Hosts from Hell

The day is closing in on me as the seasons shift and the temperature drops. Those cold shivers are making their way into my bones and the thickness of my clothing is increasing by the day. Minced pies prematurely line the shelves of supermarkets next to the halloween pumpkins as a little reminder that winter is near.  But despite the difficulty that the cold brings, one does have to appreciate that cosy feeling; being inside, engulfed by warm winter duvets and clouds of pillows, wearing your wooliest socks and watching a good autumn movie (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaHmg4ulyfE).

LBD and I have moved into our new, sexy refurbished 2 bedroom apartment; a process that has been chaotic and stressful but worth every moment to get the results of a home that we reeally want to spend time in. And ooh my days, how greatly we appreciate living in a comfortable house that doesn't have the lingering smell of fish seeping out underneath mysterious closed doors... Let me rewind a little bit. 

Just as summer slipped by..

So I arrived back in the UK after a long 2 day whirlwind of a journey from Kuala Lumpur to Delhi, through Dubai to London and then finally to Bristol. I watched summer spin off about halfway through the second flight, floating down onto one of the glorious mountain ranges that I gazed at from our tiny portal in the sky. As our lease wasn't due to start for another 10
days (and the number of bags I'd left for my future self to pick up was exceeding my capabilities) I'd organised for us to stay at a convenient Airbnb that was close to uni and our new place. How simple it all seemed.
After a nurturing pit-stop at my grandmas in London, I rode back to Briz with an old friend L, catching up on our extreme summers and listening to some good tunes. I opted to stay at hers for the night, enjoying comfort and company and delaying the move to our 'lovely' new Airbnb. Uni started first thing the next morning and the reality hit couldn't have been more intense. I broke my first sweat running to the catch the bus as I nervously glanced at the time on my dying phone, trying to figure out how late I was going to be and where the hell I was supposed to go. AH! The rat race had begun.

That afternoon, I went to meet our hosts that had just made a free 40 pounds from our lack of appearance the night before. I was shown into our dingy room with its drab curtains and stained carpets. It was like stepping into a really depressing care home set in the 1930's... but there was a sure silver lining when I was told that there was 'fresh' water in the jug (... at least I didn't have to worry about mould in the water?) As I started to unpack my many bags, my phone rings and I hear a friendly and unmistakeable 'Good friend o' mine!' at the other end. My partner in crime LBD had arrived with a beaming smile and a backpack of belongings. I showed him into the house and my nose again crumpled at the strange odour of damp fish... the hosts J & E were standing under the door frame in the confined, dark hallway. LBD stood, polite and eager as ever with his hands clasped in prayer position introducing himself. We chatted about the small things in life until we accidentally hit a sore spot. Detecting the foreign accents of our hosts, LBD asked innocently where they were from, creating quite the unexpected reaction. "Jewish" E muttered, while J began hysterically repeating "No! No! No! We do not talk about that!". We apologised and the energy of the hallway became tense, the conversation quickly moved on to practicalities. We'd realised a few days before arriving that the kitchen was unfortunately not one of the public areas of the house listed online for guests but we'd been offered hot meals for 5 pounds each... The offer was quickly retracted following this dip in conversation, instead it was suggested that if we were on a budget, we hopped on the lunch offer at the local supermarket that was available around the corner until 6pm. As much as the thought of stale egg and cress sandwiches thrilled me, I settled for a ready-made soup from Co'op. The host E and I ran into a spat when I stepped back into the gloomy hallway and asked if there was a microwave available, she responded defensively, revealing her phobia of microwaves and repeating that we were not allowed access to the kitchen. Oh dear...

LBD and I sat on our beds, hoping that the negative vibes would disperse and not foreshadow a difficult 10 days. Host J came up to our room and knocked on the door holding a saucepan and offering to heat up my soup as a one off favour. He stood lurking in the shadows of the doorway, eerily eyeing LBD through the slim crack of light... I thanked him, passed over my soup and politely turned down the offer to watch a movie downstairs. We danced to the silence of our eerie room, wondering what all the other guests were doing and eventually dozed off in the comfort of our damp beds. 

