Category Archives: Talking Points in Travel

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Nudity and the Solo Traveller

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Summer: the season to lose one’s clothing. Out come the bikinis and boardies, Pimms in the park and strawhats on the sand. The combination of summer heat and fewer clothes changes people. They become more cheeky and flirtatious. Van drivers whistle from their windows, runners cast sneaky glances at the others they pass, and Facebook becomes filled with bikini-selfies. Flesh makes people frisky.

When it comes to actual nudity however, something happens to Brits and their flirty chat remains to be just that. In Britain, our ‘stiff upper lip’ appears to display itself at the sight of a naked body, particularly towards one whose owner isn’t exactly in their prime. Naturists tend to be mocked as tree-hugging hippies who are an embarrassment to society.

By contrast, my experience of other areas of Europe so far suggests that attitudes towards nudity in these countries are a lot more relaxed. I’ll never forget kayaking past a beach in southern France during a school trip ages 13, an old man’s legs spread wide open bearing all. Rarely in Britain would you see such sights.

If you’re ever in Baden-Württemberg, Germany, make sure you spend a day bathing at Bodensee, near the Swiss border. It seems like the region’s entire 18-25 year old population descend on the town of Konstanz on a hot summer’s day. Boys jump off the bridge into the bright blue Rhine in attempts to impress the line of ladies lounging on the side of the river. Further along on the Strandbad Horn, the noise gets quieter and the people fewer. Sun-lovers sunbathe behind bushes on the edge of the lake, sometimes in the nude, or at least topless.

Lake Constance

I like to think that I’ve put myself out of my comfort zone a few times whilst travelling, and that I would continue to try new things. In previous posts, I’ve been writing about how travelling alone makes you more likely to do things that you otherwise might not consider in your home country. Looking back to that day in Germany, I felt completely comfortable being surrounded by sights of nudity. Everybody was just doing their own thing and it didn’t feel like anyone was being perved on (well, apart from one hunky guy by me). Those who wanted to bathe topless could do so and not feel like all eyes were on them, and those who didn’t feel like undressing could carry on as they wished. It was difficult for me to think of places in Britain where one could sense so much tolerance towards nude bathing. Whilst I didn’t feel any inclination to be pursuing this activity myself, I thought that I was totally cool with public nudity.

Go forward a year to my trip to Iceland. Nauthólsvík Geothermal Beach was opened in Reykjavík in 2001. It’s a small and cosy haven of golden sand and warm water. You won’t get the temperatures of Bodensee, but will get the same sight of people bathing. Another key difference from Bodensee is that no chemical cleaners are used in the heated water, so visitors are expected to wash beforehand, naked. Ignore this expectation and you will (understandably) not be too popular with the Icelanders. It’s a bit like the offence caused in Britain when a Yorkshireman moves to London – you’ll never be viewed with the same amount of respect again.

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I arrived at the beach and saw a large group of people sat in the hot tub, chatting with each other. They all seemed to know one another, or at least, seemed very comfortable around each other. Suddenly, shyness enveloped me and I couldn’t walk any further.

I spent five minutes waiting near the entrance as men and women – mostly 50+ looking – passed me to enter the changing rooms. I was pretending to look out into the bay, but really I was psyching myself up to shower naked in public. I imagined myself stood among old ladies in a communal shower, and I was petrified. “Just walk in and scout the area – the showers might not be communal, and you can always walk out,” said a voice in my head. “No!” retorted the other, “If you walk away, they will know you were afraid of getting naked”

I paced from one foot to the other, weighing up the options. It wasn’t like it would have to be awkward. There needn’t be any judging. All I had to do was be naked in front of other women for about 20 seconds. I would never have to see them again. We were all in the same boat. I was 21 years old, I needed to stop being a pansy. The place was free, it wasn’t like I was paying for potential cringy-ness. Surely it would just be like the many other things I’d done after originally being nervous about them. Afterwards I would look back and laugh at my anxiety, right? Was I really going to miss out on this new opportunity just because of feeling bashful about potentially seeing an old lady’s private parts? Oh jeez. Just the thought made me shudder.

There were a few large rocks around the edge of the beach. They signaled safety, and I tactically decided to take a long walk around the perimeter towards them. My sense of relief increased the further away from the changing rooms I went. I sat and looked back at the building. It looked so innocent and inviting, yet so sneaky and devious at the same time. The close proximity of the changing rooms to the hot tub meant that nobody would be safe from stranger’s eyes. It wasn’t like at Konstanz, where nudity could be a lot more inconspicuous.

Nearby, a few ladies swam in the bay, grimacing as the cold water first touched their skin; the price they were paying for not showering naked in front of others at the public bath. I decided that I would rather be in the warm water, and therefore take the plunge and have that shower…But really, would I? “Yes! Don’t be a loser. Go get naked,” the voice said. I hesitated again.

Suddenly, music began to play from the changing rooms. To my surprise, it was the Baywatch theme tune. The distinctive sound of that thumping piano brought a smile to my face as I was reminded of Wednesday sports nights in my uni’s student’s union bar – drunk rugby players pulling off their tops and waving them around wildly without a care in the world. That was the attitude I should have. I quickly made up my mind – I was going to do it, I was going to shower naked in what was potentially a public place.

I rose from my hiding place and began bounding across the sand towards the changing rooms purposefully. Determination surged through my veins, arms swinging resolutely, my heart beating faster with the adrenaline. I felt good. I was ready. Bring on the nudity!

As I approached the facility, I saw a few people leaving. Perfect! Even fewer people to shower with. Then I noticed a sign with the word ‘Closed’ on it. Oh. So that song was the cue for the lunchtime break. I’d missed my chance, just as I had finally prepared myself to get nek’ed. I looked at the changing room entrance and shrugged my shoulders in defeat. Then I breathed a sigh of relief and strode out of the exit contentedly.

Of course, looking back now I think of how silly I was to get all shy about the prospect of being naked in front of a load of random women. I had both surprised and slightly disappointed myself with my bashfulness. But nudity happens to be a particular subject that can make even the most confident-sounding people blush.

Was my behaviour inspired by the British outlook towards nudity that I’ve grown up witnessing? Or are there just some things that it’s not so easy to do when you’re alone? Deep down, I know I shouldn’t have restricted my travel experience like this. I’m taking it as a lesson in how letting timidity determine your decisions will only lead to regret. 

So, I put my hands up and vow that one day, I will visit a public geothermal bath like this one and shower naked in front of strangers.

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Familiar Faces in Foreign Places

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You’re in your home country at a bus stop or in a lift or some other enclosed space, joined only by an older stranger. The stranger begins speaking to you and so you engage in polite small talk to fill the time, almost because it feels necessary in order to avoid an awkward silence. Then you part ways and forget about the other person. A few days later, you see them again in a more public context, but they are not looking to be busy themselves. They don’t notice you and you have no reason to speak to them. What would you do – walk right past them whilst looking in the opposite direction, or go up to speak to them, regardless of hardly knowing them?

It is hard to believe that one would feel any desire to approach them. The social-networking generation seems almost too afraid of the potential gawkiness of human interaction to strike up conversation with a random person they share no established connection with. Familiarity is a comfort. When someone is certain of their position in their nearby surroundings, they are less likely to feel the need to communicate with a vaguely familiar human being. If you go on a solo trip to a foreign-speaking country, you might find yourself amazed at how easily the rules of the equation can change.

Day One in the Black Forest, Germany. I had spent the night in a youth hostel in Freudenstadt, a market town in the north of the area. Before a day of hiking commenced, I dropped into the tourist office to quickly find inspiration for a route. Walking out of the door whilst running the directions through my mind, I almost bumped into a man chaining up his bike. “Hey there!” he said cheerily in an accent I instantly recognised as Canadian. “You’re staying up at the youth hostel, aren’t you?” I was taken aback by his genial approach and replied with a hint of uncertainty, wondering how he knew. “I cycled past you on the way here – I’m at a guesthouse in town,” he added, as if noticing a look on my face. He looked to be in his early forties, but despite his older age I still found his confident chattiness quite surprising.

It seemed only polite to ask a short question or two.  After sharing his plan for the day, the man remarked, “You’ve picked a great day for a hike,” nodding up at the blue sky. This seemed like an appropriate time to move on, so I wished him a good trip and we parted ways. I promptly returned to recalling the name of the path I was looking for, and my brief encounter with the man was forgotten in favour of sign posts and sweet little streams.

