Once upon a time in Paris…

My very wise sister once theorised that life moves in five-year cycles: every five years or so there is a desire (or need, perhaps) for change, for a new chapter. Five years ago, I moved to Paris. What started as just an ERASMUS year, turned out to be the year that changed my life. It was, of course, the year that I met Florian – the year that I met the man I was destined to marry. It was a year full of memories that I will carry with me for a lifetime.

And tomorrow, Florian and I will go to Paris, the final destination of our Europe trip together. It seems only right that this five-year chapter – the most exciting five years of my life so far – ends where it began. Although we have been back to Paris since moving to London, somehow this visit feels more significant. It feels like the end of an era; and I am full of anticipation for the next chapter of our lives. I am already dreaming of what the next five years will bring, and I am bursting with hope and positivity.

Paris was a funny time of life. I was both thrilled with life and desperate to return home to my family. This is a feeling I seem to constantly walk around with: happiness, but always with a lingering feeling that everything would be so much better if it was spent with my family too. In Paris though, I constructed my own little family, and though it only lasted for those ten months, it was a very precious family. My life revolved around three wonderful people: Florian (of course!) and two of my most cherished friends, Charlee (you might remember her from Sicily?) and Chloe. I imagine that the next few days in Paris will fill me with memories of my Paris family – people who I truly love – and a longing, once again, for home and all the people that I will find there.

I don’t know how I feel about God, or destiny versus coincidence, but somehow this all feels like it was meant to be. Florian and I were meant to be in Paris, for whatever reason, to meet each other; to fall in love; to get married; and to embark on this adventure that has taken us across Europe and will now take us back to where it all began.

The end of this trip, I believe, will mark the end of our first five-year cycle together. And what an amazing cycle it has been. My advice to people is always to remember – to remember why you are together, how you got together. Whenever I look back and remember our early days together in Paris, I feel warm and happy inside, knowing that I will always have those wonderful memories. Because, really, that’s what life is, isn’t it? Collecting memories all the time, wherever you go, whatever you do.

I love to remember; I love to look back at what was, to observe what is, and to dream of what will be. 

Homesick

I am writing this post from the comfort of a hotel bed. Last night was the coldest night we have spent in the bus – although we wrapped ourselves up in two blankets and as many clothes as we could feasibly wear, we didn’t quite manage to beat the cold. So, tonight, here in the south of France, we are in a hotel. And, most importantly, we are warm.

Having spent almost three weeks in the north of Spain, we decided that it was time for a change. We were there mainly for surfing purposes (apparently the waves are very good around Galicia), but the surfing lifestyle is one that requires patience – a virtue that I, sadly, do not possess. It could be days before the conditions are right, and in that time of waiting there is very little to do (having relegated yourself to the middle of nowhere, and that too in the cold).

Heading over to France was a welcome change. And on Sunday the 14^th of October we celebrated what is to us a very special day: on the 14^th of October 2010, Florian proposed to me in the most magical way. For those of you who don’t know the details, it involved a holiday to Brittany and 250 candles laid out in the rocks by the sea in the shape of a heart, forming the words: Meera will you marry me?

For us, France is a very special place. It was in Paris that we first met and fell in love, and it was – three years later – in Brittany that we got engaged. It seems only right that we spend some time discovering this country, and so here we are, chasing the sun through the south of France. The days are sunny and – at times – quite warm. We have been exploring Biarritz, St Jean de Luz, Capbreton and Toulouse. And, most notably, we have eaten the most delicious magret de canard.

But I am, without a doubt, homesick. I’m not sure when it happened, but it did. And now, whatever I do, wherever I look, everything reminds me of what I am missing…

Listening to Bollywood songs while we drive makes me miss my family – the most vibrant bunch of people you could ever meet who dance at every opportunity possible.

Eating pretty much anything that isn’t spicy makes me miss Indian food – there is nothing quite as satisfying as a home-cooked, pure vegetarian, Gujarati meal.

The sight of small children reminds me of my beautiful niece who, by now, has grown into a little person (almost a year old!) and has, I imagine, no memory of me whatsoever.

