tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54275208762039864942024-03-20T00:49:44.495+13:00Page ParisienneShirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-1416582197260437482020-06-29T10:00:00.011+12:002020-07-01T12:37:39.458+12:00Falling Into Place<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjJ3CN_O8COHw8MgpSNQVSEs8P5q_HJrccvL3ez0Y3g4y7vdOvoKA8Yb1kzNb_o8OGob89Sgle_vQVWVTUOJR8LmSdsIBsb5M6uu83WoIonmhasvZ472a-9-9wSk5Hj0WtVNFsQBh7cym/d/BT.jpg" style="display: none;" /></div><div class="separator">Autumn has always been associated with change, and if there was ever a time to contemplate how important it is to adapt to our shifting environment, it would be now. It is a test of character to stop lamenting the plans that may have been, but instead focus on how to make the most of what can be seen and experienced within our capabilities. The resounding truth is: Everyone is prone to feeling disappointment when situations do not unfold the way it was imagined. While not the most elaborate of itineraries, the original intent of an extended girls' week in Sydney filled with exploring, reconnecting and indulging still felt like a huge shame to miss. Having that cancellation left a void within a rare long weekend, and as a consolation to ourselves, a road trip was almost necessary under our obsessive need to make use of that precious time. But the greatest lesson is that sometimes change is a huge driver of creativity. Not only did that weekend give me exactly what I needed to become enamoured to the beauty of fall in New Zealand, but needing to be innovative with our ideas ended up resulting in one of the most magical experiences from a short term trip I have had in a very long time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><span>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I believe that a true traveller appreciates different places in the world in any season. But honestly, the transition into the colder months of the year has been nowhere near comparable to bright warm days and late sunset evenings in the summertime. The grey and gloom as we started the early morning journey was somewhat typical for late May, yet the drive down to the Central Plateau made me realise that I may have thought far too highly of the role that climate plays. A successful road trip is all-encompassing with a myriad of components that make it such a treasure trove for memories. We were just two girls in their high neck sweaters, sipping on hot coffee that faintly fogged up the windows, cruising through the misty wet roads down to the centre of the North Island. Our travels to Canada may have spoilt us with their vibrant fall displays, but if anything, having no expectations had us in awe when we stumbled into the Waikato region. Colours sprouted from seemingly every corner. Foliage bursting along the roads. Along the higher edges of the river, flashbacks flared in the back of mind from scenes entering Toronto where palettes of red, orange, yellows and greens laid themselves along the slopes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The warm scenery eventually phased into tall forestry driving down to the first stop in the Redwoods. Approaching in the late afternoon, what was meant to be wet weather stayed mild and the dipping sun brought out the damp beauty of the surroundings along the scenic trail. The evergreen, pine-like trees around us created this dense pattern that made you feel like you could get lost within its depths. Trunks with their rich and rustic red bark reached up metres before sprouting leaves to cast dark blankets across the clearing. As thrilled as we were catching the glow of late daylight leaking through the crevices into the open canopy, we could not wait to see the beautiful tree lights on the twilight walk among the treetops. The structural engineer within me was impressed with the design behind this huge string of suspended wooden bridges linking one tree to another, holding us twenty or so metres above the ground. But then the aesthetic beauty of the entire display shone through. It was a beautiful sight seeing these stunningly intricate lanterns with its warm light bursting from its centre through the details carved in the wood into the darkness. It was such a unique and enchanting experience that had us cocooned in this bubble of happiness as we weaved our way out of the pitch-black darkness and plummeting night temperatures. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Our anticipation of poor weather through this weekend challenged us to think outside the box with our preparation, yet the next morning gave us the perfect opportunity to do what we loved most. Blessed with crisp blue skies, we needed no further encouragement to make our way through the scenic stretch of desert road to reach the National Park. It felt strange to approach the mountains when it barely had a small dusting of snow and pull up to the familiar Whakapapa ski field car park with no intention of skiing. Veering off to the walk that would eventually take us to the beautiful Taranaki falls, the landscape had us reminiscing parts of the Tongariro Crossing that we loved so much. The flat gravel road paved a distinct path through an open expanse of golden grass tuffs, composing this truly unique view to find on a walk, leaving no obstruction to the beauty of all the mountains surrounding the area. Streams with the clarity of melted snow trickled and flowed past us now and then, and after what felt like a very short amount of time, we could see the falls slowly appearing in the distance. The way that water gushed out from the cliff crevice with such force created an absolutely majestic display from all angles. Amusingly, the first thing that came to mind was how similar it looked like the iconic scene from Up, but there was no denying that it did indeed feel like stumbling upon a storybook wonder itself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Coming back the same way, our keen eyes had already scouted an area that would be ideal to stop right at the edge of Lake Taupō. Reversing next to the tranquil lake, we got to work converting the back of the car into a cosy nook with duvets and pillows, embellishing the framing with strings of fairy lights. We tucked ourselves in and waited for the sunlight to fade, munching on apple cinnamon scrolls and chocolate, sending ourselves into consistent fits of hysterics at the amount of effort we went through to make this all happen. With every minute, the scene delved into deeper hues until dusk blanketed our surroundings and all we were left with were the calming sounds of water lapping onto the shore. The tiny warm lights around us started to glow like fireflies, and it really was a magical moment to appreciate the type of weekend we were able to create for ourselves. If that wasn’t already peaceful enough, we looked forward to ending the day soaking and relaxing in some glorious spa waters. Considering the last time we had this kind of experience together was in the middle of the Gatineau forest, complete with snowfall to end the night, we knew it would be hard to top. But this time looking out at the wafts of steam rising through the cool air as we sipped on our wine under the candlelight, it sinks in that that the whole point is not to repeat old experiences, but to have new ones that you remember for its own reasons. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The rain finally came through on our last day of the weekend. It felt so nice to take some time with a lazy morning, enjoying our teas and coffees while looking out towards the dark outline of the mountain in the distance. With the fire burning and radiating enough warmth to fend off those increasing winds, it was almost impossible for the gloomy exterior to faze us. Ever the adventurers, we did not let a few drops of bad weather deter us from making one final stop on the way back home to finish the road trip off strong. I will admit that I was doubting whether we would find anything impressive at the Blue Springs given what we had seen and done over these last few days, especially since I had never understood why people found them so captivating. The drizzle of rain placed a rather dull cast on the sights for the initial part of the walk. But as we continued along the trail, the full extent of the name came to life, perhaps even more intensely with the overcast moody lighting bringing out that dewy rainforest ambience. The pristine water had this truly mesmerising quality the further we walked along, clear and bright enough to almost feel like stepping into a hidden world where mermaids would appear at any moment. It almost felt fitting considering that if I could only use one word to depict the trip, it would be <i>magical</i>. There was always something that lined up in just the right but the least expected way to create something special. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When travel does not revolve so much around the novelty of the destination, it eases off a sense of guilt and allows you to take a slower approach. Relaxing instead of rushing is something domestic travel has given me the chance to try out. I can take the time to simply appreciate and recuperate without feeling like fighting those instincts to go and experience anything and everything. Our authentic autumn getaway was a result of letting plans unfold without expectation: All the way from full cooked breakfasts with a mountain view at the first break of dawn to smores by the outdoor fireplace late into the night. You can have all the plans in the world, yet it just goes to show that things will fall in place without you even trying.</div></div></div></div>Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comCentral Plateau24 -102-4.3102338361788455 -137.15625 52.310233836178845 -66.84375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-15127168402181346492020-04-21T16:56:00.000+12:002023-12-15T11:05:08.710+13:00Stunning in Simplicity <div>
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Creating a project revolving around travel, I will admit I made an easy mistake to ever think that distance mattered. There has always felt like an unspoken expectation lingers over us: To push further, go deeper and reach into experiences that are wildly different to those you would experience at home. Whether it is otherworldly scenery or tapping into juxtaposing cultural experiences, somehow our standard is to measure that value by how far away we make it to discover them. I once read that travelling is a result of our cognitive development as humans, which evolved the idea that we should hunt for a sense of fulfilment and achievement. What was peculiar about the passage was the emphasis on how much we have now considered it a necessity. In reality, seeing what the world has to offer no doubt helps us grow and develop, yet there are a million other ways too. That had stayed with me for a long time. If this was just a mindset, then what is stopping us from learning new things and adding equally impactful stories to our lives exactly where we are?<br />
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From a young age, travelling has almost been a double-edged sword. I would often return from an overseas experience quite the opposite of feeling fulfilled, but instead that heavy combination of sadness and emptiness. Frankly, I could not fully handle the rapid transition of constant excitement back to normality. It took me years to realise that it bred a sense of vulnerability, because it trapped me into feeling as if what I had seen and done would be the last great thing I would do. That idea of having nothing immediate to look forward to really frightened me. With time, I began to appreciate that good experiences have to end at some point - if not so you could look back fondly on them, then to give the next best moment a chance to begin. But some feelings just do not dissolve away that easily. My recent return from Melbourne and the excitement from the beginning of this new year that had started so well caused me to feel like I needed to keep going. And my mind developed a mantra of its own in hopes of providing that needed distraction. <i>Don’t stop. Won’t stop. Can’t stop.</i><br />