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A few days of moving southwards later, I ended up in Freiburg im Breisgau, where I would spend a few hours of the morning before heading back to Heidelberg. The town is famed for its Minster and for being Germany’s sunniest city. Sunlight wasn’t out on show today though. Thick clouds created a sense of lethargy as I dawdled through the large hoard of tourists and students in the university town. It was market day and I squeezed and side-stepped past people looking at various cheeses and vegetables and wines, feeling like a mouse amongst the mania. Elbows knocked me and I looked around dazed as the air was filled with rapid German chatter. The past few days had been filled with walking and my legs felt sluggish. The weather and the people were draining, and I suddenly felt a little overwhelmed by my surroundings. I needed to stop and recover for a minute.

Freiburg

An ice cream sign called me over. One scoop of mint choc chip – heck, why not two? I walked on past a row of picnic benches filled with tourists gorging on bratwurst and burgers. Suddenly, one of the munching men caught my eye. I realised it was the Canadian man I’d seen a few days earlier.

Without thinking twice, I bounded over to say hello, feeling a wave of respite from the mass of unfamiliar people. Caught unaware, the man looked up mid-ketchup-spurting-bite with wide eyes of surprised embarrassment. He’d see me standing in front of him holding an ice cream in my hand with a big grin on my face, like a little kid. We both laughed at how silly we looked. After a proper greeting, the man asked if I’d like to join him for a drink at a nearby beer garden that served only Swabian speciality beers. I said yes without hesitation.

My initial dubious impression of the man had completely vanished. In the last three days I had only uttered about 50 words. I was craving some human contact through which I would be able to have a fluid conversation in my own language for a few minutes. Having felt lost in and exhausted by the busy state of the town, the man’s familiar face provided an element of reassurance. So I went ahead and did something that would have probably been classed as ‘breaking a rule’ back home – going to have a drink with a male I hardly knew, and a much older male at that. But the man’s age wasn’t on my mind at all as we found a table on an upstairs terrace and chatted about Canada. He said I seemed to know the western side of the country better than him. His name was Kevin and he worked in the civil service, but loved cycling in his free time.

As he ordered and paid for our drinks, attempting some basic German with our waitress, I realised that Kevin was a genuinely good-natured person. I told him about my degree and my hobbies, and that I would be volunteering at the Olympics when I returned. With a big smile he said, “Well it seems like you have a lot going for you, Shannon.” Those words have stuck with me since.

Once we had finished our beers (I tactically ordered a half-pint so he wouldn’t have to wait for me), we headed back downstairs into the street. I felt rejuvenated, my batteries recharged. Kevin planned to spend a few more hours in Freiburg, while I needed to head back to the station. After a quick hug goodbye, we parted ways for the second and final time. There would be no sharing of contact details to keep in touch, as is so often the trend amongst young travellers who have spent a few drunken hours together. It was just simply an hour of shared company that made the day a little more interesting for both.

I’ll likely never see that man again, and so he will never know how valuable I found his company for that short time (unless, of course, he finds this blog!) I had never felt so glad to see such a familiar face whose owner I was so unfamiliar with.

My dad told me two things before I travelled solo for the first time: 1) that travelling alone makes one more open to new people and new experiences, and 2) that it makes one realise that people are nice. After that morning in Freiburg, I realised that I had underestimated the applicability of his statement. It’s something that is not just relevant to people you meet in bars or on a tour, someone sat next to you on the bus or sleeping in your dorm; it can also be relevant to random situations where there is no expectation of speech and interaction. If someone is alone abroad, they are likely to feel more receptive to the company of an unfamiliar person, if that person seems more familiar than the alternatives. And yet, if they were in their home country, they might not even consider approaching a stranger.

I now have a better understanding of why people in a foreign country sometimes crave contact with someone that speaks their language. It can be a form of comfort – a reassurance when one is feeling insecure in or disillusioned by their unfamiliar surroundings. There is no shame in craving some ‘home-away-from-home’ moments – everyone is bound to experience that need at some point whilst travelling alone.

The rare coincidence of seeing someone again in a foreign land made it seem silly for me to avoid approaching the Canadian man. It seemed like one of those moments that happened for a reason, to not only boost my morale but teach me a life lesson.

So if you’re overseas and an older stranger starts talking to you enthusiastically, go with your gut of course, but try not to make assumptions about their intentions and subsequently dismiss them off the bat. A few days later, you might appreciate their bold and unconditional friendliness.

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Sharing Cars with Strangers

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What was one of the first things your parents told you when you went outside to play? I can imagine it was either “Don’t talk to strangers” or “Don’t get into a car with a stranger”. Well, now you’re older, you can be a little more flexible with that advice. If you’re on a trip at home or abroad alone and make a spontaneous decision to travel somewhere else located a few hours away, chances are that you will pay a pricey fee for a last-minute train. Buses may not run regularly and will take a long time, whilst planes can be an expensive hassle. So why not share a lift with someone? A stranger, that is.

I first became introduced to carpooling when I was in Germany. Help-exchanging at the home of a teacher in Hamburg for a week, I then had to make my way to a village in the Rhineland-Palatinate. As I searched for trains on my host’s laptop one evening, she suggested I try ‘Mitfahrgelegenheit’. I looked at her blankly. Advertising lifts was something that I hadn’t even heard of in my own country – hitch-hiking yes, but not organised car share. My host proceeded to show me a website where drivers offered space in their car to travellers heading in the same direction, in return for a contribution towards fuel costs.  Drivers were asked to state details including whether or not they smoked, the make of their car, their mobile number and a copy of ID. I was open-minded about travelling with a man, however my host, perhaps feeling responsible for my welfare, was insistent that I travel with a female. We soon found a lady heading in the same direction as me.

At this time, my German vocab was pretty minimal. Only a couple of sentences in my email to the lady were written in German. Her reply was written in good English, but it still ended with the line: “I’m sorry, I know that my English is not good. I hope you can understand me.” The lady asked for 27 Euros for this journey – about 50 Euros less than what a train would have cost. She gave me her vehicle registration number and asked to meet outside Hamburg’s Hauptbahnhof.

On a rainy Wednesday morning, I made my way to the parking lot outside the main station. I was quite excited for this new experience, but a little nervous too. What if the lady didn’t show up? What if she was a terrible driver? What if her car broke down and we were left stranded somewhere on the autobahn? What I didn’t worry about however was whether she would turn out to be different from her profile. The media will often feature horror stories of women being kidnapped by strangers posing as someone else, but I’ve had enough positive experiences to have faith in the kindness of strangers.

The street was bustling with chanting crowds. Police officers in smart blue uniforms formed barricades as they came closer to the station. I approached one officer to ask him what was going on and was told that it was a political protest.

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I wandered along the pavement, feeling very conspicuous with my big rucksack as I scanned the cars parked along the side of the road. Suddenly I spotted a navy blue Renault Clio with the registration number I was looking for. Beside it watching the protest stood a rather large woman with a pixie haircut and scruffy trainers. I introduced myself and she shook my hand with a shy smile. There was little room in the boot and so I sheepishly squeezed my backpack onto the backseat amongst her own things before sitting down in the back.

A few minutes later, I heard a backpack being thrown in the boot behind me and then the passenger door in front of me opened. The smell of thick smoke, body odour (as well as a slight whiff of urine) swept through the vehicle as in jumped a male skinhead dressed in black, looking like he’d just run away from the police monitoring the protest. He turned to shake my hand and say hello with his stale breath. “Ich komme aus England,” I stated, trying not to wrinkle my nose. He nodded with an “Oh” and said no more.

As we set off, I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing at the thought of what we must have looked like to other drivers – a bizarre combination of a rather masculine-looking woman, an emo-type guy with no hair, and a young woman with long bright blonde hair. An awkward silence suffocated the car. Eventually, the two Germans started to chat briefly whilst I stared out of the window, trying and failing to understand them. However, their conversation soon ran out of steam and as we joined the autobahn, the driver turned on the radio, flicking between radio stations sporadically as if realising that there was unlikely to be one which we would all enjoy. Smelly-skinhead-guy reclined his seat backwards so that his smell lingered closer and I became even more cramped. Desperate to avoid any awkward speech, I remained with my legs jammed tightly together to one side, wishing I could jam my nostrils shut too.

Two hours later, the driver turned off and I looked up disorientated. “We will stop here for 10 minutes,” she said to me slowly. While the guy lit a cigarette with jittery hands outside the car, I followed her into the service station to use the bathroom. I had to pay 90 cents to use the facilities. “You can use the ticket for food,” she explained again, pointing out a sign which showed a 50 cent discount on confectionary.

