall.

After drinking countless vodka shots followed with becks chasers it was not too long until KP was dancing like no one was watching.

I noticed that people dance differently in Europe, it is something I have thought before but could never put my finger on... I think that people use their lower halves more... if that make sense?

To be continued.

Old friends reunite

KP & Lisa
Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

After spending almost every cent I have in Barcelona at the best shoe sale in the history of shoe sales, I was back in Paris, this time with my bags much heavier (ok so if truth be told I had to buy another one for the shoes). In fact at check in my bags set a new record and my back pack is a staggering (yes I actually stagger when wearing it) 25 kilos.

I have become so used to the load that I only wince a little bit when putting it on.

Back in the comfort of St Sulpice, which I found out is one of Paris' best addresses I watched Rachel's comic surprise when unloading my shoes... you brought that many she said, her tone part shocked part disbelief as I admit ed my indulgence, vanity and the like.

I have never really been a big shopper, my father would disagree but extravagance does not come easy for a girl who had holidays spending 3 and half months ruffing it in Asia, but they were all so beautiful I felt that it would be a crime not to take them home.

Afterwards, Rachel told me that when Sex in the City was filmed in Paris, our petite apartment was filmed in one of the street shots.... laden with more shoes that I care to admit, perhaps I was the real Carrie Bradshaw!

That night, Rachel arranged for us to met some of her friends from university, an intelligent Ivy League group with whom I debated American foreign policy and the recent US election results with, it felt more like a discussion from home and certainly nothing which I encounted on the back packing circuit.

We went to a little French bar, that was quaint and the perfect place to sample some vino, the wine was delicious and as we sat at the bar we watched out the window as a very handsome guy wearing a beret and carrying a baguette walked past (honest truth!!)... I felt the urge to run him down with my camera, the epitome of Frenchness to me but I stopped when I realised how agitated the French can get about things like that.

The next day, the weather was terrible, my plan to go running along the seine was cancelled when we stepped outside and felt the bitterly cold wind against our cheeks and the torrential rain on our heads, instead we went to the local market and fromagery and made soup and salad at home and laying in bed and reading the news.

That night we met up with Aurile another old house mate from Abercrombie Street, and went to a postcard perfect street in St Germain for some more wine, she was as beautiful and charming as I remembered and we caught up about old times living in redfern which seemed such a world away from my existence in Paris.


The next morning Lisa arrived from China and unable to sleep (I was too excited), I bounded out of bed at 5 am and set about getting ready to met her at a famous french cafe where Hemmingway used to hang out near St Germain.

I arrived at the cafe very early, the croissants still in the oven and was asked to come back a few hours later... I wandered Paris' dark back streets, illuminated by the moon and the odd street light and was happy to be alive.

When Lisa did rush into the cafe I was overjoyed. Matt (her lovely boyfriend/live in lover) looked very french in his kangol cap and together we set about seeing some sights. I played tour guide and together we walked every street in Paris, kilometre after kilometre until we were all so tired we felt like we would drop.

That night I met up with another old flatmate (are you sensing a trend.... 3 people I have lived with now all reside in St Germain... umm a coincidence or something more?). Dave took me to a great crepe shop and I indulged in goats cheese and salad (on a crepe) and good old fashioned nutella... makes my mouth water at the thought.

I was sad to leave Paris, my name sake city uncertain of when I would return but so happy to have had the chance to see so many old friends.

Barcelona

Note: KP goes International Photo taken in India.

I love Barcelona, it is as simple as that!

In 2001 when my Dad and I were there it was amazing and I have always wanted to go back a little wiser and sample some of the nightlife and the shopping.

I did both on this trip, and can't wait to go back again in summer.

Barcelona buzzes, it is an electric place full of vitality and dynamism.

I stayed in a backpackers hostel which was completely bizarre, in India I stayed mostly in hotels and homestays and the be back in a dorm felt like going back in time.

The hostel was very clean and funky and it was here that I met a group of 20 year old Australians who reminded me of me 5 years ago (ok 6), I felt so old in their presence that I nicknamed myself grandma.

It was interesting talking to them but not soulful (I can blame India for that line), they said things like

'I would never go anywhere by myself because then you wouldn't see as much' which forced silent indignation to rise within me and made me want to say.... wake up, but I didn't.

For most of the time, I just walked aimlessly around the old streets and tried to get lost and I decided not to take any photos but instead to start charcoal drawing.

It was fun getting my hands dirty (reminded me of Asia) and whilst I am no Picasso I just loved trying to be.

