Tales of a Brit Abroad

And so I'm back

2013-05-15T15:13:00.000+02:00

I've been pretty quiet for a while, haven't I? Well, not in real life obviously – that would be practically impossible. But since moving from Spain to the UK in 2010, my blogging efforts were mostly concentrated on Girl Eats Oxford, my waistline-expanding and wallet-emptying attempt to review as many restaurants in England's fairest university city as possible. And while the eating part was enjoyable, I realised that I don't actually enjoy writing about food. Demolishing it, yes, as any family member of mine would attest. But putting fingers to keyboard in order to share my findings with (a small percentage of) the world turned out to be much more of a challenge. And there only so many synonyms for 'tasty'. There's 'delicious' and errr... So, food blogging was fun, but without any technical knowledge of cookery to back my thoughts up, it became a bit tricky.

I much prefer writing about travel and life abroad. But when you're living in your home country and working full time, this is easier said than done.

As of mid-March, I'm back in Madrid. Not so that I can blog about it: emigrating to keep up an on-off hobby would be a bit extreme, and as you may have noticed I'm not quite that dedicated. I came back for a work opportunity that's keeping me nice and busy, but now that I'm back where Tales of a Brit Abroad began, I thought I might start posting again.

This time around, I think there will be fewer travel posts and more of a focus on life in Spain. I know plenty of bloggers are doing 'the expat thing' and doing it well, but adding my dos céntimos into the mix can't hurt. I'm not going to get all 'this is what I did today' on you, I don't flatter myself that anyone (my mother included) is that interested in the minutiae of 24 hours in the life of an ELT editor. But I do want to introduce whoever is reading to a couple of details of my daily life, starting with mi barrio*.

Last time I lived in Madrid, I resided in Canal, a smart area of upper-crust Chamberi in north-west Madrid. Well connected and well heeled, it was a pleasant place to live. I can't really say I spent a lot of time there, though: whenever we wanted to dine out or see something new, my flatmate and I headed for one of the city's more central areas. I didn't have a favourite bar round the corner where I'd pop in for breakfast, or a corner shop where they recognised me (although this was clearly more due to the nature of the staff of not-so-aptly-named 'Friends' than any failing on my part as a customer). Despite that, I still wanted to live in north-west Madrid this time round. But I decided to expand my search up to Cuatro Caminos, an area one estate agent charmingly referred to as 'estropeado'*. I hoped to end up with a little flat within walking distance of work, without the granny-style dark wooden mueble* so characteristic of Spanish rental flats. I didn't expect to end up in the Caribbean.

This is a beautiful view. It isn't my view.

I now live in Bellas Vistas, the area of Tetuán which starts just north of Cuatro Caminos and stretches up towards Francos Rodriguez and west towards the university. Or as El Pais would have it, I live in el pequeño Caribe. That's the Little Caribbean, folks. So called because it's the area of Madrid with the largest Dominican population (5,172 apparently) rather than because of its sandy beaches. Despite the allusion to 'beautiful views' in its name, there's nothing particularly scenic about my barrio. It's a low-rise network of streets filled with flats and – unusually for modern Madrid – houses, plus shops and a scattering of bars and restaurants. Many of these are Dominican-owned, and serve up traditional Caribbean cuisine, which smells mighty tempting as I pass by on my way home from work. It's a real barrio, with local shops and services as well as chains. Friends gossip on street corners, neighbours greet each other in the street. Caribbean element aside, it could be anywhere in Spain. And that's part of what I love about it. I like cities on my own terms: there to be enjoyed, dipped in and out of when you feel the need to be surrounded by culture, shops and crowds. But my little area is removed from the whirl of Madrid's city centre. It's a buzzing, lively little community of its own, and one I hope to be a part of. I've already got used to buying my fruit and veg in local shops; to hearing the strains of bachata from passing cars and the piropos* the Dominican gents call out to me as they chat outside barber shops. I am a little concerned my eyes may be the death of one of these lovely fellas (more on this later), but that's my only concern. If this is as close as I'm going to get to the Caribbean, it's good enough for me.

*My neighbourhood
* Literally, 'broken'
* 'Mueble' is a generic noun for 'furniture', but in this case refers to what my Nanna would have called 'a unit'. One of those giant wooden (and glass, in some cases) constructions that takes up most of a wall, features an assortment of shelves, cupboards and drawers, has space for a TV and a selection of ornaments.
*Compliments

Trials and Tribulations in Edinburgh: An Expat in Reverse

2012-08-29T21:56:00.001+02:00

I've been back in the UK for two years now, so sometimes I can barely remember what it feels like to be an expat. With this in mind, I wondered what it feels like to be the expat in my home country? As a sort of 'expat in reverse', if you will. Andy Hayes obligingly enlightens us with his experience of living in Edinburgh

"I hadn’t heard of the term “expat in reverse” until a conversation with Kate, but life in reverse certainly explains the disorientation I felt on landing in Edinburgh, Scotland.

I was born in the US, but arrived in Edinburgh via several years in Amsterdam. I loved the Dutch lifestyle and laissez-faire café culture, but due to the European banking crisis, my job moved to Scotland, and thus I moved with it.

When I was offered the opportunity to move to the Scottish capital, the idea of being back in an English-speaking country again certainly piqued my interest. Ironically, language ended up being one of the biggest divides I found in integrating with the local culture. British English was the language spoke at my old job and many of my friends in Holland were not Dutch, but other European nationals, so even today, a couple of years on, I still find it hard to write “neighbor” without the u, nor can I explain the Americanised version of “aluminium.”

Along with a handful of boxes, I took a heavily Dutch influenced American-Brit English accent with me. I found most Scots quick to dismiss me as an American tourist (London expats being even worse), and even the people I worked with immediately assumed that because of my accent, my working style would be “American.”

All the accents tomfoolery aside, the UK was a total change. Am I weird in that the first thing I think about culturally is how the pharmacies and drugstores are organised? For example, in America the drug stores also sell the unhealthiest food. In Europe, the pharmacy part is often a separate shop. In Britain, the pharmacies are all about the beauty and cosmetic products. I can’t help but draw cultural comparisons.

In some ways, I found the UK to be somewhat of one step closer towards moving back to America. There are the shopping malls and department stores, streets full of working folk and bustling shopping bags. The working culture seems slightly more aggressive, as well as entrepreneurial. An obsession with unhealthy eating is also pervasive.

I don’t want to sound like a hater, because I’m not – Scotland is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

I’ve never lived anywhere else on earth where an extinct volcano had a towering medieval castle on top. Where you could hike up massive crags – and where the cobblestone city streets were just as steep.

And taking trips up to the Highlands is equally impressive. Did you know there are still single track roads on the British mainland? That there are miles of road where you’ll see nary a soul, nor will you be able to Tweet or Facebook about it because your phone won’t work?

It was interesting to see that Meetup.com was so popular during my days in Edinburgh. I joined a local walking group, one of several different groups just for hiking, and that was one of the best ways I found to meet other folks. The group I joined was a mix of locals and foreigners, but my choice was more on finding the types of walks I wanted to enjoy, and hoping for similar-minded folk in tow. If you find yourself in a similar predicament, I highly recommend checking out Meetup or whatever’s in your locale.

The highlight of my time in Scotland is without a doubt the Edinburgh Fringe. They say that Edinburgh becomes the UK’s biggest city for the month of August, and I believe it – it seems every street corner or empty lot turns into a theatre/café/open-air bar/restaurant (or combination thereof). I would spend hours each month watching an array of performances, from comedy to musical. The fringe is so much fun, it alone was almost worth the price of moving to the UK.

Looking back, I’m not sure if I ever really found my groove in Scotland. I’m thankful for my time there – I ended up leaving my job and started my own company, which I still have to this day. The Edinburgh Fringe really launched my career in tourism. I made many friends and had many experiences, in Edinburgh and beyond, that I’ll never forget.

But for some reason, things never really came together. And I’m totally ok with that. No regrets, just one step on the path I was meant to be on.

Photos all courtesy of the author.

About the Author: Andy Hayes is author of the iPhone app Edinburgh Secrets. He still runs a blog about Edinburgh, though he spends most of his time now in Portland, Oregon

Having it large: Eating in Indianapolis

2012-08-12T19:16:00.003+02:00

Fish and chips, Sunday roast with all the trimmings, a full English breakfast, a cream tea: traditional English food doesn't exactly warrant the label 'light'. So why is it that whenever you mention dining in America, your average Brit's eyes widen in alarm and they mutter something about the huge portion sizes? Unless they've been to calorie-conscious California, they'll also probably allude to either the grease factor or the sugary sweetness of the cooking on offer. Although 'typical' British grub may not be lean cuisine, healthy eating campaigns have made us all much more aware of what we consume and its origins, while the UK's ethnic diveristy has helped to broaden our palate and open our minds to different tastes.

Indianapolis

When I boarded the plane for Indianapolis, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect when it came to my first post-flight meal. Would I be faced with a lard-fest of epic proportions? Or sugar-coated goodies guaranteed to send the tooth fairy fluttering my way? As a pescetarian heading to a meat-loving country, I was a little daunted. I was going to be staying with an English expat family, but given that testing out the local cuisine is one of my favourite things to do while on holiday, I hoped there would be enough for me to enjoy over a ten-day stay.

Turns out I needn't have worried. Indy might be in the heart of corn country, but it turns out Midwestern cuisine is heavily influenced by central and northern European cooking. Just as in the UK, meat plus carb-of-choice (veg optional) dishes are standard fare, but thankfully for my pescetarian palate, there's far more on Indy's menu than home-style cooking. From seafood to stonebaked pizza to tapas to hearty American breakfasts, I tried it all in the name of research.

Le Peep

Its tagline claims that it serves 'the best breakfast food in the world'. A bold statement maybe, but there's no denying that Le Peep is an Indy institution, as the weekend queues stretching into the street at its downtown branch attest. With 6 locations in and around the city, you're never too far from Le Peep's perfectly prepared dishes to start your day. Open until 2pm, they focus primarily on that so-called most important meal of the day. Even those who claim not to 'do breakfast' would find something to tempt them here, as the menu offers everything from the light (granola) to the indulgent (pancakes or French toast). Egg dishes feature strongly: there's a wide choice of omelettes (egg-white and normal), plus 'pampered egg' dishes (scrambled eggs combined with a variety of ingredients as opposed to spoiled hard-boileds) and Le Peep's panhandled skillet dishes, which consist of their peasant potatoes mixed with various combinations of meat, cheese and veggies, topped with two basted eggs.

Egg white omelettes are healthy, right?

On my first visit, I opted for the Blizzard: an egg-white omelette with Monterey jack and cheddar cheeses plus mixed vegetables topped with baked cheese, tomato and chives. Throw in Le Peep's peasant potatoes and a round of toast, and watch a dieter's dream turn into a hearty meal: light wasn't quite the word for this egg-white number. Delicious and filling were more accurate descriptions, and on visit number 2 I chose another vegetarian variation on Le Peep's egg-white omelettes, this time with avocado and sun-dried tomatoes. Visit number 3 (their 'best breakfast' claim was looking more accurate than bold at this point) saw me polish off two blueberry pancakes, which were huge yet so good they managed to be moreish.

Bazbeaux

A sophisticated pizza parlour with multiple branches around the city, Bazbeaux is another must-visit in Indy. We opted for a take-away, and between 4 of us demolished two large thin-crust pizzas, a Garden (with the Bazbeaux mix of provolone, mozzarella and pecorino plus artichoke hearts, spinach, green pepper, red onion, olives and ricotta) and a Greek (with spinach, red onion, olives and feta). With a lengthy menu of both meat and vegetarian choices and the option to create your own recipe from an extensive list of ingredients, Bazbeaux has something for all tastes.

