Land Of A Thousand Dances

Well it’s been two weeks since I got home and I’m slowly coming back down to earth, and settling into a new groove of work, home, family, friends and hobbies. It’s a wet, blustery Saturday in Paekakariki so I thought I would sit down and write a proper account of what it’s like to come home.

(Well, it feels good, for a start)

Of course you’ll be dying to hear about the new job. Well I’m Communications Advisor at the New Zealand Productivity Commission, which is in one of those buildings with two faces inbetween Lambton Quay and the Terrace. I’m responsible for running all aspects of their comms, from the website, media, publications etc. Basically everything I was doing for green growth at the OECD. The Commission is only 18 months old, but they had some great communications tools already in place, thanks to my predecessor Jenny, who also did a stellar handover in the three days that we overlapped. The team all fits on one floor, so there’s a nice atmosphere, and I think I’m finding my feet. It is a little disconcerting to be new somewhere again, after being so thoroughly immersed in the OECD. But it’s good for me, keeps my brain working.

Everything feels new and familiar at the same time, which is a bit disconcerting. I’ve never commuted into Wellington by train before, so that’s a new experience. The views are extraordinary indeed, but I have renewed sympathy for my old coastal buddies from NZTE, Mike and Chris, whose daily routines were governed by the tyranny of the train schedules, and especially /for the occasions when Tranzmetro would throw a spanner in the works…

I have to say things have been running pretty smoothly so far, but the other morning we stopped at Kaiwharawhara (the last stop before Wellington) and did not start again. After a few minutes another train pulled alongside, but our doors did not open. One of the lovely conductors walked through the carriage saying that she would check with the driver whether ”we would be able to “detrain” you. I was wondering if the logical next step would be ”retraining” us, but was taking nothing for granted. Eventually they opened the doors, and I was one of the few people who got out and stood in the sunshine, pondering the merits of walking or waiting. After a few minutes, a train did indeed pull up, at which point everyone in our train decided to get off and board the new train. If this was Paris, there would have been pushing and shoving, but being New Zealand it was all terribly civilized. People on the new train even stood up if they thought people needed a seat.

Anyway, enough about public transport. What about the coffee! Well as you would expect it is reliably good, but after five years living in France I am soft and out of conditioning, and so a standard double-shot flat white will blow my head off. I have to handle with care. Saturday mornings Dad and I do the shopping at Pak’n’Save Paraparaumu, and the little Streetwise coffee cart next to them provides my weekend fix. (Fairtrade, Sprout, you’ll be pleased to hear.) Last weekend the sun was out and I was inspired to buy one of these KeepCups which you see everywhere here. As you can see, it holds approximately a gallon of coffee.

(Just kidding, it’s a small). Although today, after getting my pre-shopping fix, I did make the mistake of coming home and having two cups of plunger coffee, which generated so much nervous energy that I had to do ninja vacumning just to calm down…

Second week back I surprised myself by starting swing classes! A dear friend, and my partner in crime, is coming down to Wellington in two weeks for the Windy Lindy swing weekend, and I want to go to the dance on Saturday night. The theme is air raid - I wonder if a jaunty beret and a neck scarf will allow me to pass for someone in the Resistance! But more importantly, the footwork for lindy hop still eludes me. So last week I trekked up Cuba Street on a blustery Monday night and found myself back in a beginners class for the first time in about 7 years, and a good 22 years since my first ever rock and roll class, back at Margaret O’Connors on Cuba Street… seems like a lifetime ago now! It wasn’t as painful as it could have been. I sympathise with the guys learning to dance for the first time ever, and I admire their courage. I have to say it was rather gratifying when my turn came around to dance with the teacher, and he congratulated me on how fast I was picking it up… ah, small pleasures.

Am rather slowly working my way around the long list of friends who I have been eager to see since I got back. Commuting, and then swimming at lunchtime does rather cut down the available slots I have to see people, but most of all it’s not even knowing where to start that has induced a sort of social paralysis. And the fact that my new phone has imported all my contacts three times over from different sources, resulting in a confusing list of duplicates…

Some efficiency gains have been made by joining two book groups which involve more than one friend in each! And at the same time I get to brush up on my French, as one of them is the Alliance book group. They are currently reading Les souliers bruns du quai Voltaire, by Claude Izner, a detective book set in Belle Epoque Paris. Looks intriguing. The same week, Paul and Ruth’s group are discussing The Fruit of the Lemon by Andrea Levy. The meetings are in 10 and 11 days time so I’d better get cracking!

And once I’ve finished those, I have one hell of a reading pile awaiting me, courtesy of two of my favourite readers, Mum and Dad. I write the titles down here to remind myself not to succumb every time I pass Unity Books (of all the retail temptations in Wellington, it is the most dangerous).

• Dear American Airlines, Jonathan Miles –one man’s complaint letter gradually encompasses his entire life, a long semi-incoherent poetic rant.
• Italian Shoes, Henning Mankell - Scandinavian bleakness
• The Perfect Summer, Juliet Nicolson – pre-war England seen through the lives of artists
• Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel – England under Cromwell
• Chopin biography by Adam Zamoyski
• … that’s enough to be going on with!

Movies I want to see, if anyone’s keen, include:

• Looper
• The Sapphires (even more for their cover of the song title at the top of this blog)
• Where Do We Go From Here?
• Pitch Perfect (Glee meets Bring It On!)

