Aswan

Arriving in Aswan in the evening, I was once again confronted by a scrum of taxi drivers trying to convince me to pay an exorbitant price to the drive into the city.  At this early stage in my trip, it was already becoming tiring.  I couldn't understand why there wasn't a bus or a shuttle or some other form of transport to get me into the city.  Instead, I had to deal with being captive to the lies and deceit of the Egyptian tourism industry.

"It will cost £150!" declared one driver.

I looked at the group without a smile called him a liar.  He seemed taken aback by my curt response, but I didn't really care.

"Friend, please, Aswan is very far."

Aswan was not very far.  This was the next lie I was being given.  I told the driver exactly how far Aswan was and asked him whether he thought it was really that far.  I received no response.

This idiotic back and forth continued for the next twenty minutes until I was finally able to get them to £60.  I was still being horrifically overcharged, but I was tired and was completely through with having to speak to these drivers any further.  I couldn't imagine why tourists so often felt abused and mistreated in this country?

Arriving in Aswan, my hopes of finding a Nubian paradise were quickly dashed.  What I found was a near empty tourist town.

My search for a hostel in Aswan had been unsuccessful and so I had settled on the Keylany Hotel.  My hotel room was plain but clean.  It was strangely overpriced considering the complete lack of any amenities or assistance from the staff.  The advertised "pool" (which I was never going to use) was actually a raised suburban swimming pool sitting precariously on the roof.  I peered over the side and saw suspiciously coloured water.

My hopes for Aswan weren't looking amazing at this time of night.

I pulled on my jacket and I walked out of the hotel.  I looked down the street and saw some bright lights and so headed towards it.

I found a true gem!

It was a working souq.  An enormous working souq at that, several kilometres long.

This was clearly the heart of Aswan.  It was a very nice heart as well.  My step quickened with excitement as I walked from store to store and down each of the little alleys.  There was an array of little shops selling everything from food to fabrics to the most stereotypical of tourist trinkets.  In the middle of the souq, there was even a large fruit and vegetable market in the middle of the souq where families were doing their shopping.  I kept walking the length of the souq and eventually found myself a small restaurant at the end.  I ordered a roasted chicken, rice and a bowl of malukhiya (spinach soup).  The food was warm and satisfying.  The malukhiya in particular tasted intensely of its vegetable base and made me feel healthy again.  I ate it quietly and happily, listening to the bustle of the souq behind me.

A silent airport

Terminal 3 of Cairo Airport is an ultra modern and sleek facility that stands in sharp contrast to much of Egypt.  Even looking out of its large windows, you can see how it stands separate from older city of Cairo.  This structure was constructed largely be Egypt's port of welcome to the foreign world and to facilitate the enormous number of domestic flights ferrying tourists around Egypt.

This terminal of Cairo Airport is largely deserted.

It is a very real example of the impact of the social and political turmoil on the tourism industry in this country.

At first, I enjoyed the quiet of the airport.  I am more used to always being in airports that have been completely full of people, so I was able to behave like a child as I ran through the empty hall riding up and down the travelators.

After my 8th or 9th lap of the terminal, I started to get bored.  The complete emptiness of the terminal was now beginning to become a bit creepy.  When the time came for my flight, I went quickly to the departure gate which was itself full of people.  Where these people could have been hiding for the last few hours was completely beyond me.

A very different Sharm

I had been in Sharm El Shaikh for a few days.  It had not given me what I wanted.

I had organised a trip to Egypt because I wanted to reconnect with the Middle East and instead I had been confronted by a tacky and touristy resort town.  I had made a clear mistake in my choice of location.

Drastic measures were needed and so I hired a driver and a guide, which was something I very rarely do.  I generally prefer to explore by myself, but this hadn't worked out.  When they arrived, they were shocked at my request.  I asked them to take me to the real Sharm El Shaikh.  I asked them to take me to where they lived, to the places that they frequented.

They seemed happy enough to oblige.

Unsurprisingly, they immediately took me to the central mosque.  It was the main place of worship for the Egyptian workers in Sharm and also a centre for their social life. 

It was beautiful.  A modern mosque built in a traditional style, this was the first time I had be close to an Egyptian style mosque.  The guide explained to me that as the mosque was built in the Egyptian tradition, it had very high minarets.  I had arrived after the mosque had closed, but wandering the grounds was still peaceful and a very welcome escape from the noise of the main strip of Sharm.

Our next stop was the local Coptic Christian cathedral.

