Essential purchase

Satisfying links today. Cast your mind back, regular 😀 reader, to the very end of 2017, when I was in Buenos Aires en route to Ushuaia for an Antarctica cruise over Christmas and the New Year. The day after I arrived, I got up earlyish and headed off to the Sunday Market at San Telmo. It was lovely - pleasantly busy with locals as well as tourists like me, safe, colourful and interestingly varied. I was especially taken by the stall selling saddlery, and the man festooned with feather dusters. One other stall that I was particularly drawn to had a display of colourful lace-up shoes, trimmed with traditional brightly-patterned fabrics. I wanted some, but they didn't have my size.

Move forward three and a half years, and umpteen kilometres to the Saturday market here on Waiheke. What do I find, as I wander around with my coffee? Only those same style shoes, except boots this time, made in Peru, displayed on a stall run by Clara, a friendly young woman from Grenada. She had my size so, clearly, it was meant to be. I bought them - or, rather, took them away with me, to pay for online later from home, at Clara's suggestion.

And then I went back to my car to pick up my shopping bag to go to the supermarket. My big Silversea shopping bag. It was a Silversea cruise I'd been in Buenos Aires en route to. On which, amongst many, many other delights, I was pleased to meet again my favourite Silversea staff member, wine waitress Miriam. Who is from Peru.

A gain, and a loss

Well, it's been over a month now since my last post (about, er, hearing the Last Post) so I suppose it's time for another. Quite honestly, though, stories about travel feel both irrelevant and a bit sad during this time of Covid-19 lockdown. Despite having done pretty well here in New Zealand - no new cases today for the fifth day in a row, no-one in hospital, only 21 people currently infected, the same number as have died altogether - travel is still looking a long way off yet. Our borders are officially shut (though essential personnel like those involved in filming the Avatar and Lord of the Rings TV/movies have apparently been slipping through) and trips overseas won't be possible till there's a vaccine.

Domestic travel is now allowed, though, and a trans-Tasman bubble is a strong possibility for the nearish future, meaning we can go to Australia, and vice versa - though that hardly counts as overseas. But the industry is struggling, and freebie trips for people like me will be way down on the list of priorities, even if publications had enough advertising to pay us for the subsequent stories. So, instead, we return to the theme of this post (see upper right) about how travel stays with you forever after, just waiting for a cue to prompt a memory.

The thing is, that would be all very well, if your (my) memory worked as it should/used to. Sprawled on the sofa watching TV the other night, I got a glimpse of a street with umbrellas hanging above it, and thought, "I've seen somewhere like that! Now where was it...?" Drilling down through the brain cells to locate it took so long that, by the time I'd triumphantly identified it as a street in the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires (which those of us brought up with Sesame Street would expect to be spelled rather differently), I'd entirely forgotten where the original umbrella shot was.

Worse, while lying there, another connection to Argentina occurred to me - but I can't now remember what that one was, either. So that pretty much destroys the whole premise, right? Sorry about that. 

Oh well. I've enjoyed remembering about the Sunday market there, in Plaza Dorego, which was classically colourful, busy and varied, and included satisfyingly local offerings like a man in gaucho gear selling terrifying bits, plus bridles, cruppers, martingales, drop nosebands and fancy browbands (see, I can remember all those terms from my distant horsy past). I was amused to see a man dwarfed by the huge bundle of feather dusters he was selling. There was art and food and music, and - oh, yes! I've just remembered! Jewellery, including pendants made of cut-out coins, including one from neighbouring Uruguay featuring a capybara, which I bought because I like capybara and got very close to one called Roderigo, up the Amazon in Peru. And I was wearing it the night I saw the umbrellas on TV. So there you go: happy ending.

Except, looking at my photos, I've just been reminded of the shoes I saw on one stall and wanted to buy, but they didn't have my size. So now I'm sad again. Damned memories.

Post Silver Explorer post

Aaand it's back to harsh reality today - up early for the last breakfast, we got back to the cabin suite to find Ivy and Ralte busy stripping the beds. Our suitcases, put out last night, were gone already (to be next encountered on the carousel at Buenos Aires' domestic airport). The bing-bong on the PA, that up till now has signalled an interesting - even exciting - message from Tim or the Captain, this morning gave us our literal marching orders, and our cards were swiped for the last time as we left the ship with no ceremony other than the expedition leaders lined up to shake our hands at the bottom of the gangplank. No trumpets, no banners, nothing.