Seeing groups of friends together makes me think of my wonderful friends who I can’t wait to catch up with over copious amounts of wine and sushi.

It’s time to go home, I feel it. Though it is an odd feeling, given that we are in fact homeless. But, as they say, home is where the heart is. And in two and a half weeks we will, at last, be reunited. 

Oh, hello Autumn

Somewhere between indulging in cheese fondue in Zurich, picnicking in the Loire Valley and feasting on seafood tapas in the north of Spain, Autumn came. The leaves turned orange, the nights grew cooler and the days became shorter. Somehow, though, I missed it. We were so busy exploring - in what felt like a renewed desire to travel after an unexpected but very welcome deviation back to Cologne - that the end of summer came and went without so much as a cursory goodbye. 

But, of course, here in the north of Spain, the sun's rays are powerful: the days remain warm enough to lie on the beach and soak up the sun (which is precisely what I did on Monday to usher in the month of October - our last month on the road). 

Let me recap what we have been up to for the last two weeks...

The Loire Valley

I don't have that much to say about this, to be honest. The river is pretty, as are the iconic castles that make the area so famous. For me, though, it was quite boring. The towns that we visited all blended in to each other, and the only highlight was the freshly baked pastries we had for breakfast each morning. And the cheese... mmm. 

San Vicente de la Barquera 

We spent one week in this little town, not far from Santander, with some of our lovely friends - Rafael, Carmen and their beautiful 15 month old son Jasper. Here we surfed the waves (well, bodyboarding for me - it is much easier than surfing and requires far less courage!) and basked in the glorious sunshine. 

I must admit that squeezing in to my suffocating wetsuit for the first time in almost two years was somewhat distressing - as was the cold water and the sometimes treacherous waves - but as soon as I caught my first wave this was all forgotten. I was soaring across the sea, being carried back to the shore by the sheer force of the wave, and it was an absolutely exhilarating feeling. And I kept going back for more. 

And the other great thing? Why, the tapas, of course. For those of you who know me, I tend to be a bit of a fish-phobe, but - in the spirit of discovery - I let myself go and tried everything. And it was so, so good. We filled our hungry bellies with lightly spiced octopus cooked with potatoes, juicy king prawns sizzling in oil and copious amounts of garlic, tender grilled squids, anchovies that were like little exploding salt bombs, mussels (that, to be honest, made me a bit sick) and shiny little sardines that looked at me with their sad eyes while I tore the flesh off their little bones. The entire experience was simply divine, and we washed it down with two bottles of the house red. 

I wish I had a photo of this fishy feast for you but, alas, in our hurried excitement and hungry haste, we dived straight in without a thought for the camera. 

Picos de Europa 

We also went hiking in the Picos de Europa - beautiful mountains 20km inland from the northern coast of Spain. The views were breathtaking and, thankfully, the rain waited until we had finished. The rocky sights were dramatic and we spotted a number of caves (in which we imagine there must have been some cheese busy maturing). 

Though we only hiked for 3-4 hours, much of the way was steep and exhausting. At night, as I lay in bed, my legs hurts so much I was practically crying in my sleep - but it was worth the pain. It was simply magnificent. 

Waking up in paradise

And now we are traveling further west along the north coast. This morning we woke up at a glorious beach - the softest sand, crashing waves, dramatic rocks, fragrant trees - and the best bit? We were all alone. The beach was ours. The world was ours. And the future is ours. 

Learning how to poo on demand

Let me begin by apologising for the crudeness of the title. Forgive me, but I would like to share with you – in the spirit of openness – some of the lessons we have learnt and the struggles we have endured on our trip so far.

Campervan life is, in many ways, wonderful. We have experienced freedom in its most organic form, we have discovered the magic of time – how precious it is – and we have explored some breathtakingly beautiful little treasures hidden in this big continent of ours. But campervan life has another side to it, too – one that is far less glamorous. Pure freedom brings with it its challenges, and as a camping virgin (prior to this trip) I was in for a big shock.