Now, of course the big question, am I missing France? Well when I left, I knew I wasn’t going to pine for it. After all, five and a half years was enough to have a beautiful love affair with Paris. I’ll always have the experience of having lived there, and I am so incredibly grateful for that. But it was well overdue time to come home and reconnect with life in New Zealand.

There’s a long list of reasons I’m glad I came home, but some of the top ones are:

• Watching All Blacks matches on the sofa with Dad
• Being able to go to things like Wearable Arts with Mum
• Sunday morning walks on the beach (above)
• Catching up with old old friends – and their kids!
• Running into people on Lambton Quay
• Really really outstanding double-shot flat whites from just about any café you care to name.
• The view from my office window – Post Office Square and TSB Arena across to the fountain in Oriental Bay.
• Coming out of the Johnsonville tunnel on a stunning day and seeing the ferry pull out of Wellington harbour. 
• People saying "Thank you driver" when they get off the bus
• Being able to shop at Max, and Farmers, and buy Minx shoes, and merino tops!
• Vogel’s bread, Sanitarium muesli, Rush Munro’s icecream, feijoa juice, the Embassy theatre, the list goes on, and on…

So no, I don’t miss Paris. Not the city itself, not in the sense that you pine for someone who is far away… The one thing I do miss is the friends that I made there. We shared some unforgettable experiences which I will always treasure, and I know those friendships will endure. But, as Hemingway said, Paris is a moveable feast, you take it with you. He may not have known how true that was. I find myself starting sentences with “When I was in Paris…” or “In France they…” more often than I would like. Am hoping that wears off quickly as I don’t think anyone is interested. But more than five years away does change your perspective slightly:

• Who turned the temperature down? Oh that’s right, no insulation or central heating. And it’s mid-October and I’m still wearing thick tights, hats and scarfs.
• What, you mean I have to look up a train timetable? There isn’t one every three minutes?
• Oh, I have to go up and pay at the counter, they don’t bring you the bill…
• It’s strange to hear Kiwi accents everywhere, in the office, lifts, streets. In Paris my head used to snap round anytime I heard those distinctive vowel sounds, I could even spot an Australian at 100 paces. But here it is commonplace.
• People are so friendly! Cafes and shops, everyone says hello, how are you today? And they seem pleased when you tell them! And waitresses smile! Although if I was missing French café life, I just have to go into Simply Paris (as I did the other day) for a dose of that “we know better than you, and we’re still going to ignore you and forget your order”. No, ok that’s not fair, for the most part the service in Paris was perfectly fine. Perhaps it was the French staff afflicted with their own version of homesickness, which results in them descending into a parody of the worst café behaviour.

There is almost an oversupply of French venues in Wellington, where you can get any French wine, cheese, crepes, or magret de canard that your heart, or stomach, might desire. In fact, Dad took me for a “Welcome Home” meal in a French restaurant the other night which consisted of seven courses of duck, theme and variations. So no risk of my tastebuds missing l’Hexagone. Except for, of course, the bread. No matter how hard they try, not even the best French bakers here can replicate the sublimeness of a baguette tradition fresh from the oven. Bread is so simple, but the flour is different here, even the water is different, and there’s nothing to be done. But I have learnt in life that you don’t necessarily get to have everything at once, and you just have to enjoy what you’ve got. In the words of the immortal Rolling Stones: “You can’t always get what you want  But if you try sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need”.

Speaking of food, time for a brief interlude while I go and start dinner. On the menu tonight are slow-cooked lamb neck chops with white beans and a kumara and parsnip mash, to go with a rather nice merlot I picked up in the Hunter Valley, followed by quince and blackberry crumble… Thanks to Dad’s pile of recipes for inspiration, the quinces preserved by Dad last autumn, and the blackberries picked by him in the park at the north end of Paekakariki.

… Spoke too soon, I just found a bookcase of Dad’s I hadn’t inspected yet. As well as the above, I have now acquired a new pile including:

• Then We Came To The End, Joshua Ferris
• Fierce Pajamas, an anthology of humor writing from the New Yorker
• Man On Wire, Philippe Petit
• The God Delusion, by Richard Dawkins (although I gather he has kind of made his point by about halfway through)
• And the assorted works of Nigel Cox (or at least the ones I haven’t already read)
• Plus the remaining Fred Vargas books I haven’t read, which I was faithfully lugging all around France this summer, but kept being given/loaned fascinating books that I just couldn’t pass up.

That should be enough to even stop me speculatively going into the library - apart from their fantastic selection of CDs and DVDs.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check on dinner…

Kiwi As

A few weeks ago I set out to explore the Belleville neighbourhood (yes, as in Triplets of). It's not far from my place, but is further away from the centre of town so I don't go in that direction often. I knew there was a park, and a big immigrant community, particularly Chinese, but not much else.

Belleville metro is at the crossroads of four arrondissements, the 10th, 11th, 19th and 20th. In fact there's a building nearby with "Aux Quatre Arrondissements" carved in the stone across the front. It's the sort of area with a very active street life, people just hanging around for no apparent reason, and everyone seeming to co-exist reasonably peacefully.


(Some other triplets...)

