Top Ten

I've always liked a good list.
When looking for places to see, places to eat, films to watch, music to listen to (etc.) the first thing I want is a top ten list. I want someone to say,
"Here you go. This is what the best ten ____ is. Trust me, cos I know my shit."

So I'm going to give you a top ten list: the top ten places I saw when travelling through London, Dublin, Cork, Galway, Paris, Amsterdam, Sicily and Rome. And you should listen because - well, I know my shit... (not really, but I've got some worthwhile opinions : P). I tried to steer clear of the regular touristy spots cos - well, they're so touristy.

These are in no particular order - it was impossible for me to choose one over the other. And I plan to write you a proper lil entry on each of these, so don't fret at the brevity of this list.

1. Monmarte Hill, Paris.
- Not only for the reasons listed in my last entry, but because EVERY SINGLE patisserie was a god-send. Pain au chocolat had a crust that broke to pieces under your teeth and a centre that although was golden with butter, was fluffy and light. And the chocolat, oh that chocolat - it was dark, rich and gooey. You didn't even care that after eating one you were left with golden flakes of pastry on your shirt and clinging to the corners of your mouth - you'd probaly go and pick every last flake and cram in into your mouth. To quote Peter Mayle, 'It was like eating the sun'. It was warm and rich and light with a smooth, dark centre of creamy chocolat. It was gooooooooooooodomgIcoulddroolnowonthetable.

2. Isola Bella, Taormina - Sicily.
- Because Sicily is the most beautiful place in the world (yes I'm going to make that gutsy statement). And Taormina is the most beautiful part of Sicily that I've seen SO FAR.
This place makes you believe in a higher power.

3. Brick Lane/Spitalfields Markets, London.
- This place is the essence of cool. As uncool as it is to say that, it is so true. There are small boutiques with vintage clothes and one-of-a-kind handbags, there are grungy bars that look like abandoned warehouses, there are original market stalls with organic/spice-infused/gluten-free (trendy) foodstuffs...and of course, there are those 'wicked cool', 'troubled' characters with purple hair, army boots and bull nose-ring piercings to go with it all.

4. Red-Light District, Amsterdam.
- An eye-opener. A must. And places actually have red lights.

5. Il Colosseo, Roma.
- This was the most profound historical sight for me. And although it's an obvious one, it is so for a damn good reason. I looked up at this place, and just felt the history seeping out of its travertine walls.

6. Brighton Beach, Sussex.
- Imagine crashing waves a la the opening scene of Grease and a long-stretching pier with milkshake stalls, toffee apples, fairy floss and claw vending machines aplenty.

7. Chateau de Versailles, Versailles.
- Marie Antoinette lived here. As if that doesn't catch your attention? If not, it is the epitome of grandeur in architecture and design - the hall of mirrors will make even the most avid hater of consumer fetishism wish she/he was of 'noble birth'.

8. Aran Islands, Galway.
- Hire a bike and get lost here. You will never want to be found.

9. Blarney Castle, Cork.
- It's beautiful. It has a great story to it. And it comes with that Irish humour.

10.  Notting Hill, London.
- If I had to live anywhere else in the world, it would be here. Notting Hill - Portobello Road especially - is a charming, colourful (literally and figuratively) and lively area. Plus, you can visit the Travel Book Store and Hugh Grant's blue-now-painted-black door from the movie.

So there you go. My top ten. I'm actually pained that I have to stop at ten cos I have at least another ten I could rave on about...but I won't. Top twenty just doesn't sound as good.

Monmarte Hill

I have always wanted to see Paris. Not unlike most people who have been enamoured with the sight of Le Tour Eiffel lighting up the night sky.

But now having seen Paris; having walked its streets, tasted its food, smelt its scents and encountered its people, (not the nicest...) I have to say it is not the romantic scene out of classic Hollywood that most imagine. Yes, the architecture is spotted with sculpture so detailed you can see the veins bulging out of the arms of France's most revered. Yes, the croissants melt in your mouth like butter in a frying pan. And yes, the sight of the Eiffel Tower is almost an hypnotic vision - just try not to squeal when it sneaks up on you from behind the buildings surrounding it. But, I think that this French city has been so romanticised by Hollywood, and maybe even by our own naive assumptions, that the place itself simply cannot live up to its reputation.

When I stepped off the plane I half-expected to hear Nature Boy sounding in the background, while Parisian youths, wearing striped t-shirts and black berets, cycled along tiny streets with fresh baguettes sitting in the small woven baskets at the rear of of their push-bikes. Instead, I was met by a sea of Algerian men shouting out in French while waving fluorescent Eiffel Tower figurines in my face. Across the road from the Moulin Rouge was a Starbuck's store. And the only berets to be seen were those, often brightly coloured ones, worn by Aussies sporting I heart Paris t-shirts.

