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?]

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.

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...

Los animales de Buenos Aires

So, the usual sort of busy day that a city tour involves: cathedral, monuments, government buildings, outdoor artworks, parks and gardens. All necessary to get the feel of a place, establish its history and position in the modern world. But as always, it's the people who do furnish a city, give it a personality (literally) and allow you to connect.

We were all very taken by the dog-walkers we saw everywhere this morning, with handfuls of leads attached to a variety of canines, trotting purposefully along pavements and through parks. This young man had 25 that he was escorting - the pooper scooping that that must involve doesn't bear thinking about - and at around 250 pesos per dog per month, was easily bringing in a healthy average wage in just a couple of hours' work per day.

We were also fascinated by an actual necropolis, the cemetery where Eva Peron is buried, like everyone else in the basement of a tomb lining the narrow lanes of this peaceful and attractive place peopled by stone angels and stray cats. There were more cats at La Boca, the suburb that appears in every collection of photos of Buenos Aires - poor housing of corrugated iron and wood painted in bright reds, greens, yellows, originally using left-over cans of paint from the shipyards. It's a no-go area at night, because it's still lived in by poor people who can be a bit desperate, but during the day it's full of tourists and tango-dancers and artists, and the mood is cheerful: like the young man in the blue and gold of a Boca Juniors football supporter walking along singing about love in English. "I don't sing well, but I'm a happy boy."

Las Malvinas, nunca!

Two weeks ago tonight, I was part of the audience in a super-slick and highly professional evening of dinner and a dancing display in Buenos Aires, where I used my camera's (more probably my own) inadequacies to produce what I insist on calling arty images. I shouldn't have been there at all: I was meant that night to be at a different dinner in another hotel in another city in another country altogether. It was the annual Cathay Pacific Travel Media Awards run by Travcom, or NZ Travel Communicators, the professional association of which, until yesterday, I've been President for the last two years. It's a big event for a small group to organise, and with sponsors under financial pressure it was a real challenge to pull it all together.

But we did it, and I should have been there, not only to schmooze and suck up, but also to (ahem) collect a few certificates myself: runner-up for this newspaper story about Jaipur in India, winner for this one about Waterford in Ireland and, almost ta-rah, runner-up overall. Having won once, I can tell you that that works better - but it was good to have the Baby go up in my place while I was on another continent being wowed by smouldering looks, testicle-threatening high kicks and more Brylcreem than I've seen since last century. The show was wholly catering for tourists, but it was very well done too, and I enjoyed it.

Of course, it's the 30th anniversary of the start of the Falklands War today (throughout which it was studiously referred to in the British parliament and media as the 'Falklands conflict') and there were petrol bombs and water-cannon in Buenos Aires: not just smouldering there today, but actual fire. A burning Prince William, indeed! Harsh.

That was never 11 days we had just then

Why yes, that was rather a long gap between posts. Mainly it was because of marketing: selling stories linked to events and dates, and though the ones I've been fully occupied writing about are marking the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic a whole month from now, and Anzac Day even further away on April 25, there's been a bit of a rush to do it because I've got some travelling coming up. On Sunday I'm being whisked off to Buenos Aires on LAN's lovely business class, and thence to Iguazu Falls, Lima (again) and then, most excitingly, Easter Island. I once reviewed a book that was set there - rather unimaginatively titled 'Easter Island' - by Jennifer Vanderbes, who had clearly done a great deal of research into ancient angiosperms that she didn't want to waste, so by the end of the book I was quite the expert (temporarily) on fossilised pollen. Never heard the term 'palynology' before? Now you have.

Then after I've been home for less than a fortnight, I'm away again, for an incredible 6 weeks this time, to Europe: partly private but mostly work, and it's going to be very busy. Fun and interesting, but busy, and tiring. It doesn't help that there are three very old animals in this house, who miss me when I'm gone, and who so far have always been here when I've got back from a trip but, one day...

So anyway, the Titanic. I keep bumping into it, so to speak - of course, in Ireland last year, when we went to Cobh which was the ship's last port of call before setting off across the Atlantic, and where there was a really good exhibition in the old railway station there. Then there was an astonishingly, not to say anally, comprehensive travelling exhibition that I came across while I was in Copenhagen, that absorbed me for the best part of two hours while rampaging Hamburg football fans laid waste to the city outside (well, almost). We'll be going to a new one at Greenwich Maritime Museum while we're in London; there are, I discovered, others in Southampton, Liverpool and Cherbourg, all Titanic sister cities that I've been to; and several in Halifax, Nova Scotia where I haven't been, but have been increasingly hankering to go to over the last few years. Lots of the recovered bodies were buried there, including one J. Dawson, who was actually James, a boiler-room hand, but that doesn't stop a steady stream of fans of Leonardo DiCaprio's Jack going there to leave red roses on the gravestone:

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.)