The main drag, rue de Belleville, is lined with Asian restaurants - mostly Chinese, but some Thai and Japanese. But there are also little trendy cafes and a "fine products" deli, signs of encroaching gentrification.
I turned down a side street, and then another, and found myself at the bottom of Belleville park. It is unlike most other Parisian parks in that it spills down a hillside, and so has enticing pathways and staircases to climb, some of them overhung with cooling greenery.
 

It's a fair climb to the top by Paris standards, although nothing for any practiced Wellingtonian. But no matter how great the effort involved, it is totally worth it:

 

And if you're hot and bothered when you get up there, there's a great little cafe across the road: 

 There is also a community garden, with what may be grape vines (please bear in mind I am horticulturally ignorant).

The park is full of locals on a nice day, just hanging out and enjoying the sunshine. I did the same for a couple of hours. Then I decided to cut down a side street to take a different route home - and stopped dead in my tracks when I saw this place:

Yes you read it right, Kiwizine. Say it out loud... geddit?? Ah-hah. Turns out it's a collective run by a young New Zealand chef and his French wife. They started it with another couple who have since moved back to New Zealand. They are only open on Friday and Saturday nights, and they have one set price menu for 17.50, plus drinks. They do "cuisine du monde" and you eat whatever they feel like making. How extraordinary to stumble across this in Paris.

I knew I had to come here with a fellow Kiwi, so a couple of weeks later I rounded up the gang on a Saturday night and we came here for dinner. I called ahead to check the menu and luckily everyone could eat it. Tomato - mozzarella salad to start, then rack of lamb with grilled aubergine and finely diced vegetables, and strawberry pannacotta. Delicious.

Once we had eaten, we were still wide awake and it was a beautiful summer's evening, so we went up the top of the park for a view over the city by night.

L-R: Melissa, me, Josh, Gosia, Alina (photo taken by Dorian)

We came, we saw - and then we went across the road to the little cafe I mentioned earlier and found an empty table with a scrabble board sitting on it. I couldn't resist and forced everyone to play a game with me. Scrabble for six still takes a while so we were there until midnight. The cafe was buzzy and full of young locals having a great old time, half of them playing various other board games. I will freely admit that this may not be the glamorous Paris lifestyle you all think I lead, but it was the best night I've had in ages.

Meredith was in town visiting this weekend, and on a whim I took her to discover Kiwizine. They had seafood tacos (odd, bit it kind of worked), mackerel in a sweet and sour Malaysian-style sauce, with a VERY kiwi-style potato salad, and creme caramel. It was all delicious, and the main course was outstanding. We met Claire, the wife, and Jonno the chef came out from the kitchen to say hi. He's from Hamilton and after 9 years in France, his accent is still profoundly "cheers bro". He had just spent a month in Asia, which explains why I hadn't met him the first time, and also explains the Malaysian-style fish. Apparently the restaurant has been open for four years, and they live right around the corner from my current apartment. I'm leaving town in less than three weeks! Life is just not fair sometimes... but at least I have made this amazing discovery.

If you ever get the chance, I strongly urge you to go to Kiwizine. It's unique.

Peas, peas me

From initial sceptic, I am now a raging Jamie Oliver convert. The great thing is that he makes simple meals sound appealing, or maybe he makes tasty meals sound easy. I bought Ministry of Food last year and I haven’t looked back. When I’m feeling in lack of inspiration before I go to the market on a Sunday, I just leaf through it and something usually pops out at me.

The other night I tried his pea and mint soup. Carrots, celery, onion, vege stock, then throw in most of a packet of peas and simmer for 10 minutes. It’s so simple, the whole thing took me half an hour. Easy-peasy, in fact. Unfortunately I didn’t really reflect on the quantities involved and followed it to the letter, ending up with two litres of admittedly delicious soup. And I don’t have a freezer. Was I going to be eating pea soup for lunch and dinner all week!?

I texted some of my friends who have had the dubious pleasure of consuming the results of my over-catering before, only to get back a reply that peas and mint are probably the only flavour that they don’t like. I mention it to one of my workmates, who screws up her face. Is it like mushy peas, she asks. A little, I admit. Urrgh, no thanks. I started to panic. Would eating all the soup myself put me off it for life?

And what is it about peas? Especially peas and mint. It seems that they are surprisingly polarizing of the taste buds. I mean, there are a few flavour combinations that don’t do it for me – chocolate and mint being one of them, but how could anyone not like peas? Come on guys, in the words of John Lennon, give peas a chance.

(You didn’t think I was going to let that one escape me, did you?)

Anyway, I found some other colleagues who hadn’t blacklisted the humble legume, and this recipe is now the official soup of the Green Growth team at the OECD. So I didn’t have to eat all the soup myself… but I am checking the quantities more carefully next time.

The Top Ten Best Restaurants in Paris, updated

(That You’ve Never Heard Of)

I recommend booking ahead, or at least calling to make sure they’re not closed. Most of them are not super-cheap, but they’re all unique experiences.

L'alchemiste
181 rue de Charenton
Sorry 14 juillet, this is now my new favourite restaurant. Classic food, fresh ingredients, and refreshing variations (duck pastilla anyone?). Nice old-fashioned decor too. In a remote corner of the 12th but worth the trek - you won't be sorry. But you definitely need to book here.

14 Juillet
99 rue Didot, 14th arrondissement.
Traditional French with a twist.
Fantastic service, traditional food, but always with a bit of a twist. Generous portions, great wine, and a real welcoming atmosphere. Well off the tourist trail, only the locals know about this gem.

