time is like the ocean, you can only hold a little in your hands

thoughts, part IV.

(if you’re new to these “thoughts” posts, it’s basically little things I’ve written down that intrigue me and I feel the need to share with you lot)

on one of my last weekends in kenya, my host family had a huge party at home. about 50 people came over for a late lunch where they’d eat the two goats that were freshly slaughtered that morning. preparations started the night before when makena, her aunt and her grandmother sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes. then the next morning when I woke up, there was an army of kenyan women in the kitchen; rolling dough for chapati, slicing (what looked like) a million bunches of kale to be eaten, cutting vegetables, preparing what would be lunch for about 50 people that day. I felt a bit homesick actually, because I love it when my big dysfunctional family gets together. and it felt like that, except there was no alcohol at this party… something that’s never missing from my family shindigs.

seeing evelyn, the principal at little ray of hope give the rest of her lunch to one of the smaller kids one day brought tears to my eyes. I have never met a more selfless person.

it gets me down when you see people purely ‘existing’ here. I mean that in the sense that some kids just don’t have the same opportunities to grow up and be who or what they want to be; that they have to sell fruits and vegetables by the side of the road so they can merely survive. not many of them get to dream as big as we do.

I find it hilarious that kenyans drink guinness, and a lot of it, regardless of how old or pregnant they are, because it would “keep their skin nice and evenly black”. because nobody wants uneven skin colouring.

arriving in africa, I was told to dress somewhat conservatively so as not to offend anyone. I complied for much of my stay, understanding that you have to cover up in certain areas in africa to be respectful – however everyone can go get fecked if they think I’m going to wear neck to toe coverage when it’s this bloody hot. okay, I get that wearing a crop top and short-shorts would be offensive to the many muslims here in tanzania (and I wouldn’t do it anyway), but if my “pasty white” shoulders offend you, which by the way they are no longer pasty and white, avert your eyes. it’s too goddamn hot to be polite anymore. rant over.

a very wise person once told me “you can’t grieve over everything you see here, otherwise you’d never stop grieving” (that was norwegian anna by the way). it’s so true. seeing men carrying “bunches” of chickens strung together by their feet on the dalla-dallas shocked me, initially. same with seeing men dragging goats across a road by a rope tied around their neck. or seeing baby chickens tightly crammed into cardboard boxes on the side of the road waiting to be sold. I hate animal cruelty but here, this is life. this is how people survive. I think I’ve come to terms with it a bit easier than some other people I’ve met and maybe it’s because of the “farm girl” attitude I’ve been raised with through my grandparents and my parents. I hate that people can’t handle the fact that a “cute baby animal” had to die for that delicious juicy steak or an amazing pork chop they’re eating for dinner. where did you think it came from? of course the cute things are the most delicious. (just writing about steaks is making my mouth water, I would do anything for a big bit of meat right now… I don’t know how vegetarians do this shit). you have to eat to survive. here, nothing goes to waste and nothing is more obvious for some than the will to survive.

I hate that regardless of how well practised you are – and I’ve had four and a bit months worth of practice – when using a squat toilet, if you’re a girl, you will piss on your feet. it’s inevitable. and it sucks.

the fact that it takes me almost an hour to get to work at my clinic here in tanzania. dat shit cray. in kenya, our workplaces were always within walking distance. and how I get to the clinic is as follows: get on a yellow coloured dalla dalla (matatu), ride for 20-25 mins into town, get off yellow dalla, walk 15 mins to get to red coloured dalla, ride for 20 mins, get off red dalla and walk 5 mins. but I’m not alone, this is done with about 15 other people crammed into the back of the van, most of whom are women who have done their market shopping for the day so are carrying bags of vegetables and/or dried fish and/or dead animals. delicious.

this week I got on a by motorbike for the first time since my accident. no there was no helmet, no I wasn’t wearing any protective clothing (I was only in a dress), yes I’m an idiot… I already know that, but I was lost and the dalla I got on to go home went the wrong direction and it was almost dark and I needed to get home ASAP. needless to say it won’t be happening again, I was shaking like a fool the entire ride and for about 20 mins afterwards, as well as being so sweaty, I hated the entire ride. never again. but I did it. I conquered a fear… sort of.

speaking of dalla dallas, I can safely say that before I got to tanzania, I had never before been asked to purchase a bra from a woman sitting behind me to “help support her family”. lingerie sales in the back of a public van. sorry love, but I like to try before I buy.

