Why can't I write in Cornwall?

I live in one of the most picturesque towns in the county, my house has beautiful views over the valley to the sheep infested hills opposite, cloud-shadowed or misted, but do I find looking out the window inspirational? Not so far.

It's not ley-lines, or subterranean gases. It isn't the effort of remembering to call it handsome rather than lovely when the sun shines. I can't even blame the heat - though it is somewhat oppressive, now you mention it.

Something is stopping me writing and I don't know what it is.

I feel guilty this blog gets fewer updates than I originally hoped, and I'm not giving up. But until I get past this block...

Security 101

"Hello. I'm calling from Finance Company A, representing Storecard B. I have some important information for you. Is now a good time to talk?"

"Hello again. I recognise your voice."

"Hello. Before we proceed, we need to go through some security checks, if that is ok?"

"Of course."

"So if you could just confirm some details with me?"

"As I said before, you called me."

"I'm sorry?"

"You called me. If I phoned you or my bank, I would expect to go through the hoops and jumps of your security procedures just so that I prove I am me and should have access to my account to empty it or whatever. But on this occasion you called me. You say you represent FCA, but what proof have you that that is the case?"

"Oh but I can assure you--"

"No you can't! That's the point I've been trying to make to you every time you call. You can't assure me at all. This is the third time you and I have had this conversation and you still fail to understand my point of view. You have said nothing to me that would assure me of anything. You phoned me. You know who I am because you called me - at home - I have nothing to prove and a lot to lose if I just give away my personal information to any one who calls. Only last week I read of someone cold-called by TalkTalk, asking if he would be interested in signing up for their free broadband offer. He handed them his bank details, security details, everything. They transferred him to another department to verify his application - nice touch, don't you think? A week later he rang TalkTalk to ask when his account would be enabled only to be told they had never heard of him, no account had been created in his name."

"We take your security very seriously."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think you do. I think I take my security more seriously than you. I'll say it again. You called me, at my home. I have no idea who you are.

"I have already told you I'm calling from FCA. Could we just go through the procedure, and see how far we get?"

"Fine. If you think there is any point."

"Can you confirm your address?"

"Certainly, that's in the phone book. It's..."

"Security Question 2?"

"I'm not prepared to answer that question."

"Security Question 3?"

"I'm not prepared to answer that question."

"Would you like me to put the information I have for you in a letter?"

"That would be a marvellous idea."

Last night I dreamed myself in Antarctica again

I had wandered off to sit awhile, listening to the calls of the gentoo penguins, lost in my thoughts and surroundings. When I got up to go, I saw the ship sailing away without me.

It’s all right, I thought. Kirsten will call for my tag to be turned; they’ll notice I’m missing; they’ll come back for me.

But the Akademik Shokalskiy headed for the horizon as I watched in the gathering gloom.

Street Scene

The lone lime’s bare branches
Would scratch colour into this dull sky.
But they barely move.
Nothing to carry away the tobacco smell
Or the traffic’s roar

By the tree stands a queue of shops
A mixture of heights and ages.
One, behind its metal frame
Wears a tile-hung waistcoat

A papoose-bundled baby
Feet in teddy bears,
A woman pushed in a wheelchair
Her one leg walking the ground ahead

The old man walks to a slow rhythm, spider-like.
Deliberate.
One, three, two, four.
A grimace or a grin?
No socks on either pair of feet
Against the cold

On a black half-moon handbag
A young woman on her knees
Clothed in moonlight
Washes her long straight hair
In a plain white porcelain bowl

A lover strolls amid the traffic
Swinging dizzied roses by his side
Past the van with the man
Wearing pear-drop earrings
Splashed against his window

May I have your attention, please?

They are so polite, these public information messages. Whether they are imploring you to take your rubbish home with you instead of just dropping it and forgetting it the moment it leaves your fingers, or asking you to look out for suspicious characters acting suspiciously with their suspicious belongings, the message is always in phrases of which Sergeant Wilson would be proud.

“Would you mind awfully not dropping litter?”