Chez l’ami Jean
27 rue Malar, 7th arrondissement
Basque with attitude
I speak French, but even I needed the menu translated. It was phrased in completely obscure food terms that I had never come across – sometimes this can be pretentious, but actually here is it more adventurous.

Fish la Boissonerie
69, rue de Seine, 6th arrondissement
French with an international twist.
New Zealand owned, but that’s not why I’m recommending it, Fish is one of my favourites. Three courses for 32 euros, high quality French food (with lots of fish) and the menu is printed every day. I take everyone here, because it’s so reliable. Highlight is the amazing wine list and the fresh Italian flat bread baked at Cosi across the road.

Le Grenier Voyageur
3 Rue Yves Toudic, 10th arrondissement
Exotic meat from around the world, cosy atmosphere. Reasonably priced. I recommend the zebra.

La Boussole
12 Rue Guisarde, 6th arrondissement.
Traditional French dishes with a touch of Moroccan spice. I take most people here and they love it.

La Domaine de Lintillac
10, rue Saint Augustin, 2nd arrondissement
I used to live just around the corner from the one in the 7th, so imagine my delight when I stumbled across the one in the 2nd. They also have them in the 9th and 16th. I don't usually do franchises, but what these people can't do with duck isn't worth doing... 

Le Mesturet
77, rue de Richelieu, 2nd arrondissement
Yet another team of young, enthusiastic staff with classic dishes with a twist... But I never get tired of eating this sort of food. It has my aunt and uncle's stamp of approval, which is saying something.  And their Paris-Brest is worth skipping an entree for.

Le Chartier
7, rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, 9th arrondissement.
Cheap and cheerful worker’s canteen food in art-nouveau setting. Get there early to beat the queues.

Yes, I know, that's only 9 - am still trying to think of another new one.

If You Don't Like The Weather In Auckland, Wait Five Minutes

Auckland highlights: Arriving in Auckland two days after the World Cup opens to a chilly downpour- and a general party atmosphere.

Auckland Airport. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Spending the day on Waiheke with Josh and Gosia, thankfully between showers.Seeing lots of other friends and family, who I don't have photos of here. Meeting some wonderful cats.

Auckland Art Gallery. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Wandering around Auckland and updating my mental map, in particular visiting the revamped Auckland Art Gallery, and exploring the new Wynyard Quarter. Auckland just keeps getting better and better. Making a pilgrimage to Eden Park!

Eden Park. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Eating wonderful food - Japanese at Soi, Malaysian at Mutiara, the best ham and cheese croissants I have ever eaten for breakfast at Chateaubriand in Devonport! Brunch at Shaky Isles, Kingsland, at Olaf's in Mt Eden. Lentil pie at Ripe. Having drinks at Dida's in Jervois Road. Eating the best roastbeef sandwich ever at Meola Kitchen in Pt Chev. Drinking far too much coffee. Finding an African café in Parnell with gluten-free afghans!

Chateaubriand Bakery in Devonport. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Catching the ferry to Devonport; going swing dancing with Claire; having a pedicure at East Day Spa (and watching a very blokey bloke have a manicure -hysterical); watching Ireland pound Australia a stone's throw from Eden Park, you could hear the road of the crowd out the window.

Woolly bombing in Devonport. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Still very fond of Auckland. Was a bit worried my umbrella wasn't up to it though!

Down by the Viaduct. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Teach a man to fish

I couldn’t give the buffet my full attention yesterday morning, because I had a plan: Kayak across the bay and back before lunch. Yep, intrepid Cat is intrepid. Watch me intrep. So I whizzed through the muesli and toast, declined extra coffee, and couldn’t even finish my jumbo watermelon juice. (Incidentally, watermelon juice is fantastic – all the refreshingness but without the seeds.)

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

The sun was out, but some light cloud overhead promised some cover later on. The water was as flat as a silk tablecloth. I grabbed a single ride-on kayak (easy to operate), a paddle and a dive bag, (and a lifejacket, of course) and shot out onto the bay. Straight over to the island and then I nosed the bow round the rocks and into what, for the sake of argument, we will call swell. I wasn’t sure how adventurous I wanted to be, but it still was quieter than a calm day off the Coromandel, so I kept going.

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Right ahead of me, the water had slightly more texture. Was it rocks? I took it carefully. And then a fish leapt out of the water ahead of me. And then another. I looked down and the water was just seething with entire schools of fish of different colours. The water was so clear that I could see quite a bit once I stopped paddling. Thank god for polarized sunglasses. Ben, those Weta things we bought all those years ago were worth every penny.

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

I drifted this way and that, fascinated, but taking care to avoid the actual rocks just off the island. I toodled about in the kayak for a good hour or so, circling the island, before making landfall on the tiny beach. There wasn’t a soul around. It was damn hot under that sun, so I cooled off in the water and the shade before putting some more sunscreen on and hopping back in the kayak.

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

I was alone on the island, but unfortunately there were far too many signs that people had been there before me. Maybe it was previous visitors, and maybe the tides had played a part, but the high-tide mark was carpeted with trash. I filled an (abandoned) laundry basket with bottles and threw it in the back of the kayak to take back to land, but I barely made a dent in the mess. Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t remember ever seeing anything like this in New Zealand.