This was something I had not expected at all.

The outside of the cathedral reminded me of some of those that I had seen when I was in Goa.  The inside of the cathedral was adorned with a level of detail and colour that I hadn't seen since I was in Europe.  There were brightly coloured frescoes and enormous images of scenes from the bible were enormous in their proportions.  What made this all the more impressive was the fact that this was truly a working church.  This wasn't just a monument to fading beliefs and lost passions as is the case for most of the large churches in Europe, this was still the everyday congregation point for the local Coptic Christians in the area.  Outside, there were large groups of families enjoying their evening.  There was even a communal dining area and kitchen for shared meals and special occasions.

As I wandered around the grounds of the Church, I asked my guide what the relationship between the Muslim and Christian communities was like in Sharm.  It probably wasn't the most tactful question to ask, but I was curious.  He smiled and said that it was fine.  He then laughed when he told me about how many Coptic Christian friends he had and how during Ramadan, the very church we were standing in would organise fast breaking dinners for them!  It's amazing how distant the realities can be from what we so often see portrayed in the media.  Undoubtedly there are tensions in some areas, but for the most part these people were neighbours and friends.

The talk of food made me hungry.

My guide suggested a local restaurant and I was more than happy with this.

Sitting down outside of what was clearly a locals only food strip, I started feeling good about my trip again.  My guide made some gestures and we soon had two large and steaming bowls of kushori in front of us.  I had a lot about this amalgam of Egyptian and Italian cultures, but it was still surprising to see it front of me.  The hot macaroni, chick peas and rice were deliciously offset by the fried onions and tomato sauce.  However, it was clear that this was a dish that had its origins in poverty stricken times.  I could see this carbohydrate rich meal being the sole source of energy for workers during some harder times (or even in more contemporary times).  It didn't make it any less tasty though and I soon finished my bowl.

After dinner, the guide took us over to a local cafe.

My love of sitting and contemplating life in cafes wasn't something I had discussed with the guide, so he was either mind reader or a man after my own heart.

This cafe was exactly what I had been looking for when I dreamed of being in the Middle East again.  Surrounded by trees and bathed in the light of the flickering electric light bulbs, it reminded me of my days drinking mint tea in Aqaba.

Like all the true Middle Eastern cafes, it was a men only affair.  Gathered at tables, old men drank mint tea, smoked shisha and played backgammon.  The air was filled with smoke and in the background the radio played an old arabic song.

I sank into my chair and began to feel comfortable.  A backgammon set was brought out and a glass of sweet mint tea.

I finally felt like I was back in the Middle East.

St Katherine's Monestary

I was tired as I started the descent down the mountain.

The combination of physical exertion, a lack of sleep and my as yet unresolved jet lag were all conspiring to crush me.  It wasn't over though.  I still needed to get back to the start.

Walking down the mountain was far easier than the walk up to the top.  It gave me a fantastic perspective of what I had done during the night.

And what I had done during the night was to nearly kill myself on multiple occasions.

I was completely astounded by just how dangerous some of the paths I had taken had been.  They were rocky, they were steep and they often dropped off on either side.  Walking up the mountain in the middle of the night, you are completely unaware of this danger.  Instead, the darkness of the night had left me in a sweet bliss, aware only of the ground ahead of me one step at a time.

I was trying to absorb as much of what was around me.  The sheer enormity of my surroundings was quite incredible and I felt a slight rush of insignificance being in the middle of it.  Every rock seemed to grow out of the mountain side, and each crevice seemed to be a reflection of the deep scars in the sides of the hill.  Nothing was by itself unique, as it was constantly magnified and repeated over and over again.

The sun began to rise further and the desert began to show its other face.  The heat began a slow creep up that quickly accelerated.

I quickened my pace (with the near disastrous results of slips and close calls) and made it to the bottom of the mountain.  Now I was ready for the final leg of this trip.  I was going to go into St Katherine's monastery and I was going to see the famous (alleged) burning bush of Moses.

At least I thought I was.

Instead, I was accosted by the smiling Yasser.  He brought a small group of us to the front of the monastery and sat us in front, tormenting and tempting us with our goal being just out of reach.  Yasser then decided to tell us bible stories.  I could understand the need to properly inform the tourists of the significance of our surroundings, but I was less than impressed by his need to tell us the stories in minute detail and to tell them incorrectly.  Every moment I felt that Yasser was close to his conclusion, he would ramble on.  He then began to describe in detail the inside of the monastery, yet would not let us go in.

