It’s a strange feeling to board a flight to the other wise of the world knowing you’re not holding a return ticket. Every moment, every little thing seems to take on a new sense of being part of a greater journey. So with that in mind watching a new dawn cut its way through the clouds over the Himalayas from my window seat high above Nepal felt especially metaphoric to me. What little plans I had made were now in motion.

It takes a long time to fly from the UK to Australia and each one of those hours sat in the confines of an airplane seat that is designed to be just that little bit too small makes the already tough journey that bit harder. So with that in mind I elected not to go from one side of the globe to the other in one long leap, but instead to stop in Singapore and visit my friend Navin for a few days.

Having just come from the frost bitten beginnings of a long British winter I wasn’t at all suitably dressed for the equatorial heat that awaited me. As I stepped out of the air-conditioned oasis of Changi airport the thick humid air crowded around me like begging children in a third world country. The dramatic change in temperature from the UK jolted me out of a state of travel fatigue and reminded me, as if I needed it, that I had already travelled a long way from home.

In many respects air travel isn’t really travel at all. There’s no graduation from one place to the other, one culture to the next, and there are no real experiences along the way. It’s not ‘travel’ in the true sense of the word, but merely transportation that takes us from one location to another in no more time than it takes to eat a microwaved meal and watch an inflight movie or two.

Despite that, as much as I would love to travel overland by various different means to a place like Singapore, the thought of hauling my two rather cumbersome suit cases any further than from the arrivals lounge to the airport parking lot was not something that excited me as I wiped the sweat from my brow.

Having arrived in mid afternoon my friend Navin decided we should go to a small place to grab a late lunch. It was a distinctly ‘local’ eatery, far from the glitzy restaurants in the central business district, but a perfect location for a jet-lagged Brit to unwind and acclimatize myself. In the end we stayed there chatting well into the evening, drinking seemingly never ending beers served in ice filled glasses as the world wandered by or waited in traffic. As introductions go, this was a good start.

It’s said that there really isn’t that much to do in Singapore other than indulge oneself in copious amounts of retail therapy, and while that might sound wondrous to some it sounds like a special kind of cruel punishment to me. The city feels like it’s dressed to impress, like an exotic woman wearing the evidence of her expensive taste.

Catwalk streets are lined with stores that bare names commonly endorsed by Hollywood stars on the pages of glossy magazines, their windows displaying pictures of perfect models selling the dream. Many of the buildings are new and ostentatious in their design, standing like supermodels in a row carefully trying to look relaxed and underwhelmed by their peers while stealing sideways glances from time to time. In many respects it seemed to me that Singapore is a place where credit cards feast and bank balances go to die.

I could be wrong, but there also seemed to be a distinct lack of public parks and open spaces. I suspect they were bulldozed years ago to make way for more glittering shopping malls, conference centres, hotels and parking lots in this one of the world’s most prosperous nations. In fairness though, despite the lack of open parkland the city is awash with thriving greenery and lush plant life as if to redeem its residents from what might otherwise be an inescapable concrete hell.

Away from the central business district and the designer label laden shopping malls, I was introduced to bustling streets of China town and little India. Although I didn’t explore either place as much as I might have liked to I was able to get a sense of them.

China town was full of places to eat, which only went to support the stereotype that Chinese people are always thinking about food, while little India was bursting with the kind of chaotic color that I had seen on the streets of Tamil Nadu.

Overall I got a sense that there was probably a great deal more to Singapore than meets the eye. I had been told that four days was long enough to ‘do it all’ but I suspect that’s not the case. Yes, I saw the Christmas lights on Orchard Road, and stood in the Marina Bay Sands Skypark with its spectacular views across the city, but this was just a taster.

It may be a retail junkies idea of paradise, but under the glitz and the mountains of steel and concrete I’m certain there’s more to discover. With a little effort I’m sure I could find the soul of Singapore, and frankly I like the idea of that challenge.

The Independent newspaper in the UK run an occasional interview series called ‘My Life In Travel’ in which subjects answer the same list of questions. Among those interviewed have been actor Darryl Hannah, singer, songwriter Katie Melua, BBC Top Gear’s James May, and adventure junky Charley Boorman. Just for fun I thought I would answer their list of questions too.