Toilets

This has been one of the most difficult issues. Our campervan is actually pretty luxurious (compared to some others) and comes with its own little toilet. Problem solved, right? Wrong. Freedom to travel also entails freedom from modern infrastructure and plumbing. If you want to use the little toilet, you have to empty it (Florian and I have an agreement, however, that this is one of his jobs – I make up for it by providing sporadic bursts of entertainment in the form of singing. I know, lucky him).

But the biggest problem – and here I will be, forgive me, the crudest – is not being able to poo whenever you want. We don’t stay at campsites everyday (for they can be pretty costly), and so we are at the mercy of our bodily functions… in the wild. The solution? Hold it. Hold it for as long as you possibly can. Hold it like your life depends on it. And then, in the morning when you go for breakfast at a café, use this golden opportunity to get your business out of the way.

And herein lies the first, and perhaps biggest lesson learnt so far: learning how to do it on demand. It’s not always easy. And it’s not always successful. Most of the time it requires a lot of tea, patience and perseverance. But, in the end, it’s better than driving around with a Portaloo full of poo.

Showers

Our ‘luxurious’ campervan also comes with a shower, but it is almost unusable. The entire cubicle which consists of the toilet, sink and showerhead is tiny, and it is necessary – if you want to use the shower – to sit on the toilet while doing so. The water is cold and the pressure is weak. And, annoyingly, everything gets wet. Our bathroom is also a place for storage, so this is a particular issue.

Campsite showers – no matter how cold or filthy they can be – tend to be seen as a godsend. Having said that, I once showered at a campsite in Montenegro and the entire experience was horrendous. The campsite itself was less of a campsite and more of an old man’s backyard. The shower (if we can even call it that) was a hosepipe dangling from a wall. The water was ice cold, and you had to pull on a rope to get the water going. The shower area was basically outside, with nothing but a flimsy – and filthy – yellow curtain to protect your modesty. Had my hair not been so full of salt water and sweat, I might have skipped it. But I was desperate (have you seen how long my hair is?). And so, with Florian’s help and protection(!), I braved – and survived – possibly the worst shower experience of my life.

Over time, though, we have found more creative solutions. When we were in Greece I desperately wanted to wash my hair, but we also wanted to treat ourselves to a meal (meaning we didn’t want to pay for a campsite and dinner – you can guess which one we chose). The solution: a five litre bottle of mineral water that had gone warm in the bus. We were at the beach: I stood outside the bus, Florian inside on the raised step. And with some excellent coordination and teamwork, we managed to get my hair shampooed and conditioned in no time (we were really proud of this ingenuity).

Nevertheless, showering is a luxury that we appreciate greatly. If we happen to be travelling in an area near you, please invite us over for a shower!

Cooking

In my ‘real life’ (as I keep calling it), cooking is one of my great pleasures. I can spend ages in the kitchen cooking up a feast or baking goodies for my loved ones. Cooking in the campervan, however, is less enjoyable. The space is tight; everything – including the bed – smells of what you’ve eaten the night before; and washing up can be a nightmare.

I would like to say that we have come up with some innovative ways to deal with this but, alas, we haven’t. Instead, we have eaten out at very many restaurants and are now extremely poor. However, we hope that the next leg of the journey will be a time of economic prudence and frugality.

‘Glamping’ (you know, glamour camping)

Now, as a woman, this has been very hard for me. I want to paint my nails, I want to shape my eyebrows, and I want to wax my legs… the list goes on. And I started off very well, with good intentions and good actions. Whilst I endeavour to maintain this, I must admit that standards have slipped. My nails are short and tidy, but void of colour. My eyebrows are less than perfect… but I have come to accept this (thankfully, Florian can’t even notice the difference).

But it’s okay. The sun has filled me with a sensation of inner and outer radiance – something that only nature can do. And, for the first time in a long time, I wake up each morning without worries, without anxiety and without fears. I am exactly where I want to be, with exactly who I want to be with, and doing exactly what I want to do. Life doesn’t get much better than this. 

