Three Things Learned In London In (Almost) Three Years

Yesterday was the third anniversary of the day I left Australia. It is cliché, but life in Australia seems like a lifetime ago. I left Australia with big dreams, but an even bigger hole in my heart knowing that I was leaving behind a boyfriend, albeit temporarily as I expected to be the case. This working holiday was meant to last one year, at the end of which I planned to return to domestic bliss in Brisbane. How little did I know. Before that one year time limit had lapsed, everything about my life would be completely different: where I lived, what I did, who I knew, my finances, my relationship status blahblahblah.

Talk about future shock. I've often wondered whether, given the opportunity to travel back in time, what I would say to "me" three years ago, knowing what I know now. What would I do differently? Probably very little. It's one of the mysteries of life, I think, that "totally wonderful" things almost never replace "totally bad" things; I sometimes wonder if life, instead, is a series of trade-offs. Ergo, I could say, I lost a boyfriend in Australia, but I gained a life elsewhere in the process. It would be great if I could say one is better than the other. But I can't, and I'm not sure it's true, so I won't. As Will says, there is nothing either good or bad, only thinking makes it so.

Reading one of London Preppy's blog posts this morning, I was reminded me of the peculiarities of London life, compared with life back in home. And that in turn reminded me of one of my own blog post from two years ago, in which I reminisced on what I'd learned in my first 7 months in London. So in honour of my recent anniversary, I present the further list of things that I've learned in London in the three years since leaving Australia:

1) Life in London is one of extremes. Life in Brisbane was a little more constant, where most days were like "yeah, I feel okay... but only okay... not great... not miserable". But here, emotions are a little more manic. When I'm low, I feel like a small cog in the gargantuan money-making machine of the city (and City). And yet when things are good, I feel so lucky to be living in what seems like the centre-of-the-universe. Nauseatingly London-centric, I know. Yet strangely, life in London is almost always one of those extremes, and rarely anything in-between. When I'm asked if I'm "still loving London" - as I so often am when holidaying in Australia - the most accurate answer I can think of is, "I love it 95% of the time, and I hate it 5% of the time". Maybe this balance will change one day, which is when I'll know it's time to pack up and move on.

2) There is a lot to be said for the easy-going Australian sensibility. People keep to themselves in London - which at times I must admit is wonderful, like a warm blanket, when I want to hide - but it also does often add up to moments where you feel like you co-exist with eight million people, yet know none of them. It can be, at times, incredibly lonely. Someone once said to me that in English culture, one needs to be introduced first before attempting to get to know someone. I'm not sure it's quite as extreme as it was, say 100 years ago, but there does seem to me that there is a lingering sentiment. So I think it no strange coincidence that the majority of my closest friends in London are Australians, most of whom are people I did not know before I left. I love multicultural London, but for that instant/immediate connection I can't go past an Australian, it's just easier.

3) A smile, apparently, means more than just a smile. I attend the same gym that I have attended since taking my first flat in Covent Garden in 2005. It seems to me to be basic common courtesy that if you see the same faces three or four times a week, it's not only appropriate but basic common courtesy to acknowledge those people. The form of the acknowledgement might vary, from a cool-nod-of-the-head to a warm smile. I really don't care what it is, as long as it's there. But for some, it seems, that's too much. Without any exaggeration, I could lock eyes with someone at my gym, and acknowledge them with the briefest of smiles, and will still be blanked... three years after first clapping eyes on them. The rudeness is staggering. Which makes me think that to some people, a smile always always means more than a smile... and that's just plain bloody silly.

Ibiza

There is so much hype about Ibiza, with so much written about the island, that I feel it's near impossible to offer a fresh point of view. And yet my recent eight day trip to the island - my first - has been rather balanced, with everything in moderation... including, one might say, moderation itself... so perhaps this is what I should write about.

Ibiza is regarded as the birthplace of a certain type of music, the "Balaeric Beat" that transferred to the United Kingdom in the late 80s on a tidal wave of ecstasy. If I had a pound for every time someone told me that "Ibiza is not what is like five/ten/fifteen years ago", I could probably afford one of the island's beautiful sea-side villas. And even though this was my first trip, my gut instinct tells me those people are correct. Ibiza lures the peeps with its seductive cocktail of sun, sand, sounds, sex, and substances. But it's the latter two - the sex and drugs - that really sells the island. Don't get me wrong, I'm as up-for-it as the next person. But it seems to me that many, many people must come to Ibiza and barely see the inside of their hotel room, let alone a beach. And that's a shame, because the island is truly beautiful, and the Mediterranean lifestyle is quite special.

I visited for the closing parties, during the last week of September, which, I understand, is a time of year that attracts a slightly older (read: thirty-something) crowd, and mostly Europeans. The chavvy Brits tend tend to prefer the height (or nadir, as you may see it) of summer. I stayed in the majority-gay Hotel Cenit. The hotel is 70s chic, but the location is unbeatable, perched on the hill-top above Figueretes Beach. The rooms are fresh and clean, yet minimally decorated. Some of the rooms - including my own, thankfully - have an amazing million-dollar view.

The secret to a successful Ibizan holiday - as I discovered, and confirmed by veterans - is to balance that cocktail of what's on offer. My advice to anyone planning a trip is to truly plan the trip. Check out the parties (using a site like Ibiza Spotlight), and pick just a few, spacing them out over your stay. I recommend the poly-sexual Matinee (slideshow) under the flight path at Space, and the heavy/hard DC-10 (slideshow) located right next to the airport!

And on the days when you're not at a party, plan a trip to somewhere remote on the island. I highly recommend Cala D'or (slideshow), Cala Comte (slideshow) for great sunsets, and the stunning Cala Saona (slideshow) on nearby Formentera (slideshow). Most important of all, find every way possible to stick to the plan. Every way possible! Otherwise, with every distraction imaginable around you, it's easy - probably far too easy - to suddenly find yourself greeting an unexpected sunrise!

All of my Ibiza photographs are on Flickr, and can be viewed in a slideshow.

Thinker Thoughts

I have always admired Rodin's The Thinker, but I was thinking today that the subject must have been incredibly uncomfortable.

I always thought his right elbow rested on his right quad. It doesn't... it rests on his left quad. Try doing this for yourself. It's bloody hard. And you know know what he's thinking, too. "Can I move yet? I'm cramping."

While contemplating the Thinker's amazing contortion ability, check out that fantastic ab definition...

Whiter Shade of Pale

Three American tourists (two appear in the photograph), one of whom was pretend-preppy, sat near me on the tube this evening. They were chatting - loudly - about the Austrian dungeon man. Of course, I pretended to listen to my Walkman, after I switched it off, to listen to their conversation.

Preppy Guy: His girlfriend was his daughter.

(considered pause)

Scruffy Guy: His girlfriend was his daughter?

Preppy Guy: Yeah, man, he locked her and their kids in the basement.

(another pause)

Scruffy Guy: Dude, they must be so pale.