“Please report that chap in the funny hat to a member of staff.”

“Sorry about the CCTV cameras, you know how it is.”

“We do hate destroying your luggage, but if you will leave it unattended, what can we do?”

So here I am, standing on platform 1 of Brockley Station, listening to the polite young man telling me about the security arrangements, which he ends with the phrase “All footage is recorded.”

All footage is recorded.

My first thought is the cameras are not being monitored. If I’m mugged or beaten up by sailors, the transport police won’t be turning up to rescue me. The footage will be used to gather evidence afterwards, or shown on News 24 to illustrate the alarming rise in criminal activities by Naval personnel – like the kid on a bike lobbing a brick through the car window.

But then I thought, what? Run that by me again?

All footage is recorded.

It doesn’t make sense. Of course all footage is recorded. It wouldn’t be footage, otherwise. Try this:

All writing is written

See what I mean? It’s incomplete, a grocer’s apostrophe of a sentence. You find yourself thinking ‘all writing is written - what?’

All footage is recorded - what?

All footage is recorded on a sticky label on the back of the cassette.

All footage is recorded, illuminated and indexed by silent monks in Poland (the recording process has been sent abroad, but within the EU, so that’s all right).

All footage is recorded at a frame rate of 50fps, though we would like to record at 1000fps, the better to appreciate the poetry that is the morning rush hour. We have souls as well, you know.

Watch out for sailors.

The Adventure: Day 8

Antarctica

“Break your leg in a heartbeat”

Today I would set foot on the continent of Antarctica – I have the certificate to prove it. Today I would also try inadvertently to injure myself in quite interesting ways. But today would also be the most beautiful of the trip.

We were split into two groups. While one group cruised Skontrop Cove and the head of a glacier, the other would land at Almirante Brown, an old Argentine research station.

The cruise around the head of the glacier was magical. The still waters, the architectural ice shapes, the colours - splashes of dark blue ink across the ice - the silence. We asked the Russian pilot if we could move our zodiac closer. “Kirsten won’t like it,” he smiled. Kirsten wouldn’t like it because glaciers calve icebergs without warning, and even a small calving could cause a lot of harm. We still moved closer. “Wow,” said one of us, repeatedly. “Wow.”

After breakfast it was our turn to land at Almirante Brown. Landing involved pulling yourself out of the zodiac by a length of old rope onto what used to be a landing stage, but what was now a loose plank with little support. Once on land you hike yourself up a 350ft hill to enjoy the views of the harbour below. Then you decide how best to get back down again.

“Some people,” we were told at the lecture the previous evening, “just sit down and sort of shuffle on their bums down the slope. We don’t recommend this method.” No, but it is the safest, and for some the quickest way. The boots we were issued with at the start of the voyage were fine walking up hill on the crisp, powdery snow, but their lack of flexibility made the descent difficult.

Bum-shuffling is really the only way. I proceeded to shuffle, following the track of a previous bum until a voice called over to me “I’d head over this way, if I were you. You’re heading toward a cliff.” I crabbed myself swiftly sideways and yes, about 20ft from where I had been, my gentle slope quickly became vertical, rocky and quite definitely lethal - easily a 60ft drop.

Soon afterwards, I hear a female voice from far behind me cry “Oh Shit!” followed by the umistakeable sound of human sliding on snow. The sound grew louder as she skittered by, not stopping until she reached the bottom of the hill, spinning slowly to an unhurt stop, laughing herself silly.

After safely reaching the bottom, I wanted to be by myself for a while, so I walked away from the main group. My path crossed the tracks of previous visitors as I headed towards the water. The snow was quite deep but manageable, I thought, until my right leg disappeared beneath me and kept on disappearing. Stuck.

I heard a voice at my side. “Break your leg in a heartbeat,” growled Phil, a 10-year veteran of McMurdo Antarctic base and one of the Quark Expeditions personnel.
With Phil's help, it took me a little while to work myself free, my boot being just bendy enough for me to point my toes. Luckily I didn’t need anyone to dig me from the snow, but it was a close thing – as was that broken leg.