Smelly-skinhead-guy would leave us at Frankfurt Airport, from where he was flying to South America. I pitied the passengers who would be sitting near him. I jumped into the front seat and wound the window down with relief to remove his musty smell. I hoped that the driver and I would be able to speak more now. However, as is common with languages, the lady was less confident at speaking English than writing it. Carefully-phrased questions by myself in English would receive stammered and uncertain responses from her, upon which I would attempt the question in German, with no further success as I struggled to make myself clear. It became a rather frustrating process, until eventually the conversation fizzled out helplessly. In defeat, I turned to look out of the window at the wind turbines on the side of the autobahn, before we entered rural land and the views were replaced with fields lined with vines and Church steeples poking up out of small villages.

I felt bad, wishing my German was better so that I could make the experience more interesting for both of us. At the same time, my driver said apologetically, “Normally there would be more speaking.” She dropped me off on the street of my next location and I handed her the money, thanking her for the ride. Then she wished me a pleasant stay and I in turn wished her a safe onward journey, before we said goodbye with an awkward wave.

The experience was a reminder of the social restrictions that a language barrier can bring, particularly in such an intimate environment as a car. Now my German is so much better that, had I the opportunity to do it again, I would have got so much more from the journey. Nevertheless, whilst conversation between the three of us was limited, it was rare that I would find myself in that context with such different characters very often. It’s a story that I can look back on and chuckle over.

Carpooling in general is something I would highly recommend. It might not be the most glamorous form of travel, but it depends on your priorities; some people want luxury, others just want to get from A to B for as cheap as possible. By choosing the latter option, one has more money to spend on the more important things!

While I didn’t have much luck with this myself on this occasion, ride-sharing provides an opportunity to make interesting contacts, and the act of doing a favour for a stranger is a nice, refreshing prospect. As much as I joke about the guy in the car, carpooling is an experience which reinforces that strangers are not to be fundamentally suspected or feared.

Bensheim – my final destination

I would definitely consider using carpooling on future travels around Europe, and I’d hope other travellers would too. Something that can be regarded in this technological age as the modern version of hitch-hiking, carpooling is cheap, convenient and certified. Maybe just bring an air freshener with you as an advance gesture of gratitude…

Would you ever consider car-pooling? Have you any weird and wonderful carpooling experiences to share?

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Romance on the River | Summer Evenings in Germany

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July 2012. My first year of university was complete and I was spending three weeks away on my own. Whilst back home in England, thousands of tourists from all over the world were being welcomed into London for the Olympic Games, I was following various rivers up, down and across west Germany. On the way I would encounter scenes of romance that would both captivate and torment me.

Heidelberg is the epitome of ‘charming’. It’s a town bustling with activity but it still manages to retain an intimate, personal feel. During one afternoon there, the sweet sound of Spanish guitar distracted tourists from admiring the cuckoo clocks in shop windows, causing them to stop with ice cream in hand, in order to watch a juggling act. The guitarist watched the juggler carefully, corresponding his chords with his partner’s fluid movements. Wedding bells rang through the town as I began the ascent up the 300 steps to the famous Schloss. Newly married couples had their photo taken here, with its charismatic backdrop of the town and River Neckar. Even cloudy skies couldn’t dim the glow of this place.

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In the evening the sun came out. After casting a proud glance over the coverage of the Olympic swimming from London in my hostel’s bar, I ventured outside for a walk. Everything smelled fresh after the late afternoon rain shower. Squelching sounds of trainers on the puddled path recurred as chatting couples jogged past. Upon reaching the central hub of town, the activity picked up: boys and girls flirted over a game of volleyball; children charged around the water fountain, shrieking wildly in their swimsuits; elderly men and women chatted on benches, walking sticks by their sides, as middle-aged couples walked past hand-in-hand. The sun dazzled off the surface of the River Neckar and enclosed the Schloss in a perfect bubble of radiance. Groups of swans gathered together under the bridge near the river bank, before gliding off together towards the glittering path laid by the sun on the water, its cheeky twinkle promising excitement. They joined a sole rower slowly oozing his way down the river, his oars making faint ripples in the peaceful water. Topless boys on mopeds rode over the bridge, beeping at girls in short shorts in a way that made one laugh rather than feel repulsed. There was an infectious energy in the town, playful and cute.

Warmth from the evening sun on my skin made me feel relaxed and animated at the same time. I felt glad to be alone just so I could watch all the different people doing their different things, wanting to absorb all the activity around me. The moped boys came round on another loop of the bridge, whistling and calling out to the giggling girls. Normally I would have ignored them or made a face; tonight if they had offered I would have jumped on the back and rode off with them around town. It was that kind of evening – the ones that make you wish it could be summer all year round, when the sun is out and it feels like anything could happen.

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A day later I was in Mainz. On paper it’s pretty similar to Heidelberg – another river town that attracts plenty of tourists, runners and cyclists. But here I felt a completely different set of emotions altogether. An evening run took me through the Volkspark with its pretty flowerbeds and along the bank of the Rhine. Couples sat on the steps kissing, or snuggled up looking over the railings into the river. I crossed the Theodor-Heuss Bridge onto the other side, where the cosy couples continued. As my legs began to grow more weary, so did my patience. Suddenly it was no longer sweet and touching to see these scenes of affection. My shoulders were sagging as I reached the former Kaiserbrücke. Padlocks dotted the partition between the railway bridge, souvenirs left by travellers and etched with love notes – S.A ❤ T.H – and so on. I stopped to read over them pensively, wondering what the love story was behind each one. Cyclists would occasionally ride past, but there would be no interaction this evening. I turned to lean my elbows on the railing, chin in hands as I watched the sun go down wistfully. As it fell lower in the sky so did my mood, until I’d dropped into a lonely state of melancholy, the most alone I’d felt in a long time. My thoughts drifted off with the river current, and I felt sad.

We’ve maybe all been there once, experiencing that moment when you suddenly realise something about that person: that person whose perfectly-sculpted face with the dimpled smile had mesmerised you for so long, giving you butterflies every time you saw them, to the extent that there were times you couldn’t look them in the eye for fear of blushing; whose hot and cold behaviour was always excused by you out of desire to believe they felt the same way, telling yourself that you could help motivate them to become a better person; that person who you had waited on for so many months, only to be repeatedly disappointed; someone whose company could be so magical, and yet leave behind a curse of confused questions. Finally there comes a time when you realise that you were completely deluded out of desperation, and they never really had felt the same way ever. Your feelings had been governed by a vision rather than by reality. You realise how humiliatingly and obviously un-reciprocal the whole affair was. Then you think of the people in the past who actually did care, whose friendship you had possibly sacrificed because of your obsession with this other person who was so emotionally unavailable. And now, that loyal friend was perhaps no longer available either, just when you would have truly cherished their company.

I stood gazing down into the water lost in my thoughts. Suddenly a lone swan glided out from underneath the bridge, as if it had been left by its friends back in Heidelberg and come wandering upland on its own. It was a pitiful scene – a bit like those drippy ones in American films where the guy/girl has just been left by their loved one and everyone seems to ‘have someone’ apart from them. I wanted to laugh and cry at the fact that my state of being was essentially being portrayed by a swan. Any minute now someone would probably come up and implore me not to jump. I decided to leave before things got too ridiculous…

The next morning I felt completely fine again, as if I’d been spring-cleaned of some dusty, lingering substance by an emotion that had arisen purely from the environment around me. A long-awaited cleansing. Funny how two similar places can arouse completely different emotions in someone, with no apparent warning. Rivers are continuously flowing and changing direction, just like romance. It’s the extreme emotions on either side of the water that people look for, or run away from. People cross the bridges over rivers in search of a new direction to follow, or to return back to something out of need. The river below contains the memories that people try to ignore or forget about, because of the uncertainty that they create. When you’re alone and stop halfway over the bridge and look down, you might find that they come back to you unexpectedly. There and then can you finally confront the feelings that you’ve been repressing. And after you do, the current of life will carry on as normal. It will possibly be one of the most valuable experiences of loneliness and sombreness that you’ve ever felt.

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One Girl with a Backpack | Sexism and Travel

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2013 was a huge year for sexism and feminism, mainly because of its presentation in the media. The release of ‘Blurred Lines’ caused uproar for its theme of distinguishing between sexual consent and rape, while Rihanna and Miley Cyrus shocked us with their provocative gestures. The issue of sexism suddenly seemed to be all around, with people blaming the predatory demands of males.  What concerned me most about it all was not so much the crude, perverted manner of the men in these videos  – which, in truth, is a feature of the music industry that we’ve been accustomed to for many years now – but rather the extent to which these particular videos illustrated how the presence of sexism is in fact facilitated by its acceptance by women, in the form of their behaviour. Gross as the ‘Blurred Lines’ video was, one has to remember that the ladies prancing around naked agreed to feature in such a degrading production.