Makes me want to cry.

Returning the kayak I was pleased to see I made it in just under two hours, my original target. Not bad without a watch. Charging everything to the room means resort life is blissfully cash-free, but you have to be careful as things can rack up pretty quickly. Although kayak hire seemed ok, 15 RM per hour (approx NZ$6). Double-checking the prices, I spotted snorkels, and in the price column, those three magic initials: FOC. That was my afternoon sorted then.

View from the island back to the resort beach

A quick swim to cool off, and then lunch by the pool… and then back to the beach. I had a few teething problems with the snorkel – I took the first one back complaining that it was letting in water, before I realized it was my technique. But once I got going, it was the most magical experience. I’ve snorkeled a couple of times before, in New Zealand (brrrr!) and also in Rarotonga. I remember the colours being more vivid in Raro, but here I couldn’t get over the sheer size of the reef, and how close it was to shore. There’s something magical about floating over these alien-like formations, looking down – it feels like flying.

And the huge numbers of fish! I saw clown fish, angel fish, and all these fish I can’t even name. Most of them were no longer than my hand, but I did see one which must have been three feet long, and silvery blue with a yellow face. My favourite were some iridescent fish in neon rainbow shades. I saw a whole school of them feeding off the reef, there were so many of them that I could hear them grazing… although I also saw a leopard print patterned fish which I instantly named the Cheryl fish.

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Back on the beach for a langur photoshoot (above). About 4pm every day a man turns up with a crate of freshly caught fish and a set of scales. For 20 RM per 100 grams, you buy the fish you want and the restaurant cooks it for you. I looked at the fish – they looked pretty fresh, but the crate was sitting in the sun, with no visible ice… I asked if they had a small one, as they looked pretty hefty. They weighed the smallest one – 900 grams! Maybe if I had backup – but for 180 RM (about $80), I didn't want to throw half the meal away. Besides, I don’t even like fish that much. I think I prefer them alive.

I had booked for a free yoga class on the poetically-named “Stars Platform”, the open-air terrace outside the fitness centre. I turned up to find that the class was being held inside, and I was the only person there. I wasn’t complaining, it was a free personal yoga session, and it was 30 degrees outside. Turns out that the airconditioning wasn’t the reason it was being held inside… apparently if they use the platform, the local monkeys turn up to investigate. Urgh, no thanks.

Back to the room for a little lie-down and then off for the nighttime rainforest walk, which took us along a different track round the back of the hotel. I learnt that the woop-woop sound that I hear most nights is not a car alarm, but the local frogs competing for dates. I learnt that monitor lizards will attack if you approach them from behind – and one woman on the tour found that out the hard way! Luckily she had the good sense to turn and run. Their bite can be septic because they eat carrion. And you don’t want to get close enough to smell their breath either. Great, just one more thing to get the willies about. I come from a country where the worst thing the wildlife can do to you is sting (wasp or jellyfish).

This sign is right by the pool. And they're NOT kidding.

A bit further up the track the trees drew in, and there was a crashing sound. The small boy with us screamed loudly, and we all withdrew a couple of steps very quickly. Then the guide laughed – just a couple of wild boar, nothing to worry about. Oh well, that’s alright then!

We finished the walk in the trees by the pool, where we saw actual colugos gliding silently from tree to tree. That was fantastic. One of them had a baby clinging to its chest. We stood staring up the tree, and oohed and ahhed. Then we heard a sound like the patter of rain, and our guide pulled a face and stepped back. We had narrowly missed the honour of being pooed on by a colugo.

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Today was pretty much a repeat of yesterday, without the yoga or the walk. Instead, I wedged myself into the hammock on the beach for part of the afternoon.

Although on the way back to the room from dinner, I did see another tokay lizard, so called for the sound they make. And flitting through the covered corridor, a small bat, so small I thought it was a moth. Well, today I did see a butterfly the width of my palm…

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Tonight inbetween packing, watching Outrageous Fortune season 5, and blogging, I managed to eat my first ever dragonfruit. Pity the name relates to the appearance and not the taste. Bleah - it's kind of bland.

Guess which one is the dragonfruit. Go on, guess!

Leaving Langkawi tomorrow. Sniff. It’s been a bloody fantastic few days. The only thing that can cheer me up is the fact that… I’m going home!! I land in Auckland on Sunday, and Wellington the Sunday after that. Still got the same mobile after all these years, so get in touch if you want to catch up. In the meantime:

From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Smashing pigs

Well the jet lag doesn’t seem to be too bad so far. I made it through to 11pm last night before I crashed, and woke up at 6.30. I can handle that. We’re going out for a walk this morning before it gets too hot, but I’ve got time for a quick blog before that.

Sunrise over KL, seen from the fast train from the airport. From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Got to Fi and Paul’s place by about 8 yesterday morning. The fast train takes exactly 28 minutes and is apparently the part of KL public transport that actually works. Seems pretty good to me! Then I got a cab to their place, not too far from the city centre. They live in a residential compound which is quite common here, with guards on the entrance checking all the cars that go in and out. The guards asked me sternly who I was visiting, and made a phone call. I wouldn’t have thought one jet-lagged kiwi trailing a suitcase that smelled faintly of cheese would pose too much of a security risk but I suppose you can never be too careful.