That evening was my second Antarctic sunset aboard ship. The Lemaire Channel must be one of the most beautiful places on Earth at any time, but that evening it was perfect.

A crescent moon rode high in the sky as we followed a large cruise ship between the mountains, the peaks lit by the slowly setting sun. It takes a long time for the sun to set at these latitudes, and of course it never really gets dark in the Anarctic Spring.

This was our most southerly point of the trip, 65°07’S.



Back to Day 1

Thrum

Take a large orchestra, get them to play a single note - just above high c - for a beat, then listen to the resulting noise on an old transister radio. At midnight. Just as you are going to sleep.

Perhaps it was a dream. We are in the middle of nowhere here. Everyone is snuggled asleep. Noises like that don't just suddenly happen.

But then it suddenly happened again ten minutes later.

Time passed. I failed to relax. I failed to drop off.

I felt like a character in an Edgar Allan Poe tale: found the next morning, sent beyond madness by the Chinese water torture of a single note played at random intervals through the darkness of a long winter's night.

The next time was more of a beep-beep sound than a thrum.

I turned to my wife. "What is that?" I asked her, as surely she was awake as well? She snored a gentle snore of reply.

I'm on my own, I thought. Just me in all the world, haunted by the ghosts of a mad orchestra.

Then the true insanity of my situation revealed itself to me.

The orchestra wound itself up, this time joined by a choir of tormented souls, fresh from the very gates of hell itself:

"What's the story in Balamory, wouldn't you like to know?
What's the story in Balamory, wouldn't you like to go?"

It's amazing how quickly you can find a screwdriver when you really need one, don't you think?

I will put the batteries back. Of course I will. When the girls learn to put their toys away, I will put the batteries back.

The Adventure: Day 7

South Shetland Islands and Bransfield Strait
"Another day in Paradise"

The wreck of an old wooden boat lies on the shore of Half Moon Island. No one knows what its purpose was, or even how old it is with any accuracy. But there it lies, crumbling in the dry atmosphere.

We arrived early that morning, and I lingered among the Gentoo and the Chinstrap.

The views across the bay were moodily lit by a cloud-hidden sun, and bergy bits jostled the shoreline.


Back aboard the Akademik Shokalskiy, we cruised the length of Livingston Island, passing massive, beautifully sculpted icebergs and landscapes almost impossible to describe. A panoramic camera was brought out, others tried to take individual shots to be stitched together in Photoshop later.


By evening, the skies were clearer and we watched the sun slowly set.
The whole of the horizon around us seemed to catch fire when the sun finally disappeared.

But it never gets really dark
in an Antarctic spring, and I was up very late that 'night', trying to capture the beauty around me. I'll sleep when I get back to London, I thought.



Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 8

The Adventure: Day 6

The Drake Passage and South Shetland Islands
"Steve Johnson gets his shot"

I tried photographing birds again, though from deck 4 rather than deck 6. I thought this would give me a better chance of success,as it restricted my field of view. I think my technique improved from the previous day as well.

I was distracted by the spray. It was a sunny day, and I noticed that the sun shining from the other side of the ship caused rainbows (spraybows?) when the spray was high enough and fine enough. So I attempted capturing
spraybows - frustrating as they only exist momentarily.

Then I was distracted by the shadow of the ship on the spray, and spent some time trying to photograph that as well. Then I went back to photographing the wildlife again.

We asked one of the Quark Expeditions people how this crossing rated on a scale of 1 to 10, expecting 6 or 7.

"Three," he replied. "It's pretty smooth compared with some I've been on."

A huge tabular iceberg was sighted - our first of the expedition. We would see many more.
We were called in to the hall for a mandatory lecture. As we had made such good time crossing the Drake, a landing was scheduled for that evening. So, "this is a zodiac, this is how to get in, this is how to stay in, this is how to get out. This is a fireman's grip. Do exactly as we tell you, do not stand up without permission."
"Wildlife. Do not approach within 3 metres, though penguins are inquisitive and may approach you. Do not obstruct any animal's route to the sea. "

"This is the tag board. Remember your tag number, turn it before you leave the ship, turn it when you return. I will check. On returning to the ship, wash your boots in the chemical bath. This will prevent disease being being transferred between colonies."

