silly jetlag

What a way to finish my first day in Paris: by deleting half of the pictures I'd taken. But it's OK. Crisis averted.

After 24 hours in transit, including a 20 minute plank (ok nanna nap) on the floor of the Abu Dhabi airport, we arrived in Paris. Customs was non-existent so we were greeting mum and dad with an overtired 'bonjour' not too long after landing.

We're staying in a two-bedroom apartment in the 13th arrondissement. It's very quaint and the large windows (which are open all the time because of the heat), give us a good view of the activity on the street below. At the moment a street market is being set up, which I'll explore once I've finished this.



Because I'm coming back to Paris for a week in a month, I'm not too fussed about what we do while we're all here. Kim decided she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower so that's where we headed. The subway system is pretty easy to use and we've stocked up on tickets. It was only a short walk from one of the metro stations to the Tower. I know a few people might kick me for this statement, but I found it to be pretty underwhelming. I'd never been all that fussed about seeing it, and yep, I'm still not. We walked around under it for a while and took some photos, but we didn't spend much time here at all. I think I will come back with a tour guide at some stage because I would like to know more about it.

We decided to walk along the River Seine to Notre Dame, although we got distracted by a carousel across the road from the tower. We all had a ride and it was one of the highlights of my day. It was about 28C so I was cooking and feared for my little Taswegian skin as we walked along the river.

Looking at the buildings made me realise just how young Australia is as a country. We didn't have much of an idea what we were looking at, but I don't doubt that everything is really, really old. We stopped at a cafe for lunch where I had quiche lorraine.

We made it to Notre Dame and inside just as it started to rain a little. I tell you what, you would NOT want to break a window in that place. I lit a candle as an offering and we sat down for a while taking it all in. After Notre Dame we headed home. Our little footsies were pretty tired. There's a kitchen in our apartment and a supermarket down the road so we did a small grocery shop. Back at the apartment we began going through our photos and within 2 minutes I managed to deleted half of my photos. But never fear. Refusing to be beaten by a machine I googled my way out of it and found a program that recovers deleted files. Mission accomplished. Crisis averted.

At 6.30pm I went for a quick nap in mum and dad's bed (I'm sleeping in the living room) and managed to stay there until 10pm. After some watermelon for dinner I called it a night for good...well until 4am.

my life in kilograms

18.8kg. That's what my life weighs in at now. I know I've overpacked. I knew it as I was doing it. However when you pack for an indefinite length of time it's rather hard to know what you'll need and rather easy to convince yourself that you should pack a lot of things "just in case".

The first leg of The Big Trip is down. I'm now in the Sydney Airport waiting for Kim and Toby to arrive. The significance of leaving hasn't set in yet. Saying goodbye to Jaclyn was hard, but it still hasn't hit me that I'm saying goodbye for what could be a really long time. People always say that it's harder on those staying, and having been that person several times, I agree. When you're the one going it's hard to comprehend the magnitude of what you're doing. You're too busy worrying about what you've forgotten, which in my case was another lock for my backpack, which I believe is sitting on Jaclyn's couch.

The calmest I've felt for weeks was getting off the plane a few minutes ago. It's too late to stress because really what can I do about anything? And for the first time in a long time I have one hour during which time I can't really do anything. I'm forced to sit in a plastic chair, drink my earl grey and write.

can 26 be the new 6?

Before anyone says anything, I know 26 isn't old. I don't even feel the need to qualify that by saying it isn't that old. In the grand scheme of this adventure called life, I'm just a young'n. But that hasn't stopped what I can only assume is a belated quarter-life crisis coming on. When I was young(er), 26 seemed so very mature. Surely by now I would be running a newspaper, head of a giant global company or, at the very least, have become the Pink Power Ranger. But I'm not. I'm about to move to the other side of the world.

Me in a hat that's simply too big. Always ahead of myself.

I understand this is a huge opportunity and everyday I'm told how lucky I am and how jealous everyone else is. Even as I'm writing this I'm wondering what I have to complain about. But that still doesn't stop the nagging feeling that I'm really not sure what I want to do. I am about to be unemployed for an indefinite period of time. That's not an ideal situation for someone who has had most of their life planned out since she was 12. Actually it was probably before that but admitting that seems a little sad.

At 26 I feel like I should have done a lot more by now. I don't know what I mean by more, but the wrinkles and grey hairs make me realise the days of being completely irresponsible are gone. However, future 36-year-old me would probably have a fit knowing I wasted a good few minutes of being 26, whinging about it. I may not know what I want to do yet, so I shall for the time being just do fun things. Hopefully they work out to be the same.

Me, Kim and Dad off to fish at the Flats. My only worry then seemed to be my hair...and by the looks of it I didn't worry too much.

appreciation

After three days of rain the sun has finally found my temporary address: Port Macquarie in New South Wales. Hardly any wind, no need for a jacket and sunshine that has me wishing I'd put on suncream. When I'm travelling (not that I really am now) I find the biggest realisation of how far away from home I am comes when I do things I would normally do at home. Standing on the Great Wall in China was just as much an experience as going grocery shopping in Shanghai. One of my favourite memories of Vietnam is sitting in a cafe reading the Herald Sun (it was a few days old mind you). It probably seems silly to travel so far to do something so seemingly boring, but I love treating a new city as my home for however long I'm there.

It's that thinking that had me squeezing my running gear into my carry-on luggage and today I made use of it. Port Macquarie is a beautiful town, well at least half of it is. The half that hasn't been taken over by developers out to make their millions. I loved this town when I was younger, but have seen it become more and more like the Gold Coast: high-rise buildings with the views going to the highest bidder. However, there is one thing that can't change. Whether it was convenience or some smart forward planning, the road separates the beaches from the buildings. That means access to the beaches is all mine.
I ran through the streets on my way to Town Beach. Despite this being a relatively flat town and certainly a retirement haven, the footpaths are very intermittent in the residential area. At least the roads are wide enough for me to sneak in the gutter without trouble.

My plan once hitting the beach was to follow the road round along the Coast, however I couldn't resist a visit to the breakwall. In summer this is one of my favourite places to come. It's well lit and acts as a barrier between a caravan park and the Hastings river. I wasn't the only one relishing the weather. I doubled back and then jumped on the track that weaves along the other beaches: Oxley, Flynn and Shelley's.

Port is a beautiful town and every summer swells with tourists. As I ran along I began thinking how nice it would be to live here, but really there's not much difference between here and home. Granted, the weather is a good deal better, but then I get sunburnt if I stand too close to a candle so that's not a selling point. We have gorgeous beaches in Tasmania and we don't have thousands of people rocking up every summer. After counting down the years until I could leave the Coast when I was a teenager, who'd have thought that with three weeks to go, I might actually miss it?