Mission accomplished

All in all, I reckon its taken me three months to fully adjust to life post-travelling.

It takes a few days to restart your running commentary on the British weather, and a few weeks to accept the parental's house rules; long forgotten while you tended to polo ponies and fell off surf boards in Australia.

You spend a few more months fine tuning a CV that now includes the words

2009 - 2010: Lying on beaches, tending to hangovers, sunning oneself, seeing countries etc etc

...and hoping someone still wants to hire you because (or in spite) of the gaping hole in your work history. Finding a job is relatively easy. Trying to stick to the promise I will not, not, not, not get another admin job as long as I live, is harder. But in the end, the oft-uttered statement "Yeah, well, the economy is bad, and err, I'm going travelling to have a break from it, and err, you know, decide what I want to do" is now actually true, and not just the bullshit excuse I imagined it might end up being.

To be honest, once the job was sorted, the next thing to panic about was my social life. Upon returning home, every girl and your dog will want to fuss over you, but don't expect it to last. Social lives need careful cultivating, and they don't grow themselves while you're out of the loop for eight months. It didn't take long to realise that the busy social circle I'd once been a part of was now AWOL, and I didn't know how to get it back.

Truth be told, I spent recent weeks worrying that it was just me being left out before the penny dropped: things had just changed. A few friends had left London, others had moved abroad, some had gone travelling. The unemployed had got jobs, the bored got busier, the singletons got attached. C'est la vie.

Given all that, last weekend was the first time I felt truly settled since getting home. Employed, attached, and surrounded by friends who had finally managed to get their arses out of town and in the same vicinity for an hour; I stood in a chilly park in St Albans watching a massive fireworks display, with my Boy behind me, and a group of six good mates laughing in the background. The clincher? A text message from ex uni housemate the Stingray, newly engaged that night, and asking me to be her bridesmaid.

So, exactly a year after I left - am I glad I said 'sod all that' and went travelling?

Hell yeah. No doubt. Ipso, facto.

Best thing I ever did.

Thoughts from a snow-capped Methven

It's difficult, isn't it? Most of us have been there, trapped in that age old blogging dilemma. We write to a public audience, but still expect privacy.

The things I write on this blog (nowadays anyway; once uncovered, never recovered) might not seem very personal. I'm not a sex blogger, I've only ever talked about my relationships when they were broken or just beginning, my real friends rarely get a mention. Emails and comments from you have expressed surprise that I should worry about it being found, given that what's written here doesn't really seem that offensive or break any huge private boundaries.

But what can I say? When I found out that my parents had been reading my blog, then saw my sister's work IP appear on the stats, I still got that horrible, sinking feeling again. Who else had they told? How long had my parents been reading? Why didn't they tell me they'd found it? Why are they so angry at my sister for telling me? And then, why couldn't they accept that this blog - even if it does only contain fairly innocent travel tails - isn't about trying to exclude them from my life, but just trying to keep a little thing I enjoy safe?

I don't want to make this blog invite only. I don't want to move to Wordpress and protect all my posts. I don't want to give up on PDEWYMO because I've spent the last 4 years watching it grow. I don't want to stop blogging. But the more real life people I know who read or have read this, the less comfortable I get with writing anything at all. And if I can't write what I want, when I want - what's the point in having a blog? I might as well write down my inner thoughts on any given situation, and e-mail a detailed account to friends and family on a daily basis. Subject: You want to know what I think? Here you go.

From where I'm sitting (a double room in a snowy little mountain hostel; a quiet calm place gearing up for NZ's ski season) the only solution is to move and start again. Which is annoying in itself. For now, while I'm travelling, I think I'll stay put, and apologise profusely in advance for boring you with the sparse details I'm happy to reveal in the meantime.

But when I get back to London (8 weeks, allegedly), with a Boyfriend and a whole new set of plans, perhaps a new start is in order. Hopefully I won't lose too many of you - the readers I actually want to have - in the process. The more I think about it, the more I realise it might be a good time to put my old university life, the ex-boyfriend, the media temp work, the broken-heart, the friendship-troubles and everything else to bed and start afresh.