Recently, a 25 year old woman was slated on Twitter for selling a story to ‘The Sun’ about her ‘stingy’ date with the Manchester United footballer, Adnan Januzaj. I agreed that it was the female who deserved the criticism, not so much in relation to the details of the story itself, but to the fact that this modern woman was so desperate to be famous, that she felt she must contact a famous football player via a social networking site, only to go and tell all (complete with sexy photoshoot of course) to a cheap tabloid newspaper afterwards, so that she could become known around Britain. Did she really believe this attack on the behaviour of a rich man was an admirable act of feminism?

Women have been encouraged to believe that a celebrity status is the highest of all. Forget entering a profession, establishing their own business, conducting academic research, or working for the government; many young women would rather allow their work ethic to drop in favour of finding money and ‘success’ through appearing as a sex object in the media. In the process of tailoring their behaviour towards only the sexual interests of men, they subsequently allow all respect for their intelligence and moral integrity to be lost. Women are guilty of helping sexism exist in society by a lack of ambition to use their brains, whether in an academic or vocational environment, choosing instead to express their values through their bodies.

I found myself associating this topic with the issue of travelling solely as a woman, regarding debates about how suited the female gender is to this. It can be argued that in travel also, sexism is reinforced strongly by the views of women, or institutions representing them. Travelling alone is still regarded as a predominantly male activity, with the implications being that this biological sex has a superior gift for finding its own way around foreign lands. The concept of a lone female rural backpacker is incomprehensible to some. Realistically, most people would probably scoff at the depiction of a female recluse in ‘Into the Wild’. Some travel sites still seem hold an idea that all female travellers want luxurious hotel resorts complete with swimming pools, and to pay for tour reps or travel guides rather than find their own way around with a map, just because of their sex. Many people question how ‘safe’ it is for women to travel alone, their beliefs being stimulated by newspaper reports on ‘horrific attacks’ abroad, forgetting that men are also often victims of such crimes.

I remember once when I was in primary school, my teacher told us about the murder of Caroline Stuttle, a British female backpacker in Australia. She had studied at college with my sister. And yet less than ten years later, I was doing the same, also at 19, but alone. Was I not scared? At first yes, a little, but this was more along the lines of getting lost and meeting nobody. I feared more that I wouldn’t be able to ‘do’ it successfully on my own and would subsequently have a terrible experience, rather than for my life. Similarly in summer 2012, I watched the film ‘Taken’, where two young American girls are abducted by human traffickers in France. A month later I went travelling around Germany for three weeks, alone. Some remarked on how ‘weird’ this was – was I not put off by the prospect of something similar happening to me?

Iceland

The answer was: no. I knew that if I let such fears dominate my thinking, I wouldn’t do anything exciting in life. People who base their life choices on what they read or see in the media are simply depriving themselves. Risks to safety exist everywhere. There would be nothing to stop me being randomly attacked in the UK, never mind in Australia or anywhere else.  Of course some women will get attacked abroad and many of these attacks will be unprovoked. But there will also be cases of assault where the behaviour of the woman will have stimulated the crime, and this is a fact that should not be neglected. Whilst being a foreigner might make one appear a more vulnerable target, it is possible, believe it or not, for a woman to look after herself and reduce the likelihood of such events occurring, through her behaviour.

Ultimately, one has to act responsibly. That means you don’t take up an offer of a taxi by a random stranger and tell him your private address, as happens in ‘Taken’. And if you’re going out with people you’ve recently just met to a bar, from where you’ll have to find your way back alone, you don’t wear a revealing top and get drunk. As long as they act with a little extra precaution, there is absolutely no reason why women cannot travel alone and remain free from any trouble.

Sexist beliefs about the inability of women to travel alone safely are not simply created and maintained by males only, charming as a Spanish guy calling me ‘crazy’ was. It is in fact females who succumb to such attitudes and let them persist, through their expectations of how women should spend their time. I’ll never forget the Canadian lady who looked at me as if I had two heads when she found out I was 19, exclaiming, “But you’re so young?” I looked at her blankly, wanting to respond with, “Your point being?” The concern was almost insulting; this idea that I was breaking the accepted ‘rules’ of female travel, and not normal for doing so. Compared to what some people have to go through at a much younger age, what I was doing seemed like nothing. Then there was the Spanish lady in Iceland who said, “Ah well, why wait around for other people?” not comprehending that I may have actually wanted to travel by myself.

At first, having people remark on how ‘brave’ I was to travel alone made me glow with pride. Now I find myself feeling slightly concerned that it is such a big issue to some people. Despite us being in the 21st century, there remains a strong belief that females not only cannot, but should not want to manage in another country on their own, just because occasional news reports suggest it’s too dangerous for them. Are we as women really going to let such accounts restrict us to the kitchen, while our male peers are allowed to go meet other travellers to get smashed and act like animals in Thailand?

I am not going to pretend that I’m a completely fearless Wonder Woman; there are of course many places in the world where I would not travel alone, knowing that realistically, a blonde girl would be a victim of unrelenting attention. Likewise, I don’t travel alone to prove a point to anyone else – it’s just become such a personal passion of mine that I don’t see having company as a necessity. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a slight feeling of smugness when I noticed a man watch me with impressed surprise as I walked past him confidently, bag on back, map in hand.

One is more likely to earn respect from the opposite sex when they show that their behaviour is inspired by an independent mindset, rather than directed by those of others that come in the form of sexual attitudes of some men, or pessimistic views about the sense in female travel. Such pandering to male desires  and media clichés only makes a mockery of feminism as a plausible concept. If women allow rumours and stereotypes to deter them from striving towards an open civil position or experience, they have only lent support to such irrational, archaic views.  Self-determining ambition is a broad means for females to challenge sexism and travelling alone is just one of the ways it can be demonstrated.

***

Related articles:

http://www.forbes.com/sites/elisadoucette/2013/02/07/sarai-sierra-emphasizes-that-women-need-to-keep-traveling/

Travel excuses

8 Questions Women are asked when Travelling Solo

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Travel & New Year’s Resolutions

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I’ve been studying in London for almost three years. The more that I’ve gone home or gone travelling in this time, the more I’ve realised how life in London is so rigid. Every day I walk the same route to university, or the library, and every day I see the same scenes: businessmen in suits storming along the pavements, phone pressed to their ear, frowning with impatience as they deliver an order to someone whilst frantically waving their arms at a taxi; women in pencil skirts and high heels gossiping with their co-workers about that lady who works on reception, Starbucks lattes in hand, handbags perched on their lower arms pretentiously. Their lives seem so ordered – everyday they must go through this same routine. Some of my friends aspire to have this lifestyle when they graduate. They want the smart work clothes and the City jobs. But to me it just epitomises stress and restriction – something I don’t want to feel on graduating from university at the age of 22. Yes, it may also involve lots of money, but are these people actually happy? Are they content with the thought that this same daily routine may be their life for the next 30 years or more?

One day, I decided to walk home a different route from the library. It took a little longer than my normal route, but in doing so I discovered different sights and sounds, and that made it worth it. There were fewer people in suits and ties shouting down phones, fewer taxi beeps and red buses, no men outside tube stations trying to hand me leaflets I didn’t want. Instead I walked along quiet cobbled streets past quaint little private wine bars playing music, my route decorated with planted shrubs and couples walking hand in hand. It was a refreshing change. ‘Why be boring and go the normal route as always?’ I thought. The walk reinforced my idea that after university, there is no essential need to follow one path. Instead, one can be spontaneous, find a starting project, and go from there, seeing where it takes them. There are so many options, so why not start exploring them?

A key motive of this mindset of mine comes from my time in Iceland. My night in Selfoss was the last I’d have on my own before staying with a host in Reykjavík for a week. My plan the next day was to head back to Reykjavík and spend the day wondering around before going to meet my host. I could go visit a few of the museums I hadn’t been to, and maybe check my emails for the first time since arriving, in case someone had contacted me about something important. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.

In the morning I woke early to catch my 8.30 bus, dressing in jeans and normal trainers. The sun was out again. It was a shame my plans for the day involved being inside. I sat down on the kerb near the bus stop, leaning my weight on my backpack, and going over what I’d done so far whilst here. It seemed like a lot for four days – national parks, whale-watching, glaciers, waterfalls, volcanoes. I hadn’t been to all of the key areas, but the list seemed decent enough.

