Jetlag La-La Land

After a surprisingly smooth trip back to the UK via Madrid, I spent a hectic half day and night at my friends’ house, getting blissfully distracted by their two sweet, affectionate daughters, just at that age when they simply love their “auntie” unconditionally and generously. Lavished with sticky crayon paintings and glittery knickknacks, I then started the first leg of the journey, London to Los Angeles. Here I had my first ever taste of jetlag - It was a more than a little strange, arriving at 2pm, being midnight in the UK, which made me feel exhausted and trapped in a surreal alternate reality.

However, with seven hours to kill till my flight to Sydney, I thought the thing to do was make my way into town, and look around LA, maybe do one of the those cheesy bus tours, sit sleepily on the top deck and take the occasional peek around... as it transpired, I never even made it out of the airport.

It took a while to find a way out of the labyrinthine terminal – rumour had it there were shuttle buses going from various exit points by the arrivals area, which I tracked down after a disorienting hike. These buses took an inordinate amount of time to arrive, then dropped you off at a dilapidated and seemingly abandoned bus terminal, roughly the size of a tundra. Here, you were to fathom which bus shelter shaped black hole will take you into LA itself, using the power of telepathy, due to the absence of any timetables or maps. Ridiculous. All propaganda, I’d decided, pushing the agenda of private vehicle ownership in the US.

Caught up in this sanctimonious inner rant, I suddenly stopped in my tracks. I had wisely not brought any American currency, which obviously rendered the entire endeavour futile, as I wouldn't be able to get the bus into town! By now it was about 1 in the morning by my internal clock, yet still broad daylight, and making me feel very odd... If this peculiarity wasn't enough, an elderly man suddenly accosted me - ‘suddenly’ being a generous overstatement, as he could barely walk at all, just shuffle, several inches at a time  - and asked for my help getting to the bus stop, about 50 meters away. He was deaf, which turned our conversation into a celebration of ineptitude: me – badly disorientated and jetlagged, and him – in a shuffling-mumbling world of his own.

Our communication was thus somewhat stifled, yet he managed to reveal he was due to have surgery in a few days, which he’d hoped would give him the ability to walk again, lost, as far as I could decipher, by some kind of a muscular degenerative illness. I could only hope that his current speed would allow him to arrive at his appointment in good time. On discovering I lived in London he brightened up, saying he often visits there on business. This both confused and impressed me. Him even making it out of an airport terminal must have been the work of fantastical forces, let alone international travel. This was clearly a determined and resourceful individual.

By now, our short excursion had taken approximately half an hour, by which time I had to admit defeat, and knew I would never make it to downtown LA in time to have a decent scout. I shall return to the terminal - tail between legs - get some food and try to sleep curled up in a corner somewhere, as I was clearly at risk of collapsing right there on the tarmac in an exhausted heap. And so, having safely deposited my new friend at a bus stop of his choice, I laboriously embarked on my trippy merry way back to the terminal.


Chili’s, one of the many chain restaurants dotted in service stations throughout the US, seemed a comfortable yet affordable pit stop for my needs. Here I consumed a large bowl of much required spicy fried chicken strips, an even larger margarita, then selected an alluring slice of floor and fell soundly asleep, oblivious to the bright halogens and footfall for the next five hours.

My flight to Sydney was extremely comfortable, lovingly accommodating to the long-haul passenger, with a variety of media choices on my personal screen, why - even the food was not intolerable! My seat was next to an American gal from Spokane and her newly wed husband - both around 19 years old - on their way to their honeymoon in Australia and New Zealand, along with an entourage of their extended family, romantically enough. She was very sweet, although, as with many Americans over the course of my trip, the conversation quickly shifted to religion. She hoped, she revealed to me, to become an art therapist, but had to put that plan on hold until she completed her course in Christian studies. She seemed sad, but resigned to her fate, which made me wonder about choices in general and how often we believe we are restricted, when I fact, we willingly succumb to those restrictions ourselves. Did that couple want a honeymoon alone? Did this woman want to pursue her dream vocation? I would tend to believe they did, yet felt they had no choice but put their own desires on hold to placate assumed expectations. To me, though, this no-choice was in itself a choice they were perhaps unaware they were making.

After our chat, I thankfully managed to get quite a bit of sleep and woke up in time for an incredible sunrise over the Australian coast line.