Eventually I had enough.  I stood up and I walked in.  As I began walking in, he screamed out that I would only have 15 minutes inside as our bus was waiting for us.  This was too much.  I turned around with a look of pure loathing, realising that he had sat us in front of the monastery for 45 minutes telling us incorrect bible stories in order to reduce our time inside the monastery (and for what reason, I will never know).  He responded with an idiotic grin.

Once inside, I raced.  I went to see as many of the things that I had wanted to see as quickly as possible.  There was no lingering possible.  There was no time to stand in front of the sights and to embrace the history of the locale.  This was a tour that was about efficiency.

I ran quickly to the burning bush.  It was nice enough, but I was fairly certain it was just a bush and had nothing to do with the actual burning bush that Moses had once stood before.

It was a nice monastery.  Even at my rapid pace around the courtyard, it was very clear to me that this lonely outpost in the middle of the desert would have been an incredible place for contemplation and reflection.  The silence of the surroundings and starkness of the desert would have sharpened the mind, forcing one to contemplate nothing but the thoughts in your own head.

I left the monastery reluctantly.  However, I comforted myself knowing that there would be some breakfast in the monastery kitchens before we boarded the bus for the journey back to Sharm El Shaikh.

Once again, I had been fooled by Yasser though.  He looked at our group with his increasingly tiresome grin and told us that the monastery had run out of breakfast.  Apparently we had taken too long.  I wonder what could have delayed us for 45 minutes?  He had probably pocketed the money.

Instead, Yasser took us out to a decrepit hotel on the outskirts of town.  It was a sad and dusty hotel that looked as though it had been half finished and then abandoned, only to have been reclaimed by squatters who decided to make an attempt at the hotel business.  There I ate my stale bread and drank my lukewarm tea and hoped that the rumbling in my stomach wasn't the beginnings of a food poisoning from the boiled egg I had decided to chance my luck on.

Once we had all finished, we were once again made to wait as Yasser was nowhere to be found.

I really hate you Yasser.  Wherever you are.

Mount Sinai

I set my alarm for 9:30 o'clock.

Not 9:30 o'clock am.  I set it for 9:30 o'clock pm.

I glanced at my watch.  It was only 5:00 pm.  It was time to go to sleep.  I switched off CNN and tried to get as much sleep as I could.

After a disturbed sleep (was it really sleep?) I was woken by the drone of the alarm.  Woken makes it seem so definitive.  What actually happened was that I moved from my state of semi-consciousness into one of waking grouchiness.  All my attempts to adjust to the new time zone were being destroyed by these bizarre and self imposed sleeping patterns.

I put on my thermals, grabbed my beanie and my bag and slowly walked to the hotel lobby.  Waiting for me was an overly cheerful Egyptian man named Yasser who claimed to be Bedouin (he was clearly not Bedouin) who would be taking me to a mountain.  I got into the back of the van and promptly fell back asleep.

When I woke up, I was being bundled out of the van by Yasser, not at our destination, but at a gift shop as you would expect.  Even by tourist shop standards, there was a particularly high level of tackiness in this store that was compounded by the fact that they were trying to hawk "genuine" religious icons.  I decided against buying anything and walked back to the van.

Within half an hour, we were dropped off at our destination, the base of Mount Sinai, or "Moses Mountain" as Yasser kept calling it (I would grow to despise Yasser before the end of this trip).

Many (including Yasser) had told me that it wouldn't be cold and that all I would need would be a shirt and long pants.  These people were all either lying or completely ignorant of their professional as disseminators of information about the tourist destinations of their region.  It was cold.  It was cold enough for me to need my thermals and other warm weather gear.  Our small group was led up a path and past a monastery at which point we were given inadequate torches between groups of three and told to follow an actual Bedouin man to the top of the mountain.  Ignoring Yasser's insistence that the barely visible glow from the half charged torches would be enough, I took out my own 9 LED torch and cast a usable beam of light in front of the group.

Following in the footsteps of our Bedouin guide, we were all soon walking up the rocky path towards the numerous small lights in the distance.  As the lights became brighter, it was became clear that they were actually little kiosks that had been set up by the Bedouins in the area to act as rest stops for all the traveling hoards of tourists tramping up this mountain.  These were the aim of our guide as he dashed immediately inside seeking out the warmth of a warm cup of tea.

