LIFE IN LONDON #01

September 18, 2015September 19, 2015 / jonathanrobb / 8 Comments

I decided that, now that I’m back in the UK, entries from a travel journal aren’t really justified when, technically, I’m making a new home here in London. Even though this still feels very exotic (there are red double-decker buses everywhere!), and may feel like exploration, it is in fact a form of nesting. Of constructing a new home. And home, by definition, isn’t travelling.

But, invariably, by being in a new country and attempting to build a new life, things will happen that I want to write about. I imagine most of these will centre around me fumbling through the challenges of assimilating into a new culture. Subtle and delicate things like saying pants instead of trousers and having British people laugh at me. It should prove quite entertaining.

So in light of that entertainment, welcome to the first edition of Life in London.

Appropriately, the first entry in this segment involves my recent entry into London. It seemed like a good place to start.

I flew into Gatwick airport last night from Vienna, and planned to use public transport to make my way from the airport home. City mapper is an app that formulates every possible route from one location to another within London, be in via train or bus or tram or bike or walking or hover board. This isn’t me being witty, by the way. The trip from home to the nearest train station takes approximately eight minutes via hover board, according to city mapper.

I had checked the route earlier in the day while still in Vienna to get a feel for how long it’d take me to get home, and knew that a train, then a tram, then a bus would have me on my doorstep in just over an hour. I estimated I’d be in bed a little after midnight, provided I hadn’t gotten the time difference between Vienna and London mixed up. I had, but that proved redundant anyway.

The first hurdle to getting home was that my plane was delayed by half an hour, putting off the schedule of my planned route. The second hurdle was that, upon landing, I discovered that the internet on my phone wasn’t working. This frustrated me, but I put it down to poor reception and reasoned that I still had the previously loaded route on city mapper, and could follow that until reception improved. The app was offline due to lack of internet, so wouldn’t update, but still showed the path I needed to take.

After a twenty-minute wait on a windy platform, I caught the 12:16 AM train to East Croydon, then headed into the deserted streets towards a tram stop marked on my static map. As I stepped from the station into the night, I passed a cab rank, and prided myself on the money I was saving by using public transport, enjoying a superior silent chuckle at the lazy fools who pay exorbitant prices for a black cab.

I had my first sense of disquiet after about fifteen minutes of walking through the dark deserted streets of East Croydon, admitting to myself that wandering through unfamiliar London suburbs alone well past midnight probably wasn’t the smartest idea. The eight minute walk that my frozen app displayed took around half an hour, and involved a lot of back tracking, sprinting across multi-lane roads, and feeling incredible exposed as I wound through alleys with nothing but my small pack back.

Eventually I found the tram stop, a small island of light in a junction of empty streets, and stood, praying a tram would appear. I didn’t realise it at the time, but the flight delay and my own indirect path to the tram stop meant I had well and truly missed my tram, but as the internet in my phone continued to hibernate, I happily boarded the first tram to appear, giddy with relief that a tram had appeared at all. This relief soured after about ten minutes when the tram came to a stop in the middle of nowhere, the tram driver announcing end of the line, and the words “Out of Service” appearing in small lights on the side of the tram. With little options, I walked away from the tram stop and onto a long empty road, devoid of anything but factories and warehouses.

It was one o’clock in the morning (two o’clock Viennese time), and I was stranded in an industrial part of London.

Fuck.

As I stumbled up a seamlessly endless road, the odd truck rumbling past to break up the darkness and the silence, a part of me began to accept this was my life now. I was destined to wander the grid of London streets until the sun rose, and maybe even past then, living off my wits, the items in my back pack, and a phone that refused to cooperate and get me the hell home. I honestly had no idea how I would get from my current situation to my apartment. Without transportation, I was looking at a five-hour walk through unsafe streets. Every car that approached I begged just to drive on because I was convinced that if it stopped it would only to be for the driver and passengers to get out, mug me, beat me, and then carry on, leaving me without my back pack, my only ally. The phone they could have, for all the good it was doing me.

As I approached an intersection, two buses whisked by and I had to bite back a yelp at the joy of seeing a sign of civilisation. They sped around a corner to the left without stopping and disappeared. I knew that left would take me in the opposite direction from home, so faced the decision of following big red buses away from where I wanted to go, or go right, down another long empty street filled with potential rapers and muggers, in the vague direction of my apartment.

I went right (right is right, after all), and prayed I wouldn’t later come to regret this as the moment I made the stupidest decision ever. Actually, it couldn’t be the stupidest decision ever because I’d already passed that point when I confidently and cockily walked past the cab rank into the night, a dumb smug smile on my stupid face. I cursed myself as idiotic tight ass and marched up the right hand road.

I saw foxes scuttling across the asphalt, dimly lit by the street lights, and felt like one of them. I too padded cautiously through the dark, sending furtive glances to either side, shoulders hunched against the cold and an imagined attack. We were creatures of the night, only I was a big dumb animal, vulnerable and unable to scurry into the bushes like my nocturnal companions. They were made for the night, whereas I was made for sitting safely on a couch eating chips.

The road I strode up, which I was sure would stretch on forever, a purgatory road, a Möbius strip road, miraculously came to an intersection, although as dark and deserted as every other I’d encountered. I stood on the corner looking up and down the line of bitumen disappearing to either side and feeling very far from home, and noticed, almost hidden by a scree of trees, a bus stop. A bus stop! It was like finding a sealed bottle of water in the desert, spotting a ship when adrift in the ocean, discovering a chocolate bar in the back of the pantry when you’re really hankering for chocolate. It was salvation.

I trotted to the bus stop, pulling out my previously useless phone and putting it to use as a torch, and stifled a squeal of happiness when I read that it was a 24 hour bus line. This late at night, the bus would come at ten and forty past the hour. It was 01:20 AM (02:20 AM Viennese time). I had to only wait twenty minutes and I would be heading, roughly, closer to home. More importantly, I would be taken off the streets and tucked into a warm metal box on wheels, which would feel like a five-star hotel after wandering dimly lit London industrial streets.

