Where will your travels take you?

On an unseasonably warm day in February, I board a bus.

I am going on a journey.

My breakfast is still swimming around my throat in protest at how fast I've gobbled it down, threatening regurgitation. I am pressed for time, yet I can still pause to acknowledge porridge oats as the one food I can make and eat within seven minutes. I have timed it and it is a remarkable feat, because usually, I can nurse my food till the cocks come home to roost. When I was fourteen and about to go to boarding school, one of my mother's valid concerns was that I'd be the soul left on her lonesome at the dining hall while everybody finished their food and left for their next class.

The sun is out and I am appreciating this rare opportunity to wear just a light blazer as opposed to the warm winter jacket that has been attached to my body for the last few months.

A cacophony of sounds jostle for dominance in the bus. Noisy children ask tedious questions of their parents, whilst they in turn respond with the patience that only a parent can muster. There is loud chatter and general bonhomie which only the appearance of the sun can bestow on the good people of the United Kingdom. That it is also a Saturday adds a certain gaiety to proceedings.

I go to the upper deck and I spot them immediately.

He is blond, with a face that looks like it is always on the verge of bursting into raucous laughter.She has skin the colour of rust, and an accent she later assures me is supposed to be Kenyan, as though she could tell my geography fails  me on various occasions.

'Do you think I have the face for it?' She asks without preamble as I take the seat behind them.

'For it?' I echo dumbly.

'For a perm cut. Come on, be honest with me.' She adds conspiratorially.

Before I know it, we are discussing hair types, cheekbones...and the luminous Lupita Nyiong'o for whom the world has gone loopy.

They are good friends, she tells me, turning to her mate, ruffling the blond hairs on his head, and he retaliates by telling her that a perm cut would not suit her prominent forehead. I am touched by their easy banter.  

With mock solemnity I assure her that life is so much better when you accept that yes, your forehead is prominent et alors? I point to the scar on mine, the one I can't hide especially now my hair is short, and we share a smile.

I am nearly at my stop so I say goodbye and go downstairs, feeling like my day can only get better thereon.

It does.

I am attending a travel writing workshop run by Peter Carty, an experienced writer whose travel features have graced numerous publications including The Guardian, Conde Nast Traveller, The Telegraph etc.

It's a full house, chatty with enthusiastic people from all walks of life, and it doesn't escape me that for all our differences, one thing unites us all in that moment: our passion for travel. During the ice-breaker session, I meet Georgina, born in Serbia, raised in Sydney and now living in London. Seated on my left is an English woman from Kent, whose transatlantic accent reveals on further probing, an early life spent in Nairobi. I want to tell her that the only Swahili I know is from playing 'Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?' as a child, but I don't think now is the time to outdoor my limited language skills. (I can say 'Stop, thief!' and 'Are you a detective?', just in case you're wondering.)

Through various conversations and writing assignments in the course of the day, I am taken on a food tour in Bologna, hiking up the Scottish Highlands, navigating local life in Colombia and back for a culinary tour de force in San Sebastian, amongst other exhilarating experiences brought piercingly alive through text.

The workshop is intense, packed with nuggets of information, and so easily whets my appetite for travel until I can almost feel the ants in my pants move down to give me itchy feet.

And so as the day ends, I am buzzing, thinking of passports, finances and travel destinations. But mostly, I am also thinking who will I talk to next? 

Because to travel is to allow yourself to experience a people, a place, an adventure.

Where will yours take you?

Travel Writing Workshop
www.travelwritingworkshop.co.uk

Turkish delights

It is a gloriously sunny day when I arrive in Turkey. 

There is a gaiety in the air that brings out a lightness in people, an infectiously warm feeling that wraps itself snuggly around me and pulls the ends of my lips into a carefree smile.

I have surprised my friend Cansu with adroit geography skills that lead me to our meeting place faster than she expected, and every so often, she casts me looks that give away how impressed she is.  I act nonchalant, as though I am in the habit of manoeuvring my way through strange cities all the time, but I can’t hide my pleased face for long on the drive back to her family house.

She is rattling away in her bubbly way, bright smiles lighting up her face with every sentence, so that even though I am slightly distracted by the shops and people along the pavements, I chip in often so she doesn’t cotton on to that fact.

It had only taken a single phone call, this spontaneous Sunday trip.

‘I’m bored. I have no idea what to do with myself this afternoon.’

Her tinkly laugh had rang down the line, and the invitation had been prompt. ‘It’s my dad’s birthday and there’s a family barbecue. Everyone will be here. So come!’