We followed a strict routine. The noise curfew was 10pm and there was a sign in the shower reminding us to only be a few minutes. Breakfast was between 8-10am and for 20 pounds/night we received an exciting assortment of 3 pieces of bread and a choice of spreads that got recycled daily. The first breakfast that we made on time was on day 3 and our bread was going stale from oxidisation having been left in a sandwich bag since we'd arrived, mm. I swigged some instant coffee and ran to catch the bus to work, late again. The week was wavy; rajasic moments of mania, seeing old friends, getting back into daily struggles and living in-between houses to avoid our situation... The energy would then drop into a tamasic lethargy, burnt out from the the race. 

Escapes to the park

On the third day, the uncomfortable environment of the Airbnb took its toll, so we decided the money wasn't worth it and tried to cancel our booking. The policy was a 50% return unless the hosts were happy to refund it all. I crossed my fingers, took a deep breath and called them up with a cheery tone. It didn't take long to realise that if we left now, we weren't going to get our money back for the next 7 days. J responded aggressively, shocked that I'd even consider breaking the policy and promising to report Airbnb for their lack of professionalism. Suddenly his tone changed, "we'd be happy to have you". I pictured a cheshire cat looking at me with a wide sarcastic grin... oh the superficiality that can exist in hospitality "Oh we'd be thrilled to stay."
The 10 days finally came to a close and the story reached its climax. It was 8.30am and check-out was at 10, we were well prepared having been warned we were not to out-stay our 'welcome'. Our bags were packed and ready to go into the garage where we were to collect them at 7pm exactly. I'd even managed to fit in a spot of yoga on the smelly, stained carpet that I was growing so fond of, the fishy odour had almost started reminding me of home... and then it all kicked off.
I had 5 minutes to make a piece of toast, gulp a cup of coffee and return my key before the tight schedule of the move-in day began. My partner in crime hadn't returned the night before and had misplaced his key (that he later found). This sent E into hysterics and I was quickly launched out of my satvic state with a rapid pulse as I desperately tried to ring LBD. With one hand I buttered my toast and with the other I held my phone, attempting to shout over the rising noise in the room. Their remarks had become personal attacks, from what 'pigs' we were (leaving 4 mugs in our room) to how hilarious it was that I did Yoga. Hospitable host #2 soon joined in "Who do you think you are, asking us where we are from, you are racist!" 1 minute left before I had to get the bus.

MOVING HOUSE!

LBD agreed to arrive before check-out to discuss the key-issue in person. I put the phone into my pocket, handed them my key and began walking away from E that was red with rage and asking to be taken to the health clinic. I got halfway down the street before I hear "NO! Come back here!" She didn't want our stuff in her garage anymore so began to open the door, threatening to leave it all outside. "We are going to report you to the police, the health centre and your university for racial hate crimes." That's when my body started to shake... the thought of our macbooks, passports and money sitting on the street with nowhere to put them and having to deal with false accusations of racism on top of collecting a house of furniture and moving in. AHHHH.
Needless to say, they had nothing to report. I did not go back at 7pm that night, so LBD and our mate T experienced the last of the love. They returned having experienced another wave of insults and some insight into their mysterious ways (when they revealed having had their car keyed a few times...) Our report on the matter was taken down from Airbnb as it did not follow regulations, so E & J will continue to exist according to their profile as 'open-minded, fun and sporty individuals'; but for anyone looking for a temporary home, I'd suggest looking beyond the devil horns of 32 Filton Grove. 

Song of the Day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjFaenf1T-Y

A sleepless night

Desert traffic

Continuing on from my last post: our camel tour began at 3pm and B. (who was pioneering it) closed down the hostel for the night to join us along with volunteers M & Y. I began the journey a little apprehensive after receiving uncomfortable warnings from the locals about sexual harassment - having 2 minor negative TripAdvisor reviews shoved into our faces, 5 minutes before we left. We dismissed their accusations, wondering whether they were due to jealousy or an attempt to knock out their competition (that was rated highly on TripAdvisor). We all squashed into the jeep and began the hour long journey into the desert; it consisted of a symphony of loud Hindi pop, bumpy roads and clusters of wild camels that were perfectly camouflaged against the beige landscape. I watched fondly as 2 cows played, butting heads and frolicking around the lush green shrubs. It was a rare moment in India to see cows playing in their natural surroundings: away from the bombardment of traffic, fluorescent lights and piles of rancid rubbish.