Twenty minutes is a long time to wait in the dark, standing on the side of a road in the extreme early morning, head spinning from sleep deprivation, listening to every sound and being convinced it’s Jack the Ripper. (I know he only preyed on prostitutes, but given how perfect a target I’d made of myself, I figured he’d make an exception).

So I did the only reasonable thing a person can do in that circumstance to pass the time: I pulled out my book and started reading.

Picture me now, backpack on back, standing small and exposed on the shoulder of an empty road in the middle of the night, reading by moonlight. What a fucking idiot.

Eventually twin headlights lit up my ridiculous tableau and the bus pottered to the side of the asphalt, door swinging open like the gates of heaven, and I boarded. I was so ecstatic I could have hugged the bus driver if not for the plexiglass barrier and his complete look of apathy that clearly communicated the sentiment, “Just take a damn seat.”

While riding this bus I realised that if I got off in five stops I could catch another bus from there to Morden station, a fifteen minute walk from home. I had a plan. I was going to get home. I repressed the urge to attempt to hug the bus driver again.

I disembarked at the appropriate stop and looked for the times of the 118 bus line that would get me home. It was upon reading the bus schedule that I discovered the 118 isn’t a 24 hour bus line as I’d presumed. I scanned the list of numbers, desperately searching for what time the bus line terminated. It was 01:53 AM (02:53 AM Viennese time) and the very final bus of the day would come through my stop at 01:56 AM. In three minutes. A difference of three minutes and I would have been looking at a two and a half hour walk through the western suburbs of London, but instead I counted down the seconds and, right on time, the 118 pulled up to carry me home.

I had to clench my fists to resist any physical show of affection to my new bus driver, but couldn’t help giving him a huge grin as I swiped my oyster card and took a seat, to which he rolled his eyes, closed the doors, and pulled out onto the road. My night bus in red shining armour was taking me home.

I got off at the end of the line at Morden station and felt like I floated the fifteen minute walk home. I savoured every familiar sight, running loving fingers over the graffiti-scrawled roller doors of an indian restaurant, smiling at the outline of the post office, and eventually drifting blissfully through the wrought-iron gates to my apartment building. I climbed the three flights of stairs, unlocked the door, and stumbled into my bedroom. As I stood in the light of my room, safe and warm and with a bed beckoning to me at my feet, part of me couldn’t believe I was actually there, that my physical body had somehow ended up in this location. An hour before I had been nervously striding past shadowy factories with no concept of how to transport myself from that reality to this one, yet somehow, through some weird twisting of luck, here I stood, unmolested and intact, with my backpack still on my back at 02:30 AM (03:30 AM Viennese time), in my home.

It was at this point that I noticed the internet on my phone had decided to stir, and city mapper updated to announce that I had arrived at my destination. I glared at it like the annoying kid at school who claims to have known the answer all along and just didn’t want to say it, trying to decide whether to swear at it or throw it against the wall, and then just collapsed into bed.

My last thought before falling asleep was that, next time, I’d take the fucking taxi.

JOURNAL EXTRACT #08

September 10, 2015 / jonathanrobb / 4 Comments

2nd of September

I am sitting, freshly showered and rejoicing in the absence of sand from various folds in my body, on my bed in my Greek apartments. Outside, I can hear the braying of a donkey, a donkey I’m presuming is either in great amounts of pain or great amounts of pleasure — it’s hard to distinguish from the incredibly loud noises it’s making. I realised after writing this that it’s a strange thing to try to determine whether a donkey is receiving sexual gratification or not, but that’s just one of the many mind-expanding joys of travel.

After detailing the strict itinerary we hold ourselves to while holidaying in my last post, we immediately discarded our program and today did different things. I know, I know, what about the beneficial and economical pros of a strictly adhered to relaxation regime? Rest assured, we are professionals working at the top of our game, and our time was wisely used.

Instead of the delicious giant cinnamon donut I’ve grown accustom to, we opted to have a civilised sit-down breakfast by the water. This was in part because one member of our enclave, Martina, was leaving, and it seemed a fitting way to send off someone you’ve spent the last nine days with — particularly when most of that time was spent eating. The other reason was because we wanted bacon and eggs. Multiple birds with minimal stones, and all that.

Farewelling Martina made me very aware of the looming End of Holidays (yes, it warrants capitalisation) that was approaching, and the return to the ranks of the employed. This reentering into reality, albeit a very altered reality from the one I’m used to, has me thinking about the new things I want to achieve during my time in London. I’ve made a mental list of what my primary objectives are in an effort to avoid getting swept up in the working world once again. I don’t want to forget the reasons why I decided to deconstruct a life I’ve spent literally my entire lifetime building. The mental list, which will become a physical one by the end of this entry, should help keep these reasons at the forefront of my mind, reducing the odds of me falling back into old habits. I have a shitty memory: I can’t be too careful.

After leaving Martina to join the throngs of people and suitcases boarding the ferry, our now depleted group drove through the heart of Paros, stopping to explore the township of Lefkes. The town was composed of the stereotypical white-box homes and blue awnings I’ve come to expect, but without the smorgasbord of restaurants and shops found by the seaside designed to lure tourists. The cobbled alleys were quiet and deserted, and we wound our way down stairs and streets to the impressive church at the centre of it all.

(Photo credit Kerstin Hofer)

Alex, acting once again as my tour guide despite the fact that this is technically her holiday too (I’ll buy her a donut to pay for her services), told me about the Greek custom of immediately burying the body without ceremony when a person dies. This is done because Greece is always hot and decomposition quick, but also because the ceremony of their death doesn’t take place until a year after burying. The body is exhumed, or rather the bones by this point, and the family sit around, food and drinks aplenty and music in the air, and reverently and respectfully clean each bone, before placing it in a specially crafted box which will become the departed’s final resting place.

I’m trying hard to decide if this is the most repugnant way to farewell a family member or the most intimate. The idea of handling a loved-ones bones is off-putting on a visceral level (bones are meant to be on the inside), but what could be more sacred than ensuring the very core of a person is put to rest cleanly and neatly. It’s probably a bit of both: icky, but nice. Sort of.