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As always, the cure is quite simple. Keep on moving. But unrealistically making grand travel plans is something that cannot be sustained to the level I needed. I made a conscious decision to ensure that at the very least, I made the most my weekends to explore. As it turns out, it may have been too harsh to criticise restlessness as a negative thing. It can easily be turned into energy and motivation when with the right people around to fuel it. There are only certain people in the world who would entertain an idea minutes past midnight of doing a challenging hike that same day. Not just a small one, but one that involved a five hour return drive and a four hour climb. Fortunate to have that kind of spirit present in my life, we set off on our drive to the Pinnacles as dawn broke that next morning, with a glorious promise of a stunning day.<br />
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By midmorning, the gentle scent of sunscreen mixed with the way the summer heat rolled through the air to pushed against our skin served as a familiar scene as we started our ascent. The lush forest which meandered gently and adorable little suspended bridges over riverbeds formed deceptive smoke and mirrors for what was to come. Because The Pinnacles can only be described as nature’s stairmaster: A forgiving start in the shades of the trees, building in intensity midway as exposed terrain paved a way to the peak. We could not be more grateful that bursts of wind provided much needed relief against the scorching sun. Yet by that point, the mind had already long been preoccupied with the scenery unfolding before us. There is nothing more satisfying that enjoying the journey all the way up to the ultimate reward of standing at the peak, gazing out into this vast stretch of shapes and layers. I still could not quite believe the level of spontaneity that had propelled us to that point. Thinking back, it was ironic that completing The Pinnacles was a desire we had for years, yet all the planning in the world could not make it line up. All it took was a decision made on a whim to actually do it.<br />
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To have that kind of experience only a few hours away provided a taster, which compelled me to explore even more with what was close by. To prove the point even further, Piha is only a mere hour drive away from home, yet you would be hard pressed to any other location that delivers a breath-taking sunset scene quite like it. In hindsight, I almost felt like I had cheated myself this whole time in neglecting and ignoring how much the West coast has to offer all these years. The afternoon walk on the Mercer Bay Loop led me to one of the most picturesque views of the rugged coastline. Deep blue waters with unrelenting waves frothed up beautiful marbling of white foam as they crashed against the base. It felt surreal to be on sitting on the edge of something so powerful and commanding, framed out by an unending stretch of blue dissolving into the horizon. While it was hard to tear our eyes away from such a formidable sight, it would not be a successful nature excursion without a hunt for a waterfall. The tiered layering formed from the wispy veil of water was uncharacteristically dainty and delicate from others I had seen. Its special features did not stop there as an ascent up got us to the top of the falls itself where deep waterholes and glass like pools reflected the light. It took a lot of self-restraint not to dip our toes in, but we could not risk missing the main event we had come here to see.<br />
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Spreading out on the iconic black sands of the beach with some dinner, drinks and good company makes it plain how simple fulfilment can be. The golden orb of light slipping down the sky towards the folds of the water sent the sand into a display of shimmer no matter where you looked. It was an impeccable backdrop for the evening walk, close to perfection for photography. Golden hour to pink hour to blue hour: The textures, silhouettes and reflections held a certain feel of intrigue that came together for create this stunning scene. As the light faded into night much too quickly as it always does, our salt sprayed cars reluctantly formed a single stream of headlights, weaving out of the darkness back into the city.<br />
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The little details here and there consolidate the point that there are special things I can find right here near me, unique and unparalleled to anything else in the world. What they have in common is that they are so effortless. Like the fact that you cannot have a southbound road trip without that classic tradition of getting a morning coffee off the state highway petrol station cafe. Or stopping at the local dairy late afternoon after a day in the sun, eager for that ice-cold popsicle to hit your lips. Or watching a beach sunset with piping hot fish and chips, a fresh ginger beer in hand and your feet buried in the warm sand.<br />
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The most mind-blowing part of all this is that there are no bounds to how many times we can have these types of experiences <i>because</i> of its proximity. The start of this first summer has definitely shown me how distance has nothing to do with finding that sense of wandering fulfilment. Why do adventures have to be embellished when every lesson in every context has taught us that sometimes simplicity is best? When we remove the bells and whistles, we are left with a greater appreciation for what we have. Sometimes it is that simple.Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comCoromandel-36.761287 175.4981278-36.863068500000004 175.3367663 -36.6595055 175.6594893tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-39393221121133228512017-10-24T11:32:00.002+13:002023-12-15T11:35:11.403+13:00Rocky Road<div style="text-align: justify;">
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When you get a glance, a whiff, a taste of what they call wanderlust, you cannot just stop. As if you could just see the tiniest sliver of a place, have the smallest taster where you can only begin to comprehend what it encompasses, and be satisfied with just that. Like with any other country and New Zealand being the prime example that traveling on the road is the best way to see it, there was an unmissable road trip here: An ultimate ride through five stunning national parks that served as the pinnacle of our Western Canadian travels. The Rocky Mountains were all that I had envisioned Canada for the absolute longest time. Having followed travel vlogs of people who were lucky enough to be immersed in such a wonderland, the majestic pictures of the snow capped mountains to the petit charms of the ski villages around had be me entranced by the idea of visiting these places. I was beyond the point of being thrilled to finally realise this desire to see them for myself and create my own interpretation of this incredible natural wonder as another chapter of my experiences.<br />
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Given the interest I had developed which created a subconscious expectation in my mind, it is almost bizarrely amusing how different the many parts of the trip was to this imaginative painting in my mind. On our five-day road trip immersed in the nature’s most decadent and grandiose display showcased right outside our windows, I was constantly surprised, consistently amazed and very much realised that there are so many small details that I would never have known just by seeing it on my screen. Even on the first day, our journey to first town of Kelowna was almost reminiscent of travelling through Arizona. That dry and arid landscape was a complete contrast to the full lushness I had imagined, with summer heat beating off the golden mustard soils. It felt like a true vacation, with the lake coming into view as we pulled up to a winery. It sprawled out in front of us lazily as we sipped and tasted the gleaming glasses of sweet ice wine and gentle breezes would sweep in at just the right times to cool us down. But the heat that held between Dad and I lingered and it started to burn. Perhaps it is a bit disappointing for such a start, but there is no point painting a golden picture when in truth there was no bumpier road for our father-daughter relationship than the beginning of it all. Even as we neared the shimmering lakefront, I realised how unhappy I was in that particular moment. In annoyance for the failures of my expectation, in frustration for all the misunderstandings that were so poorly handled, and in sadness that what was meant to be a bonding experience became so strenuous that not even a bright beautiful day where I had such an exciting adventure ahead of me was enough to stop the tears from falling. And worst of all, the guilt that I felt exploded inside; That perhaps I had ruined not just an experience for me but an experience for my Dad who deep down had never done anything but support me. All I could do was let all that was upsetting take its toll so that it would then ebb away and I restore the enthusiastic energy I knew I had for this long awaited trip before I missed any more of it.<br />
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But of course something that trivial could no longer dampen anything beyond that one afternoon because the next day we set out to see something magical, and everything that you could imagine from a storybook began to unfold. Briefly driving past Mount Revelstoke National Park to head into Yoho National Park and into the magnificent views of Alberta, there was anything but slow build up to the idealised, stereotypical nature shot of Canada that I had been expecting to see. It was right there in front of us as we rounded the corner to Emerald lake, like a fairytale setting focusing into sight, hidden in its enchanting spot but the first of many natural gems I could vastly believe I was lucky enough to see. It was a gorgeous sight with the jade green colour of the lake against the deeper hues of the pines behind, fading to the grey of the mountains with a brilliant blue background and fluffy white clouds. The cottage was quaint and charming with its bright pops of yellow sunshade to create one of the most picturesque views I have ever seen in my life. But there was no time for the scene to fool me into thinking that nature was only capable of peaceful tranquillity as we moved on to see the force of a river that carved out a natural bridge from stone. Gushing through and eroding away an entire mass of rock, I couldn’t tell if it was the power left me buzzing or the anticipation of the destination I was most looking forward to. If I could even describe Banff as we approached to settled in for the night with my full effort, it would not do it any justice. What we saw later as we strolled along from late afternoon all the way till the sun dipped under the mountains, the photos only show the barest drop of its essence that made it so special to me. It was the perfect evening: A steakhouse dinner in a cozy grill, watching the bright colours from the flowers fade away as the warm luminosity of the interior lights gently seeped through the sky. Anybody who knows me well would completely understand that engineering geek inside made me walk around with my eyes wide in love. The tall timber structures with magnificent masonry columns and detailing as well as lovely big windows that allowed the glow from within to pour into the night had the exact charm that I adore. The town in all of its breathtaking glory was no longer a figment of imagination for me, but a realised dream that made my heart feel light and airy.<br />