After a pit stop at a nearby lake, we arrived at B's village and were introduced to our camels. I was going to be riding 'Raju', B. proudly explained that he'd won a few of the local Rajasthani camel races... I prayed that its racing streak wouldn't kick in mid-safari... As the camels sat placid with their legs awkwardly bent behind them, I noticed that hard calluses had formed where their bodies touched the ground on the back of their calves and under their chests. They were mounted with old brass saddles that were rusty and worn from constant usage and piled high with our mattresses for the night. We sat down on our beautiful beasts and I centered myself, engaging my thighs and trying to get used to the unusual sensation of riding an animal. B rode with me for the first half, pointing out the holes created by desert foxes, wild gazelles that shied behind far away bushes and the plenitude of huge black beetles rolling around balls of camel dung. We rode for hours with the rhythm of our animals into what eventually became a setting sun. Passing the odd tourist group who were also wearing flowy headscarves and looking enchanted.
The camels driver pulled on the reigns and the volatile rhythm started to slow down as we reached our designated spot and my thighs gave in. A few other desert folk from nearby villages sat squatting on the ground, waiting to pamper the camels and set up dinner.
Besides the terrifying moment of Raju almost knocking us off his back, it was all well and lovely: headstands in the sand, racing down dunes and feeling the wild, rough energy of the desert. I even learnt the art of making chapatti for the first time! But as the night wore on, the deserted skies began to form heavy clouds that were visible through yellow flashes that illuminated the picturesque landscape. Plan B, if it rained was to sleep in the nearest village. But as the water droplets started to fall, the plan was for some reason abandoned in favour of lying on our mattresses on the sand, under a plastic tarpaulin that was used for the camels. The energy of the group soon became confused agitation, with no help from the Bhang cookies that were uneasily digesting in our tummys (interestingly, Bhang: the male marijuana plant is legal everywhere in India).
We lay, smothered by a plastic sheet feeling the pressure of the rain against our bodies as it started to pour. The holes in the plastic, that were of variable size soon became evident as I awoke with bloodshot eyes every half hour to another stream of water dripping on my feet or forehead. It felt like a bloody Chinese torture method. The crackle of the plastic would send me in and out of dreams, as someone else's hand angrily punched the cover off our faces (that was far too close for comfort). We'd expected the storm to pass after about 30 minutes, an hour at the most, with great reassurance from B who knew best...

Om nama Shiva ;)

5 hours later, in a half wake- half sleep state, we all shoved the plastic sheet off our faces, that now reeked of camel. My clothes and mattress were soaking and stained pink from the leaking rose print on the mattress. The fine desert sand that had once felt like a gentle exfoliant, was now chafing against my sticky skin with each toss and turn. And then the mozzies arrived... desert life suddently seemed to lose its appeal. I awoke for the final time to feel the warmth of someone's body against my back, a strangers hand was comfortably draped over my hips and there was subtle breathing in my ear. It was the camel driver (that had definitely started off sleeping 4 people away): suddenly the previous days warning didn't seem so silly... I was not up for a ride at all, so I swiftly got up, shaking off the night like a damp dog and wandering across the golden hills that were cleansed from the nights rain. I did a few rounds of Surya Namaskar, saluting the rising sun and slowly and sleepily the rest of the group awoke for breakfast.

That morning, we rode back across the dunes in silence, reflecting upon our noisy night. We returned to Jaiselmer in a lethargic blur, unamused by the deafening Hindi pop that was no longer entertaining. B kindly allowed us to wash up and regain a bit of a strength with a cup of masala chai before we ventured (with whatever remainder of energy) for one last dizzy day in the desert heat. With my mouth feeling as dry as Ghandi's flip flop, I now lie, propped up by my uncomfortably stuffed backpack on a luxurious, air conditioned sleeper bus en route to Udaipur. N has crashed out with the activities of the last few days, so I turn my head to look out the murky window: the great golden ball is slowly falling through the dusty sky - a perfect lasting image of Jaisalmer: The City of Gold.

 
Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3lWwBslWqg

L'amour est dans l'air

The view from our apartment

I sit beside the bay window of our little 35 square foot apartment overlooking Montmartre, Paris. The morning sun is divine, it’s been a grey few days but that faded pastel-like colour that the city takes on, compliments its romantic mysticism. It’s Valentines weekend and I couldn’t think of a more beautiful place to spend it, we’ve eaten escargot and frogs legs, drank beautiful red Bordeaux, sipped on espresso’s and smoked cigarettes in true Parisian style, with some sort of ancient architecture sitting casually in the background – from the Eiffel tower to Notre Damn, I’ve fallen in love all over again...

