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The Taj Mahal

In all of our travels there are some places we have been that have brought me to tears. The Taj Mahal is one of those places – it is breathtakingly beautiful, and we are so fortunate to have now visited twice.

On our first visit all those years ago we fell completely in love with the Taj Mahal. We had brilliant clear skies and bright sunshine, our photos all squinting into the camera and shielding our eyes from the sun. Our randomly chosen guide fabricated his stories, and I finished the visit by dropping my iPhone into the squat toilet. Later that day a monkey stole Don’s bananas.

It was the perfect day.

No such shenanigans this time. We had a late start, waiting for a heavy fog to lift, but by the time we arrived the sky was a beautiful grey blue. The small arched entry gives away very little, just glimpses of white, until you emerge into the complex and the full building reveals itself – beautiful and grand, perfectly symmetrical. The sheer size is astounding. The magnificent white dome of the mausoleum fills the sky, the minarets stretching up around it. Beautiful red sandstone gateways and a mosque sit framing the grounds. Past the gardens and fountains huge tiled spaces spread out like mosaic carpets, whole panels of marble carvings make up the walls. Up close to the mausoleum the intricate decorations are revealed; perfectly carved flower petals, inlaid coloured stone, Arabic lettering surrounding the entrance.

The light was perfect. We took multiple photos of ourselves and of the Taj Mahal from every different angle. I even went back to the same toilets – the scene of the crime so to speak. And Monika our guide was fabulous, carefully weaving us through the crowds, providing stories and information, taking our photos and giving us our own time and space to explore.

I took a long last look as we left today, knowing deep down it’s unlikely we’ll get a third visit.

When stars align

Jaipur

The first time we visited Jaipur, somebody recommended we visit Jantar Mantar.

‘It has all these ancient astronomical instruments. It’s very interesting,’ they told me, ‘and it’s a world heritage site.’

Don would like that, I thought, he’s a science nerd. So I added it to our list of things to do in Jaipur.

It was searingly, crushingly hot when we visited that day in 2012. We entered the archway to a flat expanse of pale yellow concrete with numerous pale yellow concrete structures spread throughout. Concrete on concrete. We had no idea what anything was other than the giant sundial as there were no signs in English, and the blinding white pages of my guide book were hurting my eyes. Luckily the star signs were labelled, twelve sets of random concrete steps and arches. We took our photos near Sagittarius and Cancer and left dazed, sunburnt and no wiser than when we’d entered.

‘Well,’ I said last week to my sister Nat, who’d had the exact same experience, ‘Jantar Mantar is not on our list of things to do in Jaipur this time.’

However the City Palace, right next door to Jantar Mantar, was definitely on our list. Beautiful and ornate palace buildings built by the Maharaja on a sprawling royal site. Trees, hedges, lush grass, fountains and a gift shop.

We walked to the City Palace this morning, glancing at the giant astronomical structures as we passed by the open doorway on our way.

‘There’s that sundial place we went to last time,’ I said to Don, ‘remember?’

‘We’re not going there again are we?’ he asked in alarm.

‘Hell no!’

We lined up for our palace tickets, had them clipped and headed through the entrance. Excited to see the glorious City Palace before me, I looked up from tucking our tickets in my bag to be confronted by an enormous sundial.

‘What the fuck?’ I exclaimed.

Don right behind me took a moment. ‘What’s going on? What’s the matter? Where’s the palace? Hey, is that a sundial? Woah, wait a minute, where are we?’

We had not bought tickets to the City Palace. We had bought tickets to Jantar Mantar. We had not walked through the ornate entrance to the palace, we had walked through the concrete entrance to Jantar Mantar.

Oh how we laughed as the hot sun beat down on us.

‘Well we can’t leave until we’ve got our four dollars worth,’ said Don, ‘we’ll just walk around for a bit. Maybe there is something here for us.’

‘Have we got our four dollars worth yet?’ I asked a minute later as we stared in bewilderment at a giant concrete cylinder.

We took a selfie, found our star signs and deemed it done.

After heading out the exit (dazed, sunburnt and none the wiser) we walked further along the road until we found the correct ticket counter, and spent a fabulous couple of hours marvelling at the ornate buildings, the beautiful old clothes and textiles and the intricately decorated doors of the City Palace.

I am sure that there are many enthusiastic astronomy types, history buffs and mathematical geniuses who would find Jantar Mantar totally worthwhile and absolutely fascinating. And I’m equally sure that there are new and interesting things for any tourist to learn by visiting.

After having now visited twice, all I have learnt is to check in with Don on what activities are science nerd suitable.