First holiday memory?
As a family we used to go to farm cottages around Britain. I remember staying at one farm where at the crack of dawn I would jump out of bed to go and ‘help’ the farmer milk the cows.

Best holiday?
That’s a tough call. I think that my ‘Long Way Home‘ tour a couple of years ago would take that title, but in fairness I could name many other great holidays or trips. Like my first trip to India back in 2004 which really left an impression on me. Or the trip I took to Rovinj in Croatia with my brother shortly after his wife died. That was special because it was one of the few times we’ve hung out with one another as friends rather than just siblings.

Favourite place in the British Isles?
The Scottish Highlands are amazing. The landscape up there is awesome and it isn’t overtaken by people, shopping malls, traffic, and urban sprawl.

What have you learnt from your travels?
A silly as it may seem, I’ve learned that people do things differently. That is to say that I’ve seen how other cultures approach things and how that’s sometimes entirely different to what I would consider normal.

I’ve also learned that the great stories come from your willingness to be brave and try new things. You can’t get memories like eating food off a banana leaf in a dirty Indian roadside eatery, or skinny dipping in a volcanically heated river on a snow covered mountain in Iceland in winter, without being willing to be a least a little brave.

Ideal travelling companion?
Someone who doesn’t cling to a map or tourist guide like their life depended on it. A person who understands that the adventure doesn’t often come with a timetable or a plan.

Beach bum, culture vulture or adrenalin junkie?
I like to mix it up. I can do beaches but I couldn’t sit there for long before I’d have to get up and go exploring. I can do culture by I won’t spend time with me head in a book about the place in which I’m standing. I can do adrenalin, but it’ll more likely be a Police ride-along that a bungee jump.

Greatest travel luxury?
Noise canceling headphones! Air travel is just SO much better with these wonders of technology. Heck, even train travel is better with them. I’m yearning for a pair of Bose, but oh the price tag!

Holiday reading?
Truth be known, I’m not much or a reader, but if my flight is upgraded then maybe I’ll be reading some expensive glossy magazine from the business class lounge that I wouldn’t usually buy myself.

Where has seduced you?
I would say that the tropical South Pacific lagoon of Aitutaki seduced me. The unspoiled and near deserted white beaches reaching out into the clear turquoise and sapphire blue water were breath-taking. I spent much of the time I was there just laughing to myself in disbelief that a place this beautiful was actually real and not the photoshopped creation of a brochure selling expensive vacations. India as a country seduced me too with its rich culture and chaotic energy.

Better to travel or to arrive?
I like to travel for sure, but I understand the need to just arrive. Travel can be exhausting and it’s easy to burn out so its imperative that while you’re traveling you take the time to stop, put your stuff down, and be grounded for a while.

Worst travel experience?
When my American friend Becky was detained and deported from the UK on our arrival back from a trip to Croatia. That was truly an awful experience. It was that experience that really crystalized my deep hatred of the UK Border Agency.

Worst holiday?
Leavenworth. The place was this nasty little fake German town in the middle of Washington State. I visited there with someone who clearly didn’t want to be with me and the entire trip was just terrible.

Worst hotel?
The Howard Johnson Hotel in Bremeton, also in Washington State. This place was so disgusting and nasty that I refused to stay there. It was in the worst state of neglect I have ever seen.

Best hotel?
I could say Hotel 71 right in the heart of Chicago, or the Royal Sonesta on Burbon Street, New Orleans, or the amazing tree house in the Northern Californian woods. However, I am going to say the White Eagle Saloon in Portland.

It could have been a contender for the worst hotel honor too. It was small, basic, and a very loud band played well into the small hours of the night right beneath the hotel room causing everything to constantly shudder. I don’t know how I found sleep there, but I will say it was the best hotel because staying there was just hilarious, and fun.

Favourite walk/swim/ride/drive?
My Greyhound bus ride across the United States from California to Washington DC and back again. My only regret about that trip is that I wasn’t writing much back then and I wasn’t brave enough to photograph life on the bus. The stories from that journey alone could be a book.