Suddenly a bus arrived around the corner. It was headed to Landmannalaugar, a place I hadn’t seen but had heard lots about. A couple next to me walked over to it with their backpacks. I watched them go, feeling curious. In my jeans pocket was my dog-eared bus passport. I’d paid a lot of money for it, and it hadn’t been completely used up. Landmannalaugar was one of its valid destinations. I sat upright and looked over at the bus again. The driver was stood outside, resting his head against the side in the direction of the sun, eyes closed. I was tempted to go, and there didn’t seem to be any reason not to, especially not financial. ‘But you already decided you’d go back to Reykjavik, and you’re not dressed for hiking,’ a voice in my head said. I slouched down again.

Then I thought about my plans for the day. Did I really want to be in an urban area, when I could be outside in a rural landscape? Was I really bothered if anyone had contacted me? Did I really want to wonder around a museum when I could do this anytime in London? I imagined my dad watching me now, and how boring he’d think I was. So I got on my feet, picked up my backpack and walked over to the bus. As I buckled my seatbelt and the bus got moving in the opposite direction to which I’d originally intended, I felt an almost rebellious sense of excitement.

The journey to Landmannalaugar takes a few hours. Most of that seems to be spent driving over gravel tracks as you get further into mountain terrain. You’ll pass the proud Mt. Hekla at one point. The ‘thud thud bang’ of the bus as it manoeuvres over the rocky surface, jolting you upwards every now and then, makes you feel like you’re making your way over a minefield. It’s amazing that the tyres don’t get punctured. Every so often you’ll think they have when the bus pauses, and for a second you’ll fear that you’re stranded. But fear not – it’s just the bus pulling over for another vehicle, and you’ll see the other driver looking nervous and sucking in their cheeks as if trying to create extra space on the thin tracks. The views will be quite unexciting for a while, as the bus twists it ways slowly around corners and up steep hills. Reading my guidebook to get some inspiration for something to do in my three hours, I soon felt queasy from the constant jolts and turns.

Then just as it feels like your head is forever going to be filled with the sounds of squeaks and rattles, and dusty gravel is all you’ll see for the rest of your life, a wave of soft green rises up into view. On your right you’ll see the idyllic sight of Lake Frostastaðavatn. Its calm face is lined with faint wrinkles and around it, conditioned by the air’s freshness, lie layers of soft brown tones of hair, primped by bounces from its natural character. From here the bus winds its way along twisty paths and splurges through a river crossing to take you to the campsite. People on the bus start collecting their hiking sticks and supplies together, as Landmannalaugar is the starting base for the 55km Laugavegur hiking trail to Pórsmörk.

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I got off the bus with no plan, but as I went to fetch my walking boots and another hoody from my backpack, the lack of organisation felt strangely nice. There was a tall mountain in view, and so I made my way there. Bláhnúkur mountain is 940m high, and very dusty. As I started my ascent I felt a bit like the bus, pulling over cautiously to let those coming down pass. It was so windy, but you have to keep looking down at your feet to make sure you don’t slip. I stopped halfway up the mountain, thinking I might go blind if I headed any higher. The views are wonderful. Lava fields lie in front of an patch-worked array of pastel-coloured mountains, tinged with soft greens and browns that run so smoothly like oil on a painting. The scenery here was a big contrast from most other places I’d seen in Iceland, evoking warmth and tenderness rather than cold wildness.

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As I stood gazing at the views, amongst rubbing my eyes free of dust, a girl my age came up behind me, and we got chatting. She was French, and this was her first time travelling alone. We ended up spending the remaining hour and a half together, walking over to the hot springs where people bathed lazily, as sheep grazed around them. She was the first person I’d met on the trip who I’d actually like to keep in contact with, not just because I felt I should after spending a few hours with her. And I wouldn’t have met her had I not jumped on that bus.

The day had brought me a new visual perspective to Iceland, allowing me to see a different side to the country, just like taking the different route home from the library allowed me to see a different view of London. The day had signified freedom and impulsiveness, and my trip had been replenished as a result. I knew that had I simply gone on to Reykjavík as originally planned, the day would be nowhere near as interesting and fulfilling.

If people were more spontaneous in life, they’d get so much more out of it. As we approach 2014, my New Year’s Resolution is not really new as such. I just want to keep exploring the unknown and not play safe, but take a new opportunity that arises and see where it takes me.

 

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Disappointing Travel Experiences | When Materialism and Travel Collide

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We’ve all had those anti-climactic experiences where we’ve been really looking forward to seeing something, or had high expectations about it, only to feel slightly disappointed afterwards. It’s a common case when travelling – guide books marvel about how wonderful a place is and the websites only show photos taken in the sun. But I’m not just talking about realising that the sights aren’t actually that impressive; sometimes your experience of the people around you can tarnish your views.

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I experienced this feeling after visiting the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. Possibly the country’s most famous place to visit, I decided to go and check it out en route to the airport. My bus left rainy Reykjavík at 9am and we drove through a barren black sea of lava fields, until about 50 minutes later the bright blue water appeared in sight, bringing instant energy to a bleak morning. In a building situated next to the car park, one could store their belongings for a non-returnable fee of 500ISK. The receptionist said “Enjoy your stay” with the same upbeat tone to every customer, as if programmed like a machine.

A return bus journey and ticket to bathe in the hot springs costs 9800ISK from Reykjavik Excursions, but being low on cash and uncertain I’d have enough time to get sufficient bathing value for the price, I decided I would just pay 1600ISK for the Visitor’s Pass once there, which equates to around £8. “You can keep this,” the receptionist said, sliding a loose blue rubber band onto my wrist as the lady next to him patiently dealt with a ditsy customer. “And just come back if you change your mind about bathing.”

As I walked onto the viewing deck and looked over the huge pool, I nearly did. The large baths of blue water sat amongst the mass surroundings of dark lava fields like a rose amongst thorns. The heat radiating from the water was so inviting and there was plenty of space to lounge around daydreaming. The perfect end to a trip, surely? There wasn’t really much you could do with a Visitor’s Pass apart from watch other bathers enviously from this deck, feeling like a bit of a pervert – a sly method to get you paying more. I stood watching the shoots of steam in the distance, the constant swapping of my weight from one foot to the other reflecting the constant changing of my mind.

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Then I was suddenly distracted by the sound of haughty laughter, and looked down to see a whale of a man conversing loudly with his friends in the water about some sort of business matter, waving his champagne glass around carelessly. Right then something told me that my original decision had been the right one. I averted my gaze from his large belly only to see other people behaving in a similar fashion – talking loudly and uttering fake laughs that seemed to epitomise money and privilege.  I found myself asking, ‘Is this what coming here does to people, or is it just these people that it attracts?’

Unfortunately the man’s arrogant laughter continued to fill the air, just as the rain continued to fall. I couldn’t stand hearing anymore, but the ‘Yorkshire Lass’ in me was determined to get as much value out of my entry fee as possible, so I headed downstairs to the cafe to read.  As I purchased a smoothie that would taste purely of diet, the staff stood around looking fed-up. I soon learned the cause of their moods, gritting my teeth as the abrupt deliverance of the question “Is there WiFi here?” continually flooded my ears. Women and teenage girls in designer clothes would then proceed to stare non-stop at their iphones for their remaining stay.

Whilst I don’t own an iphone myself, I’m able to realise how in this day and age, Facebook updates to show off the really cool thing so-and-so just did can’t wait. And of course, working people need to check their emails regularly. But there was something so empty about these people, as if they literally had no essence of human inside them – only a piece of technology for a soul and bank for a heart that constantly churned out money like oxygen.

A few minutes later a member of staff around my age looked bewildered as a customer explained to her that she must make her own latte. The lady finished reeling off her special recipe instructions with a patronising “Thanks, honey.” I looked at her, feeling both stunned and repulsed as she ran her hands through her perfectly conditioned hair, nose in the air as she looked down to scrutinise the finished product. Suddenly her face turned in my direction and I looked down at my scruffy jeans and walking boots, make-up free face reflecting in the window, realising just how odd I must have looked compared to everyone else here. As I stood up to deposit my empty carton in the bin, immaculate women looked me up and down with a facial expression that seemed to suggest I should be apologising for something, as if my clothes offended them.

And yet how ironic that a few years ago, my outfit would have been regarded as completely normal. Only now in an era of advanced social technology did it matter to these people that I wasn’t carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag and wearing a cream blazer. The ability of people to stay in constant contact with friends and colleagues while travelling across the globe, by updating everyone and his wife about their every move with tweets and photos, means that nobody is free from judgement about how they look, or what possessions they own. As a result, travel has started to become less about backpacks and dog-eared journals, and more about luxury hotels and strong WiFi on buses. Where’s the sense of adventure and escapism gone?