Inspired by my guide, I also decided that these rest stops were the perfect time to rest my feet and drink some tea.  There was a definite charm to each of these kiosks and after the entire walk was done, I came to the conclusion that it was actually the opportunity of sitting inside these simple rock made buildings decorated with Bedouin carpets and mats that had been the experience I enjoyed the most.

The walk up the mountain wasn't overly strenuous or difficult.  However, the combination of the pitch black, the cold and the lack of sleep turned it into something more complicated than it should have been.  This still wasn't something that could only be done by the fittest and the strongest though as I saw (and overtook) dozens of groups that included both children and the elderly.  Apparently, it should take between 2.5 and 3 hours to ascend to the top of Mount Sinai, but this is not taking into account the cold, the sleepiness, the inability to see or the stops at the kiosks (which had become a requirement for me).  One by one, people around me in my group gave up and paid the camel driver touts to take them the rest of the way.  I stubbornly refused and continued to push on by foot.

Eventually, after a few more stops at a few more Bedouin kiosks, we began to reach the top of the mountain.  The ascent began to steepen and incredibly the track became even more narrow.  The tourists walking up the mountain side by side were forced into single file to carefully negotiate the steps.

Finally, after hours of walking I was at the top of the mountain.

Gathered around the old buildings were dozens of tourists all waiting for the sunrise.  Talking to my brother and other friends who had done the trip in the past, I had been told that there were hundreds of tourists who used to make this trek to gather for sunrise.  Tourism was clearly not what it had once been in Egypt.  I couldn't complain too much though as it meant I had a spot front and centre for the sunrise.

As is always the case, standing still made me feel progressively more cold after the exertion.  I looked around at the gathered groups who were clearly excited about the prospect of the sunrise but I shared little of their enthusiasm.  Instead, all I could think about was where my next cup of tea would be coming from.

Finally, after what felt like an age, the lights in the sky began to change and there appeared that surreal period between night and day as the glow of yellow began to consume the darkened blue.

It was undeniably beautiful and I found it quite quite amazing to see the light revealing the path that I had taken during the night to get to that peak.  I started thinking back to the days when I had climbed to the top of the fortress in Palmyra with Guy all those years ago.  In that situation, we had also fought off the cold and sleepiness in order to reach the top of the fortress to see the sun rise.  It was a nostalgic feeling to be once again in the Middle East watching the sun rise, but like our experience in Syria, I was definitely thinking that I would have preferred the sleep to seeing the sunrise.  The experience just isn't worth the tiring exertions that accompany it.

After the sun was up, people began their slow ascent down.

I headed towards the first kiosk I could see to get my much needed cup of scaldingly hot tea.

Walking down the mountain, now in the brightness of day, I was able to appreciate the magnitude of my surroundings.

I think I would have preferred seeing this all in the light of day the first time.

The Red Sea

My first walk down the main strip of Sharm El Shaikh had been a surreal and terrifying experience.

I had walked off wanting to explore, get some food and make some bookings for activities.  Instead, I was confronted by the terror of a stereotypical tropical tourist scene.  It wasn't the tourist scene itself that terrified me, rather it was that I no longer felt like I was in Africa or the Middle East.  I could have been in any cliched resort town anywhere along the tropical zone.  I kept feeling like I was walking around in one of either Phuket or Krabi.  The shops looked exactly the same and they were even selling the same mass produced junk.  Even more astonishing was that the tourists wandering around had the same glistening red sun burn and horrifying sense of dress.  I felt out of place and incredibly vulnerable wandering around the souvenir stores and amongst the touts and their wares.  I needed to be here though and I wasn't going to leave until I booked my snorkeling tour of the Red Sea.

I looked for the most reputable company I could find, made my booking and left.  The effects of jet lag were beginning to overtake me and I needed to get out of the sun.

The next day, I woke up early.  My mind and body were still confused about the actual time, but this didn't matter as I was far more overcome by the excitement of some undersea fun.  I was going snorkeling in the Red Sea!  I was a touch disappointed that I didn't have the necessary experience required for me to go scuba diving (not that it mattered, as the timing of my flights meant it wouldn't have been possible anyway), but I was looking forward to getting into the water regardless.

Being out on the water was what I wanted.  Breathing in the cool and salty air, I could feel the stresses of the old job disappearing.  Jumping into the water, I was happy to see an immense variety of colours and animals.  It was truly beautiful.

However, my body was simply not up to it.  As the initial excitement began to fade, the exhaustion of the past weeks and the trip began to take its toll.

