I have cousins dotted across the world and more than I realised pre-travelling live in Venezuela, either in the capital city, Caracas, or in Merida state which mostly lies to the south east, but also contains some, of the Venezuelan Andes.  Before visiting the country, y adventures had taken me to Australia for seven weeks then to New Zealand for three weeks (nowhere near long enough in retrospect, but I shan’t dwell on that mistake).  For those ten weeks I could happily and confidently get by easily and by myself, ordering food at a cafe and meeting new people an asking directions with no problem.  From that point of view it was no different from home.  I did, however, get quite a shock when I couldn’t freely articulate what I wanted to in Venezuela.  Duing my three weeks in New Zealand I attempted to learn from a set of free CDs that came free with The Guardian newspaper and used the accompanying phrase books to support the audio.  Sadly this attempt wasn’t very well sustained and I dismissed the language (or at the very least the method of learning) all too quickly.  Instead I wanted to focus on having the best time possible on the English-speaking part of my trip.

So when I arrived in Buenos Aires for my 12hour stop-over between Auckland (NZ) and Caracas (Venezuela) I had very little local language to get me from the airport to my hostel and in fact it was probably the most fraught part of my trip to date.  I had to resort to gesticulating wildly and using that terrible method of speaking slowly in English, as if that may help.  Thankfully, I somehow managed to book myself transport to and from my hostel and was 100 pesos the poorer.  After my plane landed at 3.20pm and before my connecting flight to Caracas at 7.30am the next morning,  managed to spend just 8 hours in my hostel – the rest was in some ugly, lonely, transient place where I felt dumb, deaf and blind.  The lack of language, it seemed, had got to me.

Determined not to allow myself to be in such a position again, I spent the flight trawling through several chapters of my ‘Learn Basic Spanish’ audio on my iPod but the lack of sleep the night before soon erased any concentration I had.  So I landed in a Spanish speaking country with knowledge of only 4 or 5 Spanish words: gracias, buenos dias/noches, por favor, si/non… that was about it.  Thankfully I had arranged to stay my first week with a cousin who spoke fluent English and who I had met several times before, and the second week with her brother who also had English as his second language.  In their company at least I could feel relatively at ease.  The upper-class chamber music concert and 4 hour lunch, the First Communion of two young relatives and several meetings with cousins I had never met before would change that feeling of comfort, however.  Over two weeks I was thrown into a mix of not only strange food and culture and a corrupt political situation evident in daily life but also the unfamiliar challenge of finding a way to communicate.  My childhood summer holidays were spent with my parents and siblings in the south of France.  I had been taught French ever since I was 5 years old, through private tuition, secondary school classes, pen pals and exchanges as well as first hand through interacting with French friends and locals we met on holiday.  French to me is an easy second language that I was brought up with a used to speak often.  I am by no means fluent but I can happily and confidently get around most situations I come across in a French speaking country.  In Venezuela I was suddenly caught off guard by the debilitating feeling that the inability to converse suffocated me in.

Over the two weeks I spent in the country, I repeated words I heard frequently (e.g. ‘claro’ = of course/sure/obviously) and made an effort to include them in my half-English-half-Spanish phrases.  While I had become accustomed to the stares (my blonde hair and fair skin make me stand out a mile in a country infrequently visited my tourists), the locals such as shopkeepers and security were less than sympathetic.  I did find some comfort, however, knowing that my attempts at Spanish were enough to keep the relatives happy.  To them the fact that I was making an effort was pleasing enough.  By the end of it all, my Spanish vocabulary may not be fluent or even count as basic conversational Spanish, but I certainly expanded my understanding of the language and its formation and became atune to rise and fall of the intonation.  I feel I could recognise somebody speaking Spanish and although I couldn’t converse with them it is something of a step in the right direction.

I’m kicking myself I didn’t learn it at school, though!

The beginning of the next month came and went, and the next, and over time the idea fizzled out.  Aha, Christmas time – the perfect occassion for photographs – except that my family’s spirit was not so festive and a lot of troubles around that time knocked the art out of me.  The next big thing was New Year.  Yes, I would start the project then and begin the year with a fresh mind, clear head and all that.

