25 steps to enjoying London (based on my all too few, all too brief visits)

1. Plan your days carefully, don’t try to do too much. The bottom line is there’s never enough time, and you’ll never cover everything. Prioritise.

2. Take decent shoes – you might be surprised at how far you can walk. I got the worst blisters in my life walking in London in what I thought were comfortable boots.

3. Take photographs. Yes, you’ll look like a tourist. Who cares?

4. Visit the Houses of Parliament (open Saturdays and in summer for foreign visitors). Westminster Hall alone is worth it.

5. Go to a local pub for a beer or a glass of NZ sauvignon blanc, a favourite London tipple. There is a great, cute pub on the corner down from Westminster Palace (Houses of Parliament) and Big Ben.

6. Book for the London Eye.

7. Get an Oyster Card if you’re there longer than a few days.

8. Ride a double-decker bus. The Tube is great, but you get a better feel for the city overground.

9. People-watch on the Tube.

10. Take the Paddington Express to/from Heathrow. Yes, it’s more expensive, but after 24 hours in the air, and longer travelling, it is so much more convenient.

11. Take the Eurostar to/from the Continent and enjoy a pre-departure champagne at St Pancras. So much more relaxing than Heathrow.

12. Walk past the Houses of Parliament, across the Thames, and then back along South Bank, then (after a drink or meal by the river), back across the Thames over the Wobbly Bridge (Millenium Bridge).

13. Walk through Hyde Park, sit at a bench and watch the squirrels, or the swans in the pond near Kensington Palace.

14. Plan at least a day for shopping; my dream is for a week.

15. Buy a picnic or dinner at the Food Hall of Harrods. The choice is ridiculous.

16. Have a cream tea at St Martins-in-the-Field in the crypt near Trafalgar Square.

17. Have afternoon tea at Claridges with a friend. Don’t eat lunch. When they ask you if you want more sandwiches, say “yes please.” Then don’t eat dinner.

18. Eat Indian food – it’s practically nationalised by the British now.

19. Eat at Yo! Sushi! (Gotta love a place with good sushi and that many exclamation marks!)

20. Have a full English breakfast at the cafe at the National Gallery, with tea and The Times.

21. Drink tea, not coffee. (This is a health and safety warning).

22. Go to a show in the West End.

23. Visit at least one museum and/or art gallery. More if your feet are up for it. Don’t forget the Tate Modern. The bar on the fifth (I think) floor has a great view of the Thames.

24. Be prepared to pay for accommodation. Rooms and even showers are tiny in London, and outrageously expensive. But you’re in London, so suck it up.

25. Vow to go back.

Once upon a time there was a magical place, hidden from the world, forgotten by time. It was nestled under high mountains, tucked away at the end of a long Bay, the entrance of which was concealed through a narrow strait. Up and down the coast, ships passed by, never knowing that if they turned and navigated through a few tight turns, they would reach a place that was so enchanting they might never want to leave.

The place hadn’t always been forgotten, of course. It had found itself a pawn in the battles of large nations and kingdoms. But as the world returned to peace, it returned to peace too, and slipped from the memories of the rest of the world.

The centre of this magical land was a small town in the Bay of Kotor, a stretch of water often called the southernmost fjord. The town, also named Kotor, was tucked away at the very end of the Bay, tucked in under high hills. The citizens wanted to guard their privacy, so a moat and a centuries-old wall circled the town, bordering the bay and scaling the hills behind, a fortress at the top providing further protection from both land or sea.

Inside the walls, the people lived a tranquil life. They worshipped at beautiful churches; as they lifted their eyes to the Lord, they were rewarded by the grandeur of the mountains.

They built a church half-way up the mountain to the fortress, and from there they marvelled at the beauty of their home, the calm waters that supplied them with succulent fish, and the long bay and high hills that guaranteed them their tranquility.

Whispers and secrets of this magical land got out, and the occasional intrepid traveller or pilgrim found their way through the straits, across the water, or over the rugged mountains to the town. And once there, they rarely left. But as the years past, someone, somehow got out and spread the word. And so it came that one day, in the early morning, a ship on a Quest made its way through the narrow straits. Two of its passengers – who had heard about this place, and were excited by the prospect of seeing it – rose early in the dim light, and stood on the deck, wrapped up against the cool wind.