"Be aware that these penguins are sitting on eggs and will get distressed if you get too close."

"You must not remove anything as a souvenir."

Aitcho Island, named by romantic souls after the Admiralty Hydrographic Office (HO), was beautiful in the evening light.

I loved the silence, which was broken only by the calls of the penguins, and the Petrels on the higher ground. I loved the smell and the atmosphere, the little colonies of Chinstrap and Gentoo, their nests on starburst craters, their rock collecting habits.

My only problem was I had left my tripod behind in the cabin and the light, lovely as it was, made hand-held photography difficult.

I saw Kirsten. "Time to go back, Paul."

"I don't want to go back."

She laughed an understanding laugh. "That is not an option."

I really wanted to stay. This feeling would happen several times over the following few days, but here it was strongest. I wanted to watch the penguins' eggs hatch, explore the island, see how the weather changed, how the light changed, take more photographs. But I knew there would be another boat tomorrow, with more tourists.

I wish I had asked to be the last one off the Island. If I could have had 10 minutes alone on Aitcho. I sat in the zodiac as the Akademik Shokalskiy appproached, desolate.

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 7

The Adventure: Day 5

The Drake Passage
"What is this guy saying to me?"

I was woken up at 2 am by the ship doing pirhouettes and swan-dives around me. One moment I had all of my weight pressing on one shoulder, my feet somewhere over my head. The next I could feel myself standing on the foot of my bed. Sometimes I felt my internal organs re-arranging themselves.

We've left The Beagle, I thought to myself. This is what the Drake Shake feels like.

I fell asleep again, curled up under the quilt, letting the motions of the ship slide me up the bed, and down the bed...

The next time I woke up, it was daylight. With Kirsten's voice in my head, telling me "if you stand up, you will be sick," I tried to head for the bathroom. I am so glad I opted for the twin-with-bathroom option. I made it safely inside, and closed the door behind me. There my safety ended. As the ship rocked, I was thrown from one side of the room to the other - my face pressed hard against the mirrored cabinet. I was an egg in a metal box, a melon in a crash-test experiment, an apple dropping from the topmost branch of an old, gnarled apple tree. I bruised, I pulled muscles and I somehow managed to split a finger, but I was not sick. I left little bloody patches in various parts of the ship, but I was never sick.

It would take me several days to get my sea legs.

I called in at the ship's doctor, Scott Oslund, for a band-aid. Scott had tried to come on the trip like the rest of us, but failed to be offered a place. A friend suggested he should apply to Quark Expeditions to be the medic, and here he was. He set off on his rounds, tending to those whose motion-sickness medication had let them down. I went to the bar for a coffee to and meet some of the other passengers.

Again, my strong accent caused problems.

"How was your night?" I asked the Canadian paediatric orthodontist.
"I'm sorry?"
"How was your night?"
He looked confused. "What drugs am I..?"
"No. How was our night?" Sometimes you know you should be re-phrasing your question, but you are unable to come up with alternative.
"Well, there's..." and he started to list the anti-nausea drugs he was taking. Smiling, I shook my head. I tried once more. Slowly. "How was your night?"
He turned to someone else sitting at the table. "What is this guy saying to me?"
"He's asking you what kind of night you had. With the storm."
"Oh." He turned back to me. "Okay."

We admired the ship's crew, seemingly defying gravity by walking at weird angles as the Akademik Shokalskiy rocked beneath their feet. I think I felt the worst in the restaurants on deck 3. My cabin was on deck 4, and the difference in motion between the two decks was obvious. The lecture hall was on deck 2. Warm and dark, the rocking of the ship would send many of us to sleep.


Later I went up on deck. I spent hours trying to photograph the birds flying around us. My technique was bad, and they were just too quick for me.