January 1st 2010: Wallpapering

January 1st was a Friday and, with a foggy-not-fresh champagne head, I was woken up by the sound of hoovering.  It seems my father had taken up the next instalment in a series of DIY tasks.  One by one, yucky floral wallpaper strips filled his bedroom walls.  He (and the wallpaper) didn’t make a good model, so the pasting brush had to do.  The concept of “Project 31” was to capture an image that summarised something unique to each day and write a few sentences about it.  A daily snapshot through my eyes began to build up and I thought it warranted its own Set on my Flickr photostream.

The photographs are far from being masterpieces or particularly captivating but I enjoyed having a reason to take photographs again.  January was a good month, and February an even better one, for photographs.  Long may the creative momentum last.

The essentials for learning to drive

I telephoned my sister’s old driving instructor, 8 years after she took her test, and was told that he’d retired.  Instead, I was recommended a guy name Haydn, so I gave him a call and we arranged a first lesson to see how we got on.  He seemed very friendly on the phone but little could calm my nerves when I first got in his car.   He drove us to a quiet road and we parked up near a big oak tree protruding through a garden fence.  Then he said we were going to switch seats. The prospect of me having to get in on the wrong side of the car terrified me.  Although I’d seen them countless times, the dials and lights and buttons felt alien to me.  In fact it felt like a spaceship; how on Earth was I going to make this machine move?  Haydn didn’t realise what he was letting himself in for.

Still, some sketches of the clutch and correct road position etc made me a little more confident and I began learning from the word ‘Go’.  Within no time, I was familiar with all sorts of expressions: ‘ten to two’ and ‘find the bite’ formed the very beginnings of my new Car Language.  Somehow, after only 20 minutes of me being in the car, I was making it move forwards, in a straight line and relatively safely, which felt like a miracle in itself.  A new patch of road opened up to me and my heart pounded as the realisation that I was actually driving a car dawned on me.

For the first few lessons we stuck to the same familiar quiet roads and practised a few of the basic technical stuff until I was ready to be let loose on busier roads.  My first encounter with a roundabout was horrific and I still don’t like them much.  The quick-thinking and decision-making sent me all a-fluster and it wasn’t something I was good at.  Haydn kept me calm and talked me through things slowly and he really made sense.  Having him sitting next to me was a real lifeline and the prospect of one day not having him in the car seemed unimaginable.  It didn’t take us long to become well acquainted and he realised I was a bit of a nut case, so our mindless nattering made me look forward to my lessons.  He really built up my confidence and he has the patience of the most saintly of saints.

My flawed but loyal Ford Fiesta, Howard, added another dimension to learning to drive.  He may look pretty in his shiny dark blue coat but underneath he’s a croaky middle-aged grump, much like my father in the passenger seat.  With my seat as far forward as it would go, the clutch pedal still felt a little too far away.  The first “lesson” I had with my Dad was as I was just getting used to changing gear and meeting other traffic, and in an empty carpark he told me to reverse.  REVERSE?  Woah there!  Travelling forwards was strange enough and he didn’t understand what I needed him to help me with.  His mentality was that he could reverse, so why couldn’t I?  His expectations of me were once again as high as the sky and I couldn’t do what he wanted, so I turned off the engine, unclipped my seatbelt and got out of the car.  I didn’t want to drive any more and my self confidence had been smashed in a matter of minutes.

It was a delicate time after that, and Haydn had a tough job getting me back to where I was.  Slowly but steadily I began enjoying lessons again and I could see the learning curve in front of me.  I happily took the car keys from Haydn and no longer needed to be forced into the driver’s seat.  Cockpit checks had become second nature and I wanted to know more, learn faster and get better.  I got to the stage where I was making mistakes and I was very aware that I could do better.  At the end of one awful lesson, Haydn told me I’d moved from “unconsciously incapable” to the “consciously incapable” stage.  Hearing those words made me upset for some reason, and it was a bit of a turning point.  I wanted to reach the “consciously capable” stage in an instant.  Lesson after lesson from then on, I made a mental note of things I had learned that I didn’t know how do to before.  Spirits lifted, I was becoming a much better driver.  All too soon, though, my time with Haydn was coming to an end: four more lessons before my practical test.

