Geneva Airport, 5.15 am

I know I've posted this before, but it still sucks as much as ever.

A question of trust

I'm pissed off. But it's all my own fault.

"You told us you were going to write a blog when you moved to France" said brunette female colleague while we were out for dinner last week.

"I do write a blog" said I, "But it's not something I share with people"

"Why not?" asked blonde female colleague.

"Because it's about my life, and there are things in there that are incredibly personal and the anonymity allows me more freedom."

"OK, pass the mango chutney" said blonde female colleague, food once again finding it's usual place at the front of her thoughts.

We carry on eating, we drink some and drink some more.

Now, safely out of their way (me in Lyon, them in UK) I get an email....

"Please don't hate us, but we found your blog".

So, if my writing takes a turn for the prim, proper and less revealing, you know why.

They tell me that they are staying away but I fear the damage is done. It's going to take me a while to forget that people I know are reading what I'm writing.

Shit, sometimes I'm a dumbass - why did I tell them?

But hey, this isn't about my open-ness is it?

Home. Home on the range.

Apparently I am at home.

I am staying at my mother's house for three days while I go to meetings at my company HQ. I've cunningly arranged meetings for Friday and Monday so that I have the weekend between to visit family, friends, catch up, get drunk, chase tail (yeah, right).

Anyway, the thing that is annoying me is that everyone (and I mean everyone) that I have spoken to - from colleagues to family members, people I barely know, people I love - everyone I have interacted with, has asked me the same question....

"How long are you home for?"

OK. Home may well be where the heart is, or maybe it's wherever I lay my hat - I guess it depends on which strand of accepted wisdom you subscribe to - but actually, for me, home is my house. The place where my things are. The place where I live. The place where I get my mail and do my laundry.

Home is in France. It is Lyon, soon to be in Paris. In the UK, at my mother's house, in the office at my 'hotdesk', in the pub with mates, I am not at home - I am a visitor.

So every time I get asked this question I answer with "I'll be back home on Tuesday". Some people get it, most people think I'm being obtuse, awkward, pretentious.

My clothes are in a suitcase, my toiletries in an airline approved plastic bag.

I am not at home.

Israeli days, part five

At Haifa the customs hall was big and imposing. All sorts of families and groups were lined up to get on the boat. There were three boats leaving that day – Heraklion, Athens and Port Said. Ours was due to leave first, stopping at Limassol and Rhodes before arriving at Heraklion.

When it came to our turn to go through customs, the two girls were waved on through but us four boys were taken aside. We were taken to individual curtained-off cubicles. I was told to strip from the waist down. The presence of two Israeli soldiers with the border guard made me realise that there was to be no negotiating here.

I took off my trousers and pants. I was forced to bend over on to a table. The search was thorough, and rough to say the least. After the cavity search, they emptied my bag and went through everything. Every meagre element of my life was scrutinised by these three men in uniform, while I pulled my clothes back on. A bag of washing powder was taken away for testing. My camera was opened up and the film was lost. After they had finished they declared me fit to leave the country.

I sat there ruined, in a pile of my possessions and stopped myself from crying.

I packed my bag, and walked out of the room and onto the boat.

“L’hitraot,” said the man checking my ticket and passport. “See you soon”.

“Yeah, well, Shalom and all that” thought I “but you won’t be seeing me again”.

Israeli days, part four

He was in town for some sightseeing before heading back to ‘Europe’. He was Canadian, although I suspect he was actually American. He had too many maple-leaf flags on his bag not to be.

He’d supposedly been making a Hollywood movie in the desert. He claimed to be a cameraman, which probably meant he was an extra, at best. Mel Gibson or Sly Stallone or Arnie had been in the film. He had lots of tales and lots of money.

He was mid-thirties, horny as hell and full of shit.

I ended up staying with him at the Nile Hilton for what felt like weeks, but surely it could only have been a matter of days. We lived off room service club sandwiches, whatever drugs the bell-boy could/would get for us and family sized portions of alcohol. Occasionally we’d make it down to the pool, or out to some party.

I don’t remember much of this period, just small things. I can’t remember his face or his name, but I can remember his body. I remember being drunk in the lobby of the hotel and how the waiters would look at us by the pool. And I remember that we were rarely alone. It was all about as fucked up as it gets.

One morning, with history repeating itself (but this time in my favour), while he slept, I left.

I got to the Sinai bus station, took the bus through the desert to Taba, and there crossed over the border to Eilat.

In Eilat, surrounded by over the top hedonism and the sheer luxury and opulence of the resort hotels, I realised how it was to have no money. The next morning, waking up at the bus station as people were stepping over where I lay to get on the bus, I realised how it was to have no friends.