It would have been slight consolation to have had the hour and a half that was mentioned at one point for a bit of a look around Ushuaia, bit in the end it was not much more than half an hour. Most of the shops were shut, not opening till 10am, but there was still plenty of interest: brightly-coloured houses, a wide range of architectural styles including half-timbered and Austrian, there were a couple of museums, the waterfront, a Hard Rock Café, various monuments including one to Eva Péron, and to the Malvinas dead. On our bus tour back before the cruise, I'd seen lots of declarations, official and not, about the Malvinas being Argentinian, but had no time to find any to photograph this morning.

And then we were into the tedium of travel: Ushuaia airport, waiting, being bussed out onto the LATAM charter flight and squeezing into a 777-300 with absolutely no leg-room, even for a shortie like me. It didn't help that the Swiss woman in front of me reclined her seat fully straight away, got crabby when I asked her to lift it when the breakfast service began, and then slammed it back the moment the food was cleared. Well. There was my entertainment for the flight sorted. I spent the next three hours randomly poking and pushing the back of her seat as I crossed and uncrossed my legs and genuinely tried to fit them into the tiny space. Of course she objected, increasingly angrily, but I merely smiled and pointed out that if she moved it forward just a bit, we could both be comfortable. She actually shouted and shook the back of my own seat at one point, before eventually and suddenly giving in, and relinquishing the full recline. Win! (Selfish, inconsiderate cow.) (Her, not me.) (Natch.)

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Silversea herded us into different coaches at BA domestic airport and ours headed off to the international airport, Ezeiza, a ring-road journey that the guide said would take 40 minutes "because tomorrow is a holiday". Turned out, because tomorrow was a holiday, everyone was on the road not giving way to anyone else, and the trip took two hours. But that was ok, because we had eight hours before our flight left just after midnight. Sadly, we were too early even to check in, so we parked ourselves at a café upstairs not far from a Malvinas memorial (that explained "The immediate cause [of the Malvinas Islands War] was the fight for sovereignty of these islands, taken by force in 1833 and dominated since then by the United Kingdom.") In contrast, there was also a Hard Rock Café with clothing once owned by Prince, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Elton John.

The airport is new and fancy, and we had ample chance to experience it because the VIP lounge would only allow us in as Priority Pass card holders after 11pm. So we sat and watched as the remaining few Silver Explorer passengers guests (and staff crew) dispersed in various directions, the Americans amongst them grimly anticipating delays and discomforts associated with a storm that was bringing sub-Antarctic temperatures and conditions to shocked eastern cities.

None of that for us. We eventually boarded NZ31, pleased to be in familiar surroundings again, and settled into this much roomier 777-200 for our 12-hour flight (again, a much shorter journey than for many others on the Silver Explorer, which was a nice novelty). We took off over the lights of the astonishingly huge city, flew uneventfully south-west, crossed the Date Line while sleeping and landed around 5.30am. We then took a horrendously, hideously expensive taxi to the city ($80, instead of the $38 out there), had a short wait for the ferry which we shared with umpteen eager cyclists aiming to "do a thousand metres" (total climb) on a 50km route, and got a cheerful taxi back to our house which, despite an exceptionally powerful storm hurtling through yesterday, was still standing unscathed. Always good.

Silver Explorer, Day 18 - Sorry

With thanks to Silversea for this hosted cruise

The Captain warned yesterday of a gale overnight, and no-one was quite sure if it was a joke or not, because that’s how he rolls – but in fact so did the waves during what was almost the dark (further south, the sun has been setting around 11pm and rising again before 3am, and the bit in between has never even approached what you might call dark).

This morning though it was calm again, and there ahead of us, too rapidly getting larger, was land: Tierra del Fuego, and the end of our voyage. Everyone is sad about it. It really has been so special, and though some people (mainly the ones who got soaked in the downpour in Stanley while I was in the museum knowing nothing about it) would have liked a bit more sunshine, general opinion has it that we did well, seeing Antarctica in all of its moods. Well, most, anyway. I can cope without experiencing a blizzard.

