This is me in ...

My passport, my backpack, my thongs, my toiletries these are the no-brainers that I blindly grab before each trip. Clothing is slightly trickier, dependent on the destination, type of trip and climate this can vary. There are however some staples that almost always feature in travel ensemble.

My well worn jeans, my comfortable elastic band pajama slacks and more recently my multi-layer, waterproof jacket. The problem with Winter is that since you wear the same clothing, the photos start to look the same and start to become quite repetitive. The big jacket, the scarf, the beanie and the same pale face peeking through the familiar attire.

"Never explain yourself - Your friends don't need it, your enemies won't believe it."

Austria! Well then, G'day mate!

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I think I may have sweet talked our way through to the front of queue. Could I kindly ask that you please return to your seats and turn off all electrical items". Followed shortly by "Sorry folks, as usual, my ability to talk to women has failed and we are again sitting 4th in the queue". The last piece of commentary, courtesy of our pilot brought an ebullition of mirth that rippled through the plane's cabin. My first snow for the season had proved more of a hindrance than anything. Snowflakes clumsily tumbled to the ground throughout the evening and created a backlog of flights looking to depart. So there we sat delayed on the tarmac as the snow continued to fall steadily.

Despite being delayed by almost 3 hours it was the captain's charm that had appeased the restless passengers. The groan of disdain was in unison when the delay was announced. People whinged and complained when they were made to stand outside on the tarmac in the falling snow, yet when the pilot stood at the front of the plane looking disheveled and tired, he assured the plane that he wanted nothing more to be back at home with his family than stuck behind a line of planes. This simple act of showing that he was human lead to the unscrunching of faces as the crowd prepared themselves for the long night ahead. It may have been the charismatic nature of the pilot but the mere act of informing the people of the situation and his own desperation reveal that showing a little humility goes a long way.

Vienna, Austria. I write this, half asleep, half awake. Undecided which state is more prominent, yet I know, that sleep is the only thing on my mind. I would, at this moment in time trade my liver for sleep or possibly my first new born. Up until now I had a routine for weekend flights. It ran like clockwork, like a finely tuned machined in a Japanese factory, well a non-Toyota factory. A procedure so refined that it detailed the intricacies from waking early, to double checking documents, knowing what to pack, knowing what to charge, where to catch the bus, put simply, I had weekend travel down to a tee. This trip would not follow that procedure and be the mark of many firsts.

Saturday 4:30 am. My clothes, reeking of Korean BBQ from last night's dinner. My breath, smelling like a suspicious mix of tequila and Sambucca. My backpack, looking dangerously under packed slung over my shoulder. Me, a picture of lost youth, I collapse like a bag of old clothes on the train. It lurches forward into the darkness as I drift in and out of sleep. At this moment in time my biggest fear was not missing my flight, but waking up in Brighton at 6 am. I dreaded the weekend ahead, I dreaded the Monday. I finally arrive at the airport, it comes as no surprise that the flight has been delayed. Gatwick Airport, I'm greeted by 2 familiar and obviously under the weather faces. One gurgles before vomiting in the recycling bin before boarding the plane. I wasn't the only one feeling rough.

As planned, this trip to Vienna was to re-kindle the love of the festive season, to huddle around with steaming cups of mulled wine, ginger bread biscuits and to be dazzled by all the offerings of the Viennese Christmas Markets. The group dynamics of this trip would also be different, we had fresh faces in London and their enthusiasm and desire to travel the cities reminded us of past trips and previous vigors. I looked at myself, no longer the fresh faced traveller, it was refreshing and alarming at the same time. We were dragged through freezing winter conditions from Christmas Market, to restaurant, from palace through to the trails of Mozart. I say dragged but deep down I was secretly glad the motivation was there. In total, we managed to make it to three markets. Schnonbrunn, Rathausplatz and my favourite the charming Spittelberg.

