Thailand Part 2: Roll The Dice

"Thailand- roll the dice."
This expression very quickly became the motto of the trip, for the simple reason that with almost every decision you make in Thailand you are taking a gamble.
Something as simple as sitting down to eat in a restaurant is a big one. The moment one of you asks "shall we try this place?" you are entering the game and there is a slight pause as you all mentally prepare for whatever may lay in store. Every restaurant will have the Thai staples; green curry, pad thai, fried rice, tom kha gai etc and obviously each place will have their own special recipe so they will taste slightly different, but the variations go deeper than that.
Example: I ordered a Shrimp Pad Thai one night to be served one shrimp. Another night a Chicken Pad Thai came with no chicken but pork instead. Licricia ordered a Pad Thai that looked and tasted like uncooked eels, and Grace once ordered Calamari only to be brought thin air.
And ordering Western food? You've taken the gamble to a whole new level my friend. Nat ordered a chicken burger once, and what arrived was a thin frozen slice of what could have been chicken at one time on a stale bun. The chips were good though. And they put something in the mayo that made it to die for.

Another unexpected gamble is going to the toilet. Turns out Thai people don't really do the whole toilet paper thing. And the air-dry method is alright every once in a while but you can only shake your rear end over the toilet bowl so many times in a day before you crave a proper wipe.
Occasionally I came across toilets with communal paper (you take some before you enter the cubicle) and once in Auytthaya there was a woman sitting outside the toilet handing out paper (very hygienic) but we soon took to stowing great fistfuls of stolen restaurant napkins in our bags to avoid the risk.
Licricia's alcohol gel made constant appearances at toilet breaks because the concept of soap also seems to have escaped Thai culture. Clearly they do not feel the need to sanitize their hands after evacuating their bowels. I suppose if they're not wiping then why wash? Anyhow methinks there might be less people walking around in surgical face masks if they just invested in a few bottles of Carex.
*They wear face masks when they're out and about if they'll ill so as not to spread pathogens.*

Ah, accommodation, another great gamble. Do not be hoodwinked! You may think Hollywood does a good job of convincing us there's a T-Rex in San Diego or that a Camaro can turn into a kick-ass robot but they ain't got nothing on the people who produce the Thailand hostel pictures. So make sure when you are cruising hostel websites you check the reviews for the hostel and when you look at the pictures, bear in mind that some of them might be works of deceptive art.  
For example online our Bangkok hostel had pictures of what appeared to be a communal area. In reality? Nope, just the lobby and internet cafe next door. The decor in the pictures looked clean and modern. Nope, peeling walls right out of the 70s. It was fairly clean though, just a bit shabby and with a rather funky smell hanging about the corridors.
There was also a toilet in the shower.
We did grow fond of this hostel though, for all its quirks. The best thing about it by far was the night receptionist. I can't explain how much we laughed.
So we arrived at 5am (there was 24 hour check in) and she was asleep under a blanket behind the desk. We coughed loudly. She opened one eye and stared at us for a full minute then promptly went back to sleep. We woke her again and asked to check in. She slowly got up and stared at us again looking confused. So we asked if we were at Hello Hostel. She shook her head, still having not spoken a word. I went outside and checked the sign, which read 'Hello Hostel'. Definitely the right place. By this time Nat had got out our printed reservation and was showing the receptionist who was still shaking her head. I went back out to check the street name. Licricia calls me back, shaking her head in disbelief, saying the receptionist is now checking us in, still silently, having realised that yes, she works at a hostel.
So we finally get to the room and, surprise surprise, no toilet paper. Nat goes to get some. Comes back 5 minutes later saying the receptionist had fallen asleep again and when Nat woke her to ask for paper she said "no" and went back to sleep. So Nat reached around the desk and grabbed a roll that was sitting there. By this time we were all in stitches. It totally made up for the shabbiness of the place.


Bless her cotton socks, she was always asleep.












All in all, Thailand is definitely a place, not to lower your expectations, but to eradicate them completely. And although you may think this is stressful, actually it is really refreshing because it forces you to relax and go with the flow- don't over think anything, just turn up and enjoy yourself.
But I lied to you, there won't be just two instalments of my Thai trip, there is one more to come.
Because I need to tell you about all the great times that made the silly nuisances irrelevant, the times we'd ooh and ahh, squeal, laugh, shout and, in my case, vomit over the back wheels of a taxi.