Steak Me (New) Home

Adventures come in many guises and it is only a year after my contemplative nihilistic musings on the steps of my old flat, that I am inhabiting a new one. The expedition i've longed for is of a different nature - one of exploring a new area of London, and the pitfalls of property ownership. A challenge I was seeking, and one was provided.

And it is with intermittent exhilaration and groans of irritation that I face what the day brings. Now it's a mystery charge applied by the freeholders, now it's discovering a plethora of exotic supermarkets catering for the diverse local demographic, now it's the lack of recycling in my newly adoptive hood, now it's a surprise hipsterish steak restaurant in what is otherwise a sea of something-fried-chicken takeaways, betting shops and caffs, now it's the tricky art of neighbour diplomacy, now it's the joys of deciding on how to decorate my new home - paintings, furniture, all the bits and pieces I'd never given a second thought to before.

But it's the steakhouse that's worth elaborating on. An utter anomaly for the area, discovered on the day I moved. Suspicious of my new surroundings' cultural thinness and provincial leanings, lack of decent pubs, yet still determined to grow to love it, I paced the streets with a friend. We strolled past the tube station, through the pedestrianised high street with its low-rent Pound shops and cash-converters, and through the market selling net vests and plastic wallets. We were determined to be charmed and so walked to the very last stall.

Here we found a sad, dilapidated, boarded-up pub, but it was the blackboard sign on its wall that caught my eye:

Huh, we thought, we do indeed like all of those things, not least walking around corners. Let us follow the suggested course. Turn right we did, encountering a life-size bovine model outside what could have been a foodie spot plucked out of Dalston high street. But here, in suburban London. Buffed wooden furniture: check. Deliberately placed quirky ornaments: check. Claims for high quality ingredients: check. Aloof staff: check.

 

We weren't hungry, however we couldn't resist a nose around the premises, and were enthusiastically greeted by the self-professed financier, a man I would categorise of the "too posh to wash" ilk. He fluttered around us explaining his and business partner Cristina's vision of pushing the area to culinary eminence, facing off against some of the best London notable steak restaurants. 'Goodmans, Hawksmoor...?' I inquired. 'Erm... yes' he maintained, grasping onto his air of conviction.

I decided that, true or not, this place deserves a try - the menu offered excellent value and wasn't pretentiously complicated, just steak and lots of it. Besides, being as it evidently is the only vestige of fine dining in Barking, my only link back to urbanite sophistication, it would be foolish to dismiss it.

A few weeks later, following a lazy yet weary Sunday with overworked friends, we found ourselves crossing that threshold, with intention to dine this time. Service was lacklustre, verging on the irritable. however, we were tolerant of the fact, as we seemed to have happened upon a celebration of some kind, and staff may have been under duress preparing for the night - attendees adorned in shiny polyester shirts, pointy shoes, sparkly dresses and heavy perfumes, plus a long table set for a blowout party with many bottles of spirits, wine and beer. Attempts to guess at the occasion ranging from christening, confirmation, wedding, even funeral were speculated, but we were too tired and hungry to actually engage with the revellers. To our dismay, they eventually betrayed our gleeful sense of impending riot by maintaining cool and sober decorum throughout the evening. Damn.

The restaurant filled quickly with other diners, some clearly regulars, and we were optimistic. The food, when it arrived, was good but not great - the steaks mainly prepared well, but not as one would expect in the more established London steak joints - the meat has not been prepared with the appropriate heat, it seemed. Fat not crisped enough, sinew more evident than it should be, and even the fillet had a damp, cold quality as if it hadn't had time to thaw out properly before being tossed into he pan. And you've gotta wonder, given the profit margin, could these be superb cuts of beef at these prices? I'd like to believe this must be due to a special arrangement forged with an excellent and ethical meat supplier, but I'm afraid my cynical leanings won't let me.

Sides were tasty, although on the under-seasoned side, and we only got one portion of chips instead of two; however, the bill came to about £25 per head, including a bottle of a decent Vinho Tinto, and I'm certain the lunch menu at £6 for a main and sides, and even the Sunday roast menu for £10 are more than satisfactory.

The claim to quality and style and dogged stubborn insistence on being the leading steak eatery in the area is certainly justified, given that competition is non-existent. And no doubt I would be making repeat visits when I feel the steak urge coupled with a wish to stay local. The restaurant is doing well, management is eager and clientele is loyal, it appears.