However I am no closer to understanding why Cancer’s representation at this significant site is a group of giant concrete steps and walls with a concrete fence.

I mean, where even are the claws?

Saved by the spicy corn

Ah Kathmandu, what a mixed up basket you turned out to be.

Our first day we explored. Down to Asan Bazaar where six streets meet at a bustling square. Colourful fruit and vegetables, chickens, slabs of meat, glittering silver fish, clothes, shoes, plants, temples and statues. Further on we saw Durbar Square with its many temples, and from where kings once ruled.

In the afternoon we wandered through the streets and lanes of Thamel with its multiple stores selling trekking gear, singing bowls, earrings and prayer flags. Even more stores sold headbands, floaty skirts, loose pants and overalls – dyed, embroidered, patch worked, in cotton, hemp, silk and wool the likes of which I haven’t seen since last week at Woodford. 20 year old Angela would have been in heaven.

Day two we walked to Swayambhu Mahachaiitya – the monkey temple. We kept tight hold of our hats, glasses and phones as we climbed the 360 steps to the top to see the incredible stupa and views across Kathmandu. Here we also found singing bowls, earrings and prayer flags, floaty skirts, loose pants and overalls.

By this stage we were really suffering from the quality of the air, so the next day we left the city for the clear air of Chandragiri, where we rode the cable car to the top of the hill for spectacular views over Kathmandu to the Himalayas. It was a long ride up – people used to walk the 11km to the top until they built the cable car. Perhaps they still do. On a clear day you can see a tiny bit of Mt Everest, behind another mountain. We had a beautiful clear day so I took at least 87 photos of the mountains and am confident that Mount Everest is in there somewhere.

On our last day in Kathmandu the earth moved. Literally. As I was perusing the breakfast buffet options I paused at the spicy corn. I do love me some spicy corn. Suddenly the floor shifted. Don felt off kilter, but I had no time to feel anything as a painting high up on the wall came crashing to the ground, shattering at my feet. A magnitude 6.8 earthquake had just hit Tibet and we were feeling it through Nepal. We had no idea what had just happened until the staff said something. They swept up the glass, sat us down and we continued with breakfast, the pottery bowls hanging from the ceiling still swaying above us. I have since read how devastating this earthquake has been for Tibet.

Kathmandu, you’ve certainly been an adventure.

Foggy Mountain Breakdown

Kathmandu

It’s hard to describe the feeling when you arrive in a brand new country for the first time. The excitement of somewhere new, the anticipation of exploring the streets, tasting the local dishes, poking around in museums, shops and galleries.

We flew into Nepal this morning, our first ever visit, and we had all of these feels; marvelling as we passed the Himalayas and descended over the sprawling Lego like buildings of Kathmandu. We held hands as we landed, grinning at each other in delight.

Of course the short journey was not all sunshine and lollipops.

It’s likely a well kept secret that I used to be terrified of flying. Scared spitless. I would cling to the armrests every minute of every flight, refuse all food, and arrive at my destination with cramped muscles, starving and prepared to find a job in order to avoid the flight home.

Through sheer determination I have mostly overcome this fear, and I quite enjoy flying now. Except for taking off. I still hate taking off.

This morning in Delhi a heavy fog had settled over the city. Should be gone by the time we leave the hotel, I told myself.

The fog was not gone. If anything it was worse. Through our taxi ride, check in, clearing customs and security, I kept telling myself the fog would lift, or the flight would be cancelled. Either of these options would be fine with me.

The fog did not lift and the flight was not cancelled. Instead we were shuttled across an airport we couldn’t see to a plane we couldn’t see, up some stairs we couldn’t see and told to take our seats.

A litany of sabotaging thoughts and desperate responses ran through my head as we sat on the tarmac waiting to leave.

How can the pilots see the runway? How can they see anything? I can’t see anything. NOBODY CAN SEE ANYTHING!

Everything runs on computers and radars and technology these days, the pilots don’t need to see.

OF COURSE THE PILOTS NEED TO SEE! WHAT IF ANOTHER PLANE GETS IN THE WAY?! WHAT IF WE GET IN THE WAY?

There’s no way we’d be leaving if this wasn’t safe. This must be safe.

WHY DID AIR CANADA CANCEL THEIR FLIGHT? WHAT ARE THEY NOT TELLING US?

Everybody here knows what they’re doing. This is a huge airport.

THIS IS A FUCKING HUGE AIRPORT! NOBODY IS SAFE!

The flight attendants look calm, it must be fine.

THEY’RE PAID TO LOOK CALM. DO NOT TRUST THEM!

Don’t look out the window, don’t look out the window, don’t look out the window. I’ll just look out the window.