careless and young, free as the birds that fly

you know you’re in africa when you’ve developed a decent tan, you get in the shower and your ‘tan’ washes down the drain.

and I couldn’t be more in my element.

it’s always darkest before the dawn

dusk; maasai mara

I had a lovely taxi driver last week who, after hearing about my ‘run in’ with the car, asked me about the best and worst parts of volunteering in his country. the best? seeing the smiles on children’s faces when you give them something as small as a lollipop or even rice for lunch. the worst? not the fact that I was hit by a car, but saying goodbye to all the incredible volunteers I’ve been fortunate enough to meet over the past three months in kenya.

saying goodbye is never easy, and even from my time in europe in june, I’ve had to say goodbye to more people than I’ve probably ever had to say goodbye to. maybe since I finished high school. I guess I should probably clarify that I don’t mean ‘on the death bed’ goodbye; I mean meeting people who you get on so well with and then are likely to not see again, or at least not for a long time. it’s kinda the bittersweet part of travelling, I’ve learnt that on my previous trips overseas. but I would argue that volunteering and meeting other like-minded people makes it even harder. because we’re all (well, mostly all) here to make a small difference, to brighten someone’s day, to make someone smile. at least, I am. and I’ve met countless others who are too.

if I listed all the people I’ve hugged, waved off or helped with their bags as they climb into the taxi, I’d be here all day… and I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say it would be in the hundreds. I’ve cried only once (bloody susie) , but have been teary on many more occasions. meeting people from all around the world, like I have for the past 4 months, means having so many more contacts for future travel experiences. it started at the end of my tour in turkey – when the rest of the group continued on to cappadocia while I went back to istanbul – and the latest is just this morning, when I waved off michael and alyce, two of the greatest aussies I’ve met, no topic is too gross or too over share-y with those two. and I’m so glad I’ll see them again in a couple of weeks when they briefly come back from uganda.

but I’m richer for having met everyone I’ve met. you learn something new, you learn to appreciate things more – like people you actually get along with. I certainly haven’t clicked with everyone, sometimes you meet people and wonder what the bloody hell they’re doing in a country like kenya – “oh my god, the toilet, it like, so doesn’t flush properly”, “the floor is so dirty, seriously, what’s with that?”, “we have to supply our own toilet paper? what the hell?!”, “oh my god, the electricity is off again? how do I charge my phone now?”… I’m not kidding, people have said these things. a) you’re lucky there even is a flushing toilet, b) you’re lucky it’s not a dirt floor and c) you’re lucky to even have electricity in the first place! fark me, some people.

I still hate goodbyes. I’m dreading saying goodbye to the kids at ‘little ray of hope’ and I’m dreading saying goodbye to my host sisters (who now snuggle with me on the couch of an evening). only one month left in kenya before tanzania – time flies when you’re working hard and having fun.

I’m the one who waltzed matilda, I am australian

thoughts, part III.

what is it about australians – when you meet them overseas – that you are somewhat drawn to them? I can’t figure out what it is; is it the accent, the familiarity of a fellow aussie, their friendly nature or the warm smile that emerges when they talk that only australians tend to have?

on this trip, I’ve not travelled with anyone, nor caught up with anyone from home since I’ve been overseas – funny that, no one seems to ‘pop in’ to africa. oh wait, I met an awesome aussie, hollie, on my turkey trip who I then met up with in germany, but not an organised ‘oh I see you every weekend back home but we’re in the same country, lets meet up’ way. and that’s okay, it’s makes it more my trip, doing things by myself. it forced me to meet a huge bunch of interesting people in europe at bars or restaurants or tourist spots; not just drunk twenty-something’s in hostels. you get the amazing opportunity to be utterly yourself, not the person you might be around ‘this’ person or ‘that’ person.

whenever I go overseas, starting with my trip to italy with alex in 2009, there’s always bring one thing I bring with me – a book called “why you are australian” by nikki gemmell. she married her australian husband, moved to london and then had three children there, takes them to australia for 3 months & puts them into local public primary schools, then has to try to convince her husband that for the sake of their children, they should return ‘home’ to raise their kids; because nothing compares to an australian childhood. the general gist of the book is her writing a whole bunch of letters who her children explaining her choice of giving them an australian citizenship over an english one. I’ve included some of my favourite parts of the book:

overseas, if you’re rich you can buy opportunity. in australia, you can earn it. I love the idea of a country that says you can be whatever you want to be, no matter what your background, as long as you have the ability and work hard enough.