Thailand Part 1: A Bumpy Ride

So on a spontaneous whim I decided to go to Thailand with a girl I met in my Sydney Hostel. Why the frack not? I managed to cram everything I'd need for two weeks into a gym bag and off I went.
Now here comes the tricky part, and the easiest way to describe it will be to break it down into timetable mode. So here:

8:30pm- Land in Suvarhumusomethingsomething airport (actually called Suvarnabhumi Airport but lord knows we couldn't pronounce that so it was Suvarhumusomethingsomething to us).
8:40pm- Told by the travel desk that it takes one and a half hours by subway to get to Bangkok's main train station. I want to catch a train to Surat Thani at 10:50. I decide I can make it. Like an idiot.
10pm- After paying a taxi driver a ridiculously overpriced fare (still cheapo compared to everywhere else in the world) I get to the station and find out there are no tickets left for the 10.50. Bugger.
10:05pm- Get back in the taxi and keep changing direction because I can't decide what to do.

*Background info: Suart Thani is the main town where you catch the ferries to the Southwest islands- which is where I needed to be; in Koh Phangan for the Full Moon Party. Licricia (the girl I was meeting) was already there with her two mates and they'd booked me accommodation bless them. So I landed on the Thursday and wanted to be there by Friday evening. It takes 11 hours by train to Surat Thani and then 3 hours by ferry to Koh Phangan. So you see my problem when I couldn't get the 10.50 train.*

10:10pm- Eventually get the driver to take me to the domestic airport. There might be flights to Surat Thani the next morning (the silly English girl hoped foolishly).
10:40pm- Arrive domestic airport and find out the ticket offices don't open until 4am.
10:45pm- Sleep on the airport benches. Similar in comfort to a bed. A bed that's trying to break your back.
4am- Wake and ask ticket office about getting to Surat Thani. Am told there are no flights for Friday or Saturday. Apparently it's a bank holiday weekend in Thailand. Their Queen's birthday. God bless her.
4:10am- Get back in a taxi, overpay again because they can charge whatever they like at night from the airport since they know you have no choice, and none of them put their meters on.
4:40am- Arrive back at main train station and enquire about trains later that day to Surat Thani. I won't get to Koh Phangan until Saturday but I've kind of accepted that fate now. No trains to Surat Thani except third class no air-con, no fan. So stuck with chickens, pigs and other livestock, sweating it out in 30 degree heat for 11 hours. Yummy.
4:50am- Have a violent tantrum.
5am- Wandering around the train station aimlessly. Decide to go back to the international airport and see if they have any domestic flights. Ooo but first, I'll just check whether there are any train tickets to Chumphon- a smaller town where it is possible to get the ferry to Koh Phangan.
5:05am- Ticket guy says nope, no tickets. I sigh heavily. He says sorry and presses refresh on his computer. "Oh," he says "Someone has just cancelled their ticket to Chumphon, leaving today at 1pm, second class air conditioned sleeper carriage."
"Book it! Book it! Book it NOW!" I yell, causing the queue of 20 Thai people behind me to jump back in alarm.
So he booked it for me. I grabbed the tiny man behind me and did a little dance of joy. I'm pretty sure his wife took a picture. I like to think they've framed it.

By this time I'm so bloomin exhausted that I get the subway back to the international airport anyway because I've got hours to wait for the train, and the airport has air-con, free clean toilets and somewhere to charge my phone.

So I hauled myself back to the train station in time for my train. And second class was perfectly nice, nicer than a lot of trains in England for sure. I was sat opposite, swear to god, an Asian Johnny Depp, who keep giving me weird looks as I was staring at him marveling over his incredible likeness to Mr Depp.
The schedule now is I get into Chumphon at 10pm, go to my hostel which I booked for that night, then get the ferry the next morning at 7am. Simple.
About 2 hours into the train ride I realise I won't get to Chumphon at 10pm. We are already an hour behind schedule. Ah well, can't be helped. I settle down and enjoy the scenery, which is breathtaking.
Around 9pm a guy comes round and changes all the seats into beds, so I clamber up to my bunk and am about to have a kip when the woman across from me starts up a conversation about how I should keep my belongings close. There have been a few robberies reported on trains recently, she says. Oh damn, methinks, I'll sleep with my stuff clutched in my hand. Then the woman adds that the thieves were knocking out whole carriages with sleeping gas and collecting everyone's stuff. So there's nothing we can really do anyway, she concludes. Great.
But I sleep anyway, and luckily I wake up with all of my stuff and just in time to get off at Chumphon. On the short walk to the hostel (at midnight, two hours after the supposed arrival time) I meet two girls who are also catching the ferry tomorrow and need a place to stay, I take them to my hostel and lo and behold- it's really really nice! One of the best hostels I've stayed in in terms of cleanliness, staff and value for money (2 pounds per night, 2 measly little pounds. I love Thailand.)