IT’S A COMPLETE WHITE OUT! IT’S WORSE THAN I THOUGHT!

Calm down Angela, you’re perfectly safe.

HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN MY LAST INSTA PIC OF THE FOG WILL BE ON NATIONAL NINE NEWS?

Don made an attempt to distract me with some fun facts about Star Trek or Cheezels or who invented the mountains. I don’t know. I wasn’t having a bar of it, and he soon gave up. Instead I clung ferociously to his hand the whole time we were taxiing blindly across the tarmac, squeezing my eyes shut when the engines roared, the pilot having miraculously found the runway. God, my heart is pumping just writing this.

Without a word of a lie we broke through that cloud and into brilliant sunshine three seconds after taking off. Maybe two seconds.

It amazes me how bloody fast my whole body can pivot from abject terror to complete chill. My eyes opened and I loosened my death grip on Don’s hand.

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘it was just some low lying cloud.’

Even if I had heard him say this I wouldn’t have believed him.

We landed, we disembarked. Out visas were stamped and we collected our bags. Sanity and calm had well and truly returned. Sunshine and lollipops re-engaged, I was again filled with excitement and anticipation, chatting away to Don, the ground crew and anyone else who would listen.

‘It’s our first time in Nepal,’ I said to the man sorting out our taxi voucher.

‘Welcome to Nepal, Madame,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I said happily as he handed me the voucher.

‘You’re welcome. Could I perhaps interest you in an early morning joy flight over the Himalayas?’

A Roaring Start

Never underestimate the power of a rest day when you’re travelling.

Yes ok, a rest day on the first day of our holiday may seem a bit much, but I planned this knowing we needed to recover from our gruelling flight schedule from Australia. Let us never forget The Zombies of San Francisco or Hours of Entertainment. Besides, Don is older than he was the first time we went to India.

We left Brisbane at 10:30am yesterday, and arrived in Delhi at 2:30am this morning. Knowing we’ll be back on an early morning flight again tomorrow, I scheduled only two things for today’s itinerary – rest and buffet breakfast.

Still, it hasn’t been easy.

We had to set an alarm so as not to miss said breakfast after falling into bed at 3:30am. Having eaten at least one of everything the buffet had to offer, we then went on a post breakfast walk to check out the neighbourhood. We followed this up with a well needed nap, which was followed by a post nap walk to check out the neighbourhood again when things were actually open.

We rested some more in a local cafe over coffee and salted Ajwain cookies. Then Don had another nap while I had a massage at the hotel spa where a small woman tortured the bejesus out of any deep vein thrombosis in my calves and anywhere else thrombosis might lurk, including apparently my eyeballs.

We’re now in the midst of afternoon rest time, before deciding on where we’ll go for dinner.

We certainly are off to a roaring start.

Budapest

This visit to Budapest has been astronomically different to our last visit.

In November 1993 we caught a bus from Istanbul to Budapest. The snow had only started when we left Istanbul, but several hours in it was a full blown snowstorm. It was a hair-raising trip through Bulgaria and Romania, snowing the entire way. There were moments when enormous trucks were sliding sideways down icy hillsides towards us; at one point Don told me to hold onto my bag and when he said run, I should run. What was meant to take 20 hours took 48 hours.

There was only one other English speaking passenger, and I was one of only two women on that bus. There was no such thing as non-smoking, a haze of permanent acrid smoke filled the air. After maybe eight hours, despite his protests that we were in the middle of nowhere, we had the driver make a toilet stop. Somehow we convinced him through gestures that the whole world is a toilet. Hours later at a border crossing I gave the other woman some money when the guards refused her currency and weren’t going to let her pass.

We were the only people to get off the bus in Budapest so they dropped us in a random location. We stepped off the bus into a metre of snow, with no idea of where we were. Somehow we found a tram into the city centre. We had no Hungarian currency so we couldn’t buy a ticket. Then we trudged through the snow to the cheap university accommodation, following the tiny map in our Rough Guide to Europe. It was bitterly, bitterly cold.

At the university they told us there was no heating but they’d give us some extra blankets. We turned around, fought our way back through the snow and caught the very next train to Vienna.

Fast forward 30 years to this visit. Three days compared to three hours – Budapest, what a spectacular city.

We walked the streets and saw the magnificent buildings, squares and statues. Heroes’ Square, the Hungarian State Opera building, Central Market Hall, St Stephen’s Basilica, the heartbreaking Shoes on the Danube Bank memorial, the incredible Hungarian Parliament Building.

We went on a food tour; hot langos, delicious raspberry strudel, pastries and chimney cake, tasty sausages, stew and a straight shot of pálinka that nearly took my head off.