Haydn told me he was going to have shoulder surgery and that he couldn’t continue teaching me.  It felt like a massive blow to the chest and I couldn’t help but feel lost.  He said he’d ask another instructor to get me “test ready” but I didn’t want anybody else.  He’d been the one on that took me to the big tree on my first day and the person reminding me why I wanted to learn to drive, after the incident with my Dad.  Haydn spoke fondly of Evan, my new instructor.  I was told he was 28 years old and quite reserved but a “very nice lad”.  Nice enough, in fact, for Haydn to joke about the idea of he and I getting along so well that I’d want to marry him.  I was dubious – I don’t like change – but Haydn was right.  I don’t want to marry Evan but the transition between instructors went much more smoothly that I anticipated.  It was even good practise to get used to having an unfamiliar person in Haydn’s place before my test.

Test day came and I was feeling nervous – really nervous.  I treated it like an academic exam and told myself that fretting wouldn’t do any good.  Stay calm, breathe, it’s no big deal, just do the best I can.  Pretend it’s another lesson. So I did… and it paid off.  Pulling into the test centre after the longest 35 minutes of my life and I was so pleased to see Evan waiting for me, folding his arms and beaming a proud smile at me before I’d even turned the engine off.  It was as though he knew something I didn’t.  I waited in silence as the examiner filled in bits of paper and got something out of his file.  Then, these lovely words: “Right then Olivia, I’m pleased to tell you that you’ve passed your driving test today —”.  Everything he said after that sounded muffled.  I didn’t do a very good job of concealing my happiness from Evan through the windscreen.   Lots of bits of paper and leaflets were handed to me and it was all a bit of a blur.  Before I knew it Evan was giving me a lift home.  It was a good day, I couldn’t quite believe I had passed.

I really like Evan, he’s a great instructor and Haydn couldn’t have given me a better replacement.  But after all of Haydn’s patience and hard work from Day 1, I really wanted him there to see me pass.  As soon as I got home, he was the first person I called.

My friend in University of Leeds productions of stage musicals "Anything Goes" (L) and "Fame!" (R)

One weekend in January, my Mother and I had planned to visit our cousins living in London as a graduation present. Part of the present was seeing a West End show and, after much deliberation, we settled on “Billy Elliot: The Musical“.  Travelling south by train, I got excited looking out of the window at the changing landscape and felt glad to have a weekend of my Mum all to myself.  We checked into our hotel, had lunch with a friend then went to see our cousins in the afternoon.   Wanting to spend as much time with family as possible, we ended up not leaving ourselves much time for a nice dinner out.  Instead we rushed a sandwich and looked online at the journey from the hotel to the Victoria Palace Theatre.  Marching down Vauxhall Bridge Road, we realised we’d skipped the pre-theatre drinks that we’re used to and debated whether or not to reserve drinks for the interval.  Instead, in the most snickering, naughty schoolgirl fashion, we nipped into a newsagents and bought ourselves a couple of one-glass bottles of wine.

Mum and I outside the Victoria Theatre

Feeling rather giddy as we swigged our wine on the move, we finally found the theatre and joined the back of the queue.   It was clear that the other audience members waiting to be served were divided into one of two categories.  People were either foreigners visiting London for a spot of culture, identifiable by indecipherable languages, or had bought a package deal online, easily spotted by the A4 printed e-tickets that had to be handed to the beefy guys at the theatre doors.  My mum and I were members of the latter category.  On hearing people ahead of us being asked to open their handbags for inspection, I thought of the wine bottles in my bag and panicked.  I did my best to hide them and it took a big grin and a shameless compliment to Security to get us in.  I got us two glasses of ice from the bar and as we settled into our seats, I poured us each a lovely drink (below the level of the seats in front in case anybody spotted our antics).

“Billy Elliot: The Musical” is very much like the original film.  The storyline didn’t deviate and the songs were very apt.  There were some scenes which disappointed me a little since the film equivalents were so poignant (the toilet cubicle scene with Billy and the ballet teacher, Mrs Wilkinson, in particular).  Still, there were very moving moments, catchy songs, heart-breaking scenes and witty jokes, as well as beautifully portrayed ballet.  If you can look past the exaggerated “Geordie” accent, it’s a really fantastic show to see.  My mum and I both loved it, and it was a perfect choice of musical.   I’m glad we didn’t go for a heavy classic like “Les Miserables” in the end, which we were tempted to do, since Billy Elliot was so fun and made the trip to London well worth it.