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Little did I know that it was only a teaser for the wonders of Banff National Park, because just a while after sunrise when the morning still took its time fading in, we had arrived at Bow Falls. Small it may be, but accompanied with the cute grey pebbles that lined the sides and the dim dawn glow still working its magic, it was somewhat of a special little place for me. Taking that small close up detail still meant we had to see the picture blown up from afar, and once again we took to the skies up the peak of Sulphur Mountain to look back down on the natural contours that pieced Banff together. The mixture of fog and smoke created an ominous filter but was light enough for us to see the prowess with the way the landscape meandered and formed. It was nice to get an overview of the place which harboured several incredible lakes, starting with Moraine Lake with its deep blue hues worthy of the difficult road it took to get there as we took on the challenge. The adventure of climbing rocks and battling winds to get to see the large expanse of the lake was exhilarating, with the true vibrancy of the lake shining through as we were rewarded with splashes of sunlight through the thick clouds. But any reluctance to leave quickly melted away as the chateau on Lake Louise appeared in front of us as if a castle had emerged in some enchanting way, guarding a scene of pure tranquillity and simplistic beauty behind it. I was utterly mesmerised as I stepped near the edge of the lake where the still clear water lapped onto the rocks, glancing left and right seeing trees rim the edge leaving a gap of water to meld into the sky. The perfect contrast to its independent and unruly sister I had just seen before, this lake embodied a feeling of grace and elegance. To complete a flawless trifecta, we ended our afternoon with views of Peyto Lake, stoic and unfazed with a green surface that stretched out to claim its place amongst the scene. All three just simple bodies of water, but each with a distinct vibe that like watching three very different children grow up under the same roof. <br />
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And yet as insane as it sounds, our day was still not over. If there was any time say ‘the last but certainly not the least’, it would be to describe the end part of that day where we travelled along the Columbian Icefield Parkway from Banff into Jaspar to approach the Athabasca Glacier. After a much needed but rushed transition from summer to winter in our hotel facing the grand glacier itself, I could feel the tiredness of the day battling to rise up but squelched down by the anticipation of walking on a natural glacier. The volatile changes in temperatures still amazed me, but if that got me the chance to see ice at the end of summer of all times, I couldn't help but be thankful for it. As in awe as I was, part of me was glad the red snow bus that carried us from rock to ice had tyres carved with deep marks, especially as we completed a stretch down a slope angled halfway to vertical to reach the heart of the ice. It’s not as if my Dad and I hadn’t seen ice before, but like any normal adult, we both instantly transformed into kids once again. Stepping out onto the bright platform that had us slipping and sliding all over the place was hilarity and what I could only describe as genuine happiness, making the next half an hour pass by with incredible speed. Chilly winds whipped at our faces but still we shuffled, we jumped, we captured what we could of the beautiful shades of white and grey around us as uninterrupted as it could have been being the last bus to the top. There was not a drop of light wasted that day to become what was possibly the most enlightening day amongst nature that I have ever had. <br />
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The icefield mountains was stunning as the light faded, but we couldn’t deny ourselves a bright daylight viewing of them from a different angle. The glacier skywalk which had us hovering above a chasm might have needed thinner glass to make it more daunting, but to stretch out for an immersive view of the area was a nice way to begin another eventful day. Now in a different national park, there was no doubt there would be another beautiful waterfall to see, and the water which flowed from the glacier we had stood on the previous evening would pour out of a gorge to form the Athabasca Falls. The strength of this magnificent gush of water running off the edge was strangely not the only highlight of these glacial falls, and certainly had competition as the water itself was a wonder. The rock flour within the water had the ability to reflect different wavelengths of light during different seasons to produce water colour ranging from aqua blue to milky white. The frothy but slight green tinged colour on our specific day was still a sight to see, and I could imagine how breathtaking it would be to manage a glimpse of those two extremes. But the rush of activities made me yearn for a lazy afternoon, which was thankfully granted by our visit to the Jaspar township as the sun rose to its peak and shone unrelentingly down on us. In many ways, Jaspar was different to what I had imagined. There was a presence of an olden feel, manifesting from the residual mechanical history that just seemed to create a juxtaposition with what we had experienced so far. The quiet environment lacked a certain charm that I had experienced in Banff, although possessing a completely different feel didn’t deter the enjoyment of a nice Italian meal with a cold drink to soak it all in. It was a nice relaxing way to take a break before heading onwards to Maligne Canyon where an erosion process was able to carve out a feature close to fifty metres deep. It’s almost as if things around here are serene and still but also ever dynamic and moving at the same time, and no doubt spending much more than a couple of days could still leave many treasures undiscovered. All so different, all with such character, all so interesting in its unique way.<br />
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Heading back on our last day was indeed one of the longest drives, but with the sights still as gorgeous as ever outside the window, I found myself deep in thought throughout most of that day. This trip hadn’t just induced a feeling of constant excitement, but of inspiration. It unravels a realisation that there was so much more out there than I could ever imagine. As we travelled back and submerged ourselves in a region of smoggy haze from the lingering of forest fire smoke, the outside somehow still managed an eerie and mysterious beauty. Nothing could depict better that there are brilliant days and there are bad days, sometimes if not most of the time, beyond our control. Maybe that was when I finally started to see perfection as being something perceivable, and if I had taken something from this rare opportunity to travel with my Dad in an unreal corner of the world, then it was worth more than any conjured image of perfection. It was a rocky road of learning how to be patient and calm, appreciative and grateful. And above all, to understand that if the slice of the world I had seen these past couple of days could manage to be so amazing and resilient and great, there was no reason to ever let insignificant things get the best of me. Because the rockiest of roads have proven to lead to the most gorgeous of places.<br />
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</span>Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-36942332740483515362017-09-12T11:29:00.003+12:002023-12-15T11:31:58.364+13:00Summer Days, Winter Nights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The warm and gentle start that Vancouver was able to give me for my travels was endearing, but I was completely ready for more. Yearning even, the wash of desire to see what more was out there beyond the city limits, past the vicinity of the man made lights. My mind reeled from the stories and the amazing photographs of previous travels, and excitement coursed through me thinking I would be able to experience it for myself very soon. The beauty and individual charms of Whistler and Victoria couldn’t possibly fail to satiate those cravings, and would surely last me until the world renowned Rocky Mountains finally becomes graspable. There were no bounds to the glorious feeling of seeing everything for myself, so close it felt like I was barely an inch away from reaching out and touching it.<br />
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After the shorts and singlets, bicycles and iced lattes of Vancouver, the drive to Whistler in our almost winter attire felt bizarre and almost a little bit silly. Admittedly, it was an easy thing to forget as the sea-to-sky highway, named for its formidable illusion of blending the water into the blue above, took us out to the most reminiscent part of Canada that looked and felt like home. Time seemed to pass by so fast it was beyond possibility, and it was astoundingly quick before we approached Shannon falls. A small hike up and we were rewarded with delicate streams of water that fell like wisps of smoke from the rocks. Whimsical and mysterious, like nature was teasing me with a little hint of what it could do. And approaching the snow dusted mountains of Whistler and Blackcomb a few short moments later, then did I realise what I had seen was undoubtedly only a small slither. I was blown away with the grandiose of these mountains that seemed to expand as we approached, emphasised by the almost half hour gondola journey that took us all the way up to the top. The small blankets of white being now closer in the distance transformed the view into something entirely different, a glimmer of winter through the summer days I had been enjoying down below. I didn’t even need to stand on the Olympic podium to feel on top of the world at that moment as the flags blew in the wind beside us against the stunning backdrop, but how could I pass up that opportunity? <br />
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Being the absolute nutters we were, Dad and I waited for that rare glass bottom gondola that ran from peak to peak to try to spot those infamous grizzly bears milling around the pines below. It was almost distracting to step in and have that extra surface to look through as the four walls of glass on the sides already gave a stunning enough display of the nature around us. Even with the help of the nice Irish folk and having no such luck spotting the bears, we decided to stop sulking and treat ourselves to a Canadian favourite, meanwhile enjoying the transformation of the view in front of us as the clouds parted for streams of sunlight to leak through. The rich taste of poutine warmed our tummies and gave us the fuel to further our thrilling journey by sitting on a sky chair hovering stories above the ground to appreciate the lakes and grasslands with no barriers, no obstructions. Even as the winds whipped at us and the snow was nowhere beneath our feet, it was calming that I could spend time enjoying everything with my Dad, as if we were sitting in full gear and our long fumbling skis back in New Zealand after our runs. We made sure we had enough time to do a quick explore of Whistler village to enjoy a nice drink when we reached the bottom again. Even being packed with people from the large mountain biking event happening while we were there, that holiday vibe was not at all lost within the bustling activity. Besides, we were far from exhausted, and that energy of that lively atmosphere only gave us a rush that kept us buzzing even after we turned our backs from the snow capped wonders of the west coast. <br />
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It was as if the Earth spun impossibly fast, but summer blasted in for our next day’s adventure to Vancouver Island and its floral enchantment of a capital, Victoria. The ride on the early bus almost simulated a feeling of gliding on the serene blue water around us as it travelled on the pier that approached the bay for docking. It still amazes me that the ferry services are able to take not just passengers but cars and even large vehicles across at the same time. On the dock where a chilly breeze blew through, the motion of the boat was almost undetectable and the sun shone to split the ripples into glimmering shards in the water. A lovely woman even let me use her special glasses to then see the much talked about rare eclipse, with the moon orbiting past to join us in soaking up the warm of the sun. As if it knew that this fresh summer day was not one to shy away from and and instead promised to set the scene for Vancouver Island’s most beautiful display. But after all this time with the clean white of clouds and snow, the miraculous blue of the seas and the sky, I was hopeful to see some other pops of colour. Needless to say, what I instead received was an explosion of it as we entered the city centre of Victoria about an hour later. Flower patches and blossoming bouquets were absolutely everywhere as we strolled along the harbour. The architectural feel of the parliament, hotel and museum structures stood out even more prominently under the summer bloom around. The old vibe resonated through the town even as we reached the edge of the island. There, it was really interesting to see the starting point of the TransCanada highway, Mile Zero and discover some of the historical significances of it. Almost symbolic of my travels in a way: To be at the starting point and know that within the next several months, I’ll be moving through the way the country in the same way the roads were paved.<br />