After exploring the town and this insight into macabre Greek traditions, we headed to the bays of Paros, one of which is renowned for mud. Apparently the dirt deposits that collect on the beach are full of minerals that are good for the skin, so people come to get in touch with their inner caveman and smear mud all over their body.

Before you ask, yes, I did it. And yes, my skin was silky smooth afterwards.

Objectives for My Time in London: (excluding my newly adopted skin treatment regime)

Write more: I like writing. If I could, I’d do it for a living. Sadly, I’ve been doing something else for a living, which leaves little time for writing. So, I’d like to write more. If I could get something published, I’d cry like a little girl.
Read more: I like reading — this one’s pretty self-explanatory.
Learn German: I’ve always wanted to learn a second language, and I now know someone who can converse in a language other than English. I hear this is an important component in language learning. My time in Austria clearly demonstrated the aching chasm of ignorance that comes from being outside a language, so I’m making it a high priority to master German. It’s hard work being the dumbest person in the room.
Travel: Obviously.
Exercise: While it hurts me to say it, and I mean that very literally, I’m committing to continue to work out with my roommates, Dom and Nikki. They’re both ridiculously motivated when it comes to physical exertion, and it seems stupid not to use their insane enthusiasm to supplement my own dwindling desire to exercise. Please remind me of this when I’m on the floor crying from too many squats.
Work out work: By which I mean, figure out what I want to do with my life. At least professionally. I love working as a district nurse, but there are so many avenues in health I’d like to explore. Preferably something that combines writing and my health knowledge. For those of you unfamiliar with the city, London is actually a pretty big place, so it seems like a good setting to venture into the alternative pathways of the medical world.

That seems like enough objectives to keep me busy for now. Auf Wiedersehen. (<—Number 3 coming along nicely.)

7th of September

I am on a rooftop in Athens, twenty-one stories up, the city sprawling in every direction away from me. From this height, it looks like the world’s biggest miniature set, old and off-white figurines stacked as far as the eye can see in the folds of land that is Athens. I am alone.

Well, that’s not exactly true. The luscious rooftop bar and pool is full of holidayers eating and drinking, and soaking in the heat and humidity of this beautiful Greek day. But none of them are my companions. My companions have gone.

An hour ago, Alex and Anna left for the airport, where they’ll catch a flight back to Vienna. I’m picturing them in the airport now, sitting back and enjoying a meal of McDonalds. They were very excited by the prospect of McDonalds.

It feels odd to be alone. Normally, I am a person who enjoys a healthy amount of me time, a self-confessed introvert, but have found this desire absent in the past month. The person responsible for this is Alex, who has filled my days with so many incredible experiences and her own beautiful company, that, rather than feeling drained from so much stimulation, I feel revived. I cannot thank her enough. I know she’s reading this (I’m big in Austria) so once again, thank you for giving me the best month of my life. I will buy you as many chicken McNuggets as you like.

But even though I’m sitting here, sulking in paradise over my new isolation, I really have no reason to complain — these last few days of my holiday have been as eventful as the rest. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it on the site before, but the plan has always been to end the trip with a wedding. Not mine, for the record.

A close friend of Alex’s, Natassa, is the marriage participant in question, and before I set out from Australia, Alex invited me to attend as her date. She reasoned that she’d never been to a Greek wedding, and I’d never been to Greece, so it was a good opportunity for both of us. I whole-heartedly agreed with her reasoning.

We made the return journey from Paros to Athens on the ferry, and after checking into our hotel, spent the evening exploring the city and, of course, eating delicious food. Athens lacks the beauty of the islands, the buildings looking tired and worn, shades of dirty cream instead of the vigorous white of Paros, but it has history.

On Saturday, while Alex went to Natassa’s mother’s house to have her hair done and other secret things that women do before weddings, I ventured into Athens, map in hand, keen to see some history. I’m a big lover of fantasy books, and many of them are set in Ancient Athens, or fictional places that very closely resemble Ancient Athens, so I was excited to see some of the places I’d read about. I wandered through ruins, Hadrian’s Gate and the Temple of Zeus, mentally reconstructing what these monolithic buildings would have looked like back when they were freshly built, and marvelling at the beauty and ingenuity of edifices crafted thousands of years ago. Naturally, I took a selfie.

The wedding was a slightly strange affair. Not that it wasn’t lovely, because it certainly was, set against the Athen’s coastline, but rather because during the ceremony, which took place before a tiny chapel, most of the guests talked and wandered around, giving the main event only minimal attention. A Greek friend of Alex’s, Christina, said that sort of behaviour was common, and the betrothed didn’t seem bothered. A small choir of men sung in Greek while the priest intoned words which were lost on me, metal rings were swapped over the heads of Natassa, the bride, and Franz, the groom, as if the best man was unsure of which head it should land on, and then we all threw rice at the newly married couple. It was good fun.

(I know, it wasn’t fair to outshine the bride and groom, but we couldn’t help it)

The rest of the night was mostly similar to a wedding in Australia: wine and food (although the quality of the food outstripped anything I’ve ever eaten at a wedding before), and dancing. I participated in a tradition Greek dance, by which I mean stumbled around in a circle trying to figure out the steps, and managing not to stamp on anyone’s feet. This pattern of eating, drinking and dancing continued until three AM when we bused it back to the hotel and literally fell into bed. The wedding had been a success.

The next day, or rather, afternoon, we emerged, ate, and made our way to the most iconic place in Athens: The Acropolis. It was genuinely stunning, and I played the game again of trying to picture it in its original state, ancient Greeks wandering throughout the columns, discussing engineering and philosophy, physics and religion. How they managed to build such a structure is beyond me. But then, I was never that good at lego.

We had our final Greek meal, toasted our final ‘Yamas!’, and made our way back to the hotel.