Rick's Cafe Boatyard

Sitting on the deck of Rick's, savouring a glass of wine as the sun sets over the beautiful Eagle Creek: it doesn't get much better than this. Throw in some delicious seafood dishes and good service, and you can understand why I had to return. Rick's was a touch pricier than many Indy restaurants I visited, with most mains on the dinner menu priced $20 or more, but like elsewhere the portions were huge, and the quality of the cooking and presentation definitely warranted the extra outlay.

Hungry?

On our first visit, I tried the Rainforest Tilapia & Shrimp, a white fish in lemon and parmesan bread crumbs and lightly pan-fried. It was served with a few tempura shrimp, plus sun-dried tomato rice and vegetables with a mango and jalapeno glaze. Despite the portion being almost double what I'd expect at home, I devoured the lot. Next time, I tried the Cedar Planked Whitefish (the name deriving from the plank of wood the dish is served on), another light-yet-huge number, this time with a pistachio crust and tomato butter and accompanied by creamy mashed potato and vegetables. The desserts were also delicious, although the presentation of our 'death by chocolate' gave us a bit of a surprise. A declaration of love through dessert is certainly different, but I must confess we were more taken with the pudding itself.

Apparently the chef had a crush on the waitress... not us.

If you don't fancy an extravagant dinner, Rick's also serves pizzas all day and sandwiches at lunch time. Despite the high-end dishes on offer (steak also features heavily on the menu), the atmosphere is fairly casual, with waitresses sporting T-shirts declaring 'Cougar in Training' and waiters advertising themselves as 'Cougar Bait'. Odd given the classy setting, but it's easy to overlook given the friendliness of the staff. If you're in the mood for a drink, there's also an outdoor bar area serving cocktails in addition to beer and wine.

Creation Cafe

Despite its downtown location, the setting of Creation Cafe still managed to be scenic. Perched above Indy's tree-lined canal with a vista of the city's few skyscrapers in the distance, this vegetarian haven's terrace is perfect for lunch on a summer's day. Its menu is packed with options both meat-eaters and veggies will love; from creative sandwiches on a variety of breads to hearty salads to burgers. Vicki opted for a sandwich and salad combo, while I went for a black bean burger. Amazing value for $9.50, it was no real surprise to be faced with a massive portion. No complaints from me: the avocado and cheese topped burger was delicious.

It was at Creation Cafe that I finally grasped the concept of free refills. Until my visit there, I hadn't really understood the look of puzzlement that crossed a waitress's face every time I declined another drink. Fair enough: why would I turn down something that I had effectively paid for? Once I'd worked this out, it's fair to say my liquid consumption went up. It's just a shame the refill concept doesn't extend to glasses of wine...

These are just four of the best places I dined at during ten days in Indy. I was pleasantly surprised to find that there was a real variety of different cuisines on offer, all at reasonable prices. Although I embraced the availability of free refills, I never really got used to the idea of taking food home with you: I'd see plenty of people leave restaurants with 'to go' boxes, and even used one myself when a waitress insisted, so overfaced were we by the lard-fest in front of us (this particular restaurant didn't make it into my top ten!). The food ultimately ended up in the bin, however. Fried fish was not going to reheat well. Personally, I'd rather have a smaller portion that didn't take a gargantuan effort to finish, so that I wasn't faced with a choice between stuffing myself to the point where an elasticated waistband becomes a dining essential, or taking half my dinner home with me. Portion concerns aside though, I enjoyed my experience of dining in Indy. Even if I did have to wear elasticated waistbands for the following week.

Indianapolis: Cars, cream pie... and culture

2012-06-23T21:16:00.002+02:00

'Where are you going on holiday this summer then?'
'Indianapolis'.
'Oh, right'. [pause] 'Why?'

For the past few months, every time anyone has asked me that question beloved of hairdressers, I've watched their facial expressions change to confusion at my reply and fielded numerous enquiries as to why I'd chosen the Hoosier heartland over... well, anywhere else, really. When Brits go to the USA on holiday, they opt for a long weekend of cocktails and culture in the Big Apple, a fly-drive to Florida or maybe even a multi-stop trip to California's hotspots. But ten days in the midwest? Apparently that's not a particularly common (or even comprehensible) vacation.

Why had I chosen to visit Indianapolis over America's other attractions, or even a European destination? Simple: to see my friend Vicki, who relocated there earlier this year. In addition to visiting her, it seemed like a great opportunity to get to know a city I probably would never have been to otherwise. After all, Indianapolis's pin isn't very prominent on the world tourist map. But as I discovered, it's all the better for it.

The event that puts Indy on the world map

As a city with a population of 830,000, Indy isn't exactly off the beaten track, but nor is it a bustling metropolis playing host to hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Well, with the exception of the final week in May, when the city prepares for the main event in its calendar: the Indy 500. Entirely by accident, I'd managed to book a flight arriving the evening before the big race. Keen to capitalize on my lucky booking, we bought tickets for the race. In the week leading up to 'the greatest spectacle in racing', Indy puts on a festival with a range of racing-related events, including vintage car laps and a street parade. Unfortunately I missed out on these activities, but the atmosphere on race day itself made up for it. As the biggest one-day spectator sport event in the world, the Indianapolis 500 Mile Race (to use its official title) draws vistors from all over the globe, including two unsuspecting girls from the north west of England. Put simply, it was overwhelming: foot and four-wheel traffic swarmed towards the Speedway, loaded down with refreshments to last through a long day in the blazing sun.

Ask a Brit for their impression of America, and the word 'big' will crop up somewhere: big country, big roads, big portions. The scale of the Indy 500 definitely fell into this category. In the build-up to the race, more than a degree of patriotism was on show, with renditions of 'America the Beautiful' and the national anthem accompanied by much heart-clutching and hat removing. It certainly wasn't something you'd see in Britain, but the level of evident national pride was quite humbling. When the race finally began, we sat back and watched the 33 cars tear around the track for 3 hours. As clueless individuals whose knowledge came from a quick run-down from Vicki's long-time Indy resident cousin and a few facts gleaned from the official programme, we found our interest came and went in waves: lead changes and crashes sparked it, but our picnic diverted it. The final few laps were undeniably gripping though, with a crash and a last-minute lead change signalling victory for Scottish driver Dario Franchitti. For a full account of the race, read my article on The Travel Belles.

I've got my sights set on the 2013 title

Despite our lack of racing savvy, the Indy 500 was an incredibly enjoyable spectacle. Keen to learn a little more about the history of IndyCar racing and the Speedway itself, we returned a few days later to tour the Hall of Fame and take a spin around the track (on a bus rather than in Franchitti's car, unfortunately). Established in 1909, the Speedway is part of Indy's cultural landscape. But Indy also had plenty to offer on a more typically cultural level, as I found when we explored downtown. Set around a network of canals, downtown Indy is surprisingly small-scale. Of course, there are a number of skyscrapers, impressive government buildings and the awe-inspiring Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, but the centre is relatively compact and easily walkable. Studded with shops, restaurants, sports stadiums and theatres, downtown Indy has plenty to keep both tourists and locals occupied for days.

The waterways that form part of the Canal & White River State Park are an ideal starting point for a cultural exploration of Indy, with a number of museums backing onto the canals. I wandered into the Indiana Historical Society (admission $7), a history museum that's far from fusty. With permanent exhibitions covering different aspects of Indiana's past, the museum's real draw is its 'You are there' areas. I wandered into the 'Busted! Prohibition Enforced' exhibition unsure of what to expect. A friendly attendant explained that the museum's 'You are there' exhibitions use an old photograph illustrating a moment key to an aspect of Indiana's history and recreate the scenario in and around that photograph with the help of period props –and live actors. Stepping inside a recreation 1920 police station, I was greeted by a 'detective' who had recently discovered the state's largest producer of moonshine. He talked me through the crimes of the liquor producer, before taking me into the cells to meet him prior to his trial. A little acting was also required on my part, as I thought up questions to ask both the officer of the law and the reprobate. It's a fun way of bringing history to life, and would certainly help to maintain kids' interest in a museum visit.

The country house at Indianapolis Art Museum

Thankfully for me, no acting was required at any of Indy's other museums, which include the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art and the Indiana State Museum. A few miles out of town, the Indianapolis Museum of Art (free admission) provides over two hundred acres of respite from the city: in addition to the modern, light-filled museum, there's also a country house, formal and informal gardens and a 100-acre art park featuring commissioned artworks. Those who find typical art galleries dull will love the interactive nature of the art park, which actively encourages exploration and offers a space for families to play and picnic in addition to soaking up a bit of culture. There's also an on-site café offering sandwiches, soups and other light fare.

As you'd expect from a state whose signature dish is sugar cream pie, much of the food available in Indy doesn't exactly fall into the 'healthy' category. As something of a food-lover, I was impressed with the range of cuisines available, with everything from tapas to burritos to hearty American cooking on offer, as I'll be exploring in a future post.

The Monument

An uncommon holiday destination Indy might be. But an incomprehensible one? It shouldn't be. Down to earth, low-key but with a packed cultural and sporting calendar plus plenty of affordable eateries, Indianapolis is a perfect place for a vacation if you ask me.

Getting out of town: Woodstock

2012-06-10T12:09:00.002+02:00

When you live abroad, starting a blog to document your experiences seems like a great idea. Every day holds the potential for a new experience, sight or snapshot. When I began Tales of a Brit Abroad in 2010, it motivated me to make the most of living in Madrid by exploring the city beyond the tourist hotspots. It also gave me even more of an excuse to escape the capital at weekends and spend time getting to know the rest of Spain.

Since moving back to the UK, it's been understandably difficult to maintain this blog: after all, I'm no longer a Brit abroad. Fortunately, I travel enough to make the occasional post possible. But what all these weekend trips overseas have made me realise is how little I've seen of my own country. Unless I have a friend who lives somewhere, chances are I won't have been there. It's embarrassing really; I've probably been to more provinces in Spain than I have English counties. This needs to change: after all, who knows how long I'll be based on this island?

When I was recently offered the chance to visit Woodstock, I accepted gladly. After all, the pretty little Cotswold town is only 8 miles outside of Oxford, my current home. Despite this, I'd only ever driven through Woodstock once, en route to Blenheim Palace on the outskirts. 'A big rock festival was held here in the 60s', my mum announced as we drove through the sleepy streets. My 15-year-old self looked back at her witheringly and said, 'That was in America'. So I knew there wasn't going to be any rock and roll on the agenda for this visit, but I was hoping for some relaxation, good food and a touch of luxury.


A watercolour of Woodstock by local artist Rod Craig

The word 'England' conjures up many different images, but I imagine that if many of those overseas were asked to picture an English town, they'd think of somewhere like Woodstock. Located in the beautiful Cotswolds area of southern England, Woodstock is one well turned-out town: think honey-coloured sandstone buildings peeping out from under a veil of ivory, cute local shops with painted wooden window frames, cosy pubs and a church so picturesque it's a listed building. Low-key and easy to navigate, it's an ideal weekend escape for city dwellers. Those seeking a bit of culture with their mini-break can tour grandiose Blenheim Palace, Winston Churchill's birthplace and the home of the current Duke of Marlborough. With stately rooms and acres of gardens designed by Capability Brown to explore, the palace could keep you occupied for hours. Intensive sightseeing's optional though: a stroll around the central streets, popping in and out of cafés, pubs and shops is more than sufficient for many visitors. For me, the main attraction of Woodstock wasn't to be found in palatial surroundings or out on the streets, though: it was on my plate.

