The World

As the sun comes and goes and a drowsy fly buzzes around the room, Adelaide nestles itself more comfortably into place. It's not going anywhere, and for the time being, neither am I. I'm finally home, one part relieved and three parts melancholy and dreamy - not quite sure which way I'm spinning. In any case, I'm no better a human being, no more important, certainly no more attractive (although I wish I was). But something is bothering me and I don't feel quite at home just yet. I must have learnt something! Surely I must be different SOMEHOW! This frustrated feeling I have can't be all for nothing! I was hoping to write my final email with Flourish and Glee but it'll be more like Itchy and Scratchy at the keyboard.

This is unfair. I managed somewhat successfully (I think) on a 15kg bag wearing the same boring items of clothing day in, day out, and I hardly spared a thought for how I might look, whether I was fashionable, whether my hair was in the right place...and NOW, for gods' sake, the night I come home and go out in Adelaide, I feel crushed with material consciousness...oh my GOD, do I look ok, I'm not pretty enough, people will see me and recognise me, WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE! I'M SO FREAKING AWKWARD RIGHT NOW! So awkward. I don't want to be seen or known anymore. I want to be constantly in transistion, never staying long enough, never really getting to know people. That's a bother when it's actually happening, but actually, it's much more stress-free and first impressions I'm always faitly good at. What I'm trying to say is that I'm all too over fashion-conscious Adelaide, and I'm going to set up camp in a cave and wear bottle caps fashioned into long, flowing gowns.

Not really. That would be silly. No, I'm starting honours on a week and I will have to start being RESPONSIBLE! I am studying for the postgraduate med entrance test, which so far has done nothing but stress me out to the MAX and cause a coldsore pandemic all across my lips. I cannot avoid stress. There's a great quote about Anxiety which I thoroughly agree with.

'Anxiety is like a stream of fear that trickles through the mind; if encouraged it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts flow'

Some person called Arthur said that. He's right, you know. Stress goes CRAZY if you let it, and right now I'm letting it. Travelling gives you an excuse not to introspect, because you're too busy worrying about practicalities, and stressful practical things that always end up with a solution are NOWHERE near as stressful emotional and personal things. What's my point? I'm stressed, and I want to go travelling again.

The last email I wrote was from Morocco, as I remember. Our further adventures in that colourful country ranged from a most isolated and beautiful evening in the sanddunes of Erg Chebbi, sleeping in a berber hut, and in the most touristy way possible, riding camels over the desert. (Resulting in an extremely unpleasant rash on my lower behind regions which helped me make the decision never to become a professional camel racer) - to being stalked by the town 'loco', some crazy dude who took pleasure in following us for an entire day and smiling psychotically at us every time we looked in his direction. How about some FOCUS in life! This quy spent 3 hours waiting for us whilst we hid in a cafe, another couple of hours whilst we were in an internet cafe, and then followed us all the way to the busstation in the rain, only to disappear after we got there, making us sure that he had somehow attached himself to the bottom of the bus, or disguised himself as luggage and was travelling with us all the way to Marrakesh. The important distinction between buses in Australia - in most places of the world I would imagine - is that when it's raining OUTSIDE, usually it's not raining INSIDE. However, in Morocco, they have other ideas. We were rather lucky enough to get on to a bus that was mimicking the weather systems of outside the cabin, and found that most of the seats on our 13 hour overnight busride were COMPLETELY SATURATED! It also continued to rain throughout the night. When we arrived in Marrakesh at 7am, we found out that a bus on the same route had crashed and about 30 people had died. So, in the end, Frances and I were pretty happy at the high quality of the service, getting us to our destination alive.