And that brings me up-to-date. The holiday, this holiday at any rate, is all but done, and I am now sitting in my empty hotel room, wallowing in post-holiday blues. The past month has gone by so quickly, and yet seems filled to bursting with new experiences and sights, too many to be contained in twenty-eight days. I’ve seen things read about in books, and wandered roads laid thousands of years ago. I’ve walked through the palaces of emperors and learnt the history of a city. I’ve eaten amazing food from different cultures, and made new friends. It is no exaggeration to say it has been the experience of a lifetime.

Thanks for sharing it with me.

JOURNAL EXTRACT #07

September 1, 2015September 10, 2015 / jonathanrobb / 2 Comments

27th of August

I am sitting, feet couched in sun-warmed sand, on the shore of an island in Greece. The blue waters of the Mediterranean are lapping only a meter away from where I’m resting on a deck chair, their blue perfection living up to the score of photos I’d seen before coming here.

(Photo credit Martina Falkner)

The past few days have been bliss. It feels slightly mad that I’m living the stereotypical holiday pined after by people trapped in cubicles, the go-to idea of paradise conjured to appease the tedium of work. And I’m living it. In a way if feels like this is meant for someone else, that days of luxuriating on a Greek Island, bothered with no greater schedule than when to swim, eat, and sleep are reserved for the insanely lucky or insanely rich, and that at any point someone will walk across the sand and say, “You’re in my seat,” and then that will be that. But all the other beach goers seem to accept my presence, no one yet double-taking when spotting me and shouting “Fraud!”, so I’m going to relax and ride this for as long as I can.

The trip to the island involved four means of transport, beginning with Alex’s dad driving us to the airport where we met our other companions in idleness, Kerstin, Alex’s cousin, and two of Alex’s friends from university, Anna and Martina. It was sad to say goodbye to Vienna, and my temporary foster home and family, Monika and Rupert. Their generosity and welcome turned a holiday into something more, and deepened the enjoyment of my stay tenfold. Beside their lovely company and beautiful home, I will also miss their cooking. My god, they know how to cook.

From Vienna, we flew to Athens then took a bus (the third form of transport for those still counting) to the docks, where we boarded a huge ferry for the five-hour trip out to the island of Paros. The water opened up to swallow us as we drifted away from the newly discovered city of Athens (new for me, at any rate. I hear it’s actually quite old), and on to paradise. The sun set while we sailed and we were greeted by the lights of Paros sparkling along the shoreline, dimly illuminating the square white buildings Greece is renowned for. The departure from the boat was impressive, hundred of people, suitcase wheeling behind them, disgorging from the bowels of the ferry, a mass of humanity spreading out into the island. It felt like we were all new migrants, deposited on an island, to start a new life. If this is my new life, then I have nothing to complain about.

(Photo credit Martina Falkner)

Since then we have split our time between sunning ourselves on the beach, swimming in the crystal waters, eating fresh seafood, bread and oil, and drinking beer and cocktails, napping in the sun, and, of course, reading. I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed, and so free of that nag of productivity, the voice in the back of my head that usually disturbs my rest by insisting I need to be doing something more constructive. I’ve bought that voice a beer and he’s currently sleeping in the Greek sun. We’ve made our peace.

28th of August

I am back on a beach in Paros, a different beach from yesterday, but that doesn’t really matter. Every beach we visit looks like it’s been lifted straight out of a postcard. The weather is, of course, perfect, as it always is in postcards, a method designed to make those receiving them jealous, and a way for those sending them to brag. It’s the original check-in before Facebook was invented.

Each night after a strenuous day of concentrated napping, studious reading, and dedicated eating, we head back to our apartments to wash away the sweat of our hard work before venturing into town. We’ve explored a few parts of this island’s township, and if the postcard metaphor was appropriate for the beach scenes, then it only increases in the web of quaint cobblestoned alleyways found riddled throughout the hubs of Paros. Perfectly white cubed buildings squat almost a top one another, every door and windowsill painted a vivid blue in a patriotic display. Boutique stores selling jewellery and clothes share the street with idyllic restaurants, vines growing across lattice overhead and the tables lit by candlelight.

So far the food in Greece has not disappointed. After the food tour of Vienna I received from Alex and her parents, I was convinced I’d find an anticlimactic feed no matter how good the fare provided by the island, but this has not been the case. The seafood is fresh, unsurprising given we’re on a spit of land surrounded by sea and, therefore, sea creatures, and the bread and oil rich and delicious. I’m not looking forward to heading back to London and having to feed myself again. It’s not that I can’t cook a decent meal, but I think my time in Vienna and now Greece has ruined me for regular food.

I spoke to my brother today – it was great to hear his voice. One line in and I was home again, a slice of the comfort and familiarity amongst all this incredible newness. We exchanged the usual report of happenings, but it was the talking shit around this news-swapping that eased the homesickness. There is no medicine better than laughing with your brother over something so fucking stupid you can’t help but appreciate the genius of it.

So far my homesickness has been rather restrained. I think this is due to the fact that I spent the first part of the trip with my cousin, Dom, who really is a brother in every sense except for the fact that we shared differently uteruses, and so home didn’t feel far away. I’ve also done nothing except holiday, so I still hasn’t really hit me that this is my new life and not just an extended vacation. I think some part of my brain is still convinced in a matter of weeks I’ll have to return to my previous life. I think once employment replaces holidaying that part of my brain will think, “Oh shit, this is hard again. Okay, I believe you when you say this is our reality now.” Luckily, that horrid realisation is still ten days away, so I’m happy to join my brain in ignorance and just relax in this piece of paradise. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

30th of August

I am sitting on an outcropping of stone in an alley in Paros while the girls shop. I have a suspicion the step of stone was built for men such as me waiting on women while they survey the market goods. The Greek culture is ancient and wise like that.

Right now my belly is stretched full with good food, the third restaurant meal I’ve eaten today. I know, if I was you, I’d hate me too.