After a restorative cup of tea and a nap, we went out for laksa at a little place a couple of suburbs over. I am going through the usual tourist experiences – the heat that hits you when you step out of an airconditioned car or mall, the heat of a proper laksa, the strangeness of it all enhanced by the metallic taste of jetlag. The spice of the laksa seemed to shake me awake though.

The cultural - arts and crafts - centre From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

Paul dropped me off at the Crafts Complex, where I saw traditional brass and pewter work, batik and weaving, plus some very dangerous looking knives. There were a lot of signs everywhere saying “Respect our cultural heritage”, and a few signs saying “do not touch”, but the knives were on open display with no apparent security… I began to wonder if they were fakes.

Fake plastic trees - From September 2011 - Rugby World Cup trip

KL was very quiet as it was the equivalent of the day after New Years and most people had taken the day off to make a long weekend. I walked down to Fi’s office to hitch a lift back with her, figuring the walk would help my body clock. Back at the ranch, we hit the pool – the water was the temperature of blood, so no actual cooling was achieved, but just being in the water was refreshing.

I did a few lazy lengths. Only 48 hours beforehand I was ploughing up and down the pool near my office, out on the edge of Paris, and today I was bobbing around 14000 kms away as the sun sunk behind the palm trees. International air travel seems just like teleportation to me sometimes.

We went out for dinner in another suburb, in a little cluster of restaurants. Ours was a little wine bar specializing in pork ribs – quite unusual in a country with a high Muslim population. The menu said “Seriously non-halal”. I have a compulsion to try everything, usually the strangest item on the menu. So I couldn’t go past the deep-fried coffee ribs with a coffee cream sauce. And it was really delicious! Pork works well with sweet accessories, and the coffee had a nutty savory taste to it anyway. It came with potato wedges and some of the freshest coleslaw I’ve ever eaten. Not very traditional but there’s plenty of time for that! It went well with a St Clair Riesling – goodness! New Zealand wine for sale! I was in heaven.

Fi and Paul were telling me about another pork restaurant they went to, recommended by a colleague of Chinese origin, where they serve whole suckling pig. They place it in front of you and cut it in half with the edge of a plate, to show you how tender it is. Then they take it and throw it into a bucket to smash it up for easier eating. This is very impressive the first time, but as the evening wears on you hear the smack of piglet on metal more times than you might care to. I immediately wanted to go, but I was completely full… so we went home and I fought off the jetlag for a little while longer.

April 16 2011: (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?

There are good movies and there are good songs, and then when you get both in the same package, well it’s just sublime. Went to see Morning Glory last night, and really enjoyed it for so many reasons. It’s sort of got this Bridget Jones / Mary Tyler Moore vibe about it, irrepressibly perky girl makes good in the big city. Rachel McAdams is almost unbearably goofy, but it kind of works. I mean, We’ve all had those awkward days (haven’t we?). Harrison Ford is magnificently grumpy as the bitter hard-nosed journalist who finds himself on breakfast TV, and his voice! It sounds like he's been drinking gravel smoothies for breakfast. And Diane Keaton is just splendid opposite him, gamely trying to keep it all going.

I only had two small quibbles – one, that Patrick Wilson’s role was basically just to be man candy – that relationship was barely interesting. Also, the scene when she’s running across New York. In 6 inch heels. Oh please. I hate this constant promotion of high heels as viable footwear, in fact the only acceptable footwear for attractive women. Still, I suppose I should get off my high horse about that.

Anyway, any minor quibbles are swept away by the magnificence of the soundtrack, especially:

• The Weepies, Same Changes
• Imelda May, Johnny Got a Boom Boom
• Paolo Nutini, New Shoes
• Newton Faulkner, Gone in the Morning
• And… Colin Hay, Waiting for My Real Life to Begin – beautiful.

The Imelda May song is playing during one particular montage, and I’m sorry to say I barely heard the song because I was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down my cheeks. Sorry to my movie buddies – unfortunately I don’t come with a mute button.

Lovely day here in Paris today, sunny but not too hot. Got up this morning and went to the market, then Coutume for lunch with a friend, and now just about to start cooking dinner. Have planned a menu which will hopefully not kill my guests with food – might just stick to 3 ½ courses instead of the usual 5…

March 13 2011: A Mighty Wind

So my Amazon parcel turned up the other day, as the result of a birthday voucher. I don’t shop online very much, so when I do get a delivery, it’s like Xmas.

Neil Gaiman: Neverwhere and the Graveyard Book. Hilary Mantel, A Place Of Greater Safety (about the French Revolution). Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings – 100 Days, 100 Nights. How I survived 3 years without this album I do not know.

Aaaaaand: Ministry of Food, by Jamie Oliver, fulfilling a life-long (ok, month-long) dream. Wheeee! Off to the kitchen for more adventures.

The challenge will now be to match a Jamie recipe to one of the random ingredients I get in my organic panier. It’s not the best time of year for interesting fruit and veg. There have been a few too many apples, oranges, onions and potatoes in recent baskets. But I am persevering, in the hopes of brighter days ahead. If I skip a week, who knows what I might miss out on?

But I could have skipped the other week, no problem. I opened the paper bag and saw three purple knobbly things lurking in the bottom. Oh no, Jerusalem artichokes – what do I do?