I go.

I smell it before we walk through the front door; a delicious aroma wafting through the house, playfully assailing the senses with ticklish charm. A slow growl ripples its way through my stomach, announcing the presence of a hunger I hadn’t yet been aware of.

In the kitchen, Cansu bends down and kisses her grandmother. ‘Nene, bu is arkadasim’dir,’ she says, motioning me closer. Grandma, this is my friend from work.

I return the gentle smile creasing a face lined with years gone by.  She is sitting on a low stool with her walking stick by her. As she reaches up to me, I notice her hands first, wrinkled with age. But her grip is strong when she folds me into a welcoming hug, and for a moment I remember my own grandmother in Ghana. I hold on to her a little longer and she kisses my cheek softly as I let go. She doesn’t speak much English, but in her warm gaze I feel like I’ve had a profound conversation with her.  She releases me, and we go through the kitchen to the back garden.

Juicy lamb ribs are sizzling on the barbecue, and the smell makes coherent speech nigh impossible. Hussein, Cansu’s father, is standing behind the grill wiping his brow, his satisfaction apparent. He is smiling before we’ve even exchanged names. ‘I hope you like food, because there’s plenty here!’ he says in greeting. I laugh at this line delivered with such paternal impatience, as though I were one of his own, and walk over to greet him properly.

Voices can be heard from upstairs.

‘That'll be my brother and his friends,’ says Cansu, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

We bound up the stairs towards the noise. Jay is tall and handsome, with eyes like his sister's. They crinkle easily in laughter. We've each heard a lot about the other, and so even though it is our first meet, I launch effortlessly into teasing him. 

'I hear you're learning to drive as well? What makes you think you can beat me to it, huh?' I challenge. 

He cocks his head to the side. 'Oh yeah? Whichever one of us passes their driving test first, buys the other a car. Deal?'

I smile. 'Deal.'

Hussein calls us down to sample what's on offer. The dining table is bursting with delights and flavours. Bulgur pilaf, lamb chops, mushrooms and pitta bread are sitting side by side with hellim (cheese), cacik (yoghurt side), humus and salad. And more dishes are making their appearance as we grab plates and help ourselves. I enjoy my first taste of hellim so much, Cansu's mother gifts me with an entire pack.      

 No stranger to eating with my hands, I tuck into the food to the last lick of fingers that may well be bitten in utter abandon and pursuit of that final morsel.

The sun shifts and casts a late afternoon glow, and I realize I am not in Turkey. 

I am in the north London home of my Turkish friend. Here, I feel as though I have walked into a scene I know very well: the stacks of plates that tell of a meal well-enjoyed, the banter and cacophony of criss-crossing conversations and the accompanying exasperation of trying to be a part of each one, the unshakeable feeling of family bonding, of ties that bind in unbreakable ways.  

It is a beautiful time. And I know I will always remember with warmth that Sunday in April when I gate-crashed a Turkish barbecue and left with a pack of hellim.

56 Things You Need to Know About Ghana

This here, my Ghana-centric post marking 56 years of independence, is to be read, sometimes, with as firm a tongue in cheek as I had whilst writing it.

1) Ghana is pronounced 'Gah-na', not 'Guyana', 'Gha-nya', or - even more ridiculous - 'Ganja'.

2) There are many languages and dialects spoken in Ghana, and not one of them is called 'Ghanaian'. So don't ever ask someone to say something to you 'in Ghanaian.'

3) Be that as it may, LAFA is a language onto its own in Ghana. Wharrisdat, you say? 

4) Ghanaian Pidgin English is a parallel language which waters down English while mixing with local dialects.

5) Ghanaian is not spelt G-H-A-N-I-A-N

6) The name Uruguay can still trigger intense emotion from Ghanaians. Whatever you do, don't mention the hand of Luis Suarez in South Africa 2010.

7) Local food is an institution in Ghana. You haven't lived until you've had waakye early on a Saturday morning, preferably in ahaban (leaves), fufu and aponkye krakra (goat meat) soup in a chop bar, yam and kontomire in an asanka (earthenware bowl), and omo tuo (rice balls) amongst other dishes.

8) Price is negotiable, and there is no shame in that. However minuscule it appears, haggling is the name of the game when you street trade or buy. No haggling dents your street cred!

9) Realise that asking for extra of the commodity purchased is an intrinsic part of shopping in the market. 

