China, Chopsticks and Cliff Richard: summer 2014.

There’s so much to say about China. In fact, it has to be one of the strangest countries I’ve ever visited.

I decided to take a job teaching English in Wuhu, Anhui Province for two months over the summer. I wanted to see if teaching was my ‘thing’, as well as have a bit of life experience. Before coming to China my vocation in life was avoiding any question of future prospects asked by my mother. Teaching abroad meant that my mum can postpone her anxiety attack over my lack of direction and I can explore a new country. Everyone’s a winner. The job was also too good to turn down: ten hours of teaching each week in return for free accommodation, ten hours of Chinese lessons, lunch, a wage and time to travel.

Wuhu was at first described as a ‘small, rural city’, when in fact the population is 3.8 million. Small by Chinese standards, but London-size for me. We arrived into Wuhu at 4am on the 26th June and, just like Italy, my sixth sense was telling me that I was being led to my death. There’s no ‘dodgy lift’ like in Bologna, but instead five flights of stairs adjoining some back alleyway of makeshift shops. As Karl Pilkington would put it, I’m living in a hole (once again) facing the skyscraper heaven – that is the Wuhu skyline.

My room with a view.

Walking up the stairs..

Outisde the house.

Despite the fact I still eat like a child with chopsticks, the first few weeks went by without a problem. Whilst everyone else at the school eats like some Eastern Edward Scissorhands, I perpetually spill food everywhere. Give me chopsticks, and I become an embarrassing mess.

The other remarkable thing about China is how foreigners are treated. Anyone who is not Chinese (which must be nearing 50 in Wuhu) is treated like royalty. Being photographed on the street is a daily ocurrence; as well as being approached for photos or autographs. If someone ever tells me they want to be famous in the future, my only advice would be a trip to China to experience ‘celebrity treatment’. Even my rendition of Cliff Richard’s ‘Summer Holiday’, performed to 150 Chinese students received high praise. It has led to thoughts of returning one day as a Cliff Richard tribute if everything else goes down the drain – and pushing the parents over the edge at the same time.

Just one of the many random photos I’ve then found on Wechat, or other social media!

After Cliff’s rendition.

Drawing rice. The problems with language barriers!

And, in other news, my gesticulation and artistry skills have drastically improved since arriving in China. With the language barrier being as large as the Great Wall of China, communication has been slightly difficult – especially before taking up the Chinese lessons. Whether it was rice or coffee I wanted, a picture or a miming act had to suffice. In spite of all the laughs my acts of desperation recieved, my linguistic side became determined to pick up some of the language (if only to order food). So far the lessons are going well, maybe a video will feature sometime soon to show off the extent of my pidgin Chinese!

Now I’ve had my first month to absorb China as the eccentric country it is, I will do my best to put its peculiarities into words the best I can.

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From Bologna…to Polonia

I’ve left the motherland once again for Italy! I’m in full Italian mode once again: a filter coffee snob, lover of food and totally oblivious of the word ‘stress’. After a year, I’m worried that I’ll be so laid back I’ll be floating sideways.

So to keep myself on my toes (and counting as a new country for the Bucket List), I booked a spontaneous trip to Poland. It cost £35 for return flights and three nights in a hostel, which was above a KFC. The KFC served as both a blessing and a curse: the perks being round-the-clock fried chicken and a central location, but at the price of perpetually smelling fast food. We stayed in the city of Wroclaw, and even now I still couldn’t tell you how it is pronounced. ‘Vrotslov’, ‘Vrozylav’, I could go on – the Polish language is really something else. Wroclaw is famous for its zoo (the largest in Poland), the interconnected islands within the city walls and a collection of 250 dwarves dotted here and there.

On the first night we decided to try out a few bars and taste some Polish beer. In the end we stumbled upon a Communist bar underneath a pub called ‘Error’. We should have seen that the name was a sign of things to come. A huge poster of General Mao overlooked the dancefloor, who also sat with Lenin and She Guevara in the toilets. And if that wasn’t strange enough, the music certainly was. A playlist of Blurred Lines, Gotye, ABBA and ‘Ra Ra Rasputin’ played consecutively accompanied by the same Eurotrash beat. The evening was perhaps the most surreal for the travel diaries, and showed how distinctive Eastern European culture can be.