As others went into the water for their 4th or 5th excursions, I was more than convinced that I had seen more than my fair share.  Instead, I found myself a nice corner of the boat in the direct sunlight and fell fast asleep.

Snorkeling was definitely an enjoyable experience, but I am fairly certain that it doesn't hold the appeal to me that it does others and I don't think that I will be turning into one of those scuba/diving obsessed travellers that I seem to be encountering in ever increasing numbers.

Still, as the boat turned around and began its trip back to Sharm El Shaikh, I found myself staring out into the distance.  The shimmering surface of the water had an almost hypnotic appeal that I found seized my attention as much as what was beneath.

Sharm El Sheikh

I arrived at the airport feeling nicely jet lagged.  Walking out into the desert, I was astounded by the complete lack of any taxis.  I had arrived in what was supposed to be a tourist mecca to find myself alone.  I eventually found a driver who charged me an exorbitant price knowing that I had no choice.  In my sleep depraved state, I had little will to fight and soon agreed to his ridiculous terms.  I was in Sharm El Sheikh and being a tourist that gets ripped off seemed to go with the territory.

Speeding along the desert road, I could see the familiar little outcrops of tourist villas and hotels approaching.  As I hopped out of the taxi, a group of uniformed men descended on me to carry my bags and to usher me towards the front desk.  Once I was there, I was greeted by another man in a uniform who courteously informed me that I had arrived before the check in time.  However, he then kindly informed me that he would do his best to arrange  for a room to be cleaned so I could check in immediately.

This was a level of service completely at odds with my usual approach to travels!

When traveling on the company coin, I would happily accept the finer things in life.  This attitude was not in anyway reflected in my personal approach to travel!  I would normally be looking for accommodation towards the more backpacker end of town.  However, I had decided that this would be my one off extravagance.  It would be both a way of transitioning into my holiday as well as helping me to overcome the pain of jet lag.

Walking into the room made me think that it may have been a mistake to take the more comfortable option at the beginning instead of at the end of the trip.

How was I going to cope with the rest of my trip if my upcoming accommodation  didn't come my own personal bidet?

I wasn't going to be trapped by this luxury.  I threw down my bags and had a quick shower.

Sharm was waiting for me outside so I needed to get out and explore quickly, before the soft bed and the comfortable sheets drew me too close.

Ready to go

I wish I was in this situation more often.  I wish I found myself sitting in Sydney airport more often, just for the simple pleasure of waiting.

I have always found the anticipation of leaving for another adventure to be one of the highlights of traveling.

Even the thought of sitting on the long haul flight itself was appealing to me.  Most people I know hate long haul flights, but personally I've always enjoyed them.  A long haul flight meant being able to sit and watch movies, whilst someone else brought me food and drink.  After the grueling months that I had just been through, I could think of little else I would rather do.

Sitting and waiting for my flight, I had no desire to move and was satisfied that at that time, there were no demands or obligations on me.

Before long, it was time for me to board my flight.  As I wandered through the familiar main hall, I could feel a sense of relief knowing that soon I would be far away.

It always ends with cake

The recent weeks had been strangely traumatic and emotional for me.

I had made the decision that my time at work was done.  It had been almost five years in the same job and it was time to move on.  I was quite happy in my job, I liked what I did and I had a genuine affection for the people around me.  So it was with much sadness that I realised that I needed to change my surroundings not because of any personal dissatisfaction, but because I needed to continue my development with new challenges.

The final weeks at work had been challenging as I tried frenetically to complete outstanding tasks and to ensure that no one would be burdened with my departure.

However, time keeps moving and eventually I found myself standing in the same spot that we had all gathered at so many times before.  It was the standard farewell location where the team would congregate and where the formal goodbyes would be made.  The surreal experience was that now I was the one being surrounded, I was now the focus of the surrounding crowd.

I stood with a smile on my face as my five years were condensed into a few short sentences, a handshake and friendly applause.  I was given a card and then there was the cake.  The gathered crowd moved swiftly towards the cake and then after the socially acceptable amount of time has passed, everyone moved back to their desks and the noise of tapping keyboards restarted.

I looked at the remains of the cake and I couldn't quite shake the thought that my five years of work had been reduced to a few slices of a cake.

And then it was gone

After three months in Sydney, Cirque was leaving again.

I had been through this before, but this departure was very different to my past experiences.  I was happy and actually relieved that they were leaving.  This stint with Cirque had not been the joyous experience that I had been expecting when I signed on for another spin.