How had this become my life? Something had to change.

My road to Damascus moment came on a road that, if you kept going through Israel, through Lebanon and into Syria would indeed have led to Damascus. It happened on a bus ride through the grey and barren Negev. With nothing to do but look at the desert; with sleep eluding me, and books an unaffordable luxury, it came to me.

For the first time ever I was clear about who I was, what I wanted and who was in control. I knew that it was all in my own hands and I could choose to sink or swim. I had reached a turning point.

Back in Jerusalem, I went down on bended knee and got my old job back at the hotel. The owner took my passport as a guarantee that I wouldn’t leave him short staffed again with no notice. I worked hard and drank less, staying off anything stronger than beer. I saved money and fell in with a decent crowd of travellers.

We partied lots in the coming weeks, and I was certainly no angel. But I had been tempered by Cairo, and was more cautious about pushing my limits too far. I was often the first in bed, and more often than not it was my own bed, alone.

In November, I took the bus up north with them, to the port city of Haifa. To the ferry heading for Greece, for Europe, for sanity and home.

Israeli days, part three

The bus pulled into Cairo after a long overnight journey from Luxor. It was August and the place was choking with heat, pollution and sweat. The bus had been fairly comfortable, but we’d been split up – the bus too full for us to sit together – and we’d both been hassled by our neighbours during the night. The busdriver had played hindi films at full volume for most of the night too. How we ever slept, I don’t know.

Being back in Cairo was a shock after the slightly more laid back (but still manic) south. We sat down with our bags at a cafe and tried to pull ourselves together over some thick Egyptian coffee.

We’d been travelling in Egypt for a few weeks and had done the traditional sights – the valley of the kings, the felucca trip up the nile, abu simbel, temples, temples and temples. We’d also spent a bit too long in the Bedouin camps of Dahab on the Sinai peninsula – back then there were no luxury five star hotels and dive boats. It was just hippies, Bedouins, and guys like us – lost, looking for something, no idea where to find it.

Our relationship had found a place, and a pace. We'd talked about it at length and knew that this was something good and something rare. Equally, neither of us wanted to get into anything heavy and neither of us wanted to put too much pressure on the other. We were no more than a typical fledgling couple on holiday - enjoying each other's company, learning more about one another and making the most of the sunshine and the exotic surroundings.

In Cairo, we checked into a cheap hotel and went to bed. I slept for what felt like days, but it could only have been a day, couldn’t it? I woke up and the room was dark. I was alone.

My head felt like it was attached to something else – a washing machine, a printing press, a tank of sharks, anything but my body. I could hear him snoring softly, but the oppressiveness of the heat and the stale room stopped me from moving nearer to him. I felt dreadful, the combination of heat, sun, sleepless nights and exotic substances had finally caught up with me. I knew the only way out of this was to go back to sleep.

When I finally woke again it was light outside and the sun was coming through the curtains, burning up every ounce of oxygen out of the room.

Paul was nowhere. Nor were his bags.

There was a note.

He’d gone home.

He loved me, but he wasn’t gay. It was all too much for him. This wasn’t the life he wanted. He didn't want to take this path. He’d had a girlfriend back home for goodness’ sake. How could he ever explain this to the folks in the UK?

He’d taken advantage of my exhausted state and gotten himself on a plane back to London.

I never saw him again.

Trouble loves me

So, here I am, all proud of myself for not sleeping through my 4.45am alarm. For making my 6.15 flight. For arriving in Amsterdam before the dutch awoke for their morning koffie. For sleeping all the way.

But hey, the good times weren't to last. I've left my driving license at home. No nice rental car with music for me. Now I'm on the bloody train all the way to Almelo. Never heard of it? You do surprise me. Go any further east and you're in Germany. That's how nice it is.

Pissed off? Mildly. It's no way to start a week. Especially one that involves meetings in five countries...

Israeli days, part two

I got back to Jerusalem a week later – it took a while for me to say goodbyes (and wait for my meagre pay packet). Paul was waiting for me at the bus station at the top of the Jaffa Road. He’d been true to his word and found me a job at his hotel.

The hotel was a long way from being a deluxe establishment. Everyone who worked there did the full range of hotel jobs. During my 12-hour shift, I had to check people in and out, run the bar and make sure the rooms were clean. I had to stop people smoking dope on the terrace (yeah, right, sure I did) and generally make sure the place didn’t fall down. The Lord only knows how this didn’t happen.