(My holiday companions)

Despite the fact that I’m on holiday, and have nothing but open time and endless possibilities, my days have still fallen into a routine. Please don’t mistake me, this is no criticism – my current routine far outstrips the one I previously had, which involved getting up at six each morning and working for eight and a half hours. But it seems routine is an unavoidable human condition – we develop practises that prove beneficial and economical, then add to these practises until our day is a scheduled thing. So even while holidaying, we’ve managed to hone our traits into a seamless machine of relaxation. Right now, my day goes something like this:

– Wake to the alarm at eight o’clock. And I know what you’re thinking, why the hell are you waking at eight on a holiday? To get the best sun beds on the beach, obviously. Beneficial and economical, remember? And fear not, any lost sleep is recovered on said sun bed later in the day.

– Flop myself out of bed at eight twenty after attempting to ignore the alarm for twenty minutes, brush my teeth and don my Greek Island ceremonial robes i.e.my bathing suit.

– Drive to a close by bakery and purchase one giant sugared donut. The challenge of which is resisting eating the donut until arriving at our destination.

– Drive to the beach and glory in our choice of sun beds, patting ourselves on the back for our wise early start, then immediately devouring the sugared donut in under a minute.

– Spend the next minute picking sugar out of my beard.

– Then comes the part of the day I detest the most: the ritualistic application of the sunscreen. This is probably the hardest part of my day, which is another way of saying my day’s not that hard, but I still find it in me to resent it. I do it anyway because one stubborn fit of resistance as a child and five days a whimpering afterwards every time a wisp of clothing touched my lobster-red sunburn taught me resistance is futile.

– Swim in the Mediterranean and reflect on how lucky I am.

– Nap, and feel that balance has been restored post the eight o’clock alarm.

– Read for hours until someone idly suggests lunch.

– Eat a lunch of delicious traditional Greek cuisine. Or pizza. Whatever looks best at the time.

– Repeat morning activities of swimming, napping and reading. By now, I have perfected these duties.

– Drive back to the apartment at around six for a shower and some phone time. WiFi is only available at the accommodation and not the beach. I know, stone ages, right?

– Make our way into town and meander through beautiful alleyways before selecting the next stunning restaurant to eat at.

– Sitting down with a sigh of relief after our strenuous meandering.

– Eat consistently amazing food – conversation usually halts at this point as we’re all too busy moaning with pleasure at every mouthful to bother with words.

– More meandering to work off dinner and the chance to shop.

– Driving home and collapsing into bed, confident in the knowledge that my new routine has ensured I didn’t waste a minute of the day.

(Photo credit Martina Falkner)

As perfect as this routine is, and despite my best efforts to ignore the fact, I know that this lifestyle has an end date, and before long I’ll be developing a new routine in London. I’m certain of one thing when it comes to building this new life: I don’t want to replicate my old life. I mean, it seems like a waste of time and money to travel all this way and just build Same Life v2.0, don’t you think?

The reason I’m so determined to avoid this is because I think it’s an easy trap to fall into. That unavoidable human condition would kick in, and given the success of my previous life, it’d make sense to duplicate the elements that worked. Beneficial and economical. But this move is a chance to create a new routine, one built around new objectives. To reflect on what was previously out of balance and right it. To make time for new things.

What those things are exactly has yet to be decided. But I’m giving it some serious thought and will report back in the next post.

JOURNAL EXTRACT #06

August 23, 2015August 23, 2015 / jonathanrobb / 3 Comments

18th of August

I am once again relaxing on Alex’s couch, sharing the property with two cats and a tortoise. They’re good company, but they only speak German, so it’s hard to get a good conversation going. I have to take a moment to recognise how good my life is at the present moment. Each day I wake up, have a relaxing morning, before venturing out with Alex for my next Austrian adventure. If it wasn’t for the whole money thing, I could see myself being happily unemployed for years to come.

It’s been five days since I last wrote an entry, and this feels both too long and short a time. The days have whipped by, blurred memories and moments all traced with an edge of happiness. Yet when I think of all I’ve experienced in this time, five days doesn’t seem long enough to contain it all.

When I last wrote I was making wishes on suspicious shooting stars. Since then I’ve seen Klimt paintings, walked atop the bell tower at St Stephan’s Cathedral, relaxed at a bbq in Upper Austria, eaten at a wirtshaus with around twenty of Alex’s extended family, wandered the beautiful city of Vienna, celebrated Monika’s birthday with some of the best food I’ve ever tasted, chopped wood, drunk schnapps, and just generally eaten my way through most of Austria’s traditional menu. And loved doing it. And I know I’ve done even more, but my memory’s failing me right now.

It’s hard to pick highlights from this array of bright moments, but getting to relax at a bbq with Alex’s mates in Upper Austria would have to be one. Alex organised the event both as an opportunity to gather, eat and drink in the beautiful Austrian summer, as well as to give her friends a chance to meet the weird Australian boy she invited over. In both aspects, it was a success.

As with everyone Alex has introduced me to, her circle of friends were open and welcoming — I’m beginning to suspect the Viennese stereotype of being stubborn and impatient as being false.

Another highlight was being invited to lunch with Alex’s family for her grandmother’s birthday where I ate venison and soaked in the company of her family. I couldn’t understand the dialogue but could appreciate the rhythms of conversation and the shared laughter that are so common at my own family gatherings. If travel reinforces anything, it’s that we’re not as different as we think.

Today I was sitting around the corner from Alex’s office building, resting on a small square of wood, stones and greenery amongst the industrial grey of the area. A balding man with stained yellow teeth smoking a cigarette approached me and attempted conversation. I knew his sort — the lost and addled, deprived of interaction and having forgotten the social norms of a community from being too long outside of it. He spoke German and I spoke English, but that wasn’t a great deterrent. I have dealt with people like him for years as a nurse, and know that a calm face, a smile, and a patient tone is all they’re after. I gave him these and he grinned with saliva-flecked lips and bid me “Tschüss,” which means goodbye. I bid him the same.

It is strange being outside a language. I never realised how much of myself I projected until the option was taken away from me. When I’m surrounded by those speaking German, I internalize everything. It’s not the most comfortable feeling. I have things I want to express out into the world but have no way of doing so. So I remain quiet, and outwardly thoughtful, bottled inside my own head. I imagine it’s years spent like this that drives someone like my balding, nicotine-stained new friend to approach a stranger, even if it is just for a minute of conversation.