10) You have to be nimble-footed in the marketplace if you cherish any part of your body. The man with the wheelbarrow laden with food products really doesn't care that he's nearly taken out your hip with his metal monster.

11) 'No man's land' is a phrase that must have been coined for the people of Ghana. So what if a tent has been erected, and an entire side road has been taken over by the mourners and well-wishers attending the memorial service of Mr What-is-his-name with no permission, nor apparent concern whatsoever for blocking the road? Swallow your rage and find an alternate route.

12) 'Post no bill' is the most pointless warning you might ever see written on a wall. This is why in spite of the usually bold red letters, that very wall or gate has - among others - obituary notices and remedial class availability.

13) When it comes to beaches, you're spoiled for choice. Take your pick from any of the sandy destinations that litter the coast of Ghana, and go get wet.

14) On any given day, you will hear two or more of the following sounds: a cock crowing, horns blaring, hawkers peddling everything from toilet roll and bananas to mobile phone credit, your next door neighbour bellowing for 'Naa'sei/Akpene/', someone sweeping and singing, with the occasional discordant note creeping in…because in Ghana, noise is spelt C-A-C-O-P-H-O-N-Y.

 

15) ECG stands for Electricity Company of Ghana - but you’d be forgiven for thinking it is rather Electricity Comes and Goes

16) You will catch Ghana at various moments of emotional outbursts through the microcosm of society that travels by trotro. Football, politics and religion have been known to be the subject of much heated discussions on this common form of public transport. 

17) Everybody knows it’s not a homecoming if you haven’t been re-acquainted with aforementioned trotro rides. Or perhaps it’s just me.

18) You should realize that hawkers have every right to your body. Freedom of movement is very real here. How else were they meant to grab your attention except by pulling your arm, tapping your shoulder or - even more brazen – practically giving you an awkward side hug to draw your attention to the goods they are selling? Or better still, shove their wares under your nose, right in your line of vision for good effect. Marketing by visualization…that qualifies for a Sloan School of Management research grant.

19) Markets produce more terms of endearment than your average short-lived romantic dalliances. ‘Sweetie’, ‘ahuofe’ (beautiful), and 'love' are words you might hear thrown your way as you walk through any market, though the level of urgency with which they are proffered could hardly be confused for the dulcet tones of your lover.

20) Expect your attention to be called to by any of these sounds: clapping, hissing or long drawn out kissy sounds, though this last is supposedly complimentary.

21) Inscriptions on various forms of public transport occasionally turn people into
vocabulary vigilantes, but trust me, they are legitimate entertainment when you are
out on the street. Example: ‘Conquer the deviel’, ‘Jeseus is alive’ (which alone is
another crucifixion)

22) Speaking of roadside entertainment, be on the lookout for..er..creative spellings of
names of shops – ‘Grace of God Anoiting Saloon’, anyone?

23) We love all our neighbouring countries, but everyone knows we have an especial
‘rivalry’ with our cousins over in Nigeria.

24) Braiding salons remain one of the top places to pick up pieces of highly useless
gossip about people you'll probably never meet whilst your hair follicles are being
molested into compliance.

25) I lied about 24. Sometimes the subject of said gossip is probably only a few feet
from where you are.

26) Your car, front lawn or house could be ‘called upon’ at any moment to provide a
nice backdrop to the picture that woman in her Sunday best is currently having taken.
Take it as a compliment.

27) Kelewele stands across the length and breadth of the country have seen
some serious romancing between the sexes over the years. Sometimes, the relationship
is incomplete if it doesn't involve nighttime strolls to buy some well-spiced fried
plantain and peanuts.

28) The skyline of Accra, the capital city, has especially seen some dramatic changes
in the last decade with the addition of many commercial edifices. For the younger
generation, ‘The Mall’, has become one such place to see and be seen.

29) Ghana is a colourful pastiche of culture and heritage, and nowhere will you see
this more vividly displayed than at festivals. Some popular ones are: The Homowo
Festival of the Gas in the Greater Accra Region, The Damba Festival celebrated by the
Gonjas, Mamprusi’s, Nanumbas and Dagombas of Northern Ghana, and the Adae and
Akwasidae Festivals of the Asante. A veritable sight to behold!

30) Visit any one of the thriving arts and crafts stores and villages in the country, and
you will be awed by the intricate detail and workmanship. Expertise in wood carving,
weaving, pottery making and ceramics, to name a few, tell their own traditional stories
dating back centuries. 