Walkabouts

The rally

Our Journey here wasn’t the smoothest – from Bristol to London we missed our first bus, leaving us 20 minutes to catch the megabus, we gave in and called a taxi, stopping by home for the second time to pick up a few things we’d inevitably forgotten. J had slept funny on his neck the night before so spent the bus ride dozing off to try and forget about the kink, while I tossed and turned, debating whether or not it was appropriate to play dub inc. on loudspeaker as we’d both lost our headphones… I decided against it when the man behind me made a few obvious throat-clearing noises, obviously not feeling the valentines love just yet.

Valentines roses

Eiffel Tower

Arc Du triomphe

We arrived in London, had a quick bite at Victoria station, J opting for a burrito while I went for affordable sushi at Wasabi, mmm. Arriving at my second home and feeling waves of nostalgia as I thought of M and G relaxing on a beautiful beach in Rio J. It was funny hearing about how our 14 year old brothers have all been experiencing wild parties with drunk, messy kids; ‘why’s there always a group of girls crying when they get drunk Jess?’ my brother asked me.. haha, I didn’t quite know how to respond..

So we all caught up, had a cup of tea and snuggled into bed with the thought of having to get up in 5 hours looming over us…

Automatic-wake-up-mode at 5am, somehow the 20 minutes flew by with the achievement being putting on a pair of socks and taking my bag downstairs. We get to the tube expecting the next one to be in 5 minutes according to TFL, so I rubbed my eyes when at first glimpse it read ’27 minutes’. With cortisol levels rising and my mind finally starting to wake up we glanced at our Eurostar tickets to Paris and the words ‘be at check-in 30 minutes before departure’ stood out in Bold Times New Roman. We had 30 minutes to go and were nowhere close. But being Jack and Jill, we figured it out - jumping on the first tube/ train of the morning at various stations, skipping the line at St.Pancreas, dealing with an embarrassing moment when the lady at security rummaged through J’s bag to pull out metal cuffs... great. She laughed; we ran and jumped onto our train 10 minutes before it left. Phew…

Notre Dame in the background

Fromaaageriee

Crashing out after a bite for breakfast we woke up in the land of the French, fight and flight mode kicking in as the countdown began for finding our apartment before the lady with the keys left. 40 minutes – go. I hate how arguments usually start when you’re stressed out, it’s those little bursts that get let out on the person your energy’s directed at. So we bickered, trying to work out what all these French signs meant, seeking solace with the street sweeper who was being blanked by the beautifully dressed women walking passed him. With a huge smile he lead the way to ‘rue caulincourt’, we pulled out the instructions for the apartment and looked up at the dreaded staircase that we had to climb with our big backpacks. Needless to say, the cold no longer affected us after the hike upstairs, we ripped off our layers and dumped our bags to look upon the quaint one bedroom apartment that looked over thousands of chimneys and beautiful balconies, stretching for miles across the beautiful city. We talked through the nuts and bolts with the landlord, lit incense and danced around; it’s great when it feels like midday at 10am. 

A sad song

We dressed up, putting on a Parisian hat and red lipstick and wandered the bustling streets, entering ‘little Africa’ in slight bewilderment at the sudden culture shift from the Moulin Rouge that was only located 10 minutes away. A huge part of the Parisian community consists of people of Maghrebi or Sub-saharan African origin, as we walked past ‘blanche’ station we approached fast paced rhythmic drum beats and a huge circle of people in a collective effervescent trance. We turned the corner and entered a cool café, pin ups scattered the walls and melody gardot played in the background. Being gluten intolerant in France wasn’t fun, walking past the fragrant patisseries, oven baked pizzas and fresh pasta, but we managed. Steak and chips was our first (and cheapest) meal where we met M, an Italian-Parisian who gave us some local tips and translated the foreign menu – I didn’t realize not speaking French would be this much of a problem. But to be honest, it’s quite refreshing not feeling bombarded with information everywhere you look, it allows you to focus on everything else. After our first glass of red, we saw the bus we’d been told to catch and ran along beside it until the bus driver stopped in the middle of the road (a few hundred metres before the bus stop) to let us on. ‘Troquedero’ was our stop, the most cliché and essential site in Paris where high in the sky stands, The Eiffel tower.