It’s okay, though. It’s a new experience, and I like new experiences. It makes me think of the immigrants who travelled to Australia, knowing no one and having no word of English, and somehow managing to build a new life. I can’t imagine the isolation they must have felt, how much they internalized to begin with, until some patient person helped them with the language. Alex is my patient person, but sometimes things simply cannot be translated. Conversation goes by too fast, or the context is too foreign. I understand, and instead just try to enjoy the atmosphere and the mood of those around me. I do take great pride when I pick out one word from amongst a hundred. It makes me all the more determined to master German. At the moment I have the reading level of a three-year old — although having read some of Alex’s niece’s books, I feel even this is being generous.

And on books, today I went into the National Library of Vienna. The irony of the place was that it was too beautiful for reality, and looked like it belonged in a book. The smell of the books, the texture of the wood, the bright and intricate murals decorating the ceiling could have been spun out of fantasy. It was certainly this geeky book-lover’s fantasy. Vienna continues to astound. Every time I think I’ve see it’s most beautiful side, it turns and reveals a new facet that stops me in my tracks.

Tomorrow I visit one of Vienna’s royal castles, the Schoenbrunn Castle, and I’m sure it will cause me to falter in my steps like all the rest.

EMERGENCY ADDIT:

Early after arriving, Alex and I were sitting in her backyard at night when we heard a noise in the bushes. Alex casually remarked that it was probably a hedgehog. I casually lost my shit. I was very excited by the idea of seeing a hedgehog. After a confused expression and something like, “Really? It’s just a hedgehog,” Alex attempted to find the creature but with no luck.

Today, I got to hold a hedgehog.

Alex’s Dad, Rupert, was in the garden and managed to find the most adorable baby hedgehog, which he then handed to me. I think you can see in the picture how happy I am about this series of events. It may have been the most exciting thing I’ve seen in my travels so far.

Vienna, you did it again.

20th of August

I am sitting on my bed in my adopted room in Vienna, with a belly full of wiener schnitzel. It’s a good way to be. Today is Alex’s first official day off from work, so I’m giving her the day off from her second job as my travel guide. I can be a generous employer. Suitably, we’re having as lazy a day as possible. It’s strange not to be going and seeing another of Vienna’s ridiculous wonders, but good as it gives me time to digest and assimilate all that I have seen. Overtime I think Alex has played her best card, laid the crowning jewel of Vienna out to wow me, I’m proven wrong. After the library I was convinced nothing could top this surreal experience. I was wrong.

Yesterday we trained it to the summer palace of the Austria Empire, the Schönbrunn Palace. Austria is now a republic, but historically it was an empire that used to stretch into parts of Italy, Hungry, Poland, and the Cheque Republic. As you would expect from such a vast empire, the living quarters of its royal family were suitably impressive. Actually, suitably impressive is a gross understatement. What I meant to say was mindbogglingly incredible, lavish and opulent in ways I couldn’t fathom. Yeah, that’s what I meant to say.

We started by walking around the mammoth stretch of building that was the main estate that used to house over one thousand staff — all to care for a family of five. The five I’m referring to is the very famous couple of Franz and Elizabeth, a.k.a Sisi, and their three children. There’s a chance they had more kids and they were simply lost in the labyrinth of the palace. There’s really no way of knowing.

After circling the building we walked through the central gardens which were all perfectly maintained, towards one o the most impressive fountains I’ve ever seen. To be honest, it was more of a man-made waterfall bedecked with beautiful statues.

We wound our way up an incline towards the Gloriette, which we theorised was used as a sitting room. If so, it is the mother of all sitting rooms. It was ordered to be constructed by Maria Theresa, a previous empress of Austria who ruled and instigated many positive changes, all while giving birth to fourteen children. I guess the mother of all sitting rooms is appropriate for this mother of Austria.

Given we had already climbed so far, we lashed out and paid the €3.50 to climb to the top of the Gloriette and look back down at the palace. I’m going to try to describe it, but please bear in mind that my words are insufficient. Much like a photo only captures a static image, my description will undoubtably be missing the bombardment of details taken in by the human eye that elevates it from something simply nice into something indescribable. For the full effect, I recommend seeing it yourself.

Looking down, the palace was reduced to a doll house, one of perfect and exquisite realism, with the stretch of symmetrical gardens laid out like a royal carpet leading to its door. To either side, the dark green of the wider gardens unrolled, a maze of beauty and shadows. I say gardens, but a manicured forest is a more accurate description.

Behind this picturesque setting that more rightly belongs in the pages of a book than my mundane reality, Vienna, the city, rose and fell, a mosaic of ancient buildings and modern skyscrapers, cathedral spires and aqua-rusted domes, far off golden statues catching the few rays of light leaking through the clouds.

In case my description failed to impart the sentiment: It was nice.

So you can see why today, a day of rest, of assimilation and digestion, is necessary. I need this time to convince myself it was real, that this boy from Australia wandered the palace of Austrian emperors, took in art commissioned hundred of years ago and featuring people long dead, but whose actions and decisions helped sculpt the world we have today. It’s a lot to take in.

Tomorrow, a border crossing into Slovakia.

23rd of August

I am sitting in my bed at the beginning of what will be my last full day in Austria. For the time being, at any rate. Vienna in the summer is unquestionably beautiful, but Alex has detailed all its winter attributes, and has made the idea of returning very appealing. She’s offered to let me stay with her again when I return, and it would be rude not to accept this gracious offer. Really, my hands are tied.

I know I’m really going to miss Vienna. I have only been here two weeks, but every thing from the kindness of Alex and her family, the open and impressive expanse of the city itself, the food and the history, and every person I’ve met, have made this a place that feels like home. A friend told me yesterday that Vienna was voted one of the most livable cities in the world — I can believe it.

My last entry finished by mentioning our planned journey into another country. We did it. And we did it by train. In fact, the trip only took about forty minutes. I’m pretty sure I’ve waited on a train platform in Melbourne for longer than that.