When I think of genuine backpacking, I think of counting waterproof mascara as ample make-up; wearing my cheapest, scruffiest clothes and not caring if they get torn or muddy; accepting that I may have to go a couple of days without a shower; checking my emails every few days on a slow computer in an internet cafe; and spending my food budget at the supermarket on biscuits and bread. But now it seems that even budgeting backpackers are expected to constantly conform to high standards of appearance, financial expenditure and socio-technological mobility.

It is common that people will stop in Iceland just for one night, en route to a destination in Europe or North America. Being situated only 20km from Keflavík airport, the Blue Lagoon therefore makes sense as a place to visit for some pampering time. Many of the people who come here will not be interested in learning about or seeing anything else of Iceland. It is simply another place for them to spend their money in and post a photo to Twitter from, before heading back to their hotel for a fancy dinner and spending the evening in their suite browsing the internet. The boost to Iceland’s tourism industry that comes from the bulging wallets of such people means that unfortunately, the strong presence of businessmen and bankers; trophy-wives and spoilt children, is set to linger on in the Blue Lagoon as the features of the resort continue to be catered towards their ostentatious demands.

One consolation is that the heat of the lagoon isn’t a natural occurrence, instead being produced by geothermal energy usage, so at least an innate wonder of the country isn’t being contaminated by such a pompous bunch.  However at the same time, one can argue whether native Icelanders would even want their country’s energy to be used to feed the hungry desires of such strong representatives of capital, especially when this is something they themselves can relate little to.  As debate grows (in the context of proposals to build more hotels in Reykjavík) about whether Iceland’s government is neglecting its public expenditure in favour of developing the tourist industry, it is not surprising to note that few Icelanders themselves seem to visit the tourist-haven that is the Blue Lagoon, especially if this is the kind of snooty atmosphere they’ll be greeted with.

Before I start sounding like a boring draconian, let me clarify that I’m not at all immune to the idea of sipping champagne in a relaxing hot bath outdoors. Who wouldn’t enjoy that? But you can enjoy such pleasures without trying to make other people feel inadequate for the simple reason that they aren’t sporting the latest materialistic goods and designer names. I could have told those snobs the names of all the renowned natural wonders of the country that I’d seen during my travels. Then I realised that in this day and age, I wasn’t actually sure which names would be regarded with higher value.

For a moment I wondered if it was just a case of me feeling intimidated about bathing amongst these people with all their commerce-and-capital-orientated chat. But actually, it was simply that I didn’t want to be amongst these people with their plastic cards and plastic faces, lending my support to their arrogantly flamboyant lifestyles. Like any girl, I of course like to look good, but whilst I’m travelling the tomboy in me would rather I spend my day lifting my feet up a notorious mountain than having them rubbed in a resort’s spa. I could do the latter in my own country. And yet evidently because the habits of the image-obsessed celebrities women ‘follow’ on Twitter would disagree, the ‘outdoors’ aspect of the former is becoming viewed as an unattractive activity for the female traveller.

As I walked towards the exit past ladies sauntering around in their white robes, I felt immense relief that I’d decided to come here last on my trip. Had I visited the Blue Lagoon first, it might have damaged my expectations of what was to come for the remainder. But luckily for me, I knew this brief experience was an exception to the real Iceland that I’d been fortunate to see for myself.

***

I disliked the Blue Lagoon not because of its purpose or how it looked, but because of its association with high socioeconomic status.  To the majority of the people I saw there, the pool of water mayaswell have been a pool of money. This is what their minds were purely drawn to – the acquirement of it; the spending of it; and the display of it. Just like demand for five-star hotels leads to the chipping away of old concrete, the Blue Lagoon represented how materialism has begun to chip away at the old values of travel. Young people are now growing up influenced by implications that travelling is about exhibiting their clothing collection and taking photos of a popular place on their iphone, ready to show off straight to their friends back home with the click of a button. Travel money is spent on expensive perfume at the airport, not cultural mementos from the country they’re visiting. In ten years will young people even be using backpacks?

Located in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but lava fields, the Blue Lagoon has sadly become trapped in a spider’s nest of capital-fixation, with little choice but to please wealthy foreign visitors if it wishes to help liberate the economy, in a land where the high cost of living is lamented. As a result, the Blue Lagoon for me unfortunately represents the negative effects of the modernisation of travel.

So if you decide to visit Iceland someday, please don’t make seeing the Blue Lagoon your priority. There is so much more this country has to offer, often for free and often in unexpected places. It is, of course, a cruel irony that you will however be doing the country’s economy a favour if you do go. In which case, please wear your backpack and walking boots with pride.

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Another blogger recalls 5 disappointing experiences…

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Good Things Come in Small Packages | Reykjavík Culture Night

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If you were to ask an eight year old where Iceland is, they would probably start giving you directions to their nearest supermarket branch. Realistically, Iceland is a country that many people of my generation probably didn’t think about that much until the infamous 2010 eruption of Eyjafjallajökull (I’ve officially learnt how to pronounce it properly), angry that it had cancelled their family holiday. Apart from that though, they would probably know little else about what goes on in this weird and wonderful land, or the name of the capital for that matter (it’s Reykjavík by the way, meaning ‘Smoky Bay’). Only recently whilst here did I hear from a lady about how when visiting Alton Towers in England some years ago, she was unimpressed to see that Eskimo people had been drawn on a world map to represent Iceland. And yet in a country that has around 320,000 inhabitants compared to the 60 million or so of the UK, it might be easy to assume that Icelanders live a basic life off the land, where fishing is classed as a party.

If a Londoner was to visit Reykjavík, they wouldn’t even class it as a city. There is no underground system and there are no skyscrapers; no smelly fumes and sounds of beeping as taxi drivers yell at each other; and no huge crowds of people in high heels and fancy suits dominating the pavements as they rush off to work, talking too loudly on their mobile. The word ‘capital’ does not apply here – try ‘simplicity’ instead. Capital of a country deeply affected by the 2008 global recession, Reykjavík can be described as a timid child, reluctant to follow in the footsteps of other big and bold European cities. But if you visit Reykjavík on its annual Culture Night (Menningarnótt), you will see a very different side to the city, when the shy child comes out to play. It’s a side that shows you don’t need millions of people and a load of money to show just how vibrant your country’s culture is.

***

I’ve spent the second week of my trip to Iceland doing a help-exchange with a family who live in the capital. On Saturday August 24th my host bought me a copy of the ‘Reykjavík Grapevine’ – a magazine written in English for tourists to find out the latest news and events in the capital. Three of its pages were filled with free events going on all day as part of the cultural celebrations. I highlighted those I was interested in seeing, getting giddy with excitement when I saw that one event included the chance to ride around on the back of a Harley Davidson…unfortunately I would be too late to make that though. The list of options seemed endless: dressing up in vintage costumes; wood carving classes; make-your-own-Viking soap demonstrations; photography exhibitions; boat-making workshops; Icelandic calligraphy lessons; poetry readings and outdoor concerts. My host played me some Icelandic songs as I read the magazine. One band was called ‘Retro Stefson’ and one member had been in her eldest daughter’s class at school.

The family and I packed our umbrellas ready for the rain and squeezed onto a bus heading downtown. They were running for free today and took us on a slight detour as the roads were closed of traffic. Red bunting draped from the trees as we walked along Laugevegur, brimming with people consulting the events list. Soon we heard the sounds of a drum beating behind us as a group of men and women dressed as Vikings marched along the road. A policeman on a motorbike followed behind, stopping to flash a thumbs up at a little boy dressed in a Superman costume.

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Smells of raspberries and chocolate sauce greeted us as we walked off the main street. Certain houses were offering waffles to passers-by for free and my host’s eight year old son shyly approached the table to ask for one. After managing to avoid a second helping we went to my host’s cousin’s house to set up for a second-hand sale. As we stuck poles into the ground to set up a tent, the cousin’s three year old son pranced around in the garden, showing off the medal he’d received for walking 5km in the city’s marathon that morning. A small Icelandic flag hung from the porch steps.

Guys in their mid-twenties in skinny jeans flocked to see my host’s collection of old records, jokily reminiscing with her when they saw the likes of Duran Duran and Wham!. Elderly ladies next to them nosied over the shoe collection, whilst pram-pushers gazed with interest at children’s books and an old Karate kit. My host asked me to swap a 1000krona note for some change, so I jumped into the hustle and bustle of the main street once more. The sweet shop was packed with little children wearing face paint and begging their parents for treats. On the way back, salsa music began to fill the air and people gathered to form a circle as a couple danced in the middle, before grabbing others from the crowd. “That’s my teacher!” my host’s 15 year old daughter exclaimed with embarrassment. Teenage boys on bikes stopped to watch then blushed as they were called to join in.