Let’s stop pretending

Okay, it is time to be honest. This blog is, and so far has been, a travel blog. And yet, it is hard to deny the overwhelming focus on food. Of course, discovering new places also means discovering new cuisines. But I cannot pretend that my food obsession is merely a small part of this trip and, by association, this blog.

Having spent a wonderful two days in Zurich, I was – surprisingly – at a loss about what to write. There was, of course, the beautiful city, with the huge lake at its centre, functioning as the heart of this small metropolis. There was also the river (or were there two? I obviously didn’t pay that much attention) which doubled up, surprisingly, as a city ‘swimming pool’ – though apparently the current is so strong it is only really possible to go in one direction: a nightmare for serious swimmers but, perhaps, a dream for lazy floaters like me. There were also the lovely people – old friends of Florian – who we ate, drank and enjoyed the sun with.

But do you want to know, truly, what the best and most memorable thing about Zurich was? The big pot of bubbling, hot cheese. I went to Zurich with a one-track mind: to find the most delicious cheese fondue in the city. And, thanks to a friend’s recommendation, we ended up at the Fribourger Fondue-Stübli (which I cannot recommend enough), where we indulged in a blend of Gruyere cheese, Vacherin cheese, wine and Kirsch served up in a big stoneware pot. We spent over an hour slowly dipping chunks of bread, potatoes, pickled onions and gherkins into this melting pot of heaven, savouring both the pungent flavours and the internal warmth it created.

It’s time to stop pretending. Of course, I do care about the cities we visit, the sights we see, the beaches we relax on… but, most of all, I care about the food we treat ourselves to, the flavours distinct to each country and the opportunity to take my taste buds on holiday with me.

And the other great bit? Meeting the people we love along the way. We were lucky enough to spend five days with my parents in our beautiful holiday home in Austria. We took a lift up to the top of the mountain, went for a boat ride on the lake, admired the most beautiful double-rainbow we ever saw, sought refuge from the rain by playing cards for hours on end and discovered Salzburg – Mozart’s hometown – together.

And can you guess what my favourite part of our time together was? (If not, you obviously don’t know me at all). It was the delicious, hot Indian meals that my lovely mum prepared everyday for us – her underfed (yeah, right), always-hungry (sad, but true) children. 

Fifty shades of green

When I try and think of London, I can picture only the grey of the streets and the harsh neon colours of Piccadilly Circus; the white walls of my old office and the dull beige curtains of our old flat. Colour, unsurprisingly, was not one of my main preoccupations.

This all changed the moment we arrived in Tuscany. We visited a number of little towns including Orvieto and Volterra, though it was San Gimignano that truly stole my heart – a small walled medieval hill town in the province of Siena, almost like a self-defined island amidst the sprawling Tuscan hills. The town itself was very pretty, consisting of beautiful churches and piazzas, picturesque streets and towers.

But it was the landscape that took my breath away. Having spent practically no time in the countryside previously, my knowledge of the colour green was elementary – grass is green, trees are green. And yet here was an entire universe of just this one colour.

There were illuminating, parrot green trees that made sure we all knew it was still summer. But then there were thicker, darker green trees that were a reminder of the inevitability of autumn. The silvery green trees were almost a tease, making me think of Christmas though it was only the beginning of September. And, of course, the cypress trees – typical of the Tuscan region – stood tall and proud, the natural protectors of this beautiful landscape.

Wrapped up in the walls of the town was a peaceful courtyard – the only sound came from the drifting melodies of the harpist in the corner. Though surrounded by high walls and therefore unable to actually see the landscape, it was impossible not to feel the beauty that engulfed us.

It reminded me, once again, of the importance of standing still – not just literally, but also figuratively. Human nature is such that we are always so preoccupied with what we feel we must avoid and, by contrast, what we aspire to have/be that we rarely just stop and look around at life as it is.

Each moment counts, and there is colour and life everywhere. Just look around, and you will see it. I want to take the time out of every day – no matter how busy it might feel – to appreciate everything: the infinite universe of colour, the signs that tell us (sometimes subtly, sometimes explicitly) that a new season is about to begin, and the knowledge that the world is beautiful just as it is.  