31) Some tailors seem to be especially schooled in the art of disappointing their clientele. They told you your custom-made outfit would be ready on Saturday…and you believed them, expecting to wear it for that special event on Sunday? Come again!    

32) The loud music, free flowing booze, boogieing and general bonhomie may not immediately give it away, but somewhere in the midst of all that, you will eventually realize it is a funeral, and that in Ghana, they are celebrated, spirited, and over-the-top.  

33) Unless otherwise stated, the attire for funerals is red or black. Donations made by mourners to the family of the deceased are usually announced with colourful language.

34) It is indeed a small world. In Ghana, it shrinks even further. Six degrees of separation? Puh-lease! We halved that before the theory even had a name.

35) That one herbal drug or ointment the salesman is peddling on the trotro cures headaches, body aches, rashes, boils, irregular bleeding, abdominal pain, kooko (hemorrhoids), irritable bowels, erectile dysfunction…just to mention a few.

36)  Tsooboi!’ is a clarion call to action which evokes the response ‘Yei!’

37) It is a common practice to greet strangers and inquire of their health. 

38) Lorry stations are a cacophony of destination announcements, though not exactly as you might know them. In Accra, some unsuspecting passengers in trotros have missed their stops at ‘Kwa-leb’, ‘Cerc’ and ‘Kanaish’ due to not recognizing the names as actually being ‘Korle-Bu’, ‘Circle’ and ‘Kaneshie’ respectively.

39) A hawker/trader who carries their wares on their head could ask you to help them balance their tray of goods back on their heads. Be careful as you do so - and for the love of God, don’t let anything drop or things could quickly turn sour for you.  

40) It is nice to call out ‘Ayekoo’ (Well done) to any workman as you walk past them.

41) Flashing could mean all sorts of things, but in Ghana, it’s more than likely the practice of giving a deliberate ‘missed call’ to another in the hope that they have the wherewithal to call back.

42) Sometimes you have to practice hurdle jumps. There are many open gutters in Ghana.

43) I don’t care how evolved you are, if he looks old enough to be your uncle or father, do not address him by his first name. It has to be the avuncular makeover. Everyone considerably older than you is an ‘Uncle’, ‘Aunty’, ‘Bra’ (Brother)..etc. That is the way it goes in Ghana and most African countries.

44) Gari, dried cassava grated to produce a coarse powder, is something of a staple in most Ghanaian homes. Students in boarding schools are especially grateful for this humble ‘companion.’

45)  You greet, give and receive things with your right hand.

46) Tales of the eponymous spider in the Ananse stories have tickled and cautioned many Ghanaian children. Kwaku Ananse’s web of subterfuge and trickery probably rubbed off on a few rambunctious ones, too.

47)  Even if the purpose of their visit is glaringly obvious, it is customary to ask what mission brings a visitor to your home – but not before offering  some water as a welcome gesture.

48) There is such a thing as ‘mandatory’ worship; because in Ghana, you are never far from a group of enthusiastic believers.

49) Your peripheral vision needs to be on extra sharp sensors. Traffic situations can be chaotic.

50) Sometimes a man is measured by the amount of chichinga (khebabs) he can lay on for the ladies.

51) Azonto needs no introduction - even if you are rhythmically challenged.

52) The peculiarities of giving children traditional Ghanaian names differ from one ethnic group to the other.

53) Ghanaians outside the country love transporting the culture of the nation into the Diasporan life. Chieftaincy, authentic Ghanaian food, traditional marriage ceremonies - you name it, we've got it sorted. 

54) Ghanaians are warm, hospitable people who make visitors feel right at home with a friendly smile and some water to bid you our traditional welcome – Akwaaba.

55) After giving the world a peacemaker in Kofi Annan, and Africa’s ‘Man of the Millenium’ in Kwame Nkrumah, whether or not Cardinal Appiah Turkson succeeds Pope Benedict, very few will be able to say they have not heard the name Ghana. Grab a globe and find out where Ghana is… It is in West Africa BUT never refer to Cardinal Turkson or Pope Turkson as the West African, he is Ghanaian NOT Ghanian.

56) Ghana is one of Africa’s success stories. We have our terrific highs and desperate lows, with the sort of unshakeable optimism that lets us enjoy the creamy middles between those two. My people are vibrant, with bursts of humour and joie de vivre; they are hardworking, with hopes and dreams of creating a country that is better than what they have been presented with. And I would like to think that we are united, wherever our location, by the realization that it is only through our collective effort that we can bring progress and strength to our nation.

Happy 56 years, Ghana…my Ghana.  