The nice surprise waiting for me there was the revelation that the ferry ticket I had was a standby ticket. If the ferry wasn't full then I could get on. It was two days before the Full Moon Party. The ferry was probably going to be full. But if you thought I would worry about this then you'd be wrong. Because at this point I was so friggin tired I couldn't care less about anything except getting into a real bed.

When I woke up the next morning I was ready with a game plan. Not a very sophisticated game plan but a game plan nonetheless. There was free pick up from the hostel to the ferry terminal so me and the other girls indulged in the free breakfast and then hopped on the bus.
When we got to the terminal it was time to put my game plan into action. The way I saw it, if I got there first then they would give me a ticket since they always reserve some seats for the standbys. I shoved and elbowed my way to the front of the line. I even accidently-on-purpose knocked over some guy's open bag so his stuff tumbled out and I sneaked round him while he and some other nice people in the queue picked everything up.
I said it wasn't sophisticated. But after all I'd been through, I was getting on that ferry.
And I did.

Finally, 3 hours later, I was on Koh Phangan island! Yes! Now, how to get to the resort the girls were at? Licricia had told me the name so I went to where all the taxis were. Actually it was a mixture of minivans, tuk tuks and trucks but that is what taxi means on this island. After dodging round one guy who was telling me he was a taxi but simultaneously trying to get me on the back on his motorcycle, I finally found a legitimate shuttle with a bunch of other backpackers going to different resorts and hostels. A short ride later, I arrive at the Blue Lotus resort, walk down a short but wonderfully steep hill, round a corner and there they are. Licricia and her two friends, having lunch at the resort restaurant. I'm here. At bloody last.

And there I will leave it for now. My Thai trip was so jam packed that to do it justice it does need to be split into two parts. But don't worry, the next part won't be a day-by-day account, more like a round up of the good, the bad and the ugly.

Touchdown Down Under

Quite honestly, after the time I had in the U.S, journeying to the airport to leave was not high on the 'Charlotte-would-love-to-experience' list. In fact other passengers on the bus to L.A periodically looked worriedly over at me and whispered to each other about whether the sobbing girl at the back needed help.
This state of upset wasn't helped by the many MANY hours waiting around I had to do.
Over 15 hours on a bus got me into L.A at 12:45am while my flight wasn't until 11:50pm later that night. Walking through downtown L.A at one in the morning is not recommended unless you have a penchant for violence and crime so I curled up on the relative safety of the bus station bench and, along with 6 or 7 hobos, tired to get some sleep.
Very uncomfortable. Quite cold. Worried about bags being stolen. Stared at by a 7-foot black man with neck tattoos and his hand down his trousers. Again, all things NOT featured on the 'Charlotte-would-love-to-experience' list, yet still things I had to deal with.
So at first light (around 6:30am) I got the hell out of there. I made the 40 minute walk from the Greyhound station to Union station so I could wait there for 6 hours before getting the shuttle to the airport.