the first time I finished reading it, I was sitting on a train somewhere between venice and verona, and remember tearing up because of how much I love my country; I could understand the dilemma of loving where you come from but having the desperate urge to travel and stay away as long as possible; and I was only 18. I won’t spoil the plot but it is my favourite book. I’ve underlined my favourite parts, it’s filthy, pages have been turned over and permanently creased, the paper cover is torn and the hardback is covered in scratches and pen marks.

the smell of eucalyptus as the day softens into darkness. a tall night sky. stars! buttery, meltingly fresh fish. fruit, in its correct season, that tastes fabulously of the last, that tastes as it should. the scent of frangipanis and gardenias. the sound of a lawnmower on a lazy saturday afternoon, rain on the tin roof, the smell of water on hot concrete, wearing the marks of the sun long on my skin, sunscreen at the beach, the spit of salt in the air, the heady scents of summer, a cool breeze through the gum leaves, the deafening sound of cicadas.

I guess me taking the book with me every time I’m overseas gives me subtle reminders that no matter how much I love the country I’m currently visiting, it’s not my home. not that I’ve really fallen for a place other than australia. I suppose I could definitely see myself living in london for a little while – the city is incredible and has such deep history, incredible coffee and bars, wonderful restaurants and just generally a great scene. it’s so like melbourne, and maybe that’s why I’ve identified with it. but until the weather improves (ie. becomes like australia) I couldn’t live there for a long period of time. the cold would snap my bones, I couldn’t survive the blisteringly cold winters or the ‘spring’ days where the sun never breaks through the overcast cloud. I love london, just like I’ve loved bath and paris and antalya and berlin and vienna, but not enough.

give me the fierce and unforgiving heat of australia any day.

where playing barefoot is a signifier of freedom not impoverishment. where a backyard’s a given and not a luxury. where sunshine and fresh food grow children tall… where you learn that beautiful australian crawl… where you learn confidence and optimism and enthusiasm and reach.

being in kenya I’ve seen so many children who I wish I could give them the gift of my own childhood. where I played outside barefoot, not because I couldn’t afford shoes but because who needs them when you’re running around in the grass – only needing to be careful of dog poo and bees. not like here where kids are barefoot because their parents can’t afford to supply dinner that night, let alone a pair of shoes. kids walk over glass, sharp rocks, ‘flying toilets’, goat/sheep shit; literally everything. and yes I did similar things when I’d play with my cousins at my grandparents farm, but the difference was I wore gumboots or proper closed in shoes (mainly to avoid the stinging nettles and snakes hiding in long grass).

infact kids in australia today could benefit from the gift of my childhood. get rid of the computer games and the tv shows, get them outside in the fresh air. almost every afternoon as a child for me was spent outside playing with my sister and my dogs, where mum had to drag me inside to shower before dinner, where you’d collapse into bed exhausted at how much you crammed into that day. kids in australia could learn a thing or two from kids in kenya. get outside, off the play station, let the sun hit your skin and make your bones strong. if kids here are happy playing with wires for skipping ropes, at least kids at home with proper skipping ropes have got more than these kids have.

because it is not my land and never will be. because I’m not living in the place I’m meant to be living in. living overseas has taught me that whitefellas can have just as fierce an attachment to the australian soil as aboriginal people.

I was extremely lucky meeting susie, a fiercely independent and hilarious 22 year old australian from brisvegas. she graced me with her presence for 3 brilliant weeks during august when she was teaching music at our host mums school. it’s not every day you basically meet your other twin (meagan you’re still the first and you would love susie), especially in a country like kenya. finally, I could speak ‘australian’ and there was someone there to understand what I mean when I said bogan (constantly trying to explain to canadians & americans what a bogan is and the only parallel I could draw was ‘redneck’ and that still doesn’t quite bring kath and kim, short shorts or jeggings, ugg boots and flannies together), someone who understands that being open about bowel movements is not unusual, someone who didn’t look at me funny when I said certain words.

the originality and vigour of the australian language. esky, servo, ambo, tradie. battler – and at the other end of the spectrum, bludger. trackies, arvo, barras and blowies. a southerly buster, yakka and woop woop and nipper.

a total breath of fresh air. and that’s the thing, you meet so many people on your travels who teach you so much, who surprise you all the time, but meeting someone exactly like you with the same level of crass humour and sarcasm and not having to watch what you say is incredibly calming – soothing almost – like a hug from ya mum.