Somehow, though, for local eats I prefer the excellent Kolachi, a Pakistani restaurant down the road. Drafty, cramped and garishly decorated with a candelabra, it serves truly authentic Karachi homey food, bowls of glistening lentil and chickpea and slow-cooked lamb stews, served with a side plate of herbs, ginger, limes and crisp fried onions to be sprinkled at your leisure over the dish, or a plateful of expertly grilled chops and skewered meats, aromatically marinated. Here you are expected to eat with your hands and/or paratha and naan baked a minute ago on the tandoor. No sophistication but no pretension either. Here I found the essence of what my new home ground is about.

An Uneasy Embarkation

I woke up in a small town in Eastern Australia, crying. This was not the start of a trip-of-a-lifetime I’d expected. The past two days were spent moping around my second cousin and his wife’s house in Narrabri, halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. Here, in this charming farmland town, I did a whole lot of not much, other than sleeping, weeping, and trying hard not to bum out my tolerant hosts. It was a mere fortnight ago that my family’s tranquil existence has been irreversibly disrupted, destabilising the vibe around the trip I’d been planning for many months as result.

We were sitting in the kitchen – our familial congregating area, its cramped cosiness and proximity to the fridge much preferred to the larger living room, only ever used for watching TV or entertaining guests - my mum, my sister and me. I was on a long visit, sort of an elaborate pit stop prior to commencing my long-planned trip, but in reality an excuse to spend much needed time in the bosom of my family. I’d been living away for so long, this was a singularly precious opportunity to gain some quality time on the family loyalty-points card.

Sitting in the kitchen, as we were, not unlike any other day, my sister casually mentioned she thought, but wasn’t certain, she may have a something lump-like in her breast, but perhaps it’s nothing. ‘I’m not sure’, she added laconically. My mum and I exchanged glances. ‘How long has it been there?’ we asked. ‘A few months, really’, she tentatively offered, fully recognising the implication of what she was saying, and the overwrought histrionics she may be invoking, ‘but honestly, I couldn’t tell if it’s anything. Here, feel it’. I knew, as soon as my fingers touched that Ping-Pong ball sized solid protuberance, that it was cancer. I’d felt it before, oddly, on my dog, years ago. I knew what it was then, and I knew now. ‘Make an appointment to see a doctor’, I said pointedly, whilst trying to maintain my cool. She seemed taken aback at my unequivocal tone, rather than being placated with a dismissive ‘oh it’s nothing to worry about’. But we all knew there was now no time to lose.

I was due to leave for my trip the following week, but was no longer sure I wanted to, or even could bring myself to. We went to see the doctor together, confirming what we’d already suspected, and set the wheels in motion for the next inevitable steps. Ominous words like ‘chemotherapy’, ‘terminal’ and ‘death’ were constantly going through my mind. I agonised over the decision whether to pack it in and stay put. But mulling it over with the family, they repeatedly pointed out that a. we didn’t know how soon, if at all, any treatments were to start, b. there is nothing any of us can do for the moment and c. I’d spent much time and money organising this trip and ought to at least begin, then if necessary I could always return.

I had just recently completed a postgrad diploma, later in life than is conventional, a feat undoubtedly driven by the dissolution of my marriage. The divorce papers have also just come through, the coinciding events both milestones of some epic. Feeling this was as right a time as any for a Sabbatical, I quit my UK based job, having put some funds aside for my adventure, and became a lady of leisure – for the next year or so, anyway. The plan was to travel around the south east of Australia, using Wwoofing as a great way of seeing as many remote parts as possible. Wwoofing consists of volunteering on sustainable and environmentally aware, mainly smallholders’ farms, sometimes organic or biodynamic, being provided with food and accommodation in exchange for 4-6 labour hours per day. My trip was then to take me around the north and south islands of New Zealand; however, here some work permit restrictions meant Wwoofing was not an option, and so I begrudgingly booked a hop-on-hop-off tour bus, with the intention of stopping off for independent hikes in various places. The final leg was to be around the southern states of the US, mainly by Amtrak train. I felt the tingle of freedom and yearned to consummate it by roaming the world, unshackled by concerns and trivialities of routine life. But now, It seemed, reality has sniggered smack dab in my face. Best laid plans and so on… a new perspective heavily wrapped round my escapade like a thick duvet. Still, I resolved to push on with my plan and put a brave face on. The airport goodbyes were not easy.