Now I don’t generally hold with past-life stuff but during my one previous visit to Warsaw, I had stepped off the plane to the strangest sense that I’d been there before. Wistfully recalling my late-1990s visit to Peter, I described old houses and classic trams, quiet squares, and buildings which still bore shrapnel wounds.
This time around we exited the train station to several glass and steel behemoths, a Costa coffee, and a giant sign for H&M. The connection was gone. Putting aside the question as to why I’d felt it originally (one too many faux-medieval town squares, perhaps? A romantic notion of my family history? My 14-year-old self desperate to forge a connection with anywhere other than Kingston-upon-Thames?), one thing was clear: Warsaw was not the dainty backwater with an identity crisis that I’d developed in my mind. This is a city that’s going places.
Berlin only warranted a short visit since it’s so close to London (and so supremely accessible). Sure, it took me 30 years to visit in the first place but we figured we could return at any time. Three word assessment? Cool and laid-back. (Is that two words or three?) Nobody blinked at my walking boots or make-up-less face, even in the super hip districts of Neukolln and Kreuzberg. Take that Hackney, you and your judgey judgementalness.
How to spend limited time in a nearby city? Abandon what everyone thinks you should visit and spend your precious moments at places which give off an irresistible pull, however unexpected. So, we did away with Brandenburg Tor, museums and palaces, and instead spent an afternoon at the Jewish Museum.
My father is (technically) Jewish. He was bar mitzvah’d, and he’s a chartered accountant, but then he also told me the wrong word for a kippah, and was unceremoniously chucked out of his Jewish boy scouts troop for taking pork sausages to a picnic. So it goes without saying that my siblings and I were not steeped in religious dogma whilst growing up, and as such I know little of my Hebrew heritage.
“We shall be travelling overland as far as we possibly can” we announced smugly when plans were made and friends and families informed. “Arrival in Moscow in a week or so, via various European capitals”.
We plotted our itinerary and people nodded, with awe, we assumed. Two days before departure my friend Abi asked “But why don’t you just fly to Berlin?”
A pregnant pause. A cough. A throat cleared.
“Because – we don’t – because – THAT’S NOT WHAT WE’RE DOING ABI, STOP ASKING QUESTIONS”.
Some time ago we came up with the bright idea that we should travel from Sarajevo to London by train. The Sarajevo part came from Peter’s studies; the train travel from me. I love trains. I mean, I know naff all about trains but I love to travel on them. Stations are easier to reach than airports, the journey is simpler, the scenery is often second-to-none (and unspoilt by traffic or clouds), you can walk around on board, it’s easier than flying to meet interesting people (and similarly to escape from weirdos), no passport control, no hideous journey to the suburbs four hours before your scheduled departure time, and you end up slap-bang in the middle of your destination.
What began as a great idea (fly one-way to Sarajevo, then wind our way back to London via rail alone) slowly disintegrated as we left it far too long to book flights and based our travel plans entirely on the SkyScanner results of some six weeks previously. When we finally got around to sorting tickets to Bosnia, we discovered that the cheapest flights went via Istanbul. Istanbul. Further away from London than Sarajevo – but cheaper to reach. And with a 18-hour layover. We shrugged and optimistically added another destination to our already bulging travel plans. Five countries in eight days was for suckers. We could easily do six.
The biggest joy of having neither children nor pets is the ability to jet off for a weekend and simply lock the door behind you and hope you don’t get burgled or that you left the gas on.
The other weekend, my boyfriend and I did precisely that. I had some holiday I needed to use up, we were free of 30th birthdays (they’re doing the rounds at the moment), and the opportunity was there to be seized. We had initially decided on Amsterdam but literally moments before I was about to press “buy” on eBookers, he suggested we check out the alternatives. A quick root through available flights to Tallinn, Riga, Copenhagen and Helsinki (cross-referencing prices and best possible timings) brought Helsinki out on top. Flights: purchased. I teetered on a tantrum when it turned out that average temperatures in February are -6°C, but then discovered a luxury hotel housed in a 19th century prison, and the mood was restored. Sadly AirBNB (my accommodation stalwart) doesn’t have a great foothold in Helsinki; whereas the Best Western Katajanokka had a history, good location, and breakfast included for less than the price of the few unappetising AirBNB apartments on offer.
Marrakech had always been on my to-visit list but, as a tall blonde woman, I thought it best to visit with a man. As such, I didn’t arrive until 2013, when I visited with my boyfriend.
My strongly feminist leanings rage at such a situation but nonetheless it seemed sensible, and in retrospect I don’t regret holding off as long as I did. Still, in practice, I’d say that Marrakech is a reasonably safe environment for a woman, solo traveller or otherwise, and (unlike India), I haven’t advised any other female travellers against going.
Marrakech was, nonetheless, something of a starting-off point for our travels. We had ten days in total and I was keen to explore the souks and soak up the atmosphere of this ancient city. Still, we only hung around for two nights at the start before heading off to pastures new.
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