I’ve decided that I’m a hugely patriotic australian. actually I haven’t really decided it, I just realised it more than ever before. I didn’t feel like my room here in nairobi was my own until I sticky-taped the australian flag mum sent me on my wall next to my bed (not that there’s a flag stuck in my room) but its the little things. I love meeting other people who are proud of where they come from. I’m pretty sure I’ve already written this, but I love being in kenya because everyone is so proud of their country. sadly being proud doesn’t directly translate to taking care of the country – people still throw rubbish everywhere – but hey, a perfect world has never and is likely to never exist.

I can’t wait to come back to kenya, especially now that I’m planning to start a project ensuring children get sponsors to go to school each and every year (but more on that in the coming days). but I could never live here. stay here for a long time to see this project get started, yes, but not forever. infact I could travel forever, but I know australia will always be my home. why would you want to live anywhere else when we’ve truly got it all?

I realise now I definitely could have taken a gap year straight after high school and not waited until I had got some sort of qualification (even though then I was only going to take 2 years to finish my commercial cookery certificates, not spend 4 years learning how to save lives and take care of people when they’re sick). I didn’t then because I was certain I would fall in love with somewhere overseas, never return, never go to uni. I don’t regret a thing, not even a little bit, I’m so proud of have finished and completed what I did in those four years.
but isn’t that always the way… if only you knew then what you know now.

I’m a photophiliac, a lover of the light. lock me in the sunshine.

leaning now into the breeze

thoughts, part II.

that there have been 12 confirmed cases of polio this month in kenya alone, and one confirmed death of a child who succumbed to polio. what? how can we live so comfortably in our country because a disease has been eradicated, yet not even all the way over on the other side of the world, children have died from it. now. in 2013. this is what upsets me, seeing the absolute injustice of healthcare across the world.

I will never get sick of driving down a highway and casually passing a herd of zebras. it’s magical.

the longer I’m in kenya, the more I’m convinced its just melbourne but further away. the weather here is ridiculous. I’m changing outfits more than twice a day because its freezing of a morning, the sun comes out and I start sweating balls, then the afternoon may bring a thunderstorm and then we get tropical. hardly feels like I’ve left home at all.

I went to church last sunday (which was incredible in its own right and will probably get its own post) but the term “sunday best” is very true here. people might wear their rags during the week, but they have the most incredible and colourful outfits they wear to church. it’s pretty awesome. I still believe that god doesn’t care what you wear, but it’s a matter of pride here, which I love. kenyans are full of pride and aren’t afraid to express it. maybe that’s why I love it here, because I’m so proud to be australian and I love people who are proud of where they come from & don’t try to hide it.

I’ve had more marriage proposals in kenya than I can count. I was counting in my first month but stopped when I could no longer keep track. having men hit on me in australia is a rare event, in fact I wouldn’t even be able to recognise if they were, it happens that infrequently. but here, it’s at least a daily occurance. I was walking home the other day and had a man call out “hey sister, you are very sexy” and I actually laughed out loud. kenyan men put themselves out there, which I have to give them credit for. I do have a bad habit of laughing always at the wrong times, and now that can be extended to when I’m being hit on.

communication is so important in a country like kenya. even in the slums, you’ll find the poorest of people with a mobile phone. I was shocked, initially, thinking that how could they justify having a mobile phone when they can hardly afford any other basic daily requirements. I’ve slowly observed and learnt that family is a big deal in kenya. and I love that. that being able to communicate with your family is so much more important than maybe eating that third meal that day. without your family, what do you have?