With the remaining days we went to the zoo. For £2.50 entry, it was a bargain. Even for the cold time of year there was plenty to do and for the variety of animals, the experience was worth much more than what we paid. We also ate some traditional Polish food – and despite the abundance of food containing gherkins and sauerkraut, I ate very well. I chose the dumplings, locally known as pierogi and come with a choice of fillings. There was a general good and cheap selection of beers, particularly in my favourite bar where they had installed an Ikea style showroom lounge right in the corner.


If you’re like cheap holidays (Baltic temperatures preferred), then try out Poland. Especially if you like colourful, pointy buildings that look like they’d only exist in a Lego set. Even for a small city like Wroclaw there is plenty to do, see and eat – as well as Communist bars to discover.

One month on – life in Bologna continues!

After neglecting my blogging duties for almost a month now, I’m back to update you all about la vita bella in Italy! I have to blame the lack of writing on the food; there are not enough hours in the day to explore all the Italian gastronomy which is constantly calling my name. If the death lift or the lack of sunlight from my house doesn’t kill me, eating copious amounts of pizza and pasta just may do the trick. At the end of the day, if the phrase ‘you are what you eat’ is true then I can’t think of anything better than being a huge slice of pizza.

But eating so much unfortunately runs the risk of rolling home for Christmas. Not only this, but in continuing my quest for a body like Shakira I’ve had to start going swimming. However, I don’t understand the need for everyone to wear a cap in the pool, especially for a country which doesn’t seem too preoccupied with health and safety. I’ve always found my head my weakest spot, simply for its large size (affectionately known as ‘cow head’) which has been subject to much mockery throughout my youth. One of my oldest memories at four years old – when we had to make paper crowns in class, my head was the only one which required two sheets of stapled A4 paper to fit around my head. And even now, it is virtually impossible to find a woman’s hat to fit. As a constant source of embarrassment, you can imagine my dissatisfaction at being forced to wear a luminous blue cap (and pay three euros for it). The phrase ‘no pain, no gain’ has a totally new meaning now.

It appears that I’m just as conspicuous out of the pool as I am there, as everyone automatically knows I’m English. The opportunity to speak Italian is thwarted as soon as someone looks at me. Of course my accent is not a hard one to place, but I didn’t think people would be able to perceive my nationality without opening my mouth. As far as the stereotype goes, it’s not like I spend my day’s binge drinking, complaining about the weather and tutting at everyone who doesn’t form a single-file queue. When people are so quick to know I’m English, there’s always a double-take moment afterwards to make sure it’s not tattooed on my forehead.

In terms of university work, I’ve started my Russian course! And what have I learnt so far? That the words for vodka and water can be differentiated by one letter, which is probably unlike any other country in the world. Only in Russia can vodka get confused for magical water. The style of teaching is very different to the UK, as lectures are open to the public. Any number from ten to one hundred people can show up to a class, which is a bit overwhelming at first. What’s even more overwhelming is when the lecturer fires questions in Italian – about Russian. The first time it happened I remembered feeling the guilt that comes from not doing your homework as the teacher is on the approach. If that doesn’t spur me on to become fluent in Russian, I don’t know what will!

At least there’s a career in modelling swimming caps if language learning goes pear shaped…

Week two – a room with no view, a dodgy lift and getting used to city life (aka dealing with tourists)

It is the second week since I’ve moved into my new flat and things are going swimmingly. Or should I say I’m swimming in a sea of pizza and pasta? It feels like it, anyway. It seems that most people who’ve had to find somewhere to live in Bologna have made a sacrifice in their choice. In short, no one has the perfect place. For me, I’ve given up on both space and light. I’m lucky enough to have a window which faces a staircase. I’m living in an architectural masterpiece, true Italian style. The complete lack of natural light in my room means that time may as well stand still. I can never tell what time of day it is which is a killer in a morning. It probably also means that if there’s a fire, there’s no chance of getting out. I sometimes feel like I’m living in a death trap. I know it’s a morbid thing to say, but the building has done well so far in its first 40 years or so. And besides, someone has been generous enough to stick ‘glow in the dark’ stars on my ceiling. Every cloud, at the end of the day…

Because I live on the top floor of the building (fourth floor, with an ascent of 79 steps), there’s a lift right outside the flat. However I don’t think the lift has been altered at all since it was first built. In fact, it’s probably quicker to climb the stairs than use the lift. The only thing it would be useful for now is during a scene of a Saw movie, or a similar such film. The amount of juddering is enough to make anyone claustrophobic.