As the sky lightened the ship slowed, the strait seeming barely wide enough for the ship to fit through. The two passengers were by now joined by others on deck.

They were all silent, in awe as the ship turned sharply, then turned again through another narrow channel, finally making it into the sound. Two island churches sat in the middle of the bay, deceptively coaxing ships to turn north towards them.

But the captain of the Quest had done his homework, and knew that he would be rewarded if he veered south. And as the ship glided silently through the waters, the sun rose, and in the early morning, the settlements along the banks came to life. Dogs barked, roosters crowed, and – at 7 am – church bells chimed the hour.

Finally the ship docked, and the locals waved their welcome. The passengers and crew, knowing they had come with peace and love in their hearts, were happy that they were greeted with friendship. And now relaxed, they breakfasted in the sun on the deck before setting off to explore this ancient place. Some energetic visitors set off in kayaks to explore the bay, their paddles twinkling in the morning sun.

Other enthusiastic visitors set off to climb to the fortress; after all, it looked temptingly close from the ship. They walked through cobbled streets, past churches and perfectly named guest houses and taverns.

I'd want to stay here.

They heard joy in the voices of the citizens, celebrating their good fortune in living there, in the prosperity come from new friends. The band played, and boys from rival settlements, there to compete in a sports event, careened madly around a courtyard, tossing weapons at each other, laughing as the eggs broke harmlessly on the courtyard stones. The visitors laughed too.

Slowly, in no rush, they found their way to the stairs to the fortress. At first the climb was easy, with wide steps, the hillside sloping away gently. But soon the stairs began to crumble. Kotor was peaceful now, and the citizens were more relaxed about maintaining their stairway to the fortress than they had once been. The walls to the stairs had collapsed in places, and the slope was now steep, the fall more dangerous. The visitors stopped at the church, joining pilgrims and travellers in resting a while, and in the rising heat of the day, took sips of water while admiring the view.

About half-way

Continuing on, the way grew steeper and more difficult, and by the time they reached half-way, the woman became fearful of the steep drops, and her husband was sent to make the climb to the fortress alone. The way was hard, but he returned with evidence that it was worth it.

View of the southern part of the bay from the fortress

The descent was easier, and they were rewarded at the bottom by a splash of cold water at a well in a small square, followed up by a cool beer and lunch at one of the taverns.

Thirsty?

They explored the rest of the town, charmed by the warren of alleyways and courtyards and squares, of houses and churches and public buildings, full of visitors and locals and priests, and the occasional weary dog.

They appreciated the narrow streets for their shade in the heat of the day, and enjoyed gelato from one of the many ice-cream stores scattered through the town.

Ancient narrow streets

And they sailed away that evening, waving a sad farewell to Kotor, but happy that – for now – it remained a secret from most of the world.

Farewell

Anyone for a tipple?

The year my grandmother offered me a sherry on Christmas morning, I knew I was growing up. I was 13, and it marked a point in my life, a new status, that I’ve never forgotten. So it was inevitable that, when in Spain driving around Andalucia in our Audi, we would visit Jerez de la Frontera, the home of sherry. Besides, the town’s name is wonderful to pronounce, and a bit of a tongue twister with the compulsory lisp and the rolled r’s. How could you not want to visit Jerez de la Frontera, simply to be able to say it?

We picked up our car at the airport in Sevilla. Our map showed a direct line through to Jerez de la Frontera and so my husband, who was eager to be on his way, insisted on setting off before I had figured out how to use our GPS. In the past, we’d always managed to navigate our way through Europe with the help of a good map, and so we didn’t think we’d need the GPS. But as we arrived at Jerez, we realised it would have been helpful. You see, Spanish towns don’t have street signs. Well, not as we know them. To me, a street sign should be on the corner of the street, clearly labelled, easy to locate. In Spain, however, the labels are on the corners of the buildings, often obscured by trees, and always in different fonts. They’re actually quite quaint – here are some photos I took in Madrid that are representative of Spain as a whole. But they are no help whatsoever as you drive into Jerez, a long long long straight road, where – try as I might – I could not figure out where we were.