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But the most incredible destination of the day unlike anything that seems humanly possible to maintain and upkeep were the stunning Butchart Gardens. Entering them was like stepping foot into an extravagant florist’s dream: Petals of all sizes, bursts of all colour, arrangements of all sorts no matter where you turned. It was almost hard not to take gorgeous pictures that looked like something like it was taken straight out of a magazine from all the vibrancy around, leaning towards being ostentatious even. There were no complaints though as colours painted themselves on the camera screen with flawless effort, and every new view became more intriguing than the last. It was easy to lose yourself in there and spend hours exploring even just one section of the massive gardens, each with its own distinct flair and layout. But even with such a bright and happy atmosphere, the disagreements began to bubble between Dad and I. Perhaps in the slow building heat, the fatigue of the week had begun to catch up to us. It was in that moment that I had a self realisation where capturing these travel memories on camera was only a very small aspect of it, something that should be secondary to actually living in the moment. Living the experience was worth a thousand times more than spending all my time getting a perfect shot. Everything aside, we were still little children at heart and it was nothing a little ice-cream couldn’t fix. Dwelling on it didn’t seem possible, not when the Dad’s mango sorbet seemed to disappear like it was sucked into a hoover while I licked my honey and lavender one as slowly as possible to make it last. I would be lying if I said the trip didn’t take fair bit out of us and the energy started to seep out slowly. As if I could pretend we didn’t lazily snooze around on the ferry back, the sunshine still lingering beneath our skin even as it faded away from the sky. <br />
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Winter one day, summer the next. Without experiencing it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it for a second. It would seem appropriate to mention that I have once been told that people only discuss the weather when there is really nothing much to talk about. In any case, here I am with a million things bursting from my mind that I want to recapture on the page and all I can focus on is the strange but somewhat marvelling changes. That stark but thrilling contrast to give me the most wonderful opportunity to capture some of the gems in British Columbia. Sitting here a few weeks later in a café writing this post and reliving the vivid imagery in my mind embodies the entirety of travel blogging for me. The journey that produced a thousand pictures has created an indisputably incredible impression of the country I will call home for the next couple of months, even if it cannot be more different than night and day.<br />
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Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-45966914906166980082017-09-04T11:22:00.004+12:002023-12-15T11:28:10.185+13:00Fresh Page, New Adventures, Hello Vancouver<div class="Body" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
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<p> <span style="text-align: justify;">Every new chapter needs just a small prologue to start. Two and a half years it’s been, but every moment of my Europe travels is still beautifully engraved in my mind. There has been nothing more rewarding than revisiting such not only a world so different to the one I experience in New Zealand, but to have special memories and thoughts written down which are purely mine to reminisce. Like every dream, you eventually fall back to Earth from floating on the clouds, but I’m more than prepared for this next one. So give me your best Canada, and I promise you I’ll give all of mine.</span></p><div class="Body" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><div class="Body"><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><a name='more'></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPKUSr7nDQroUNXFqYu0EaSnCrNfvH2PhoaJIOzqcKhOhZ2At1ezDX5YOOuoDDwfT1bLBTi5gaqFx8NFuaoNy6fMNslmUXL9iLva-XuoMAUD_Y2Dzq6uwlQVGzH1XA206j4s8Ozb4jViN/s1600/BP-1.jpg" /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uILpDEfPunMBD8h0tEg0ZgRHbXn5lyDvYIbNm-WgJnitP9LYPWUwOcld_KS-bW0mHVOHVOClfYgG8Ys3_DKTrtpG6cE3fNsof83szNW7wc9VA4zkFSW_xghoxrHzdci2wmvrm-Hs7Cdi/s1600/Untitled-1.jpg" style="text-align: center;" /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUhXHdI2R44X6cEPSZV8jWpLok8wyC0EwVcPB6zZXS7rZBPFHmMXS9MLyBEPQ-56KI5uUPnK9wp72WzGsLzqitpTTbSeKL4oAQe0R0ATCi61wEQ-ZZsH5QD6WbJxqhAe4NFj4soiK8yGt/s1600/BP-19.jpg" /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXuedVsfkYg6m2fWFU37gVSKuSCTrxLVGuwLw_c_Mk7obZC6vol-fRTee-K8h72e9X4A6eAuupfLDHgFMwMh7BtJc16NAH0mhqrIB80UBebOaq01KLuG7WC9zCM2clxenfjeAXwDUvjqf/s1600/BP-20.jpg" style="text-align: center;" /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLiKMVsWvo2_wVgIiJ8vbohVXs8pI0f6MhqIdT2b9VDk-0Z2p0jiBq19TEfkyndxoFandNqsGeJ5_V6YVReTTqtZMqIsaU8rCUA9KWI8fM2skkr77Br_K9hNvbeq5u1ePGiFSu2lW1-Hz/s1600/BP-21.jpg" /></div><div class="Body"><br /></div><div class="Body">I can’t deny that flutter of a heartbeat walking toward my plane with my Dad beside me, ready to take my first steps into MapleLand. Five months is nothing but a short burst, but the longest time I would be away from home. No tears just like last time, but the absence of intense fear that struck me on my way to France was refreshing. Only a slow burning hum of anticipation. One that still steeped inside after a long bleary flight to the bright and beautiful Vancouver.</div><br />I have heard nothing short of praises of this glowing city, and can definitely approve of a lot of those compliments having spent close to a week to explore the combination of its natural beauty and developed architecture. We wasted absolutely no time to see as much as we could while we had a car and headed out the very next day out to walk over the astounding Capilano Suspension Bridge. The geeky civil engineer in me was just amazed at how capable this hanging structure was, only because the number of people swinging and swaying on it could give anybody a small heart attack. The tree top and cliff side walks were equally impressive, the metal rods and ropes creating a stark juxtaposition with the greenery around us.Maybe it was the thought of home, but having that taste still wasn’t enough to satisfy our cravings for more of Vancouver’s natural offerings. Crossing over Lion’s Gate Bridge, the sun started beaming on us as we set out to do one of my most favourite activities – biking along the waterfront. That feeling of wind through my hair was absolutely liberating, not to mention that gorgeous sight of still water working its magical forces to keep those yachts in place against a brilliant background of blues and greens. Those moments as the gentle summer heat radiated over everything, I started to understand why Vancouver has such a firm grasp on being the most livable city in the world. With it’s stunning trifecta of lush trees, calm seaside and clear skies, perhaps finally New Zealand will have some competition, and a serious one at that. And afterwards, the visit Granville Island and its local market gave me warm memories of my European market trips, replacing those steamy coffee cups with iced drinks that had wet droplets trickling down the sides. The myriad of shapes and colours, the gentle buzz of murmuring, the scents that change with every direction you turn; They never fail to put a smile on my face.<br /><br />The weather was an absolute gift to us every single day we were there: The sun shone with every ounce of its might without fail against the flawless blue. Our morning walk in the Queen Elizabeth Park Gardens had that perfect lighting to see blooming flowers of all kinds around us. But while it was expected of the gardens to have that relaxed ease, our visit of the University of British Columbia had that same pleasant atmosphere to our surprise. Being my top option for exchange, and trying not to be give the impression of being a bit touchy with this, I had to see what it was all about. If anything, give myself some basis for comparison of these renowned Canadian universities. I can say that it most definitely did not disappoint. Driving down the student residence area with the little houses felt like a movie, and the absolute pristine road lined with trees and their swaying light green leaves was just such a different university sight to what I’ve been used to. But all admiration aside, even with the grand Museum of Anthropology looking like a work of art sitting right on the edge of campus, I’m holding out for an even better one waiting for me on the other side of the country.<br /><br />Wasting that sunshine was not an option, and so the oldest neighbourhood in Gastown had to be visited. If I’m being brutally honesty, the initial premise and, in my own snobbish opinion, the unflattering name doesn’t present the greatest intrigue for what turned out to be a very quaint but quirky side of Vancouver. This small little area really does have a such a charming vibe. Tiny shops were selling all sorts of antiques and artsy items. Modest cafes were sprinkled through the streets. The less than attractive name somehow seemed more fitting however as we approached the old steam clock, which to my delight was another blend of manmade structure with the sweet flowers hanging from the posts giving a pretty contrast. As unbelievable as it sounds considering everything I had seen till this point, won my heart instantly. The beauty of this elegant steampunk type clock comes from the glass that shows all the intricate mechanisms inside, and that sweet whistling with a gentle puff of steam as every quarter hour was magical, both day and night. Of course I ended up going back for a night time stroll later on, only to fall in love with it even more with its moonlit glow under the twinkling lights. Everything at night was a little bit different, from the trees wrapped in dainty fairy lights to the glowing neon colours that burst from the stadium. It really was a magical kind of experience.<br /><br />The days had an ever present nonchalant vibe no matter where I was or what I was seeing. One of the most interesting aspects of the downtown district itself was that in during the peak of day, never did it seem clustered by the bustling movements in the heart of the city. Whether it’s the larger shopping avenues like Robson Street or the smaller roads shaded by the towering trees, that claustrophobic, almost stifling feeling was simply absent. It’s a rare feeling to walk through and reach Canada Place to feel like you’re on a vacation stroll through what are meant to be the busiest streets of Vancouver. The wharf stretched out so that we could admire the park from afar, and our casual meandering eventually led us to appreciate the technological advances hidden within Vancouver. The Flyover was eye-opening to say the least as the experience took us through the wonders of Canada, using stimulated visuals and smells and other effects to recreate flying over the country. And gosh was it really something else. But it was the Science Centre that took me back to a younger age where I felt like a carefree child again, unable to contain the giddiness and excitement of seeing all these fascinating things around the exhibition. My Dad and I could finally put away those lingering stresses everyone always carries with them and laugh at each other with how utterly idiotic we looked completing the challenges. Our fierce competitiveness and maturity of toddlers when it comes to showing each other up only sent us in giggling fits and brought back the nostalgia. It was blissful in a way as we appreciated this bonding time, setting aside our differences like turning back the clock to more simple times.