When we got back to our cabins suites after breakfast, there were our suitcases laid out on the bed – a pretty brutal sort of hint. We had already received disembarkation instructions last night. There was a little note from our butler Ivy offering to do the packing. That’s an interesting concept and almost tempting, but I’m passing it by. Too many decisions that only I can make, really. And thank goodness for my expansion zips, which were the reason I bought this particular suitcase ages ago, and which it’s been ever since a mark of honour not to use. Silversea gives you a puffa jacket as well as an outer parka, both of them very well made, but they’re something else to make room for. Along with the two blouses I didn’t wear, tch.

We took a break to listen to Anthony Smith’s talk about the art of bronze casting – something apparently random but which he managed to link to everywhere we’ve been – Ushuaia, the Falklands, South Georgia and even Antarctica have had bronze busts or statues that we’ve seen. The one in South Georgia was actually by Anthony himself: a bust in the museum, of Ernest Shackleton (of course). It was actually fascinating, to be shown the many stages in the process of creating a bronze, and Anthony is clearly multi-talented.

We’ve been impressed by the depth of knowledge of all of the lecturers, and have particularly enjoyed the talks by Anthony, Luke and Cory, who know their stuff inside out and communicate it intelligently and accessibly. And then it was Denis’s turn, to play the full-length version of the video he’s been compiling and without a doubt going cross-eyed and without sleep during the last couple of days to complete. Of course he has the big lenses, multiple camera bodies, and even a drone – but the talent and expertise help, too. It’s fabulous, and a wonderful reminder of the places we’ve been, the things we’ve done, what we’ve seen.

And so that was pretty much it: there was the Captain's jolly auction of that lovely map (it's gone to Chicago, for US$1300); then some drinks in the Panorama Lounge before dinner, with chairs at a premium as groups of new friends made the most of the last chance to be together; followed by dinner ditto; and then the ritual putting out of the packed and labelled suitcases before bed, and setting the alarm for the last breakfast, and the eviction at 9am as the crew work like crazy to make things ready for the lucky new consignment of passengers guests, who have all those good things ahead of them while we trudge through the tedious bits of flying back home again, our adventure over.

Silver Explorer, Day 2 - Pilots, petrels and pillows

With thanks to Silversea for this hosted cruise

It was a bit rough last night, and I lay awake for some hours hoping that my Scopoderm patch would do its thing. As a result, I awoke with a start at 9am and had to rush to get to the Zodiac familiarisation lecture at 9.30, thereby missing my breakfast. Harsh. Cruise Director Tim (from South Africa) gave us all the mandatory instruction and a lot more besides about the next two days' activities: lots of emphasis on boots, taking care of the environment, and the wildlife we will see.

There was a surprisingly long queue of people wanting to exchange the complimentary Puffas and parkas they'd ordered online, which had turned out to be the wrong size, and we had a bit of bother that way ourselves - but it was all sorted in the end and I must say they're really good quality and I reckon I'll be getting good use out of them. Then there was a very informative lecture about whales by a marine biologist, after which a small pod of pilot whales and some dolphins obligingly turned up beside the ship. Impressive organisation.

It was a lovely day today - sunny, the sea quite calm and really not that cold, considering. We spent it quietly cruising across an empty sea, the ship gently creaking and the whole experience deeply relaxing - especially for those unable to resist the offers of wine with lunch. Remarkably, the friendly Maitre d' claimed to recognise us from earlier cruises, which is also deeply impressive, if so - though he did undermine the claim somewhat by demonstrating his clever computer, which spies on everyone in the restaurant, so he knows who they are, what they look like, what suite they're in, what they ordered, what they're currently eating and drinking, and probably what their phone PINs are.

After a peaceful afternoon - don't ever think that a Day at Sea is boring, it's actually a real pleasure to be able to kick back and enjoy the ship for itself rather than as a base - we attended a photography lecture and then got a bit tarted up for the Captain's Welcome. This was in the Explorer Lounge, where most group stuff seems to happen, and comprised champagne, canapés and a short but amusingly deprecating speech by the highly-qualified captain, who looks suitably nautical, beard and all. And also hails from Gloucestershire. He did declare that this is the best cruise route ever - and though of course he would say that, wouldn't he? - he did seem sincere, as did the Hotel Director we sat with at dinner. He promised that Antarctica, whatever the weather, would be extraordinary. He also stated that Drake Passage has nothing on crossing the Tasman - something about waking up on the floor in the night with a television on his stomach - so let's hope he's right.

