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.

Living the easy life

A temple in Little India

After so many months travelling around new places, it's nice to be somewhere familiar. We've been whiling away the days in Singapore doing exactly what we said we were going to do - actually probably less - and its just what the doctor ordered. No stress, no maps, no pressure to see the sights, no dodgy hostel beds ... (and breathe).

Just coffee at Great World City down the road, shopping along Orchard Road with its giant plazas and basement markets, monster-sized margaritas at Clarke Quay, an afternoon strolling through the bustling streets of Little India and into the chaos of the Mustafa Centre, and of course the obligatory cable car ride across the vast shipyards to Sentosa Island and the iconic Merlion.

The Satay Club - a new location but the satay stays the same

Sure things have changed, but not so much ... at least not for the average visitor. The Satay Club still delivers those little sticks of meaty goodness and you can still buy delicious roti at Newton Circus. It's just a more sanitised version than before. I mean there is even handwash in the toilets sometimes now. History buffs would be well advised to head to the National Museum of Singapore, with its new fangled exhibitions covering everything you could possibly imagine, from smell-a-vision displays on Singaporean food to harrowing stories of survival of prisoners at the brutal hands of the Japanese to the giant pink statue of David in the foyer.

There are also more European stores, like TopShop, and if you're not interested in riding the little trains at Sentosa you can kick back with a cocktail on a sunbed at Cafe Del Mar. Oh, and did I mention high tea and Singapore slings at Raffles?

Now that's what I'm talking about.

ERPs take their toll in Singapore

In the 10 years since our last visit, Singapore has embraced Electronic Road Pricing* like a long-lost chain store, with no motorway, inner-city street or hour of the day left untouched by its viciously priced tolls. At least, that's what our cab driver is telling us as we zoom into the city.

We'd brushed off the train in favour of an easy comfortable cab ride, indulging our laziness after the flight from Houston because that's what the stop in Singapore is all about: one last lazy stop to say hi to Em's parents, lay by their pool, eat our body weight in good Asian food and just chill out before we reached Australia and all the reality that comes with home. (Shudder)

But the cab driver is off on one and we can tell he is only just warming up. He wants to know if we've been to Singapore before - yes we have but a long time ago we tell him, hoping short answers will bring his rant to a premature end. Well, he tells us, things have gotten worse: the Government, the tolls, the cost ... on and on he goes.

We nod appropriately as the fare ticks over, throw in a polite comment here and there, but mostly we look out the window. Singapore has certainly bulged since our last visit. Apartment blocks now stretch all the way to the airport - actually maybe they always did and we just don't remember - and we're looking forward to seeing what else has changed.

We know that things are more expensive than they used to be - the cab driver isn't the only one making that observation. Emma's parents lived here 10 years ago in a large four-bedroom apartment. They now pay almost the same to live in a two-bedroom apartment in the same block. We know the famous Satay Club at Clark Quay has moved and Newton Circus, once a ramshackle outdoor food court with dubious hygiene standards but delicious food, has been cleaned up considerably. (Had it kept its ramshackle life and soul?)

As we near her parents apartment block, Emma also remembers the last time she arrived here. There was no welcome party. In fact, no-one answered when she rang the doorbell so she waited for an hour until a neighbour let her into the units to bang on the door to the apartment where her family lay comatose after a night of expat party fun.

From a distance, the tall pinky-coloured buildings still looked the same. We pulled into the complex, where we were waved through by the guard, drove around the small circular driveway and ... there were two familiar smiling faces standing at the kerb. So, Emma smiled, some things in Singapore had changed for the better then.

*ERPs to them, plain old tolls to us

Texan Bar-B-Q: git 'er done

Buzzie's Bar-B-Q

It was time. We'd done all we could to prepare for this moment. We knew we were ready but doubts still lingered in our minds. Would we be able to do our Texan hosts proud? Would we walk away with our bellies full and our heads held high? Could we recover quickly enough to enjoy apple pie tomorrow? Would we ever be able to fit our clothes again? What if we had to book extra seats on the plane?

As the 4WD pulled up in the parking lot, our apprehension grew. Sure, Buzzie's Bar-B-Q looked innocent enough but we knew that behind the corrugated iron facade lurked some of the largest servings of meat we'd ever see. It was no laughing matter. Buzzie's is one of the top 50 Bar-B-Q restaurants in Texas, which doesn't sound impressive until you realise that there are literally thousands of Bar-B-Q joints vying for a spot in that list. Competition is fierce. We looked at each other. It was now or never.

We stepped out of the car and walked across the near empty parking lot. It was late afternoon. The sun beat down on us. Mike went first. He knew what perils lay ahead. He'd faced his fears long ago. We followed.

Mike and Em tuck in

Inside Buzzie's was little more than a shed. At one end was a serving counter. At the other a drink machine, piles of bread and a salad bar. A sea of picnic tables spread in the middle. The head of a longhorn mocked us from the back wall. I took a deep breath and ordered. Half a chicken, a pile of coleslaw, a mountain of potato salad, a giant tub of Buzzie's special Bar-B-Q sauce and all the bread you can eat. I gathered my tray, watched as it buckled under the weight of my meal and struggled back to the table. Carl stepped forward. He looked the lady behind the counter in the eye and ordered. One large rack of pork ribs, lashings of coleslaw and potato salad, a giant tub of Buzzie's special Bar-B-Q sauce and all the bread you can eat. Weren't no-one gonna tell him he couldn't do it. Hell no.

