Day 351-360: San Francisco; New favourite City

Sorry perfectly preened Singapore, apologies gloriously grungy Wellington; you have been beaten, ousted, you have been pipped at almost the very last post by San Francisco; three six five's official new favourite city.

We only had a few days in San Francisco and with so much to see and do we knew it was going to be pretty hectic. What we didn't know was that this would mean a sort of a get-fit-quick retreat to a beautiful city that perches perilously on no less than seven hills. As soon as we arrived we hit the streets, San Francisco is compact enough to walk around most of it – as long as you are wearing comfortable shoes and you are ready to layer up and layer down in accordance with it's ever changing micro-climates and the gradient of the hill you need to navigate through. And you will be passing hills; some so steep that the pavements are actually steps and some so high that the freezing gale force winds you experience at the top are nothing like the sunny little side street you were standing in below.

Our first excursion was to begin the strenuous trend; we decided to view the city from the top of a relatively small Coit Tower which sits on top of the deceivingly high Telegraph Hill. But the views from the top were well worth it. This would be our first glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge, glowing red in the distance over blue waters. From here we could see the city undulating out before us, every winding street, tiny secluded Alcatraz and all the piers that punctuate the coast-line. It is simply beautiful.

San Francisco, we knew, was a city full of artists and you don't have to go far to find a gallery, exhibition or even just some poetry taped to the pavement; passing the latter was a clear sign that we had made it to North Beach; former hang-out of Jack Kerouac and spiritual home of the Beat generation. Now I wouldn't really class myself as a fan of the beat movement (in fact, quite the opposite, but that's another discussion...) but it was pretty exciting for a bit of a lit-geek like me to go to the City Lights Book Store and have a drink in Vesuvio just as they were doing 60-odd years ago.

Further wanderings took us through China Town, Japan Town and to the Haight, where The grateful Dead once lived and the only thing stronger than the prevailing sense of the 60's hippy movement is the sweet smell of joints being smoked at every opportunity. There is even a clock on the corner of Haight and Ashbury that famously always reads four twenty; which will be either a deeply cool or very confusing statement to you, depending on your association with these cult numbers. The streets of Haight are lined with coffee shops, record stores, vintage clothes shops and – no surprises here – some incredible street art. Here the tattoo:person ratio soars and everyone seems intent on keeping the spirit of peace and free love alive. Yeah, I really really like the Haight.

Keen to take in as much of the city as we could, and with the soles of our shoes already notably thinner, we switched pavement for pedal and hired bicycles for a day. Our route took us through the beautiful Botanical Gardens and – not without a fair bit of huffing and puffing – over the Golden Gate Bridge itself. Unfortunately, this being San Francisco, the day had clouded over a bit by the time we made it to the big red bridge but to see it was still simply spectacular. Yes it may have all but killed the shipping trade in the area with its completion but who cares? It looks great – and as it turns out the then-defunct ferry house has now become a hub of culinary greatness.

We cycled along the coast back to our hostel and were more than happy to stop for a wander around the eateries and to admire the skaters and BMXers that strut their stuff aside a huge angular sculpture and below the huge clock tower that actually tells the real time, all the time.

Yes it had been a busy few days but it wasn't over just yet – we had one last thing on our must-do list; prominent in the prohibition era, there are still a few Speak Easy's to speak of. Under a 'Anti-Saloon League' sign, after a knock and uttering of a secret password, we were taken through a bookcase (seriously) to a tiny bar called 'The Library' that served incredible cocktails just like they did when it was illegal. It was the perfect way to end our short but sensational stint in this beautiful, vibrant and historic city.

San Francisco; we love you.

Day 348-350: The Getty and the Gospel

It was a beautiful day that we visited the Getty Museum; sitting pretty high on the hills of Los Angeles it offers not only a stunning view of the sprawling city but far more exhibitions than one could possibly absorb in an afternoon's wanderings.

Much like the Guggenheim before it, the Getty Museum is one of those places where the building itself is one of the biggest artistic attractions. There are wide open spaces, frolicking fountains, great glass windows and sweeping sculpted gardens. And it's free to get in, once you've paid the $15 parking fee.

We wandered abound a small exhibition of Ankgor Gods, which made us realise how long ago it was that we visited Angkor Wat itself (for the record: 237 days) and a wonderful collection of impressionist paintings. On any visit to the Getty Museum, ample time must be allowed for coffee breaks in its numerous cafés.

That evening we had plans (so many plans, so many options...) so we couldn't stay to watch the sun set over LA but it is open late and I imagine it is quite the sight.

The following morning, in varying states of hungover and with a new edition to the British contingent, another friend from home, Claire, we were making our way to the holiest of events down in Hollywood. It was Sunday morning and we had tickets to a Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues.

It was a buffet brunch and any preconceived notions I might have had about the American large portion-sizes were confirmed here. The buffet stretched from one side of the room to the other, almost as far as the eye (in an admittedly pretty dark room) could see and encompassed everything from scrambled eggs, muffins, waffles (plus toppings), macaroni cheese, salads (plural), cold meats, prawns, deserts (again, very plural) to build-it-yourself omelettes and watermelon slices. A feast! The perfect hangover cure – and that was just the buffet bit.