I know that whilst you can't be good at everything you can have a darn good time trying to be..

I will photograph my artworks and put them on flickr (as long as you promise not to laugh at how bad they are!)

Another Journey Begins

If arriving at Heathrow was a delightful experience, leaving for a month in Europe was nothing short of diabolical.

After drinking until the wee hours of saturday morn, I awoke on sunday hungover but excited about my impending trip to Paris.

Bleary eyed and with head throbbing I left my friends house in the docklands and headed back to
the airport. I was craving a hamburger and was certain with 3 hours to spare there would be ample time to sample some of london's delicious takeaway enroute to my namesake city.

I was overwhelmed at chek in- the airport seemed to be in apparent chaos and I made my way to the end of the longest line in the history of lines...

Tempers flared and I watched an arab man push ahead slightly only to be confronted by a burly brit whop said 'in our country you don't do this', 'you arabs should respect our land etc etc,' I was appaled.

It seems that impossiable lines bring out the best and worse in peorple, the lady behind me was irrate, the pushy americans were just that... and me with my horrendous hangover just smiled at my good fortune at being able to begin another adventure.

My smile faded when a mother of four was forced to the end of the line by BA staff who said NO ONE (and that means no one) gets a short cut, I raised my voice on this point and said how can you expect a mother to line with 4 young children for hours.

Needless to say my flight was delayed for 4 hours for apparent bad wheather (even though there was not a cloud in the sky... true)

On arrival at Paris, my prebooked airport shuttle rejected me (as my flight was delayed) and I was left stranded but almost in Paris.

To be continued

Parry goes to Paree

After being abandoned at the airport, I managed to find a lovely French lady at the information desk who assited me arranging a ride to Saint Sulpice where the lovely mmsle Rachel from Balmain has taken an apartment.

The driver was very enthusiastic and provided me with commontry on the sights we were passing... over here, you see we have the Notre Dame, this here is St Germain and to your left we have the Sorbonne.

It was magic.

On arrival at the flat, I bounded up the 6 flights of stairs and found Rachel studying in her petite (it is Paris) studio apartment. Sun drenched (by day) and bright it felt like home immediatly and we quickly got to making tea and talking about the last year of our lives....

Rachel is one of my typical over achievcing friends who is studying a MA at Columbia in NY and on exchange in Paris. It was wonderful.

The next day I decided have a delicous chocolate crossoint for breakfast before settling into the main task at hand... shopping. I went to visit some markets I had been to 5 years earlier with Lisa in Momarte and wandered the streets riffiling through old treasures and antiques before settling on a little black dress that had Paris sewn into the label.

In the afternoon after visiting some sites I sat in a cafe and had the most incrediable salad with warm goats cheese and watched Paris walk by, I felt consumed by the city and it felt like I was watching a live film; Ladies with poodles strutted; men with baguettes were in abundance and; Olivier Martinez lookalikes everywhere.

It is my third visit to Paris and it is offical, I love the opulance and the extravagence that is this city; from the food to the fashion. It provides such a contrast to my beloved India (which I miss.. a lot) that I can't help but be enthralled.

Arrival LHR:BA 036

I watched the lady sitting next to me trying to understand where she had been that would lead her here next to me on a 4:00am flight to London from Chennai.

She looked Indian, was attractive in a middle aged kinda way with a dark brown bob and round rimmed glasses.

She was eagerly reading 'how to have a perfect life in 30 days' by the best selling author of ' 'The monk who sold his Ferrari'. What kinda person would ever pick a book like that?Silently, I tried to contimplate the answer to that million dollar question as she exchanged the book for the horoscope section in Ok magazine.

My flight was good and aided by the fact I was upgraded into relative comfort. The plane landed early and I watched the sky, it seemed to make a patchwork pattern and looked like a blue and grey chessboard.

Walking though the areobridge gave me shivers, it was 6 degrees outside and a long way from sweltering India, I wrapped my scarf around me extra tight and set off into the microcosm that is Heathrow.

The gent at passport control was unseasonably jolly giving me tips on how to make it in London. I smiled.

I walked slowly and purposely into the arrivals lounge and remembered back to Love Actually and watched euphoric couples reunite and I looked around for the imaginary sign that might bare my name and laughed out loud when I saw a sign for Peter Crouch (my trivia team alter ego).

Next, it was time to buy my tube ticket, the guy at the desk was so friendly he had me laughing out loud as he officially welcomed me to London. I mused whether every one in London had taken happy pills?