And so we ate fancy food in the elegant restaurant, and drank liberally-offered wine, and chatted, and watched the sun slowly set behind us in a tastefully-muted orange wash as various sorts of petrel swooped behind the ship and a competitor's cruise ship arranged itself artistically on the horizon. It was hard to keep remembering that this is an expedition ship. Especially back in the cabin suite, where, after a chat with our butler this afternoon about the pillow menu, we came back to, now, FOUR pillows on the bed.

Silver Explorer, Day 1 - Sailaway

With thanks to Silversea for this hosted cruise

It's not what you expect, that the day you join a cruise on a ship with the luxury Silversea line, you have to drag yourself out of bed at 4am. But, thanks to an impending general strike at midday today, everything was brought forward in order to ensure our getting to Ushuaia without hold-ups. It's a three and a half-hour flight, over the vast sprawl of Buenos Aires, flat farmland, lakes and then the sea to, eventually, Tierra del Fuego, which looked remarkably like Fiordland from the air. Mountains, Indian snow, green bush, rivers.

When we landed, though (at a pretty and modern airport with the fastest baggage carousel it's been my challenge to seize my suitcase off) everything looked much more like Anchorage: colourful, lots of corrugated iron, a bit ramshackle, a distinct feel of remoteness. The surrounding mountains are the end of the Andes, the Beagle Channel links the Pacific and Atlantic, the wind powers through, in winter there are only 6 hours of daylight, and in summer 12 degrees is as hot as it gets (it was a delightful 11 today). Still, it's bustling, and the population is 80,000 and growing. First it was prisoners, then beaver hunters, and now tax-free industry - all designed to make sure people were here so the land could be claimed by Argentina (Chile is within sight). There's also a Hard Rock Café here, by the way - the world's southernmost (that's a label they're unashamedly fond of using, understandably).

We took a drive in a bus, which didn't let us get out in the town; instead we had lunch at a hotel up on the hill, before some of us went on an escorted walk through the 'forest' - which to me looked just like our bush, mainly due to the dominant beech trees, though they're deciduous here and in new leaf. "Make the most of the green!" instructed the guide, rather ominously, referring to all the blue and white we have ahead of us. She also took care to point out to us the dandelions, buttercups and daisies in the grass. I guess when you're emerging from the sort of winter they have here, any splash of yellow is a delight.

And then we went to the ship, the Silver Explorer, its last guests evicted and brutally sent to take their chances with the strike, while we were welcomed on board by a line of smiling crew, especially our personal white-gloved butler Ivy, a Filipina (of course - all the best people in hospitality are). Our cabin suite is on Deck 7, near the bow (so, not the best position for rough seas) - it's an overflow room for the adjoining Owner's Suite, which according to the plan is huge and undoubtedly eye-wateringly expensive. But ours, while somewhat snugger, is still amply big, with a proper bath and shower, a veranda, and on the table a gorgeous gingerbread house decoration that I will never be able to bring myself to defile.

We did our own unpacking this time (I know!) and then had a bit of an explore on the way to cocktails - the ship is naturally much smaller than our other Silversea homes, but still classy and recognisably Silversea, and there will clearly be no stinting. The staff are all typically multinational, enthusiastic and welcoming, and the food is ruinously irresistible. We did the lifeboat drill and then relaxed into drinks and dinner, discovering that a surprising number of people have been this way before. I really expected it to be a one-off bucket-list thing for everyone, but not at all.

Our sailaway was delayed to give the wind time to drop, so it happened as we ate - sharing a table with Tone and Sasha from Holland - and the low sun and then long dusk over the Andes' last gasp along the Channel made for a dramatically pretty backdrop, especially the romantically (if slightly erroneously) named Lighthouse at the End of the World. (There's another further south on Cape Horn, apparently.)

Buenos Aires, somewhat blurred

Fair warning (and I know there's a more you know fancy name for that but I'm blowed if I can think of it): I've just consumed half of a big bottle of beer and - entirely on my own - a small bottle of Malbec and a very strong (though on good authority not as strong as possible) shot of limoncello. The backspacing will be (already is) epic. All thanks to Las Navarenas, about which more anon.

So. (As they everyone now begins a story these days) (Thanks, Graham Norton.) Today began with a most uncharacteristic eschewing of the pancakes with dulce con leche at the breakfast buffet here at the Park Tower Hotel in Buenos Aires (in favour of a most un-oaty Bircher muesli, and fruit. I know!) and continued with a taxi ride to the Sunday market at San Telmo. (Which isn't how it sounds it should be spelt, amiright?)