After Morocco, I stayed out of the Evil Shengan Area (all of western europe, basically) and flew to Lake Balaton in Hungary - right into an old Soviet Military Base. Nice airport, with bunkers and barbed wire and a dastardly feeling. Hungary is my favourite country. The sun sets at about 3pm every evening in the winter and the days are colder than ice. But, you know, that's exactly what's so awesome - because it's all so different, and living just happens in another way. It's kinda cool to be introverted, and I like that. None of this 'be-friendly-to-strangers' crap that we're so eager about in Australia. I'm so over that. I'm going to be cool and rude to everyone, that way I'll surely seem more European. I couchsurfed for a while, was invited to a 1st birthday party where everyone drank Palinka, the cleaning fluid drink of choice, made from fruits like peachs, plums, cherries. Not the baby. No drinking for her. Or for me, after the first sip. You've seriously got to be kidding. Humans shouldn't be drinking that stuff. No wonder we're all dying young.

A 15 hr train trip through 3 countries took me to Sarajevo, in Bosnia, and I navigated my way to the hostel to find that my friend Dan, who I'd planned to meet there, WASN'T THERE! The next morning it turned out that he'd arrived in the middle of the night, come straight into the dorms (which were of course wide open for anyone to walk into) and started calling out my name, in all except the one I was sleeping in. His next obvious move was to find a spare bed and fall asleep, which you seem to be able to do quite easily in Bosnian hostels without paying, and we found each other in the morning. Of course there were 3 other australians in the place, including one from adelaide who I discovered was involved in the building of the Christmas Island detention centre ('When you're earning $45 an hour you don't ask questions') - I decided then that I had little patience for him, but ended up helping him sort money and jackets out, because he was poor and cold. Stupid boy.

So, this has turned into an epic essay of sorts.

I made my way back to Portugal for Christmas - just managing to hold myself from fainting with fear of persecution upon attempting reentry into Shengan. By the time I arrived in Faro, I had convinced myself that reentry into the Shengan area of Europe after expiration of the 90 day visa-free period, brought with it penalties such as the DEATH penalty, and also banning from Europe for 10 years. I'm not sure which would be worse. Anyway, I convinced the passport man that I was particularly sweet and innocent and I was waved through. For all that stress, I would have liked a little more fuss, just to make it justified. My friend Pedro just thought I was an idiot for worrying so much about it, and I would have liked to have been able to say that they'd taken me into a room and questioned me and strip-searched me, and taken all the christmas presents I'd brought for his family, so I didn't sound like a complete over-anxious loser. Christmas was pretty cool, in a tiny village at the top of portugal, 5 minutes from the border of spain. The border consists of a damaged, crappy old road from portugal, merging with a fancy big marked and properly edged affair as you go over the frontier. The sign that says 'Espana' is crossed out, with 'Galixa' scrawled in spraypaint, with some bullet holes for added effect - it's not spain there, according to the locals. Galicia is happy doing its own thing. We drive up a hill to see some snow in christmas day and drove back down again. Lots of cows and donkeys and ducks hanging around in town. I liked it.

Then there was London again, with Tom Simpson, who's all kinds of fun and looks a little bit like Doctor Who.

And then there was Hong Kong, and Melbourne, and 7 hours waiting in the airport until my final flight back home - only to find that mum wasn't even WAITING for me at the gate, because she was sure that she couldn't go up there...what a welcome home!

Anyway, now I'm home, and that's the end.

My phone number is 0061409095809 if you're over there, or 0409095809 if you're in the aus.

Thanks to all the people I met along the way, who helped me, laughed with me (or maybe just at me) and made me think about things.

Thanks for reading.

Love sophie

photos: www.picasaweb.google.com/sophiemireille

So as the world floats by outside in the rain, you can find me in a smelly internet cafe in Meknes, Morocco, waiting for the sun to shine and also for our night bus that will take us out of the cities and into the big bold dunes of the Sahara.

Now the last time I checked, I wasn:t in Morocco and hadn;t really planned on it, and I suppose not many of you knew that either, because I am desperately terrible telling people things like that. The most current edition can tell you all this:

Due to my extreme lack of organisation and too many things to do, visa authorities to evade, staying too long in Lisbon, and wanting to go to Morocco, I did NOT find myself even one single farm to work on around the Iberian Peninsular. Pathetic, I know, considering that was one of the main occupations I was after...Instead, I found myself some rather hefty questioning at the border out of spain - yes, I admit, I tried, and succeeded, to sneak out of spain on a boat to Africa - and was sure that in no time I would be on a plane home to australia with a 10 year ban on europe slapped across my face. Not a nice experience; but I escaped and now, for the last 7 days; have been winding my way delightfully through the streets of the medinas, or the old traditional town centres, shops almost falling out on top of you; shouting and hassling and nougat and candy and lanterns and clothes up to your eyeballs. I am travelling with Frances Knight; who, bizarrely, is from adelaide even though I didnůt know her until Granada. What a small world.