<br /><br />And perhaps that is the best way to describe Vancouver to me. A bright, peaceful, smile inducing place. Somehow rich in remnants of home with every glance. Simple, in the most endearing way.</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-72957349411245636882015-02-10T22:42:00.000+13:002020-04-21T09:37:15.055+12:00London Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's not every morning that you wake up beaming with the thought of what to do during the day. But the prospect of doing one of my most favourite activities of all was hard not to be excited about: Exploring the markets that have been established in London for so many years that it would be criminal not to enjoy this bustling tradition. After downing a quick breakfast in the dark hall of the hostel with only bits of new light breaking its way into the room, I pushed down that inevitable early morning fatigue to find the infamous markets. The antique stalls in the Portobello Market area lay jagged by the road, some selling cheap glass while others sold expensive copper scales and cutlery. The best part of seeing these beautiful gems was being able to watch curiously as they got sold: People haggled and bantered in a cheeky and playful way before parting with smiles on their faces. The crisp but light filled air around made my cheeks turn a frost-bitten, rosy hue. It gave it a feel of realism and urged me to continue walking, allowing me to see a whole host of artistic oil paintings and colourful scarves that stood out as spots of brightness against the neutral colouring of the road.<br />
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But as much as I enjoyed looking and staring and thinking about how these pieces of art were made, I will be honest in saying I was thinking about my next destination towards the end already. The way to Borough Markets made my tummy rumble and groan, as if secretly relishing at the prospect of being treated to food from the oldest food markets in England but also as if grumbling that it took me so long to get there. No market I had ever visited compared to this one, with a high interior that bounced off sounds of excited people, edging along to get to their favourite stores for a deluxe and unique lunch. Exotic smells would hit me occasionally as I headed down a new path, ones that smelt like fresh seafood and fragrant jams and creamy cheeses all looking just as mouth watering as they smelt. After I fought my way through a gathering crowd to buy a dish of calamari with chilli sauce, I picked a free spot, bit into the soft meat wrapped inside a crunchy crust and felt my body relish from the introduction of such deliciously satisfying food. The cafe in front of me worked like an oil machine, chugging out cups upon cups of steaming caffeinated drinks, yet the line outside still stretched and wrapped around the corner of the street. <br />
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I edged my way out of the crowds to approach the one and only London Bridge, but not before stopping in a huge glass dome right next to the busy market to hear a choir of young teens singing holiday carols. Their voices carried through the wind as I eased out to the bridge, clutching my coat and scarf tightly around me. With the Thames running underneath it and the Tower Bridge just in the distance standing in its gothic manner, I walked across it and back whilst braving the wind and the subtle chill that nearly knocked me off my feet. On my way back, it was the funniest thing watching a bunch of festive drinkers chugging down booze whilst wearing sunglasses on a massive cart powered by one poor man peddling to move it across this historic bridge. It made me realise that London was just full of fun and spontaneity, completely opposite to what Paris represented but had another level of attraction and lure. I could not compare these two cities with the same standard because it is their differences that make them so charming.<br />
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The historical aspect of London with all its tradition and value, or anywhere else for that matter, was an aspect that I could not say I was always interested in. Perhaps it's the fact that history as a subject had never been a big part of my education, but arriving in Europe has given me a whole new perspective of how enriching and engaging history can be. While I find myself appreciating some aspects more than others, arriving at St Paul's Cathedral opened my eyes to how important the past is; Despite the majestic grandiose of the building before me as I rounded the corner to take it at face view, what made it even more impressive was the courage and bravery of the firemen who sacrificed their lives to save it so we could preserve it for today and many years to come. The cathedral itself was much bigger than I had imagined, and trust me when I say I had big in mind. Even as I walked far from it across a bridge to the Christmas festivities in the distance, I could still see the building with all its angles and curves, accentuated further by the slow setting of the sun. It was one of those moments that could be captured on camera one hundred times and never be satisfying, and standing there to admire it from far away felt also like a privilege that needed to be savoured. But of course after those few special moments, you have to move on. There is simply no logic in waiting around - not in London anyway. It almost feels like wasting time when you could discover so much more.<br />
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In saying that, it wouldn't be hard to imagine my impatience and frustration when walking up to the biggest Christmas festivity that I have ever laid eyes on to find a line which seemed as long as the Thames itself. Standing amongst the crowd of excited people who yearned to become a part of the glowing lights and the musical celebrations happening inside the gates, all I could do was watch the lit up amusement rides repeat the same motion over and over again; Falling and rising, spinning and swinging, all with fresh laughter and screams that resonated through the unoccupied and dark areas of Hyde Park. Travelling alone had certain perks but waiting in that line was almost torturous without anybody to share the excitement with and to pass time. It moved ever the more slower with knowing that I was literally so close to being inside every holiday lover's dream. And when I finally got through under the large 'Winter Wonderland' sign, I breathed in a sharp gasp of air. If you could imagine any sort of town, overrun by some extravagant, extensive Christmas explosion, you wouldn't be too far from what I saw in front of me. People where smiling and laughing all around me, some looking relaxed as they lounged around wooden tables while some had a slightly more frantic look in their eyes as they glanced around for their friends. Everybody had a hot drink in their hand and the steam from all these cheap styrofoam cups rose slowly, only to disappear into the masses of piercing lights that glowed against the pitch dark sky. <br />
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Walking away from the initial entrance, I followed the flow of the crowd onto a street that had an endless array of festive stalls. I couldn't say until this point that I had experienced anything that was so infused with Christmas spirit and holiday joy, it was just not something that can come by easily back at home. Snow globes, lights, ornaments, candles, wooden fruit bowls, soft toys... These are only a small list of the things that I saw there, sitting on the tops of the stalls so delicately in contrast to the unruly sight in front of them, waiting to be picked up and bought by curious children and fascinated adults. Holding an obligatory hot chocolate and trying not to spill it on anybody as I shuffled down was more difficult than it seems, but that didn't stop me poking my head every now and then into a stall where the lights above softly illuminated my face. It allowed me to get the occasional whiff of rich caramel fudge or hear the sounds of a candy floss machine churning and buzzing to stop the Christmas haze from being so completely overwhelming. <br />
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The scene that remains the most vivid memory in my mind however was watching the joys of the holidays unfold before my eyes in the carnival games area of the park. As I clutched some freshly bought hot French fries in one hand, trying to balance it so that none of them would fall on the cold ground, I watched groups and couples both young and old, attempting to win and take home one of the prizes that hung down from the elaborately decorated ceiling. Darts were thrown, balls were tossed, goals were scored and amongst the yelling and cheering and laughing, I found myself enjoying that scene for the better part of my night. I could only think: This is what holidays are all about. I needed to see this, to be immersed in it to understand how truly happy and enjoyable life can and should be. Nobody had any worries in there, or stress or frustration. It was an unreal place blooming with positivity and optimism that melted everything else away. <br />
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And when I finally left, walking away from the brightness and into the chilly darkness of the park to reach the metro stop on the other side, I couldn't think of any better build-up to perhaps one of the most special Christmas holidays of my entire life.Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comLondon51.5073509 -0.127758351.1912379 -0.7732053 51.8234639 0.5176887tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-45355550652534437442015-01-20T07:03:00.000+13:002020-04-21T09:27:36.998+12:00London Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Without a doubt, my number one destination for travel was France. But when that is where I live now and you ask for my second choice? Europe is simply full of completely different yet utterly magical places all in one tightly packed continent, each with their own foreign beauty waiting for me. But as sure as I was coming to Paris, I knew I had to visit London and put my metaphorical gumboots onto the plush land of England for my travels. And you would completely understand the extent of my desire to go if you were right next to me, sharing the stress of purchasing ridiculously overpriced Eurostar tickets just to see this highly acclaimed city in all its festive holiday glory.<br />
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In the midst of all the excitement when departing Gare du Nord in Paris to head to St Pancras station in London, I must confess that there was a point where I felt truly alone. Over these four days, there would be no organiser to help me, no host family to depend on and the experience of the journey was most definitely up to me. Getting stuck at one of the tramway stations with my ticket not working was not the most comforting thought either. But there is an unexplainable amount of pride when you can get yourself out of those situations, even more so doing it in French. There was pressure with these circumstances, but in a strange and unpredictable way, I did not feel scared. Gazing out the passing sights of Paris as the artificial lights faded out and the sun rose slowly from the edge of the horizon was nothing but peaceful when the train departed. Reaching St Pancras station had a real Victorian feel about it, with the iron bars and the precise design of the station, almost to the point of having a steampunk vibe to it. My eyes were instantly drawn to the big gold clock that ran with a vintage elegance and with every minute that ticked by, I almost chanted in rhythm. Here in London. Here in London. Here in London.<br />