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.

Salud!

Eleven hours to Santiago, three hours on the ground there, then another 90 minutes to Buenos Aires... I'm just glad I'm not the guy in our group from Perth, who started his journey on Saturday morning. I had my nose to the window for crossing the Andes, but after that it was flat green pampas all the way, till we got to the huge sprawl of this city of 14 million, at around 5.30pm.

We whizzed in along a fancy highway, through what they would call in Australia a linear park where masses of family groups were happily picknicking and flying kites right beside the busy road - how peculiarly English of them. There was just time for a quick shower before we were out again, walking a few blocks to the Sunday flea market around this lovely church. It was the usual crafts and snacks, but with a laid-back feel to it, helped by a live band and lots of locals just chilling out on the grass in the warm evening air.

Then three of us lost our guide and the fourth member, and ended up by ourselves in a busy and cheerful downstairs restaurant where we had local beer and empanadas, and I discovered that locra is not for me. I do hope these aren't ill omens.

New Orleans - the good and the horrendous

Ian Martin put it (naturally) so well: "Jazz is just what capitalism plays when it's trying to be sophisticated. Ignore it. [But] how can you 'ignore' jazz? It's like someone else's sugar-coked toddler in the corner, showing off, shitting herself, dribbling everywhere, noisily demanding everyone's attention and approval. Hey, I am jazz! I have come to fill your holiday space with my wabbeda wabbeda tish tish ga-blap bap tiddly piddly drivelly meaningless squeaky shrieky pish pish drr-bap bollocks."

I've never been a jazz fan. Loathe the saxophone with a passion. Not keen on most brass instruments. Like music to have a discernable tune. So I was a bit apprehensive about coming to New Orleans. With good reason, it turned out: jazz is everywhere, from people organising their own private mini parades along the middle of the street complete with cop on motorbike and uniformed brass band, to live performances in every bar in town and all around the streets, night and day, to the musak in every lift. For people like me, it's a real burden - so it's just as well that the city has so much else to enjoy.

For a start, there's the pretty, pretty French/Greek/Victorian/Italian/Spanish/Georgian-flavoured architecture, with so much colour and decoration, whether grand or modest. One good way to enjoy it is to take an open-top bus tour of the city (of any city, actually: such an effective and effortless way to get a - literal - overview of a place). The Ho-Ho one in New Orleans includes free walking tours, so I followed Jamie on a 45-minute stroll around the treacherously broken pavements of the Garden District. 

John Goodman lives here, and Nick Cage and Sandra Bullock have houses that we saw too, but most of the interest is in the lovely Historic Register mansions in their neat gardens, and the random facts dropped into the commentary - Nola has 80 official parades a year and in the two busiest weeks of the Mardi Gras season there are twelve a day. No wonder there are shiny beads hanging from so many trees.

Another tour was a self-guided one of the Lafayette Cemetery #1, which reminded me of both Buenos Aires and Paris with its walled city of tombs overhung by trees (no below-ground burial with a water-table this high). Here I was seized upon by a prowling reflexologist, who had my sandal off in seconds to knead my clammy foot as he listed all the connected organs. Unexpected, but not unpleasant, and he was easily shaken off. [Only years later it has occurred to me that perhaps it was not my pleasure he was focused on *cough*]

I wandered the French Quarter tour by myself, and it was just delightful. That's the beauty of a grid system, of course, especially with an unchallenging 11 blocks to the mile; plus, totally flat. Let's not overlook the temperature, however, hovering around 33 degrees; or the humidity, in the upper 80s. There was sweat involved, certainly. But it was easy to explore, and there was lots to discover.

Like the Napoleon House, for instance: reputedly built as a refuge for the Emperor, whose small foot, sadly, never crossed its threshold. He's nevertheless a presence inside, however, his bust perched above the bar (of course it's a bar now) and portraits hung all over the walls (including a print of David's famous Crossing the Alps painting, an original of which *cough* I saw recently at Chateau Malmaison in Normandy).

Other Nola must-dos I knocked off included the French market and Café du Monde, where tired-looking waitresses hauled trays of café au lait and beignets to the crowded tables for fat tourists to scoff down to the last wet fingerful of scooped-up icing sugar (which lay in white drifts under the tables). 

At the Presbytère museum in Jackson Square I was fascinated and impressed by the Katrina exhibition, which pulled no punches - actually, it clearly expressed the city's resentment at FEMA's totally inadequate response to the disaster - and was very well presented, including lots of personal testimony and video.

And I ventured out at night to explore the live music at the bars in Frenchman's Street, hoping for variety but, on this night at least, finding just jazz, jazz and more jazz. Damn that Adolphe Sax!