After all, wasn't that kind of the point of this eight month trip to begin with?

Stupid Volcano

Five months I've waited.

Five, bloody, months.

If that bloody volcano stops a flight to Sydney leaving Heathrow on Monday, there will be two very unhappy bunnies on opposite sides of the world.

Stupid volcano.

Fingers crossed, please.

En-not-so-suite

In any normal situation, finding yourself in a room with en-suite bathroom facilities is a God send. There's the convenience factor, no late night dashes down corridors, no forgetting your key and being locked out of your room in just a towel. Ahem. But when you're hostelling, all that sort of changes.

Some hostels sell themselves - and charge more - on the basis that the rooms are en-suite. The word conjures up images of Hilton Hotel plushness; mini bottles of shampoo and conditioner to be hoarded for later use and fresh towels every morning. Ahh. En-suite. Just the word makes me feel all fluffy and warm.

The reality is somewhat different. Since I've been staying in mixed dorm rooms, the word 'en-suite' now sends me running for the hills. Firstly, being number seven in a queue of other people all waiting, spraying, soaping and queuing for the toilet / shower / sink tends to take the convenience out of, well, convenience. And then there's the more intimate details of such a setup.

Imagine you've got a fat Dutch man in your room with an accent straight out of Austin Powers ("datcsh a keeper"). He makes you feel a little bit queasy anyway, but then he gets up from his afternoon nap, dashes to the toilet and unleashes a torrent of cartoon-like farts and splashes in your adjoining en-suite.

Now try and stay in that room as he nonchalantly strolls out five minutes later. If you don't wish to imagine this, then just trust me when I say that it brings a whole other dimension to the word 'Dutch Oven'.

This is the life

Every so often it strikes me just how strange the travelling lifestyle is. How it’s a perfectly acceptable course of action to decide, weeks before your 25th birthday, that you're going to up-sticks and relocate to the other side of the world. Not to work, not to pursue a career, not to see long lost family; just to lie on various beaches, see beautiful things and live in places where a party can be found every night of the week.

For most people, I’ve just described a week long summer holiday; something special, something days and money are saved up all year in order to afford. But this is my life at the moment. To make it socially acceptable, we call it Travelling. Seeing The World. But really, it’s an eight month holiday to avoid buckling down, finding a career, or moving out of home. I had my gap year travel before university, so what’s my excuse now? Sometimes it just hits me that London, a nine-to-five, CVs, friendship dramas and daily routine are so far away that I can barely remember what it was like to have them on my mind.

This morning, Miss Nashville (27, Tennessee) and I bid farewell to the two Canadian Sisters we’ve been travelling with, leaving behind two weeks of partying, surfing, laughing and all the girly chit-chat you can stomach. Our destination was the Tongariro National Park; a place which, for the rest of our bus, meant the start of a 17km traverse across snow capped volcanoes: the NZ-famous Tongariro Crossing.

But today, after checking into our rustic alpine Lodge, we did none of this. We did...nothing.

When was the last time you slept all day just because you wanted to, and not because you were ill, or tired after a night out? When was the last time you spent a cold, beautiful morning and afternoon wrapped up in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, mind wondering, vaguely listening to outside sounds before shutting your eyes and sleeping again? When was the last time you did this without feeling the least bit guilty? Without worrying that you won't be able to sleep that night, because it actually doesn't matter?

I might be living on a budget, but sometimes it just hits me: this lifestyle is about as luxury as it comes.

Prep work

With the Boyfriend’s arrival now just two weeks away, there are serious preparations happening on this side of the world. There’s the requisite trimming, waxing, shaving and plucking, the hard skin and nail filing, moisturising and tan optimising and of course, planning on when to do what. Red patches thanks to a last minute wax / stubble legs will not be a goer. Most importantly, there's the ‘what to wear’ debate, currently a hot topic with my recent travel buddies.

“Lingerie!” piped up Miss Nashville, “Just a coat with some hot lingerie underneath!”