It was just lovely. I got there fairly soon after it was meant to be open, ten-ish, so it wasn't crowded, and I was able to poke and browse and mooch to my heart's content along the kilometre or so of stalls selling art, jewellery, clothes, shoes, an astonishing quantity of fur coats, toys, glassware, antiques, books, mate bowls and straws, named knicknackery, food, belts, bags, BA souvenirs, knitted goods, and pretty much anything else you could imagine, down to and including feather dusters and assorted saddlery - bolero, anybody? I ambled along the ankle-threatening cobbles, past some distinguished-but-today-just-background buildings and churches, having a lovely time just looking - and, for once (and yes! regular readers [ie Queen] prepare to be astonished) actually buying something. I know! It was a cut-out coin pendant - not, surprisingly, the 5c tuatara I unexpectedly found, but a capybara coin from Uruguay where I've never been (but it's just across the harbour from here, more or less, and I've been here twice now - plus I got sniffed by a capybara up the Amazon (so to speak) in Peru, and I've known forever that it's the biggest rodent in the world - so all that counts for something, eh).

I eventually got to the Plaza de Mayo where the Pink House stands (the President's office) and where Madonna gave the "Don't cry etc" speech that Evita actually gave elsewhere in the city, and where the faithful grandmothers of the disappeared children still circle the monument at 3.30pm every Thursday, keeping the faith. Then I headed, vaguely, back to the hotel, taking a number of detours, intended and not, and eventually got back there, somewhat fatigued but otherwise very happy with the morning, in time to join a city tour visiting all the places I went last time. Never mind. It was a Signature Tour, and was well done: our guide, Daniela, was especially good, helpful, informative and friendly. 

So we did all the usual stuff: the Pink House (again) with the Madonna/Evita balcony; blue and yellow La Boca; Evita's mausoleum at Ricoleta cemetery (only one of three like it in the world, according to Daniela - that's Paris and Italy, and not New Orleans) and lots of interesting stuff in between, like free university education and a recycled-aircraft shiny metal flower that closes at sunset. Amongst all of which: there's going to be a protest tomorrow, against the Government's proposed pension/tax cuts, which apparently will be something to be avoided. Buenos Aires, it seems, continues to be a bit edgy, politics-wise (it was kind of reassuring to hear that the Falklands War did good to Argentina, in leading to the removal of the junta military government. Seems a small price to pay for some pretty bleak scenery populated by stroppy Brits...). 

The day finished at Las Navarenas, a restaurant just across the road from the Park Tower Hotel (a pretty elegant edifice with quantities of glass and marble, our room being very spacious and comfortable but with an erratic supply of bedside bathmat and a complete absence of pillow chocolate). Of course, Argentina is all about the meat, and in the window of the restaurant was a campfire cooking suspended ribs and joints - so we girded our loins, and prepared to eat some. Well, a rib-eye steak, anyway, chosen as much for its only (only!) being 250g compared to the 400g of the other offerings. Of course turned it out to be immense, and the side dishes ditto (rendering the complimentary starter of empanada and meatballs, and then the accompanying chimichurro, entirely superfluous). Sadly, we were unable to confirm the presence of a large, fat dog in the kitchen taking care of the leftovers. There was, also sadly, no chance whatsoever of indulging in any sort of dulche de leche afterwards. Opportunity missed.

On traversing the lobby back at the hotel, we discovered, to our muted horror, that tomorrow morning has been brought forward in that our 5.30am departure will now be 4.45am  Odd. I was sure this was a Silversea expedition, and not Intrepid Basix? Sigh.

[And if you're disappointed not to see any photos here, well, get over yourself will you? You have NO IDEA how much effort it's taken just to supply coherent sentences. Photos will come. In time. Go and do something else while I sober up, download and upload (as well as sleep, and get transferred to Ushuaia, the southernmost town in the world). You're getting this all for free, remember?]

Dogs, dog-tags and dog-tired

No contest - Buenos Aires has better taxi drivers than Auckland. That's on today's showing, anyway: first there was the woman who picked us up from the house wearing a swimming costume under her clothes who said, "Put your bags in the front - I live on a yacht." Apparently that's not the non sequitur it appears, but don't ask me. I'm not a yachtie. Then she added, "Why have you got so much luggage?" which was a bit insulting since we only had a suitcase and a carry-one each, for 3 weeks [Potential burglars: the house-sitter is formidable, honest.] And on the city side, the Sikh who took us to the airport asked if he needed a visa to go to Waiheke Island. Er, no?

