Being All Woman.

My father once told me "if you can drive in the city (Melbourne) for five years and not have an accident Tanya, than you'll be a good driver." Remembering his statement, I recently applied it with a slightly different interpretation when I started to morph into a woman; the type of woman complete with killer heels, manicured nails and the unnatural obsession with her hair out of place; in my case it puffs out as frizzy as an afro the moment I step out of the air-conditioner's range.

But let's back-track a second first... I want you all to understand that although I am An Australian Woman Abroad, I have never really looked like this kind of woman previously mentioned. At twenty nine years old, before living in Bangkok actually, I had never owned a pair of high heels, gave a stuff about the birds nest on top of my head, or thought for one second that I couldn't do what every man could do in my converse runners. There were times of course where this was contradicted, but for the most part I was like a cockatrice, only part boy, part girl, part animal and part rubbish.

Yet since I am now the proud owner of three divine pairs of high heels and looking for the most part, better than usual, I realized that if I could master walking in my ten centimeter stilts within these wrinkled pavements of Bangkok without putting myself in hospital than I'll be able to walk anywhere in heels.

The greatest test came recently when I slipped off to Ko Samui for the weekend. For most who don't know, this island in the gulf of Thailand was the 'greatest' test because seven years ago I came to Ko Samui with my sister and while walking on the sidewalk, which ran alongside the beach, I fell in a hole of coral - in flat shoes. I shredded my leg and cried like a baby goat. So of course, I had my reservations about wearing heels.

On the second day, I was told that I was going out to dinner in an upscale restaurant on the north coast of the island. Excited as I was to look the part and taste Zazen's cuisine, a name that had been ringing in my head the whole day, I was dubious about experiencing one of those 'ass-over-tit' kind of moments in public. Anyway fears aside, all went well for the most part, we enjoyed an incredible selection of appetizers, complimented with some N.Z Pinot Gris when I suddenly had the call for the bathroom. Having downed two glasses of wine and about three glasses of water already, I couldn't wait for a stable arm to guide me on the boardwalk, so off I went.
Being all woman and swinging my hips, (the only way to walk in high heels I worked out) got me stuck like a Queensland fly up a nose, right in-between two planks of wood, which for your information was a gap that was the exact width size of my heel. Luckily I didn't go far. I just tap danced around on one foot, aware that if anyone turned the corner they would have a nice snap shot of one divinely clunky woman.

Guess it will take a bit more time and a few more adventures to metamorphose into a real live woman... let's pray it's not some wilder beast that emerges instead.



  

Vive le France!

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.