It seemed like one minute I was traversing the fun obstacle course of potholes and seemingly undulating pavements in Bangkok, to standing awe-stricken in the enchanting streets of Paris the very next minute.
It could've be called a typically cloudy day for most Parisians, however, for this little Australian Woman Abroad there was absolutely nothing normal about this day. There was the smell of butter churning in the winds, fois gras (duck fat) glistening in the leafy trees and perfect architectural symmetry at every corner - even the dogs seem to emulate that perfect alignment and grace that only comes with an urban planner like Haussmann.
So why did she go there? You may wonder. And why the hell didn't she put me in her suitcase?
Well, this ten day break into pure indulgence and hedonism, of which most days were spent pool-side in Lubéron, South of France, was for a fortieth birth-week. Yes, that's right - birth-week. This is a term coined for people who celebrate their birthday over a period of several days after refusing to accept the one pitiful day given.
Now although I hadn't known the person whose birthday it was or the other eighteen people who had all known each other for ten to twenty-five years, that wasn't a problem at all. Not when my friend, Red Wine has anything to do with it. By the end, I felt like I'd known them for many years too. And an added bonus to my good friend's advice is that I even began to believe that my french was good at one point... that was until I sobered up quickly and noticed that it just wasn't.
Those luscious days of eating feasts fit for a king were among the most relaxing and the most delicious especially when you have the hands of DJ Cook and his trusty side kick working piles of fresh pasta. I mustn't forget their assistance of many helpful french hands and many taste testers, of which my tongue was in line with. And if the kitchen got too hot, a dip in the pool was the welcome relief or if the day was beckoning for a little kip, then there were sun-decks and sofa's to help spur on the night.
Yes, France certainly has many treasures to offer and many wonderful people to meet, so back in Bangkok I am endeavoring not to torture myself over the absence of the mouth-watering dried sausage or the baguettes of which I had taken numerous photos of. Well... I can only try.
Speak to you from the hills of Luang Prabang sooner than later....
Till then. Keep it real.
It could've be called a typically cloudy day for most Parisians, however, for this little Australian Woman Abroad there was absolutely nothing normal about this day. There was the smell of butter churning in the winds, fois gras (duck fat) glistening in the leafy trees and perfect architectural symmetry at every corner - even the dogs seem to emulate that perfect alignment and grace that only comes with an urban planner like Haussmann.
So why did she go there? You may wonder. And why the hell didn't she put me in her suitcase?
Well, this ten day break into pure indulgence and hedonism, of which most days were spent pool-side in Lubéron, South of France, was for a fortieth birth-week. Yes, that's right - birth-week. This is a term coined for people who celebrate their birthday over a period of several days after refusing to accept the one pitiful day given.
Now although I hadn't known the person whose birthday it was or the other eighteen people who had all known each other for ten to twenty-five years, that wasn't a problem at all. Not when my friend, Red Wine has anything to do with it. By the end, I felt like I'd known them for many years too. And an added bonus to my good friend's advice is that I even began to believe that my french was good at one point... that was until I sobered up quickly and noticed that it just wasn't.
Those luscious days of eating feasts fit for a king were among the most relaxing and the most delicious especially when you have the hands of DJ Cook and his trusty side kick working piles of fresh pasta. I mustn't forget their assistance of many helpful french hands and many taste testers, of which my tongue was in line with. And if the kitchen got too hot, a dip in the pool was the welcome relief or if the day was beckoning for a little kip, then there were sun-decks and sofa's to help spur on the night.
Yes, France certainly has many treasures to offer and many wonderful people to meet, so back in Bangkok I am endeavoring not to torture myself over the absence of the mouth-watering dried sausage or the baguettes of which I had taken numerous photos of. Well... I can only try.
Speak to you from the hills of Luang Prabang sooner than later....
Till then. Keep it real.
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