But here on this side of the Pacific (after 16 hours crammed into the unforgivingly cramped seats in Air NZ's B777-200 economy section - in the row right behind the spacious, squashy seats of Premium Economy, just to rub it in - which made for one of my twitchiest nights ever) the nice lady who picked us up and escorted us to the Silversea-selected hotel here in Buenos Aires (Park Tower, a Sheraton I believe - lots of airiness, art and marble) was full of welcomes and useful information.

I've been here before, but it's a bit vague now. I did instantly recognise (though who wouldn't?) Eva Peron's portrait on the tall building in the Avenue of 9 July, and I've got a vague idea I'm not that far from where I stayed before. The day was pretty much over by the time we stepped out of the hotel for a look though: so we just went across the road to see the memorial to those lost in the Falklands/Malvinas war - a surprisingly large number of them, and even more surprisingly, a large proportion of them unidentified, because of not wearing dog-tags. Speaking of dogs, there were many in the park being walked and fussed over, and also being aggressive: one of them bit the OH on the ankle. Perhaps it knew he was British.

So, that's the Travel Day over - always a bit demanding and tedious, and tiring of course. Tonight, it's a proper bed again, with a hotel breakfast to look forward to, and then some exploring to do. We might even knock into some of our fellow Silver Explorers, since they're all assembling here tomorrow. Watch this space...

Hot v cold

This excellent photo by @stevefrancees on my Instagram feed is exactly the reason why I'm done with hot places. I mean, look at it: it could be anywhere! My first thought was Tahiti, specifically the Manava Suites resort I stayed at way back in 2007 - or, possibly New Caledonia. Or Fiji, or Aitutaki in the Cooks - or, honestly and truly, pretty much anywhere around the world between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn: turquoise sea, coconut palms, thatched sun shelters, pool... It's actually Aruba, which I've had to Google (yes! I know! shocking admission for a so-called travel writer but the Caribbean is untrodden territory for me). (Apart from having sailed through there when I was three, that is.)

Anyway, the point is that, admittedly gorgeous as it is, you have to admit, it's all a bit samey, innit? And also, there's not much to do, other than lie in the sun trying to avoid getting burnt, or snorkelling, or maybe going for a kayak (or sailing in a dinghy helplessly towards the horizon and having to be ignominiously rescued by a bored resort worker - but that's another story). Relaxing, I suppose, but that's not what I need in a holiday. My everyday life is pretty relaxing. (Sorry.) And if I want turquoise sea, all I have to do is look up from this computer and out of the window. (Again, sorry.)

No, what really appeals to me these days is cold places. All you need is the right clothes, and then you can really get stuck into the dramatically different scenery, and wildlife, and culture and history. I did try to get to Iceland this year, but it didn't happen because I've lagged behind the trends, and everyone's going there, two million tourists a year, and the 300,000 residents have had enough. So they're not looking for any extra publicity, dammit (though that has at least relieved me of the difficulty of choosing between summer trekking on an Icelandic pony, or winter viewing of the Northern Lights). I wouldn't mind popping up to Churchill to see the polar bears, either, while they're still there, poor things. 

But neither of those things has been a possibility for me this year (let's not lose hope - it could still happen). What I have managed to set up though, after about three years of hints and nudges, and more direct requests this year, and lots of patience and quite a bit of luck, is a cruise to - tarah! - Antarctica. (Though the house-sitter is surprisingly unenvious. I dunno, something about Waiheke in summer.)

It's a cruise with (regular readers - ha! - will not be surprised to learn) my old mate Silversea. Not, fortunately as it turns out, Silver Cloud, which was strengthened this year and refitted for sailing through icy waters but, *cough* recently had to turn back from its maiden Antarctic voyage because of engine problems, but instead Silver Explorer, which is less fancy but more workmanlike. It still has butlers and such, of course - this is Silversea, what are you thinking? - and all the usual trimmings, so we'll hardly be slumming it, I know you'll be reassured to hear.