After dinner there was a lecture by Michael Reichmann. He showed us a series of photographs he had taken of cats in the Recoletta Cemetery, and the Boca area of Buenos Aires.

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 6

The Flood

A policeman waved me down
Asked me where I was going
He shook his head when I answered
A tear in his uniformed eye

He told me the town was taken
Swallowed by the ocean
Drunk in the night time
Invaded by curious fish

Schooling round the gardens
Butting up at windows
Looking at our lives – and laughing
Laughter-bubbles floating off

A fish will never understand
Why we choose to live our lives
In boxes, in boxes, in boxes

So I left the crying policeman
Drove along the new coast road
Where the seagulls played
Above the bubble-popped surface of the sea sea

Royal Wedding

I’m crossing the road
Part of a crowd
Hoping to get a good view
When a mini cuts the corner in a screeching fury

Tony Blair gesticulates
Swears, spit flying
Bangs on the steering wheel
He is missing the beginning of the Royal Wedding

He abandons the car -
Door wide open -
Walking stiff legged and
Doing up the buttons on his wind-snatched jacket

The Queen will be cross
The papers will have Headlines
Blinking back hot tears, he is
Passing cheering children who are happily ignoring him

The Adventure: Day 4

Ushuaia and The Beagle Channel

"There is nowhere else I would rather be than here."

After breakfast I was out taking pictures of the hotel Los Nires and the stunning scenery. Then there was a coach trip to the Tierra del Fuego National Park. We met a bunch of bikers who had ridden the length of South America.
British, of course.

We walked among the trees, learned about Chinese Lanterns and the burgeoning beaver population, which would soon outnumber the people there.

The Land of Fire started as the Land of Smoke, when Spanish explorers saw the evidence of native fires on land.

We lunched on a traditional Argentine barbecue - hot-plates of meat still sizzling at our tables, I chatted to John Paul Caponigro, an artist and photographer, one of the professionals who would be talking to us about digital photography and digital workflow during the trip. As well as John Paul and Michael Reichmann, there was Seth Resnick, Jeff Schewe, Stephen Johnson and the man who wrote Photoshop, Thomas Knoll.

Back to Ushiaia, where we were left to ourselves for a couple of hours.

Some of the other members of the group started wearing their motion-sickness medication as little patches, just behind the ear. Having never been to sea, I did not know if I would have problems or not. I was betting not, but the Drake can be the roughest stretch of water on Earth. Not the best place to discover you're not a good sailor. Oh well. I'll find out soon enough.

We boarded the MV Akademik Shokalskiy soon after, and I spent a happy half an hour photographing the ship, failing to notice when we cast off.

The voyage to Antarctica had begun.

We were called to the bar. Our expedition leader, Kirsten le Mar, introduced herself and went through the rules, the lifeboat drill, and how we were expected to behave near the wildlife. Oh, and the latest from the satellite - eighteen metre waves in The Drake. Bad luck, people. We met the captain, Igor Kiselev, who told us the history of his ship, leased from the Russian navy. After that, we put on our lifejackets and got the call to cram ourselves into the two lifeboats.

After dinner, I went back out on deck.

It was a lovely evening as the islands at the end of the world slipped by. The islands are mostly uninhabited, though sometmes a light shone out to guide mariners. Two of us stood on deck 6, above the bridge, totally lost in the scene unwinding around us and hardly finding it necessary to speak.

The pilot was dropped off at about 11. The sun had set. Tomorrow we would be in The Drake.

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 5

The Adventure: Day 3

Buenos Aires to Ushuaia

"Oh my God, I've never been this far away from home"

The placards and protesters at Jorge Newbery airport suggested to me things would not be going to plan. This was confirmed by all the 'cancelled' messages on the departure screens: Aerolineas Argentinas pilots were on strike.

Worse still, I could see no one with large yellow Lowepro camera rucksacks, and that worried me most of all.

Then I saw him: my knight in shining, well, cardboard. A sign bearing the message 'Luminous Landscape' was hanging from a loop of string around his neck. You see it was Luminous Landscape, more particularly, Michael Reichmann who was organising the trip I was supposed to be joining, and who had issued all members with the large yellow waterproof camera bags we were to use to identify each other.