However, seeing the tents slowly going down still made me feel sad.  It wasn't the sadness that this particular show was leaving, but rather the sadness in knowing that this was Cirque itself that was leaving my life.  I would not be working for Cirque again, that much I knew.  From this point onward, I would only ever be one of the paying patrons.  I would not be one of the insiders, I wouldn't be able to see the workings of the shows with that deeper understanding that comes only from having seen the show and its preparation countless times.  Cirque had become intertwined with my young life, so in many ways this goodbye to Cirque was also a farewell to a part of myself.

The goodbye with Cirque isn't slow either.  From the outside, there is surprisingly little that changes up until the end of the last show.  As far as the paying customer is concerned, nothing is out of the ordinary and walking into the final show will appear little different to the first.  Small changes are occurring though and once the final patron is out the gates, a torrent of new workers suddenly appear to begin the task of deconstructing the entire site. Standing inside, you can literally feel the walls around you falling and the ground underneath your feet being removed.  Frames are dismantled and storage chests are filled.

When you are working for Cirque, there is a permanency about it. It is built to feel like it belongs to its location, to feel like it has always belonged to that location.  But it's a lie.  None of it was ever meant to remain.  Yet in many ways, it is merely a condensed version of what we face in everything we do.  Even the most permanent of relationships and enterprises that we may create, only last for the briefest periods of time.  A home will only last as long as it is filled with family.  A career will only last as long as you are there.  Friendships only last as long as you allow them to.

As I stood outside of the front gates, watching the construction workers swarming in to pull the tents apart, I already felt distant from it all.  The tents had already been emptied and most of the staff were gone.  All that was left was the shell.

Simple magic

I always viewed myself as having a more refined sense of culture than most others in my own generation.  This over inflated sense of pretension was quickly destroyed when I visited the opera in Vienna.  Before the first act was over, I quickly realised that the opera was not for me.  Chris and I stood up, walked out the back and straight to the coat check girl and asked for our jackets.

"There is still another act" she said to us in a kind but also strangely patronising tone (this was clearly something that she had been required to inform other less informed patrons in the past).

"We know.  Give us our coats." was our response.

We took our coats, walked out into the cold evening air of Vienna and quickly found somewhere to get horrendously drunk.

We were backpacking at the time, so I use that as my excuse for my lack of interest in the finer musical arts.

Since that time, my interaction with the finer musical arts has been limited.

This was all about to change though as I was going to spend an evening at the symphony.

A symphony playing music from cartoons, but it was still the symphony!

I had finally, after many years, managed to go and see a performance in the Sydney Opera House.  This most iconic of Australian landmarks had been so close to me for so long and it was only now that I was taking up the opportunity to enjoy its proper use.  Like most natives to a country and city, I had experienced surprisingly little of where I lived whilst yearning to see the world.

I don't think I could have chosen a better moment either.

Seeing the symphony playing the music to the Pixar cartoons was incredible.  Combining cartoons with the symphony had clearly worked as a method of gaining some much needed popular support for the symphony, but no one seemed to be concerned with this.  I liked Pixar as well, so there really weren't many problems at all with this marriage.

The emotional impact of the songs took me by surprise and I struggled to keep myself composed when they played the music to "Up" with the montage of the Carl and Ellie's life being played on the big screen in the background.  By the end of the song and the montage, the music of the symphony faded to the sounds of most of the audience either crying or gently sobbing.

Waking dreams

There is something horrifying about not being able to sleep.

As you lay in your bed, hoping for the relief that comes with losing consciousness, knowing that insomnia is striking creates a rising fear and stress that pulls you further from what you need.  The counterproductive thoughts and terrors begin to grow and it isn't long before my sleeping has become a fiction.  I am merely laying in my bed, forcing my body to remain motionless in an attempt to lie to my mind to convince it to accept something that will not come.  It's like a sick attempt at bargaining with my own mind, I refuse to open my eyes, knowing that this will only waken me further.

Eventually I fail though.  I open my eyes and I look at the clock.  Minutes pass and so do hours.  It isn't even clear to me whether I have slept or if I have merely lost the ability to comprehend the movement of time.

I always close my eyes again, and sleep finally comes, but it's too late.  Too many of the precious hours have slipped by and I only receive a small fraction of what I need.  It is a strange form of torture, it is like a dying man in the desert, desperate for water, receiving only the smallest of mouthfuls, only just enough to sustain them through the agony, long enough to reach that next precious moment when they can finally satiate their thirst.