Cousin Becca and her daughter, Eva (Tixall)

After booking a trip to London less than two weeks before departing, my mum and I were eager to get on the train and head south.  We arrived on a saturday to a bustling Euston station and found our way to our City Inn Westminster hotel which was excellent.  Free Wi-Fi and complimentary The White Company toiletries anyone?!  I met a friend for lunch and a catch up then my mum and I walked to meet Becca, Dan and the kids in the cafe of The National Gallery.  Our brisk 20 minute walk took us past the monumental Houses of Parliament, the limestone Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the London Eye, a heavily guarded Downing Street and countless other statues and monuments that we sadly didn’t have time to look at since we were running a little late.  Finally, to Trafalgar Square where we were greeted by our cousins.  Two of the most gorgeous looking children in fact ignored us for the most part and continued to squabble over pens.  It was a real treat to spend quality time with family and to catch up on their lives and exchange stories.  Ping, their two-year old boy, has a cheeky grin and a penchant for wearing dresses.  I couldn’t believe how much Eva had grown, she’s so beautifully articulate now.  It is a pleasure to call them both family.

Cousins in London (L-R): Ping, Dan, Becca, Eva.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged in Trafalgar Square after dark, and the promise to not let it be so long until we see each other again.

Gaudi's "La Sagrada Familia" in Barcelona. Heather's caption: "Taken at 6.30am after night out in Salsa club with too many tequilas and spanish guys called Pedro!"

My sister is 5 years older than I am, and when she graduated from the University of Sheffield, my mum took her on a long city break to Murcia.  This mother-daughter trip sounded great andalthough it was nice to hear about their holiday when they came home, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.  Still, I was promised a similar trip after I graduated, so I’ve always had that to look forward to.  So, when I graduated in summer 2009, we started thinking about where we could go.  The unspoken default was a European city break for four days, but Europe for some reason doesn’t excite me.  On family holidays we always went to southern France and rarely spent much time in cities when we got there, so a “city break” isn’t something I particularly desire.  It would be nice to spend my first one with my mum though, I thought.  Months later still no decision had been made; it had been put off, slung to the side to make way for more important chores with closer deadlines.  As summer 2009 drew to a speedy close and chilly winds and grey skies became the norm, I was excited by the prospect that my mum’s Seasonal Affectivity Disorder (near enough) would prompt her into hankering after some sunshine and warmth.

Of course, I was wrong… Instead, we’re heading to London in January.  Far from being the disappointment that this could be compared to my initial expectations, I’m rather looking forward to it.  We’re going to see Billy Elliot and then visit cousins (including two gorgeous children) that live nearby.  Other relatives also happen to be descending on London on the same weekend after flying in from San Francisco.  These are relatives that I will be staying with for ten days or so in July this year when I go travelling and, having not seen them since we last visited when I was 4, I’m very much relishing the prospect of spending time with family.  Relatives on my mother’s side are scattered across the globe and, whilst it’s great for taking advantage of any spare bedrooms on my travels, it means there’s very little family living in the UK.

I booked the West End show and rail tickets as well as the hotel in a fantastic package deal with www.show-and-stay.co.uk for the weekend of 23rd-24th January.  Okay, so I realise it’s not within a week of boarding the train but it’s near enough without getting poor theatre seats and really the extra days don’t matter when the thrill and excitement of visiting family is imminent.