The best part was definitely the gospel itself; a choir lead by a woman with a voice like Aretha Franklin and an outfit like a wedding cake being attacked by a swan belted out hymns that were as funky as they were soulful. They also sung perhaps the coolest possible rendition of happy birthday I've ever heard to lucky birthday attendees.

It was all over too quickly and with full stomachs and an extra (if painfully out of time) skip in our step Natalie's house-mate Blake took us on a bit of a sightseeing tour around the city, stopping of course, for the obligatory Hollywood sign snap (you can see it behind us if you get your face really close to the screen and squint)

Our time in LA was coming to an end, it had been a crazy whirlwind of a week – certainly nothing like we'd experienced before and, probably, like nothing we'll experience again. A massive thank you here to Natalie for making so much of it possible.

Day 297-304: What's not to love?

Ahh Wellington, Wellington – where should I begin? Should priority be given to the beautiful architecture? Or the fantastic shopping that effortlessly mixes every-day necessities with high street brands, quirky designers and treasure troves of vintage clothing? What about the bars and little coffee shops that spill out onto the street at every possible opportunity, battling for pavement space with endless buskers, artists, hari krishnas, beat-boxers and magicians.

No, I'll begin with the first thing that really struck me about Wellington; it's diverse. Walk around town and you will pass people from every corner of the world; Chinese, Malay, European, Indian, Polynesian, African, Japanese, even a few Latinos – and they aren't tourists, they are people who call Wellington home. Now this may sound like a strange thing to notice first-off but, with the exception of Singapore, [Warning! wild generalisation approaching] everywhere we have been on this trip has been 95% local and 5% white-skinned tourist.
Get on a train in India and everyone you'll see will be Indian, apart from a few European tourists (us), go to a market in Indonesia and pretty much everyone you'll see will be Indonesian apart from a few (mostly Dutch) tourists (again, inclusive of us). I'm not saying this is a bad thing – but there was very little mixing in these societies, the local/tourist divide was as clear as the colour of our skin. But in Wellington, everything was all mixed up, and I loved it.
Maybe when you grow up in London, where ethnic diversity is a beautiful reality, you're naturally more inclined to notice it (or the lack of it) in other places you visit. That said, I don't think that it's a coincidence that Singapore and Wellington are the only places I'd really consider living more permanently in. It just feels more right here.

Maybe too because the “windy city” did not live up to this reputation at all – we enjoyed a week of glorious sunshine with often not so much as a cloud in the sky. Which was particularly good news for Emily [below], one of my oldest and best school-friends, who arrived from Sydney on the stroke of midnight with a rucksack that had been quarantined into a huge plastic bag and without her tent pegs which had been taken from her by a less than friendly customs officer under the absurdly stringent anti-contamination laws.

Not to worry though, actually the spot that Rob and I had found to camp up each night in was a glorified car park over-flow that climbed into the hill side at the tiny and incredibly scenic Scorching Bay [above] about 5km south of Wellington. So most of the ground was tarmac and not exactly peg-friendly anyway. After a few failed attempts in the dark (we would later become incredibly quick at this) we got the tent up, tied the guide ropes to Emilio and the railings and we were good to go. Like I said, it was really lucky that it didn't rain.

The morning brought the small matter of turning 25 for me and with it croissants and coffee on the beach for breakfast. A day spent perusing the shops was broken up only to eat a delicious lunch and in the evening we met up with a friend we had made in Thailand and she brought the kind of local knowledge that means $1 glasses of champagne for ladies on a Wednesday [thanks Yvonne.] Needless to say, I had an utterly awful time of it :)

Thereafter each day brought something new and exciting; well...at least one day was lost to the seemingly impossible task of obtaining an Australian working-holiday visa for Emily but even that ended in a feast of falafel...and eventually (days later) a visa too. We spent a day shopping, a day relaxing on the beach at Scorching Bay – which did live up to it's name - and even needed two days to wander slowly through the wonderful Te Papa museum [right], which features everything from geology to gay rights and has a fabulous exhibition on photographer Brian Blake on the top floor.

Emily and I also spent a day wine-tasting in the famous Wairarapa Valley region. Martinsborough is just an hour and a half away and it must surely hold the record for the most wineries per km2 – the place is packed with them! And tasting is the name of the game. We stopped in a few, all walking distance from the small high street, enjoying crisp Chardonnays, bold Pinot Noirs and some surprisingly moreish sweet desert wines. Our favourite spot, though, was the Vynfilds winery; a huge white manor-house type of a building surrounded by vineyards where you could taste a 'flight' of wines – 5 half or quarter glasses – with tasting notes and some great bread-and-dips to wash it down with.

Wellington has been one of our longer stays on the trip and it has definitely been one of my favourites; friends, sun, good food, great wine and even champagne on a Wednesday. What's not to love?

Day 109: A walk in the woods

From Phnom Penh we traveled to Kampot, a comparatively small town that spends most of it's time chilling out near the coast of Cambodia. Come the wet season, however, the main draw of the town moves away from the sun and sand and towards Bokor National Park, situated in the jungle coated hill side that loom over the sleepy town's shoulder.