People parted as I boarded the train, I wondered if I smelt that bad and an Irish man remarked on how light I travelled, his sarcasm was not lost on me. My back pack was given a badge of honour at check in and was labelled with a bright orange sticker that said heavy 25 kilos.

How did I carry it around?

It felt like a homecoming of soughts and as the train speed along the Piccadilly line to Hammersmith I remembered how much I loved London. As I sat trying to remember every second I admired autumn's left overs; there were countless trees with golden and auburn leaves glowing against the greying sky.

I had arrived.

Meltdown In Madras (Chennai)

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Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

It ended as it begun.

Today whilst walking through a market I suddenly felt tears crawl up my throat and I had a little cry.

The tears fell for no real reason except I was hot, flustered and sick of people giving me the wrong directions and pretending they don't understand when I say things like rickshaw, taxi and bank!

Today is my last day in India and despite feeling a little sad to be leaving I am excited to commence the next adventure that is in store for me.

It's funny to think that only a few days ago I spoke of my ability to understand India but being here in a big city(an ugly city at that) I realise there are so many things that I just don't understand and never will and perhaps it was arrogant for me even to think that I had.

Yesterday, on arrival at my hotel after my taxi driver got himself lost and I utilised my Lonley Planet map to direct us (yes me directing a taxi in India), my driver decided to follow me into the foyer pretending to assist with my bags (he watched me carry them).

When I asked how much for a single room the price seemed expensive so I informed them of my intention to leave. The taxi driver looked forlorn and on exit I firmly stated I will not stay anywhere where people pay commission ( when someone takes you to a shop/restaurant/hotel they expect a fee) especially not to the worst taxi driver in all of India.

Suddenly the driver giggled and nodded his head which to me and you means no but here where everything is reversed means yes and said 'can you pay me more money then', I laughed in his face, I couldn't believe the audacity of the taxi driver who got us lost asking for commission then a tip and I looked at him and said blankly 'I paid the fare already'. I decided to go somewhere else.

Suddenly the manager followed me and the room rate went down by half, 'sorry madam, what are we to do, he asks for commission' and I replied 'why don't you just tell him to get F%$#ed, you are in the Lonely Planet, he doesn't even know where your hotel is and you think to reward him'.

This is a typical Indian conversation, they tend to go round in circles for ages and given Indians wag their head for yes usually someone gets confused.

Other things I don' get are banks that don't change money, travellers cheques or forgien currencies, Internet cafes without Internet, black coffee with milk and sugar, and Parrys corner without an apostrophe.

I know I will look back on these last 6 weeks and cherish the memories and the good friends I have made, I can easily identify the moment when the Chai wallah debated with my friend Joel on the train that I first saw an India to adore, but today when it is hot and everything is hard I am happy to be going so I can order a steak (2 months of vegetarianism is killing me).

On reflection, the thing about India is that it wants to continue to surprise you, just when you think you hate the place something incredible happens, something more beautiful than words and when you get lulled into this beauty the ugliness rears its head.

When I look back at my entry Mother India I am filled with joy for all that has happened from then until now has put me back together and despite my tears this morning I am confident that I am a stronger and wiser for the experience.

Palm Trees and Palmastry

Varkala beach
Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

I haven't told anyone this before but I can read palms. Well not exactly but once when I was about 13 I borrowed a book on it from the school library and tried to teach myself. It was not exactly a calling of the highest order but I learnt about 3 of the basic lines- head-heart and life and only what seemed relevant to my own hand.

I never thought this 'gift' would come in handy but at beach side resort of Varkala a cliff top town in Kerela with beatuiful scenery, scores of palm trees and massive surf.

It was here i plyed my trade learnt how to utilise what I had to become the most popular girl at the party.

The music was loud and fantastic, the Kerela coffee house was putting on a party and 3 cousins from the country were entertaining us with their guitar, bongos and voice.

They started the set with a fantastic rendition of 'chai chai coffee coffee' a song about train travel that included 'your train may come on platform one, two three four or five' and my personal favourite 'The express service is running approximately 5 hours late'.

After 4 large kingfisher beers (long necks) I was in the mood for fun and when an Indian guy noted me pretending to read the palm of an Aussie girl from Brisbane he shouted to the whole bar 'she is an astrologer', shots of please read mine, read me please echoed around the room' I tried to protest the assertion about my ability but the look of joy in their eyes was too much to let down.

Soon there was a line as long of about 10 people. I joked that I required payment of 10 rupees per palm and some seemed to want to pay it until I refused and said i was joking.

