I hate the 'fasten seat-belt' sign

There I said it. I hate that little sign on airplanes and the little ding dong sound that goes with it. Hate might seem like a strong word. It's just a little sign, after all, and most travelers would argue that there are much bigger things to complain about on most airlines. But right now on this particular Singapore Airlines flight, I hate that sign.

It's the first leg of our first European adventure with master Sebastian. Until now, things had been going relatively well. We're not traveling as light as we used to, but we were well under our luggage limit at check-in (read: still plenty of room for shopping). No time for duty-free window shopping, but we made it to the gate and were boarded from the business gate before the business passengers (now that's a benefit to traveling with a baby!). Sebastian's smiles even managed to charm our nearby passengers - some managed nervous smiles in our general direction, although I'm sure few believed he could stay cute and well-behaved for the entire journey.

Seb kicking back at the boarding gate

A couple of hours ago, at Seb's bedtime, we put him in his pyjamas, popped him in the on-board bassinet and pretty soon he was fast asleep. Carl and I smiled smugly at each other, and settled in to watch a movie. It was all going so well. Until now.

The rules for the on-board bassinet are clear: no baby in the bassinet for take off, landing and when the seat-belt sign is on. Humph. Two hours ago the seat-belt sign was switched on for the first time, and it's been on and off ever since which means Sebastian has been in and out of the bassinet, still asleep for now but who knows how long we can keep this up.

Here's the kicker though. There's no turbulence. Not even a little bounce here and there. Nada. So either the pilot knows something we don't or he's got a really annoying twitch. Either way, I now hate that sign.

Seb looking a little unimpressed with his bassinet

To blog or not to blog (or what the hell do I have to say any more anyway?)

My mum wasn't the first person to tell me to get back on the blog, but she was the last. She got me wondering what I would say if I got my blog on again. You see, I am not the traveler I once was.

True, my backpack does still get a workout. Last weekend, it made the short trip to Coogee Beach in Sydney to visit Ciara, one of our best friends from London. She was in Australia for two weeks and we couldn't miss an opportunity to say hello. Plus Carl was already in Coogee for work, so the visit was serendipitous - fate even. In 40+ degree heat, we sweltered over dinner with Ciara and some of her oldest Irish friends, cooled off with a swim at Wiley's bath, a fantastic hidden sea bath around the corner from Coogee beach, squeezed in an unexpected dinner with my brother, his fiance, my dad and his wife Beth, along with brunch with Beck and Lincoln, and lunch at the infamous Coogee Bay Hotel with Thor and Lee.

I'd like to say that Carl and I were the reason we enjoyed so much good company over the weekend. But they've seen our smelly backpacks before and, like I said, I am not the traveler I once was (don't even get me started on Carl - he mostly travels with a suitcase and a suit bag these days!).

Now with the backpack comes a pram, a baby Bjorn and, you guessed it, a brand new travel companion - little Sebastian McDowell. Weighing it at around 7kgs, I am lucky he's not included in my baggage allowance. Logistically, he adds a whole new dimension to our traveling shenanigans. So far, in addition to the Coogee weekend, he's also spent a week on the central coast of New South Wales and pitched a tent at the Mornington Peninsula. Then there's the lunches at flash Melbourne restaurants, the brunches at local hot spots, the sneaky drinks at pubs and bars around town, even a disastrous bet on last year's Melbourne Cup.

Up next for our little traveler: Brisbane and, in April, the big one: Copenhagen, London, Barcelona and Singapore.

So it seems I don't really need to wonder what I have to blog about. I suspect Seb has got my blog, so to speak.

Getting social at sunset

Sunset from Darwin Ski Club

Darwin. What an odd little place. So much to like: 33 degrees everyday, 95% per cent humidity. Palm trees, spectacular sunsets, and a host of social activities devised to get maximum value out of those sunsets. 

 

SJ enjoying the sunset and a beer at Darwin Ski Club

Darwin (water) Ski Club is one of the best although it's little more than a tin-shed bar and a bunch of plastic garden chairs with a spectacular vista through palm trees. It starts slow on a Saturday afternoon, with a few people scattered across the lawn. Gradually the tables fill and the sun slides towards the horizon, lingers a little, then dips into the sea turning the sky a mesmerising shade of pink.

Bre gets into the sunset at Mindle Beach

Thursday and Sunday evenings sees the social scene shift a little closer to town to Mindle Beach markets, with juice stalls, philipino and chinese food and a chilled out vibe. Pack an esky and some wine if you can because when the market crowd moves to the beach you're going to want a cold glass of sauvignon blanc with your sunset.