So as I sit here and type, my focus lapsing from the meager 2 hours of sleep the night before. I force myself to finish this post. Wondering if there were any glaring omissions from this recount as well as entertaining other questions. eg. Can you die from a lack of sleep? 9:30 pm Monday evening, completely exhausted and signing out. My bed calls for me, I call back...

"I never sleep, 'cause sleep is the cousin of death" - Nasir Jones, New York State of Mind

Friday Food

We've moved from emails to webforms.

Bah Kuh Teh

Lovin' London

I am, without a doubt thoroughly enjoying my time here in the UK right now. Not too sure, if it's the impending depature date and my incessant need to make the most of my remaining time but everything right now is fitting together. Weekends, will always be weekends but it's the weekdays, musicals, live sport, gym, sports, mid week catch ups. There's so much going on, I fear the routine that awaits me back in Sydney.

The English eat and breath sport and there's nothing more they love than giving it to the Australians. Nothing beats being an Australian living in the UK during the Ashes - I cannot wait.

Whack it in a Tangine (Part 2)

The pleasant surprise was the food. The quality of the Moroccan cuisine was delicious, interesting and cheap.

Spiced tea and cinnamon sweets.

One of the countless food stalls in Djemaa el Fna to open for supper. This is where we had our last meal, sheep head and brains.

Deep fried fish.

The Moroccan staples, Kebabs, Couscous, Tangine and flat bread.

Desert breakfast. Traditional bread, jams and mint tea.

Road trip snacks of the South East Asian variety.

Sweet and savory. Moroccan Pigeon Pastilla with nuts and cinnamon.

Dried nuts and fruits. They're mad for dates.

Fresh juices, Orange, Grapefruit and Lemon Juice! Sweetest I've ever had and SO CHEAP (~30 pence a glass).

Morocco (Part 1)

A bloody outrage! It still amazes me how a trip was booked over the Halloween weekend. Unfathomable, one of the more enjoyable holiday dates in the UK was to be spent plain-clothed, civilised and sober. The inquest finished and we forlornly prepared ourselves for our four-day trip to North Africa. There would be no fetish-derived ghouls or trick-or-treating but rather an eye-opening experience that would reignite the love for travel.

The adventure begins at 2:30 am on the Friday, 29th October. This, hands down, is the earliest I've had to wake up to travel. A quick bus ride down to Vauxhall and we were soon speeding down the M23 bound for Gatwick Airport. It should come as no surprise that the flight was uncomfortable, sleep was hard to come by but these are usual traits of budget airlines. We had boarded what would appear to be some kind of Venga-plane. People were talking boisterously and joking, smiling and having copious amounts of alcohol. All the while the three of us sat, pinned up in the last row with blood-shot eyes and a longing for sleep. 3 hours into the 3 and half hour flight, it was announced that the plane had run out of beer. It was 8 am and people were getting drunk. It would be a long trip with unbearable, draining transits.

9 am, arriving in Marrakesh, we were picked up at the airport by our Riad owners and taken into the city. The drive itself was an eye-opener, camels, donkeys, motorbikes, dust and authentic North African Architecture greeted us as we entered the Medina of Marrakesh. We met with the riad owner who showed us around the exquisitely kept riad. Unanimously we agreed to get some sleep before exploring the city. Waking a couple of hours later with a mighty appetite we headed to the main Square. Our accommodation, a brisk walk away from the centre stage for all things Moroccan, Djamaa El Fna.

Of the four days, two were spent on a desert tour the with the majority of our time in Marrakesh spent in the main square exploring the Souqs and trying to find our way into the blasted the palace.

The striking thing about Djamaa El Fna is how it changes through out the course of the day. During the day there's the faint smell animal waste, all the while, hash dealers, orange juice vendors and beggars all vying for your attention, or more importantly for your coin. Motorbikes zip through the bustling streets ducking and weaving in between pedestrians. The assortment of henna artists and Snake charmers mashed in with the perpetual dusty haze. Come sunset and the place transforms. All the zaniness of the day remains however this is the time when the locals come out and the food stalls open, smoke from the grills and the steam from tagines fill the air.