“Love, the only coat-like clothing I currently own is a hoody. I’m not wearing just a hoody.”

“Ok, well underneath everything then. Look! There’s Adult World! Come on!” she replied, dragging me towards a cracked, seedy looking place across the road.

“Nashville!” I said, disengaging from her grip, “Crotchless panties are not flight friendly underwear, and suspenders will set the metal detectors off. I’m not getting frisked at the airport with a basque on.”

See, my plane arrives into Sydney airport half an hour after his. Therefore, my outfit will have to be Boyfriend and three-hour-flight appropriate. Basically, I can't risk getting caught in my trackkies by the baggage claim. I want to breeze through arrivals and into his arms looking…relaxed (a few G&Ts courtesy of Emirates should see to that), refreshed and most of all, ‘God damn, that girl who I haven’t seen for 5 months is soooo bloody’ sexy. It’s a shame I’ve only got a backpack full of grubby jeans, flip flops and beach dresses to work with.

And so the preparation continues. A list of things to collect from home has been issued (“Any letters. But nothing from the bank”), a nice boutique hotel has been booked our first two nights. Excitement abounds, although nervous thoughts tinker on the edge of my mind when I wonder what lies ahead. But as an email containing a link to the Kurt Geiger online sale popped into my inbox, along with the words ‘You’re missing out. Let me know if you want anything x’, I know that one thing’s for sure:

After five months of pining, longing and waiting; there will be high heels.

Case in point

For breakfast this morning, a treat: Heinz Baked Beans on toast. I walked into the kitchen of my fantastic, spotlessly clean little Rotorua hostel and started to prepare my little taste of home. It’s a meal that usually produces the same reaction; a kind of open mouthed ‘What’s she eating? That? For breakfast?’ stare and accompanying comments from anyone who isn’t from the UK, to whom beans on toast is a breakfast anomaly.

As I turned from the microwave, I saw her. Standing by the work surface, a girl who wasn’t fascinated by my breakfast. Must be British. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, dragging her fingers through her wet hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her letting the stray clumps she’d gathered fall onto the floor. My nose wrinkled of it’s own accord. I turned around and watched as she did it again; depositing another handful of hair strands onto the floor.

My mouth opened before my brain could stop it.

“Nice.” I said, furrowing my eyebrows at the stranger.

“What?” she replied.

“Just putting your hair all over the kitchen floor. That’s nice.”

“It’s just a few strands” then, a delay before “At least it’s clean”. I raised my eyebrows and sniffed back a laugh.

“Mate” I sighed, turning around to face her as the protests continued, “I’m just saying. You’re putting hair everywhere by doing that. There’s people making food, they don’t want your hair in it.”

With a final huff and puff, Wet Hair Girl strode out of the room. Amused at my own inability to shut the hell up, and her inability to see why spreading your hair – clean or otherwise – over the floor isn’t the most hygienic course of action in a communal kitchen, I started buttering my toast.

About five minutes passed. As I grating cheese onto my freshly heated baked beans when I heard the kitchen door open.

“What about the flies?” said a voice.

Oh, for gods sake. Here we go.

“What?!” I said, sounding bored and turning once again to see Wet Hair Girl, sporting the smug beginnings of a face that looked suspiciously like it had spent the last few minutes in a dorm room, brooding and constructing a response.

“The flies!” she said, with a slightly deranged look in her eyes. “What about the flies! They’re dirty and in the kitchen! What about them!”

“I’m sorry…” I replied, trying to suppress a grin, “Are we still on this? Because this conversation was like…at least five minutes ago.”

“Yes! We are!”

“Ok.” I said, thinking how much better my beans would taste with a glop of ketchup on the side, “Well, that’s cool. You think about it some more. I’m going to eat my breakfast.”

And with that, me and my easily irritated brain went to the TV room and filled my big, unthinking mouth with toast, beans and (hair free) grated cheese.

Little things irritate me.