Hampers deli

For somewhere so small, Woodstock isn't short on dining options. To stock up on the finest English produce to take home, whether it be local bread and cheese or gourmet charcuterie, Hampers Food & Wine Company can cater to your cravings. There's also an on-site café if waiting until you get home just isn't an option. Traditional afternoon teas can be found at Harriet's, which has a dangerously tempting array of sweet treats, while more hearty British fare is on offer at Woodstock's many pubs. For casual dining, there's also Brothertons Brasserie, which serves a range of well-prepared British dishes (such as wild boar casserole with mash). If you're looking for something upmarket, it's got to be The King's Arms, which was recently awarded an AA Rosette. I opted for traditional Sardinian fare at Italian restaurant La Galleria: it may look like someone's lounge in the late 1980s, but the quality cooking was timeless, and the restaurant's popularity undeniable: every table was occupied. Woodstock's pick of places to dine only looks set to increase: top chef Marco Pierre White has recently obtained a hotel in Woodstock, which will also house one of his Wheeler's gastropubs.

Hope House

Quality cooking is equally important at Hope House, as I discovered over breakfast the next morning. The ancestral home of the Money family was converted into a boutique B & B in 2009, and with just three swish suites, it's an exclusive address. With roll-top baths, sofas you can sink into and ludicrously comfortable beds with designer bedlinen, a stay at Hope House certainly provided both the luxury and the relaxation I'd been hoping for. The locally-sourced breakfast was second-to-none, with a huge variety of cereals, fruit, yoghurt, home-made pastries, cheeses and meats – and that's before you get to the cooked breakfast options. With all the components of a full English (plus a few extras) served in any combination of your stomach's desire, even the fussiest of customers can't go wrong at Hope House.

My weekend in Woodstock taught me something: instead of getting out of the UK, I need to get out in the UK. When I'm lucky enough to have beautiful towns like this on my doorstep, there's really no excuse.

I was a guest of Hope House. You can read my full breakfast review here.
Images courtesy of Wake Up To Woodstock.

Magical Mushrooms: Climbing Seville's Setas

2012-05-25T21:59:00.000+02:00

As much as I'd like to think Seville has remained frozen in time since my year abroad in 2004/5, the truth is that time has marched on. Well, strolled on – this is Seville, after all. Yes, La Campana is still serving coffee and cake, the tapas at Bar Alfalfa are as good as ever and Triana's still delightfully different, but certain changes have taken place in the city centre. The Avenida de la Constitución is now pedestrianized, save for the state-of-the-art tram which connects Plaza Nueva with San Bernardo. The renovations of Plaza de España are finally complete: its tiled scenes gleam and its waterways are alive with boatloads of enthusiastic rowers once again.

The past few years have also brought a more controversial development to the city centre. Since 2011, Plaza de la Encarnación has been home to the tongue-twisting Metropol Parasol: a 25 metre high pair of towers topped with a walkway and known much more prosaically as 'las Setas' (the mushrooms). Bearing more than a passing resemblance to fungi, these towers divided opinion during their six-year construction, and continue to do so now that they dominate the square. In line with local building regulations, they're nowhere near tall enough to rival the height of the Giralda, the Cathedral's tower, yet their modern design in the heart of oh-so-traditional Seville means that not everyone is a fan. Constructed by Berlin-based Jürgen Mayer H and his team of architects from wood, steel and concrete, the fantastical structures undulate through the sky above the square. To some, their size and sweep may cut far too daring a dash through Plaza de la Encarnación, but to my eye, they add an interesting diversity to the area. They've also helped to regenerate the neighbourhood, with shops, bars and a market at ground level, an antiquarium at basement level (an archaelogical museum where visitors can glimpse some of the city's ruins and artefacts, from Roman times onwards) and the viewing platform or mirador.

The Setas have a purpose that integrates them into the fabric of city life: to me, this makes them a worthwhile addition to the city centre. Their design is certainly a talking point, and it may seem incongruous at first, but a trip up to the mirador may make up your mind if you're still sitting on the mushroom fence. With its lift access, it's certainly easier than scaling the Giralda, with the bonus of Cathedral views. Walkways allow you to soak up Seville's skyline from all angles, as well as learning more about the construction of the Setas themselves through the information provided.

A trip up Seville's mushrooms is €1.30 well spent, and if you want to linger and admire the architecture and the vista, there's a bar and restaurant.

What do you think: modern monstrosity or an innovative addition to the city centre?
To my mind, it's bold, it's brash and it's got something to say: welcome to Andalucia, Setas.

Istanbul: Mosques, museums and modernity

2012-04-13T15:30:00.004+02:00

A minaret-topped hill, bustling bazaars and the lamp-lit fusion of East and West that is the Hagia Sophia. We've all seen the postcard images of Istanbul, but there's much more to this city than the sights of the Sultanahmet district responsible for its fame.

If Taksim Square is 'new' Istanbul's hub, across the Bosphorus in the 'old' European side of the city, Sultanahmet Square is the centre of the district of the same name. It's also a key fixture on all tourists' agendas. As first-time visitors with only a few days to experience the city, we chose to base ourselves in Sultanahmet, close to the sights. After the comedy caper that was arrival at our hotel, the experience picked up: comfortable and friendly, the Esans Hotel was also within easy walking distance of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and Topkapi Palace, all of which cluster conveniently around Sultanahmet Square. What it's less close to are restaurants that don't appear to cater purely to tourists: given the neighbourhood's beauty and excellent sights per square metre ratio, you can now barely take a few steps without being accosted by a restaurant tout. Not since I was an 18 year old on holiday in Albufeira have I felt so wanted.

Sultanahmet sights

Topkapi Palace

Its no wonder the Sultanahmet area's packed with monuments: for centuries, it was the hub of the Ottoman Empire. Topkapi Palace was where all the strategising and the top-flight fun took place: this well-preserved site was part fortress, part pleasure palace. At 20 Turkish Lira (plus another 15 if you want to visit the harem), admission doesn't come cheap, but there's enough here to keep you occupied for hours. Vast public courtyards give way to smaller, more intimate ones where courtly life played out. As well as admiring the architecture and tile work of the buildings scattered around the complex, visitors can peruse exhibitions of weapons through the ages, Ottoman costumes and relics - including many individual strands of the Prophet Mohammed's beard. Bling-lovers can also cast their eyes over the jewels in the Imperial Treasury. For me, the final court was the most impressive, particularly the Baghdad Kiosk with its tiled walls and mother-of-pearl furniture.

Hagia Sophia

Splendid though Topkapi Palace was (and it's not every day you get to see the Prophet's beard), I'd been holding out for the Hagia Sophia. A former church built in AD357 and turned into a mosque after the Ottoman Turk army reclaimed Constantinople in 1453, the outwardly unassuming building is inwardly stunning in its simplicity. On one level, it is an empty shell: there are no altars, no pews in this deconsecrated place of worship. Instead, there's a hum of snap-happy tourists, happily dwarfed by the scale of the structure. The high ceilings tower above them, arches and columns reaching skywards. Suspended from the ceiling, the simple glass lamps common to mosques across the city cast a dim glow on the awe-struck visitors. It's stunning from every angle: the balcony above, the doorway, the middle of the floor. There's very little to see - but plenty to marvel at.

Visiting Istanbul's mosques requires a little more planning. Although visitors seem to be welcome at all of the city's mosques, some are much more accustomed to them than others. As the most famous mosque on the block, the Blue Mosque certainly receives its share of visitors. When it was constructed, its 6 minarets provoked contoversy, as according to Islam only the Prophet's mosque at Mecca was allowed this number. Tourists should time their visits to as not to coincide with any of the 5 daily prayers: listen out for the unmistakable call to prayer, then leave it at least half an hour before visiting. If there are any guidelines (separate entrances or placing your shoes in a plastic bag), be sure to follow them, but otherwise make sure to remove your shoes, dress modestly and cover your hair if female. Although my guidebook declared that the Blue Mosque (unlike the Hagia Sophia) was much more impressive outside than in, we were still captivated by its vast, tile-adorned interior. Down the hill at the water's edge, the huge New Mosque is very much a working place of worship, making it worth a visit for this reason alone.

I have to admit, a visit to the Grand Bazaar was about as appealing to me as rifling through the sale rail at Primark on a Saturday afternoon. All that haggling over tourist tat isn't really my cup of tea. But my travel companion A wanted to test out her bargaining skills over the purchase of some ceramics, so I went along for the ride. A much more sanitised experience than the souks of Marrakech, you can nonetheless easily get lost here in the lanes of shops, divided into areas according to the wares sold - so jewellery, leather, textiles and ceramics all had their own sections. We managed to inadvertently choose non-Turkish stall holders to haggle with, but A came away with some pretty painted bowls and a scarf, and we enjoyed an apple tea and a chat with the Syrian scarf-seller, so I revised my opinion of bazaar-buying slightly. We headed downhill through an area brimming with small, local shops to the Spice Bazaar, the place to go for erm, spices and Turkish delight. Caught in a crowd of Saturday-afternoon shoppers, actually getting into the bazaar was something of an ordeal, but the free tea and Turkish delight I consumed while A purchased almost made up for it. The bazaars are an experience, sure - just not one I would feel the need to repeat.

Across the water

Looking from new to old Istanbul

Separated from Sultanahmet and the outlying districts by the Bosphorus, the 'new' European city lies across Galata Bridge. Traversed by tram or on foot, the bridge is a major thoroughfare at all hours of the day. It's also lined with fishermen, patiently hoping to reel in a catch. The area around the water's edge heaves with street food: on our winter visit, roasted chestnuts and boiled sweet corn cobs were very much in evidence, while grilled fish is a year-round constant, especially in 'new' Istanbul. If you're looking for a decent meal without paying tourist-inflated rates, it's definitely worth crossing the Golden Horn and branching out into the Beyoglu district.

Sights situated on this side of the Bosphorus include the Galata Tower, but for me this area was all about the atmosphere. Tourists are much harder to spot among the crowds of Istanbullus seeking retail and eating opportunities and touts are thankfully scarce on this side of the water. Shop-lined Istiklal Caddesi is Istanbul's main thoroughfare, teeming with life at any hour of the day. Tucked down the many lanes and alleys branching off this kilometre-long stretch are endless eateries - and more than a little nightlife. On Saturday evening, A and I followed city food blog Istanbul Eats's recommendation to dine at fish restaurant Furreya Galata Balikcisi, a pocket-sized place in the shadow of the Galata Tower. After feasting on flaky fish wraps, we let our instincts guide us to a pedestrianised alley packed with bars, locals spilling out of them with bottles of beer, chatting in huddles and enjoying their evenings. I couldn't find it again, but the experience was worth the wander.

The following day, we returned to Beyoglu to soak up some of Istanbul's cafe society. Too tired to contemplate the trek up Galata Tower, we got our views from Litera, the Goethe Institute's top-floor bar. Fortunately no penchant for German literature was required to partake of the panoramic views over to Sultanahmet and the sea, just a thirst. Our appetite was similarly satisfied in Krependeki Imroz, one of the meyhanes (traditional meze restaurants) on Nevizade Sokak, the most bustling backstreet in town. Choosing from a selection of hot and cold mini dishes, we created a substantial meal for around £10 each. And there wasn't a tout in sight.