We walked across Széchenyi Chain Bridge and caught the cable car to Buda Castle and Fisherman’s Bastion. And of course we surprised Ruth at the Christmas markets and celebrated her birthday with the most wonderful meal at local restaurant Pörc & Prézli.

Budapest, all is forgiven; we love you! You’re still pretty chilly, but no need for extra blankets.

A cunning plan

Budapest

When we let Tim and Ruth know we were coming to the UK for a visit, and that we’d also be taking the opportunity to go back to Europe for the Christmas markets, Tim immediately messaged me.

You see, Tim had a cunning plan.

‘Don’t talk about the Christmas markets!’ he wrote, ‘Ruth will want to go too, and I’ve booked a surprise European Winter Wonderland Christmas market cruise for her birthday.’

‘We’ll be in Budapest for her actual birthday,’ he went on, ‘perhaps you could surprise her and be there too?’

That sounded like a great idea! And so we were unwittingly drawn into this cunning plan. Actually unwitting is not true; I love a cunning plan, so I was on board from the get go.

Tim kept his cunning plan a tightly guarded secret; and we had to keep it a secret as well. Which is bloody hard when you’re going on holidays and everybody wants to know where you’re going. Including Ruth. So I invented a fake itinerary for the last leg of our trip, placing us as far from Budapest as I possibly could – in Spain.

Thus everybody in the UK thought we were going to Spain.

And everybody in Australia knew we weren’t.

Every social occasion we’ve had in the UK we’ve crossed our fingers hoping nobody would ask us where else we’d be going while we’re over. When they did, we would mutter something about Spain and rapidly change the subject. Honestly, holidays are meant to be relaxing!

When we set off for Heathrow over a week ago, Ruth waved us farewell and wished us a great holiday in Spain. We flew directly to Munich, where we began our travels eastwards towards Budapest.

We also went into immediate social media lockdown. It was old school travelling – when nobody knew where you were, what you were eating, how bloody cold you were or how dodgy your youth hostel was.

We have been to Munich, where we toured the Residence, found the medieval Christmas markets, explored the incredible science museum, climbed the tower and had tasty bratwurst and glühwein every night.

Meanwhile the first part of Tim’s cunning plan was revealed to Ruth, as a few days after we left they jetted off to Hungary and boarded their river cruise. I know this because they posted on Facebook, like normal people.

We were then on to Salzburg, where the sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant blue. We walked beside the crystal river, ate giant pretzels, caught the funicular up to the castle and meandered the pretty streets.

Meanwhile Ruth was asking Tim if he knew why we’ve been so quiet on social media, and why there are no updates on our Spain trip.

We’ve gone from altstadt to altstadt – one old European town to the next. It has been beautifully cold, the Christmas markets have been dazzling and the buildings and ancient churches spectacular.

Meanwhile the four of us have been converging on one city.

And now here we all are in Budapest. Finally today, in front of the Christmas tree at St Stephen’s Basilica Christmas markets, we really did surprise Ruth on her birthday.

Happy birthday Ruth ❤️❤️

Anyway, must run, I have 137 photos to post.

The bathroom

Navigating showers in homes and hotel rooms in other countries is an exercise in physics, stamina and perseverance.

They’re hit and miss to start with, but the addition of multiple knobs and levers to control on, off, pressure, heat, bath spigot and shower rose needlessly complicate what should be a simple endeavour.

Our current hotel has a hand held device attached to a shower pole, in a bath tub, with three controls. Unfortunately the device is connected two thirds of the way down the pole, ready to spray water at belly button level.

Our first night I dragged it up to the top of the pole and tried to tighten it in place. It rattled straight back down the pipe like one of those mechanical climbing monkeys at the Ekka.

Don came in to help, and with his superior muscle managed to get it to stay in place. Pleased, I climbed into the bathtub and turned it on. The water pressure was outstanding. So outstanding in fact that the force of the water caused the handle to spin suddenly outwards, spraying the whole bathroom and everything in it with water. I did not notice, I was busy examining the single soap container.

‘Hey! Hey, stop! TURN IT OFF!’ Don yelled from behind me, where he had remained to supervise the results of his work.

I slammed the water off and turned to look at him. He was head to toe fully clothed and dripping wet. Like somebody had turned on him with a full throttle fire hose.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself (pun intended).

Don not so much.

And then the handle slid back down the pole.

Tune in next time when I tackle ‘How to adjust your hotel room temperature when it’s freezing cold outside and boiling hot inside.’

London calling

Before I start getting into our European winter holiday, a word about London.