I did not want to let my faithful done and made up what I thought they wanted to hear or at least something that was as interesting as possible.

Each and every reading was completed with the Indian stating 'you are so right, you are gifted' or something similar and I laughed out loud. I noticed that everyone tried to apply my forecasting to their own lives and when I said to one

'you went away from your family both physically and emotionally for a time but then you returned' he looked at me in awe 'yes, I went on an excursion to Bangalore once, you are very good to notice this' his earnest reply was beautiful and made me feel bad.

It was a fantasic night and a good way to spend a saturday in lazy Varkala where I had spent a week reading and swimming and lying in the hammock that adorned my bamboo hut. What a life.

Magical Munnar

Tea Lady in Clouds Munnar
Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

Sometimes the destination doesn't even matter.

On arrival at the bus station I was shocked to be shown to the bus that would be taking me to Munnar, a hill station about 4 hours from Cochin. The bus was ancient, older than I am without windows and looked like it was about to fall apart. It was red in colour, with piles of paint peeling off and filled with local people doing their local thing.

As I fought with my luggage to negotiate the doors, eventually I made my way in and sat behind a lovely Swedish/Norwegian couple. The bus started to fill up but no one came near me and I sat in pleasure reading Shantaram and thinking about all the moments I have had in India that had lead me to this.

The seat was old and had no padding but it seemed to evoke a romanticism within me and I looked out the window and smiled. I was amazed that the journey had brought me to this point and that in 10 short days my European romp would begin in earnest.

There are so many things about India that I love; the people; the expressions and the scenery are amazing.

I remembered back to the first time in Varanasi I heard a homeless kid tell me

'No Chai you die'

'No hurry, no worry, no chicken, no curry'

'No water, No shower, full power 24 hour'

and laughed out loud at the turn of phrase that is now synomous with India for me.


I remebered back to my first day in Delhi when shopping got the better of me and I burst into tears just by going to the bazaar. How much India has changed- or is it me that has changed?

I also recalled the first conversation I had with someone that involved the questions I can now predcict at 50 paces. The conversation I have had more times than I can count.

Indian: Tell me, what is your good name?

KP: KP

I: Where are you from?

KP: Australia

I: Ricky Ponting?he's a good player yes?

KP: Yes

I: And tell me are you married?

KP: Yes (gesturing to my pretend wedding ring) my husband is in Australia

I: And why he leave you so beautuful to be in India alone?

KP:He has to work and he has been here before?

I:And tell me do you like India?

KP:yes? (turning to leave)

After 3 and half hours of thoughts interupted by loud honking and treacherous corners the road trip became amazing. This time when the driver sped around corners they reveled magical vistas and a fairy tale landscape rich with the lushest greens that previously I thought you could only imagine.

Munnar is a tea town and it is surrounded by tea stations and post card panoramas. The city itself is fairly drab with ramshackle roads and the usual touts, scouts and bazaars but is charming in its own way, spectacularly positioned above the clouds.

The tea stations are high and set at above 2500 meters, the next day when I hired a rickshaw I felt superhuman wandering along roads and watching the clouds weave their way around me.

When I was walking through the ambient surrounds I delighted in spotting a heard of wild elephants with their babies in the distance and realised that Munnar could be as close to heaven as I ever get. I felt completely inspired being there.

Later on at my favourite meeting place (the net cafe) I met 2 English med students called James and Ed. They were in India working in a hospital. On the discovery of their training, Ed tened to my leech bite and reassured me that I was not going to die.

Immediately, I liked them both and arranged to go out drinking with them later that night.

After drinking more than my share in a bar where I was the only women and perhaps the only women that had ever been there I headed home.

The next day I went back to the bus station and got back on the local bus to Cochin to make my way to Varkala. I was interupted by two girls in school uniforms that asked where I was from- Australia, I replied and they skipped away giggling, their long plaits waving behind them.

The trip was pleasant but the thought of travelling back to where I'd been didn't imbue the same type of magic it had when I was on the bus the first time, destination unseen. And then a little more of India's magic hit me and I relaised that it is when we feel we are moving forward that we can really understand the past and everything that happened until that point.

The trip back to Cochin seemed to take forever and I also understood that sometimes it is the destination that matters.

Epilogue- After 6 weeks in India, I fear I may be suffering from enlightenment syndrome, a condition usually effecting rainbow tourists who come to India with the mission to find themselves. It can occasionally mildly effect other more cynical travellers (like myself) who doubt it's existence and it's symptoms include to writing flowery and poetically as though the sufferer is possessed with love and inner peace.

