I must be turning French because I am outraged.
I want to act like a French protester and spontaneously flip my people-mover on its side (kids, husband, bag, phone charger out first) and set fire to it, then go on strike from telling people how great New Zealand is.
Back in my home town, a panel of pointy-headed morons has given the Auckland Council carte blanche to throw out the rules that were meant to protect public views of the city’s fantabulous volcanoes forever – or at least until the city gets blown off the face of the earth. Continue reading
We had big plans for our long weekend in Corsica in May.
Driving, hiking, rugged mountains, deserted beaches, excellent food, fabulous wine – we were keen to try everything we’d heard about this island-mountain of the Mediterannean.
Fate had other ideas. Continue reading
We used to be quite good at bartering.
In the markets and bazaars of South East Asia, Egypt and Turkey back in the day, things always went well if you took your time, showed respect and laughed a lot.
That was before Sabbatical Man and I had three lovely assistants: one small, one medium and one large. Continue reading
Walked up some hills, saw some views, ate gelato.
If you asked Small, Medium and Large for their version of the Parco Nazionale delle Cinque Terre that’s probably the best you’d get.
However if you had followed them for five and a half hours of vertical hiking trails, sat at café tables in five picturesque seaside towns, and listened to their mad chatter, you would learn a lot more about the undiscovered delights of one of Italy’s most picturesque and popular tourist destinations.
I’ll give you a bit of an idea.
One of the best thing about bringing our boys to Europe is that they are connecting more and more with history.
It was a perfect family weekend – just three hours on an aeroplane and we were in a different world.
Istanbul was pulsing with life and history, warm hospitality, colourful bazaars and gorgeous food.
French operatives establish positions for the suitcase-heist
As a travelling day, it didn’t start off well.
It was only two days since France’s worst-ever air disaster and passengers boarding my Marseille flight bound for Paris were all peering into the cockpit to check for signs of the pilots’ will to live.
I was determined to keep my thoughts selflessly and appropriately where they belonged – with the dead and the bereaved.
Then I stepped onto the plane and let myself down. My split-second mental health assessment of the pilots: low grade anxiety triggered by being stared at all morning by terrified passengers.
In my defence, I was sick as a dog and not thinking straight. Snot was pouring out my nose so fast that it was making it to my chin before I could unfold the next tissue.
A four day solo trip to New York to see old friends and two fantastic theatre productions had seemed like a magical opportunity for the several weeks that I had been planning it. Now it didn’t seem like such a great idea.
Ninety minutes later, safely on the tarmac in Paris but with the whole Atlantic yet to cross, I dabbed my stinging nostrils and peered out the window to see armed men in black taking up positions all around the plane.