Best meal abroad?
That would be a mountainous lobster platter ‘Posh’ and I shared in a little back street restaurant in Brussels. I’m not sure it was the best food I ever tasted, but it was the first time I had ever eaten lobster and the process, with the special utensils, was a lot of fun.

First thing you do when you arrive somewhere new?
Check my email. I know it’s not cool though I suspect it’s more common than we’d like to admit.

Dream trip?
I’ve long wanted to travel across America in various different modes of transport. A bus, a Harley, a classic car, a combine harvester, a crop duster, whatever. It would be cool to take the time to travel from one coast to the next taking in various means of travel and experiencing the lives of the people along the way. I have a similar variation of this dream now traveling from Australia to England.

Favourite city?
I won’t pick one because great cities are like the great people you meet. They have their charm, the stuff that makes them interesting, and to compare them would somehow do a disservice to them all.

Where next?
Watch this space!

What about you? Taking those questions, or a selection of them, how about your life in travel?

—

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I had been warned that the landing in Skiathos would involve a hard bump and the frantic application of air brakes that would hopefully bring us to a timely halt. The little Greek island barely has enough land to accommodate the planes that bring sun seeking tourists to its quiet golden beaches. As the wheels hit the runway the plane lurched for a moment, then we were thrust forward under the hard braking as a few nervous passengers actually screamed, their cries a mixture of shock and excitement.

With the images of arriving rock stars and presidents in my mind, I always feel like waving when I step out of a plane onto the steep metal steps that lead a precarious path to the asphalt below. Of course, there are no heads of state to greet me, no adoring groupies, and no limos to whisk me away to some salubrious location. Instead I am met by the scowl of an immigration official in an ill fitting uniform sat behind a rickety desk that looks like it was stolen from an under budgeted high school. Behind him a faded poster that’s peeling off the wall reads ‘Welcome to Skiathos’ over a picture of a plane flying perilously low over the town that lies just beyond these airport walls.

Tourists scurry to waiting buses as quickly as they can, clamoring the relaxation of a vacation that will likely see them over-indulge in the sun they hope will give them an enviable tan to take back to their daily lives. Skiathos is very much a package paradise, but for the seasoned escape artist this tiny Greek Island in the middle of the Aegean Sea offers a little more than the run of the mill activities lapped up by the lobster red sun tan clan.

NO JACKET REQUIRED

I’m here for a wedding. Not a ‘Big Fat Greek Wedding,’ but the far more slender union of my friend Garry and his girlfriend, Kelly, who plan to enjoy a fairly informal wedding under the Greek sun with a few friends and family. Skiathos is their favorite vacation destination and Garry, already deeply tanned, is smiling broadly when he greets me at their hotel. He’s clearly very relaxed and has already enjoyed a few days on the island with Kelly.

For the next seven days the plan, according to the soon to be married couple, is to lay around on a beach and soak up the plentiful sun. However, something Garry neglected to tell me until just before we set off to meet Kelly at the beach, is that the particular beach they’re frequenting is “clothing optional.”

When Garry told me the wedding would be casual I imagined he meant ‘no jacket required.’ I didn’t realise that I would be required to proudly adorn my birthday suit. While I’m not adverse to a little nudity here and there I’ve never actually been to a clothing optional beach before so this would be a first for me. I know Garry fairly well, but I have only met Kelly once in passing, and here I am in Greece about to get to know this bride-to-be better than most brides I’ve ever met!

It’s been just a few hours since I left the dreary surroundings of Manchester airport, and here I am at Little Banana Bay, a ‘clothing optional’ beach on a Greek Island. Anyone who pictures a naked nirvana full of nubile tanned bodies skating the fine line between naturism and downright debauchery has, like me, probably never stepped foot on a nudist beach before.

Much of the nakedness one could cast a wandering eye across here looks more like a shoe leather convention and a demonstration of the unforgiving nature of gravity. It seems the while the facebook generation are willing to bare their souls online, not one of them is quite ready to bare their ass anywhere near here. However, I’m not complaining, it’s quiet, sunny, and relaxed… very relaxed!

