BLOGTROTTING

    ALGERIA – 1987 Racing with dolphins I very nearly never made it to Algeria. Through a combination of circumstances including an irrational faith in the veracity of Spanish bus timetables, I was the last passenger to embark on the “Zeralda” in Alicante, and was observed stoically by three decks of zealously punctual Algerian passengers, who had watched unblinkingly as a dishevelled Englishwoman had screamed onto the quayside in a taxi and conducted a rapid process of passport and customs control with an uncomprehending Spanish border policeman at the foot of the gangplank. The officious Algerian steward reprimanded me as I stumbled up the ramp, red-faced and harrassed in that elegant British way. As it turned out, the ship did not move from the quayside for another hour, by which time I had more or less recovered my composure and was leaning over the rail with a nonchalant air, apprehension having given way to the thrill of horizons new, and the Dunkirk spirit...

  Some 45 years ago, having been not long resident in Paris, I joined some friends for a road trip through Italy and Greece, the final destination being the Acropolis in Athens.  This is the tale of getting there, and getting back, and in between -- Acropolis, now!     ITALY It had been raining at the Gare de Lyon at 10 p.m. the previous night. It was already hot and sunny at 10 a.m. at Rome Termini. As I stepped onto the platform, having spent the night in a T3 with two noisy French ladies, the handle of my travel-bag snapped. I should have heeded the omen and got back on the train.    I ran (as best I could, with both arms wrapped round a broken travel-bag) the length of the platform, ready to hurl myself and my bag into the arms of Rupert, who would be waiting at the gate looking tanned and gorgeous after a week in the South of France. He was doing neither. Alf was hunched at the end of the platform, the eternal roll-up in the corner of his mouth. “Rupe ...

  As the summer of 1973 approached, Pud (one of the Roan boys, the only one who didn’t want to get into my pants) and I decided to pool our contacts for an inter-rail jouney through Europe.  Between us we knew enough people in Europe to keep our accommodation costs to a minimum, and in between would stay in youth hostels.  We kicked off in Paris, where we stayed with my penpal’s family in Vincennes. They took us out to dinner the night before we set off for Geneva on the night train.  Probably a combination of wine and too much rich food, but during the night I started to feel shivery.  Pud kept complaining how hot it was and taking off layers of clothing, which I promptly put on.  By the time we arrived at Geneva I was feeling really bad and was as white as a sheet.  We staggered down the platform and into the station looking for a toilet.   I never made it, but at the top of the steps did a projectile vomit that pebbledashed the whole grand stai...

    In summer 1970, aged 15, I first set foot on foreign soil. I went, chaperoned by aunty Lily, for a long weekend to Paris. As was the fashion in those days, encouraged by language teachers, I had a French pen friend. Her name was Geneviève Gabens and she lived in Vincennes near Paris. We swapped things that 15-year-olds do – pictures of pop stars, teen mags, etc. Hence at 15, pictures of sultry Julien Clerc and Sacha Distel adorned my bedroom wall alongside David Cassidy and Donny Osmond. Aunty Lily organised it all. We flew from Ashford on a shaky old turbo prop plane, the first time I had ever flown. Having suffered from travel sickness since a child, flying was no better, and by the time we touched down at Beauvais, I was green and throwing up. I was hardly aware we were in France until we arrived in the airport shuttle bus at Place de la République. I was about to start the weekend that changed my life. Geneviève and her father were waiting for us at R...