Escargot

Moulin Rouge

On the walk from the bus stop we spotted a few other couples basking in the romance of the scene, we walked through idyllic parks with stone statues of cupid and crystal water flowing into the bowl that the birds were perched on. The Arc Du Triomphe stood impressively in the centre of a huge intersection and surrounding it marched army men, standing in groups and taking photo’s for a commemoration of some sort. We walked up to it, gazing at the detailed scenes of war and struggle, poppy reefs lay scattered at its base. The sun was slowly going down and the clouds were clearing the way for the orange and pink hues to shine through above the dark construction of the Eiffel tower. On first glance I have to say it reminded me of a triangular construction site, but at a closer glance you can see the magnificence of it’s height and stature next to the rushing river and the huge buildings. We joined the tourists in snapping a few memorable photo’s, J cringing slightly at the cheesiness of it all – but that was the best part. We enjoyed a strong (6 Euro!?) espresso as the sun went down and we listened to all the ‘beautiful sites’ we could go and see from a tour guide (that didn’t seem to understand that 50Euros for an hour was not something we could afford.)

On our way home we made a few pit stops, the fromagerie for some camembert, goats cheese and a mysterious French cheese we’d never tried before, baguettes (and rye bread), chutney, strawberries, chocolate and wine. We climbed up the staircase that didn’t feel any shorter, put on ‘Paradise’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WkIHHY_ZIE) and settled into the night. Facebook being the great connector that it is put us in touch with some friends from our old home Kuala Lumpur and within the hour, we were having a drink and catching up in their city before they ran to catch (and miss) the last train home.

Notre Dame

Palestine demo

We forgot to set our alarm so woke up later than we’d have liked and ended up leaving the house by 1pm – it’s ridiculous considering how much time it actually takes you to get ready.. Notre Dame was on the list today, en-route we walked through a Gaza demonstration and talked to a few passionate people about the situation in Palestine and Israel – about 50 of them were getting ready to go out there and help support the situation (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpxckJiTKqE)

The boys and I ;)

Nearby was a mime, painted head to toe in gold, with a top hat in front of him to place your coins in. 1 Euro went into the hat and he sprung to life, handing jack and I our respective crowns, leading me onto the alter and holding one hand as jack kissed the other – we smiled for the camera and laughed at the whole situation as we continued on, slowly approaching the most magnificently detailed building I’ve ever seen. It took 180 years to build, passed on to different predecessors as the carvings of Christian religious figures multiplied all over the inside and outside of the building. We lined up, bought an audio-guide (that I would not recommend) and stared in wonder at the circular stained glass windows that shone multicoloured light onto the ‘crown of jewels’ and the crypts of the old saints. 

Beautiful stained glass

Details on the Notre Dame

I noticed the reoccurring squares and circles, later we were told the circles represent the ethereal, spiritual world that’s infinite and never ending, it’s the perfect shape for all things divine;  the four corners of the square represented the earth with it’s four seasons and four elements/ jesus’s physical presence on earth. Parts of the building were made of green stone instead of the yellow stone that the rest of the building was constructed of. We discovered that different parts of the building had been renovated over time and this extended to many others in Paris that we saw. On entering The Louvre – one of the most famous classical art museums in the world (the house of the Mona Lisa) many statues had been renovated or re-built because the originals had been so destroyed. It was heartbreaking seeing so many of the beautifully carved faces of gods with their noses cut off (due to iconoclasm – when people deliberately cause destruction to cultural artefacts for political/ religious motives). Everything in life is temporary, as are the most precious historical structures, no matter how hard we try to preserve them.

The Notre Dame tired us, and everything seemed to be closed at 3pm – I thought it was only Spain that took siestas? One little café that inhaled tourists, was serving France’s delicacy - frogs legs. They arrived and we tucked in with a side of chips and salad, mmm they were delicious. The concept of eating a slimy frog soon slipped our minds as the delicate chicken-like flesh fell off the bones with the rich sauce that accompanied it. Belly’s full, energy re-loaded, what was next..

The love bridge

Writing on the lock

We wandered over to the love bridge where a man stood at the front selling locks and keys, for 3 Euros we were handed a thick metal lock and a permanent marker, we wrote our memoir, padlocked it to the center of the bridge opposite the lamppost (choosing an easy location to remember for next time) and walked on, having left our small mark among the hundreds and thousands of love locks that each told a story.

10 minutes later we realised we’d found the wrong love bridge and that many in the surrounding area had been turned into the same thing, not that it really mattered..

Gotta have a bit of love
at the love bridge

Our lock amongst many

Walking along the river there were many stalls set up, run by quiet old men that held old posters, paintings and postcards – I gave in and bought one beautiful scene of the Moulin Rouge surrounded by bustling crowds. Through countless beautiful buildings we wandered, passing a man playing melancholic cello with a fair women sitting beside him, with a serene look on her face as she swayed to the music.