Paul and me slipped into a routine of sorts. We shared a room, shared a bed and we definitely had our moments. But we weren’t lovers. We weren’t boyfriends. I was 19 and he was 20. Neither of us had a clue. 2 city boys in a dangerous country, too drunk or stoned to appreciate what was going on, where we were or what we had.

We had run-ins with all sorts of locals who wanted to quiz us on Israel vs Palestine, who wanted to know what the fuck we were doing there and which side we were on. We were surrounded by anger, drugs, love, guns and sunshine. It was a heady mix that did neither of us any favours.

“I’m leaving” Paul said, one Friday evening, just after the Sabbath siren had gone off.
“Where are you going”
“Back to England, this place is too crazy”

Seems he’d had enough. One too many bags of exploding tomatoes, one too many nights on acid, one too many identity checks, one too many Arabs thrown off the bus for no reason. I was gutted. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew that going home was not the answer.

Maybe it was the shock of the decision, maybe it was a realisation that things were at an end, but that night we got it right. We had a great night, dancing, off our tits on ecstasy at some dance party in some underground nightclub. For once we were able to ignore the guns, the hassle, the political questions. Love was all around us and we spent the night together, finally realising that what we had was pretty awesome.

“I’ve got an idea” I said to him over breakfast coffee and smokes.
“What?”
“This place is fucked, but there’s no reason to go home yet”
“So what’s the idea then?” he said, curiously.
“Let’s go to Egypt”

Israeli days, part one

So, when I was 19 I broke my mother's heart and contributed to my father's early death by leaving the comfort of Brummie suburbia and heading to Israel.

"But sweetheart, you're not Jewish" said my mother.
"They let anyone in these days, you know" said I
"But you'll get killed" said my father.
"How many people do you know who have got killed in Israel?" said I, dumbly, stupidly, foolishly.

Before going, I'd been to see the kibbutz office in London who'd told me that all of the kibbutzim were full and that I should not go to Israel expecting to find a place on one. Given that I landed at Ben Gurion with only £100 and no return flight, it was pretty essential that I found a place on a kibbutz (or a moshav, I wasn't choosy) as soon as I could.

The first few days in Tel Aviv are a blur. I remember the White House hostel, dance parties on the beach, smoking joints with soldiers, drinking cheap vodka and rarely getting back to my own bed. The kibbutz office in Tel Aviv, meanwhile, had told me to come back in a month's time. I told them they were taking away my dream and I'd have to go back to the UK. The lady at the office had phoned around and finally left me a message at the Hostel to get in touch with her. There was a place at a Kibbutz on the Jordanian border, at the top of the west bank, near the 'town' of Beit She'an - if I wanted it, it was mine.

I got on the bus, and headed north.

I worked on Kibbutz for a couple of months - dragging irrigation pipes from one end of a field to the other, picking dates, picking mangoes. Before they'd let me do the outside work though, I had to do two weeks in the plastic's factory that was on-site. It was dreary work, I spent my days cutting circles out of cardboard sheets. But the fumes from the plastics helped to numb the boredom somewhat...

I'd never had to do manual labour before, having lived a princely life at my parents house, and the work in the fields was back-breaking. It didn't help that it was usually done with a chronic hangover. Work always started at five am, to beat the heat of the day. It was over by lunchtime and I'd get to sit in the sun, drinking the cheapest vodka with my swedish room-mate.

When we worked in the fields, we always had to have a kibbutznik with us - because they were the only ones allowed guns. We couldn't go out to the fields without armed protection, as the fields were bounded on at least one side by the Jordanian border and the big fence and dirt track. Soldiers in Israeli watchtowers watched our every move, and boy did those soldiers laugh when, while driving the tractor, I accidentally ran over the kibbutznik assigned to us one day. They soon took me off tractor duty.

One day, I was in Jerusalem for some R&R and I - quite literally - bumped into someone I knew from back home. I didn't really know him, but we knew each other's faces from the Birmingham nightclub scene. He was working in a hotel in Jerusalem - a real cheap dive. I stayed with him for a couple of days and we hang out at clubs with guys home on leave from the army, still with their Uzi's around their shoulders. We drank and got stoned together, we rolled our way back home up Ben Yehuda street at four am feeling very exotic and very out of control.

He asked me if I'd go back to the kibbutz and get my stuff, come back to Jerusalem and stay with him. He'd find me a job while I was away.

I agreed and headed off. How my life was to change.

Solid ground

I gave notice on my flat in Lyon today. I have twelve weeks to find somewhere to live in Paris, pack and move.