I hope – no, I know – that when I return to London, I will see more than just grey and beige. And I will allow more than just a cursory glance at my surroundings. I want to internalise everything I see, every place I go to, adding it all to my mind’s memory bank, enriching my eyes’ colour scale, and sharpening my understanding of the richness of the world.

A tale of two cities

One is dirty, loud and anarchic; the other is epic, artistic and grand. One is the home of pizza; the other is the capital of the Catholic world.

Pizza pilgrimage

“iPad! You want iPad?” shouted the grinning man, with his thick Italian accent, through my passenger seat window. It took me a few seconds to understand what he was asking, in which time I called Florian over for back up.

“You want iPad?” repeated the man, now showing us (what we believe to be) a freshly stolen iPad (there was no case or box) that he had been clutching to his chest.

“No!” we both exclaimed in unison, each of us conjuring up images of the poor tourists who had just been mugged. Before we had a chance to react, the iPad-flogging thief had given us a final grin and a quick “ciao” – he was long gone.

We were in Naples, after all, a mafia hotspot and a city described in my guidebook as “a raucous hell-broth of a city”. Though we were only there for a few hours, it was clear that Naples is a living, breathing and heaving city – full of life, chaos and the obligatory dirt that comes with it. The streets were hectic, the floor was dirty, and there was a buzz in the air that grew louder and stronger the further into the city we got.

We were there on a mission: to eat pizza (after all, Naples is where pizza was created) and we went straight to a small, dark street called Via dei Tribunali notorious for its pizzerias.

The pizzeria we chose – Del Presidente – was recommended by our guidebook and by a friend. It was, from the outside, nothing special. But as we walked in, right past a giant oven with an enormous blazing fire, we knew that this was the real deal. We ordered a margherita and a tomato-less pizza with rocket and cheese. And the verdict? They were divine – the best we ever ate.

It turns out that this pizzeria is where British über-chef Heston Blumenthal came when researching pizza for his television series ‘In Search of Perfection’.

And, of course, in Blumenthal we trust.

When in Rome

Rome was so very different to Naples. It was still chaotic and buzzing, but not in the same way. The streets were full of tourists, fountains and over-priced gelatarias. We spent two days in Rome – the second was dedicated to Ancient Rome, whilst the first to almost everything else!

We went to Vatican City and in to St Peter’s Basilica – which was breathtaking – a true powerhouse of religion, it was hard not to feel the immensity of this rich and spectacular church. The Pantheon was striking, and its architectural significance of being the largest unreinforced concrete dome ever built was not wasted on us. The Spanish Steps were more a meeting place for lovers than a real tourist attraction, and the Trevi Fountain must contain the highest concentration of wishes and loose change in one place.

In the end, our experience of these two cities came full circle. In Naples, we were full of regret for not having been able to return the stolen iPad to its rightful owner, and in Rome we ourselves became the victims of petty theft. The damage was very little – just a stolen mobile phone (and that too a very old one) – but it was enough to push us right out of the city.

And now we find ourselves in Tuscany. There is no buzzing, no chaos. We are surrounded by gentle hills, the greenest of trees and the fresh cool breeze that September brings. 

A food lover’s paradise

“Welcome. This is a typical Sicilian restaurant. We have no menu, but I tell you what we have and you choose,” explained the waitress, knowing she already had us all eating out of the palm of her hand. We nodded eagerly, thrilled in equal parts by the phrase “typical Sicilian restaurant”, the clear lack of tourists and the charming quirkiness of there being no menu.

We indulged in a mini feast of antipasti, including the Sicilian speciality caponata – a cold starter of sautéed aubergine, olives, celery and tomatoes – followed by pasta, fish and a delicious (but surprisingly chilled) bottle of red wine. We felt triumphant; our first night in Palermo and we had stumbled upon an authentic Sicilian restaurant.

But then, the bill came. And it was clear that we had been taken for an authentic Sicilian ride (something we hoped was not a speciality). The ‘spoken menu’ meant that we had no clue what we would be paying, and the charming staff took the liberty of making a quick (and very large) buck.