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The atmosphere was alive with anticipation and excitement. As I went off for a wander alone, people were walking around with a purpose that I hadn’t seen before whilst here. Choir singing sounded from the Hallgrímskirkja, the large Church, and provided a calming comfort from the wet weather. I walked down to the Skúlagata near the harbour, passing groups of people coming to and from the Harpa, the big music hall. The ladies looked like they were attending a fashion show, heels clacking on the concrete as they paraded through town in their woolen coats without a care about the rain. They clearly saw the day as an opportunity to dress up and put on a show. Forget Paris or Milan, today it was time for Icelandic women to hog the limelight.

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I walked up from the harbour with no idea where I was going or what I was heading towards. It didn’t seem to matter – there was something going on everywhere. To my right I saw a stage being set up, and a small crowd of people stood around chatting with friends as they waited for the gig to start. Suddenly I spotted one of the guys from the music video my host had shown me that morning – a lucky coincidence! As the music began the size of the crowd increased until it had formed a mosh pit of umbrellas. People of all ages came to watch, standing on the grass banks and making space for others. A group of pram-pushers gathered in one corner, chattering away. The singer motioned for everyone to jump up and down, and children and adults alike joined in. You couldn’t help but smile seeing it. The music was so youthful but it was as if all the parents felt like they were 16 again, and yet nobody was embarrassed by their behaviour.

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Back at my host’s cousin’s house they were grilling steaks. We turned the TV on to watch the 10 Year Anniversary Concert of one of the country’s main radio stations. It was being held ten minutes down the road but we didn’t fancy standing in the rain. “Ahh I hate these presenters!” my host said indignantly, as a pair resembling the Icelandic version of Phillip Schofield and Holly Willoughby came on our screens. Then a band came on that were popular when she was a teenager and she sang along happily again as a greying singer attempted some sort of hip motion that he soon looked to regret.

Around 10.30pm, we set off through the rain to go and see the fireworks that would be held near the concert venue. People swarmed through the streets like a bunch of crazy flies and I got caught in a web of laughing and shouting as people lost their friends in the crowd. Little boys almost took me out as they sped through the streets on their scooters, hyper from the candy floss that had been selling all day. Suddenly dance music filled my ears and I saw a  massive group of people in front of me having a random rave in the middle of the street without a care in the world about what they looked like. ‘This…is…mental,’ I thought to myself, as I almost got my eye poked out by someone’s umbrella.

A huge mass of people was gathered on the grass above the concert stage, some of them dancing around the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson, the first official Icelander to settle in Reykjavík. It felt like the whole population of the city had gathered there, determined not to let the rain put them off. 99% of everyone there seemed to be wearing Icelandic jumpers with their lovely striking patterns, as if wanting to show pride in their country and its native products. Children perched on their dad’s shoulders and couples snuggled up under their umbrellas. A boy came round handing out free sparklers to young children, and in the light they cast you could see the sparkle spread to their eyes. Then the music stopped and everyone chattered in low voices excitedly, only to gasp as the sky lit up with a stream of red. And then green. And gold. And purple. Then they rocketed into the sky behind us and everyone turned around in fascination, mouths wide open like little kids in front of a sweet shop.

The fireworks lasted ten minutes, and then at ten past 11 it was time to go home. The buses were still free and extra services were being offered from the airport coach terminal. Hoards of people trudged through the puddles in the same direction, absent-mindedly kicking the occasional beer can as they cheerily reviewed the evening with their peers. Suddenly I felt freezing cold. The energy of everyone around me had warmed me up before, and now I was feeling exhausted, as if the batteries had run out with the last screech and bang of a firecracker.

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We squeezed on a bus that soon got caught in a traffic jam – a rare sight in Reykjavík – watching as people clambered into their cars, some of them probably still drunk. Finally we got moving, only for me to wince as someone trod on my foot, losing their balance after the bus jerked to a sudden halt for another jam. Then I heard a retching noise behind me and looked back to see a girl my age in ripped tights slumped in her seat, vomit on the seat in front of her. Her boyfriend mumbled “takk fyrir” sheepishly as some people handed him tissues, with kids making “urghh” noises. We got off the bus with me breathing a sigh of relief, ready for my warm bed.

 

But as I lay snug under my covers, picturing that poor girl with her head down a toilet, I couldn’t help but smile thinking back over the day’s events. For such a small city, Reykjavík sure knows how to throw a big party and what it lacks in human numbers it definitely makes up for in its giant character. There was something refreshing about seeing people of all ages take part in events together – a genuine sense of community spirit as the people proudly showed off Iceland’s origins and trademark features. The culture night was for everyone, with all interests recognised and catered for. I have no idea how much putting on all the events during the day will have cost, but there was definitely a big voluntary aspect involved, and much co-operation between different organisations and societies, all with the aim of making people, Icelandic and foreign, have a good time.

It made me wonder how often you can use the word ‘community’ when talking about London, or England and the UK as a whole. It seems that the closest our country gets to a united national celebration is when Liz has reached another Jubilee or the royal baby has popped out, but even then these aren’t events that everybody is willing to celebrate. Yes, the 2012 Olympics were a great cause for celebration, but why should we have to wait four years for something to celebrate as a nation, and why should it just have to come from sport?  Danny Boyle’s one-off Olympic Opening Ceremony display is essentially the kind of thing that Icelanders celebrate every year – the historical stories and cultural traits that make the country what it is. You can’t just blame Alec Salmond or Plaid Cymru for our lack of cultural celebration – if we’re just talking about England, does anyone even remember when St George’s Day is, never mind do anything about it?

The only thing England seems to have over Iceland in relation to national celebrations is a bit more money to spend on them. Snobs could say that the firework display in Reykjavík was too short and nothing spectacular in comparison to our annual New Year’s Eve display, but that’s not important. I’m not Icelandic and yet even I could immerse myself in the community spirit. Even without fireworks, there would have been enough pride and happiness in the small city that night to light up the whole sky.

And so next time you want to poke fun at this sparse island for only being good for puffin-eating and shutting down European air travel, go along to Culture Night and see for yourself how actually, Icelanders have a lot more to laugh about.

***

Details of the event can be found here.

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A Bus, a Backpack, and a Blessing in Disguise

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 “Don’t lose your passport” must be one of the most-heard pieces of advice given to the young person by their parents before they begin their travels. The gateway to one’s adventure, it seems like the most obvious and significant item that could go missing. So what about the backpack? It is, afterall, the locker to your life during your time away. The love-hate relationship you develop with it from acquiring achy shoulders after walking with it all day, combined with your sigh of relief at seeing it emerge on the conveyor belt, make it almost indifferent to a human travel companion.

This is something that’s particularly true when one is travelling alone. Your backpack becomes your loyal friend who you love to see when you wake up in the morning, but occasionally grow frustrated with for following you everywhere for the rest of the day. It only takes a week of its sole company to appreciate it so much that you begin taking for granted just how important it is. Whilst losing backpacks in transit is common, the location of the traveller in the airport means that on the whole, one can expect to find experienced guidance and a swift resolution of the problem. If someone is with other people, there is the emotional and practical support present to help dry their tears of stress and lend them clothes for a few days.

But when you’re on your own in a random part of the country, who will be there to support you? This was the exact question I found myself asking outside an empty bus station when I lost my backpack, halfway through my first sole travelling experience, aged 19.

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I’ve mentioned in previous posts how I viewed travelling alone as a more do-able prospect after meeting someone who was doing a help-exchange with my family friends in Australia. The system was simple – you did around six hours work a day for the family and received free food and accommodation in return. It seemed like a great way to save money whilst learning about a country’s culture first hand. Seeing this guy become a valued member of the household was touching and I liked the idea of it for myself.  Inspired by his experience, I began planning some for myself in Canada.

However, being biased I assumed my new friend had simply been lucky – surely not all families could be so welcoming? To invite a stranger into your home with your children and possessions seemed risky. After the increased media-hype about child abuse in care homes, I couldn’t help but feel unconvinced about the ability of a family to welcome someone they met through the internet so easily into their life.

I had a week of sleeping in hostels before I would experience this for myself though. And indeed, that one week was enough to confirm to me just how important the backpack is to an independent traveller. Being my first time alone in a foreign country, I was borderline obsessive-compulsive about its security for the first couple of days while in Toronto. I doted on it like a baby, making sure I was super-careful doing up the zip so as not to strain it, and reluctant to get any dirt on it. Then I landed in Calgary to explore the Rockies and embraced the knocks and scuffles the backpack would inevitably receive from various rural activities. Hoisting it onto my back every morning before a hike, its company made me feel like I was on a real adventure. I was experiencing huge senses of personal achievement and my backpack was the one consistent partner who understood. What had begun as a protective arm over it as it sat by my side evolved into a gesture of fondness and appreciation for the feelings of support and security that its presence produced.