Into Asia

Although the majority of the city's sights are on its European side, it would have been rude not to pop across the Black Sea to Asia. Ferries to Kadikoy and Uskudar depart from both sides of the Golden Horn; uninformed about both of them, we plumped for the former and queued up with our fellow passengers. Once on board, we clambered up to the outside deck and took our seats among over-excited children, camera-toting tourists and a few Sunday morning sleepy-heads waiting to be revived by the sea air. Istanbullus love their tea, so the on-board vendor was no surprise: but the lack of paper commuter-cups was. No tea-to-go here, the vendor whisked round with a tray bearing steaming traditional tea glasses. The perfect way to keep warm on a fresh February morning. Unfortunately there was also a simit seller. This pretzel-shaped, sesame seed-covered bread roll is a street food staple - and unfortunately, it also makes a seagull-friendly snack. The blighters swooped down towards the boat as it chugged its way to the Asian side, anticipating the chunks of dough flying their way. Although they got a little too close for my liking, they ultimately enhanced the stunning views over to Sultanahmet.

Clueless about what to see over on the Asian side (the tourist information office gave us a blank look and directions to a shopping mall), we bussed it up to Uskudar, soaking up more of the residential side of the city. The Asian side certainly has a more homely feel - we passed through neighbourhood after neighbourhood on the bus, with not a tourist in sight. Arriving in Uskudar, we purchased some street snacks and boarded another ferry (making sure not to share with the seagulls).

Istanbul is a city of contrasts. The European and the Asian, the modern and the traditional, the religious and the secular. But it works. The city has a harmonious, happy feel. While initially a little inaccessible to tourists (until the help of a moustachioed metro worker is enlisted at least), it's worth scratching the surface and exploring both Sultanahmet and beyond.

For more details on where to eat in Istanbul, see this post.

The strangest thing I've eaten while travelling

2012-04-11T09:19:00.000+02:00

Once again, the time has come to meet the Travel Belles ladies (and you, if you like) for virtual a coffee and chat Across the Cafe Table. For the 11th gathering, the topic we're all discussing is food: the weirdest and the most wonderful.

Being a picky pescetarian has its drawbacks when travelling. Waiters in some countries meet the news that I don't eat meat with a look of blank incomprehension. It doesn't always make for an easy or interesting life, as I am reminded whenever I'm served a plate of crudités in France, or when I disappointedly have to leave the dish containing meat I've been brought by the aforementioned uncomprehending waiter. But it does have one distinct advantage: it rules me out of trying all those unusual meats that strike fear into the heart of most Western travellers. No horse for me, thank you. No frog's legs, no kangaroo, no battered crickets. I can even feign full vegetarianism if I want to avoid some unappetising-sounding fish dish.

When it comes to 'wonderful' eating experiences, I'm lucky enough to be able to recall plenty from my travels. That 3 course Algerian meal (with improvised pescetarian option) cooked and served with a side of chat by the restaurant owner in Lyon. A divine melanzane parmigiana in Rome, that I'll forever be trying to recreate. The garlicky grilled squid in salsa verde they used to serve at the riverside shack outside my apartment in Seville. But weird? That's more difficult.

Not what I expected

As a vegetarian, I'm often prevented from trying local delicacies. Visiting a meze restaurant in Istanbul in February, I found myself able to try one of their national dishes, fava beans. Great, I thought, knowing from my experience in Lebanese restaurants that I like these rich- tasting pulses. I hadn't reckoned on the way they'd be served, though. Faced with a gelatinous-looking pale green slice of something swimming in oil, I couldn't equate it with the tasty brown beans I'd tried before. The dill-topped slab dominated its tiny plate, challenging me to dig in. I did. The texture was unexpected: at once slimy and solid, it was unusual but not entirely unpleasant. The dill dominated the innocuous taste of the bean mush. I ploughed on, trying to accustom myself to the sensation but ultimately couldn't. It may not have been the most appetising to me, but at least this national delicacy was vegetarian.

What are the weirdest and most wonderful things you've eaten while travelling? Head over to The Travel Belles to share your experiences or read some more. Who knows, some may even involve kangaroo...

For more on what and where I ate in Istanbul (most of it much more palatable), check out this post. More on city sightseeing coming up later this week.

Arriving in Istanbul (or, how not to travel)

2012-03-16T12:30:00.001+01:00

Apparently I have more in common with Oasis than a boy scout. On my recent trip to Istanbul, my motto was most definitely 'roll with it' as opposed to my more customary 'always be prepared'.

Surprise number one was the weather. After spending a week in Spain in January, during which the unsuspecting sevillanos and valencianos were treated to a glimpse of my winter white arms, I'd been expecting Turkey to deliver the goods, sun-wise. We certainly weren't expecting snow. Touching down at Sabiha Gokcen airport in early February, the cityscape wasn't just studded with endless minarets - it was also shrouded in slush.

Following the long bus transfer into the city and a lunch purchased largely by pointing and smiling, we set out in search of the hotel we'd booked months ago (very prepared) after a glass or two of wine (less advisable). Like most others, our hotel was located in the Sultanahmet district among the majority of Istanbul's sights, while the transport hub of Taksim Square is north of the Golden Horn, the inlet of the Bosphorus that separates the old and new European sides of the city. The easy option would have been to take a taxi, but who needs ease when you have public trabsport? With the help of a map, the metro station security guard and a moustachioed shoe-shiner, we purchased an Istanbulkart (similar to London's Oyster card) and planned a circuitous route involving a funicular, a tram and a suburban commuter train. The first two methods of transport were modern and efficient, whirling us downhill and across the water onto the southern side of the Golden Horn, the picture-postcard side of the city. The commuter train was akin to something from the Soviet era, and deposited us in an equally joyless area close to the water's edge. At this point, the wine-inspired hotel booking seemed like a distinctly dodgy idea.

A typical Sultanahmet view

Trailing up the hill from Cankurtan station (not a Sultanahmet sight you ever need to acquaint yourself with), our map-reading skills led us to our hotel's address. A tumbledown, uninhabited house complete with broken windows and a mournful-looking mangy cat on the doorstep. Either the past few months had been very unkind to Esans Hotel, or we needed to sort out our sense of direction. Fortunately, more friendly locals came to our rescue and pointed us towards our home for the next three days. Thankfully, it was still standing. The immediate area around the hotel was only slightly more inviting than Cankurtan's environs though, so we weren't out of the panic woods yet.

A view of Cankurtan by day. It was bad, honestly.

Sultanahmet is peppered with houses-turned-hotels, set up by families with varying degrees of success. If the TripAdvisor reviews of Esans Hotel were anything to go by, the proprietors had managed it admirably: guests praised the establishment's atmosphere, service and value. Stepping inside and being greeted by four different people and a budgie was definitely a warm welcome, though somewhat unexpected. So too was the talk (some more prone to exaggeration may even have termed it a lecture) we received about the different perfume diffusers available for us to try out during our stay. Named 'Essence' Hotel after the perfumier who resided there during the nineteenth century, not only are the rooms named after different scents (or 'odours', following an unfortunate translation), the owners have also developed a range of scents for guests to fragrance their rooms according to mood. It's certainly a USP, but as welcome information goes, a map would have been more handy.

We were also offered a cup of tea, and being British and polite, we accepted. The chill was soon banished from our bones, but due to the tea's temperature, we had to linger in reception. Taking in the surroudings, we relaxed a little. Esans Hotel definitely homely: the breakfast area and lounge merged, and comfort was prioritized over the usual trappings of a hotel lobby. The budgie swooping overhead added a quirky feel, which continued in our superior room: the Sultan odour room. It may not have smelt of sultans, but it did have glittery wallpaper. Bling aside, it was well-appointed and comfortable - and a definite bargain at just €100 each for a three-night stay with breakfast. It just goes to show that sometimes, Oasis have the edge over boy scouts.

You can read about the rest of my trip in part 2 next week. For information on Istanbul's culinary delights, read my 'on location' post for Girl Eats Oxford here.

Inspiration Initiative: #InspiringTravel

2012-03-08T21:54:00.002+01:00

Flights without food. This is the first thing I remember about low-cost airlines. 'You buy the flights seperately from your hotel, and you have to pay if you want an in-flight meal', I was told. Being a pre-teen, the part about food stuck in my mind. That'll never catch on, I thought. Years later, budget flights are a regular part of my life, linking up the corners of my world and making it possible for me to fly out to see friends scattered around Europe and even further afield. Given the merest excuse to jet off, you'll find me passport in hand and liquids in regulation plastic bag at the departure gate. But what inspires me to travel?

Tomorrow sees the launch of easyJet Holidays' Inspiration Initiative, a competition designed to uncover where travellers' wanderlust comes from. Following their list of 'wh-' questions, I took a look at my own inspirations.

Who

With my grandparents in Venice

Way before granny chic was cool, I was turning to my grandparents for inspiration. When I was growing up, there were no coach trips to Bognor for my mum's parents; instead they lounged by Lake Garda, toured the Scottish Highlands and even jetted off to Jamaica. It wasn't just their choices of destinations that caught my attention though: it was the frequency of their trips. Now that I work full time, I'm wondering if being inspired by my globetrotting grandparents might be a curse as well as a blessing: apparently six holidays per year isn't 'normal'...

What

Inspired by Israel

Given my penchant for multiple annual holidays, I tend to take short haul trips within Europe. Branching out into Israel in 2010, I encountered not just a new continent and a new culture, but a desire to experience the world beyond Europe's borders. From tanning in Tel Aviv to wandering the walled old city in Jerusalem, Israel captivated me and inspired me to try different destinations. Since that trip, I've visited Malaysia, Singapore, Morocco and Turkey – and still managed some European trips too.

When

We found the Duomo without Gianni's help

My first parent-free holiday, a week in Albufeira, may have been ideal for post-school fun, but inspiring it was not. One year on, my university friend and I chose Italy as a holiday destination, for the arbitrary reason that the cheapest available flight was to Milan. Ten days of ill-prepared independent travel ensued; selected highlights of which included a heated argument with an Italian pensioner on a train and getting so lost in a random suburb of Bologna by night that we had to appeal to the helpful Gianni of Blockbuster Video for directions. By the end of the trip, we'd mastered the art of ordering three-scoop ice creams in Italian, seen more churches than some bishops ever will and had almost as good a sense of direction as Gianni. My interest in independent travel had definitely been awakened.

Where

The Alhambra

Spain. It would be a surprise to regular readers if I said anywhere else, and I'd hate to disappoint. Holidaying in the south of Spain as a teenager certainly fuelled my fondness for sunshine, and moving to Seville on my year abroad from university led to my full-blown love affair with the country. It's not just Andalucia that inspires me, though: Spain's diversity encourages me to return time and time again. There's the cosmopolitan-meets-traditional mix that is Madrid, the striking monuments of old Castile, the chic Catalan city of Barcelona and the wild natural landscapes of Galicia. And that's only scratching the surface of Spain.

Inspiration Initiative nominees:

1) Starry-Eyed Travels
2) Becoming Sevillana
3) Rambling Tart
4) Jessica In Search Of
5) Ruthie Rolo

You can find out more about the easyJet Holidays Inspiration Initiative competition and how to enter here.

You know you've lived in Spain when...

2012-01-29T22:06:00.002+01:00

Have I mentioned I love Spain? Since I first moved there on my year abroad from university in 2004, the country's been firmly under my skin. Leaving Spain to return to my degree course in England was a wrench, but finding fellow students to talk to about our experiences of life there made it easier. Those little things that foreigners like me observe when we come face-to-face with Spanish culture, such as the fact that topping up red wine with Fanta is delicious rather than deranged, and that open staring at strangers is absolutely fine, turned out to be common to all of us guiris.