And so we kept driving. Eventually, we saw signs directing us towards different sherry houses. But it was Sunday, and one or two that we stopped at were closed. Finally, we found our way to the centre of the town, found a park, and the tourism office. Armed with a map, we were soon walking through the town, enjoying the relaxed Sunday atmosphere of a small city in early summer, admiring the cathedral, and wandering through a Sunday afternoon market.

The entire reason for our stop was, in the end, sherry. I mean, what else. And we found ourselves at the Tio Pepe Sherry House, ready for a tour, and of course, tasting. The processes, and the history, of Tio Pepe was fascinating. The taste of the dry sherries were about as far from the sweet sherry my Nana gave me at Christmas in the 1970s, but worked so well with the Serrano ham and chorizo we were given to sample with them. In Jerez, we knew we had arrived in Spain.

Tio Pepe himself

The royal keg of sherry. That's a LOT of sherry!

Our Irish guide was full of information, if lacking in Spanish character. The sediment on the sherry in the barrel was less than appealing.

They get famous people to sign their barrels. They forgot to ask us. One day they'll regret that!

To traverse the harbour and streets of Istanbul is to cross centuries, millennia, and continents, it is to see the growth, rise and fall of empires and religions, and yet, steeped in all that history, still find yourself in a modern city, in a country keen to join Europe. It is quite something to be eating breakfast in a modern hotel, a hotel you booked on the internet from across the world, and that has free wi-fi and all the mod-cons, and yet at breakfast find yourself sitting beside ruins of the ancient palace of the Byzantine era, thoughtfully incorporated into the architecture of the new building. To be in a city that already seems ancient, and to find it is built on even more ancient ruins, reminds you how small, how young, and how vulnerable we are; how we measure history by electoral cycles, Rugby World Cup wins, or even by the time of European settlement, whereas in other parts of the world, these mere centuries are insignificant.

Just a few minutes from our hotel, as we navigated the wonky footpaths, and dodged the inevitable traffic jam of tour buses struggling to squeeze through the narrow streets, we came to the ancient centre of Istanbul, first known as Byzantium, and then Constantinople. Roman Emperor Constantine I moved the centre of his Christian empire to the city in the 4th Century AD, and this eventually became known as the Byzantine Empire (to distinguish it from the Rome-based Roman Empire), and lasted for more than a thousand years.

The ancient Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia)

To our right was the Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia in Greek). Built around 550 AD, it was a major architectural achievement then, and is still awe-inspiring now. For a thousand years, the Hagia Sophia was the cathedral of Constantinople and the largest cathedral in the world. In the 15th century, it was converted to a mosque, and today it is a secular museum. You can see its history at one end of the building. At ground level is the door marking the direction of Mecca. Lift your eyes to the roof, and there is a painting of the Madonna and Child.

Religions changed, but the building remained

To our left, and just across the road, is an almost mirror image of the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque. Built in the early 1600s, it is named for its blue mosaic tiles, and was notable for daring to have six minarets. Only the most holy Haram Mosque in Mecca had six minarets at the time. Fortunately, the Sultan managed to save the situation by sending his architect to build a seventh minaret at the mosque in Mecca.

The Blue Mosque

Sunset over the Blue Mosque

The mosque is built on the site of the Byzantine imperial palace, and the hippodrome is adjacent. These historic places form a vast pedestrian space, perfect for tourists and the faithful to mingle, relax, reflect, and of course, photograph. The other tourists were often as fascinating as the locals, with a preponderance of Muslim visitors showing their origin by their style of dress – the black niqabs of Saudi Arabia and abayas of Qatar, the scarves of the rural Turkish and neighbouring Bulgarians, and the colourful hijabs of Muslim women from all over the world.

People watching is always interesting

The bright sunlight was at times unrelenting, especially coming from a southern winter, and so it was a relief to escape to the Basilica Cistern, hidden under the streets of Istanbul. One of hundreds in Istanbul, it was constructed in the 6th century, and stored water for the Imperial Palace, water brought from the Belgrade Forest 20 kilometres north of the city, and remained in operation for over a thousand years.