This was, I am happy to say, the only tourist trap into which we threw ourselves. The rest of our culinary journey through Sicily was both delicious and reasonably priced. The only thing better than feasting on Sicilian food for four days is feasting on Sicilian food with friends for four days. We met our lovely friends from London – Charlee and Lisa – in Palermo, and discovered the sights, the beaches and (most importantly) the food together.

As you already know, pizza and ice cream are good for the soul, but here in Sicily we discovered so much more. Aside from some mouth-wateringly delicious pasta dishes (which were all perfectly al dente – my favourite being a concoction of pasta, homemade pesto, king prawns and toasted almonds), we also treated ourselves to sweet and fluffy pastries filled with cream, arancini (deep-fried rice balls) and panelle (chickpea fritters) – typical Sicilian street food that surprisingly reminded me of Indian food, filling my mouth with reminiscence and a longing for home that I can’t quite shake.

Some of the best restaurants could be found hidden in winding alleyways and non-descript side streets, lit up and glowing from both the warmth of the pizza oven, as well as the hearty laughter of the locals inside. Of course, there were some comedy tourist restaurants to avoid – one in particular we came across was run by a very friendly and charming man from Calcutta who was so excited to meet a fellow Indian (as was I, I must admit) that he guaranteed to feed me and my friends extremely well. Unfortunately, though the offer was generous, the presence of the ‘Pizza Bin Laden’ on the menu was enough to put us off. We never found out if it was an exploding pizza or simply a bomb garnished with mozzarella and tomato sauce, but we politely declined.

We did a lot more than simply eat in Sicily (I promise); we explored beaches, towns and cities; we stumbled across beautiful and intricately designed churches; and we basked in the glorious sun. But Sicilian cuisine deserves a post all on its own. And I haven’t even started on the food markets yet! Exotic fruits and vegetables, the head of a swordfish, stacks of nose-tingling, aromatic spices, salty and juicy capers, tomatoes sweet enough to earn their contested title as a fruit… and much, much more.

I very rarely needed dessert. The company of my friends, who often left me in eye-watering fits of laughter and heart-rendering moments of companionship, was enough to fill me with the sweet sensation that life is at its best when it is simple and full of love.

Blessed

Today we will get on a ferry and head to Italy. We are very sad to be leaving Greece, having spent two beautiful weeks here. I feel that Greece, despite its financial woes, continues to be wonderful. It makes me realise that there is always something to be happy about. This got me thinking about all the things that I am thankful for, and – inspired by one of my favourite blogs, Rockstar Diaries – I decided to put together a little list.

I am thankful for:

…the feeling of the sun on my skin – it reaches right down in to my soul, warms it up and leaves me feeling more alive than ever

…the time to be creative – to think and to dream

…the opportunity to miss my family and friends – to appreciate their worth and the important role they play in my life

…the courage to start again – to not know what the future holds and to be okay with that

…the chance to travel – to explore, to discover and to learn along the way

…the companionship of my best friend, my soul mate, my husband – to love and to be loved

…the heightened state of my senses – to take in the beautiful sights of the world, to feel the sand between my toes, to listen to the singing of the early morning birds, to taste the salt of the sea

…the ability to be still – to be quiet, to find peace in solitude

...the possibility to be who I want to be – to do what I want to do

…the unwavering faith I have that the best is yet to come

What are you thankful for?

A political theorist in Athens

Having studied political theory at postgraduate level, I was expecting to feel exhilarated by our visit to Athens and the Acropolis – the birthplace of democracy and the most iconic manifestation of Western civilisation. And whilst it was certainly a very interesting visit – the Acropolis itself is no less than majestic – I was left feeling remarkably unmoved.

Of course, we admired the remains of the Parthenon, its architectural brilliance and its significance as a tribute to the Greek goddess Athena – the virgin goddess of wisdom, war, the arts, justice and reason. And, of course, our eyes feasted on the delightful views of Athens that we enjoyed from this privileged position high above the city. We took the time to picture plays taking place at the old Roman theatre, and to imagine the pride the Athenians felt in being the pioneers of modern civilisation (setting themselves apart from the less refined, more barbaric, classes of people).