EXPLORING THE ISLAND

As Islands go, visitors to Skiathos are spoiled for choice with a wide selection of sandy beaches around its 27 miles coastline. Most people tend to stay nearby the more populated areas of the island like Skiathos town and Troulos, but as much fun as sunbathing (clothed or otherwise) might be for some, I decide to rent a scooter/moped and explore the island instead.

Away from the golden beaches dirt tracks thread a wandering path through lush forests. Bright red fire trucks manned by sleeping greek men sit in various locations awaiting a call they no doubt hope never comes. A fire here would spread quickly and no doubt wreak unthinkable devastation.

Having carefully watched ‘Long Way Round‘ I feel duly prepared for the rigors of off road riding. It’s true that a moped isn’t ideal for going too far off the beaten track, but my televisual training and generous helpings of over-confidence enable me to push ‘the ped’ to extremes. At times I find myself riding through deep sand, over loose rocks, through narrow woodland paths, and even across a couple of shallow rivers! My rental agreement probably forbids this kind of activity, but it’s only wrong if you get caught, right?

Along my route I run into a number of unoccupied chapels that are dotted across the island. Unlocked and unoccupied their walls are adorned with paintings depicting serious looking men with long beards and various people with tell-tale religious glows around their heads. Religion has always been a serious business in these parts I guess.

THE WEDDING

As the wedding day rolls around it’s hard to imagine the bride, groom, and gathered guests could be any more relaxed. The ceremony itself is held in a small municipal court house at the Bourtzi fortress. Like any groom Garry waits nervously for his bride, and when Kelly eventually arrives her white wedding dress is only slightly more dazzling than her smile.

The ceremony itself is short, and after the “I do’s” the pair are married and happily posing for photographs in front of a paparazzi style gaggle of friends and relatives. From there we head to the reception and into the small hours.

In the end, like all sun kissed vacations, the week was over too quickly. As I boarded the plane bound for home the gate agent asks me, “Did you have fun?” “Oh yes.” I answer. “We’ll see you next year then?” He responds. I smile and show my boarding pass. Beach vacations aren’t really my kind of thing so it’s unlikely I’ll come back here anytime soon, but I had a lot of fun here in Skiathos and I’ll be taking some great memories home with me, so you never know… I might be back some day.

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[Video] Wild Plane landings in Skiathos
[Video] My video from Skiathos
About Skiathos

I recently took a trip to Kraków in Poland and when I booked my ‘cheap-as-chips’ Ryanair flight I didn’t really know what the city had to offer. I chose to visit Kraków simply because it was one of the places I could travel to from my local airport, and at just £22.90 return (all-in) the flight was a bargain.

I had no idea what to expect as the wheels of the plane met the tarmac at Kraków airport with a familiar jolt. I had done absolutely no research at all aside a brief scan over an article someone sent me that hailed the city to be “Poland’s historic and cultural gem.” Everything I knew of Poland could have been written on the back of one of the stamps I would affix to postcards I’d send my niece and nephew.

Foolish as it now seems, I thought Poland would be cold, and dare I say, a little communist and grey in appearance. I had imagined square cars, utilitarian buildings, and people in uniforms with stern expressions on their hard faces to suit gruff accents familiar to those of villains from an old James Bond films. The reality though, could not have been further from that picture.

Under a blanket blue sky and basking in the warmth of a classic summers day, Kraków was about to take me by surprise. The walk from the train station to the center of the Old Town and the Main Market Square was a slow one as I carried the weight of my backpack and rued my decision to dress for cooler climes. Frequently stopping to look at the ancient buildings I was already impressed; humbled in fact, by my total ignorance of what this city clearly had to offer.

At the end of that street I turned the corner and walked onto the 13th century Market Square. Few cities in Europe, and maybe even the world, can boast a square as regal and impressive as this. It truly is a wonder and seeing it for the first time was an arresting experience. I put my bag down and just stood there consciously capturing the scene, soaking up the sounds, and savoring the moment.