This is exactly the reason we were here, and although slightly worried by combining a day long trek up a mountain with Asian monsoons and over three months of no exercise, our concerns were soon put to rest by Brett; an American anthropology teacher and part owner of the restaurant we stopped in for lunch. We booked the trek for the following morning, only to delay it a day following Brett's offer to watch an Ultimate Fighting Championship pay-per-view (he and the locals go wild for professional fighting) and take a cycling trip to the Kompong Traach caves on the same day over far too many 'Klang' (literally meaning 'strong' in Khmer) beers.


The day began early, being transported to the foot of the hill in the back of a flat bed pick-up truck. We checked we had enough water and insect repellent on us and off we went. Climbing over fallen trees, clinging onto hanging vines whilst navigating steep slippery slopes, squeezing through narrow gaps in trees and hearing gibbon calls layered over the sound of free flowing water... we really were trekking in a Cambodian jungle and it was truly magical. We would stop for water and our guide told us about how he was forced to escape imprisonment from the Khmer Rouge after witnessing his whole family be killed. He spent the following two years living in the jungle alone, not seeing another soul for the duration. Our insect defenses turned out to be a trifle underestimating too, the guide completing the trek with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.


The remnants of old French colonial buildings lay scattered on the summit of Bokor. The buildings have not been used for years and just the shells survive now. The thick fog of the clouds swirling in and out of the remaining weathered concrete structures create an incredible atmosphere. It's as if it's straight out of a horror film. As we approached the ruins - including a particularly eery Catholic Church - they would just appear from the fog, only visible from 10 meters or so.

We walked/slid our way down after exploring the summit and finished our day with a relaxing boat ride down the Kampot River. We had dinner at our new favourite restaurant with some new friends; pretty much soaking wet from a day in the clouds. No beers and pledges to watch people knock each other out this evening, it was early to bed and early to rise for a whole day of travelling to Siem Reap and the temples of Angkor Wat.

Day 105: Keeping it Riel

You have read correctly; without any sort of visa-based disaster on this border-crossing we have made it into Cambodia! Hurrah! We weren't even ripped off, what a bonus...

We have been very busy since arriving on Phnom Penh indeed; visiting the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek straight off the night bus which was something of a sombre awakening in many respects. This blog isn't about regurgitating history, but it was harrowing to see the skulls of thousands of Cambodians who were killed by Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge army...as recently as the 70's.

Following their reign of terror, which deliberately wiped out the intellectual population of Cambodia - a tally that reaches around 2 million of Cambodia's then-total population of 7 million - the nation now has an average age of 22. Twenty two. It's a young country, a war-torn country - and you can see this walking the streets.

But what I've also enjoyed seeing is that this is a proud nation; the architecture is the most beautiful I've seen. Ornate Pagodas sit aside ultra modern hotel complexes and tarpaulin market stalls with ease. And everyone is smiling.

As well as sampling the local specialty - specialty beer that is - Angkor, at around 2000 Riel (ahh yes, that's the reason for the obscure title spelling) or 30p a pop, we've been exploring the city at large, and loving every moment.

First impressions of Cambodia are more than favourable; they're bloody fantastic. The photos are up so why not have a browse yourself and see what we mean?

Day 78: How not to enter Vietnam (and other resolutions)

So here we are in pastures new and the first of our South East Asian resolutions is to leave behind the musical punns that were forming the title of our posts [*brief pause while you look back and realise that was what they were all about*] But - fear not - we won't be stooping to anything as helpful as using actual place names...

Our second resolution, after being refused entry into Vietnam, is to be more visa-efficient. I should explain; Vietnamese visas can be quickly and easily obtained on entry with possession of an 'approval letter' from the government which is, again, easily obtained in advance. The problem arose when we extended our stay in India by a month and subsequently arrived at the airport with an approval letter that allowed us entry up until the second of July...on the seventh of July.

After much pleading, smiling, dodgy translation and even some tears we were provided with a last-minute visa for $140...each; more than five times the price we'd already paid for our (now expired) approval letters in advance.

Needless to say we left the airport with spirits somewhat dampened. But - and this is one of the joys of backpacking - the bus we boarded into town was full of other travellers and we spent the rest of the day finding accomodation and getting our first taste of bia hoi (local beer) with some lovely folk.

Hanoi is an awesome city; we've been pounding the pavements, and the streets, since the pavements are usually full of parked mopeds and street cafes. The locals are a venerable mix of the super-stylish and weathered-workers; friendly folk with wide smiles and peaked hats.

We've seen some incredible architecture, some beautiful art galleries and some seriously fresh fish being sold; they're kept in bowls pumped with oxygen and they're still gasping for breath when they're cut and weighed and sold. It's quite something to behold. And all the more reason (for me) to keep it en chay (vegetarian).

Tonight we're leaving for the mountaneous north of the country, right up on the boarder with China, where we hope to trek through paddy fields, meet some of the Vietnamese hill tribes and, Heiniken in hand, watch Holland win the world cup.

Let the Vietnamese adventures begin!