Mindle Beach

But there's also a lot not to like about Darwin - bad service, bad food, and tacky tourist sights like crocosaurus cove with its lame cage of death and pools filled with bored and lethargic monster crocs. On Saturday nights, it's carnage on Mitchell Street - made even more horrendous this weekend by the influx of army dudes from Timor and the hordes of girls looking for their ticket outta town.

Bre clowning around at Crocosaurus Cove

Lucky for us, we don't have to score an army dude to get out of dodge. We have our car, our tent, some supplies and our driving music, and tomorrow Breanna, SJ and I head to Kakadu.

SJs trying to be brave about the bugs, the crocs, the snakes and the other animals she's convinced are after her English blood. The fact that she's agreed to camp shows she's got gumption. The fact that she's agreed to sleep on the ground, instead of splurging on a camp bed or mattress, suggests she's going slightly mad in her old age. If Carl was here, he'd definitely put a stop to my crazy ideas. But he's not, so it's game on. Bring it.

A really bored crocodile at Crocosaurus Cove. Skip this place - there are plenty of opportunities to see crocs in the wild!

Left field in the top end: Darwin gets random

Hands down, the best things about travelling are always the most random. Usually it's random encounters with crazy people - and there are a lot of them out there - but really it could be anything that comes from a little left field.

Like chatting for a couple of hours over a glass of chardy with the lady next to you on the plane - a real Kath and Kim character whose travel credentials put me to shame. She makes a point of trying to connect with the local people on every trip, even in a small way. She's got a keen eye for cultural differences, picking up on a recent trip to Myanmar how farmers work together in the fields and lamenting the loss of community in Australia where people work alone in the fields driven by money. Someone who seems genuinely happy to have her eyes opened to the injustices suffered by the people of Myanmar and keeps learning more about the country long after she returns home to Sydney.

Like the lady at the shuttle bus counter at Darwin Airport with her big curly grey hair, who calls me 'pet' in a disconcertingly manly Aussie bogan accent.

Like the shuttle bus driver who, at 1am, didn't think it important to acknowledge our existence but to whom we felt compelled to thank profusely in a desperate bid to elicit a response.

Like arriving at your hotel at 2am to find that your room has been given to someone else because of a burst water main so the manager has arranged for you to spend the night at a more expensive resort. Then, as he drives you there, points out the most salubrious watering holes in the top end, and a couple of strip joints, leaving you wondering what message you're sending to the locals: is it your melbourne clothes? The glasses? Do they think we need to loosen up?

Like being asked if it's your first time in Australia, after you've handed over an aussie drivers licence at the hotel reception.

Like giving bed-making lessons to the porter who made up the pull out bed with no sheet or pillowcases, and who couldn't tell the difference between a doona and a sheet because his mum makes his bed for him.

But best of all, it's waking up in a new city, sitting on your balcony with the sun shining, looking at the aqua water stretching for miles in every direction and wondering what you should do first today: swim or breakfast, breakfast or swim?

Yep, I agree. A swim, then breakfast. Time to get Sarah-Jane out of bed. Time to check out the top end.

"I knew you wouldn't miss the fifty year storm, Bodhi"

"Look at it! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, man! Let me go out there and let me get one wave, just one wave before you take me in. I mean, come on man, where I am I gonna go? Cliffs on both sides! I'm not gonna paddle my way to New Zealand! Come on, compadre. Come on!"

Let's just say, lucky Bodhi didn't try to paddle to NZ from Bells Beach. It would've taken him a bloody long time.

Carl rocks Bells Beach ADT-style

Bells beach is a compulsory stop along the Great Ocean Road, but it wasn't on the Point Break itinerary. Not really. We checked the movie and our Bells Beach looks nothing like their Bells Beach. SJ feels robbed ... until we deliver her a bunch of cuddly koalas in the wild, including this one with a monster koala booger. Awwwww.

How much can a koala bear?

This one's for my mum

I don't think the residents of Doo-Town are particularly creative, but you've gotta give them credit for their commitment to their little town. Somewhere between Hobart and Port Arthur, Doo-Town is only a couple of streets of small houses but each one is specially named doo-style. It's cute ... but only my mum will truly appreciate this Doo-Town homage.

An arctic blast: Hobart and around

The old Jam Factory at the waterfront

Triple Js Hottest 100 of All Time. 

At times it is the perfect soundtrack. At other times, not so much. But when you're exploring the rugged Tasmanian countryside, a little musical variety is crucial. Add a little bit of nostalgia and some cringe-worthy strolls down memory lane, and you've got a good mix of up and down to take you, well, up and down - from Hobart through Doo Town to Port Arthur, up Mount Wellington for our first taste of snow, along the coast and back to a cosy bar for some warmth and a lot of scrummy seafood.