Anyway, to cut a long story short...I had to leave Spain - all of Western Europe basically, because I ran over my visafree period of 90days. Before that though, I was walking on the Camino de Santiago, at the very top of Spai, in Galicia, with some very silly boys from Adelaide, and found myself in Lisbon, falling in love with everything, including those freaking awesome Portuguese Tarts...funnily enough they:re not called that in Portugal, and Couchsurfed my way through that city meeting the most lovely people and deciding that Lisbon is where I want to end up at some point in my life. It!s a beautiful and accomodating city and I am in love with it.

Next week I:m flopping into Hungary...actually into a Random small town near Lake Balaton, in the mideast of the country; to catchup with another couchsurfer called Dan who I met in Granada - we!re heading on a sprint around serbia, bosnia&hercegovina, croatia, and slovenia. I hope its absolutely freezing and everyone is covered in ice. And you can ski on the roads. That would be cool.

No kidding, I had my bag stolen last night from less than a metre away from my body whilst I was lying in a park at 5 in the morning looking at the stars like a fool. How does that happen? What kind of freaky person has the ability to do that without me noticing?! Talk about surreal. You know when you just cannot possibly comprehend the reality of a situation, you kinda stand around looking puzzled, saying silly things like ´Where the fuck is my bag?´ and ´How the fuck did that just happen?´. That was me last night. Or this morning, same thing. Of course then we found some random cards, like my drivers licence and my blood donors card, on the ground and then my bag, rinsed of my wallet and phone, next to a rubbish bin. Environmentally concious thief, nice. So of course, what could be more fun than making a trip to the local police station and reporting the stupid crime, all in that confusing language that is spanish, and then spending the early hours of the morning calling australia to cancel credit cards etc etc. Nothing. Nothing is more fun. So, I am writing to say, hi, spain is fun, bilbao is awesome and I am having a great time but I went to bed at 7 this morning and now I am shaky and sweaty, like a glorious giant ball of coagulated fatigue and anxiety, mmm, my favourite.

Anyway, I now have lost all my phone numbers, for the second time this trip, so please, if you want contact from me, send me your phone number, it´s important.

Also, yesterday was the 5 month point of no return - I have been away for ñore or less half my intended time away, and despite some very curious bumps in the night, I feel that actually, it´s not so hard to do this after all and I am bursting in earnest for the next 5 months in spain. (Ok, not right now but maybe tomorrow)

Tomorrow I am taking a sleeper train, with my own little bed and everything, to barcelona. How exciting! Let´s hope my whole freaking backpack doesnt go missing this time.

Adios Amigos!

Sophie

oh, and if you want to see those photos I sent you the link for I think that you have to be friends with me through facebook, sorry. I´m such a social-networking snob right now.

ooh ooh, it's like totally france

how are you all? guess where I am! totally in southern france, doing frenchy things like eating baguettes and kissing people all over their cheeks. i am so french right now, more than I ever have been, and probably ever will be. life after ireland has been blissfully disorganied and bursting with nights with nowhere to stay, running desperately for trains and sweating all over other passengers (yuck, why am i so sweaty?), kayaking in norway, oh, sensibly deciding that it would be clever and witty to ride a bicycle through a 1400m freeway tunnel under a mountain and very nearly being killed by a semitrailer, being detained and interrogated and had my bag thoroughly searched at heathrow airport upon arrival from oslo, staying on random people's couches in the middle of paris qnd hqving picnics on the seine, attempting to speak french without actually knowing how, and finally, being locked out of my hotel at 2 in the morning and being told off like a recalcitrant child by the hotel owner in french.