Now I get to spend three months wondering what the hell I've got myself into again. The thing is, I'm absolutely certain that this is a good move, so why do I feel like I'm just running away again.

If ever there was a life built on shifting sands this surely must be it?

Strangeways here we come

I've just been over at world 66 - where they have a great tool for mapping your travels.

Well it seems that I have visited 64 countries and 22 US states. I'm not sure how (or when) that happened. But here are some of my more obscure moments and mishaps:

Eating a lunch of millet and dust with a 100 year old woman and her giant tortoise (who looked younger than she did) in Mali, before going out to check what the fortune telling foxes had to say.

Running down the Jaffa Road in Jerusalem, away from a bag of tomatoes that was about to explode. Admittedly it was originally thought to be a 'device' but when the soldiers exploded it, it looked like a jar of Dolmio had gone off.

Having a late dinner with Liza Minelli in Missouri (admittedly, she had a very strong Eastern European accent) and the octogenarian waitress asking me how 'my country' was coping since Russia pulled out. I think she thought I was from the Ukraine, not the UK.

Falling asleep during a meditation session in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Dharamsala. I fell asleep, fell sideways and crushed the big, fancy hat that the monk sat next to me was holding. The shame.

Finding the perfect beach to camp on in New Caledonia. Thinking we had the place to ourselves. Then finding a French Navy base round the corner. I was upset that our idyll wasn't as it seemed, but then, when I realised that the matelots had their playtime on the beach (and that they had a bar) I was very, very happy.

Being locked on a stationery train on the Chinese/Mongolian Border with no toilets. I needed to take a leak as soon as they locked the door. I got said leak ten hours later when they finally let us off the train. Meditation came in very handy.

Waking up on an overnight bus in Egypt to find the 'gent' next me had his hand deep in my trouser pocket. He wasn't counting my change, trust me.

Meeting my self-declared long-lost twin on the train from Delhi to Shimla. Bless him, I don't think my mother ever knew she'd had an Indian baby. It took me five days to lose him again.

And you've all heard about my body cavity search in Israel, so let's not do that again. The memory of it does not serve me well.

So, what I'm after here are your own personal travel highlights. Surely I'm not the only one that these ridiculous things happen to?

Stop the clock

Have you ever tried to explain to a foreigner who someone very famous is, when their fame is limited to your own country? Like, for example, trying to explain Robbie Williams to the Americans, or being French and trying to convince a Brit that Johnny Halliday is a god. It's hard work.

It's even harder trying to explain who that person is, and why you are dressed as them to someone who doesn't really speak your language and who really just wants to punch you.

Saturday night I found myself in a rough bar in Middelburg (Middel-of-nowhere-burg) dressed as Anneka Rice, trying to explain my big blond wig and jumpsuit to the locals.

Luckily I wasn't alone - there were four of us Anneka-likees and one treasure. Yes, my good friend the government finance advisor was in full drag, with 'treasure' fakely tattooed down his thigh.....he stood six foot eight in his six inch platform heels and was, to say the least, devastatingly gorgeous.

My Anneka outfit had a toy helicopter attached by wire to my headset, and it did a good job of bouncing around and poking people in the eye. I don't know if you've ever tried to have a decent conversation when you've got a big chopper flapping around in front of your face....it's most distracting, I can tell you.

The locals were fascinated by us, but decided pretty early on that they weren't interested in the celebrity behind the costumes. They were just enchanted by our womanly curves and beautiful blond-ness. Unfortunately, I looked a bit more like Vanessa Feltz than Anneka Rice, but hey I thought I was hot.

We got bought plenty of drinks and a couple of the Annekas headed to a 'house party' with a couple of unruly looking locals. We played it a little safer and ended up in the Brooklyn bar, dancing on tables to 'I will survive', which was obviously being played in our honour. Sweet jesus, it was more than a little ridiculous.

Anyway, the night got longer and the drinks got stronger, and before you know it we're heading back to the hotel, me secretly jealous of the attention that Treasure got, but secretly thrilled that I wasn't trolling around in those heels on cobbles.

We woke up the next morning looking like we'd been dug up from under the patio. A very extensive beauty routine, conducted largely through a morning-after-foggy-haze, was necessary to get us looking human and alive again.

The hotel seemed quite pleased to say goodbye to us. The bedroom we left behind looked like a bomb had gone off in a princess's boudoir. I'm not sure how they'll ever get the glitter off the bedlinen.

Today I'm in London for a meeting with Sir Bernard Ingham, Margaret Thatcher's former Press Secretary. I won't be showing him the photos.

Stop moaning, will you.

I get this creeping feeling that I moan too much.