Keep Calm, You're in Edinburgh

It is customary for me to tap into warm memories from summers gone on cold winter mornings when my voice is raspy from coughing too much, and sunny weather is still a while yet. That is the only reason why I'm now posting this. Ahem.

It takes exactly twelve minutes for my heart to settle on a mushy love scene with Edinburgh. 

At least, I'm sure that's how long the walk upwards from Waverley Station to The Mound takes, during which time I decide the picturesque Scottish capital is quite a romantic backdrop.

The train journey from London has already been punctuated with delightful scenes that have served to remind me how much I love long distance trips: trees whizzing past with dizzying speed, corn fields swaying with the wind, small water bodies twinkling as the sun's rays hit...and the delicious feeling that we're on the eve of something amazing.

It is the day before the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. At King's Cross where I board the train - itself a near comical experience when the first train I jump on turns out to be the express service alright...to Leeds - the atmosphere is businesslike, but with a tinge of excitement. London, always a cacophony of voices, languages and accents, is heightened with expectation. Its doors are open, and the world is coming in for a spectacular few weeks of pomp and pageantry in the 2012 Games. Mayor Boris Johnson's voice booms intermittently over loudspeakers across the station, 'This is it, London. The big one!' 

When my friend Abena meets me at the station, we squeal like a pair of kids. It's been at least two years since we last saw each other.

'Arrrgh, you cut your hair!'
'So did you!'

And so on...  

Abena lives opposite a bakery, a Chinese take out restaurant (foodie alert) and a chic-looking hair salon. As we settle in on the second floor, I get a clear, unobstructed view into one of the apartments on the next floor.    

There is a couple in the flat above the bakery who seem to be glued at the pelvis. Their kitchen window looks steamy - but one is hard pressed to know if this emanates from the hot water she's pouring from the spaghetti into the kitchen sink, or the scorching kisses he plants down her neck while she's at it. 

I turn around and grin mischievously at Abena. 'You have nice neighbours.'

I have packed optimistically, which really means I've totally underestimated the weather and haven't brought a decent coat for the chilly summer Edinburgh seems to be experiencing. As Abena roots around in her wardrobe for one to lend me, I whip my phone out and send a text to Adi, my Scottish friend in London.

Hey, I'm in your country! What's a must-do in Edinburgh?

He replies soon. A must-do in Edinburgh...is to get out of the city and go to Glasgow immediately.

Bet you can't tell he's from Glasgow, can ya?

The plan is to have dinner and take in some night time sights, but we never make it out of the flat eventually. Once we park our bums on the chairs in the kitchen, we trade scintillating stories we've missed from the other's life, and for the rest of the night, peals of laughter can heard from us every so often.  

This leaves us with a steely determination to get up and about the next morning as opposed to lazing around and gorging ourselves on cake. 

We do get up and about

Besides, it's also the night of the opening ceremony, which we will watch on giant screens mounted at Festival Square, and for sure, we have planned to scream ourselves hoarse when Ghana's Olympic team makes their way into the stadium.

At least, that is the script. 

I don't exactly plan to cheer also for: France (3rd home), The Netherlands (just because), Italy (next European destination), Jamaica (really, who didn't?) and ALL the other African nations (continental alliance, abi), so much so that Abena bursts into laughter. 'Dava, I think you're confusing people by cheering for every country!'
I sit down meekly.

Edinburgh has a quaint feel to it that is such a visual delight for me. There is a decidedly old look about the buildings in a way that makes me feel like I'm walking through an ancient European city. It seems to have two prominent landmarks on either side of it, though with my questionable geography, they may well have been on the same side of the compass - Arthur's Seat and Edinburgh Castle. Now I  know my thighs cannot manage Arthur's Seat, and even as we contemplate the climb, I remember Adi's second text:

I was going to suggest Arthur's Seat - because I know how much you love to exercise ;p . (This, I know, is a direct dig over the time we planned to attend an exercise class together and I pulled out at the last minute. Honestly, I had a headache!)

But yes, it means I only admire Arthur's Seat from afar. Edinburgh Castle, though, is an architectural wonder. It towers above us, dominating the skyline with its magnificence. I decide that just seeing this is way better than the rocky peaks of Arthur's Seat. 

Just a little bit excited outside Edinburgh Castle

Over the next two days, we pack in a whirlwind of activities

Azonto elephant at the safari park in Stirling.