I was quickly despatched in another taxi to the international airport. The driver told me his name, I told him I was English, and we set off.

This time when I arrived at the airport, I saw the other 40+ members of the expedition. There would be a delay, everything was re-scheduled, everything was going to be okay. The trip was still on.

While I waited, I bought a postcard (with envelope) to send home. Then I had a coffee and the Argentinian speciality, a ham and cheese sandwich. Just the one coffee, though as the machine broke down.

Another day, another 747. We swung off over the Atlantic, and headed for Tierra del Fuego and the city of Ushuaia. We ate crustless cheese and ham sandwiches. I think I fell asleep.

The Andes mountain range that forms the border between Argentina and Chile, disappears under the sea just after Ushuaia - apart from the rocky islands of the Beagle Passage - before surfacing again to form the Antarctic Peninsula. I mention this because, as the plane comes in to its final approach to the airport, it banks over in a great u-turn above the mountains giving spectacular views of their snow-capped peaks.

Another cab to the hotel, then we settle down for dinner and a chance to meet some of the other people on the trip, including Paul (my roommate), and Brian (Big Bear). We have hours to talk while we wait for the food, and I enjoyed the evening immensely.

Then, for me, its time for bed. Others take advantage of the wi-fi hotspot in the lobby to check their emails.

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 4

Stars

I look up at the stars and sometimes I feel like a caveman--

How can you say that? You have no idea how cavemen felt.

--I feel like a caveman--

Nobody can ever know how cavemen reacted to anything, let alone the stars.

--LIKE A CAVEMAN WHO KNOWS WHEN HE LOOKS OUT ON THE OCEAN, THE LATEST TECHNOLOGY IS THE DUG-OUT CANOE.

You could have phrased it better.

YOU could have waited until I finished, instead of interrupting. You're too impatient.

I look at the stars the way cavemen looked upon the ocean.

See? I didn't interrupt you, did I? I didn't weigh-in halfway through. I waited until you made your point.

Did you think I was being rude?

Yes. Sometimes, I think you are.

(we walked on in silence)

The Adventure: Day 2 Part 2

I went out to explore. I did not have long in Bs As, and I didn't want to sit in the hotel all afternoon.

It was a beautiful day.

I wandered around for a while: looked at sculpture; watched a woman get a tarot reading; walked past the Recoleta Cultural Center and the Buenos Aires Design. I just wanted to feel the atmosphere, smell the air. No camera, no photographs.

I drank coffee while the sun burned my neck and English pop music played on the radio. I grew hungry and found a restaurant near to the hotel.

"Hola," I said brightly to the man at the door - a short, dark individual with a thick moustache. "Habla Inglesi?" Of course not, but we tried to work our way through the menu between us. He called another, younger man over. Speak English? He shook his head, laughing. The two of them tried to tell me what was on offer, very slowly. A waitress joined us (no), and negotiations continued between the four of us. Then the first man had an idea. He brought over a tray with all the cuts of meat on it, and went through them one-by-one telling me what each was.

Success, I thought, but what about vegetables? We set off again.

Later, I picked a table and asked for some beer. Surely I'm on safer ground here, and so it proved. Danish, American or local? I always drink local beer when I travel (being the seasoned traveller that I am). Why fly halfway around the world just to drink Heineken? Crystal it was.

One meal and two large bottles of Crystal later, I mimed for the check, which I paid with a $50 bill.

Soon after, an elderly gentleman, not involved with the earlier discussions, headed out the door with what looked like my $50 note held gingerly by the edges and with a worried expression upon his face. Time passed. I began to wonder that perhaps it was the custom in Argentina to not give change, you pay what you feel the food is worth, your hosts gratefully accept your payment and patiently wait for you to leave so they can clear the table.

More time passed. I finished my beer. The door opened and in came the elderly gentleman with a smile on his face. "It's good!" He called towards the rear. I got my change soon afer.