It really is a sensory wonderland. The sights, the smells, the animals and the people. The locals will grab you and demand money for anything and everything under the sun. You want a photo of that, you have to pay for it. The thing is you can't brush them off with the usual lie of "I'm just taking a look" or the"I'll be back later" because they remember and they'll confront you about it "You said you would come back".

With help from our Riad owners, we signed up for a 2 day trip into the Moroccan desert for a tidy fee of €72 per person. The details of the tour were unknown to most of the tour group with the idea of camping in the desert the only intel. The drive was testing and our Berber guide aka driver wasn't particularly informative. Every now and the berber would turn to the group

"Do you want to stop and take photos?"
"What is this place?"
* incoherent ramble *
"No, let's keep driving"

This conversation took place countless times and not once did we stop aside from the occasional toilet break or leg stretch. Thankfully we had been lucky enough to have a good group on tour. The three Australians, 1 american and 4 canadians made up the group. Plenty of laughs and banter which kept the 8 hour journey bearable. Our two day drive would take us from Marrakesh to Zagora passing through the Atlas mountains, with stop overs at Quarzazete and the Draa Valley and passing a traffic causing car accident.

This brings us to the actual "desert" experience. Despite not being the Sahara, there were still high expectations of the desert, unluckily for us we arrived at the camel rendezvous point after sunset, the next 1 hour was spent riding a camel. The novelty of riding a camel wore off 2 minutes into the 1 hour camel ride. Camels are such awkward creatures, passive and rhythmic. Three things I've learn about camels, you can't fall asleep while riding a camel, camel riding leads to camel chaffing and camels can defecate while on the move. So we plod into the darkness, the longer we trekked the more remote our surrounding became.

At last we arrived and alighted the camel caravan, it was pitch black and only the faint outlines of the Berber tents could be made out at the camp site. Our epic journey had come to an end, there was sand beneath our feet but we couldn't see anything. This was until one of my friends said "oh shit, I lost my phone riding the camels". So with our berber the two us jumped into the Van (the Van drove into the desert with our luggage) and started to backtrack our way back. Two problems with this plan. 1. The Berber tour guide had no sense of direction. 2. A phone was lost in a desert. A desert! We were looking for a phone in the desert, in the middle of the night. It must have been the fatigue or the lack of food which clouded rational thinking.

For some reason during this period of driving slowly through the desert our berber coincidently forgot all English. The driver went the wrong way and ended up lost in the dessert. Not only were we lost, but the van was blogged down in sand. Lost and stuck, so we got out and started walking, after 20 minutes of walking in darkness with the flashlight of my phone the only light. Seeing this as futile exercise we were sent back to the Van (the lights were left on so we could easily identify it's location). With that our Berber disappeared into the desert night (with my phone) leaving us in the van. Mentally we prepared ourselves for spending the night in the van. Thankfully we had food, water, our possessions and hashish - perhaps why we were so blase about this predicament.

Long story short, an hour later our berber appears out of the darkness with help, a robbed man with a huge shovel. Who in turn, clears the sand from the tires and points us off in the right direction back to camp. Our hero! Enjoyed some Tagine and some singing and chatting around the camp fire.

The experience itself was amazing, no showers, no free running water. It was roughing it out at its very best. Woke up at 5:30 and it was freezing! Sunrise was amazing and it was a pleasant surprise to fling open the tent flap to reveal sand as far as the eye could see. It was spectacular. Breakfast was served as the sun rose over the mountains the dessert started to warm up, soon we were back on the camels making our trek back to the van. The drive back was tough, we were tired, dirty but the drive through the rural villages, a sandstorm and the Atlas Mountains was something else. Arrived back into Marrakesh just after 5 pm and checked into our new riad and immediately booked ourselves into Hammam and massage. So clean, so fresh. Caught up again with the tour gang for a late night meal.

London feels so foreign and regiment since getting back. Definitely one of the few countries I would return to! My camera is on Struggle Street.