Arrival-God's Country

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Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

The plane touched down only 2 hours late, a record for India.

As I walked down the steps of the aircraft, I was deep in conversation with an Indian family I had met on the plane, they were concerned that I would have to pay for a taxi to Fort Cochin, instead they wanted me to accompany me them in the car that had arranged to met them.

I felt guilty to take them out of their way, as I was certain they were only obliging for my satisfaction contrary to their pleading that it was actually where they were going. Indian hospitality is like that, people seem to want to go out of there way to help.

Without knowing if this is certain I think that people's faith rests with some sought of karma that is increased when you do good deeds for others.

I am reading an intersting novel at the moment that talks about the heart of India and describes the country as one with spades of love and compassion and whilst I agree that this is a fair assertion, it feels disconcerting to me given the raw poverty and suffering that obviously exists.

My refusal was eventually accepted by the family with decorum and good grace and I left them after they gave me their phone number and contact details promising that if anything happened to me I would call them immediately.

In the taxi I was amazed to see us pass a sign that said 'Parry's Corner' could this be true, deep in India's south was there really an area that bore my name. I made a mental note to investigate in the morning.

I headed to the Sonetta Residency on Princess Street and arrived to met the charming Mr Singh, he was aged in his mid sixties and wore black rimmed glasses that made him look like an aged Buddy Holly Indian style. His greeting was warm and friendly, he was epically pleased to have an Australian in his house for his two sons lived in Cairns.

Settling in with a cup of tea and a photo album, Mr Singh showed me pictures of his trip to Australia in 1996. My eyes were tired but his enthusiasm and love of my country was catching and I felt not to oblige him would break his heart.

As we sat and night fell, Mr Singh told me of his wife death a few months earlier and I felt that I knew his pain.

The next morning, I awoke later than usual (the frightening hour of noon) and headed to a nearby cafe. It was filled with artistic types and a TV crew that followed me order my omelet and then proceed to film me eating it. I am starting to think that maybe I am really famous here?

Afterwards I set about exploring the fort, a strange name considering I saw no obvious signs of the forts existence. I walked alone the shore and past the Chinese fishing nets and was greeted perhaps a little too friendly by some locals, they called me to sit and talk with them instead I keep walking content with my own company.

I took few photos instead just wandered aimlessly through the streets stopping to admire the churches and feel the European vibe the place omits in spades. Some of the buildings are covered in vines and worn paint peels off.

After covering the fort in my small walking tour I decided to have an early night and get up bright and chirpy for my backwater tour.

Sleep evaded me that evening and I was extremely grumpy and irritable by morning time. It was not Cochin's fault of course, instead I closed my eyes and was anxious about my trip to England just like I was about my trip to Asia only months before.


For fans of God of Small Things-


If you visit Cochin you begin to understand how Arundhati Roy could write with such delicacy and description in the God of Small Things, whilst I was never the books biggest fan I did appreciate her ability to manipulate language and the obvious smarts she possessed to make writing with color and flair seem easy.

I grew to love and despise Arundhati at the same time after reading the novel but after a stay in her heartland, I began to understand that her ability was obviously natural and raw but helped but a surrounding that is intrinsically beautiful.

Cochin makes that apparent.

Mmm mmmm Mumbai

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Originally uploaded by kathrynparry41.

The sweet stuck to me, clinged to me and it felt invasive.

Getting of a bus in Mumbai feels like you are getting into a swimming pool of your own creation. With 1 million percent humidity within seconds I was soaked, my skin shone and felt like it was melting of my face.

Being one of the most populous city in the world is no mean feat. It was surprising to hear that Mumbai comes in at third on a world rankings list because it is BIG.Seriously BIG.

Arriving into the city can take hours by road, just when you think that you are about to arrive and you are nearing the center the bus makes another turn down a road that is busier than the previous one. It almost feels like all roads lead to nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The streets are mainly filled with bumblebees, Mumbai's extensive taxi fleet. I'd estimate the cabs outnumber ordinary vechiles by 3:1.

Getting of the bus at Dadar, I quickly hailed a cab to take me to Coloba, backpacker central Mumbai style. Coloba is located at the southern tip of the city and is filled with gorgeous architecture, wide boulevards, monuments and the beach.

My taxi driver dropped me at my hotel and I struggled to manage all my bags, they seem to be getting heavier at every stop at last weigh in I am officially carrying over 1/3 of my body weight and fear I may soon turn into an ant.