I did not fall in love with a tall, dark and handsome man with a strong jaw-line, a thick head of hair and a love of cooking. I did not 'discover' myself or experience a cultural revelation... but that is not to say that there was no magical allure to the City of Love. I just did not find it in the city centre with an eclair in hand; I found it in the red light district.

Historically, Monmarte Hill was home to the majority of Paris' many artists as it was cheap and boasted broad-spanning views of the city. Today, it is much the same. The top of the hill is filled with Parisian artists offering to paint the portraits of passing tourists... I discovered this place on a warm afternoon in July. It was crowded; so packed that I couldn't stand still for thirty seconds without feeling hot flesh rubbing up against me. I sat on a vacant piece of sidewalk and watched on as one particular artist tried to charm passersby. 'Bonjour! Shalom! Hello!' He'd jump out in front of unassuming tourists and tell them they 'had a great face for characature'. He proudly wore a rounded belly and his white Santa-Clause beard covered most of his creased face. I watched him for a good twenty minutes. When I stood to leave the artist market he was still searching for a subject...

I walked along one of the hill-top's narrow streets, toward Sacre Coeur. There I found myself a comfortable piece of grass, planted myself on it, and stared out onto the panorama of Pari. And that, was pure magic.

Making the trek to London-town: It ain't all tea and scones...

So for those thinking flying is no biggie, to you I must say: think again. Having just spent 23 hours sitting upright with knees rigid and the air, stale I can honestly tell you that flying half-way across the world is not the awesome adventure some may believe it to be.

Our first leg was from Sydney to Dubai. We sat for 14 hours cramped in our economy class seats, eating our single-serve economy-class meals and staring, with heavy eyes, at the small screen in front of us. A three-year-old kicked at my chair and wailed in discomfort as his ears popped - a cliche I'm oh so glad to have realised. Relly had made the wise decision to brave a foreign breed of chilli-sauce the previous night, and had been battling to keep the dragon in the pit of her belly at bay ever since... Needless to say, her face had turned a pleasant shade of grey and she was not exactly up for a game of I-spy. My head felt like a dead weight and my eyes stung from exhaustion, but my body simply would not let me sleep, and the wide choice of new-release movies on the ICE Entertainment System did nothing to make up for the crappy feeling of being stuck, groggy, stiff and bored, in the same place for an entire day.

I tried to watch Alice in Wonderland and avoided eye contact with the over-confident Roman guy named Flavio to my right. Relly slept.

When we arrived in Dubai, Relly and I did our best to lose the Roman as quickly as possible.We were excited to wash up and stretch our legs. Instead, we stepped out into 45 degree heat, in a desert, and without any time to even was our faces. We were hurried into boarding straight-away. Then had the pleasure of sitting and waiting as air-traffic cleared for one and a half hours. But the time did pass, slow as it was, and once those nine long, long hours were over, and we finally stepped out into the sweet London air (which was freezing), the sting of tired eyes and the cramps from uncomfortable seating were forgotten.

I walked out of King's Cross Station, looked ahead, and there it was: London. We were on the other side of the world. And no amount of sleep-deprivation could have sedated the buzz I was feeling.

Kissing My Bed Good-Bye

This is the second-last night I will have in my bed for almost two months.

It feels really strange.

I've never really liked my bed. It's too small, my feet poke through from underneath the bottom of the blankets and it screeches everytime I move. But tonight, I'm looking at it, nervously anticipating what it will be like not to sleep in this bed I've slept in almost every night of the past ten years.

The whole idea of not being in the house every night, while exciting as hell, is still a little scary. And although I've been planning this trip for months, it kinda feels like it's crept up on me. It seems as though a couple days ago there were thirty days to go, and now there are only two. I'm sitting at my desk writing a list of all the things I need to pack, trying to decipher whether I should bring five tops or six, or if one cardigan is enough. Man, I'm unorganised.

I think when planning these kinds of things a lot of us tend to get over-excited about what we may, or most-probably will not need. I catch myself thinking, 'Should I bring floss and tissues?' Or something equally lame - and then I have to remind myself, 'Frankie, you do know they have toiletries in England; if you forget to pack your panty-liners, you won't have to resort to tearing up old t-shirts.'