I learned later that there are a lot of fake $50s around. Before I left, I thought it best to thank everyone for their patience with the idiot tourist, then I headed back to my hotel.

Travel broadens the mind, I thought, as I fell asleep watching The Simpsons in Spanish.

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 3

The Adventure: Day 2 Part 1

Buenos Aires 9am

The stop at Sao Paulo was only an hour, so no-one was allowed off the plane. Soon another take-off, another flight, this time to Buenos Aires.

Once I had retrieved my luggage and been through customs, I found a kiosk to order a taxi to my hotel. I was joined by a young man, also from England, who asked if he could share the ride with me. It seemed like a good idea, so I agreed. We loaded up and set off.

On our way to the city, we introduced ourselves. James Leboar is a poet, returning to Buenos Aires to continue his project, a series of poems about the developments in Argentina since the financial crises of a few years ago. He still had many friends there, but was planning to buy a house over the river in Uruguay. I was a little sorry to see him go.

Left to myself, I noticed the driver didn't know the way to the hotel. At traffic lights, he asked other taxi drivers the way to Guido, none could help. A man who looking as though he spent his nights dancing the tango leaned in a doorway, a cigarette drooping from a pencil-moustached lip, probably advised us we couldn't get there from here, and spoke without looking in our direction.

To be honest, I didn't care. I was fascinated watching the chaos of Argentinian traffic: buses, straight out of the fifties and ablaze in chrome, including the pipework that lead to the wheel hubs; delivery boys with huge baskets on the front of their bicycles, always empty; battered cars, battered trucks, thickening the atmosphere with their exhausts. Nobody indicating, everyone sounding their horn to warn others 'I'm here and about to pass, so don't move over'.

And trees everywhere.

We stop and the engine is turned off. Is this Guido? Where is Apart Recoleta? I see black iron gates and the number 1948 on the wall. Are we there? It seems so. The driver gets my luggage out of the boot, goes in through the gates, past the security desk and along the corridor to reception, just before the waterfall. I pay him and thank him.

I am checked in and get the lift - manual doors - up to my room on the second floor. It seemed disappointingly gloomy and windowless until I realised the shutters were down. It is always a little odd being in a hotel room, especially in a foreign country. Working out how things work, why is there a kitchen, how to open the shutters and the sliding door. Then I carry a chair out on to the balcony and look out on Buenos Aires, or at least the little bit I can see of it.

The jacaranda is still in bloom

Back to Day 1
Forward to Day 2 Part 2

The Adventure: Day 1

Heathrow: 8pm.

It's easy, really. I don't know what I was so worried about.

I'm glad I checked the journey to the airport - the shuttle bus service from Hatton Cross to Terminal 4 would have been a surprise, and knowing where to change from Circle to Piccadilly (not South Kensington) saved me a long walk.

Apart from that, I've got currency (US $), I've done all the paperwork and I'm sitting on the plane, window seat, next stop Sao Paulo.

I feel like a child on his first train journey to a new school. I've never flown by myself before, I've never even flown beyond Europe before.

I've had sleepless nights.
I've had panic attacks. It's too big. Too big an adventure for me.

But now it is too late. Nothing left to do or worry about. I just wonder why we are an hour late taking off.

Then everything seems to happen very quickly, and suddenly we're airborne. The little plane on the little screen flickers gently out over the Atlantic, past Africa, heading southwest towards the equator.

Eventually I go to sleep. Eventually.

To Day 2 Part 1

...and about time too

God! What a mess! Has someone had a party here while I've been away?

*Paul tidies comments, sweeps dust into the corners*

There. That will do for a first pass. I think I may have to re-decorate, though.

*Paul glances at the links in READING column and shakes his head*

No... that's gone, that hasn't updated in a *year*, she's moved...
Better. I can see me tinkering for a while.

*Paul looks up and smiles*

How goes?
Me? I'm good. Been busy. Been away. Had an adventure.
Yes it is cold. Not as cold as Russia, and certainly not as cold as where I was recently.
You'd like to know more? Then read on, dear reader. Read on...