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Having turned into quite the French woman during my time in Paris, it took all my will not say that instinctive bonjour or merci to the people that I met in London when I first arrived. Honestly, I just stood there in a shop at the train station for about twenty minutes getting over the confusion of not hearing that sexy yet fast paced language that I love but instead a familiar one with a strange level of formality and grace. Granted, I am no complete stranger to the English accent, but that simply does not mean I could get used to people talking to me as if I were the Queen. It astonishes me how bizarre it felt to view English as a foreign language, while the occasional thought in French seemed perfectly normal. When I finally got my words together and bought my underground tube card to explore the city, I was ready to take it all in. Dragging my little red suitcase along, I set off to Covent Gardens, waiting to go above ground and see my first sights of this historical and wonderful city.<br />
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Covent Gardens was a very magical sight to see, with a blend of both commercial and very individualistic aspects that make it the most perfect introduction of Christmas in London. Through my cringing as the clunky wheels of my suitcase hobbled behind me on the cobbled ground with its obnoxiously loud clatter, I gaped at the beauty of the large red ornaments that hung on the ceiling of the main structure as you walked in. Right underneath, little tiny white stores would sell jewellery boxes and handmade bags and little dainty necklaces all put out on display to reflect the gleaming sunshine that streamed through the glass roof. On the outer edges, luxurious stores had filled their windows with their festive range that looked even more precious being framed by the classic black edges around each of the displays. Walking into any one of them was an experience in itself as the warm air embraced you first before you lose yourself in the smells of divine chocolates or winter teas or soft body creams that make your head spin. As much as the comfort of standing by a warm hot chocolate glass dispenser gave me while I relished in its sweet taste, the events outside gave me an even better perspective of classic London with its culture of street entertainment. By the big Christmas tree with fairy lights wrapped all the way to the top, a magician performed his trick around a huge crowd who applauded and laughed loudly at his comments. On the under level where all the cafes and creperies and bakeries where serving customers with hot lunch, a lady was singing a powerful but beautiful opera piece that rung through the entire building with its resonance. It was so easy to talk to people and within minutes, I had bought myself three beautiful English teaspoons whilst telling the vendor how much I would enjoy using them in my home in New Zealand. The longer I stayed, the more I didn't want to leave because it was a place that was just so classically beautiful with the most heartwarming atmosphere.<br />
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But no matter how pretty, my body was just physically tired from hauling my luggage around and when I realised I could check in to my youth hostel in Camden, I left the markets and stores behind me, hopping on the tube as if I had been doing it for years. Upon discovering that my hostel was within one of the most vibrant and unique night populated areas of London, I was very nervous to get my key and make my way up the creaky stairs to a room that had six wooden bunks and an odd smell. It wasn't accommodation that I was used to at all, but my purpose here was to travel, leaving early in the mornings and coming back late at night. At least the bed was clean and comfortable, and that was all I required when you take away all those unnecessary embellishments. The bars on the streets were all closed when I looked out the window. But from its exterior, I could imagine hundreds of young nightmoths hanging around them when darkness settles with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in another while loud music blasted in their eats. I made no effort to stick around despite the small protests of brain urging me to sit down and take a small break. There was definitely no time for that, because I needed to go see one of the most famous icons of London itself, and the perfect time was creeping up.<br />
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Any traveller who ventures unknown waters alone can tell you that no matter how great at navigation you may be, sometimes a little help is required. I was moved by how willing and friendly the man who worked for the underground was with explaining where the best places are and what I must do to make my stay unforgettable. Saving a lot of time thanks to his advice and help, I made it to my destination, rounding the corner to see the glorious London Eye glowing brightly against an unbelievably ethereal blue background. Now here is my gripe with this heavenly sight - my first initial thought was not the shock of seeing such an impactful scene, but a simple question: Where is the grey? Either I had been living a lie or the entire image in front of me was an unnerving recreation of what perfect London would be. Through years of being told of the notoriously grim weather, I could not accept this strikingly beautiful scene, as if my eyes were purposely deceiving me. The wheel turned around slowly and surely while the white fluffy clouds just lay there in a sea of blue. I could barely tear my eyes away, but I needed to buy my ticket and I could not remember ever being so excited to see the sights of a city from above. By the time I had emerged out of a busy ticket office, the slow transition into sunset had started to begin, layering on the lingering rays of sunlight onto the fading blue. I prayed and willed the sky to hold off longer so I could see London with its daytime glory, even for just a glimpse. And whoever was listening above granted me that wish and proceeded to create a picturesque display that superseded my expectations. As the gondola glided along its curved path, I saw this iconic city transform from bright and bustling to an unbelievable silhouette of gorgeous shapes and sizes, all dark against the now warm orange sky. It was like time moved incredibly slow yet fast, passing by in both a blur and also halting still so that I embed what I saw in my mind forever. The ride gave a feeling of being pulled up to heaven, just to reach the top for that one special moment to then fall back down, gently like a light feather.<br />
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Walking along the side of the Thames whilst holding a hot sausage baguette a little afterwards as the sky turned dark, I had one of those moments of reflection. Not quite an epiphany but more of a general appreciation for what I am seeing and where I am. While bikers performed their tricks on my left and the skateboarders showed off their skills on my right, I strolled past the bustling Christmas markets until I found a quite park bench to sit down and ponder over the sorts of personal challenges that I had to overcome to get me to this point. In no way exaggerated, I had to dig so deeply to find a courage and determination to leave what I knew behind to explore this unknown part of the world. Before, it had weighed on me greatly that maybe I didn't have that sort of drive to pull it out when I needed it most, or more importantly that I never possessed it in the first place. But I made this all possible for myself and I could not be more proud of the person that I have become - it almost saddens me how long it has taken for me to discover that fear or not, I have grown into a woman who can achieve fantastic things. With the support of various very important people in my life, I could finally say that where I was in that moment was one of the greatest highlights yet, without a shadow of hesitation.</div>
Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comLondon51.5073509 -0.127758351.1912379 -0.7732053 51.8234639 0.5176887tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-40251031291170243392015-01-07T13:05:00.002+13:002023-12-15T10:59:43.680+13:00Monumental Moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Paris is known for many things, everybody comes up with similar ideas in mind but perhaps nobody really knows what they are saying unless they have experienced it for themselves. And the first time will always be the best, no matter how crazy those circumstances may be. That wow moment provides an indescribable feeling that really bursts through your entire entity, hitting every single nerve in your body and it overpowers you with adrenaline and awe. I must confess, I did not know all that much about the beautiful attractions around the city, not the history nor the inspiring stories behind them, but only that they have the power to really open your eyes to a world that is more colourful and breathtaking than I could have ever imagined. By now, I have visited these monuments several times over, and I can truthfully say that each glimpse has been more stunning than before. Presented here is a collection of photos taken over the different times I have visited but I cannot emphasise enough that they are just a shade of the real beauty you would see with the naked eye. But while I will never get tired of making my way into the city, just to sit down on a park bench with a coffee or stand in the middle of the busiest roads when the traffic lights turn red, I don't think I can ever forget the thrill of seeing it for the first time.<br />
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Exploring the city and leisure time would be a real luxury, that is what I had initially thought. It goes without saying that having such a beautiful home to stay in and eating both satisfying and delicious meals would require my absolute dedication to work hard for all these advantages. And while that is yet another topic of discussion for another time, I never thought that work would propel me into having my first educative tour of the city. It was a hectic first day of work that Thursday as I was thrust into classrooms to manage and teach by myself even though it was my first work day and only my third day in France, and it ended with the information that I would be leading a group of nineteen students into central Paris to meet with the art history teacher José. Not only have I never been into the city, but to make sure nineteen others got there all intact in the midst of the morning city rush? That had to be the craziest thing in the world.<br />
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But after conquering the complicated system of trains and trams and metros, dragging up some deeply buried bravery to make quick decisions and using my French ability to comprehend exactly what we were doing, it was all worth it to finally arrive at the escalator that would bring me onto the infamous Avenue des Champs-Elysées. Yes, it was cliché Paris but as far as I know, people don't really understand what that means. In winter, cliché Paris is simply feathered rain with moments of strong breezes, ruffling the perfect line of bare trees wrapped in fairy lights all the way down the avenue. It would have been gloomy, but all I could think of was the illumination of soft light that bounced off the walls to highlight the world class architecture of the buildings themselves. Right there on my left, the glowing brilliance of Louis Vitton stood there in all its glory, the windows filled with shapes and colours that were so imperfect, they just worked together. Around me, the stores and restaurants on one of the most famous avenues in the world had started to wake up from its hibernating state, slowly turning the soft hazy background into the golden gem that it is, much like the first but slow, oozing scents of a freshly brewed latte filling a café with its warm breath. I could not bring myself to hold up my camera and take the photos that I wanted and needed to share because its sights just struck me into stupor. What have I done? I had allowed myself the opportunity to experience one of those moments that you would tell your friends and family about endlessly, eventually your husband and children and undoubtedly will try to reenact it again in the future. But of course, it would never be the same.<br />