*For those of you asking "why didn't you explore a bit instead of waiting around?" I answer "would you want to spend money going round a city, which you've already seen and explored 3 times, with a 17kg bag on your back?"*

In fairness the walk to Union station wasn't too bad; the sunrise colours really highlighted the smog and pollution that hangs over the city and the sun's rays picked up all the dirt, litter and grime on the pavement. (In case you didn't get that- Los Angeles is filthy).
At Union station I managed to slip unnoticed into the V.I.P section to wait in their armchairs so I was bored, but at least comfortable. After that it was 4 hours wait at the airport before I could even check-in, then 6 more hours until I was actually on the plane.
The good news was that all that waiting but hardly any sleeping (3 hours sleep in 40 hours) meant as soon as I got on the plane it was into my jim-jams and asleep in seconds. Except for waking up long enough to laugh my arse off at The Lego Movie, I slept almost the entire 15 hour flight so you would've thought upon landing I'd feel refreshed. But it's hard to feel fresh when it's been 55 hours since your last shower or even proper change of clothing so the one thing on my mind was "get to couchsurfing host to take a shower". Well that and "oh look, Australia has WHSmiths."
First couchsurf host turned out to be a douche. A very handsy douche. Whose response when discovering I'm in a relationship was "but the U.S is so far away and you should enjoy yourself" and who told me I was welcome to share his bed with him if the couch was too uncomfortable. Needless to say I left early.
Luckily my next host let me arrive a day early and more than made up for my first crummy day. There was a German girl couchsurfing there too and my first night our host made us dinner and supplied some excellent wine. Fun times.

Ah, now comes the job hunting, says me the next day. And house hunting simultaneously. Both soul-crushing tasks that mashed together in a joyous lump of despair. Actually no, I exaggerate. But it is pretty stressful, and several times a day I would return to my email inbox to check for any replies, consequentially giving myself a haircut as I pulled out great clumps of it in frustration.\My best option was to find a hostel set-up like San Francisco- working for accommodation and being paid cash for any extra hours I worked.
Alas twas not to be, all the hostels I contacted wanted me to work just for accommodation, no extra cash in sight. The only one that did offer me extra hours was grim and I did not want to live there for 5 months (City Resort Hostel, just to name and shame).
So, lo and behold, here I am having found a great hostel (Jolly Swagman Backpackers) whose manager liked this 'ere blog enough to let me write short daily articles for their website (http://www.jollyswagman.com.au/swagman-blog/- my articles haven't started going up yet though).
Hoorah, says I, as it means I am doing something I love on a regular basis and am not having to pay for accommodation.
The job-hunting, however, goes on and because Sydney has so many travelers there aren't really enough jobs to go around. But I persevere, someone has to give me a job at some point and actually I kind of hope it doesn't come until the footy is over.

No longer the solo traveller

Now that my proverbial 'we' has changed into a literal 'we' it has been much harder to find time to write, especially due to the more devil may care attitude John and I have adopted as our traveling style.
It's easier to write in a hostel common room or a quaint cafe than it is to write at the side of a road. Because when you're holding a sign that says 'North' and sticking your thumb out, in 23 degree heat with the sun beating down, feeling like you'll collapse with heat exhaustion, you're not about to snap your fingers and go "I know what I should do now! Work on my blog!"
Nah. Hitch-hiking is waiting game, a game where your mood slowly deteriorates into despair and a lack of faith in mankind, and if I were to write at that time my blog would contain almost nothing but four letter words and quips about how stupid it is to honk your horn at a hitch-hiker but then not pick them up.

Regardless of that hitch-hiking is actually a pretty cool way to travel. You meet a bunch of diverse, interesting people and find places you would have otherwise never been to. And sometimes waiting isn't so bad. When deliriousness and silliness sets in it can be pretty fun. During our wait to get a ride out of Sun Valley John got two hours of me serenading him with Prince Ali from Disney's Aladdin.

A major issue with hitching though, is time consumption. There are no magic words to say that'll get you a ride, mouthing 'please' or 'abra kadabra' won't cut it. A witty remark or several smiley faces on your sign might help but is no guarantee. The same goes for flashing your jiggly bits, waving like a maniac, smiling your arse off, doing a little dance or just trying to look like you're not a psychopath, serial killer or hippie.
The fact is, short of throwing yourself in front of one, there is no sure-fire way of getting a car to stop for you. Hitching is all about having a positive attitude and believing that at some point, you don't know when, there will be a person who wants to give you a ride. And when that does happen it is very rewarding. Unless they take you somewhere you didn't want to go- which is how we ended up in Lancaster instead of Sacramento (that won't mean much if you don't know California but basically it was a pain in the rear end) and unless they only take you a few miles to a place even harder to hitch out of (that's how we got stuck in Sylmar *pronounciation unknown*).