This is probably quite an obvious thing to say given the title of my blog. But sometimes I wonder if it's all a bit too irrational. Certain noises, actions, repetitive sounds; some so quiet that it seems only I can hear them, grate on me and regularly drive me to distraction. Sniffing, someone eating with their mouth open, popcorn in the cinema; that's just the tip of the iceberg, really. In reality, it takes a lot less to get the bubble of irrational rage, usually directed at a noise I can't control, started in my chest.

When you're surrounded by family and friends who you can vent your frustration to and say 'Argh, look, can you stop that?', usually the frustration is short lived. But as I travel around the world, meeting more people each day than I would in a month of living in London, these little neuroses of mine have become part of everyday communal living. Cooking occurs in shared kitchens; eating happens around big tables, surrounded by different ages, races, cultures and nationalities. You watch TV in a room that can have anything from one to fifty people in close proximity, then sleep in a dorm occupied by at least three other people (the most I've shared with on this trip is around 25. It was actually the quietest night I've had).

Sleep comes with earplugs jammed as far into my ears as they go. They don't block out the noise, but they stop it waking you up once you're asleep. The common complaint of "I had a snorer last night" will get you untold sympathy from a group of travellers; we've all been there. The snorer that no amount of bed shaking, hand clapping and bed kicking will shut up can make you realise where Eli Roth got the idea from.

But what about when you're watching a film and the girl you've been travelling with sits next to you biting her nails throughout? An almost inaudible noise to the rest of the room, a habitual action to her, but to me, it's like a drum banging. The tack, tack, click click of nail against teeth is all I can hear once I've tuned in. The film becomes secondary to the picking noise in my right ear. Eventually, minutes before the end of the film, my heart beating in frustration, I whisper 'You're not going to have any nails left!' with a slightly forced smile, and the speed at which she stops biting makes me wish I'd said it earlier.

A compulsive texter I can bear to an extent, but rhythmic iPhone tapping, or the click that some people insist on emitting with every touch of the keypad, can catch me off guard. "What the hell is that noise? It's driving me mad" I said to the occupants of my eight bed dorm yesterday morning. The culprit looked up, baffled, and a travel buddy said 'What noise?'. 'The tapping!', I replied, removing the pillow from my head, before feeling utterly ridiculous. No one else could hear it, and if they could, it didn't bother them. There's a gap in the market for a new category of room: boys, girls, mixed and neurotics.

Incredibly, sometimes there doesn't even have to be a noise to set my teeth on edge. Just an action will do it; like the girl who sat next to me on a plane journey peeling her split ends the whole way. I caught her examining every strand of hair, shedding little miniscule strips of it onto her lap. Once I clocked it, the repetitive movement of her hand - an unconscious act like the nail biter - just drove me silently mad. On and off she did it for about two hours, and I had to look to the side, think of something else, anything to stop me asking her to please stop picking at her hair.

Blimey. Never mind my next roommates; I hope the Boyfriend knows what he's letting himself in for.

"In Switzerland, you buy watches. In Japan, you buy sushi. In London, you buy…I dunno, a bag of coke or something. In New Zealand, you drink.”

True to my word, last week was spent Getting On It in a very lively hostel bar in Paihia, a town in New Zealand’s northern Bay of Islands. After a few nights of excess, me and a Swiss Girl I’d got to know decided to have a a break from the booze, i.e. we’d still go to the bar, but just for One Drink. The perceptive among you will have probably already guessed that One Drink did indeed turn into many more. But with limited money in our pockets, the One Drink and the ‘many more’ were nooooo bought by us. It was brilliant. We walked into the bar, ordered our drinks, handed over the money, and then! A backpacker miracle. It was handed back.

“They’re paying” said the Maori bar lady, pointing to the three Kiwi blokes brandishing a credit card next to us.

As the drinks arrived at our up-turned barrel, so did the Three Kiwis and a random Japanese Girl who spoke very limited English. Luckily, the blokes spoke Japanese. Language barriers aside, we chatted, we pissed ourselves laughing for an hour or so, and any attempts to leave after One Drink were soon abandoned with the reasoning in this post's title.