Amid the tourists and locals hustling their way through the crowds, I met up with my couchsurfing friend, Stefan, who had kindly agreed to host me. Last year he visited me in Liverpool and had amused me with his overt enthusiasm for my city. So I was merely completing the circle as I exclaimed my genuine delight and awe at what I had seen so far of his hometown. He was busy at a conference, but we arranged to meet up that evening whereupon he would introduce me to his city by night.

With just two full days in the city I decided not to hit the tourist guide and attempt to rush around the ‘must-see’ sites. Instead I just wandered around the winding streets of the Old Town and Jewish quarter, allowing myself to stumble upon places of interest at a tempo befitting a carefree summer stroll. I wasn’t worried about missing some ‘essential’ landmarks, instead I wanted to discover Kraków at my own pace, as I have done with so many other cities across the world.

With lunch on my mind I found a small restaurant with tables outside primed for excellent people-watching opportunities. From here I could observe people going about their business, I could sit in the sun and make up stories for each of them. With a tall glass of Tyskie Polish beer shining like a block of gold on my table, I sat back in my chair and relaxed into Poland as the minutes melted away.

On the table next to me two men were talking business as a couple on a bench across the way kissed as if the rest of the world had disappeared. A young mother helped her child untangle a balloon from the handle of his stroller as an eco-taxi silently whispered by under the peddle power of its driver. A young boy fed pigeons as they fluttered and frenzied around him as if nobody else would ever throw them a crumb, and two nuns scurried by in their white habits, a religious uniform that surely Jesus himself would find utterly unflattering, but then again maybe that’s the point?

I’m always somewhat envious of countries that are able to have tables and chairs outside of their restaurants. I wonder if we British would be a more mellow and laid back people if we were able to eat ‘Alfresco’ without always having to adorn coats or be prepared to make a mad dash for cover when the heavens open.

My lunch was a delicious bowl of soup as recommended by the waitress who assured me this was a “truly Polish dish.” Żurek z kiełbasą is a Polish style soup with sausage and egg. This was probably one of the best soups I have ever tasted, or so I thought at the time. However, not to take anything away from the exquisite soup, I wonder if perhaps all food tastes just that little bit better when it’s enjoyed under the mellow warmth of the summer sun.

I continued my stroll around the labyrinth of the medieval streets and through some of the lush green public gardens that enclose Kraków’s Old Town in a beautiful two-mile-plus tree lined path. Along the way there were old men in traditional costume playing old Polish folk music on trumpets, clarinets, and accordions.

I bought a swirling chocolate and vanilla ice-cream and continued my aimless amble, stopping here and there to snap pictures that would become my travel trophies, proof that I was here.

I stopped frequently in small coffee shops to rest my feet and sip espressos while the smell of ground coffee beans danced with the swirls of cigarette smoke wafting from the tables of people whom I chose to imagine were artists and poets, regardless of the truth.

As the evening drew on, and the shadows of the horse drawn carriages stretched across market square, the passing of another hour came around again. Like every passing hour before, it was announced by a bugle call from the tower of St Mary’s Church. The notes ring out across the square then come to an abrupt end. I was listening carefully because I learned that the sudden end of the bugle call is to commemorate a trumpeter who was shot through the throat at that very location by a invading Tatar archer in 1241 when the Mongols besieged the city. It’s funny what history chooses to remember.

That evening I met up with Stefan and we headed out for some drinks. This is where couchsurfing trumps any tour book or Lonely Planet guide. Nothing beats having a local show you their city. It’s extremely unlikely I would have found the places Stefan took me as most of them seemed to be down dimly lit stairs into elaborately decorated basement bars. The most outlandish of them was called Łódź Kaliska in which the walls were emblazoned with arty pictures of naked ladies and mirrors that left me feeling disoriented while I was still completely sober!

The next day I explored the Jewish Kazimierz neighborhood. It has something of a chilling history because during the Holocaust the neighborhood was walled in and its residents were slowly removed to concentration camps. I walked into a number of the old apartment buildings that seemed to groan under the weight of the history they hold.

I spent much of the day exploring the cities many churches and looking up at graphic depictions of the wounded Christ upon the cross. I find it a little strange that Catholics like to depict their God in this most ungodly moment of weakness. I guess that’s some religious thing, but a part of me felt a sorry for him as I looked at the various statues of him suspended in torturous pain nailed to the crucifix. From a PR point of view it’s a disaster which, I suppose, is why the Church of England removed him from the cross and started depicting him as a guy who spent a lot of time walking around with sheep and an inconvenient glow emanating from his head.