My year abroad: where the love affair began. With Spain, not this horse.

Browsing Facebook one day in 2007, I came across a group called 'You know you've lived in France when...'. Written by another year abroad student, it was a list of all the idiosyncrasies of French life that they had spotted while living there. A quick search revealed that there was no such group for Spain, so I decided to remedy that. Half an hour later, I had my own list, and 'You know you've lived in Spain when...' was created.

Initially intended as a group for students like myself who were homesick for their temporarily adopted country and keen to reminisce about those aspects of la buena vida that made us chuckle, I was surprised by how many expats, former residents and Spanish natives joined. Within a few days, the group had members from all over the world. It continued to grow for the next few years, with members using it as a forum for discussion about life in Spain and to share experiences. It even featured in 20 Minutos. I confess I did very little with the group after the first year: I occasionally updated the list of reasons 'you know you've lived in Spain when...', but mostly I just left the group to grow by itself.

Today I discovered that Facebook has changed the format of its groups, and in doing so has removed most of the group's more than 72,000 members. I decided to create a page with exactly the same information, so if you were a member of the old group or just agree with my guiri observations about life in Spain (or even have some of your own to share), please 'like' the new 'You know you've lived in Spain when...' page.

2012 travel dreams

2012-01-11T21:13:00.000+01:00

I'm the kind of girl who likes to use her annual leave for something special. No duvet days for me: it's all about trips. So, where will my days off take me this year?

Since expanding my travel horizons into Asia in 2010, I've been keen to explore places I consider 'different'. Much as I love Europe, I feel that now is the time to travel to exotic, further-flung destinations far removed from my home country not just by distance, but by culture and lifestyle. 2011 took me to Marrakech, and 2012 will see me visit Istanbul, another city I've longed to experience for years. The flights are booked, and I can't wait to wander around the Blue Mosque in awe; to take a ferry across the Bosphorus, crossing the divide between Europe and Asia by boat; to indulge in plenty of Turkish cuisine.

But this month's Across the Café Table discussion is about travel dreams for the year ahead. Istanbul may still be a dream, but in a few weeks it will become a reality. South America, on the other hand, remains very much an idea; a treasured plan I'm working on with the help of the guidebook which arrived on my doorstep yesterday. And that, for me, is the first step to making this dream come true, too.

My love of the Spanish language means that South America is a natural choice of destination for me, yet the costly airfare and time required to visit enough to do it justice have thus far kept me away. I hope that this will be the year I get to see the waterfalls at Iguazu on the border between Brazil and Argentina...

Iguazu

... explore cosmopolitan Buenos Aires...

Buenos Aires

... and marvel at Chile's Lake District.

Chile's Lake District

Hopefully 2012 will be the year I get to do so! What are your travel dreams for 2012? Where would you like to visit that you've never been before? Head on over to The Travel Belles and share your thoughts.

All photos from Flickr Creative Commons.
Iguazu: santiago_richard
Buenos Aires: ClixYou
Chile: Phillie Casablanca

Hello 2012: Hogmanay in Edinburgh

2012-01-10T20:27:00.002+01:00

Ringing in the New Year in Edinburgh is on many a traveller's wish list. However, standing in the street shivering in high Scottish winds at the Hogmanay street party had never really appealed to me. Spending New Year's Eve with two close friends over dinner and drinks in Scotland's capital did capture my attention though, and so on 30 December 2011, I boarded a train north.

Edinburgh

I certainly wasn't alone: thousands of Brits and tourists from further afield descend on Edinburgh every Hogmanay for some of the largest and most extravagant New Year celebrations in Europe. The attractions of the street party's famous bands, torchlight procession, fireworks and funfair aside, Edinburgh's an excellent place to visit at any time of year. Between the natural beauty of Arthur's Seat, the historical significance of sights such as Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse and the vast range of shops and restaurants to choose from, there's more than enough to keep a visitor occupied for a weekend.

But on this visit, we didn't come for the sights. Arriving at 4pm on Friday, we started as we meant to go on. Guided by Edinburgh resident A, the three of us kicked off the new year celebrations in style over pre-dinner drinks at swanky bar The Dome, a converted bank which serves up a slice of grandeur with your G&T. Proceedings took on a more, err, down-to-earth feel with dinner at La Lanterna, a cosy Italian place run by matriarch Toni, who A assured us would regale us with tales of restaurant-related woe and stories of how she was soldiering on single-handedly (before rewarding us with a gin for our troubles). No such luck: this time the neighbouring table had to lend their ears, but we did have the joy of the lights going down and the chef banging pan lids together to the tune of 'Happy Birthday ' while in the middle of our meal. One post-dinner drink to recover led to another, and before we knew it it was 4am and we were in a piano bar howling along to Frank Sinatra.

Needless to say, sightseeing wasn't high on our agenda for New Year's Eve. We did manage to squeeze in a visit to Edinburgh's newest attraction though: a visit to Edinburgh Zoo's latest acquisition, a pair of giant pandas. Named Tian Tian (Sweetie) and Yang Guang (Sunshine), these two cuties became the only pair of pandas on the British Isles when they arrived in December 2011.

Sweetie tucks in

Visitors have been flocking to see the pandas, much to the annoyance of the zoo's former star attraction, the penguins. The pandas' next-door neighbours have been experiencing 'monochrome envy' and hurling pieces of poo at waiting visitors, but thankfully for us their jealousy was under control while we queued. Hiding inside on this cold day, the pandas were happily chomping their way through piles of bamboo: it's a hard life, being famous.

And there's even more out of shot

Night two of our celebrations was a somewhat classier affair, beginning with a late dinner at tapas bar Cafe Andaluz. Much more authentic than many UK offerings, the menu was so tempting we may have over-ordered – with 16 tapas between 5, manouevring the plates around the table was an almost military operation. It was as tasty as it looked though, and at £30 a head (including plenty of drinks), it was also a bit of a bargain for New Year's Eve.

We may not have graced the street party with our presence (headline act Primal Scream aren't exactly our cup of tea), but our chosen venue of chic Scottish bar Ghillie Dhu was close enough for us to pop out after midnight to watch the spectacular firework display. The DJ may have needed a little guidance from yours truly ('can you play something a bit more upbeat, you've got us all borderline suicidal'), but plenty of fun was had and temporary friends were made (largely on the basis of their tartan). It was a great way to end to 2011 and begin 2012 – street party or not, I definitely understand the appeal of Hogmanay in Edinburgh.

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All the fun of the (Andalusian) fair

2011-11-12T12:05:00.003+01:00

Here's my post for this month's Across the Cafe Table: where the Travel Belles ladies (and you, if you like) get together and discuss a travel-related topic over a virtual coffee. This month, the question we're discussing is 'What's your favourite shopping find?'

I'm not the best holiday shopper. A lack of patience and the fact I usually travel with carry-on luggage means that I generally return home from my travels with little more than a pair of earrings (one of which I will invariably lose within two weeks) or something as exciting as a pen. So, this month's topic left me stumped: until I glanced at my wall and saw this poster.

A souvenir from when I lived in Seville, this poster is a daily reminder of the whirl of colour, food, music and fun that is an Andalusian feria. Almost every town in southern Spain, no matter how tiny, has an annual fair: a celebration lasting several days (usually Wednesday to Sunday, but then there's the pre-feria: call it a week). During these days, which fall between April and October, most of the town decamps to the recinto ferial. For 51 weeks of the year, this is a nondescript plot of land on the outskirts. Come feria, it's the town itself: 'streets' are created, lined with marquees known as casetas, food stalls and fairground rides. From noon until the early hours of the morning, the streets fill with locals dressed in their best, enjoying a few days' holiday from work and getting together with friends and family over drinks, dancing and plenty of food.

Welcome to feria

A huge illuminated archway known as the portada marks the entrance to the recinto ferial. At Seville's Feria de Abril (April Fair), Andalusia's largest fair, the design of the portada changes each year, drawing on key elements of sevillano or andaluz culture. Past designs have included a flurry of open fans and a recreation of one of the city's landmarks, the costurero de la reina (Queen's sewing room) in 2008.

My first feria was about as far from the glamour and grandeur of the feria de abril as possible. Keen to introduce me to Andalusian life, the friends I made on my year abroad in Alcala de Guadaira took me to the first local fair of the calendar, in nearby Mairena de Alcor. In fact, they were so keen that they took me to the pre-feria, where just the main caseta is open for drinks and dancing, and the trademark farollilos (lanterns) that line the streets of feria-town hang unlit. This first taste was enough though: sipping the traditional rebujito (a mixture of fino sherry and 7Up that goes down far too easily) and dancing with my friends, I was an instant feria convert. Returning twice during the real feria, the deal was sealed. Feria is an escape; a chance to catch up with friends and family in an exuberant party atmosphere, sampling whatever food takes your fancy, trying out a couple of fairground rides (and regretting that battered fish), moving from caseta to caseta in search of the music that suits you - be it traditional sevillanas or the latest chart hits and dancing all night, before a breakfast of churros con chocolate as the sun comes up.

The warm-up

Salud!

Better than a kebab at the end of a night out

This experience of feria was all about the feria de noche (night-time fair), where girls in their usual Saturday night attire rub shoulders with friends still wearing a traje de flamenca (flamenco dress). When I attended the feria de abril just a few weeks later, it wasn't just the scale of the event that changed but the atmosphere. The recinto ferial is the size of a small town: so vast that although its streets have names, you still need a map to navigate between the looming shadows of the portada and the noria (big wheel), hulking over the activity below. Traditional dress rules during the feria de dia: women in their finest flamenco dresses parade on the arms of men in their traje corto (suit with a short jacket topped with a hat, designed for horse-riding). The wealthy clip-clop past the less affluent on horseback or in carriages, waving to friends they spot in the streets. Revellers spill out from the private casetas into the streets, the young and old alike dance sevillanas (a form of flamenco - if you don't know at least the basic moves, introduce yourself to someone who does and they'll be more than happy to show you a few key steps). An air of exclusivity pervades the colourful whirl here: unlike most fairs, the feria de abril is dominated by private casetas organised by associations, which means you must be a member to secure access to their entertainment - and their bar. A few political parties and neighbourhood groups do run 'free' casetas, but the April Fair is very much about who you know and how much you have - it's also a chance to showcase your extensive wardrobe, with some girls estrenando a new traje (with matching accessories) every day of the week.

More than happy to pose for a photo

Perfect accessorzing comes naturally

Inside a caseta

Although I adore the splendour of the Seville fair, my favourite ferias are the small-town affairs. With almost all the casetas accessible, an easygoing yet exuberant atmosphere takes over, and it's easy to lose a whole week to the endless cycle of feria madness, adjusting your body clock to its rhythms, coordinating your wardrobe to its styles. On my year abroad, I attended five different ferias, including my own town's June fair. The smallest feria I ever attended was when I lived in Seville in 2008: keen to convert my English friends to this key aspect of the andaluz social calendar, we hopped on a bus to nearby Camas, Sergio Ramos's home town (not that this fact was an incentive to visit or anything). The recinto ferial was tiny: just one street with no portada. Arriving in the early evening, we had hoped to see some of the fair's daytime characteristics before the party began. No such luck: we turned out to be the main attraction. This was no bad thing though; befriended by a group of workers from the Camas post office, a few hours later the girls had undergone a crash course in the sevillano accent and learned a few sevillanas steps. We may not have met Sergio Ramos, but Camas welcomed us with open arms.

Where is everyone?