I have never once in my life used earplugs, at least not that I can remember. but here, they are a godsend. they stop me waking from the constant howling of dogs throughout the night, from the screaming preachers who start their spiels at 5am, from the roosters crowing and the matatu horns blasting.

my host sisters singing this song to me “mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. mary had a little lamb, it was as white as victoria”.

during high school, I dreamt of the day I could fluently speak french. or any language fluently other than english. well I came close, but never quite made it. but the urge to be able to speak swahili is so much stronger. the inability to properly communicate with everyone in a country you visit is infuriating. while most people here speak fantastic english, the further out from nairobi you get, the less and less they speak.

my new friend, sierra from the US, said something on our way to the naivasha medical camp that really struck me. “people at home have everything and yet they fight over nothing”.

hold me fast, I’m a hopeless wanderer

my theme song at the moment

received another beautiful email from ‘a note from the universe’

“it’s perfectly normal, victoria, that when waiting for a really big dream to come true it seems like it’s taking forever, you wonder if you’re doing something wrong, and you feel like you should just be happy with less.

but I promise you, no matter how long it takes, once it happens it’ll seem as if time flew, you’ll wonder how you ever doubted yourself, and you’ll feel like you should have aimed a little higher.”

feeling so unwell and lacking in energy at the minute (felt better on the weekend and now I’m back to square one). trying to make every day memorable and worthwhile when you feel like shit is hard, until I remember how long I’ve been wanting to be here and do what I’m doing. and seeing other people who are a lot sicker/worse off than me makes one feel a lot less sorry for oneself.

so… onwards and upwards! back to the doctor tomorrow before work. #powerofpositivethinking

light is the darkness most feared

reverse racism.

this blog post might sound a little negative, in fact maybe even a lot negative. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, I am loving being in Africa; it’s just ticked over a whole month I’ve been here and I’ve already had some incredible experiences that I will never forget. but there are a few things that are really starting to piss me off. and I don’t even know if ‘reverse racism’ works as a phrase, but it’s what I’m sticking with..

1. being called mzungu by an adult
so I wrote a little while ago about how cute it was when I first arrived being called mzungu by people. I knew then that it means white person, but it’s taken me this long to be annoyed by it. it likely that I’m just being intolerant, but I’m sorry mr kenyan man, if you came to my country and I shouted at you “hey black man!” every time you walked down the street, I don’t think you’d like it either. it’s cute when kids do it because kids are cute, kids stare, kids know when people look different. kids also don’t know any better. but adults do.

2. being overcharged everything because I am a mzungu
seriously? lets just say you came to my country and I looked at the colour of your skin and decided because you’re black I could charge you double on public transport… would that be fair? no. I’d probably get fined some obscene amount, would prison even be an option? so don’t bloody try and charge me double what you charge native kenyans for a matatu (local bus) ride. arseholes. even the locals don’t agree with it, proof that there’s still some nice people left in the world.

3. being called “monkey queen” in swahili.
happened as I’m walking in the slums with kids from ray of hope school, here they live. what the fuck? you adults think its a good idea to degrade your own people by calling them monkeys and therefore that makes me the monkey queen? one of the older students who came walking with us translated it for me, telling me that the people saying it were trying to offend me. well mate, you did a pretty shit job but you managed to call your people monkeys – looks like eddie mcguire would fit in pretty well in kenya (aka obviously it’s not that big of a deal to call someone an ape)

4. purposely avoiding eye contact
I also posted a little while ago about how I never look at the ground when I walk, but since being in kenya I sort of have to as I never know what I’ll step on next. well I’m also doing it now because if you make eye contact with someone, you can get a lot more unwanted attention than necessary. they try to sell you stuff, try to bring you to their stall, try and push you into their matatu, just wanting your attention basically.

it all comes back to being a mzungu and being/looking different. I get that as a white person in a predominately black country, it is probably a little strange for the kenyans and often even a little exciting. but there’s ways to be excited about seeing people who look different than you without being racist. the kids I don’t even mind about, they are too young and innocent to know differently. but it’s the adults, the adults who have been educated and should know basic human decency.

I’ve never felt like more of a ‘minority’ since being in kenya, even with 100 other volunteers floating around nairobi.

let’s call this my two month travel-blues post.

but, you have to have the bad to appreciate the good. and there has been shitloads of good in africa (safari post coming up next!)