As the second day came to an end, Stefan and I again hit the bars. In the old Jewish neighborhood he took me to a bar that had record players, vintage radios, and old bicycles hung upon its walls. Another one that felt more like an art gallery that was moonlighting as a bar, and one was so dark I imagine that it would make little difference if you were blind drunk.

After a few more bars in the Old Town we were done, it was late and having missed the last tram back to his apartment we had to walk to the bus stop. Along the way Stefan was keen to bring my time in his city to a fitting gastronomical finale with a Polish sausage from the “blue van” parked through the night at Hala Targowa marketplace.

Apparently the “Blue van” is a near legend among the locals, and really, what better way to end a night, and indeed a trip like this, than to eat meat out of a van cooked over an open fire right there on the side of the road by two shifty looking Polish men in white coasts. Yes, that sounds just about perfect if you ask me.

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Kraków walks
MSNBC looks at Kraków

I’ve always appreciated the work of graffiti artists and in Melbourne, Australia, spectacular graffiti art seemed to be everywhere. Bursting off the walls in vivid explosions of color, the urban artworks brought their surroundings to life and helped give the neighborhoods that much more of a pulse.

Melbourne has a rich and impressive selection of graffiti art lining its streets and alleyways. So much so that the British street artist, Banksy, said it was arguably Australia’s most significant contribution to the arts since they stole all the Aborigine’s pencils. However, it’s not just other street artists that think highly of Melbourne’s graffiti, as Australia’s National Trust and Heritage Victoria are both in favor of protecting the city’s graffiti art.

Unsurprisingly though, not everyone considers graffiti as a valid art form to be celebrated. Scott Hilditch, chief executive of Graffiti Hurts Australia says that protecting graffiti would signify the acceptance of society’s decline and open the floodgates to vandalism by sending a dangerous message that graffiti is acceptable.

According to The City of Melbourne’s own figures approximately $700,000 was spent cleaning up illegal graffiti over a 12 month period spanning 2007/8. That figure has been rising steadily since 2001/2 when the local government spent $358,000 on graffiti removal.

However, unlike the ugly graffiti ‘tags’ I saw in Zadar, Croatia, much of the graffiti I saw in Melbourne was ingenious and engaging. Indeed the city government recently conducted research and community consultation which revealed that while most people agree that ‘tagging’ is unsightly and unwelcome, ‘street art’ graffiti is widely appreciated.

I wish I could give full credit to the artists who created the fantastic works and stunning murals featured in this post. Unfortunately though it’s extremely difficult to identify the artists involved, even when the works are completely legal.

I very much enjoyed wandering around the streets of Melbourne looking at and photographing graffiti art that turned ordinary walls into galleries. My only complaint was that there was no map that would help me navigate my way around pieces of particular merit or interest. However, I suspect that’s part of the what gives graffiti its value. It’s ability to grow from nothing, like a seedling taking root where utility had perhaps all but suffocated creativity.

As I wandered from street to street browsing the graffiti, I found myself looking at various pieces and thinking about how a bland and ordinary brick wall might dream of one day becoming the home of art. How some bricks might aspire to be a part of a wondrous work of architecture, and how others might long to become an essential piece of an artists expression.

I remembered how the influential architect, Louis Khan, once suggested that even a brick wants to be something. So as my eyes studied the artfully adorned walls with their colors, messages, declarations and emotions, I couldn’t help but imagine how these bricks might very well be happy with their place in the world.

—

Escape – Melbourne Graffiti website
Victorian councils trial use nanotechnology to halt graffiti
Melbourne graffiti considered for heritage protection
Art on the street
Graffiti hurts Australia
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A few years ago a friend of mine told me that when I visited Australia I might never return. He said that I would “fit right in,” and while I very much enjoyed my first visit there in 2009 I can’t say I found it a place that I yearned to call home. However, on my return to the land down under this year I visited the State of Victoria. Bathed in sun and basking in the summer heat, I no doubt saw it at its best, but beyond that I had found the Australia that my friend had told me I might never leave, it was right here, and it was Melbourne..