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It took me minutes to comprehend that we had stumbled to the middle of the road, standing there on that concrete island while traffic whizzed past us left and right in its haughty, busy fashion. My jaw almost fell to the ground when I realised we could not have been more than 30m away from the l'Arc de Triomphe, with the most perfect dead on angle that you see in all the guides that you devour with your eyes at home. It was majestic and gorgeous, standing there so profoundly that you can feel the pride of the Frenchmen who built it themselves in its embodiment. As a symbolic emblem of unparalleled victory, I couldn't help but feel that same sort of triumph for myself - for conquering my absolute fears to get to this point and create something for myself that shifts my world into a completely different shape. And after I took it all in and realised that I needed this memory forever, I turned on my camera. And it never stopped snapping.<br />
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From all my previous travels, it has always been a repetitive situation when visiting attractions and beautiful monuments, the process of which I hated and despised. You view. You admire. You get back on that damn bus ready for another sickly journey to go to the next one. So to my absolute surprise and pure joy, I fell in love with Paris even more upon learning that all the significant buildings and landmarks are simply in one line, within walking distance and surrounded by the same, never-ending ambiance that draws me in with its irresistable charm and elegance. Our brief walking and exploring of Champs-Elysée was nothing short of fancy, but arriving in front of the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais was like reaching the pinnacle of French architectural brilliance. The Grand Palais with its mighty size and sheer grandness, this ornate structure hosts the crème de la crème of art in all forms. Chanel and Dior runway shows, Japanese contemporary artwork, the classic Christmas ice-rinks with beautiful light displays all take place in its interior while its exterior mimics the robustness and strength of the strange mélange of Greek inspiration and iron. Just across the street, the Petit Palais stood just as boldly as its companion but with a unique delicacy that makes it stand out perhaps more so despite its comparatively tiny size. The glass lined with both slim and thick frames of stone accentuated its fragile strength, as if one touch could both shatter it and break your finger simultaneously. <br />
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Continuing onward, we found yet another unforgettable place, one that catches even José's breath every time even though he has lived in Paris his entire life. My first steps on the most extravagant and decadent bridge in the city, Pont Alexandre III, brought me to a point that showcased Paris at one of its finest. The four statues that stood on the sturdy anchors of the bridge gleamed with gold, and its gilded statues had been crafted with so much detail that looking that each of them would have made your eyeballs roll. Leaning over the edge, the elaborate twisting and turning of stone created the ornate pattern that wove the bridge together. Both sides symmetrical, it danced over the Seine to meet up at the Nymphs of the Seine which sat on the edge like dark angels against the creamy white of the structure. Running my hand across them brought a chill to my body that had nothing to do with the cold. I looked over where José was pointing just to see a beautiful palace with a golden top and let myself marvel at the grace of l'Hotel des Invalides. Being not a hotel but a hospital despite its name, you would never be able to understand how a place so beautiful could once have harboured signs of death and illness at all. For those who fought bravely in the war, it was a splendid place to be and of course they deserved nothing short of this. And when you would think that after standing in that one spot, I have almost seen the world, the cobbled road had lead me to my first real life sighting of la Tour Eiffel, its strong framework standing out even against its grey background. Across the Seine with its flowing morning water, it just stood there waiting in the shadows. I can't say it was magical or stunning or exceptional. It didn't rain with sparkles, or reflect the light of whatever sun was present, or make unicorns and rainbows appear in the distance. But it was real. And its realness, the indisputable authenticity of it, was enough for me. <br />
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Making our way back over the bridge, we continued along with l'Arc de Triomphe just behind our backs to find a perfect square with French lamposts and textural groundwork. In front of us stood the pointy and slick l'Obélisque de Luxor, the gift from Egypt that took five years to sail across the seas to France. It was straight out of a storybook, with cryptic markings in archaic symbolism across the granite surface stretching 20m above the ground. Of course, you could not miss what was directly behind, framing the small pointy structure with its round shape and slow movement. The Concorde spun around with a speed that put everybody in a trance as we admired the clean whiteness that moved ever so slightly but smoothly like gliding butter. Underneath it, stalls would sell crepes and waffles and churros that would permeate through your nose. That satisfaction of holding a chocolate crepe and nibbling on it whilst craning my head to see the top of the cycle was immense, and there would be seconds where the hot steam would rise up and disturb that image before the winds, which were building up, would carry them away. <br />
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We approached a large pool with a fountain and those classic little green chairs when I finally came to realise that we were in one of the most iconic gardens of France, Les Jardins des Tuileries. Here on a bright and warm day, you would find tens upon hundreds of Parisians sitting back on these chair with their newpapers and their morning coffees. The classic design and distinctive quality of French gardens that I learnt that day was its measurable perfection, its accurate and planned design with statues equally distanced and trees lined all the way to the very end where it met the small arch. Walking around the fountain with tile dust crunching under our feet to live up to its name of 'the garden of roof tiles', José and I talked about life in Europe and I got a real feel of what it would be like to live in a place like this. For all its beauty and its elegance, there is a price to pay. No Parisian is ever completely relaxed and chilled out like New Zealanders would view as the norm, they are worn out and worked to the ground every single day without fail. It is only their pride in the beautiful place they have created and the assurances that they are living in the arguably the most yearned for destination on the planet that gets them out of bed in the darkness of the early mornings. His Spanish background screamed for him to go back to Spain, to his roots but he just cannot leave this place with his family. If you love it here, you must risk everything and make the choice, establish it all before your life really begins. Once it starts somewhere else, it will be difficult to move and how would you feel knowing that it wasn't right here. It was one piece of advice as we walked through the gardens that will haunt my mind in the future, either as relief or regret but I'm not sure which yet. <br />
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And if it wasn't enough to do all that in a few short hours, we ended our journey in front of the Louvre. Even the weather held off for a little while to let us view the very object that changed the definition of art and architecture. We were there for a few minutes only and it was ominous to know there were things that lay beyond there on that golden line, more to discover and much more to see. But in an almost poetic way, it summed up what my adventure would be like in Paris and provided a metaphorical depiction of my soul searching. It would be a never-ending discovery of things that would be etched into what defines me, but will require constant curiosity and depth to reach the very end.<br />
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I would do this tenfold, a hundred fold and never quite explore it all to the detail of my heart's content. I would never tire of trying to though, and I would come back every chance that I get. And to the day I write this, I still do.</div>
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Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comParis48.856614 2.352221948.6894645 2.0294984 49.0237635 2.6749454tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-59860119087275144482014-12-26T11:45:00.000+13:002020-04-21T09:21:36.198+12:00How to Create the Perfect (Host) Family<div class="MsoNormal">
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Family is so important. The longer you are away, the more apparent it becomes, even though it should be a given. So in any case, if anybody had to ask me what the most nerve-wracking aspect of travelling alone to a foreign destination, working a foreign job and staying with foreign people is? Well of course it would be the home that I can call my own for the next eight weeks.</div>
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I do not consider myself a snobby woman with unjustifiably high expectations of my environment and the people I interact with. Obviously the better the situation, the happier that I am and the more that I can enjoy this experience, but I had wrapped my head around the fact that this time, my learning experience is the priority, and not luxury or decadence that everybody yearns for deep inside their heart. And most importantly, I prayed that my hosts would accept me and cherish me as a part of their family. It was the wish that needed to be granted and despite all the horror stories and tense host-visitor relationship recounts that I have heard, I did feel it was possible. I did not have any prior personal experience with anything like this, on either end of the spectrum, so all I could do was remind myself that as long as I don't act out of line, I should be, at the very least, welcomed.</div>
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As Caroline drove me to my new home the day after I had landed in Paris, I had no idea what direction we were going at all, adding to the overpowering anticipation of it all. I would be completely lying if I said I didn't know where the final destination was. And I am going to let nobody tell me the Google mapping their house beforehand is creepy, every single one of you reading would have done the exact same. And any sane person would never be able to erase the image of seeing that red arrow point on an island on the bloody Seine river, just downstream from the very meander bend that runs alongside the Eiffel Tower itself. No amount of money could get you a hotel of that location, but inevitably, so many things could go wrong. Appearances can be deceiving, like first impressions. But for the second time since arriving in France, they weren't at all.<br />
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I could not believe my eyes when we pulled up to the house after getting a bit lost and going around a triangle lighting display about three times. I could not decide whether to look dazed at the boats that floated on the Seine just a meter away from the car, or the house which is just so masterful and indisputably artistic. That construction of brick-mustard colour combination, broken up by gleaming glass windows was staring right at me as if it was a life sized sculpture in the Louvre itself. We waited about five minutes before my host mother, Hélène Beckerich, actually came outside, which in my mind seemed like twenty and then some. But it had officially begun. The recipe for the perfect host family comes into play.<br />
<br />
<u> What a good host mother needs:</u><br />
- A warming smile that makes you feel less alien and more at home (look for that crinkle around the eyes).<br />
- A straight up offer to speak 'Franglais', which is any student's absolute dream if they ever want to LEARN a language and not PRETEND TO KNOW the language half the time.<br />