Anyway the point is that if your schedule is clear for the foreseeable future then hitch-hike away but if you have a time frame e.g. my flight out of LA in June, I suggest hitching a little but every so often packing it in and hopping on a bus.
Which is how we got to San Diego. We found a quirky hostel on Ocean Beach and that evening the whole road was closed for a huge market and live music. We got mildly to very inebriated on a cocktail John made called Caribou Lou which we drank as we wandered around the stalls that were selling clothes, arts and crafts, jewelry and around fifteen different cuisines. In the end the only thing I bought was a slice of pizza the size of - I shit you not- a man's head.
*And God made the Italians, who put tomato sauce, cheese and meat upon flat bread. And God saw that it was good. And God made the Americans, who enlarged this dish to ridiculous proportions. And God saw that it was better.*

I think that is the main good thing to be said about San Diego right now. Sure if you pack up the mini van and take the kids to Sea World and the SD Zoo you'd have a great weekend but as it would cut a lovely wedge of cash out of your pocket the poorer traveler lies on the beautiful beach and drinks their troubles away, and that's just fine. But annoyingly SD doesn't give bus transfers. This is a big issue considering the bus tickets are $2.25-2.50. John and I had a nice long rant concerning the idiocy of not giving a transfer pass (basically in other cities a bus ticket lasts two hours so one can hop on and off as many buses as one likes within that time) because how are stingy travelers supposed to explore a new place without one??
Thereafter at every new city our first encounter with the bus system includes a mini "Well this place better have transfers" conversation.
Seattle, for instance, we concluded is sensible because although the ticket is the same price as SD it comes with a transfer pass. Which made us smile.
In fact, Seattle would make most people smile mainly because everyone is smiley and polite and helpful. On our second bus ride we became acquainted with a political activist who was lovely, so lovely we went to see his rap/poetry reading that evening where- f.y.i- we had some chronic nachos and John rode a seven foot bicycle.

Our couchsurfing host was another example of Seattle goodness, and he let me use his well-stocked kitchen to make a quiche then cake and custard for dessert, all with eggs from his own eight or so chickens. We found time for a Lord of the Rings marathon (those who know me well knew I would get one in somewhere- our host had all three extended editions, what was I supposed to do, ignore them?) and we rounded off the day by playing Kingdom of Hearts on PS3. It was quite a non-traveling kind of day and actually I could completely see myself one day living in Seattle having nice settled days like that. The city is fantastic: it's pretty, it's where Frasier is set, the people are great, there's a relaxed enjoy-life vibe, it's where Frasier is set and in general it seems like an awesome place to live.
Plus it's where Frasier is set.
We hit the weather jackpot there too, 24 degrees and not a cloud in the sky so I donned my flip-flops and metaphorical sunglasses (John accidentally tripped on mine and they broke- surprising since they were a three year old Primark pair) and we enjoyed a whole week of sun up in North Washington state.
That was last week. This week we're in Portland, Oregon. Forecast: rain. I'll let you know.







*Frasier rules*

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

If you must know, I did write a blog about John. That's his name. He is a nameless mystery man no longer, he's John. Anyhow I wrote a blog telling how me met, how we felt about each other blah blah blah, but as I was about to hit 'Publish', out popped a little angel on my shoulder and started yelling at me; "That stuff is special dufus! Just between you and John. You want to make it public and ruin it then go ahead but you're an idiot." Consequentially the blog got saved to drafts.