Childhood heroes

I don't care for soccer anymore.

I barely even take note of it these days.

It's a very long way I've come from when I was a soccer mad teen, anxiously checking the overnight scores and staying awake into the early hours to watch Champions League games.  It seemed important to be aware of what was happening on the other side of the world.  In a strange way, it also made me feel more connected to the world.  Living in Australia, with its indigenous sports and culture so far removed from anything done outside, it was easy to grab hold of soccer and its traditions as a way of being part of a greater global community.

It didn't last though.

The grip of soccer on me loosened as I saw what once seemed to be an environment based around the power of the clubs turn into a proxy for warring oligarchs to make ostentatious displays of wealth.  The whole idea of the game just didn't seem so interesting after that.

With this lack of current interest in soccer, I was surprised that I was in the stands of a soccer game in Australia, excitedly waiting the start of a game.  It wasn't even an international, it was just your ordinary and standard local league game.

A local game with a difference though, as Alessandro Del Piero was playing!

The thought of ever being able to see the amazing Del Piero playing was not something I had contemplated.  He had always been in my mind one of those near legendary figures that seems to have almost appeared out of a storybook rather than real life.

So together with over 30 000 other people (a number which was shocking itself), I stood and waited for the spectacle of the great Del Piero.

I expected that I would be writing that I was disappointed and that what I saw was a shadow of what I had once known.  It seems almost be the expected theme of what I now write, but happily this was not the case of faded memories and lost heroes.

Age had slowed him, but it had not robbed him of his brilliance and he still danced passed defenders with his subtle tricks and darting movements.

As he stood at the corner to take one his kicks, hundreds of arms lifted immediately and the flashes of cameras burst out to capture the moment.  Bathed in the flickering lights, it was clear that even though he had traded his black and whites for the unfamiliar sky blues, he was still the hero he has always been.

Feel the pain

This is an awful feeling.

It feels pretty similar to a break up or a pet dying.  I don't make this comparison lightly either.  There's definitely a combined feeling of pain and sorrow that I want to be rid of, but I know that I'm stuck with.

All because of a game as well.

My beloved Hawks have lost the Grand Final.

I didn't even watch it till the end.  Once the result was confirmed, I calmly turned off the television, placed the remote control on the table and then proceeded to throw an almighty temper tantrum.  It didn't really help to calm me down though.  I'm normally a calm person who is well in control of my emotions, so this kind of release is anything but satisfying.

To be so severely impacted by something as inconsequential as the result of a sporting match seems to be a character flaw, and yet this is something that has indeed become part of my character itself.  The Hawthorn football club has become a part of me since my childhood.  I have come to associate myself with its culture and I have come to love its story.  It is one of the few things besides my family that I have truly held dear and close to me for my entire life.  Through the travels and through the relocations, it was one of the few things that I was always able to take with me.  Even as a small child removed from my familiar surroundings, I was able to hold onto the club in my mind.  This club has remained my connection to my past and my connection to my first home in Melbourne.  I have cherished their successes and I have truly suffered through their losses, so much so that even colleagues at work have said to me that my mood is noticeably worse in weeks where the Hawks have lost!

Yet I wonder whether I would have remained as committed to this club had I remained in Melbourne.  I wonder if I would have held on as tightly to one of the last reminders of my Southern home had I not been forced to say goodbye to it all those years ago.

Never go back

I cannot shake the feeling that working for Cirque again has been a mistake.

The good memories that I once had have now being replaced by the grim realities of an organisation that appears to have lost its once beautiful soul.  In the past, all of us who worked for Cirque used to describe the atmosphere as having a "Cirque magic".  There was almost a feeling of joy being involved with Cirque and I cherished every moment that I was able to work.  It reached a point where even travelling to work elicited a feeling of excitement in me.

This atmosphere that captured my imagination (with my willing acceptance) seems to have disappeared.

In its place I find myself in a business, but it is an ordinary business.  There doesn't seem to be anything special or unique about this business and that is the most crushing thing of all.  The Cirque I once knew was far more than just a business, it was an organisation truly dedicated to the "show" and to the experience of the customer.

And yet, I cannot help but wonder about how much of the problem lies not the organisation and its undoubted changes but with myself.  I couldn't help but think back to a passage from one of my favourite books, "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by George Orwell.

"It is like bathing for a second time on a summer day. However warm the day is, however much you have enjoyed your first bathe, you are always sorry for it if you go in a second time."