And yet, somehow, I discovered that I feel more inspired (to write, to feel, to exist) by the calm that comes with the setting of the sun as it dips into the sea, slowly at first, and then – suddenly – disappearing so fast you’re afraid to blink in case you miss the last of its lingering rays.

I used to think that, in order to feel creative or inspired, it was essential to be at the heart of a busy city, rich in both cultural history and urban reality. London epitomised this very ideal, and in my mind Athens was guaranteed to provide the same sort of stimulus. Surely, the hub of culture and democracy is the best place for a political theorist/aspiring writer to flourish?

Though nothing like London, the chaos of Athens – an inevitable symptom of city life – only served to numb my creative spirit; the external chaos adding to my internal chaos, merging with it, losing myself in it. Taking the city’s metro (something that I was initially very excited about) only reminded me of what it feels like to commute and to be constrained – to travel, yes, but not freely.

At the end of an interesting day in Athens, I felt the most pleasure recalling a leisurely stroll we took through the National Gardens, which were beautiful and – surprisingly – very quiet. We sought refuge in the shade, and enjoyed the feeling of calm that cannot often be found in the concrete jungle of a city.

Oh, and there was that half a kilo of gelato that we indulgently treated ourselves to. That was pretty damn inspirational too. 

Show me the middle finger

On Monday the 6^th of August 2012 it was our very first wedding anniversary. 365 days as Mrs. Ballan. Before we had even worked out a route, I was adamant that the day should be spent in Greece – at a beautiful Greek beach, eating delicious Greek food. The only problem was that we were hundreds of miles, but only a few days, away from this goal.

As we drove through the Balkans, I was more and more convinced that our special day would be spent in Albania – a country I wasn’t very excited about seeing. Albania was very different from both Croatia and Montenegro (which were extraordinarily beautiful, each in their own way). Albania was rough – not just around the edges, but all over. The country’s poverty was visible everywhere. The roads were poorly constructed, filled with potholes and very often (and randomly) became unsteady dirt tracks. We saw countless unfinished buildings that had clearly stopped construction due to a lack of funds. Albania was not beautiful, but it was humbling.

Florian, of course, is able to find beauty anywhere and in anything. In this exhausting and difficult country, he found a lovely little place by Lake Ohrid to stop and have lunch. The lake was enormous, it was tranquil and it was beautiful. Part of the restaurant was even built in to the lake, giving the diners the sensation that they were floating. I couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful the ‘sea’ looked, only to keep remembering that it was actually a lake and that we were nowhere near the coast.

To cut a long story short, we crossed the border into Greece on the 5^th of August. I had been worried for no reason – of course Florian had taken it upon himself to make sure that our first wedding anniversary was exactly as I had hoped it would be. We drove to Sithonia, the ‘middle finger’ of Chalkidiki (personally recommended by one of Florian’s Greek friends for its beautiful sandy beaches and the fact that it is slightly less of a tourist magnet than other places in Greece).

It was our very own paradise. And we spent the 6^th of August swimming in the warm sea, cuddling on the beach and looking back at our first year of marriage – recounting all the wonderful bits and everything we still have to look forward to.

My wise friend Charlee, during a moment of despair, once told me not to worry, because ‘the best is yet to come’. I held on to this like an anchor, and still do, only now I think of it in both good times and bad. Florian and I have had a magical start to our marriage – 365 days of love, of fulfilling dreams, of making plans for the future – and, yet, this is just the very beginning. The best is yet to come. And so the 6^th of August was a day to take stock, as well as a day to look to the future.

 

We have spent the last few days doing much the same – swimming in the sea, lying on the beach, eating amazing Greek food and appreciating everything we have. In this state of absolute freedom, we are still creatures of habit. Our body clocks automatically wake us up at 8am and meal times are respected. Each day begins with a refreshing and revitalising dip in the sea, and each day ends with us gazing up at the stars (because our campervan is awesome and has a skylight above the bed) – and thanking our lucky stars for this feeling of unburdened, true freedom.