But I suppose, now that I've drastically changed my plans for him, I can reveal a little bit about what's going on. Oh and maybe throw in some stuff about my five days in Brisbane too.
So last time you were with me I was finishing up my Fiji time. What I failed to mention was that any spare second I had there I was thinking about John.
'Daaawwww' I hear you say, 'how cute, she had a holiday roamance.' But it wasn't like that, not just some passing romance. It was different. But have no fear, I'm not going to go into details because
a) this isn't some soppy 'dear diary' type thing
b) it's between me and him anyway thanks
and c) you're probably bored of it already.
Just know that we missed each other a ridiculous amount and by my second day in Brisbane I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was back on U.S soil. So I made it happen; booking my flight took two hours in the Flight Centre shop because when I told the woman helping me why I was going back she almost fainted with delight and told the whole office. There was much 'aww'ing, tea and bsicuits were suddenly procured from somewhere and they demanded to hear the entire story.
That didn't take too long. What took ages was trying to figure out how to put payment through on an Aussie card machine using a UK debit card. Soon I was on the phone to Lloyds while every member of staff tried to make it work and a forgotten customer sat in the corner quietly suggesting we put it through as an online transaction.
[In the end this was the correct thing to do and when we all turned to thank the tiny Asian man he was gone. I saw him later in STA Travel.]
At this point I feel it appropriate to discuss the other difficulties I had to deal with in Australia and how well I handled it all *cough cough threw tantrums cough cough*.
My debit card didn't work at all. Not in stores, not at the ATMs, despite my bank assuring me it would. The travel card I purchased in England didn't work so I had a bunch of Aussie dollars on it that I couldn't use. So as far as cash goes, everything was a nightmare. I had to borrow $50 from my couchsurfing host, bless her heart. Actually, if it weren't for my hosts being such wonderful people my time in Brisbane would have been decidedly more miserable.
Brisbane as a city is lovely; it's small and there's a few great museums and galleries, the people were nice and the scenery is pretty. But between dashing to the public library computers, hanging around King George's Sqaure to get free Wi-fi and visiting every money exchange place to try and get US Dollars, it meant my days were nearly always half over by the time I got to actual sightseeing.
My hosts managed to get my mind off that though. We went for dinner, brunch, a party at their friend's house and on nights in we'd chat and laugh for hours.

You know, this is a good time to plug Couchsurfing. It is fantastic. You meet locals who really know the area and if they don't have time to show you round themsleves they'll give you great useful tips like how to get around cheaply, where to shop for food, what areas not to bother with, good bars etc. And they aren't trying to sell anything so you don't get any of that hotel BS like "Oh this place is great, yes it's a little pricey but it's worth it" or "Downtown? No i'm not sure which bus you'd take, let me just call you a taxi." Fake smile, fake enthusiasm, take tourists' money, clock out at 6.
None of that with Couchsurfing. All my hosts have been funny, genuine, caring people- usually travellers themselves who know what it's like and are trying to help you out as best they can.
That's it. I'm done. No more Couchsurfing advertising.

Where was I? Ah yes, so Brisbane is a good city, perhaps just a few too many gyms for my liking because it made for an over-abundance of arrogant berks flashing their bodies in almost no clothing, getting protein-enhanced smoothies from Boost Juice Bar and looking down their noses at the people standing in line at the Pie Face Bakery next door.
But that was then and this is now and now I'm in San Fran again. I actually flew into LA which was just as I remembered it from four years ago except the people seemed nicer this time. A man carried my backpack onto a bus for me at 5am (I had to pretend the reason I clutched the bag so tightly when he leaned in to help was because it's a delicate bag, not because I thought he was stealing it).
[Side note: standard bus fare in LA is $1.50. That's 90p! For a one-way ticket anywhere in LA. My bus ride was fifty minutes long and I paid 90p for it. Take notes Cambridge.]
My couchsurf host was great too, he picked me up from the airport and we went straight to the beach for the day. A nice normal beach. Sorry did I say normal? I meant nudist. Which I failed to notice until I had to dodge a giant pair of breasts attached to a tiny seventy-something year old woman. Then I began to realise the inordinate amount of genitalia everywhere. My host turned and asked me if I minded being on a nudist beach. I replied not at all, as long as participation was not mandatory. He laughed and promptly stripped.
The next day was a whirlwind of sorting out how and when to get to San Fran and where I'd stay etc but I did find an hour of spare time to dedicate to watching the huge dudes on Muscle beach. Time well spent.

But again, I deviate. The fact is I did get to SF. I'm there now. And, thanks to John putting in a good word for me, I have recently been employed by the Adelaide and Dakota hostels (owned by the same man) and so far it's been great. It's taking me back to university really; living with lots of people my age, from all walks of life, all tight on money yet all agreeing booze is the best investment. John and I are working on our plans for traveling the U.S while I'm here and to be honest, I could not be happier to be back.

Oh, and the weather is gorgeous too.