So with our pints of cider abandoned for glasses of ‘C-C and ginger ale’, which I now know means copious amounts of whiskey, we moved from the Hostel Bar to the Bar Next Door. Then after picking up more booze, on to the Kiwi’s room at the YHA up the road. Unfortunately, being hostel rookies, the Kiwis hadn’t realised they would also be sharing with two unsuspecting backpackers. We clattered, we giggled, we woke them up and pissed them off (“Sorry for waking you all up." said the sympathetic Kiwi. "You’ll clearly need all the rest you can get before your day of scenic tours”), the Kiwis had a brainwave. We’d head to the beach, a whole 50 metres down the road in their car. That way, we’ll have music and won’t have to carry the alcohol all that way.

By this point, it’s 2am. After a stealth maneuver down the road, we’re parked next to the beach. Car doors open, music blaring. Corona and vodka flowing.

“I know!” said one of the blokes upon seeing that the seafront benches were wet, “There’s a tarpaulin in the car. We’ll make a tent!”

Next thing I know, the six of us have each latched onto this idea and a corner of a huge rattly plastic sheet, and, screaming with laughter, attempt to sit underneath it on a patch of grass. Then a voice pipes up.

“Umm, I think the police are here”

One head pokes out of from under the tarpaulin.

“Oh, shit. Everyone, out of the tent!”

One by one Three Kiwi blokes, a Swiss, Japanese and British girl emerge from underneath a huge blue sheet by the side of the road, just in time to see a second police car arrive on the scene. Swiftly followed by a third.

We hang back while The Kiwis turn off the music and do the ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’ routine with a group of five policemen. We watch as conversation turns into laughter. A cigarette is swapped. Then one of the Kiwis takes a seat on one of the police cars as they continue to chat. We approach. “Yeah, just a few noise complaints. It’s all good, we’ve just got to stop drinking.” More pleasantries, and we decide to make a move. And no, the police wouldn’t give us a lift up the road so that we wouldn’t have to carry the booze (we asked).

The six of us zig zagged back up the road to their hostel room, snorting, giggling the whole way, and continued the party in whispers outside their still-occupied room. The clock hits 4am before the Swiss girl and I head back to our respective dorm rooms and crash into bed. One drink my arse.

It’s 8am when the sliding door of my room crashes open.

“Fishing trip! Fishing trip! Where is she?” I raise my head off the pillow. “Ah! There she is. Fushing trup!”

“What? No! Mhhhrrrrrrr"

“Come on! Put some gel in your hair, get your swimmers. You’ll be right. Anyone else?”

The three pissed Kiwis poke their heads into the bunks of the roommates I'm yet to be acquainted with, also woken by the early morning call to arms. “Fushing trup? Where’s Swiss girl?”

“Bloody hell.” I said, to no one in particular as the call of ‘fushing trup' dissolved into the next room and the next, before disappearing altogether. “What a night.”

I have the distinct feeling that these three weeks are going to fly by.

Ooh, do that again. That felt goooood.

Once the horrendous feeling of guilt and sporadic crying episodes subside, being a little bit selfish actually feels quite good, doesn't it?

I've gone from moping around this quiet little Auckland hostel, where I could happily have stayed for the entire 4 weeks in a little solitary daze, to absolutely craving a bit of backpacker sludge.

On Monday, I wanted April. Now it's Friday and for some reason, something dawned on me when I clicked publish on yesterday's post. I realised that I want cheap drinks, boozy nights and staying up to watch the sunrise with a load of people I'll never meet again. I want the same repetitive conversations, I want free jugs of beer. I want to be tagged in awful facebook photos, I want weird reminders of what a small world it is. I want bunk beds and noisy room mates who won't let me sleep. I don't want to be held back by my non-single status, or spend the next four weeks waiting for the good bit to arrive and talking on Skype. I want to have an amazing time, put it on hold for 3 hours while I hop aboard an Emirates flight, and then continue it in Sydney with a plus-one.

If this is going to be my last four weeks on my own, possibly for months, years, who knows how long...then I need to get on it. Big style.

Or that's the plan.

Better get on a bus tomorrow morning then.