I probably sound a little high maintenance, but these things give the place character. In terms of location, price and who I live with, the flat is perfect. Each time I step outside (and despite squinting each time from seeing the sun) I’m in the centre of the city, which couldn’t get any better. I also share with an Egyptian and Italian, so there’s a really diverse and social atmosphere to the house.

Living city centre has its perks too. For a start it makes me smile to think how many pictures I’m on, as the tourist attractions become meeting spots for the students and locals. Many times I’ve been lingering around a church or a statue and feeling the need to pose for the swarms of cameras. It’s surprising to see how many people use their iPad to take pictures, as if it’s a large camera. I can only compare it to bringing out my laptop to take pictures – which wouldn’t only make me a laughing stock to others, but would be hugely inconvenient in terms of its size and seeing what I’m doing. Each to their own though, I suppose.

This week I’m hoping to tackle my first Italian book, The Little Prince. It was the first book I read in French and has since been one of my favourites. Reading in a different language is one of the most rewarding things about being multilingual. After all, I’m not speaking as much Italian as I originally intended because everyone wants to improve their English, so maybe reading will be a sufficient compensation for the lack of language immersion.

‘When you’re smiling in Bologna, it’s the most beautiful city in the world’ – week one in La Villa Rossa

“It’s much better to look out of a hole at a palace, than live in a palace looking at a hole. I think the same rule applies with humans. I think I’d rather be an ugly-ish looking person than a beautiful one, ‘cos how often do you look at yourself? If you’re quite ugly and you’re sat facing someone who’s pretty at work, who’s got the better deal?”

Using the wise words of Karl Pilkington, I accepted the keys to my first ever flat on the same premise. I’ve never lived inner city before, but I’m about to do it in true Italian style. I’m about to live opposite Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Armani and Hermes. My road is the hotspot for the glitterati of Bologna. I can’t even begin to tell you how exciting it is! The inside of my flat wouldn’t entertain a second look from a Louis Vuitton customer, but at least I can look into the shop each day on my way to uni. I think Johnny Depp would have to start living in Rotherham Town Centre before any high designer even considered setting up shop there, and we all know the unlikelihood of that. It’s a welcome change to live inner city.

My only complaint is the heavy pigeon population who nest by my bathroom window. Living in a 6 storey apartment block with a courtyard in the middle is torture for all the pigeons. It’s a structure they can’t get out of, a bit like us once we’re drawn into a crossword published by The Guardian. What makes it worse is that people put plastic snakes on their window ledges; presumably to deter the pigeons but it makes absolutely no difference! In fact the window decorations look slightly ridiculous.

Despite being overwhelmed by the dense pigeon population – I’ve fallen in love with the architecture, history, shopping choice and being a student at the oldest university in Europe. I’ve just not been too impressed with the bureaucracy over here. Getting a tax code (a bit like a national insurance number) took two hours of waiting and too much unnecessary paperwork. It’s the only complaint I can think of so far, which has to be a good thing!

Bologna seems to have captured the true essence of Italy without the tourists. Being food capital of the north (as birthplace of Bolognese sauce it’s only a fair accolade), and boasting a leaning tower to match Pisa, Bologna’s a hidden gem overshadowed by the likes of Venice and Rome.

So far I’ve managed to find a house, register at the university and enjoy the food (all washed down with a few Peroni’s, of course). Next week brings the start of my lectures in which I’ll study German and Russian for the first time, meaning the start of Erasmus socialising!

Let’s just hope I manage to make some international friends…

Africa – goodbye for now!

Home sweet home
There’s no place like home
Home is where the heart is

Yep, that’s right – I’m back in the UK! It took 36 hours, but it’s amazing to be home. I can now take baths, drink wine and eat cheese to my heart’s content – which is a very welcome change.

And was Africa what I expected? Not in the slightest. In fact, I’d only be honest if I said I never wanted to go. During selection I explicitly said I wanted to go to India, South America or South East Asia but fate had it that I was going to Zambia. I expected dire poverty from the media’s portrayal of Africa, but it’s no Save the Children advert over there. I mean it’s not exactly like The Lion King either, don’t get me wrong. There’s an element of fear which is associated with Africa; if the animals don’t kill you HIV or dirty water will. In my ignorance about Africa I was very scared to go.