2012, wrapped up

The most remarkable thing about this year is that I didn't go to Australia. (I'm still feeling that I've used Oz up - although I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Anyone listening? Kimberley cruise, Kakadu, Maria Island, WA for the wildflower season...?) 

I did pass through, though, a number of times, on my way to more distant destinations; but my first travels this year were domestic, first to old favourite Waiheke Island, just across the harbour but in another zone entirely, ambience-wise. Beautiful, relaxing and laid-back, it never fails to please - even when the weather disappoints.

The weather gave us the runaround for the next trip, too: doing the Crater Lake walk on Ruapehu with the daughters - but after driving down there through thunder, lightning and torrential rain, the day of our ascent to and traverse along that precipitous crater rim was one of glorious sunshine that showed off the turquoise of the lake to great effect, while the cloud that came to swirl around beneath us made us feel like gods, on top of the world in both senses.

My Pavlovian addiction to checking my emails dozens of times a day was reinforced by an invitation popping up there in February to go on a LAN tour of South America. It was a wonderful circuit in a small but jolly group through Santiago to Buenos Aires, to the literally over-the-top spectacle of Iguassu Falls, to Lima where the food was a revelation, and then to Easter Island, which was very special and totally worth foregoing the Travcom/Cathay Pacific Media Awards (in which I was only Runner-Up, so, pft).

In April I began my longest trip yet, flying Etihad to Abu Dhabi, where the Grand Mosque was astonishing, though I could really have done without the sweaty nylon robe I had to wear. Next stop was France, for a glorious, fabulous cruise up the Rhone from Arles to Lyon and finishing at Chalon-sur-Saone. I do so love a river cruise, and Uniworld's River Royale was just perfect, with the best staff ever.


Then it was England for a wedding and old friends, and another cruise that didn't go so well, when I managed to dislocate my shoulder leaping off a boat in the Norfolk Broads. Ouch. But I soldiered on, fortunately joining an Insight coach tour of Eastern Europe for the next 3 weeks where I was very well looked after. It was all about history, war and architecture, subjects which would have bored me rigid in my youth, but which now I find deeply interesting. It helped too that on the way to starting the tour in Budapest, we'd called in at Zagan in Poland to visit the site of Stalag Luft III where my father had been a prisoner, which was a moving experience as well as being fascinating.




Home again after 5 weeks away, I was anchored to the sofa for the next three months, writing, writing, writing with a cat at each side and a dog at my feet. I popped down to Christchurch for a look at my sadly shaken hometown, and was both horrified and inspired by what I saw - the vast empty spaces, blowing with dust, and the cracks in everything; but also the optimistic spirit of the people I met, and their bright plans for the future.

September saw the start of another flurry of travel, beginning with flying with Emirates to Dubai again, where I went up to the 124th floor of the Burj Khalifa, and on to Portugal for a scant 5 days mostly in the province of Alentejo where I loved the fortified hilltop villages, the gnarled olive trees, the sheep with bells on and the friendly people; but hated the food-focused itinerary and unprofessional behaviour of one of the small party.




Back home for one night, I was away again next day for a week of glorious relaxation in the Cook Islands, purely a holiday of lying about, sleeping in the sun (not recommended: the sunburn was epic and I still bear the unsightly tan-marks) and doing very little of anything. Stand-out was the day spent cruising on and wallowing in the WMBL (world's most beautiful lagoon) at Aitutaki - just perfect, in every way.

Then, four days later, I was off to North Viet Nam in another group which was lots of fun. We had a brilliant guide, Duke, who took us from Hanoi up into Ha Giang province for a homestay, a day's trekking through the paddy fields and villages, and a long drive into the Dong Van Karst Geopark, which was just brilliant: spectacular peaks, cute kids, colourful villages and a mind-blowing road. The traffic throughout was fascinating - even in Ha Long Bay out on the water amongst those absurdly picturesque islands.



After a fun day out on the train down to Matamata for a look at the obsessive detail of Hobbiton, the year finished back on the sofa with, sadly, just the one cat now at my side. I've had 49 stories accepted for publication, about half of those in the NZ Herald, as well as writing around 30 blog entries for Air France and others for the Yahoo! website. I've been to lunches and dinners and a cooking class, learned how to take the top off a champagne bottle with a sabre, had massages, ridden a camel and a Segway, eaten insects as well as fabulous meals, and been given a huge and beautiful bouquet for my services to Australian tourism, having had over 100 stories published about that immense country. Ironic, or what?

It's been a good year and I've been to some amazing places, met lots of lovely people and written masses of stories (if you're interested in reading some of them, click on the links over there to the right). It's been busy, and tiring sometimes, but I've loved it and am looking forward to more of the, er, different: Alaska, maybe? Africa? Who knows - can't wait to find out. Watch this space!