Learning to dance

Still nobody here

Every time I glance up at that poster, I'm transported back to the colour and craziness of feria. It has to be experienced to be believed, so make friends with an andaluz or two and work on your stamina: you'll be needing it come spring.

You can read the other Travel Belles' posts on the topic here.

A Brit abroad in Seoul

2011-11-04T10:30:00.006+01:00

After an extended break, Brit abroad guest posts are back. This month's post comes from Ruth Dear, who's currently living and working in Seoul, South Korea.

I think wanderlust is in my genes. It definitely runs in my family. My parents used to take me and my two older brothers on holiday when we were still babies. There are numerous pictures of me in a nappy running around on different beaches, and certainly we didn’t go to run of the mill places either. 25 years ago, Greek islands and Portuguese towns that are now tourist traps were small seaside villages where we could wander around interacting with the local people. I was too young to really remember these places, but I think some of my parents' desire to see new and exotic places was instilled in me and my brothers too. We are now a family spread across the globe: one brother is in Copenhagen and the other is currently in Afghanistan (he’s an RAF officer). This appetite for exploration led me to inter-rail around Western Europe after university and then pack my bag for a British Council teaching job in Suzhou, China about a year later. I wasn’t finished with being an expat after China; despite returning home and managing to find a really good teaching position. I have nomadic itchy feet! So I upped sticks and moved abroad yet again, much to the dismay of my mum. This time I made the move to Seoul, South Korea.

When you’ve made the decision to live aboard, people always seem to ask you ‘Why did you decide to live in ____?’ My answer about China was a simple one: ‘It’s a developing nation, it has a fascinating history, and it’d be cool to speak Chinese!’ I’m afraid my reasons for moving to Seoul weren’t as innocent. I was lured back to Asia because I feel there is so much more to explore and discover. I wanted to see the beaches of Thailand and Bali, float down the Mekong delta, explore the temples of Angkor, dance all night at the full moon parties of Ko Pha Ngan, witness the splendor of Laos’ 4000 Islands. Basically, I wanted to travel more. I came to Korea because of the fantastic public school teaching programme run by the government. Although there are more private language academies in Korea than you can shake a stick at, a teaching job there would have meant only 10 days holiday a year. The public school programme allows me to plan extended travels around Asia for my winter and summer vacation. It also offers me a good salary and rent-free accommodation. Why did I choose South Korea? Because it was too good an opportunity not to.

Having said that, of course you can’t live somewhere you don’t like. It really is great to live in this part of the world. Seoul has a fantastic amount of different neighbourhoods, perfect for exploring at weekends: trendy Sinsa-dong, posh Gangnam-gu, vibrant university districts like Hongdae and Kongdae, tourist-friendly Insa-dong… and foreigner town Itaewon (where the US military base ensures your fix of all things western). Korea is a country of national parks and a nation of hikers. Even in Seoul, the city is surrounded by mountains. Travelling around the country is simple, quick and cheap so it was convenient for me to visit the friends I had down in the seaside town of Busan; a great place to visit in the summer months.

My favourite experience out here so far happened almost exactly a year ago. A group of us spent the afternoon at Lotteworld, a (mostly) indoor theme park right in the middle of the city. We had a great day on all the rides, even witnessing a rather early Christmas parade. Lotteworld is situated within a wider entertainment complex so after we’d exhausted the rides, we headed down to spend an hour on the ice skating rink; after one too many falls we then headed into the bowling alley. As day swiftly glided into evening we headed to the gangnam area and a BBQ restaurant we’d been regulars at for a while. The proceeding shenanigans saw us become a little bit more than tipsy, taking over the music choices, blasting out ‘Wonderwall’, digging into an ice-cream cake and generally filling the places with much joviality. It was one of those days that just keeps on going, and no one wanted it to end.

Living in Asia can be tough though; along with the homesickness that every person living abroad encounters, this area of the world couldn’t be more different to England. The concept of personal space doesn’t really exist here, as it does in the west. You can quickly and easily become agitated by the amount of pushing and shoving that goes on in Seoul, particularly on the subway. Public transport is incredibly reliable, clean and cheap, but travelling on the bus can be dangerous! Just this morning I had a maniac bus driver, accelerator on the floor one minute and slamming on the brake the next, woe betide any passenger not gripping onto the hand rails! I quickly learnt to hold on for dear life and only relax once both feet have made it safely to the pavement. The weather here is another thing you have to get used to. I never thought that as a Brit abroad, I would actually prefer the weather in England but seriously, I miss it. Korea boasts about its four seasons. Yes, it has four seasons, but spring and autumn both last for about a week each, and are squeezed between 5 and a half months of blistering heat and humidity combined with torrential rainfall, and bitterly cold days full of snow and ice. Korea has a climate of extremes.

Seoul is the largest capital city in the developed world, with a population of 10 million. It is the world’s second largest metropolitan area with the third largest subway in the world. With these statistics in mind it might be impossible to see how living here could be lonely. However, the friends I made during my first two weeks of orientation all live in different parts of this huge city. The availability of transportation makes it easy to see each other, but the journeys can take over an hour sometimes; making popping over to a friend's house for a cup of tea rather a mission. I think this is the biggest hurdle to overcome here in Seoul, and one that I still struggle with. In the heady first 6 months of being here everyone is filled with the energy to travel everywhere and meet up as regularly as possible. But as this desire gives way to the reality of budgeting and burn-out, mid-week outings die out. This is perhaps a natural progression of life abroad, and it forces you to enjoy your own company and explore at your own pace.

I enjoy living in Korea though; in August I re-signed to stay another year. It’s a long commitment, especially for someone whose soles get itchy quickly. But so far second year is moving along smoothly. I’ve pro-actively made a list of things I never got round to doing in my first year: hiking the mountain nearby my house, picnicking in Seoul forest, skiing, volunteering and plenty of eating. I’m more settled in a job than I’ve ever been before. Things have become more mundane as expat life starts to just become normal life, but for now I’ll continue to explore my city at the weekends, plan my next holiday adventure and try to avoid any more bruises on the subway...

Ruth inherited wanderlust from her parents and shortly after graduating from the university of Liverpool embarked on her own travels. They have led her into a career of ESL teaching. She's currently based in an elementary school in Seoul, South Korea, and has previously taught in China and the UK. Originally from a small town in Essex, she plans to explore the world a little more before returning to her homeland. You can follow her journey online at www.ruthierolo.com

Belles abroad: Ladies let loose in Italy

2011-10-22T10:13:00.004+02:00

Imagine spending a long weekend in a house with four women you've never met before. The stuff of dreams or nightmares? When I signed up for the Travel Belles first trip to a townhouse in an Italian village, I was crossing my fingers for the former. Established by Margo in early 2010, the Travel Belles has a personal touch that many websites lack, manifested in the fact that its founder wanted to meet her contributors in person. This was no faceless networking event aiming to ascertain what we could all get out of each other in the way of blogger back-scratching, it was a trip designed for a group of women to get to know each other offline, brought together by a shared appreciation of travel (and food).

Our home for the weekend was a tastefully restored townhouse in the piemontese village of Vogogna, nestling in the Italian Alps. Arriving at 8pm on the Milan to Geneva train, I was already suitably excited by my first glimpse of Lake Maggiore at sunset. Fortunately my housemates for the weekend were no less disappointing: Margo, Katy of Starry-Eyed Travels, Krista of Rambling Tart and Kathy of Food Lover's Odyssey all greeted me warmly and plied me with risotto and wine. Just the kind of welcome I like. As we chatted late into the night, any lingering fears I may have had about holidaying with complete strangers were banished.

I could get used to waking up to that view

Awaking to the complete peace of a Saturday morning in Vogogna, I took a moment to admire the view before scrambling for the shower and piling into the hire car to head for the nearby town of Domodossola. From here, we caught the Lago Maggiore Express through the mountains to Locarno in Switzerland. For once, the idea of a touristy train trip didn't appall me: not when there was scenery like this. The splendour of the Alps might be mere backdrop to seasoned skiiers, but to somebody who ought to stay away from all winter sports for health and safety reasons, the journey into the mountains was a foray into unchartered territory. The scenery as we clanked up impressive gradients, passing through pine forests and clusters of flower-bedecked houses, had almost nothing in common with the sides of Italy I've experienced: the verdant slopes under early autumn skies had far more in common with parts of Austria or France than the gritty, glamorous whirl of Milan, the decadence of Venice and the ancient sprawl of Rome.

Katy and Krista capture Santa Maria Maggiore

Breaking our journey at the town of Santa Maria Maggiore, I noted that we were definitely still in Italy: the fashions in evidence at the town's boutiques were more cosy than chic, but I was reassured to observe that sunglasses were still very much de rigeur. A town whose good looks even Tyra Banks would be loathe to criticize, Santa Maria Maggiore was a photographers' dream: and oh, the Belles are snap-happy. As my companions wandered through the cobbled lanes clicking away at Alpine dwellings, the town church and a variety of street scenes, even I felt the urge to up my game and put my camera to good use.

Even the coffee's pretty in Santa Maria Maggiore

After a mid-morning coffee (another key fixture of Italian life thankfully upheld in the Alps), we re-boarded the train and continued across the Swiss border to Locarno. The change in scenery as we passed from one country to another was imperceptible; the only differences when we alighted were the multilingual signs and the currency (oh, and the more understated sunnies worn by the locals). A short wander around the lakeside town revealed little apart from its waterside setting to interest us on this sunny afternoon: well, that and food. After an hour spent lunching, I can confirm two things: both the gelato and the pizza are just as good on the Swiss side of the border.

Yum

More than adequately refuelled, we boarded our next mode of transport for the return journey: a ferry which would take us from Locarno to Stresa. Relaxing on the top deck, we chugged past sailboats and called at waterside towns, admiring their architecture and taking in the mountain views as the sun set on an eventful day. As Henry James surmised, 'One can't describe the beauty of the Italian lakes, nor would one try if one could'. On Mr James's advice, all I will tell you is that Lake Maggiore puts Windermere to shame.

You can read about part 2 of the Belles Trip next week.

Me, museums and stamina

2011-10-12T12:30:00.000+02:00

Here's my post for this month's Across the Cafe Table: where the Travel Belles ladies (and you, if you like) get together and discuss a travel-related topic over a virtual coffee. This month, the question we're discussing is 'What's your favourite museum?'

The word 'museum' puts me in mind of a school trip. No matter how many interactive, state-of-the-art spaces I visit, I still imagine that museum visits will invariably involve trailing around some fusty gallery pretending to read the explanations of exhibits I couldn't give a monkeys about while secretly thinking about what's in my packed lunch. As attitudes go, I realise that mine is far from cultured, and fortunately I frequently manage to shelve it: for a while at least.

Travel and museums go hand in hand. Pick up a copy of any guidebook and you're bound to find more than one museum listed as a must-see. Art galleries, museums of national or indeed natural history, science museums... they're all lurking between those glossy pages, waiting to be ticked off like answers in an exam. Perhaps this prescriptive idea that museums simply must be explored otherwise you've failed in the cultured traveller stakes is what brings out the teenage rebel in me: after a guidebook-inspired schlep around a particularly dull maritime museum in Dieppe which failed to stimulate any of my senses other than smell (owing to the pungent presence of dried salt cod among the exhibits), I certainly wanted to stamp my feet and whine 'I don't WANT to go to any more museums'.