Ominous skies began to loom and the rain trickled down, a rush of people filled the streets and we joined them running for the nearest metro and taking shelter under the canopies of shops (during which I lost my poster L).

Pigeon feeders

The obelisk 

That evening when the rain subsided and we were dry and comfortable we relaxed with a glass of red and a bowl of muscles at a ridiculously crowded restaurant… we figured it had to be good? The waitress came over to our table and took charge straight away, there’s no messing around with the Parisians. Our dinner was fairly rushed as we’d planned to meet friends at their apartment afterwards. We walked into the metro and heard screams, music and shouts. We ran downstairs and J slipped through the closing doors just in time as I looked in despair at the crowded, closed train. He opened the doors with force and with the enthusiasm of the hundreds of Parisians stuffed into the carriage wearing feather bowers and drinking bottles of alcohol – it was a metro party! I managed to squeeze in and they cheered us on, engulfing us in the music. Funnily enough after we’d seen our friends on our way home, we happened to get onto yet another metro-party, why it was happening was beyond us, but it made a difference from the usual exhausted and bored faces that usually occupy the trains.

S and J at the top of the big wheel

The morning sunshine streamed in through the windows, the grey-scale that the city had been tainted with hadn’t been a negative, but the sunshine, blue skies and vibrant colours made such a change. It’s deceiving when the sky outside looks so grim, convincing you it’s only 7am and you have a few hours left to snooze, until you look at your phone and it’s 5 past 11..

A beautiful greek statue

I set up my chair and my laptop in a patch of sun and began to blog, with the excitement of the morning hitting the highest notes, I hung my head back in ecstasy and looked over the Parisian Chimneys with a grin.

All the paintings in this room
were painted by 1 man!
(Napoleons personal painter)

I was feeling rebellious that morning so decided to break my diet in the most drastic way possible, ordering a bowl of fresh bread and condiments while Jack tucked in to a new French delight scattered with fromage. As my tummy gurgled with joy and glutenous guilt, we made our way to The Louvre – one of the few places where any citizen of the EU under 25 years old was admitted free of charge – of course it was the only day when I’d forgotten my ID, hence we had to pay full price. But to be honest, 6 hours gazing at ancient Greek sculptures and the most detailed paintings was worth 12 Euros…

The hours flew by and we looked at the time to see that only 3 hours remained before we had to leave. We made a pit-stop at L & N’s place on Rue de la pompe, the smoke blew softly out of the windows of the small apartment and over the church’s steeple. It was time to go, we ran to get the Metro, realising we only had 10 minutes to get to the apartment, clean it, pack our stuff, hand back the keys and get to the Eurostar. I took off the beautiful Parisian hat that I’d ‘borrowed’ from the apartment and stuffed it under my puffer jacket, just in time to see the lady who was collecting the keys waiting by the door… We flew up those stairs, gasping for breath at the top, flinging the hat onto its hook, brushing stray tobacco off the counter and washing the dishes in fast forward. Running between the two small rooms we grabbed everything we could see and stuffed it into our bags, making small talk with the highly unimpressed lady who continued glancing at her watch, a subtle indication that we needed to hurry the fuck up. We handed back the keys, got to Gare du Nord and checked in on time for the first time, ever…

Selfie with the Mona Lisa!

:) on our way home

Dusk in Paris

On the Eurostar we sat, eating chicken curry and drinking a disappointing glass of red. 2 hours later, St. Pancreas loomed and we grabbed our bags, running to the underground to make it in time for the last megabus home. We were really in the flow of things when we arrived, with 10 minutes to spare! Handing the bus driver our ticket we grinned, maybe travelling didn’t have to be so stressful? ‘Sorry guys, you’ve booked these tickets for tomorrow’ … Oh my god. With nowhere to stay, work the next morning and massive bags on our back we looked in despair at the driver who instructed us to stand with the other nomads who were in similar situations. We were given the option of buying another 2 tickets, so I looked in my wallet, 1 minute before the bus was supposed to leave – I only had enough money for one…  I think our helpless faces softened something in the bus driver’s heart and he let us on for half price, phew, we made it.

Recipe of the day: cuisses de grenouilles (Frogs legs)
http://www.food.com/recipe/simple-sauteed-frogs-legs-40405