  

No, my resort didn't have Bed Bugs

I'm not going to dilly-dally with an introduction. It'll be far more fun if we plunge straight into the madness.
So I arrive on the mainland cranky as hell because I've been travelling for 26 hours  straight [note- a plague on anyone who thinks taking a young toddler and a year old baby on an 11 hour night flight is a good idea, you crappy crappy human beings] and now I'm at the hotel and they're telling me my room won't be ready for 5 hours.
This was what started the receptionist's list of check-in information about the hotel that, I admit, I had embarrassingly first world middle class reactions to ($8 for an hour of internet?! Isn't there a Starbucks with free Wi-fi around here? What is this, the eighties?!) But after I'd had a solid 14 hours sleep I began to see the beautiful simplicity of the place, and cruising the ocean to my first tiny island the scenery was so stunning that I oohed and aahed with the other passengers, but I couldn't help noticing the number of couples on board, which left me wishing I had a certain someone (if he's reading this, he knows who he is) who I could also nauseatingly cuddle up to. Because Fiji is undoubtably place to bring your other half. The clear ocean waves are begging for a romantic midnight swim. The white sands want you to stroll along them holding hands. The superaize hammocks need to be slowly rocked while you sit in them together and talk about the silly things in life.
But wherever you go as a traveller you'll meet people, and lo and behold my first night I befriended an Irish banker called Chris, a hospital receptionist from London named Jack and Marius, a hilarious German with a random passion for Spring Rolls.
The next day was akin to a British Spring day: pissing it down with rain. Oh except it was still 30°C+ and was accompanied by the forecast for a cylone. It's a testament to the determination of tourists that everyone was still refusing to move from their sun loungers. I actually witnessed one woman have her hat, towel and beer blown away as she was holding them only to cry "You'll have to do better than that Zeus!" to which I replied "Amen!" as my sarong flew into a Coconut tree.
But altogether it meant that the real fun came that evening when everyone made an unspoken agreement to get completely wasted, and after we'd played every drinking game known to man- myself and the other ladies took ourselves to bed, leaving the boys singing 'No Woman No Cry' with far more soul than was expected from a group of German, Australian and British lads.
The next morning began with three little words: get. over. hangover. By the time we arrived at the next island, however, Jack and I had expanded our mantra. It now went: 'spend day ___ ___ getting over food poisoning'. (I leave two spaces blank because it was the only variable between me and Jack, he chose to fill the gap with 'in bed' whereas I thought 'by pool' was a better option. Sure it was a longer dash to the toilets but hey, I got my pool time. [Note: we later realised it wasn't food poisoning- it was the water on the first island. It was filtered sea water the staff said was safe to drink. Turns out several peoples' stomachs disagreed].
But anyway we powered through and as a reward the powers that be decided my last few days should be blessed with glorious weather, allowing me to snorkel on some fantastic reef sites, kayak along the shoreline and swim through a network of beautiful underwater caves. Our little knot of friends was also joined by an awesome Galswegian girl called Ashley and a happy-go-lucky German named Daniel (sooo many German travellers in Fiji, who knew?) who made my last island stop a sheer joy; we actually managed to laugh about how uncomfortable the beds were- imagine a brillo pad mattress on a crowbar bedframe.

All in all I did have a few days of what I consider the typical Fijian holiday, doing the things that everyone does when they visit. But it was the unexpected things, good and bad, that made my Fijian experience quite different to what I thought it'd be. Geckos falling in our dinner, husking, cracking and scraping out our own coconuts to make fresh coconut milk, challenging the resort staff to volleyball matches in the tempestuous rain, a Fijian cooking lesson, playing with the pet goat, traditional Fijian dance shows, and avoiding the people who'd caught bed bugs from the Beachcomber resort, all added up to make my time in Fiji. . . interesting. Exceptional. And downright bizarre.
P.S. A quick something has to be said about the Fijian people themsleves. I wasn't really sure what they would be like, having never met a Fijian before, but they were wonderful. They kind of put our definition of the word 'friendly' to shame. They know your name within two seconds and never forget it. They run on 'Fiji Time' which basically means doing everything whenever you feel like it, and they will always say 'Bula' to you (Google will tell you it means 'hello' or 'welcome' but it's actually more like 'hiya!' and 'woop!').
However what I would see every time I met a Fijian, was a look of confusion pass over their ace. I quickly discovered this was because apparently, as each one of them told me, I look like a Fijian girl. In fact this was said to me so many times that when I got back to the mainland and the woman showing me to my room turned and said "You know you look. . " I threw my head back and shouted "Like a Fijian girl, I knoooow!" while shaking my fists in the air, which quite terrified her. So if I randomly burst out a loud 'Bula!' when I'm next around you, don't be alarmed- it's Fijian alter ego Salote (which is Charlotte in Fijian).