I was very excited to be plunging from one country to another, to see the change that would occur. Living on the world’s biggest island means a border crossing isn’t possible without the use of a boat or a place — that we were doing it via train seemed very novel.

Much to my surprise, there was no fanfare when we passed the border, no fireworks or welcoming wreaths, no security guards or cavity searches, the train just continued chugging down the tracks, and from one breath to the next, we were in Slovakia. The passport I’d brought stayed tucked in my pocket, unstamped.

Despite the lack of carnival welcoming my arrival into another country, there was no doubt it was in fact another country. The German words I’ve come to expect on signs and advertisements were gone, replaced a foreign collections of letters. The shape and style of the buildings looked different, and the language floating around me in conversation shifted. That short train ride and we were in a new culture, the old borders allowing it to grow beside the culture of Austria, untouched and unmixed.

Bratislava is a small city, by which I mean Alex and I walked in and around it twice in the few hours we were there, but it has a certain charm because of this. The age of the place is apparent in its narrow cobbled streets, and its charm is intensified by the ease with which food and drink can be bought. It’s a place made to appeal to tourists with a restaurant on almost every corner. Like every meal I’ve had since landing, lunch was delicious — for those still playing at hoe, I had the beef goulash.

And, really, that was Bratislava.

Yesterday, after an incredibly delicious morning of doing nothing, Alex and I headed to a fair. The fair is a three-day celebration of eating and drinking. What it is celebration of, I hear you ask? Why, eating and drinking, of course. The most noble cause for celebrating.

I was feeling very underdressed as Alex stepped out wearing a traditional dirndl — think shouldered white shirt, patterned dress and apron. The garb is reserved for special occasions, and the effect is stunning. And made more so once we arrived at the fair to see crowds of people in the traditional outfit — you could almost taste the culture. Which I soon did, by eating a baumkucken, which was kind of like a log length of cinnamon donut. It was good.

The men didn’t miss out, strutting around in below-knee leather lederhosen and checked shirt. Alex told me of the sophisticated system used by the ladies when tying their aprons: A knot on the left means the wearer is single, and open to a polite advance. A knot on the right means the wearer is in a committed relationship and all interested parties would be better trying their luck elsewhere. A knot centred in the back indicates the wearer is a widow, and a knot front-and-centre means the wearer is a virgin. Although, why this information needs to by public knowledge is beyond me. But I think this system is genius, and if adopted into Australia could save for a lot of failed attempts at picking up. For a very old tradition, it’s really quite ahead of its time.

Tonight we plan to farewell Vienna by heading to the top of the DC tower for a cocktail — a most appropriate was to say goodbye as the city will be laid out around us. As I said, I’m sad to be leaving, and have loved every second of my time here.

I can’t really complain, though. Tomorrow, we head to the Greek Islands.

JOURNAL EXTRACT #05

August 17, 2015 / jonathanrobb / 2 Comments

10th of August

I am back, shoulders sore from the two-hour commute with my faithful backpack once again mounted on me, in an airport. Airports are like little cities, a micro-civilisation sprawling out across terminals. From where I sit in the departure lounge at Heathrow airport I can see people eating, shopping, talking, working, and one young woman opposite me is sleeping. All of us are temporary residents in the most multi-cultural country in the world.

Emotions are also high at airports, which I like. You get to see under the mask. People are either so exhausted from early starts or six-hour layovers or their previous flight that they stop caring about how they come across and just are. Some are cranky, others near-manic, and others just blank and slack-jawed, thoroughly worn down by travel.

And then you get people at the other end of the emotional spectrum: the excitement. Adults freed from the shackles of work and undeflatable by the prospect of a holiday. Children running around, still excited by the novelty of an airport and the flight to come. Often these exuberant kids belong to the exhausted adults, too tired to tell their children to stop playing tag amongst the perfumes. I don’t think these polar extremes of energy levels are a coincidence.

Luckily for me, I fall into the latter category: the excitement. And I totally won that tag game.

No, I am the undeflated adult still revelling from my emancipation. And today I get to go to Austria. Vienna, to be exact.

The fact that I get to write a sentence like “Today I get to go to Austria,” illustrates just how insanely lucky I am. Insanely lucky to have the wealth to afford the trip. Lucky that I have parents who educated me to get a good job to get said wealth. Lucky that I have a mind-blowingly generous friend who lives in Vienna, giving me both a reason to visit the city and a roof over my head. I’m feeling very lucky right now.

The past week hasn’t been all sleep-ins and leaving a perfect indent of my body on the couch though. I made some moves towards gaining employment. While I wait on registration to come through (still) I can get work as a carer in the community, tending to the more fundamental aspects of my job rather than the technical. While this isn’t something I could do long-term, I don’t mind the idea of starting in London this way. It’ll give me time to explore London and get the lay of the districts around me. It’ll also give me the opportunity to learn how the UK community health, and their NHS, works. Information I’m presuming will be useful.

It’s also, compared to care-managing a team of nurses, blessedly free from a lot of responsibility. The good thing about being at the bottom of the ladder is you can always pass your problems up.

I met with my agency in King’s Cross and interviewed — I say interviewed, but like all aspects of getting work in the UK has been, it was really an exam. I filled out a ton of paperwork, provided all the paperwork I had already sent across electronically, and answered pages of drug calculations and short-answer scenario question. Good fun.

The next day I attended a nine-and-a-half hour training day, going through all the basic elements of the field — OH & S, manual handling, CPR , etc. While the day did drag endlessly, it was made better by the fact that everyone had English accents. I was also asked to role-play an emotional abusive husband, and was told my Australian accent really sold the role. I’m not sure what this says about the Australian stereotype. My fellow trainees’ reviews were glowing:

“I was scared.”

“I was worried for the wife.”

“It made me uncomfortable.”

At least if my registration never comes through I can try my luck in the West End.