With out even taking one step on the footpath a Bollywood agent approached me and requested me to act as an extra for a shoot the next day. My role to dance in a night club scene.

Already having experienced acting in the Indian film industry and keen to procure tickets to the cricket final the following day I declined his invitation which promised 500 rupees free lunch and transport and concentrated on how I would get to the cricket and watch Australia win the ICC tournament.

I ate diner at the famous Leopold cafe, an institution in Mumbai recently made famous by the thrilling and enthralling Shantaram, one of the most veraciously read backpacker novels for India.

Keen not to make the same mistake as I did when meeting the English cricket team (not being able to recognise all of them), I spied a group of West Indian looking athletes and approached to see if they were in fact the West Indian cricket team, alas they were buff Tunisian students and I felt like a racist.

Minutes later the restaurant began to hive with activity as none other than our own Gilly walked in. I found out that they were staying next door to my hotel at the Taj Palace.

By next door, I mean across the road and whilst their hotel is the most famous in the entire city, with a reputation built on the sheer beauty of the building and the opulence inside mine was falling down (perhaps would be condemned in Australia) and smelt like something dead.

The following morning I ate breakfast at Leopolds and met Dan from Dorset, a gorgeous English guy who was keen to attend the cricket on my terms. Following my instruction he quickly changed his shirt and put his Australian colours on and together we went off to the ground to procure tickets.

With India out of the finals there was nothing to fear and we managed to get some cheap seats right in the centre of the Indian fan base.

Immediately the Indians started chanting 'Aussie suck, Aussie suck' as soon as they saw my flag and I began to fear I might get lynched. The energy and enthusiasm the Indians give cricket is nothing short of amazing. They cheer and scream at anything and everything and have so much vitality it is catching.

Dan acted as my personal body guard and entertainer for the entire day. At times he was more into the Australian team than I was and he wore my flag with pride. I wondered who he would support in the ashes and whether the experience of attending a cricket game where your team wins would make him change sides... history will be the judge.

The following day, with no Dan to entertain me (he left to fly down under to attend the ashes)I went sight seeing,. Mumbai is beautiful and not just the every day kind, as a city it has the ability to stun you and leave you wanting more.

The boulevards are wide and it feels like Europe (in a heatwave). The building are mostly art deco and massive trees provide shade to pedestrians. Red double decker buses fill the roads and if you close your eyes and open them quickly you might just feel like you are in England (for a second).

Jazz, bollywood and the motorcycle diaries

KP- really gets all Indian (photo taken on set at film shoot)


After one of the longest bus rides since bus travel was invented I arrived in Pune (pronounced Poo-na).

Pune is an innovative city that currently stands at the front of India's tech boom, it is famous for two things; firstly it is currently home to Brangelina whilst Miss Jollie films her latest flick on the sub continent and; because it hosts a famous ashram that promotes sex as a way to attain enlightenment.

Trying to find a rickshaw on arrival was a nightmare, the rain was pelting down and the pavement looked like it was steaming, I stood on a darkened high way trying to hail anyone who would load me and my 30 kilos of luggage and take me to the Indian Institute of Film and Television.

Eventually an old man stopped in a rusty old rickshaw, initially I was scarred to get in but with no better options I took the plunge.

After getting sufficiently soaked (to the bone) I arrived 9 hours late to Kush's house, an old friend from Sydney who is currently completing a Master in India.

On arrival at his room, Kush's face lite up and i was so glad to be in an embrace with an old friend.

I explained the bus debacle and curled up on the foot of his bed desperate for sleep but dying to talk with a familiar face and friendly voice.

We were soon joined by Kush's Indian friends, a charismatic group who were keen to show me their hospitality and indulge my questions that centered on relationships, love, sex and caste Indian style.

The conversation brought many revelations for me, it short; it was implied that Indian men and women do have sex before marriage; they do pick their own wives and husbands and only if they are desperate do they resort to parental choosing and; caste does still matter.

The conversation had some awkward moments and one boy said 'you'd be surprised Kathryn, in India we are quicker at some things than you are in the west', I was stunned.

The next day, Kush had class so he entrusted me to an Iranian friend called Jazz. From Tehran, Jazz was a student about to abandon his IT studies in Pune and move to Malasyia. Jazz had lots of time on his hands and a super fast motor bike.

First he took me past the sexshram, where I saw an interesting mix of people wandering round the neighbouring streets dressed in maroon robes. 0

Some of the people looked young and passionate whilst others looked like old and impotent and like they were still hanging onto the 1960's with grey dreads down their backs.