Jerusalem artichokes have a certain underground status here – literally, as they were one of the only things that Parisians could grow in their basements to eat in the long years of the German Occupation during World War II. But they have a nasty side-effect, affecting approximately 50% of the population: they induce terribly powerful wind.

Perhaps due to one or both of these factors, there is an entire generation of Parisians who will not eat them, and so they fell out of favour. Which is a pity, as they have a delicate nutty taste, and go well with a lot of things. But the only two times I’ve eaten them, one was at an expensive restaurant, and the other was at the house of someone who really knows what she’s doing.

So how to cook them? I check the newsletter for this week, which usually provides helpful recipes. Raw Jerusalem artichoke with citrus and mint? Do they know what temperature it is outside? This was before my new food bible arrived - so I google Jerusalem artichoke recipes, and Gordon Ramsey comes up trumps. Apparently the thing to do is simmer them in milk for 20 minutes, drain off the milk, and then puree the results, adding back enough of the milk to achieve a smooth puree. Delicious – but I suppose anything tastes good if you add enough butter, milk and cream.

But what of the after-effects, I hear you cry? Well let’s just say that sleeping alone has it’s advantages

It’s very rare that I get the same vegetable on different weeks – but it’s late winter, so there is not much choice out there. I pick up my next panier tomorrow night.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

February 19 2011: A Partridge in a Pear Tree

There's a new man in my life... and his name's Jamie. Surname Oliver, to be precise. Yes, I know he's already married, but for once I might bend my principles and declare my undying love.

It's all Tsar's fault. I was looking for something to read with my morning coffee and so I picked up 'Ministry of Food'. I sneered at the patronising introduction where he exhorts people to pass recipes on, like some kind of gourmet 'Big Society' - and then I started reading the recipes.

Simple, easy to follow - for the first time in years, a recipe book made me think "I could make that right now." Within about five pages, I was hooked. I started reading bits aloud to Tsar. Perfect roast lamb! Banana tarte tatin! And then I got to the vegetable jalfrezi and jumped up off the sofa - I have to buy this book!

And yes, I know you can get recipes online. But I'd much rather spill curry sauce on a paper book than on my laptop keyboard... and I am actually one of those old fashioned people who is rather attached to books. The more people talk about the digital revolution, the more of a forcefield I exert on the printed word, before it feels like books are just falling out of the sky...

Ok, so this has been exacerbated by the fact that my birthday has just come and gone. 9 out of 10 presents were books, and very welcome they were too. Here's what's on my bedside table right now:

• Marie Antoinette (biography) - Stefan Zweig
• Big Weather: Poems of Wellington (thanks Dad - very subtle!)
• Cats in Books - A Celebration of Cat Illustrations Throughout The Ages
• Se Croiser Sans Se Voir - Jean-Laurent Caillaud - letters sparked by an In Memoriam plaque (looks fantastic)
• The Help - Kathryn Stockett - black servants in the American South
• Finest Years - Max Hastings - Winston Churchill, 1940-1945 (thankfully for my bookshelves, this is a loan).
  
• The Book of Salt - Monique Truong - the imagined story of the Vietnamese chef of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. I started this on the Eurostar and am 3/4 way through it... food! Paris! What's not to like?
  

Crikey - and I have a suspicion there are more yet to come.

Fast-forward to Saturday, and Emma, Miles and I are paying a visit to their local butchers. This is exactly the kind of old-fashioned neighbourhood butchers you would expect Jamie (look, we're on first name terms already!) to drop into for three pounds of organic mince, with a camera crew in tow of course.

[Incidentally, vegetarians may want to look away now]

There are three men behind the counter, but no-one is in a hurry, so we wait patiently, reading posters extolling the tastiness of wild venison, welsh lamb and their free range chickens.

I have a recipe in mind which needs three quail. I tried it at Christmas with poussin (essentially baby chickens), but I want to spread my wings, so to speak. I inspect the freezer, and there are some little birds nestling in their own individual wrappers, but I want some for tonight. Have they got any fresh?

No quail today, unfortunately, but they have partridge.I know what the recipe says, but I like hearing from the experts, so I ask him how long he reckons they should cook for. A beardy chap with glasses behind us in the queue pipes up "15 minutes, tops, if you sear them in the pan first". Typical. Everyone's bloody Jamie Oliver these days.

So I take three tiny partridges home with me and marinate them lovingly in olive oil, garlic and lemon juice. Then I go out with Emma. Shopping ensues.

I come home several pairs of shoes later and carefully plan the whisky risotto, green vegetable sides and partridge to all be ready at the same time. I pull the partridge out after 15 minutes and poke it confidently. It runs a rosy shade of pink. I blanch. Not wanting to poison two of my best friends in the world, I call Miles for a second opinion.

Hmmm. We stand around and think. WWJD - What Would Jamie Do? Eventually Miles prescribes popping them back in the oven with foil over the top. Another 15 nervous minutes pass before they are pronounced cooked. Bloody amateur Jamie Olivers, I mutter, as I pick at my over-cooked asparagus.That's the last time I listen to a beardy guy in a butchers (who isn't actually wearing an apron).

But a good pinot gris cures many ills, and the setback is soon forgotten. It is agreed I have outdone myself with dessert - thinly-sliced pears (what else?) on flaky pastry, with an orange marmelade glaze drizzled over the top.