Basilica Cistern, still standing after 1500 years

Behind the Hagia Sophia was the Topkapi Palace, the home of the Ottoman Empire, the home of the Sultans, the home of the Harem, as well as the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul. A travellers’ tip we discovered by accident was to go to the Museum on the day that the Palace itself is closed, and vice versa. Whilst they might be side by side, they still have separate entrances (and entrance fees) and we found both venues less crowded than they otherwise would have been. The grounds of the Palace were green and peaceful, and it was possible to imagine yourself there at the heights of the Empire, several hundred years ago. The Harem itself was a beautiful, intricately decorated prison, at which I both marvelled and, imagining the lives of the women who lived there, recoiled.

The concubines, eunuchs and sultans are absent from the harem, replaced by tourists who fortunately are free to come and go.

The Museum was informative, impressive, foot-wearying, and had enough sarcophagi to last me a lifetime. Disappointingly, the Alexander Sarcophagus is not the tomb of Alexander the Great. It is simply decorated with depictions of the Great Alexander. False advertising is clearly not only a modern practice.

Not the Alexander Sarcophagus either, this is The Sarcophagus of the Mourning Women

One of the highlights of being in Istanbul is the food. Meals were a delight, with spiced stews, lots of eggplant and capsicums, soft Turkish bread puffed up with air, and the ubiquitous tomato dip. Of course, we were stuffed with stuffed food: stuffed pastries with cheese, pancakes stuffed with cheese, stuffed cabbage leaves, stuffed vine leaves, stuffed zucchini, stuffed tomatoes, stuffed eggplant, and the list goes on. And in Istanbul, you must – at least once – have dinner on the top floor terrace of a building, catching the breeze, in the sunset, with the minarets of the Hagia Sophia behind you, the boats plying the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus in front of you, and later, encircled by the lights of Istanbul from both Europe and Asia.

Turkish bread of course

But the street food must not be missed either, even if you might pay the price later (enough said). Ice-cream, simit bread, grilled corn on the cob, and fresh pomegranates were on sale from street vendors. Most amusing was the ice-cream. Delicious, it had an almost clotted cream sticky texture, due perhaps to the work-out the vendors would give it – they would stir it, pump it up and down in its cold, stainless steel container, and at times pull it out and whirl it around.

Whirling ice-cream seems appropriate, in the home of the Whirling Dervishes

The main street behind the square was the main tram stop for the historic sites, and was lined with jewellery stores, restaurants, and stores selling baklava and Turkish Delight. The array of Turkish Delight flavours was staggering, but it was possible to buy a selection; those filled with nuts were a chewy favourite, the citrus flavours were tangy and delicious, and of course, the traditional rose-flavoured Turkish Delight is simply that.

A store full of delight

I also fell in love with baklava. I’ve never enjoyed it when I’ve tried it in New Zealand or elsewhere, finding it too cloyingly sweet. But in Turkey, the baklava was not so sweet, and was served in tiny portions, maybe an inch square – the perfect size to go with a cup of apple tea.

Beyoglu, across the Golden Horn, with Galata Tower

Fortunately, after all this food, we walked for hours a day. We walked to the harbour, we walked across the bridge at the Golden Horn, and along the main shopping street of Beyoglu, then down to the banks of the Bosphorus.

The banks of the Bosphorus, European side.

With sore feet, it was essential to take a break. Taking a break in Istanbul was one of the delights of our visit. We took the opportunity to linger over lunch on the banks of the Golden Horn, and to rest our feet on a boat heading up the Bosphorus towards the Black Sea.

A bridge across the Bosphorus, linking Europe (on the left) and Asia (right)

A fortress built by an Ottoman Sultan, on the Bosphorus

Houses on the Asian side of the Bosphorus

We enjoyed cabbage rolls and kebabs for lunch over-looking a square filled with union protesters and the media filming them, a phalanx of police in riot gear keeping a low profile off in the corner. We took breaks to enjoy some tea in the Grand Bazaar, after a futile search for a souvenir in what is now pretty much a tourist trap.

Shopping in the Grand Bazaar

And every day, just at dusk, we would quench our thirst at a bar on the side of the street. Later, we would sit with other tourists and religious observers outside the Blue Mosque as the sun set, enjoying the cooler temperatures, indulging in yet another spot of people watching.

Blue Mosque at night, with tourists and the faithful

After all, Istanbul has been there for centuries. Rushing through it doesn’t do it justice. It is a city where you should sit, take time, remember its past, and contemplate its future. Because if history teaches us anything, it is that Istanbul will continue to thrive.