It wasn't until I met M that I realised everyone has their own museum visiting style. No, I don't mean putting on your favourite frou-frou frock and accessorising with a cute clutch in the manner of Carrie Bradshaw: it's how you visit a museum that makes all the difference. Some people arrive early; a rucksack full of supplies and plan their way around the space, prioritising which exhibitions to see first. Others might pop in to peruse just one or two rooms, returning at a later date to see more. Me? I aim for speed. The ideal museum visit lasts no longer than 2 hours (and is framed at either end by a tea break). That way, I get to see my personal highlights without reverting to my stroppy teenage years. And believe me, that's a bonus for my fellow visitors.

M at the Biennial. I think she's heading for the exit.

M and I met in Seville in 2008. We were both keen to see all the city's sights, even going so far as to write a list of everything we wanted to do during our three-month stay. But it wasn't until we visited the Contemporary Art Biennial that I realised we shared more than just a list of priorities. By the time we'd skimmed over most of the exhibits, lingering longer over those that held particular interest for us, our friend R was still in the first room. When she called us several hours later to ask if we were ready to leave, we were shopping in the town centre. Much like a child on a school trip, my attention span is short: I enjoy museum visits as long as I'm in the right frame of mind and able to choose when to leave.

Me outside the Biennial. I've already exited.

It's no surprise that my favourite museum visit was a trip taken with M a couple of years later. In Bilbao for the weekend, we made tracks to the gallery that has transformed the city's fortunes and made it into a top Spanish destination: the Guggenheim. But we didn't go there to admire the art: we went for the food. At €19 for a delicious three-course meal with a bottle of wine, this was the museum's highlight. Yes, the wine-fuelled visit around the gallery afterwards was entertaining, but the restaurant stole the show. Hey, that's my museum visiting style.

You can read the other Travel Belles' posts on this topic (no doubt more cultured than mine) here.

Working that windswept look in Tarifa

2011-09-15T19:00:00.000+02:00

By the time my summer holiday rolled around, the whole office knew about it. 'Oh, are you going away somewhere?' they mocked, understandably sick of hearing about my beach break for the hundredth time. Pesada, me? I was so excited about a few days of switching off, sunbathing and worrying about nothing more taxing then where my next meal was coming from to care.

Welcome to Spain, welcome to Tarifa

The gusts of wind that had me frantically clawing the hem of my beach dress southwards as we made our way to the hostal should have been a strong enough indication of what was in store. Of course I'd heard that since Tarifa is the southernmost tip of Europe, straddling both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, it's lucky enough to be besieged by the double whammy of levante and poniente winds. This makes the town popular with surfers, but as we soon learned, it can complicate matters for the average holidaymaker.

All quiet on the beach: how deceptive images can be

After a leisurely lunch at Cafe Central, we made our way to Tarifa's main beach, on the Atlantic side. A wide expanse of sand barely occupied on a Monday afternoon, it seemed ideal for a spot of sunbathing. Sure, it was a bit breezy, but a pair of hardy northerners like me and V would be fine. Plonking our beach towels down, we delved in our bags for the sun cream: mistake #1. Applying the lotion with one hand while desperately attempting to prevent a towel from taking flight requires both patience and dexterity. Just when you think you've mastered it and managed to plaster your white bits with enough cream to prevent epic sunburn, a raging gust of levante whips half a ton of sand onto your body and you're wearing the beach. Sand suits well and truly on, we persevered, valiantly trying to make progress with our holiday reading material. After half an hour, my wind-ruffled book was double its previous size; we looked like a pair of human croquetas who had backcombed their hair and then slept on it for a week. There was only one thing for it: we needed a cup of tea.

Beach abandoned, we spent the rest of the afternoon recovering from our ordeal and people-watching over cups of tea at Bamboo. Time and people move slowly in Tarifa, and the town's laid-back vibe suited us just fine after the beach incident. From our vantage point on the cafe's terrace, we could see the Tangier-bound ferry in the harbour, its klaxon sounding before each departure: in just 35 minutes, you can disembark in another continent. Its coastline visible from Tarifa, Morocco's influence on the town is just as discernible in the North African-infuenced menus, the whitewashed walls, the styles of dress. Added to the cosmopolitan mix of boho types and the town's laid-back ambience, and the reason for Tarifa's popularity is clear. It may not be the ideal beach destination when the levante's blowing unless you're a surfing enthusiast (or enjoy a powerful exfoliation while you sunbathe), but this pretty coastal town has more than enough charm to compensate.

As the afternoon stretched into evening, we traded tea for tinto de verano. After a pre-dinner dinner (my favourite meal of the day) of Greek salad and a veggie burger, we returned to Hostal La Calzada to remove what was left of the beach from our limbs (and bags, and hair). Spruced up, de-sanded and ready to explore, a quick wander of the old town quickly assured us that even on a Monday night, Tarifa is jumping. After a few drinks and tapas, we ended up ensconced in a bar watching an eclectic mixture of customers tango-ing their way into the small hours.

Tanning fuel

On day two, we chose to concentrate on what we decided Tarifa does best: food. After a substantial breakfast of muesli, yoghurt, fruit, coffee and juice, we came up with a creative solution to our tanning dilemma: after all, I couldn't go back to the office as pasty and pale as I'd left it. Half an hour later, we were seated by the harbour watching the comings and goings of the ferry from our very own sand-free beach: a lovely patch of concrete. Tarifa, I loved you, I just didn't want to wear you.

Hasta luego, Tarifa

Tattoos and tat: My favourite souvenir

2011-08-13T16:58:00.002+02:00

In the backlash against our capitalist, consumerist culture, we're forever being hectored about our big spending ways and irrepressible urge to possess. While I wholeheartedly agree with all this in theory, I just can't hide the fact that I love acquiring stuff. Yes, 'stuff': a new dress, another cookbook to add to the pile I peruse once every few months, yet more nail varnish. As you can see, I don't exactly blow megabucks on all this stuff; there are no impulse iPad purchases or flatscreen TVs. I keep it small.

Given how much I love to travel and to acquire items of minimal practical use, you'd think I'd be quite the fan of holiday souvenirs. Yet somehow, tourist tat is my blind spot: novelty pens and T-shirts proudly emblazoned with destination names do nothing for me. I once decided to start a collection of snow globes from my travels; this amounts to one lone dome languishing on my windowsill. As I usually travel with hand luggage only, it seems ridiculous to waste valuable liquid space on a water-filled plastic sphere. So when I saw that the topic for this month's Across the Cafe Table on The Travel Belles was 'my favourite souvenir', I wondered what I could possibly write about. Those lovely Moroccan tea glasses purchased in 2008 and still wrapped up in newspaper, perhaps?

Surprisingly, my favourite souvenir isn't a material object. I don't even have it any more; it only survives in photos. When I visited Singapore and Malaysia in 2010, it was the first time I'd been so far from home, and the first time I'd travelled alone outside of Europe. So I wanted a souvenir that fitted with this theme of firsts: something new and different I'd never experienced before. I chose a henna tattoo.

On my last night in Malaysia, I saw a lady sitting in the street in Kuala Lumpur's Little India. On the plastic table in front of her were photos of intricate, swirling floral designs on the arms and legs of smiling customers. Sitting down, I asked for something small on my left hand. Minutes later, a series of loops and flourishes were working their way up down my fingers and up my forearm: we clearly had different ideas of small. I had no complaints though: as I watched her artistry unfold, I marvelled at her creativity. The floral motifs creeping up my arm weren't based on any design, just her own imagination.

Work in progress

A few minutes later, her work was done. She asked me for 5 Ringgit (one pound). Horrified that such a work of art could cost so little, I paid her double. Walking through the streets of KL with my newly-tattooed arm, I was careful to avoid smudging her handiwork and couldn't stop admiring it for days afterwards. As souvenirs go, it wasn't the most durable, but to me it was worth so much more than any novelty item.

The finished article

You can read about the rest of the Travel Belles' favourite souvenirs here.

My 7 Links: Tales of a Brit Abroad

2011-07-25T22:25:00.000+02:00

Jessica of Through My Eyes and Katy of Starry-Eyed Travels nominated me to take part in Tripbase's My 7 Links project, an endeavour designed to bring bloggers from all sectors together in a new way of sharing their work with the world and resurrecting long-forgotten posts.

Since moving back to the UK one year ago this Saturday, I've been trying my sometimes tenuously-linked best to continue Tales of a Brit Abroad, so the chance to peek into the blog's back catalogue and rediscover some of my old posts is a welcome opportunity.

Here are my seven links:

1. Most beautiful: Express Marrakech

My camera's far from the best on the market, but even its humble 8 megapixel powers managed to capture something of the beauty of Marrakech's medina. Spending just 48 hours there was an ideal weekend escape from the grim grey days of an English January, injecting my winter with the non-stop buzz of the city's old town, the colourful whirl of life in the souks and the budget bites on offer in the Djemaa el Fna.
This post was also published on Travel Blog Exchange and in the Manchester Evening News.

2. Most popular post: Bilbao: It ain't grim up north

My second ever post remains my most popular - perhaps I peaked too soon? A record of a fun weekend spent in the Basque city of Bilbao, reading this post makes me want to explore northern Spain further.

3. Most controversial: Brushing shoulders with Brits abroad on the Costa del Sol

I'm not really in the business of polemical posting, but I think my most fitting post for this heading is this account of my summer 2010 visit to one of Britain's most popular foreign holiday destinations, the Costa del Sol. Part of the original premise of my blog was to uncover a side of Spain that most of my compatriots never witness, yet when re-visiting my teenage holiday destination I found far more unspoilt pockets and cultural fusion than I expected.

4. Most helpful: Madrid: My way or the guide's way?

Based on the idea that expats can sometimes make the best tour guides, this is my itinerary for a weekend in my former home city, the Spanish capital of Madrid.

5. Surprisingly successful: The story of pizza at La Perla di Napoli

I have no idea way, but this tale of my 'last supper' at an eccentric Italian restaurant on the eve of my departure from Madrid is the second most popular post on Tales of a Brit Abroad.

6. One that didn't get the attention it deserved: A culinary experience in France's gastronomic capital

Perhaps because I enjoyed this Algerian meal in Lyon so much that over one year on I can still taste it, I hoped that this post would also be enjoyed by many.

7. The post I'm most proud of: Spain's World Cup victory, near hysteria and the goalie's cheekbones

Quite simply, this is my favourite post. Re-reading it always makes me laugh as I remember the night of the Spanish national football team's victory parade in July 2010, when my friend K and I chased their bus through the streets of Madrid as though we were trying to outrun Usain Bolt. One of the most fun nights of my life (and the night I proposed to Sergio Ramos) captured in my most fun post.

Thanks for nominating me and giving me the excuse to wander down blog memory lane, Jessica and Katy!

My nominations for the project are:
Becoming Sevillana (British expat Kim in Sevilla)
The Pea's Kneas (Oxfordshire food blogger Sarah)
Rachael Schofield (Rachael's visual design and travel diary)
Scriptorious Logos (books, films and musings from Gemma)

Around Seville, one tapas bar at a time

2011-07-20T22:10:00.001+02:00

A plate of perfectly-prepared ensaladilla de gambas in a swanky modern gastro bar. A peep at the Corpus Christi preparations in Seville's Plaza de San Francisco. A helping of creamy goat's cheese with caramelised onions served by suited and booted waiters with slicked-back hair. A walk through the former Jewish quarter, the barrio de Santa Cruz, followed by a selection of tuna tapas at a specialist bar-restaurant. This is no ordinary tour: it's a Sevilla Tapas tour.