My first experience of Corp is hazy, probably because my mind has blocked it out for self-preservation reasons. What started out as a terrifying and creepy black box morphed into a well-loved haven for us bored students in Flat 37 of Devonshire Courtyard. The club has themed nights throughout the week and three floors over which to spread it’s black paint and screaming music. Friday nights are the worst (or best, depending on what sort of night out you’re looking for), the most unknown and frightening looking characters lurked in every dank corner. My friends and I in our denim skirts and high street tops looked incongruous surrounded by tattoo-covered, metal-pierced, spiky-haired clubbers. Instantly recognisable as Freshers, we were certain pray… except that we weren’t. Apart from a few moody glances, I was surprised that nobody treated us as outsiders. In fact, some of the most courteous people I’ve ever met had countless piercings and long died black hair and were clad head to toe in leather. People gave up their seats for us when we could no longer keep ourselves upright from drinking too many 50p vodka mixers. Getting Snakebites (drinks) from even the most packed bar was usually a relatively civilised affair compared to the likes of Bar One in the Students’ Union.

For these reasons, as well as the proximity to our flat and the best chip shop in town, Devonshire Chippy, we built a real love for Corporation and wouldn’t hear a bad word said about it. We looked past the sick in the toilets, and ignored the sticky floor and found great joy in drunkenly reading the expressive band names on fluorescent gig posters. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t quite see each other for the thick and sweaty fog, it was all part of what it meant to be out at Corp. The maze-like sets of stairs and balconies only added to further amusement and become a drunken game: who can find their way to the ground floor the quickest without falling over. Of course, I did fall down those stairs, which ended in two friends carrying me home – not my best moment.

Before the hell of exams begun, my housemate of three years and I decided to relive our Corporation days for the night. Although Monday and Friday nights used to be our favourites, my badminton club friends were heading out to Corp on a Wednesday night and there was the extra bonus of having free entry before 10.30pm if we dressed in “school uniform” – which is what 90% of clubbers do. We dug out old school ties and also decided to write “Leavers ’09″ on the backs of our shirts, since we’d have only two more months at University.

My friend and I as Freshers in 2006 (left) and on our final visit (right)

Eagerly, we walked and drank through the days of old, and squealed as we saw the colourful posters and our shoes stuck to the floor. It was pretty busy in the main room downstairs so we headed to the stairs to experience Room 3 on the top floor, where most of our Corp memories were made. We were greeted by a No Entry sign and a barrier – what was going on? We tried the other set of stairs, but no luck there either, Room 3 was quite clearly closed. To put it mildly, we were disappointed that our Corp experience couldn’t be lived out in full. Still, a few of our favourite paint-stripper double Vodka and lemonades were down us, we couldn’t care less. A mix of indie tracks and more mainstream tunes were blasting out, and we were once more absorbed by carefree dancing in a big, sticky, black box. Long live Corporation!

My sister set some wonderful fashion trends

My sister has lived in Yorkshire since graduating from University and has moved cities once a year, which is a great excuse to explore new cities (although I was not enthusiastic about a trip to Scunthorpe). Upon arriving at the railway station, I was greeted by the most hideous gusts which nearly knocked me sideways onto the track, but then more hospitably by my sister. We walked to meet her boyfriend at their favourite haunt, “Coffee Culture”, for a great slap-up breakfast and pot of Earl Grey. Conveniently positioned near to York Minster, we had everything at our egg-and-bacon fingertips. I must admit, the Minster is rather more impressive on the outside than Chester’s Cathedral, although I can’t comment on the interior since we didn’t go in.

From there, Bec and I went for a walk along the river and stumbled across the Yorkshire Museum and Gardens, which appealed to the geologist in me. A new exhibition of new Viking discoveries gave us the extra incentive to pay an entrance fee. We enjoyed spending over an hour exploring the displays, dressing up as peasants and playing on the partial replica Viking boats.

With only an afternoon to play with, we decided to recreate our own Betty’s tea back at my sister’s flat, after both cafes in York had a typically enormous queues. Bec bought four fruit scones at the Little Betty’s shop and said we’d stop at a mini supermarket on the way back for clotted cream. This was a more difficult task than first anticiapted and after much fruitless searching, we gave up and headed home to get the butter out of the fridge. I’d bought her “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” on DVD, so we put that on and settled down with the scones and jam and I asked as the titles came up on the screen “Why didn’t we get clotted cream from Betty’s?”. I had spotted a lone tub of it with unassociated products when we bought the scones and, assuming she didn’t want the added expense of such an impossibly large quantity of it, didn’t mention it to my sister. Of course I had forgotten that monetary expense was no issue to a hard-working doctor, and she kicked off, asking me why I didn’t tell her about the last tub. Anyway, I learned my lesson and we agreed to buy some next time either one of us was at Betty’s (certainly my sister, since she’s there at least once a week), although she wouldn’t let it drop for some time…

Only a few hours in York and a brief visit over with, until the next time anyway. The next time I’d see my sister would be Christmas week – a long way away but a treat considering she was abroad last Christmas.

