And so it is Christmas...

Well, almost.

My heart longs for that festive cheer - it is still on Australian time, and is back home in Sydney amongst family and friends, conjuring a smile with every reminder of how special such days are.

My mind, however, knows well that my body is here in England (still amongst friends and almost-family), and that Christmas day is still, officially, a little over an hour away.

Its strange the memories Christmas can beckon in. I remember so many Christmases (and yes, I'm going by the first google search result for 'plural of Christmas').

I remember Christmas long ago, before I knew much about anything, and could completely immerse myself in the simple pleasure of giving and receiving. I can recall later days when Christmas was marked by the grumpiness of a boy who just found the world and did not yet know how to look at it (or where his family [annoying at the time] might fit in); did not know how this new context might effect the dynamics of giving, receiving and knowing all that goes with these simple actions.

I can still feel the comfort of Christmases past when I knew more about who I was, or at least how I might become the person I longed to be. When family was no longer annoying, when I had figured their special place in my life for eternity. Christmases away from the world, Christmases hidden away in a self-contained paradise, complete with the joys of giving and receiving, the love of family and still the grounding reality of life and relationships.

Christmases when I missed friends, or perhaps a special someone who could not be with me.

A Christmas for mourning the passing of a loved grandparent.

Christmases with new people in new places; Christmases with old people (and older people!) in familiar homes.

Every year Christmas is different because I am different. Every year it means something new, and every year I have the pleasure of making a new memory of Christmas.

There is, however, one constant: Christmas breakfast!

Almost every year for almost as long as I can remember we have had a variety 8-pack of all those delicious, sugar-filled breakfast cereals in tiny individual boxes; the type that, as children, we were never allowed on a regular basis. A real treat, even if its now purely for the nostalgia it evokes.

In fact right now, as I sit miles from home, I can picture my family all reaching for their cereals of choice, perhaps fighting, sometimes resigning (the ultimate sign of family love). And that just might be what I miss most about Christmas this year.

Its a process that has evolved as we've all grown. But it is something that we have almost always had to navigate together. There has never been a hard and fast rule - our tastes seem to change yearly - so each year's negotiation has been different, new and approached with all the wisdom (or aggression or love or strength or courage or selflessness) that we have acquired over the year past. Those two minutes of decision making could be the defining moment for my family each and every year. And I miss it terribly.

I wonder which box I would have reached for if I was there right now.

I hope you take a guess and give mine to Sally. With paws instead of hands and an inability to grab quickly enough I'm afraid she's always missed out, poor puppy.

Merry Christmas and my love to all.

Paris: City of lights, shytes and motorbikes

We arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The trip to the apartment was a near mission impossible, involving twisting turns through narrow Parisian backstreets, visits to buildings, rooms, safety deposit boxes, codes, keys and cash, all with luggage in tow. The apartment itself was (finally) a very chique, loft-style space hidden in a side street somewhere in the 3rd arrondisement.

Our first unburdened walk through the rues and down the boulevardes of gay Paris was rather tentative, hesitant. Not entirely sure of our surroundings, we set out to explore the neighbourhood and find the easiest possible ways to satisfy our most base needs: food, food and food.

What we discovered was that a stroll through Paris seems to involve a few necessary scenic inclusions...

Our first option for food was to become a constant throughout the city - brasseries. Every corner of Paris is adorned with a bar/tabac/brasserie. Awnings and street-facing streets behind a neat row of small, circular tables characterise the outside, whilst inside is a mixute of gawdy decor, smoking French and menus which don't fall within the price-range of a budget traveller.

(I feel I need to clarify our budget after earlier mention of a fancy loft apartment... Our apartment was the same price as a hostel and allowed us to eat in much more frequently. Perhaps travelling in a little more style than your average backpackers, we are nevertheless restricted by unfortunately shallow wallets.)

The next is the obligatory streets of lights for which Paris is quite famous. We had barely walked for 10 minutes before we found ourselves under strings of fairylights, crisscrossing a quaint rue of delicatessens, fruit shops, cafes and pastisseries.

More unexpected was the inclusion of vast amounts of dog excrements throughout almost all the streets of Paris that we walked. It may not have dawned on me that first night wandering through the city with lights in my eyes and a swivelling head like a laughing clown, but we did find ourselves having to be quite nimble on our feets lest we end up with a canine cushion smelling out the soles of our shoes.

But perhaps the highlight of that first wonderful evening in this amazing city was the proliferation of two-wheeled travellers up and down every street. Scooters and pushbikes, yes.

But oh the motorcycles!

European, Japanese, big, small, tiny, I don't care how they come, I couldn't get enough. Every red light meant a glorious roar of noise as all the bikes and scooters vied for position prime the second the lights turned to green. And of course there were the lines upon lines of different makes, models, types up and down the streets in the parking areas which are between each intersection. So much to look at, my eyes could barely take it in fast enough to satisfy me!

But like a little boy in a big bike store, my obsession almost led to my demise more than once - it's hard to keep a watch out for dog doo when your eyes are busy chasing beautiful bi-wheeled beasts...



Apologies: Please, excuse my French in the title of this post on my usually squeaky-clean blog. It couldn't be helped...