My first impressions of Melbourne were influenced quite heavily by the woman who was driving the tram I rode through the city to where I would be staying. She was an older woman, perhaps as rounded in character as she was in form. Using the announcement system she commented on various things we would rattle by.

We passed a man on a bridge playing bagpipes with a sign in front of a bag in which passers by would throw change. “Will somebody please give that guy enough change so he can finally buy his bloody ticket home. That’s what that sign says you know.” A few people on the tram laugh and look out of the window back at the pipe player. “He’s been at it for years and I can’t stand bagpipes!” She continues.

A few stops and jokes later I struck up a conversation with the driver. I tell her it’s my first time in Melbourne so she gives me a few tips on where to go and what to see.

As we pass by homes lining Dandenong Road she then tells me a story about a friend of hers who wanted to visit England. “He never got there, poor bastard. His oriental wife stopped him from going, and now he’s dead.” She pauses at a red light and I tell her I’m sorry her friend didn’t get to visit England.

In her loud brash tone only somewhat stifled by the noise of the tram she continues. “They’re everywhere you know, the orientals.” Feeling somewhat uncomfortable I look over at an asian woman close by. I’m relieved to see she’s wearing earphones and is unlikely to hear what the driver is saying. “They might look pretty and coy to you young blokes, but you wanna watch it, they’re honey traps, love! Deadly I tell ya.”

Another stop light and I switch the subject back to something a little more conducive to a public transport situation. But as we reach my stop and I step off the tram she loudly gives me some parting advice. “Remember love, yellow fever will kill you, so keep your snake on a leash!” And with that the doors clatter to close and the tram rattles away.

STREET LIFE

I was couchsurfing in Melbourne, that’s to say I was staying in the home of a local whom I hadn’t met before. My host was a guy called Phong, a typically laid back Australian who owned a waxing salon, something which I found mildly amusing as he didn’t strike me as a particularly metrosexual kind of guy.

The next day Phong took me on a tour of the local neighborhoods. The main streets seemed alive, brimming with activity and energy. Amazing graffiti and street art was everywhere and there were shops, galleries and boutiques with interesting names like ‘Fat Helen’s‘ and ‘Shag’ (fashion & clothing shops), the ‘Hard Wok Cafe’ (Chinese food), and ‘Fuku Hair Studio.’

LIFE’S A BEACH

While Melbourne isn’t famous for it’s beaches there are still a few sun-trap shorelines to enjoy. The first one I visited was St Kilda beach which was busy with sunbathers, swimmers, and various other kinds of beach bums.

While St Kilda has a somewhat checkered past as a sketchy neighborhood full of drug users and loose women, in these more modern times some claim the moral threat comes from Europeans like me! Apparently we’ve been diluting Australian decency with our bare breasts and no good liberal ways.

Fortunately though, local politician, Reverend Fred Nile, is on hand to uplift Australian decency by trying to end topless and strapless sunbathing at beaches like St Kilda. However the moral guardian won’t tolerate women covering up too much, in 2002 he also proposed banning women from wearing Islamic head scarfs and veils.

Undeterred by the unchecked debauchery of South Australia’s coastline I headed over to Brighton Beach with fellow couch surfer, Lauren from New York, who was also staying with Phong.

Brighton beach is particularly famous for its colorful little ‘bathing boxes‘ that were built in the late nineteenth century and are now protected by heritage laws. The eighty two beach huts are a popular Melbourne landmark and have been the subject of countless paintings, drawings, and photographs over the years.

WHAT ABOUT THE FOOD?

Of course, when you travel anywhere food often becomes a big part of your experience, and there is no shortage of funky, fun, or formal places to eat in Melbourne. On one day we ate breakfast from a hole in the wall joint, then lunch at a place called ‘Lucky Coq‘ where you can get a delicious pizza for just $4 then sit back in old sofa’s our out in their rooftop sun-cube.