It's an 18-day cruise, from Ushuaia, southernmost city in South America, to the Falklands/Malvinas, South Georgia (for Christmas), Elephant Island and the Antarctic Peninsula, finishing with what I'm hoping will be an uneventful crossing over Drake Passage, one of the roughest stretches of water on the planet, back to Ushuaia and thence Buenos Aires.

So, I've written up Africa, I'm tidying away some NZ pieces, the weather here has recently and dramatically switched over into summer and I'm - honestly - on the verge of having my first swim in the sea; and I'm also thinking about layers and merino, and gloves and scarves. And penguins, lots of penguins. And, who knows, perhaps even, finally, endlich, an orca or two. Fingers crossed. Or, you know, watch this space.

(This is Mauritius, which came to mind because the sole American in our Africa tour group was heading there next - and HAD NEVER HEARD OF THE DODO!!! Can you believe that?)

Tahiti doesn't have to be expensive

Transit day again – but first, after a glorious sunrise, there was a visit to the Turtle Sanctuary that Le Méridien, to its credit, runs in the grounds. Today there were seven residents held in relatively small individual tubs, recovering from various indignities like a spear-fishing wound, loss of flipper, fishing hook injury, and plastic ingestion. Though some have parasites, most of the problems are caused by people. They’re all green turtles, juveniles, and are exercised every day in an offshoot of the lagoon where colourful reef fish seemed to be having a lot of fun in the stream of water coming out of the pump.

And then it was time to be hung with a shell necklace and swap places on the shuttle with the lucky guests who were just arriving, and buzz along the lagoon to the airport, to sit in the airy waiting room facing Otemanu and wait for the plane back to Tahiti, which seems now to be much less of a Pacific paradise.

We had seriously impressive views of Moorea as we approached Tahiti: the peaks are so steep and high, remnants of the volcanic crater, and lush with bush. And then we were back in Papeete’s busy, crowded, tarmacked mess where all the Pacific charms we’d first admired now seemed negligible. Even Le Méridien here, after the Bora Bora version, looked almost ordinary. Here, see for yourself:

However, lots of people in a place do have some advantages, and for dinner we went to the roulottes – food trucks – in the Place Vaiete, where tables were busy with families with little kids, teenagers, tourists and older people. You can eat everything from a suckling pig to a crèpe Suzette, by way of Chinese food, poisson cru, hamburgers or steak. It’s good. So was the bottle of cider, with its champagne cork, drunk out of traditional pottery cups.

Best of all tonight, though, was the dance event going on just beside where the roulottes were gathered. Masses of teenagers and young kids were eagerly participating in a series of hip hop/breakdance-type challenges, and they were really good: assured, skilful and confident. Some of their moves were just amazing – spinning, balancing, somersaulting, plus all the usual twitching and swaying. The group final was something you’d pay to see, the two crews so keen to out-do each other that their moves just got more and more outrageous and so – good-naturedly – in-your-face that it felt vaguely Montague-Capuletish, with the compère shouting “Ça suffit! Arrêtez-vous!”

Place Vaiete on a Saturday night: warm, dark, crowded but relaxed, colourful, fun, tasty and interesting. Recommended.

Fly, my pretty!

The premise of this blog, that every day brings reminders of and connections to your travel, does mean that there have been a lot of references to world events that are less than cheerful. Terrorist attacks, floods, cyclones, earthquakes, pollution, eruptions... they've all featured here, and will doubtless continue to pop up at fairly depressing intervals. But today we'll take a break.
Today, I saw the first of the seven monarch chrysalises that I've been overseeing hatch into a beautiful butterfly, and I was as delighted and proud as if I'd birthed it myself. Her, in fact - the spots on the wings are the giveaway. It's been a long process, watching them first as hungry caterpillars, munching relentlessly through my swan plants, getting bigger and bigger. Fearful of wasp attacks like those that nixed them all last year, I brought them inside, to be astonished at the volume of poop - frass! - that they produce. Then, suddenly and always while I was looking elsewhere, they became pupae, in elegant green and gold. Long wait, then a colour change, and today, finally, I saw one that had emerged and uncrumpled its - her - wings, getting ready to fly. Magic, and a miracle, and a marvel, truly.

And of course, it reminded me of somewhere I've been: Iguassu Falls in Argentina/Brazil/Paraguay, where the magnificent, astonishing, overwhelming size and volume of the waterfalls were offset by the small, delicate and dainty beauty of the yellow butterflies that flocked to drink from a muddy puddle beside the path.