Dom and Nikki also began a twelve week work-out program that I optimistically agreed to participate in, blissfully ignoring the fact that they’re both much stronger than me. After a leg session, I struggled to walk for three days, and had to lower myself into chairs with my arms in case my legs gave way. It gave me a new appreciation for my mobility-challenged patients. I have only regained the use of my arms after an arm and ab session, and still wince if anyone touches my stomach. I guess I should be happy the exercises are working.

I am loving life in London, and it’s been exciting to start building a life in another country. Every small win becomes a huge victory because you’re doing it in another land, and that deserves a healthy pat on the back.

The girl opposite me is waking now, and that’s my cue to wrap it up.

More to come from Vienna…

11th of August

I am sitting in the lounge room of my friend Alex’s house, a cat curled around my feet, in Vienna. And just like that I’m in another country. I realised today that the commute on the underground to get to Heathrow airport took the same amount of time as the flight to Vienna. It’s a weird world we live in.

The hospitality I have received is staggering. Alex’s family have graciously taken me into their home, making every effort to ensure I’m comfortable. Alex’s mum, Monika, had even read my post from Italy, deduced that I have a soft spot for nutella, a bought a jar for my arrival — which she wrote a welcome message on! I can now say from experience that there is nothing more welcoming than a personalised jar of nutella. Nothing.

Before I arrived, Alex said she’d be my tour guide through her beautiful country, and, one day in, she has more than lived up to her word. Let me quickly list yesterday’s itinerary:

I was collected from the airport (personal chauffeur) and driven to Alex’s home, given a tour of said home, shown my own room, towel set — even my own shelf in the bathroom cupboard —walked to the local pond (Alex calls it a pond, but I think that’s being humble. In Australia we’d call it a lake — it was far from the tiny waterhole I had been picturing). From there, driven into town and a stop for some truly delicious ice-cream, then on to the River Danube to soak our feet (it’s averaging around thirty-six degrees in Vienna. And I’d just acclimatised to London’s twenty-two degrees). Then sitting in a restaurant by the river to enjoy a Radler (think shady) and brocollinockerl (think small pieces of dough cooked in a cream sauce with ham and broccoli — very nice).

And this was only the first day! Already, Alex has detailed the list of activities she has planned, and I swear my eyes grew larger with each one — I couldn’t be more excited.

Alex told me that the Viennese (that’s the proper term, I checked) have a reputation for being cranky and impatient. Luckily for me, I have found only the opposite in my foster home — a sign of how unique these people are. I feel honoured and humbled by how readily I was accepted, and the effort Alex and her family have gone to to welcome me. When I offered to help around the house, mop the floors, feed the cats (anything!) I was politely rebuffed and told just to relax and enjoy myself.

I am definitely enjoying myself, although it does feel weird to do nothing. Alex and her parents all leave for work in the morning and I can’t help but feel like I should be shrugging on a uniform too and earning my keep. I don’t think I’ve learned the knack of stopping, of switching off self-expectations and appreciating the here and now. After Austria, I have two weeks on a Greek island with nothing more pressing to do than eat, sleep, drink, read, write, and swim, so I’m hoping to perfect the art form then. It seems the appropriate place to do so.

13th of August

I am back, relaxing while the household works, in Alex’s lounge room, her cat again sitting by my feet. I think he does this to get a mention in the journal. It has been a brilliant couple of days since I last wrote.

On Tuesday, chased by my own conscience from laying about while others worked, I headed out solo into Vienna — I only went a kilometre down the road, but I’m still marking this as a victory. I even greeted someone from the neighbourhood. Luckily for me, “Hello” in German is “Hallo,” so I mastered this one a while ago.

I headed to the “pond” and jogged a few laps, which seemed like a good idea in the cool of the house, but quickly became a sweaty mess once I exposed myself to the sun. Of course, I was jogging around a huge body of water, so cooling off wasn’t too hard. After my swim I headed home and met Alex for lunch, then we headed to a carnival.

When I was in Year Twelve, my English teacher, Mr Savage, made us study a movie starring Orson Wells based on a Graeme Greene story called The Third Man. At the time, I was a bit resentful that my class had to study a black and white film while all the other classes studied Gattaca. But the movie was actually good, and more importantly to this anecdote, featured a huge ferris wheel from Vienna. Two days ago, I rode that ferris wheel. Mr Savage, if you could see me now.

The ferris wheel has been operating since 1897, and once Alex assured me they regularly serviced it, we headed up. The view was amazing, with Vienna laid out around us.

The next treat was dinner at Schweizerhaus, where we caught up with Anna and her boyfriend. I met both Anna and Alex on a tour through Vietnam and Cambodia, and it was very cool to be sitting with these two lovely people again, in a foreign country (for me, anyway), chatting and eating.

Which brings me to the main event — the steltz. Steltz is a huge piece of cooked pork, surrounded in stripes of juicy crackling, and it may have been the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. I would have put a photo up but we devoured it so fast there was no time for happy snaps.

Yesterday, Alex took me through Vienna’s city proper, and to her university and its beautiful and ancient reading room. We were both convinced it was very Harry-Potter-like, but sadly I saw no evidence of magic. But there were books, very old books, and the smell of them hung in the air, and that was a kind of magic of its own.

We also saw the parliament building, which outshone any building I’ve ever seen in Australia. And, in a weird twist of fate that makes you believe everything in the universe is connected, I went and saw Alex’s and her dad’s company — the same company my dad works for. We were all very excited by this, and Alex and Dad even had a quick chat over the companies chat room. Small world.

In the evening I met a couple of Alex’s friends who were both incredibly friendly and welcoming. We drove up to a hilltop on the edge of the city, set up a picnic and enjoyed the view. From our vantage all of Vienna lay out like a blanket below us. It was beautiful.

We had decided on a picnic as it was reported to be a good night to see shooting stars. As the sun set, we laid back and watched the sky, armed with our wishes for when we spotted one. Collectively, we saw around ten shooting stars, although I’m skeptical on a few that may have been planes. Or UFOs. We made our wishes anyway.

It was a beautiful night in Vienna, and in some ways I’m shocked that this is only the third day. So much has happened and I feel so comfortable in this place.

Thankfully, there’s plenty more to come.