This is our first foray this far south. Never before have we ventured to the apple isles, and some would argue that we are mad to head to Hobart in the middle of winter. I mean the only place colder than Victoria right now is Tasmania. But Carl had to go for work and everyone knows that I hate to be left out of any travel plans particularly when I haven't had a holiday in a while. A long while. Weather never stops me, even cold weather and everyone also knows how I feel about the cold.

Even the art rugs up against the cold

To survive, we're employing a few important coping strategies, most of them consumable - food, wine, coffee - in substantial quantities. Lucky for us, Hobart gets it. It gets that you need sustenance to keep you buoyant in bad weather and this little town is a tidy package of buzzing cafes, bars and restaurants, from the wine at Salamanca to the fresh seafood at the harbour, and right down to the cutest little bakery among the sandstone cottages at Battery Point. Like Scandinavians, Tasmanians aren't afraid of the cold: just rug up and get out there.

Salamanca from the harbour

It's a tough call, but the cold shouldn't stop you from getting out of the city

Fast forward a year

Luna Park, St Kilda, Victoria

We find ourselves in Melbourne. Here's the abridged version of how we got here:

Arrive home to Australia.
Emma ponders navel at Sunshine Coast in Queensland.
Carl sent to work.
Emma ponders navel over coffee and lunch with friends.
Carl sent to work.
Melbourne? Sydney? Melbourne? Sydney? Melbourne? Sydney?
Okay. Melbourne.
Emma goes to interviews. Emma turns down jobs.
Carl gets new career with free car. YAYYY!
Carl says Emma must choose a job.
Emma fights but loses battle to become perpetual navel-gazer.
Takes crap job.
Look for house with backyard. Can't find one.
Get apartment without backyard.
Move in and unpack backpacks, slowly.
Slowly admit we need things. Like furniture. Like cutlery. Like a TV.
Fill house with stuff that can't fit in a backpack. Emma looks uncomfortable. Melbourne Cup.
Two weeks of summer.
Family onslaught for festive season.
New Year camping in sub-zero temps on Great Ocean Road.
Inherit two dogs. Small white fluffy things that need a home after Emma's family abruptly leave town - is their departure linked to our return? Don't dwell on it.
Maybe we should buy a house? Look at houses.
Camping in Grampians. Ignore weather warnings. Drink wine instead.
Emma turns 30 and flips out.
Camping at 90-mile beach inspires big decisions: no more houses, no more big commitments. Emma breathes a sigh of relief.
Kingscliff for birthday weekend. So this is where summer went.
Carl turns 30 and gets drunk.
Melbourne Comedy Festival.
Emma gets new job, books a holiday and finally stop whinging.
Melbourne Grand Prix.
Work. Play. Drink coffee. Work. Play. Drink coffee.
Winter.
No heating.
Work. Play. Drink coffee. Work. Play. Drink coffee.
Still winter.

Sunset at 90-Mile Beach in Gippsland, Victoria

So when you get down to it, not much has really changed since our London days. In fact, these days we call Melbourne our mini Stinktown. The weather is still crap. We still drink too much. And our skin is still a pastey sickly shade of white.

We've not lost our lust for travel but we've taken to coffee and brunch like native melbournians, probably more so, and Emma has certainly found her shopping mojo after so long subsisting on a stingy travellers budget. And we're not in a share house, which after four years of bathroom schedules is liberating.

Sure, our overseas jaunts are much MUCH less frequent, and that certainly takes some getting used to but we have been re-acquainting ourselves with this amazing country and our fantastic friends here. Believe it or not, that actually does make up for the trips to Europe and other far-away places. At least for now.

In disguise at the Melbourne Cup

The end is just the beginning, right?

Right?

We're sitting at Singapore's Changi Airport waiting to board our plane to Brisbane, but there's one big problem. For the first time in five years, we don't want to go home. We don't want our trip to end and we certainly don't want to face the harsh reality of work. Carl's trying to remain calm. I am trying not to hyperventilate. We've still got time, I tell him. We could still walk back to the airline and swap our tickets to, well, anywhere but home. Anywhere, I tell him, your choice. We eye the door out of the boarding lounge. We watch the passengers boarding the plane, happily handing over their boarding passes and heading down the gangway. We eye the door again. We hear the final boarding call. Carl stands up. He grips his boarding pass and grabs my hand tight. We march to the boarding gate.

That's it. It's all over. Finito.