so far I still haven't made it to spain, but surely by the time you hear from me next I will have moved on to a spanish farm, met a spanish farm boy, taken up farming and decided to stay forever in the bliss that is spain.

seeyou round amigos

sophie

roskilde dreaming

There are people walking around with 'I survived Roskilde '07' badges on. and I think that says a lot about the festival this year. After a week of constant rain, sludge, the ground turning into mud, then chocolate sauce (perhaps a more accurate description, to take into consideration the smell, would be 'one big pile of sloppy shit') - we finally have had a day and a half of merciful dry weather gods glooming down on us. And I say glooming because the clouds are still hanging around ominously overhead. This festival has been the wettest and muddiest yet, in the 30+ years this festival has been on, and the amount of flooded tents and sad wet people I have seen is honestly unbelievable. Heaps of people have given up and have left. I've been here now since sunday the 1st, sleeping in a tent that barely holds the water out, and can proudly say I went to a rave in gumboots. freaking awesome. I have just finished my last shift making sandwiches in exchange for a free ticket and am off to see the flaming lips and The Who. The who? Peter Bjorn and John have strummed their guitars and hummed their harmonies into my heart and I am their latest biggest fan. In a festival camping city of 100,000, I have bumped into one random guy who I met in Ireland 3 times completely by coincidence, and haven't been able to find anyone for hours when I needed someone to be wet and cold with. The killers were amazing but standing in the rain for 4 hours does nothing for your health. Except make it worse. The line outside the washing and drying stall yesterday morning was as long as a river, and I mean a long river, going around the corner and not moving for hours. And NOW, as I stand here, it's starting to rain again and I am very upset about it. Fucking weather. It's pouring out there, again, again.

Well, another day, another sludge pit over roskilde. The music is great, however, and it's all worth it, isn't it?

15.7.07 I found a clip of roskilde which I think accurately sums up the festival, despite the rather irrelevant (but good) music accompanying it. Love, a very sick little soph

sorry, I think you'll have to copy and paste...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1pqfVsm0vM

Irish Emergency Department..sorry, did you say emergency?

hello

I write to you all today with my eyes very much opened by my most recent
experience. the bottom line is that ireland's healthcare system stinks - I
thought ours did, but not like this.

On tuesday I jammed my finger between a falling window and there was lots of
blood, pain, etc etc. I was at a pub in the middle of freaking nowhere,
staying at a hostel with some friends. The old man behind the bar put a
bandaid on it and told me to drink up. After 2 nights of no sleep and finally
back in the city, and an incredibly painful day back at work, I decided today,
being friday, to call in sick to go to the doctor, who sent me to the
emergency dept. I arrived at the hospital around midday and have just arrived
home, at 11pm. Hospital highlights include,

1.waiting for 2 hours.
2.having my name called to see a nurse, and being told to wait more, obviously
wasn't life threatening enough for quick service.
waiting for more hours.
3.getting called in to wait in another area, with lots of old people on
hospital beds against the corridor walls.
4.being taken into a room and my finger inspected.
5.sent off to wait for an xray.
6.getting said xray.
7.waiting for xray results. in wrong room, because noone told me where to go,
so waited about 1 hour unnecessarily.
8.back into the old-people-on-beds-area, to be given a catheter and squirted
with penicillin, which made me semi-pass out and hot and dizzy and want to
vomit.
9.then put on a drip with more antibiotics because the finger is all fez and
infected, prob with staph.
10.left to feel dizzy and sick for about 1 hour with drip in hand. crying all
over the place like a child, for no apparent reason, whilst the curtain is
left open for the whole fucking world to see.
11.being told to go have a cup of tea - having cup of hot water instead and
coming back promptly, to be told to sit and wait.
12.falling asleep on chair, all the time not being able to do much, what with
one hand all screwed and infected and the other with a giant needle sticking
out of it.
13. having a plastic surgen come and poke my finger and making me cry again,
all over the place, tears running fown the hallway.
14.getting a local anaesthetic and my nail being pulled back for me to see.
15.being told I was going to have to stay the night and then wait for another
5 hours tomorrow for a bed so I could then pay $100/60euro to get a bed and
have my nail removed, and that oh yes, the tip of my finger was broken but
they weren't going to do anything about it, it wasn't a big deal.
16.me telling the to go stick staying overnight elsewhere and riding my bike
home in the rain with a finger that's just starting to feel the effects of the
local ana. wearing off.