For the past few years, Canadian-born Shawn Hennessy has put her extensive knowledge of her adopted home city's culinary scene to good use, guiding small groups of visitors around Seville's tapas bars on tours tailored to their own tastes. Staying with my friend Vicki in nearby Utrera for a few days, we presented a double challenge: two pescetarian former residents of the city. Would Shawn be able to cater to our dietary requirements and satisfy our stomachs in previously uncharted tapas territory?

In a word, yes. Meeting by the cathedral for a lunchtime tour, Shawn reeled off a list of four bars we'd never visited, some we'd never even heard of. So far, so shameful on our part. First on the list was Albarama, a recent arrival on the Seville scene serving creative modern morsels, as well as twists on traditional tapas. Settling in with a glass of wine, friendly Shawn talked us through the menu, helping us to select three tapas: those on the tour can select anything they like, but those unfamiliar with Spanish cooking or just keen to sample each restaurant's specialities can learn a lot from her guidance. Our choices of boletus croquettes with a leek sauce, ensaladilla de gambas (a potato, mayonnaise and prawn salad) and the 'envoltini' (squid ribbons with asparagus, served with tartar sauce) were beautifully presented, but style didn't triumph over substance: they tasted as good as they looked. Vegetarian croquetas can be a dull, greasy affair, but the high-quality ingredients and addition of the leek sauce made these a tasty dish even for meat-eaters, while the ensaladilla even won round serial prawn-dodger Vicki.

Croquetas and envoltini

Stomachs suitably warmed up, we moved on to the much more traditional Enrique Becerra, a restaurant and tapas bar so old school it even features pillars looted from the Roman ruins at Italica in the days when pilfering from ancient monuments wasn't frowned upon. As we waited for our tapas to arrive, we chatted easily about food, life in Spain and Seville: Shawn normally talks to visitors about the city, but as we were already familiar with the city, talk naturally wandered wider. Presented to us by a smartly-clad yet super friendly waiter, our saquito de bacalo ('cod-filled parcel of joy' is how any good dictionary should translate it) and portion of goat's cheese served with caramelised onions and fresh bread raised the bar even higher. The saquito's pastry was perfectly crisp; the cod flaky and light. The goat's cheese was creamy and lip-smackingly moreish - and I don't even usually like goat's cheese. We were definitely in no doubt of the quality of ingredients used here.

Saquito de bacalao

By stop number three, participants are usually tiring, their stomachs showing signs of struggle. Not so the two hardy northerners: we were just getting started on Seville's culinary delights. In the heart of the barrio de Santa Cruz, La Sal is a smart restaurant and tapas bar run by Charo, who hails from coastal Zahara de los Atunes in Cadiz, where her family own another restaurant. Both eateries specialise in tuna almadraba, freshly caught and flash-frozen for maximum freshness and taste. We tucked into tuna tataky (a rare cut of tuna soaked in a soy and ginger sauce) and tuna steak roasted with rosemary and served with a red pepper conft, with seaweed tortillitas rounding off the sea-based theme. All of this was washed down by a refreshing glass of Botani wine, produced in Malaga and one of Shawn's favourites for good reason - she certainly has a finely-tuned palate.

Tortillitas and tataky

With an extra stop thrown in out of generosity for a fellow blogger, Shawn saved the best until last. By the time the three of us rolled into Vineria San Telmo at 4pm, our stomachs were reserving just a sliver of space. But once Vicki and I saw the menu, our capacity to eat increased: squid ink spaghetti served with scallops, bulgur wheat with mushrooms and truffle oil and panko prawns with a courgette stack were all as delicious as they sounded, and worth the waistband strain. I couldn't even play favourites; every dish was full of flavour and immaculately presented. The gorgeous tapas, boho-chic interior and friendly international staff made Vineria San Telmo a winner in our books - so much so that we somehow managed to make room for a dessert of three-chocolate flan.

Panko prawns, squid ink spaghetti & bulgur wheat with mushrooms

Our afternoon spent in Seville in Shawn's company was quite simply one of the best I've had in a long time. The tour was unhurried, fun and full of expert advice. If you're a food lover looking to get the most out of a trip to the city, a Sevilla Tapas tour is the perfect place to start. Just make sure to wear something with an elasticated waistband: it wouldn't do to restrict your eating abilities with so many tapa treats to be had.

To find out more about Sevilla Tapas tours, visit Shawn's website, which also features comprehensive listings of tapas bars all over Seville.

An overnight stop at Yotel Gatwick

2011-07-04T12:30:00.003+02:00

I envy people who can fall asleep on public transport. Not so much my friend who regularly used to nod off on Madrid's circle line, waking up at the same stop on every lap, but the ability to lay your head anywhere certainly comes into its own when travelling. I've lost count of the number of times I've stared wide-eyed and wide awake around a coachload of faintly snoring passengers at an hour when we all should have been tucked up in our respective beds. Journeys to airports to catch a red-eye flight are the worst provokers of jealousy: never have I been so envious of open-mouthed drooling in public as I have at 3am on the way to Gatwick.

Before a recent 6am flight to Seville, I decided enough was enough: I couldn't face the 2am bus journey. Spending the night at Gatwick was an obvious solution, but given my inability to sleep anywhere other than the most logical of places and my need for a bit of comfort, the check-in area floor was never going to be an option. A hotel stay was definitely required, but I didn't really want to rise at 3am to get a connecting bus from a hotel to the terminal.

The solution to my conundrum came in the form Yotel, the 'cabin hotel' handily located in Gatwick's South Terminal arrivals area (and just a few steps away from departures). Founded by the people behind Yo Sushi, this smart little spot offers weary travellers the chance to bed down in a private ensuite room of petite proportions before or after their flights. With cabins available for a minimum of 4 hours (and a minimum cost of £26), it's the perfect place to get some shut-eye in comfort.

Arriving on Friday at 9.30pm, the lift whisked me away from the throng outside arrivals and into a pocket of low-lit serenity in the underbelly of the airport. I attempted to check in using the machines outside the door, but seeing me faffing around in a quest to find my reservation confirmation, the friendly receptionist waved me inside and did the honours, talking me through the cabin's features and even offering me an alarm clock and a pair of earplugs.

Stepping inside the corridor to the cabins, the sense of calm increased. This place was clearly designed with nothing but rest in mind. Opening the door to my premium cabin, I found a 4 star hotel room in miniature: a double bed in a semi-upright position, ready to go horizontal at the touch of a button; a wall-mounted flat screen TV; a drop-down desk; clothes hanging space; a full-length mirror and a bathroom which ran the entire length of the room, featuring a waterfall shower. The cabins might feel a little snug for 2 people, but for a few hours' rest you certainly couldn't complain, and the galley-style bathroom was far better than some I've encountered in bigger hotels.

A premium cabin

Too tired to take advantage of the free Wifi and tens of TV channels, I got ready for bed immediately. Settling back for a night's sleep, I lowered the bed (in standard cabins guests unfold them from the walls themselves) and dimmed the lights to a soft purple glow. With a choice of light settings by the side of your bed, you'll have no problem winding down or waking yourself back up again. The mattress was firm but comfortable and there was a stack of fluffy pillows for maximum comfort. As I switched the lights off entirely, I didn't envy those crashed out on the coach one little bit.

Rising at 4am, I showered, repacked my overnight bag and checked out, pleasantly surprised by how awake I felt at such an unearthly hour. Almost bouncing into the flight check-in queue, I felt fresh and ready for the journey and a day of sightseeing in the Seville heat. Looking around at my weary-eyed, crumple-clothed fellow passengers, I couldn't say the same for them. Yotel, I salute you: you're the perfect solution to my early flight dilemma. No more wakeful nights on a bus for me - I'll be soundly asleep in my little cabin.

Yotel also has branches at Heathrow Terminal 4, Amsterdam Schipol and a new city hotel in New York. I was a guest of Yotel.

Rocky times in Lagos

2011-06-25T20:58:00.000+02:00

After almost two weeks hauling our luggage on and off Portuguese public transport, Rachael and I arrived in Lagos. Confronted with a coastal resort where you're just as likely to hear English or German on the streets as you are to catch a snippet of the native language, where happy hour cocktail signs abound and sunning yourself is one of the key preoccupations, we instantly felt 'on holiday' from what had become our daily routine. The sun had finally put in more than a teasingly cruel appearance after a week of grey skies, drizzle and the odd storm. There was no denying it: Lagos was looking good.

Lagos marina

In the western Algarve, this popular holiday destination has more appeal than the nearby overdeveloped resort towns of Portimao and Praia da Rocha. The walled old town has a choice of pretty squares, perfect for relaxing with a drink; there's a modern yacht-filled marina and a selection of beaches, from cosy coves to the larger sweep of surfers' favourite Meia Praia. Now that we were in holiday mode, surfing sounded far too energetic, so we opted instead for a boat trip down the Lagos coastline. A stunning series of rocky outcrops and caves, some of the curious formations are named after the shapes they represent: the camel proved a fairly accurate description, but I was unconvinced by the idea of a grotto resembling a living room. That's certainly not an idea my mother would be on board with, anyway.

Reading slowly at Lisbon's LX Factory

2011-06-14T09:30:00.000+02:00

On the site of a former factory in western Lisbon, there's a quiet revolution against the advent of e-books. Hip bookshop Ler Devagar (read slowly) encourages customers to put aside technology for long enough to enjoy the pleasures of the printed word on the page.

Occupying a multi-storey space in LX Factory, Lisbon's newest creative space, Ler Devagar is a work of art in itself. Piles of Portuguese and international paperbacks on subjects from architecture to politics to travel line artistically laid-out shelves, a bicycle with wings takes flight in the centre of the shop and a retired printing press has found new life as a cocktail bar. Selling both new and secondhand works, Ler Devagar features a cafe where customers can linger, enjoying a good read in a light, airy space. The calm atmosphere encourages you to linger and wander, perusing the shelves and flicking through tomes in tongues you don't understand. At Ler Devagar, the book is celebrated as an object, attaining a beauty and tangibility that words on a screen will never have.

Sit down, sip a cup of tea, stay a while.

Across the cafe table #1: My secret travel indulgence

2011-06-08T09:07:00.000+02:00

Once a month, The Travel Belles founder Margo and the site's contributors will be pulling up a pew around a virtual cafe table to discuss a travel-related question, with the answers displayed both on the site and on our own blogs. Starting proceedings with a confession, this month's question is what's your secret travel indulgence?

A cashmere blanket on the plane perhaps? Very Victoria Beckham. Or a silk pillowcase I take everywhere with me? Oh no. My secret travel indulgence is nothing so glamorous. For here I must hold my hand up and confess to buying trashy gossip magazines.

My in-flight reading material of choice, from a recent trip to Barcelona

Some people find airports stressful: not me. Once I arrive, my holiday has begun. I browse the duty free section unhurriedly, try on sunglasses, perhaps treat myself to a new lipstick, people watch over a coffee. I also indulge in behaviour I wouldn't necessarily risk at home: I go into WH Smith and stock up on a few issues of such quality publications as Heat, Now and Closer. There's something about a holiday - or even just a plane journey, as a recent business trip proved no exception - that makes me want to leave my novel in my carry-on and pore over the lives of the rich and 'famous' instead. Jennifer Aniston has yet another new haircut that looks pretty much the same as the last one? Fascinating! A former Big Brother contestant was in a nightclub brawl? Terrible. One of the girls from The Only Way is Essex bought a new handbag? OK, I'll skip that story until at least half an hour into the flight.

You can see why I kept this indulgence a secret until now, can't you? But hey, my reading taste deserves a little holiday too... doesn't it?

You can find the other Belles' secret indulgences here. Many are no doubt more glamorous than my guilty gossip magazine pleasure.