We people-watch on the Royal Mile, feast on a hearty Scottish breakfast, visit a safari park in Stirling, fit in a last minute trip to Glasgow for a house party, enjoy afternoon tea at The Balmoral, and buy emergency bags on Princes Street because we've chanced on a book sale and ended up needing to lug our loot back home. 

We also discover that the Scots take their love of whiskey to latex levels.

It's not a boring city, that Edinburgh. Well worth the visit!

Homecoming and booby traps

As I strap into my seat aboard a Starbow flight from Kumasi to Accra, I groan a little inwardly. It's becoming pretty standard to find myself always next to the woman with the fretful baby. We're both in our respective aisle seats in the small aircraft, so even though a space separates us, we're still very close.

The child is annoyed. He slides off his mother and practically lands under the seat of the person in front. I think he bumps his head, and proceeds to give us an earful of his powerful lungs. I want to whack his bum and give him another reason to cry, but I summon every bit of my earth motherliness, and flash a sympathetic smile at the mum instead, in a I-know-I've-been-there-before sort of way. Though of course, I haven't quite yet.

She hauls him up with one hand, while simultaneously unbuttoning the top buttons on her shirt with the other. An instant later she releases a breast and the child latches on to it enthusiastically.

It is at this moment that an air host approaches. He is holding an extension seat belt meant for passengers with infants. And before he has taken the remaining steps towards our nursing mother, before his face registers what is going on, before he realises too late that he's picked a rather delicate time to do this, I decide I'm going to enjoy their exchange.

He is the same one I smiled at when I boarded the plane, who returned it with a shy one of his own. As he stops by the mother's seat, he looks so awkward I want to burst into laughter. I can't decide if he is generally uncomfortable because the child, sensing his presence, has stopped suckling and is clenching and unclenching distractingly at his mother's nipple. As babies do. This is compounded by the fact that the mother is totally unaware of the host. She has her eyes closed, while his eyes follow the action of the baby's fingers.

Our man looks a little lost and totally embarrassed. I prod the woman gently, and she opens her eyes and smiles at the air host as though she doesn't have one breast out. Unperturbed, she shuffles about in her seat as he straps them both in. The entire process happens with the boob still out and doing the odd jiggle here and there. I think the air host is about to expire with discomfiture. When he straightens up, our eyes meet briefly, and I flash him one of my meaningful smiles. I think this one says, you've-been-booby-trapped.

Later as we disembark, he is standing by the door smiling his shy smile again. Obviously, I don't want to milk it - ahem - but I can't help but completely ignore his other colleague as I wish him a very Merry Christmas. Why not? We're practically breast buddies.

Ah, Ghana. Never a dull moment whenever I am home.

Fuck it, we're going to Vegas!

You know you've set the tone of any trip when the crucial, impulsive decision to undertake it is sealed with the words, 'F**k it, we're going!' There is a delicious recklessness in the moment, because, though the sensible part of your brain has scouted carefully and gurgled up reasons why it's a very silly idea to do this now - a low bank balance, for starters - you have cheerfully given it the finger and declared, 'No matter, we're still going!'

Which is pretty much how our trip to Las Vegas unfolded. 

It is a lazy morning in San Diego. The previous night, I'd singlehandedly caused an 8-strong group to have possibly the shortest night out of their lives - not only had I spoilt people's plans of partying, I'd effectively doused carbon dioxide, water AND sand on their night of merry drinking and dancing at Pacific Beach on account of my absent passport, without which entry to any bar or club was a resounding, unbending 'No ma'am.' (The bouncer would not be moved by my detailed description of the exact spot that I'd left it on my bed back in LA. Nor, it seems, would the driving licence I proffered up pleadingly do). Turns out the bars of Pacific Beach (or PB as the locals call it) are as inpenetrable as the M16; don't expect to be let into any, even if you can prove your identity right down to the blood cells in your body. Now, as flattering as I find it that the security team wouldn't believe I was the twenty-something year old I claimed to be, I suspect the real reason is a bit more cynical than that.

We traipsed back home, the lot of us giggling over the variously disastrous attempts to sneak me into a bar. ('I'll distract him with this poster I've just found...' said Charles as we waited in one line. 'Walk close behind me, and follow my lead...' said Sam through pursed lips at another). My protestations and apologies for ruining their night were heartily waved away ('Don't be silly, Davida! We wanted to show YOU a good time, but don't worry if it hasn't gone to plan. We've still got each other, and that's the most important thing, right?') If that is not the best speech you've heard in a while, I don't know what is.  