Afterwards we wandered the streets looking for a hairdressing salon, I was desperate to be done with my light brown hair that seemed to be fading blonde. Sceptical at first(and rightfully so), I spent an exorbitant sum (for India) which resulted in my hair turning black.

At the suggestion of one of Kush's friends, we decided to dine at a Bengali restaurant (Bengal is a region in India which surrounds Calcutta famous for excellent cuisine) and ate curry with our fingers, the curry stung as it seeped into the many small wounds India managed to inflict upon me.

Soon my fingers were brown and I delighted in licking the left overs off.

The following day, one of Kush's friends from film school requested I take the starring role in her small production. As a westerner on campus I discovered what a novelty I was and spent the afternoon in make up and trying to act my part.

We can safely say that the Oscar for best Westerner/come Indian is safe for another year. I spent hours trying to master the art of the hand curl and realised that the grace that Indian women posses is pretty much impossible for a girl from Sydney's sprawling burbs to master.

Bound for Bombay

The smell of petrol and burnt rubber is overpowering, it tickles the back of my throat and my hand throbbs.

I am on a bus from Udaipur to Pune via a bus change in Mumbai (Bombay). I fear I may have dislocated my thumb when it was jammed in the window.

The bus grinds to an unexpected halt, following a large bang and I realise that we have had a tyre blow out.

I wonder if we will ever make it, we are already 5 hours late after stopping in transit for a grease and oil change. The journey is estimated to take 19 hours and I watch as 15/20 men stand around the tyre and take of the old rubber. This really could take forever.

My hand is very swallon, Indians spill into the isle and an old lady in a red sari sleeps on the floor beside me.

Faintly, I can smell the soothing scent of nag champa incense waft through the bus to take away the toxic rubber smell.

The neon lights are out, replaced with soft red night lights offering a delicate pink hue to everything and I wonder if I am travelling in a moving bordello.

I am unable to find any painkillers, those which I gave out so freely yesterday are missing in my over sized bag. My torch is nowhere to be found and I grit my teeth as I lie in my sleeper compartment. I am on the top bunk of the bus and walled in on both sides, it feels like a coffin. My head and feet touch both ends.

There are 4 other tourists on the bus, 3 are from Spain and their English is broken, there is also the only English speaking French man I have ever met, fresh from spending 3 years on Wall Street as a broker. He has ginger hair and ginger eyes and he acts as translator with his broken Spanish and we all nod along in confusion together.

Secretly I think he is in love with one of the Spaniards, the give each other the eye and giggle together in their European way.

In the morning everything is different, the dessert surrounds have been replaced with a lush tropical back drop with palm trees dotting the landscape.

My finger is different too, it is now the colour of lapis lazuli and whilst I have regained some movement there is still a numb pain that extends to my elbow.

White Ambassador classics are now out numbered by black and yellow premier fiats, still similar to my beloved old Holden's but perhaps a little more modern with less chrome and a squarer shape.

Traffic starts to build and I can sense our approach to the monster-tropolis that is Mumbai.

Epilogue

The bus trip to Pune took a little over 29 hours all told. I was 9 hours and thirty minutes late and arrived in the night in the middle of an unseasonal storm.

Camel Man & Me

I’m a camel man, in the bloody sand!

That’s how my dessert adventure began. After meeting some people at the cricket in Jaipor I decided to change my plans and head to Jaiselmere from Jodpour.

Jaiselmere is a dusty town centered around an ancient golden coloured fort that sits on top of a hill surrounded by a town and a dessert. It is located about 100 kilometers from Pakistan and a base town for camel safaris.

What is remarkable about the city is that it is relatively car and rickshaw free, which provides respite form the billion horns that are India.

Cows roam the streets and the alleys in the fort are scattered with poo that looks like mud.

We decided to spend our first day sightseeing and arranging our dessert adventure. We decided to book with a guy called Sebastian who runs a company called Ganesh tours.

Sebastian is very un-indian, he is incredibly well dressed, impeccably spoken with kashmiri eyes and increadibly warm and affable, a true sales man.

The next day we begun our trip an hour later than arranged to account for the end of Ramadan festivities. We met Dessert King near our old army jeep, a green eyed, olive skinned legend whose face wore the secrets of the dessert and looked like a rippled sand dune.

Dessert King is famous in these parts. A muslim man with 10 wives (so I was told twice) and many more children. As one of his followers said 'you don't become king for nothing', he drove us in our jeep till we reached the camel parking station, a dusty paddock where 7 camels were lined up dutifully. Here we met Mr Sargent our camel leader.