Lately, I’ve been asked how my travel plans are going. Disappointingly, my pitiful answer has repeatedly been something along the lines of “I’ve not really made any” or “I’m concentrating on saving for them”. Honestly, I need to pull my finger out and get planning. Recently, though, the idea of travelling doesn’t fill me with the excitement I had hoped for. It feels like a chore to get stuck into the research and decipher what tours and packages offer the sort of experience I’m after. Truth is, I’m quickly finding that I’m not all that certain what I want to get out of my travels, so I’m going back to basics and reviewing the whole trip.

After some pathetic attempt at reassessing my priorities, out of the blue came a text from a neighbour wants to do the East Coast of Australia, just like me. We don’t know eachother particularly well, although he’s lived two streets away from me most of our lives. He told me of a talk being given by STA Travel’s Liverpool branch about travelling Australia, which we agreed to attend. Other than the words “Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbaine” running around my head, I had no clue what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go on this leg of my trip.

The 90-minute talk included three presentations from similar Australia/NZ-based tour companies, all of which captured my attention and, by the end of it all, my imagination. Seeing itineraries and photographs of ex-travellers lying in swags under the stars in the Red Centre and hearing of 3-day trips on a racing boat visiting the Whitsundays brought the spark back. I was able to visualise myself as a backpacker, sleeping on buses, meeting other foreigners, seeing incredible natural wonders, exploring another land. It suddenly became much more real and I wanted to know more. I thought of all the books, websites and guides I’d need to look through and made a written list of some titles I’d been recommended.

A prize draw at the end of the presentation shortened that list by one. The 40 or so attendees filled in a questionnaire at the start of the talk with the chance to win a discount card or a 2″ thick “Rough Guide to Australia”. With only one more winner to be announced, I said my own name over and over in my head, wishing for my name to be chosen. This time, though, and for the first time, it worked. I collected my prize and with it a bundle of enthusiasm for the journey ahead of me.

The show we had booked to see was called “Quidam”, a 12-year international sell out show that told the story of a little girl throughout the performance. Her curiosity draws her into a parallel universe where she discovers the wonder of the performers, with their exciting fusion of danger and mystery. On the night, we found the story a little difficult to follow, partly because we went into it with no expectations as to what would be delivered on stage. The circular stage took a central situation and was surrounded by seats packed out by children and adults filled to the brim with the same hesitant excitment that we were. Performers on stilts and with strange colourful costumes paraded through the aisles, often chosing an audience member to molest or play act with, which added a real buzz to the arena before the show had even begun.

A series of sketches followed, with the lonely girl character representing a deep isolation that contrasted hugely with the numerous performers in surreal ghostly costume. From rope-climbers to contortionists and men in rings to acrobats, the show had something for everybody. I remember several Chinese doll-like girls each wielding a diabolo, wrapping it around themselves and flinging them across the stage for each other to catch – it was tiring but fascinating to watch them. Towards the end of the show was a bowler hat clad character that was a big hit with surely ever ticket holder. He did no circus tricks or acrobatics, no flame throwing or similar to astound us, but he performed a sketch that lasted perhaps 20 minutes. His stilted friends plucked audience members to join him on stage and, using only the emotive power of mime, he acted out a scene of adultery and betrayal with his new Cirque du Soleil members. The emotions shared in the arena made it an intimate occassion.

From the hilarious spontaneous sketch to unfaltering fascination with the show put on by the contortionists and acrobats, the whole evening went by far too quickly. The raptuous applause and standing ovation at the end didn’t do them justice. Quidam may have been rather surreal and the story’s disjointed nature a little confusing, but the whole show was a beautiful and awe-inspiring spectacle. It’s still debatable as to whether the Cirque du Soleil experience beats the Snow Show, but it comes damn close – and that’s really something.