We absolutely hands down, no questions asked, no correspondence entered into, public transport shenanigans aside, love London. Love.

London was my first city on my very first overseas holiday with my family. Together Don and I have been to London six times. Twice we stayed for over a year. We found ourselves jobs, somewhere to live, and settled in like so many Australians before us. We caught buses instead of the underground in order to soak up the streets of London and learn how places connected. We had our local pubs, meeting after work for pints of lager and cider. We even dabbled in amateur theatre – at least to go and watch Tim and Ruth in plays and pantos. We bought winter coats and leant how to survive January when the Christmas sparkle was gone but the cold weather remained. During spring I sat in every patch of daffodils I could find. In autumn we marvelled at the colours.

We connected with people and made wonderful English friends, but we also gathered our Aussie friends close. John and Nicole, travelling the UK to play music, Lucy living and working and building a family.

When people ask us New York or London, there is no question. It will always be London.

London is familiar yet different. The double decker buses, the tube, the black cabs. Don grew up on British radio comedy, my early years were all Mary Poppins, Enid Blyton and anything Roald Dahl. Our Monopoly board was always the London version. We knew The Goodies, Dr Who, Yes Minister and The Young Ones. Too many musicians and bands to name. Live Aid. Harry Potter. Oliver, Paddington Bear.

London has The Globe, and Shakespeare in the park, and crazy arsed local pantomimes. London has the astonishing Kew Gardens, and markets filled with antiques and local designers and food and craft. London has an abundance of charity shops filled with cheap hidden treasures.

London has a gritty charm, and a majesty beyond Buckingham Palace. Tube stations are old school ornate, and everywhere there are arches and towers and old brick walls. There is Westminster Abbey, and the Thames with its multiple bridges.

In London you can get about in thrown together winter colours that imply you don’t care, or bedazzle yourself in boots and sequins to take on Abba Voyage with your girlfriends. You can go high fashion or you can rug up in rarely worn hiking boots and sturdy jackets and walk for miles through the suburbs and parks. There are squirrels and robins and hedgehogs.

Every trip we make to London we walk forever. Every visit we’ll go to the Natural History Museum, the lions in Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery, Windsor and Eton, Tower Bridge, Hyde Park and Leicester Square. We’ll check out Forbidden Planet for comics, Waterstones for books, Marks and Spencer just because it’s Marks and Spencer. We’ll buy a Radio Times from W H Smith, a Christmas teddy bear from Harrods and something random from Boots. We’ll have a full English breakfast more than once. We’ll talk football with our friends, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about. This visit has been no different.

Yep, we bloody love London.

Anyway, I write this post from a whole other European city where we’ve been for the past two days. We absolutely hands down love European cities.

London transport

London transport. Sigh.

When we arrived at St Pancras from Brussels, it should have been a simple case of hopping a tube home, with only one change of station. However as we navigated the tunnels of St Pancras, it became apparent that there were some issues with the westbound lines. Not one train was leaving from or arriving into Paddington. Not one. Something about power, or leaves, or snow or something. It didn’t matter the reason, Paddington was crucial to our journey. It just mattered that we couldn’t get home.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We brainstormed our options – hire a car? Book a hotel room? Go back to Brussels? In the end we just tried to head west as best we could until we couldn’t head west any further.

We went from St. Pancras to Farringdon to Paddington to Oxford Circus to Piccadilly Circus to Heathrow. We used five different lines and somehow went through Edgeware Road and Baker Street three times each.

It had taken us only two hours to get from Brussels to London, but three and a half hours to get from the centre of London to the edge of London.

Yesterday we were to head to Richmond to visit our friend Lucy – one tube ride plus one bus ride. Until our tube was delayed, sitting a tantalising one stop away from us, and then cancelled altogether. And then the next one was cancelled. And then the whole line into Paddington was cancelled.

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We went home to regroup and to consult with Tim, the oracle of London public transport. He suggested the 702, a coach, doesn’t come very often but should do the job.

‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he said, ‘but it’ll get you into the heart of London.’

And off we went again.

‘There might be a few people on this bus if all of the trains are cancelled,’ I said, about 30 seconds before said bus sailed past us, a sign on the windscreen proclaiming ‘Bus full.’

‘We’re screwed,’ said Don.

We started back home but then had a thought – the 81, Don’s most hated bus. Stops constantly, takes forever, but should get us to a working tube line. And there was one in six minutes. So back we headed to the bus stop.

As we turned the corner, we saw the back end of the 81 as it departed the bus stop. We stood and watched in disbelief as it disappeared.

And then it started raining.

We really were screwed. We abandoned all hope and trudged back home in the rain.

London transport. Sigh.