Ooh la la, I hear you say. How Frainch! Confession time: I got the idea from Mum. I never would have bothered until she showed the way - but it's an incredibly simple dessert and you can use just about any fruit at all. If you're at all nervous about the outcome, buy some rum and raisin icecream as a backup... easy peasey!

February 18 2011: Aga Saga

Maybe booking a Eurostar ticket first thing in the morning after my birthday wasn't such a good idea. Got home from the restaurant at 12.30 and was up again at 6.30. Yawned my way across Paris on the metro and then nodded off completely in the Chunnel. Woke up with a start and realised I was in England. Jumped up just in time to get off the train in Ebbsfleet. Not as glamorous as arriving in St Pancras, but on the other hand it's not every day I get picked up from the train.

Suspicious Minds

Oh, but first I had to get on the Eurostar. The part that always makes me nervous is UK Immigration. They have this way of looking at me like I'm a shifty customer, just dying to ditch my return ticket to Paris and crash illegally in Surbiton for months on end. Huh.

This time I negotiated the usual interrogation by a dull-eyed official - how long are you going to be in the UK? What is the purpose of your visit? What do you do in Paris? Do you have a residents card? I pulled out the card, and then before she could even spot the expiry date, I pulled out another official-looking bit of paper and said "I'm in the process of renewing it, and here's my recepisse." Her shoulders sagged. Catherine one, UK Immigration nil.

Walking along the empty platform in the misty English morning, I felt oddly like I was coming home. The train guard saw me passing and I smiled at him. He smiled back and gave me a friendly nod. Yep, you're not in France any more, Toto.

At the top of the escalator, a bulky gentleman stood behind a booth marked Kent Police. This is more security than they have when you get off in London, and I had a moment of paranoia. He inspected my passport and said "Whereabouts in New Zealand you from?". I said "Wellington" and he broke into a smile. "I'll be there in a month", he said.

I come over to London so often that arriving is not a matter of slow-motion running and tearful reunions, but a quick hug and "Awright love, how are you". It's really my home away from home, staying with the Kiwi Mafia. I don't come over to be a tourist, I come over to see some of my oldest and closest friends. So it was straight home to Tonbridge to inspect the new digs and have a cup of tea on the sofa.

Tsar's new place is huge, massive - quite disorientating after my tiny apartment. I wandered into what I thought was the kitchen, but is in fact just the Aga room. Through an archway is the actual kitchen, which, no kidding, could eat my apartment for breakfast and still have room for lunch. I popped my home-made banana muffins in the Aga to warm up and we sat around with a cup of tea.

We did the school run, through gorgeous English countryside, starkly beautiful in winter. The school is on one side of the village green, with the cricket club grounds at the far end and the medieval village church, complete with tower, at the other. These kids are growing up in a landscape straight out of the books I used to read when I was growing up.

Swimming lessons were in a private school just down the road, in a country house like a mini-Hogwarts, all glowing honey-coloured stone and battlements. The sun was a huge fiery disk on the horizon. When we came out, the sun had been replaced by the lemony moon. The kids were fizzing with excitement, because tonight was the school disco!

Murder on the Dance Floor

I know what you're thinking - I mean, I didn't go to my first disco until I was at least 10. But the school is frantically fund-raising for new classrooms - behind the idyllic rural facade, the Con-Dem cuts are biting deep. So some volunteer teachers and a wedding DJ had hired a disco light machine and bulk-bought the crisps. When we arrived, the party was already in full swing. There was possibly more running and sliding than your average nightclub, but the volume level and incidence of fisticuffs was about the same - except that they had their mummies to kiss it better.

I've never been to a disco that finished before tea time. The younger classes had their party first, and then the older kids were starting. I sat around watching 5 year olds get their freak on to Katy Perry and Lady Gaga, thinking "discos were better when I was a kid", but then the DJ made a daring retro move with Kylie Minogue - and Madonna! And I cheered up a bit.

Most of the dancing consisted of jumping up and down and flailing their arms wildly - a pure joy in movement that far too many adults have lost. But some kids had seen more than a few music videos and were pulling some pretty fancy moves - there were even a few floor spins and arm waves.

But at 6.30 the lights came back on and we had to drag the ravers away, aided by the inducement of lightsaber bubble-blowers.

First, Annoy Your Cheese

Back home, we fed the kids sausages and I unwrapped my master-stroke, the Vacherin Mont d'Or. Vacumn-packed on rue de Sevres, it had survived the trip under the Channel, to release its perfume in Tsar's kitchen. "Trust me", I said, "it'll taste better than it smells", hoping that this would be the case.

I found a tray, wrapped the box in foil, sprinkled a bit of Savoyard white wine on top, and popped it in the Aga, feeling like I was having some kind of colonial/mother country homecoming. Steamed a few veges, unwrapped the ham and salami, and voila, dinner. The cheese went down all too easily, as did the white wine and then we collapsed on the sofa with the DVD of 'Boy', by Taika Waititi.

It's a lovely movie. I'm not sure how much English Pete absorbed, but Tsar and I were in fits of giggles at recognising large chunks of our childhood. Michael Jackson! Poi E! Lollies from the local dairy! Daggy haircuts! But then we never had to deal with the heartbreak of absent parents or the despair of poverty. The story was bittersweet, but the acting was superb. I'm not sure that finishing the film with the Poi E / Thriller mashup was quite the right tone after the wrenching story had played out - but good on them for thinking of it.