Somewhere during that leisurely morning, a cacophony of growling stomachs signalled our collective need of a big, dulling breakfast. (I had the pizza omelette after wading through the frankly alarming selection available)

Did you know there could be many different types of omelette? I didn't.

In the aftermath of that, as we lounged about, three of us contemplating the drive back to Los Angeles, the idea floated casually.

'Hey, we should go to Vegas!'

'Oh yeah? How long is the drive?' I asked, merely out of politeness, playing with the cute white puppy belonging to one of the flatmates. Really, I'd had no intention of leaving the couch I was currently on after that big breakfast. Ever. Until someone offered a padded wheelbarrow or something.

'About four or five hours' drive from here.'

Las Vegas...

'Is it anything at all like Venice Beach?' I asked slowly, remembering the fun afternoon from days ago when, in spite of being several thousand miles away, I'd felt as though I'd walked into another version of my London neighbourhood - Camden Town - right into the arty, quirky and characterful Venice in Los Angeles.

Charles looked at me; saw I was moments away from bursting into laughter at the memory; probably remembered at the same time as I did, the colourful people we'd interacted with:

- The man who had tried to sell me marijuana as we walked along the promenade full of vendors, artists, performers and fortune-tellers, and whom, upon my refusal to patronise 'the good stuff', had screeched aggressively, 'Why don't you want it?! Hey, if God made it, it must be good, right?' The same man whom I'd have stubbornly stood by the beachfront and argued with, had Charles not ushered me away, probably noticing the dangerous tick in his eye.

- The older black man who had given me an unblinking appraising look.
'I like your haircut,' he'd said at length. 'It suits you. Got the cheekbones for it.'
I beamed. 'Thank y -' I started to say.
'But you should keep it natural,' he'd cut in, wagging his finger sternly.
'Oh. Er...yes sir!' Mock salute.

- Then the basketball player who'd yelled as we walked further down the promenade, 'Hey, you! You! I know you!'
I'd turned, nonplussed by the insistent tone of his voice. 'No, you don't!' I challenged.
He didn't miss a beat. Smiled broadly, in fact, as he said, 'I know. But I should, right?' Cue rakish tilt of his head.

His name was Ramith.

Venice Beach. With its vibrant scenes of art, culture and the bizarre - a combination of things that had made that afternoon my favourite outing thus far in California.

'It's literally hanging three feet off the ground.' 

The wheels were turning now. Somewhere along the line, between catching each other up on stories missed, between reminiscing over shared memories, and basking in being alive, we'd taken to shouting 'YOLO!' at the most random of moments, sometimes admittedly displaying behaviour that was more suited to a pair of pre-teens. Were we staring at another of those moments in the face right now?

I opened my mouth to speak. But Sam beat me to it.

'F**k it, we're going to Vegas!' He hooted gleefully.

Ah well. My expression must have given it all away, anyway.

Vegas!

Stretching my legs after a loo break somewhere on the drive to Nevada

It should have been a trip we'd end up ruing (see earlier comment about our general penniless state), but, as it turned out, the stars shone brightly in our favour.

Walking through the luxurious lobby of The Aria Resort and Casino, finely turned out as we were, a blonde, well-suited man approached us.

'Leave this to me, boys.' I murmured under my breath, not exactly sure what I myself meant by this - except, fuelled by the incredulity of the series of events that had caused us to drive four or so hours from San Diego to Las Vegas, as opposed to two odd hours in the opposite direction back to Los Angeles, I was brazen in my attempt to get us into a posh joint. Without paying, of course. Entertaining the right amount of delusion is always healthy, I often say.

'Hey,' he said, flashing a practiced smile. 'Were you guys looking to go to the Gold Lounge?'

'Where's your accent from?' I stepped in, smiling my most charming smile.

'New York.' If he'd been caught off guard by the question, he didn't let on. 'And you're from...Australia*, I'm guessing?'

Heavens. I thought I was doing a good attempt at an upper class English accent. But it's just like my geography to show me up at a crucial moment like that.

'Ghana, actually. But I live in London now.' I said, hurriedly moving on. 'So - tell me about yourself. Have you lived here long?' We fell in step with him as he led us up the escalator.

Three years. He loved the life, although it could really be something out of a weird fantasy sometimes..you know? Yes, Luke, I know exactly what you mean. It is Luke, right? 

We got to the entrance of the Gold Lounge. My heart started to beat fast as a slender beauty with glossy red lips looked expectantly at us, presumably waiting for us to cough up the money. As though by some unspoken agreement, the three of us turned, mimicking Slender Beauty's expression of expectancy, and waited for Luke. 