We ate. Sauce slopped on our clothes and smeared across our faces. Still we ate. The longhorn glared down at us. Still we ate. And ate. And ate. Until we could eat no more. We were beaten. A quarter of a chicken sat dejected on my plate. Bernie had struggled through even less. Even Mike fell a few ribs short of the rack. But Carl didn't falter. He finished the ribs, scoffed the potato salad and coleslaw, licked his fingers and wiped his mouth. He had beaten the Bar-B-Q. He could undo the top button on his pants proudly.

Carl earns his Texan stripes

This is real cowboy country

The OST - pull up a chair or sit on a saddle, whatever works for ya

On the main street of Bandera Texas, there's space for the cowboys to tie up their horses next to massive 4wds. The old men in town meet at the OST (Old Spanish Trail) everyday for coffee, biscuits and gravy, and to just 'shoot the shit'.

This place is hot, dry and harsh. Land is bought by the five-acre. Some people buy to keep the developers out, others to breed exotic animals that they can shoot. But most people just like the quiet, the solitude, and the spectacular sunsets. They also love George Dubya.

We're visiting old family friends, who have their own little five-acre plot with horses, pygmy goats, cats and dogs. There's even a couple of hummingbirds that come to visit each morning. They're not born and bred Texans, but they've got the cowboy spirit in their blood. And we get it. We're completely hooked.

Sunny, the pygmy goat

We've gorged on fajitas, had our first taste of grits, biscuits, and gravy and learned a little about Tex Mex history. We never knew that this part of the US was once Mexico. In fact, a whole lot of the area along the border was once Mexico. But the Mexicans couldn't convince anyone to move here - there were better places in Mexico to live. So the Mexicans advertised in Spain - they gave away land or almost gave it away, and eventually people came. They were happy living as Mexicans. They elected General Santa Ana as their new President and all seemed just fine until Santa Ana got a little overexcited. He trashed their constitution and set about establishing a his own little dictatorship, but the 'Texans' wouldn't buy it. They declared their independence and vowed to fight Santa Ana to the the death. In response, Santa Ana sent in 6000 troops. They didn't just defeat the 200 men defending the Alamo in San Antonio, they decimated them, killing everyone including Davy Crocket and the handful of men who responded to their call for back up.

Bandera, the home of the cowboy

Roadkill of a different kind

Since leaving New Orleans, we've seen dead alligators and raccoons on the side of the road. Carl even made his own little contribution, accidentally driving right over a snake on the outskirts of Houston. I gotta say it's nice to see some different roadkill - it's certainly less intimidating to cross paths with a raccoon than to see a big red kangaroo flying through your windscreen.

We ain't got the blues

I suppose it's only appropriate that I should be slightly hungover after a Friday night in New Orleans. I mean, you can buy giant strawberry daiquiris to go. You can take them sightseeing with you and that, of course, is exactly what we did.

Em sucks back a lunchtime daiquiri-to-go

We strolled through the French Quarter, past the Bourbon St bars and sex shows, and in and out of souvenir shops packed with voodoo dolls and lewd t-shirts, the whole time happily sipping daiquiris and wondering how life got to be so good.

Happy hour cosmos and purple haze beer at the House of Blues snapped us out of our daiquiri daze. Then after a feast of popcorn shrimp, marinated gator, gumbo and jambalaya, we thought we were ready for some Bourbon Street madness, but we thought wrong. The street was a heaving mess of hens parties and cover bands, and the smell of vomit and stale booze stuck to the air.

Inside the House of Blues

We'd read about Frenchman Street, just outside the French Quarter, and thought we'd risk a mugging if it got us some decent blues and fresh air. It worked. We got a table, smooth live music, and I got wine in a whiskey glass, which seemed funny at the time but not this morning, when I had to drag my hungover butt out of bed and back into the car. When will I learn.

Mrs M, Mrs I, Mrs SSI, Mrs SSI, Mrs PPI

We've just crossed into Mississippi. New Orleans is about 100 miles from here. There's a wall of rain just up ahead and we've just realised that we haven't checked the weather report for a couple of days. Not a smart move in hurricane season.

Mmmm, I wonder what happened to the hurricane that was just off the coast of Florida a few days ago???

Cruising the Panhandle

Seaside, the set of the Truman show

This is where The Truman Show was filmed. It's picture perfect Seaside, on the Gulf coast of Florida, just down the road from Panama City in all its Americana kitsch glory. You just couldn't get two more different towns.

Seaside is all white picket fences, thick lush lawns and smiling Gap-wearing families. Panama City, five minutes away, is trying desperately to shake of its Redneck Riviera reputation. Developers are moving in, but tackiness prevails: garish adult stores, fun parks, go-kart tracks and seedy motels still outnumber the super resorts, and you get the feeling that's the way it will always be.

High-end eating in Panama City

But there is one thing Seaside and Panama city have in common: the coast. The beaches along this coast are considered among the best in America, if not the world. We're talking powder-white sand and crystal clear turquoise water. Okay, so there are no waves ... but there are sea turtles.

The Florida coast

Road trippin': from Miami to Houston

Carl behind the wheel of our hardcore Toyota Camry, grrrrrr

The open road stretches before us. It's big and American, and we are loving everything from the giant billboards that scream sexual innuendo to the tacky roadside motels, the drive-thru Dunkin' Donuts, and everything in between. The glitz and glamour of Miami is behind us. Alabama, Louisiana and Texas lie ahead. Yeeehaaa!

Going to Miami

Oi Carl, ya pervert

... welcome to Miami (there's a Will Smith song reference there, did you get it?), where the boobs are big and fake, the beach is beautiful and it's damn hot. Too hot to do anything but get your gear off at South Beach, so that's what we did. A big shout out to Jess and Jessica for showing us around and feeding us Steve's Pizza. Hands down the best pizza we've eaten in the States.

Carl hanging out on South Beach