The City by the Bay

So I could say "San Francisco is so pretty" but that is useless.
I could show you pictures that I took of the Chinese New Year Parade to which you'd respond "oh cool" and I would immediately shake you by the shoulders and scream "you don't know man, you weren't there!" while sinking to the floor in desperation.
Because this city simply refuses to be caught on camera. Never in any other city have I fruitlessly snapped photo after photo only to be dissatisfied every time and finally succumb to recording a video.
San Francisco is not a city of sights. I mean, of course it is, it's gorgeous with its steep hills, cute cable cars and 19th century Dutch style houses, but it is not just the sights that make the city the most unique place I've ever been.
San Francisco is a sensory overload, there are smells and sounds everywhere that make the city what it is, and the combination of all these senses is what really describes the place. Which means a camera isn't going to capture half the magic of it, any more than my writing will either.

Put it this way- Haight Street is a long road of brightly coloured hippie cafes, tie dye shops, vinyl record stores and lots more, with dreadlocks and guitars everywhere. But to get the full impact of this atmosphere you need to slowly wander aimlessly down the street breathing in the weed smoke that's everywhere with the Hair soundtrack blasting on your iPod. The street just isn't the same otherwise.

And the same goes for everywhere. In fact the most boring part of my visit was walking the Golden Gate Bridge. I got halfway across and was like: "It's a bridge. It's red metal. There's a view. It's really fucking windy."
Not exactly ground-breaking stuff.
No wonder they put the Bridge on all the postcards, it's the only part of the city that is two-dimensional enough to portray by a picture. Everything else needs to be discovered by a full scale adventure and exploration into the nooks and crannies. Granted, though, there are a few basic facts you'll learn after your first day, a few examples:

Transport system: Muni buses, cheap and efficient
Main point of reference on a map: Market Street
Golden Gate Park: Stunning and bloody massive. Take a picnic, spend the day
Supermarkets: Walgreens, CVS, Safeway
Pier 39: Predictably touristy= over priced
Population: More dogs than children
Local Religion: Jogging

I'm totally serious about the dog thing, it's impossible to go more than two blocks without seeing a dog walking a human. People adore their dogs here, and if you don't then you are cast out by the dog-owners guild and made to live in the mountains where you get eaten by coyotes.
I never actually saw that happen but based on the strength of the love locals have for dogs I wouldn't be surprised if this was city law. I mean, it's what I'd do if I was mayor. Which, coupled with the fact that I'd spend my time drinking cocktails with the Queens in the Castro, is why I'd be a terrible mayor.

Ah, the Castro district. I felt a fondness and affinity to the place as soon as I stepped onto the high street and saw a man wearing nothing (and I mean nothing) except a red sock on his dongle casually chatting to two of his mates. Thereafter I spread my arms open wide to the numerous rainbow flags and declared "I'm home!"
*Please do not ask me why I feel so at home around gay men, I've never asked myself that question as I feel it would inevitably lead to extensive therapy.*
Anyhow, after flamboyantly waving to two wonderfully dressed men (a purple suede waistcoat and a silk shirt, how deliciously camp) I sashayed up past a manicurist called 'The Hand Job' and an erotic art store selling art that looked remarkably like massive dildos, to stop for a hot chocolate at the Castro Tarts' Cafe. Later I had to help an extremely good-looking gay couple, carrying a clearly adopted Asian baby, hoist their buggy onto the cable car and we all trundled of to visit Golden Gate Park. How much more San Franciscoey could my day have been?

And that's what the city is about, doing whatever you want (as long as you fit in a jog) and being whoever you want (as long as you love dogs). The whole place is alive and buzzing like a city should yet it is also a very quaint city- a term appropriately oxymoronic- as it is filled with warm friendly people who have a strong sense of community. And ok, the streets are peppered with whiffs of strong weed and dog poo, but I breathe it in gladly because to me that represents a city that is free-spirited and dog-loving. And that's pretty brilliant.