Note: The photographs are so much better if you click on them!

There are some famous photographs from the Vietnam War. I was fortunate enough to go to an exhibition of these when I lived in Thailand (as Vietnam at the time had not yet opened itself to the west or to tourists). One of the famous photographs is of a North Vietnamese tank bursting through the Presidential Palace gates in 1975. In 1990, almost exactly 15 years later, I found myself right there, looking back at the gates from inside the Presidential Palace.

An historic venue

I was there representing New Zealand at a multilateral meeting of the Mekong Committee, an organisation providing international funding for development projects to the countries along the Mekong River. I had been a diplomat overseas for a grand total of three months, and it was my first visit to Vietnam.

At the time, the country was still subject to the US embargo, but with the fall of the Soviet Union, there were indications that this wouldn’t last long. But Vietnam was still largely isolated. Tourists had not yet started coming, hotels were yet to be opened, renovated, or developed. We stayed at an old hotel on the banks of the river – the rooms were large, simply furnished, stuck in a 1960s time warp. We were careful what we said inside them.

The Saigon River

A busy harbour

Ho Chi Minh City* or Saigon was an assault to the senses. Always more prosperous and commercial than Hanoi, there were already many motor-cycles on the streets, weaving in and out of the bicycles, beeping their horns, warning “I’m coming! I’m coming!” The streets were crowded, bustling, and, lining the streets and providing welcome shade, were dusty, scraggly trees. The grace and peace of Hanoi was not to be found in this city, full steam ahead to the 1990s and the 21st century. “Get out of my way, I’m coming!” the entire city shouted.

Empty roads - bet they're not empty anymore.

The French influence in Saigon was less obvious, although there were still some grand old villas remaining. (I wonder if they’re still there?) I explored the streets of the city with the other diplomats. We searched through stores for lacquerware and art. We watched the locals live their lives out on the streets, preparing food at dusk, children playing after dinner, men chatting into the evening. Aside from us, the only other foreigners we saw were a few Russians or east Europeans, the last remnants of their countries’ dominance in Vietnam over the previous decade and a half.

Yum!

The meeting lasted several days, and there were a number of social functions. A dinner on the banks of the Mekong River was memorable for the delicious, fresh Vietnamese food; the flavour of a fresh spring roll was light years from the deep fried version available in Asian restaurants around the globe. I chatted to one of the Vietnamese government officials. His English was impressive. “Where did you learn it?” I asked, naively. “In the jungle” he said. I thought about it for a moment. His age fitted. Of course he did.

Over the next few years I returned to Ho Chi Minh City several times. Each time the rate of development was dramatic, the change huge. On one of my visits I met a young man working for the Chamber of Commerce. His English was fluent; he told me he had studied it for only one year at night school, whilst working. The achievement is still mind-boggling to me. The energy, the talent, the diligence, the hunger for progress of the Vietnamese was phenomenal.

On some of these visits I met up with some of the Colombo Plan students who had studied in New Zealand in the 1960s. There were a few left in the city, but most had emigrated. The five or six who were left celebrated the return of western visitors and New Zealand friends to their city. They had been through some difficult times, some extraordinarily difficult (even now, to protect them, I feel I cannot write their details), but had come through the other side, their talent showing through, committed to helping their country develop. One evening a colleague and I had arranged to meet these men for dinner. We rode on the backs of their motorcycles through the evening traffic, and enjoyed a relaxed evening, with our Vietnamese friends reminiscing about New Zealand in the late 60s and early 70s. They all remembered a particular advertising jingle for a grocery store chain, and laughing, recited it together “Four Square is cheaper! Cheaper! Cheaper!”

By the time of my last visit to Ho Chi Minh City in 1996, this time as a business person not an official, it felt like a different place. No longer did I feel I was going back in time. Now I felt I was in a more normal, vibrant developing country metropolis. Hotels were renovated and sophisticated. The world was flocking to Vietnam. Fortunes could be made (and lost) there. I’m curious to see what it is like now, but I’m also reluctant to spoil those memories of being there in the early days.

Traditional transport methods

* At the risk of upsetting anyone, I am going to call this Ho Chi Minh City rather than Saigon because a) that was its official name when I was there, and b) I’m running out of places beginning with H.