He hesitated. 'It's ok, Slender Beauty,' he said, charming smile back on. 'I'm taking care of these guys tonight.'

An imperceptible nod - and then the velvety ropes were being loosened, and we found ourselves in the plush lounge. Oh, Luke!

The other Eiffel Tower

The enchanting floral glass ceiling by Dale Chihuly at the Bellagio Hotel

Showgirls

Struck by Las Vegas' unapologetic love for the bright and over-the-top, I took it all in, endlessly fascinated by contrasting scenes of life: the soundtrack of slot machines against one song or other from an Elvis Presley or Michael Jackson impersonator; the girl-next-door type walking hand in hand with her boyfriend against the ballsy, heavily made-up woman with the weathered neck and suspiciously perky breasts; and the opulence sitting side by side with poverty as a long walk the next morning showed that here too, within this playboy city, homeless people lined streets and begged for food and money. And I thought, there are real human needs everywhere. 

A whirlwind night and day in the city that never sleeps, and before long, we were bundling back in the car for the return drive to Los Angeles, with me entertaining vivid fantasies of a cold pool opening up in the earth for my exclusive use. So hot I could feel my insides frying!

Pulling up in the driveway back home, we sat still in the car for a moment.

'I can't believe we just drove to Vegas and back,' Sam said, a dazed smile on his face. 'Man, how fast did the time go?!'

'I know,' I nodded sagely, then said in my most solemn voice, 'That's the thing with time...'

'What about it?'

'It flies when you're with me.'

Cheeky, much? But then again, so had the entire trip.

Everything within reason, of course

* This post is dedicated to the Australians with my sincerest apologies.

Around California in several meals

"So you want to come  soak up some of that Cali summer, huh? I dont blame ya, you must be all wrinkled and soggy 300 days out of the year (I hear it's raining in London. Again.) A word of caution, your skin might not be able to handle such a drastic change in weather and air humidity. You're  going to have to walk around with a layer of lotion for protection wherever you go.  Get ready to put on at least 10 pounds, turn a couple shades darker, and probably develop asthma from all the smog!!! I'll start making battle plans and let you know if there's anything specific you should pack. Like, don't pack your dignity, leave that behind, you don't need it here,"  teased my friend Charles in a flurry of excited emails between the two of us prior to my visit to the sunny side of life. 


California! 


I was neither prepared for the intensity of the sun, nor the gastronomical delight the last fortnight has handed in droves. On the former, I thought: 'Nonsense! I am from the hottest continent on earth; the sunshine in California needs to fear ME', and on the latter: 'I will just will any added weight to less conspicuous body parts..like my earlobes. Or something.'


The thing is...it didn't quite go as planned. By the end of the first day in Los Angeles, I'd developed a bad skin reaction that had me rushing to the nearest pharmacy to get some sort of anti-itching cream to soothe the discomfort. And, a week or so later when I saw my arms looking suspiciously bigger than usual in pictures, I knew I'd gained the promised extra pounds.

It was perhaps that...or more accurately, the enthusiastic catcall from a strange man in San Diego that had me dissolving into giggles. He was leaning against a wooden fence looking bored with the world. But, as I walked past him somewhere in Pacific Beach, he said loudly, 'Daaamn, girl, you got ass for days!' 

Ah, but you see, I've got a great excuse. Great, delicious excuses. California was quite the food lover's heaven. Take a look:

Smile. It costs nothing! 
Santa Monica

Croque Monsieur 
South Coast Plaza, Costa Mesa

                                                                         

El puerto primo 
((Braised pork with collard greens and ripe plantain)
Long Beach 

Pancit Palabok, (a Filipino culinary delight)

Guido Burger - grease fest galore at Hodad's
Ocean Beach, San Diego

The seven-layered dip
(includes cheese, salad, olives, tomatoes, beans and avocado)

Fajita Burrito
Hollywood

More or less the final state of each dish*.
Here, There and Everywhere

...and the desserts, naturally. Sweet after meals, non?

And so it comes to this: a year and a half after signing up at the gym, (and putting in approximately three appearances in the time since), an extra 3kg gained over two weeks in California means that perhaps ...maybe...just maybe the time has come to put that membership to use at last. And I'm talking spending more than my standard twelve minutes or so per session.**


Ahem.


*   I'm a founding member of the Clean Plate Association.
** I almost passed out after the eight-minute mark, so yes, twelve minutes is a big deal.