I have undoubtedly changed.  I have matured and grown with the passing of time as you would expect.  I wonder if this means that things can never be the same when you go back?  Does it mean that the old memories always linger like brambles that overwhelm the possibilities of new joys growing?

Some time in the sun

I never thought I would work for Cirque du Soleil again.

I had come to think of Cirque as something confined to my past.  I looked back on it with fond memories, but it was slowly slipping out of the range of what I could firmly grasp.  The experiences were becoming  faded and the emotions more distant.  I was even reaching the point where even some of the names of those I had previously worked with were becoming unfamiliar.  I was actually starting to forget names of some of those whom I had shared amazing experiences with.

So, when I found out that Cirque was returning to Australia with a new tour, I didn't pay too much attention.  It had been years since I had been able to watch a Cirque show and I had even overlooked going to the arena version of Saltimbanco when it had come through Sydney.  I sent a few emails to see if any friends were working the upcoming show, but that was mainly to organise catch ups and possible free tickets.

Then suddenly, a few changes in circumstances at my "real" job suddenly altered what was possible.  A change in my working hours now meant that working nights and weekends at Cirque was once again something within my realm of possibility.

This was an opportunity that was too good to pass up.  It was a serendipitous combination of events that was not going to happen again.  It meant a bit of extra money, the ability to watch some shows for free and a chance to meet some new people.  I couldn't think of any downside to this idea at all.....

Excuse me while I snus

This stuff isn't for the weak of spirit.

It will send your heart beat soaring and make your breath smell like you've eaten an ash tray.

Yet this seems to be one of the most beloved of the Scandinavian traditions.

I'm not even sure why there was a packet of snus in my apartment.  It was sitting there waiting to be used though, so I thought I might as well fulfill its destiny and make use of it.  I grabbed one of the tiny little packets of fun out of the box and jammed it into my upper lip.

It wasn't long at all before I could feel the surge of nicotine going to my head.  The taste of tobacco was swirling in my mouth and I was fairly confident that I had received about as much enjoyment that I was going to get from my snus.

I spat it out and put the box away.

An epic meal time?

My housemates and I have a tendency to get caught up in silly trends and fads.

The latest one on our radar was the YouTube show, "Epic Meal Time".  A show where outrageous food monstrosities are created, often with copious amounts of bacon and booze.

We were so enamoured with the outrageous antics of the guys on the show, we even succumbed to the powerful lure of merchandising.

We purchased the bacon flavoured spread they sell online.

It seemed like an excellent idea at the time.

However, like so many other ideas that seemed incredible at the time they were first thought up, this one turned out to be the disappointed that only bacon flavoured spread could be.

As funny as the purchase was, the bottle now lies untouched and unloved in the back of the fridge.  I am fairly certain it won't be leaving that spot for quite some time.

Unexpected kindness

I am constantly amazed by the kindness that friends can display.

I was just sitting around in the cold, minding my own business and thinking about making tea when I my housemates dropped a parcel on my lap that had arrived for me in the mail.

I wasn't expecting anything, so I wasn't certain if this was going to be my untimely end or a gigantic pile of bills.  Whatever it was, my sense of dread and fear was growing.

Instead I found presents!

Swedish styled presents sent all the way from France to Australia.  Everything themed with a moose.

The kindness shown to me definitely created an unexpected mix of feelings.  I was of course incredibly happy at the thoughtfulness of my dear friends to think of me enough to send me presents, but I also felt petty and small.  I thought about all the times I had complained or sulked over relatively meaningless things and then contrasted it to this act of generosity.

People who say that we shouldn't concern ourselves with little things in life are wrong.  The little things we do are often the finest things of all.  Hopefully I will use this as a reminder to do these things more myself.

Pisco

Farewells are tough.

For me they are a constant reminder of the limited time we have with those around us.  My time in Sydney seems to have been largely spent with people who are only in town for a short time.  I have not regretted the opportunity it has provided me to expand my understanding of the world, but the constant rotation of the social scene can get a bit tiring.

The most recent farewell was for friends I had met through my masters program, some Swiss people and someone from Peru.

The catering for the event was distinctly South American.  We had cheesy empanadas made by the Peruvian girl herself  as well as many bottles of pisco from her family property.

The pisco was something else.  Lethal and powerful, it is not something I can imagine myself ever turning into a habit.

The night began to hurtle out of control with the ample encouragement of the pisco, but in a good way.  Saying goodbye is always tough, so it's important to ensure that it isn't forgotten and that it's done properly.