After allocating Camels, I was given Moria (which means peacock in Hindi), an eight year old stallion whose favourite pastimes include, eating marijuana cookies, ramming me into bushes and growling ferousily every time I got on as if I weighed double.

Soon we were off and Sarg started singing his Dessert song walking behind us with a large stick in case any of the Camels got out of line.

Sarg's first song was a classic and titled 'Dessert Man', a rip off of Aqua's Barbie Girl, an immediate hit with lines like

Come on camel, let go dessert ah ah ah'

After 2 hours in the heat we headed to our lunch time oasis (not to be confused with any oasis in the movies), comprising some prickly ground and a the shade of a thorn tree, iI sat and enjoyed the peace of the dessert.

Relieved to be off the camel, my bum already starting to hurt four gypsy women appeared out of nowhere. They were dressed in luminous saris that contrasted perfectly with the cobalt sky. The ladies tsung us Rajasthani songs and did a little dance for us, that involved more shimmy shakes than any dessert dance ought to.... The Japanese in our group where on their feet and smiles formed all around.

After lunch we visited a village where a gang of giggling children ran to greet us requesting the usual, chocolate, school pen, rupees and forgetting to pack any of the above, I decided to play with some of the small ones.

I had running races with the boys and was shown how they use the toy of dessert choice- the wire wheel and stick to keep it upright. The kids laughed at me and I was laughing too, it really is an art form. I loved those kids and their appreciation of the simple things.

One boy walked around with his pet donkey as proud as punch and another with a chest disfigurement stared at me as though she had never seen a white girl before.

By nightfall, my bum felt like it was damaged. Moria had rammed me into many trees and bolted through the sand dunes so often that I thought that I would never be able to walk again. We slept under the stars and a delightful Scot taught me about some constellations. I searched for the Southern Cross but had to settle at watching a Ryans Belt rise.

The following day was difficult, I will spare you the details except to say, camel riding is fun for the first few hours, enjoyable for the next and down right painful for the rest of the time. Whoever said it is not the destination that counts but moreover the journey that is important obviously has not spent three days in the Indian dessert on a camel.

By night we sang songs and Sarg told some of the funniest ghost stories imaginable. He spoke of his life, his longing to see the ocean and of the fact he has never been to a city except Jaiselmer. I wondered if I was on a different planet, how caught up I am.

The dessert got inside me out there and if it wasn't for the heat, the dung beetles, the lack of toilets, the Camels and my fear that stray animals might murder me in my sleep I could of stayed out there forever.

The trip ended as it began and Sarg finished his first song Dessert Man

With legs like plastic and bottom like a tomatoe colour.

and I understood!

Match Day

After meeting my idols, match day was met with much excitement. I was interested to see how my boys would do and keen to spy Mamood and Bell try and keep Australia out of the Championships.

Cricket in India is a religion, in a country that is spiritually diverse with more faiths, beliefs and odditys than anywhere else in the world, it is strange to think that the one thing that unifies this nation is a colonial game that dominates popular culture.

If I had 10 rupees for every time I am asked about Ricky Ponting I would be a billionaire.

Tricky Ricky as he is known, is akin to a cult figure here and Indian's sing songs in his praise where the only identifiable line is

'oh Tricky Ricky.....'

On arrival at the ground, I was forced to go through more security checks than one would need to visit The White House. I was frisked and felt up 3 times, my bag was opened, closed and prodded every 10 metres on approach to the ground and I wondered if I would ever manage to get inside before the first 50 overs were bowled.

I was seated square of the wicket enclosed in a cage with about 200 other westerners. On either side sat thousands of Indians who went crazy any time someone from our side approached the fence.

When purchasing a samosa through the wire (there is NO food in the tourist section but ice cream and chips) I almost caused a riot and police swarmed to beat the Indians who were squashed up against the fence to get a closer look at me down with large canes.

The game itself was pretty dull, there was a little excitement early in the second innings when Gilly got out to a wicked delivery from Mamood, but given the English middle order collapse it was a walk in the park for the Aussies and a long flight to Australia to defend the Ashes for the Brits.

When McGrath was fielding at third man (near me) I approached the boundary to get a picture and and he gave me a nod of recognition, a smile and a wave and others in the crowd besieged me with questions

So how do you know Glen McGrath?

I laughed and said, this is my favourite travel story and suddenly the events of two days earlier were relived and retold as Australia knocked England out of the tournament.