Instead, just imagine a unique and beautiful place. Everything is vibrant and colourful, the people welcomed us with open arms and now I just want to go back and see more of what there is on offer. The worst that’s happened to me is that I’ve put on 4lbs, my feet have dirt embedded in them (and it may take more than just a Ped-egg to sort them out) and I’ve picked up a taste for vibrant looking patterned clothes which make me look like a hippie. I’ve also picked up Zambian phrases like ‘I’m asking for…’ which is interpreted as very rude in the UK and is always met with a disapproving stare. Also the way of telling time – ‘fifteen thirty’, which sounds like the beginning of a George Orwell novel. If that’s the worst Zambia can do, send me back in a heartbeat. I’ve managed to go there without getting malaria, being attacked or raped or put in any dangerous situation at all.

As my African chapter closes, my Italian one opens. I’m due to fly out to Bologna on Saturday, and I still have nowhere to live. In fact I’m not prepared in the slightest. The year in Italy seems more daunting now than Africa ever was. As long as I have a house with a balcony, however, there’ll be no problems over there. Except that I’ve decided to study Russian, which I have never studied before and will be taught in Italian. Sounds like I’ve set myself a good challenge, right? My excitement levels are very rapidly rising to live abroad once again.

As the proverb goes – ‘a change is just as good as rest’ and I can only second it.

And as a last piece of advice – if you ever get the chance take a shower in Dubai airport. They’re something else, trust me.

Clubbing in Zambia, a bit of a ‘zambitious’ escapade…

Binge drinking seems to have become an adopted trait into British culture, and is now an unspoken duty we all have to perform. So, like a true Brit (as it would seem), we decided to introduce it to Zambia. It’s only fair to do some form of cross-cultural exchange after two months of being here…

There are two clubs in Choma, so we were spoilt for choice when choosing where to go. Because of our 8pm curfew, we had to negotiate our first extension to go out. There are a few times during your early teenage years when you finally feel ‘grown-up’: your parents may let you go to the local shopping centre or catch the bus into town on your own, and these pangs of restrained independence from my youth are coming back to me. It was finally decided that my host dad would accompany me and Nush (my UK counterpart) to a club; to make sure we were safe and looked after – with the promise of free drinks for his time. Charitable gesture, I know.

So the plan was set in motion. On Saturday night we were meeting our dad at the local club called DC’s. I’m not too sure what DC stands for, but I’m thinking: ‘da club’, ‘definite chunder’ (I’m more inclined to this name after seeing the state of the bathroom), ‘drinking compulsory’ (because you wouldn’t want to go there sober) or ‘dancing central’. Bouncers stood at the door which was nice to see, but the whole interior was covered in mirrors. You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing yourself at a different angle, which is really off-putting. I felt like I’d entered a time warp from the 1980’s. And to top it all off, there was even a huge disco ball right in the middle of the dance floor.
Admittedly, there were a few reasons why I didn’t approve of the mirrors. Firstly, I’d spent the whole day at a swimming pool, so I was rocking the ‘drowned rat’ look. Secondly, I hadn’t been home all day so I had to take my rucksack along too which contained a towel, swimsuit and a spare change of clothes. As me and Nush were the only white people inside the club (as well as the youngest), we couldn’t have looked more conspicuous. Seeing ourselves in mirror kingdom made us more self-conscious. In fact, the only other way we could have drawn more attention to ourselves was if we began a mosh pit in the centre of the dance floor. Not only was I barging into everyone wherever I went, but carrying such a heavy load made for some awkward manoeuvring (or dancing, but I talk enough about that).

The fact that our host dad chaperoned us everywhere we went also created some awkwardness, to say the least. The only solution was for us to drink more, and (thankfully) it paid off. Within half an hour there was our programme supervisor and host dad, as well as my work supervisor dancing around us. That’s the English equivalent of having your parents, boss at work and an old teacher or lecturer at uni having a cheeky dance with you in a club. The situation wasn’t strange enough, but the club wasn’t your usual drinking place either. The average age of everyone inside must be about 40. The audience for clubbing is definitely not the same as what it is in the UK. A ‘student night’ here would be a strategic way for the management to have a day off. Instead, just have lots of mirrors and old men, littered with a handful of concubines stationed at the end of the bar and you’ve got yourself a Zambian club.

I can only call the experience a bit surreal.

And what were the consequence of such a wild night out? Two potentially broken toes, a terrible hangover and being the butt of the joke from my seniors about drunken behaviour, that’s what. It all adds to the adventure, after all.