It's funny, really. I'm sitting here, knowingly freaking myself out over frivolous crap like my travel-sized GHD and not even thinking about what's going to happen when I step off that plane. 'So...this is London, Heathrow. Cool. Where do we go now?' Maybe a part of me doesn't believe I'm actually leaving. Who knows. Let's just hope when I wake up Tuesday morning, BEFORE the crack of dawn, to make my way to the airport, that this little part of me get's a clue and starts to pay attention.

The Girl with the Draggin Poo

I was sitting on the 45-minute train ride from home to uni, perusing through my readings, pink highlighter in hand. The muffled voice of the train driver announced that our next stop will be Wynyard. I looked out my lower-level window and watched the suits file out onto the platform to my right. This was when it hit. An aggressive blow of urgency pressed onto my bladder. I squeezed my thighs together and bounced up and down on my seat, trying hard to convince myself that 'I don't really need to go that badly...'

The train-trip crawled along, and after what felt like an eon, we pulled up at my stop. I barged through the crowd of fellow commuters and burst into the first free cubicle I laid my eyes on, sliding my uni reader atop the bathroom's hand-dryer before unbuttoning. As I went to squat down, I ran my eyes over the toilet bowl and saw a wet turd the size of a small hamster, clinging to the side of the bowl. I began to dry-gag, but it was far too late, my pants were already on their way down, and my bladder had sensed imminent release - there was no way back. 

Two minutes later, and 1kg lighter, I stepped out of the cubicle...power-walking away from the scene. Maybe twenty-metres away from the cubicle, I noticed my hands were a lot freer than earlier on. I looked in my bag, checking to see if I had put anything I may have previously been holding in there. 

Nothing. Then I realised. And a pang struck the pit of my stomach. 

The hand-dryer.

I turned back around, retracing my speedy steps to that damned cubicle. I prayed it would be empty. It wasn't. 

In the minute or so I waited for whoever occupied the loo, I ran a long list of lines through my head. 'Hey, was there a book in that bathroom? It was gross in there hey?'

'Were you just in that disgusting bathroom? Yuck ay? Um, was there a book in there?'

Eventually a petite asian girl walked out. She saw me waiting outside and approached me saying, 'Was that your book in there?' 

I laughed, too loudly, 'Oh yeah! I thought I'd left it on the train!'

She just looked at me, straight-faced. 

I could feel her judging me, thinking, 'You are fucking foul.'

I desperately wanted to justify the situation to her. But there was no use; there was no way I could change her mind. To her, I will forever be the girl with the draggin' poo. 

 

He Ain't all that and a Bag of Coffee Beans.

Cafe owner: Didn't you like my soup? You didn't finish it.

Frankie: No, I did. It was great, just really filling.

Cafe owner: What? You should be able to handle that (looks Frankie up and down) You're a good eater.

Frankie mentally punches cafe owner in the face.

***

I've been thinking about all the different things I could say about my little encounter with Mr. Cafe owner over there. I could go on a rant about how offensive his words were. I could talk about how upset he made me, and how a couple hours later I was at the gym counting the calories I'd burnt. I could say stuff him, I'm fabulous and curves are in fact the new black. I could talk about how he vaugely resembles Mr. Mole in Thumbelina, and how he ain't exactly a 30-inch waist himself.

But none of that really makes a difference to my afternoon. 

Or to whoever may be reading this.

 ...So, I won't

 

Let's try this one more time.

Hello...

Is there anybody out there?

*blows dust off from blog*

Yes, I have once again been consumed by the evil thing that is third year university. And as a result, my poor, poor blog has suffered immensly. I'm sure it has looked around at all the other blogs that have been filled with witty prose and brightly coloured images, wondering, 'why can't I have all that?'
'Why must I sit here, alone, unnoticed and unchanging?' Before letting out a deep and lenghty sigh.

But cheer up ol' blogzy, you're faithful friend is back!

And you can hopefully find solace in my decision to give you a little bit of a face-lift. Well, not so much a face-lift... more a botox injection (i'm not snipping off anything, just ironing out the crinkles).

Some how it is now June and my trip over the the Motherland is fast approaching. And i've decided that I will try, if internet-cafe's permit, to document as much of it as I can on here. Frankie Speak is going travel.

I'm going to be travelling about the UK, as well as popping into a handful of European cities, with my fabulous, feline-loving friend *Relly Rose.

We're going to be running amuck for 7 weeks, trying to do as much as we can without running out of money. So, expect this space to be crammed with stories on two 20-something year old girls getting lost (both figuratively, and literally, i'm sure) in the loaded streets of Europa in summer.

Everything is sexier when it's foreign.

Watch this space ;)


xx Frankie