- An equipped skill of giving a good house tour, so you know all the creepy little corners and the best movie spots for future reference.<br />
- The ability to sit down with you within the first hour upon meeting, spending the next two chatting away as if life in New Zealand could be anything as interesting as in France.<br />
- The skill to cook a stellar meal. The French way.<br />
<br />
It is a blessing to have somebody so accommodating and caring, it would hardly seem possible that I am their first hostee. But to be honest, the various emails that were exchanged beforehand with Hélène were great indications of her character. That leaves two more scary figures to meet on the same day. As the day faded away and night crept in, there was no sign of their younger son Serge. While their older son Anatol only came home over the weekend, Serge would be the one helping me get to know my workplace and various staff members. We laughed about how he might be shy, not wanting to return home just yet to meet the intimidating Chinese girl from New Zealand wanting to learn French, basically the strangest thing he might see up to this point in his life. But if any of those feelings were true at all on his part, they were equally intense on my part too.<br />
<br />
<u>What a good host brother needs:</u><br />
- A gentlemanly maturity to introduce himself, shake your hand, and say enchanté with genuine meaning.<br />
- The ability to just sit down and do calculus right in front of you, as if you had been part of the family for a long time and it is nothing out of the ordinary.<br />
- The attentiveness to teach you about the way school works in France, so you don't screw up on your first day.<br />
- A humorous personality to crack jokes, even if it shows up slowly.<br />
- Kick ass skills at foosball, but still gives you thirty million chances to beat him.<br />
<br />
But as I had come to understand, it was my host father Pierre who was the mastermind behind all the art, all the aesthetics behind the beautiful placements around the house. Almost every piece chosen with purpose and handpicked, it was nothing less than amazing that these people had an eye for such bizarre and uncommon beauty which is not necessarily an easy thing to learn from a handbook. <br />
<br />
<u>What a good host father needs:</u><br />
- A want to understand all your plans for the entire duration of your stay, just to make sure that you are organised and do not miss anything that Europe has to offer.<br />
- The insider knowledge of Paris that may not be present in any tour guide.<br />
- The patience to teach you various skills that may not be innately learnt, like tasting wine, choosing a knife to peel or cut things (as scary as that sounds) or identifying between real gems and grand ripoffs in flea markets.<br />
<br />
And if anything, at least I know three things for sure, even after day one: It is no myth that the French can dine and cook well, they aren't uptight or scowly like everyone seems to think they are, and they can peel fruit like a ninja. </div>
Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comParis48.856614 2.352221948.6894645 2.0294984 49.0237635 2.6749454tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-84973043005179215972014-12-18T01:19:00.000+13:002020-04-21T09:03:43.473+12:00First Impressions<div class="MsoNormal">
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First impressions are always important. Nobody knows that better than I do, and it's hard to remember that a person, an object or a place should not be judged based on any first glimpse. It means nothing to see something beautiful and just assume that it is perfect, or on the other hand, condemn something due to bad vibe. And I had such high hopes that everything in France would be incredible and perfect and extraordinary, which in my mind made no sense but in my heart, it was the only acceptable thing that could happen. Because from there, the first impression that I had of Paris, of France, of Europe forms the basis of everything that I explore and becomes the perhaps an indisputably important standard that I would compare all my future travels with.</div>
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Upon meeting Caroline, a woman who would help me do anything to make my journey feel easier and safer and more enjoyable, my previous concerns and doubts dissolved away. It was amazing how another person's warmth and influence can act almost like a switch, numbing all the senses so that you can just live in the moment without any fears or insecurities. Arriving straight from the airport to the suburban town of Meudon, our discussions grew less and less vivid as I started to marvel at the strange environment around me. Bare trees stretching high up into the sky, all lined up the "rue" as if standing guard against the chilling air outside. All I saw were row upon rows of paths with little cobbled edges, glazed with a layer of soft wet frost to show that despite the heat inside the car, the outside was a completely different yet beautiful scene. Perhaps it was not the Paris I was expecting: Quiet, calm, almost peaceful with an eerie edge as brown, darkened leaves lay on the hard ground.<br />
<br />
I learnt quickly that my first night would not be spent with my host family, but at Caroline's house and I cannot express just how completely satisfied and fulfilled I felt to finally settle into a very homely French maison, be that it is only for one night. There is nothing that can compare to this strange combination of ethereal and autumnal beauty that stood right before me, it was unlike any structure I had ever seen. "Villa Mathilde" is absolutely magnificent and spellbinding and it will be a house with an exterior that I will perhaps never forget. Despite the fact that New Zealand would have fallen fast asleep by this time, I was more awake than ever, running on adrenaline and simply the thrill of having bizarre experience in the loneliest way if you had to think of it like that. The warm house, the Christmas decorations and the beautiful tree right next to the fireplace was enough for me to really comprehend that I am not only in one of the best locations in the world, but at the best time as well. <br />
<br />
The cold didn't stop me from rushing outside to take pictures after a not-so-French meal of spaghetti and an English tea filling the house with a warm earthy smell. Already within the first two hours of arriving in France, I could not simply sit down and rest like any proper person should after such a long journey. I walked, breathing out misty smoke as my warm breath hit the cool air around me, with nobody by my side but the biggest playground around me waiting to be explored. The architecture of the houses that I passed by made me stop in my tracks, and I can honestly say it took me an unreasonably long time to walk around and back because I just could not tear myself away. There is nothing quite like it, nothing that I had ever seen before anyway. With each step, I thought to myself over and over: This isn't meant to happen yet. I was not destined to come here till much later, when I can appreciate the clear skies with my warm coffee, a pinch of vanilla added by a special Monsieur who I knew well from buying hot drinks from his cafe every day for the past year. Or when I am sitting on the bench with my husband, arm in arm in a tight embrace to keep out the frigid air trying to force between us as we listen to the distant train grind to a halt. Or even when I am adjusting the overwhelmingly large scarves around the tiny necks of my young children with their little breaths moving in a white haze before dissolving into transparency. I am smart enough to know it was not a dream but I was living it right then and there. <br />
<br />
Yes it seems incredibly predictable, how could I not enjoy Paris. But I have seen nothing yet and already I am just yearning for more, with an honest declaration that my first sights of suburban Paris is almost nothing like I predicted but everything that I had hoped for. </div>
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Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comParis48.856614 2.352221948.6894645 2.0294984 49.0237635 2.6749454tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5427520876203986494.post-37668500810688091622014-12-12T06:54:00.000+13:002020-04-21T09:04:21.574+12:00What To Expect When You're Expecting France<div>
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As I am sitting on one of the largest planes in the world, heading to the city of my dreams, it honestly throws me how difficult this is to answer. I would predict that most words which come to mind for many people would be excitement and anticipation for the thrill of experiencing an opportunity so special at such a young age. But there is just something about making such a bold move, to place yourself in such an unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable situation to thrive on your own that unnerves me greatly. I guess it is a feeling that you can only truly understand if you have experienced it before. While I'm sure the joys of soon being immersed in the French culture will come, there is undoubtedly a very awkward balance of positivity versus negativity that weighs on my shoulders.</div>
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In my mind, the whole emotional
process of expecting France was completely defined and predictable, and so far,
it hasn't really deviated from the plan. First, you find out that there is such
an opportunity, and your heart skips a beat with the possibility of being a
movie-like character, travelling to the destination that she thought would not
come until much later at the fresh and new age of eighteen. Then, filling out
the application brings a wider and wider smile to your face because with every
letter you write on the page, the certainty of going becomes greater and
greater. Nearly every moment leading up to the week before departure, you
cannot stop thinking about it and internally grinning like a maniac or writing
about it every day in your diary. Up till this point, it is written in every
book and in every journal that you will ever read about travelling by yourself
in a new country. <br />
<br />
Then the doubts creep in upon the
realisation that it is so close, mere days away. Endless insecurities that push
you further and further into moments where you are lost in your mind, confused
and dazed from what this all means and most importantly what it will contribute
to your life. <i>Am I fluent
enough in the language? Will I be alienated because of etiquette and
behavioural differences? If I need any help, who could possibly guide me when
all I am is an insignificant young girl browsing around the streets of one of
the most prestigious cities in the world?</i> And on departure day, you
absolutely need assurances that you have made right choice, swaying back and
forth between fear and relief. It isn't until you reach the departure point
where you look back at your family, holding back those inevitable tears that
you discover how truly petrifying and frightening this independent experience
is.<br />
<br />
And of course, then you get to France,
have one hell of a time, and never want to come back to New Zealand, but that
remains to be seen. All I can describe is that sheer terror of conquering this
journey on my own that makes me breathe five times faster and makes my blood
run ten times quicker as I turned the corner and realised I really had to do
this by myself, perhaps for the first time in my life. I do think that this
fear where there is nobody to really depend on will stay with me this entire
journey. It makes me laugh sometimes that I'm scared of home sickness more than
the plane going down (as I write this on an airplane) but I've always known it
was something that needed to be conquered and this was the exact opportunity to
force myself to do it. <br />
<br />
Does it make it any easier? No. But will
it worth it? I can't say for sure at this point, but there are a million clues
that point towards yes in every possible way that I look.</div>
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Shirley Jianghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02297893901532861982noreply@blogger.comParis48.856614 2.352221948.6894645 2.0294984 49.0237635 2.6749454