so, I'm heading back tomorrow at 8am to wait for another long day - taking to
whole day and night off work, which is rubbbish because it would have paid for
my expenses.

the thing was also that there was no privacy - I saw people walking past and
being wheeled along the corridor with blood and bits all over the shop -
people having things jabbed in eyes with the door ajar, and curtains not shut
when being inspected...I can't believe that it was such a shamble in that
place. I've heard stories of old people dying on beds in emergency because
they had to wait all night to see someone - I thought that ireland surely was
much more developed, but it seems sadly that it's not a prime concern to the
government, who, by the way, have just been re-elected. this is the government
that turns a blind eye to planes carrying prisoners of war through their
airports when they're breaking the neutrality law they are supposedly adhering
to...


I'm a sad little girl tonight, so thanks for listening.

Love

sophie

(who'll be much better tomorrow, with no fingernail on her right hand forth
finger)

Ain't the craic grand in ol' Dublintown

Hello again! Welcome back to 'The Life'. I suppose that now a significant time has elapsed since my last post I should alert you all as to my whereabouts. I forget, you know, to do these things; travelblogs are so last year, and it's become so normal to move from city to city and country to country that it slips my mind - you understand.

Right now I'm in Dublin, maybe a city a little more familiar to you than Bristol - I only go on about it because of a nice boy who lives there - and to be honest, my first day in this 'Vibrant and Youthful' city (according to tmylonely planet) was in fact 'Gloomy and Miserable'. Imagine if they'd written that in the guidebook. To summarise:

1. The plane from Liverpool John Lennon Airport (truely!) to Dublin was grounded due to a collision with a (presumably giant mutant) bird, which had smashed the headlights and messed up the fuel tank....what the...? Clearly this type of mishap only occurs with Ryanair planes. So, we were late to arrive finally in Dublin.

2. Of course, I didn't have any accommodation for the first night, so after wandering aimlessly for about 1/2 hour with my 18kg portable house on my back, I made some calls to some Servas host families and managed to score a night with a single lady and her daughter - of course they lived an hour away on the bus, and then I wasn't offered any food so I cooked my own couscous (mmmmm..) and was immediately made to feel reather unwelcome in the house. Servas, by the way, allows me access to Host families who don't mind putting up a stray traveller every now and again. It's very handy.

3. Whilst waiting for the bus, I asked a friendly looking girl for change for a 1 euro - she thought I was asking for money, oh my god, so embarrassing - she forced her spare change on me (I DID explain myself) and then proceeded to take me under her wing - she gave me her phone no - we had coffee yesterday, she organised for her boyfriend to take me around to some art galleries today, she helped me plan my travel around ireland, and she arranged for me to stay at her mother's house in some small village on my way to galway - this girl is probably the most hospitable and selfless person I have met so far on my travels - a true lifesaver if I may say so. At least that was a good thing - I don't usually ask people for money on the street but it certainly paid off...haha...paid off, get it.....
yep.

4. I walked past a man lying on the sidewalk with blood everywhere, all bright red shiny blood on the road, on the footpath, everywhere, so much blood, and I couldn't see where it was coming from but it scared me, and then all of a sudden the police and ambulance were there, everyone rushing, and I was pushed on, but oh my goodness, I didn't realise that blood could be so red, and bright, like food colouring.

5. I saw The Drones, a band from melbourne, last night, and armed with my friend of the moment, a spanish writer living here with his wife and kids, met the band afterwards and had the most fantastic time, such amazing music and in such a small venue too, it was very special. Blah blah blah, I hear you say. Whatever.

6. To make a long story short, everything is grand (as they say) and despite my cold still dragging on and on, I'm packing my bags and heading to Kilkenny tomorrow - and then off to Galway around the south coast. Sweet!

Love to you all, love so much.

Soph, the little one.