Australians take their coffee pretty seriously and Phong took me to meet a friend of his who had just opened a cool place called Monk Bodhi Dharma which was rusticly hip. The coffee’s were specialist grinds like Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, that the barista talked about with near fanatical enthusiasm and knowledge. But aside of the coffee the little back street place serves a mouth-watering variety of healthy and healing foods like ‘Peace Cookies,’ ‘Cuban chickpea potato stew,’ ‘Indian creamy pumpkin mansoor dal coconut mango soup,’ and ‘West African peanut, bell pepper and tomato soup.’ (Seriously, after writing that I’m hungry!)

Another very cool place we ate at was ‘Lentil as Anything.’ where you order exquisite vegetarian food from a menu that has no prices. When you have finished your meal you decide what the food and experience was worth then make a donation in a black box on the counter as you leave.

Staffed almost entirely by volunteers ‘Lentil as Anything’ has been in the ‘hot for profit’ business for ten years and now has four locations across Melbourne, as well as a college canteen run in the same way.

I liked ‘Lentil as Anything’ very much because it wasn’t just about you and the food, but instead they seek to encourage and cultivate communication going beyond food to engage the community with programs developed to address the hardship of inequality.

POLE POSITION

Something I was especially excited to do was go to Albert Park which hosts the Australian Formula One Grand Prix. We checked out the pits and I stood on the rostrum where the drivers are presented with trophies before spraying the champagne at the end of the race.

Despite his obvious bemusement, Phong was kind enough to allow me to drive his old Toyota around the park on the roads that double as the race track. The two laps I completed were far from high speed as I had to obey the speed limit, nevertheless it was a absolute thrill to negotiate corners I’ve been watching race cars speed through for years.

As we drove out of Albert Park I was just loving life. The sun was shining, the weather was beautiful, I’d just driven around a Grand Prix circuit, and I was in Australia. At that moment Phong turned on the radio and as if choreographed by a movie producer the track that began to play was the classic 80′s song ‘Land Down Under‘ by Men at Work.

MELBOURNE’S MARKETS

I’m not really one for shopping, or at least big-brand shopping. I find few things as loathsome as fighting my way though crowds of bag wielding shoppers in what always feels to me like a very confrontational situation. That said, I do like local trade, craft and farmers markets like Portland’s Saturday Market or London’s Camden Markets. I was therefore delighted to learn that Melbourne has a thriving market community of local traders, food sellers, and farmers.

I always feel like I’m making more of a connection when I wander around these kind of open air markets chatting with the traders. I have brought some truly wonderful items at markets like these, from jewelry to ornaments, clothing to music.

I ended up spending my final night in Melbourne with Phong, Lauren, and other couch surfers at St Kilda’s unique and vibrant night market rammed with close to one hundred stall-holders. It was a gloriously warm summer night and the place was teeming with the kind of interesting characters that always seem to find these places. Under a darkening blue sky on the rolling lawns crowds gathered to watch fire dancers perform to the beats of bongo drummers.

I’d been looking for a new ring, but instead I ended up buying a ‘singing bowl’ imported from Nepal and sold to me by a interestingly dressed woman who insisted I spent the right amount of time finding the bowl that “sang to me.” I tried a few, laughing as the woman put one hand on by back and another on my belly asking me “Do you feel it there?” “I think you should probably be asking my wallet,” I told her “But that’s in my back pocket and if you put your hand there people are going to get the wrong idea.” She laughed and told me that my “heart” would make the right decision.

In the end I settled on a modest bowl, that apparently “sings” in an F key. It provided my fellow couch surfers and I with some amusement as we sat around listening to the bongo drums and watching the dancers. Later on I Googled the singing bowls F key and wouldn’t you know it turns out that note is the heart chakra that helps with compassion and balance. So who knows, maybe that woman was onto something after all, because at the price I paid it would seem my heart showed my wallet a little compassion which certainly helps by bank balance.

In my next post from Melbourne I attend a Yoga class with my host Phong, and get my ass kicked by a softly spoken female voice over artist. Don’t miss that and a post featuring stunning graffitti art seen on Melbourne’s colorful city streets. Subscribe to this blog by email, RSS, or download the FREE iPhone app today.

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