I’m on my way to the promised land

thoughts from my time in turkey

people who know me know how much I love beer. and after a week of drinking wine in paris – and just so we’re clear, there’s no such thing as too much wine – beer was a welcome change. it seemed a sin to drink beer in paris. I’ve come to learn that I love turkish beer, called ‘efes pilsen’. so so good. one a day, kept my turkey belly away (well… so did gastro-stop, but drinking beer sounds better, so we’ll stick with that)

the view from our pension in ayvalik, I’d go back there in a heartbeat

speaking of turkey belly, what the phuck. that was a cruel 2 days. I don’t even know if turkey belly is a thing, but considering you can’t drink the water, I assume that when I got exactly the same symptoms as when I had bali belly, it was the same thing therefore must exist. I’m just lucky it didn’t last 2 weeks like the time I got bali belly. what a shitty tour it would have been. literally.

ruins in ephesus, seeing all the ruins in turkey was pretty amazing because it shows how vast their history is, but I won’t lie, in the end, when I saw ruins, I just thought it was another bunch of old stones… lucky I’m not a historian.

when I first got to turkey, hearing the ‘call to prayer’ every few hours was definitely a new thing, if not a little annoying. now I find it calming, a reminder that even in the busiest cities – like istanbul- everyone can stop and find the time to pray.

view from the boat one night, beautiful big expanses of turquoise blue water

kindness is a universal language.
shop keepers welcoming you into their shop, without the pretence of having to buy something, with offers of tea and coffee. this happened on my first day in istanbul, where I walked into a shop to look at their incredibly intricate hand painted ceramic bowls, and the shop owner offered me some apple tea while I was walking around. being a little dubious thinking that if I drink his tea, that means I also have to buy 100 bucks worth of stuff – and also worried he might try and ‘roofie’ me – I said thank you but no thank you. he then goes on to tell me that its just the way the turks show visitors hospitality and he wanted to make me feel at home. so I accept, he leaves the shop (with me still in it), goes next door to the cafe, and brings back 2 teas. talk about hospitality, I was totally shocked with his kindness. and I wasn’t roofied. what a gentleman.

the day we went to ölüdeniz, a lovely beach – shame about the stones where the sand was supposed to be.. I guess I’ll never properly fall in love with europe due to their lack of sand at their beaches

I saw the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life in turkey. I know I haven’t really lived that long, so I’m hardly in a position to say ‘ever’ but in my 22 years, it’s true. I’m not a shallow person, but this man was beautiful. tall, dark hair, slightly tanned, excellent muscly arms (which I am a sucker for) without looking like a creepy body builder on roids, and the most piercing green eyes I’ve ever seen. I was certain that people that pretty don’t exist in life, they only exist in magazines. well that’s what I thought before. I saw him the first time I went to see the protests in taksim square, he was selling paraphernalia, like turkish flags and headbands and whistles etc. at least I had my head screwed on enough not to spend a million just so I could look at him. I don’t mind an attractive man standing up for what he believes in. might be why I have such a strong attraction to john butler.

beautiful old tiles just randomly on the ground in antalya

so my tour group was fantastic, we were so diverse and different – 2 paramedics (not including me), a nurse (not including me), a vet, a mathematician, a physio, a bed and breakfast owner, an eternal student, a retiree & a (annalise I forgot what you do.. shit, sorry!) they were all doing a 15 day tour of turkey, while mine was only 11 days; and I won’t lie, I was actually a little sad when they all left me in the hostel on my last day before I was heading back to istanbul. my first ever tour and while at times it was tiring, exhausting and frustrating, it was amazing, informative and a fantastic way to make new friends. miss you lot already!

dinner on my last night with the tour group, overlooking the bay in antalya.. shame the food was shit. I guess you do pay for views at beachside/tourist towns

my last dinner in istanbul found me talking to a french canadian, arianne. I was doing my whole ‘sitting like nigel no mates in a restaurant’ act that I usually do, when someone came up to my table and asked if I was alone and could she sit with me. I wish I had balls like that! even though I’d only just finished my tour, my last day in istanbul was very much a solo day – so it was really nice to chat to someone for an hour. if you’re reading this arianne, thank you for your company!

got a pinch of tobacco in my pocket

thoughts in paris

you know that moment when you know something because either you’ve been told it or because you just know it or because you’ve seen it, but you don’t actually realise it until its thrust upon you?
everyone in paris smokes.
I’m positive I now have second hand emphysema.

I’m in awe of the fashions here. women usually dress nicely, although not as good as the men. frenchmen are to die for. their beige pants, baby blue shirts, brown shoes and belts, and yellow or navy jumpers over their shoulders make me melt. of course, I’ll always have a soft spot for an aussie blokes in flannies and blunnies, but frenchmen… they have, just, a little je ne sais quoi.