***

My first help-exchange in British Columbia was on a horse farm. The week went fast and by the end of it, as pleasant as my hosts were, I still felt separate from them. I’d been so busy working that I hadn’t had a chance to immerse myself in their way of life. And yet I sensed that this wasn’t something they looked for from the scheme, instead viewing it as the share of a practical favour, with no strings attached. How included I was seemed completely contingent on how useful I had been, and my sceptical beliefs were reinforced. ‘What was I expecting from one week’s stay anyway?’ I thought as I filled (and refilled) my backpack.

It was a sweltering hot day on August 16th as we arrived late at the bus station. I hurried through the depot and gave my backpack to the bus driver to store without even thinking about the need to tag it, since my journey was direct anyway. Our friendship had reached that stage where I was taking its constant company for granted, and I presumed I’d see it again in a few hours. The family thanked me for all my help and then walked back to the car without looking back. Feeling like I’d already been forgotten, I boarded the bus with my smaller bag.

The bus picked up a fault, so we had to change at Kelowna. I went to retrieve my backpack but the driver assured me it would be put onto the correct bus, so I left him to it. I was the only person getting off next and began feeling excited about my second home-stay as the driver went to fetch my luggage. “A green backpack?” he asked uncertainly as he rummaged through. “I don’t see one here.” Silently blaming his eyesight, I went to look myself. But it wasn’t there; my companion wasn’t there. There was no feeling of comfort at the sight of its bulky shape. Butterflies began to flood my stomach. He asked if I’d put a tag on it, and shook his head disapprovingly when I blushed and said no. “Where do you think it could be?” I asked with panic rising in my voice. The station was closed, so he suggested I ring the Kelowna bus depot.

I frantically slotted dollar coins into a phone box as the driver stood waiting awkwardly beside the bus. The lady in Kelowna’s office couldn’t see a backpack anywhere and suggested it was on the bus to Vancouver. I dialled the number she gave me immediately as sweat drops gathered on my forehead – a mixed effect of the heat and my sudden stress. The bus driver came over to check my progress. Nobody was picking up. He scratched his head and hesitated before saying “I’ve gotta go,” with a shrug of his shoulders. I watched the bus turn the corner and disappear out of sight, leaving only clouds of gravel-dust behind. Suddenly everything seemed quieter. That was the point where it hit me that I now really was on my own. The apprehensions I’d had a year earlier about travelling alone were unfolding and the tears began falling. I felt like the stupidest and unluckiest girl in the world at the same time.

30 minutes and a list of furiously-crossed-out unsuccessful numbers later I reached the correct number for the Vancouver office, only to find it had closed for the day. Frustrated, I crossed the road to buy a drink from the gas station and sat on a bench outside this empty depot, thinking to myself ‘Mum and dad can’t help you now.’ Trying to be rational, I told myself that most importantly I still had all my essentials, including my passport.  In the meantime I’d just have to find my hostel for the night and try the Vancouver office again in the morning. But I was meant to be meeting my second hosts tomorrow. What use was I going to be to them without any clothes? I couldn’t work outside in the peep-toe sandals I was wearing. I had no number to contact them on, so I had no choice but to turn up simply to say that I couldn’t work for them anymore, because I had to go to Vancouver to find my backpack.

The next two hours waiting for my next bus were the loneliest two hours of my life. When it did arrive the driver asked if I had any luggage for the hold, so I told him what had happened. But my brave face had returned in the presence of others and I said with a laid-back manner that I’d ring the Vancouver office tomorrow – “it’ll be probably be there.” Climbing the steps onto the bus however, my face burned as behind me he exclaimed ‘Good luck!’ with a sarcastic snigger. That comment stuck in my head and I struggled to sleep in the hostel that night, filled with unease knowing that my travel companion wasn’t by my side. Wearing the same clothes from the day before, I rang the office early only to hear that nothing there fitted my description. My heart sank and I boarded my next bus reluctantly, anxiously anticipating my next host’s reaction to meeting me, luggage-less.

A blonde lady in an old VW was parked outside the tiny bus station. I felt like a child as I introduced myself with a squeaky voice and explained my problem.  With a drawl expressing both surprise and calm, she recalled never hearing this happen before and led me to the office to speak to the staff. A man and woman inside greeted her with a casual “Oh hey, Lisa”. It turned out they were her daughter’s neighbours. They gave me the numbers of potential stations my backpack could have been deposited at. I rang one of them and hesitated on the pronunciation of my new location. Lisa corrected me with a wink, adding, “You can give them my number to contact, honey.”

Lisa lived in a small town five minutes away. Bare trees dotted the dry brown hills that overlooked the sparse valley like bristles on a hair brush. “I’ve lived here my whole life”, she said proudly. Whenever a car did pass on the bare road, it was likely that Lisa would recognise them and flash a wave. We stopped by her daughter’s place to say hello. I went in for a handshake but she gave me a hug and said “Don’t worry, you can borrow anything,” when hearing about my backpack. They didn’t seem bothered at all. Lisa’s lovely house was a few minutes down the road. The sweet aroma of banana muffins filled the air in the huge kitchen. Country songs played on the radio, soon drowned out by the sound of her pug greeting me with yelps of excitement. I was shown upstairs to my room and offered a shower. “Just chill out today and make yourself at home,” Lisa said with a warm smile.

I collapsed onto my new bed next to my fresh towels and stared into space, overwhelmed. Only an hour ago I’d been fretting over my next move, biting my nails as I wondered where I’d be sleeping tonight. Now I was sat in a room with a toothbrush and clothes lent to me by the younger daughter, as if nothing had happened and I was a regular guest. The sudden change of situation stunned me. I’d never felt so grateful in my entire life. And I wanted to show it. So I put on the clothes and started weeding the garden, determined to show my appreciation and make myself useful no matter what.

In the evening the whole family came round and we sat outside drinking beers. They spoke about the latest town gossip, with me wondering how there was so much to say about such a small place. It was like being at home, only thousands of miles away. The next morning Celia and her fiancé offered me a lift to a second-hand store in Penticton. She sang along tunelessly to ‘Under the Bridge’, with Ben resting a hand on her leg. They planned to marry in Lisa’s garden. In the evening we took the pick-up down to the Similkameen River and spent a few hours fishing and shooting at tin cans, with Celia laughing at her photos.

I don’t know whether it was because I was wearing new clothes, but something about being in this place, with these people, made me feel like a new person. They lived in such a close-knit community and yet I knew that as long as I had a heart and a sense of humour, I would be welcomed into it. At first, losing my backpack had made me feel like I was missing part of myself, but now its loss brought a strange sense of new identity. With a greater dependence on other people had also come a greater willingness to integrate and share my experiences with them. Out jogging later on in the week I waved absent-mindedly at a passing car being driven by a guy I recognised from a house party I’d gone to a few days earlier. I’d been here less than a week and already felt like part of the neighbourhood.

I imagined turning up my previous hosts’ house with no clothes and knew they would not have been as sympathetic. My incentive to help this family out wasn’t from knowing it was a compulsory condition of the agreement, but from a desire to help in return for their generosity. Likewise I could tell that Lisa didn’t simply view me as a temporary employer. She was curious about my life and family, asking questions about us as if wanting to compare. In the car she sang along to Joni Mitchell on the radio, like my mum would.  And I really did see her that way – like a temporary mum. Help-exchanges aren’t necessarily meant to produce that feeling. They might cook for you, but the mothers of the house aren’t required to treat you like a child of their own. But Lisa did just that for me, when I needed that sense of comfort and care. On my last day I went to do my washing, but she said “Oh just leave it, honey, I’ll do it.” The only other person who had done my washing was my real mum. As we hugged goodbye at the station she said, “And remember, you’re welcome any time.” Sometimes I think people say that because they feel they have to. With Lisa, I knew that she genuinely meant it.

I only spent a week with the family in that small town, but it was enough to restore my faith in the compassion of people from around the world towards others they have only just met. Some people will re-define the ‘rules’ of a certain agreement for the sake of helping another human being. I spoke of a backpack almost being like a backbone. When I lost mine, Lisa replaced it and restored my confidence in continuing my trip with an adventurous mindset. I really valued my backpack, but without losing it, I’m not sure I would have got so much out of this travel experience. I never did see my backpack again, yet the trip went on to become my most treasured to date.

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Help-exchange websites: www.helpx.net / www.workaway.info