I moan about work, and I moan about always being on aeroplanes. I moan about people coming to visit me and I moan that people don't visit. I moan too much. I think.

Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to brighten up my outlook and seek out the positive, ignore the negative. From now on, this will be a sunny blog, a happy place, the kind of place that will make you smile when you visit.

But before I get too carried away, can I just tell you about Friday...

I tried to get up early, but really couldn't. So by the time I left the house to drive to Geneva and catch my plane I was already verging on the late. I was heading to Holland for a weekend of non-stop alcohol-fuelled glamour, but more of that to come.

My car is parked on the zigzag street that climbs the hill behind my house. Well, I say 'is parked'. I should say 'was parked'.

Unbeknownst to my lovely self, the local council had decided that they would resurface the road and so all cars needed to be moved. By tow truck. To the city pound.

So, I call the police. 'Have you got my car?'. Apparently it's nothing to do with them. They put me on to the pound directly. I call them and they say that, yes, they do have my car and yes, I can come and collect it and yes, I do need to bring money with me. How much, say I. One hundred and twenty euros, say they. Jesus wept, say I.

An hour later (I kid not) my taxi arrives and I head off for the pound. Taxi takes me to the wrong pound, despite me giving him the full address. He thought I'd got the address wrong, bless him, and was only 'being helpful'.

I get my car back, once the pound has decided that they will accept payment by card after all, but the price is now 160 euros. I ask why it has gone up and they say that it 'just has' and offer no more explanation.

I fail to find the strength to argue and just get in my my car and head to Geneva.

By this stage I have obviously missed my original flight by a country mile. So I fork out 300 francs - 200 euros - for a seat on a later flight. I sit down in the fancy lounge and eye the whisky bottle in a most unhealthy manner. Unfortunately I'm picking up a car at the other end, so numbing the pain will have to wait.

I take my seat on the plane, close my eyes and sleep.

I wake up in Holland and breathe a sigh of relief. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that a gin and tonic isn't too far away.

Lord help me, I've never needed a drink so badly...

Ich studierte es lang und stark

Round the corner, um die ecke

Round the corner, um die ecke

Round, um

the corner, die ecke

Round the corner, um die ecke

As if I need something else to think about, I'm trying to improve my German.

I'm actually doing it because I feel a bit guilty. The company sent me to Berlin last summer to learn German, at great expense. Whilst there, I did get plenty of opportunity to practice my German tongue, however I left with my language skills still sadly lacking.

So I've downloaded this earworm from I-Tunes and it's driving me crazy. It's supposedly a good way to learn a language - or improve on existing skills. The problem is that you end up speaking in a very sing-song way, because that's the way you've learned it.

I was just making some coffee and found myself singing "round the corner, um die ecke, round, um, the corner, die ecke....".

It's good, but it's annoying as hell.

Runaway train

I woke up at another Airport hotel this morning.

It was at Schiphol, but it could have been anywhere - the view from these places is always the same. Taxiways, runways, planes, cargo containers, random industrial buildings and car parks.

I opened the curtains and looked out of the window. The scene today was covered in frost and glowing in early morning sunshine. With a fast train to Paris waiting for me, I knew I’d have to get into the shower pretty soon, wash some of this morning fog away.

I got back into bed, and refound my position, next to DC. I pulled his arm around me and headed back to the land of comfortable, warm, lovely early morning sleep. His body was warm and soft and his arm held me sleepily tight.

I’d tried my hardest to avoid seeing him. Unfortunately, my meeting yesterday was at his agency, and as much as I hoped he wouldn’t be there, he was and there was little I could do.

I guess I could have said no to a beer after the meeting. I could have said no to a second beer. I could have declined the invitation to dinner. I could have not invited him back to the hotel.

I could have, but I didn’t.

Now I’m on the fast train and it can’t go fast enough. Can’t get me away from him and my stupid mistake and my hurting heart quickly enough.

The train soon puts two international borders between us and I start to relax. Focus on work, focus on the day ahead, focus on the cute guy across the aisle.

Focus on anything, but not on him. That way heartbreak lies.

It's love. I know it is.

We drove down to Cap d'Antibes today, to the little beach at La Garoupe. It's the beach where F Scott Fitzgerald set 'Tender is the Night'. A little beach that looks northwards towards Nice, Monaco and the snow-capped Alps behind. To say it is beautiful is kind of an understatement.

Anyway, it was just me and the kids - we'd left their mom and dad (my brother and his wife) back at the apartment, giving them a bit of time for a tender moment. No doubt they just slept in front of the TV, which has been showing High School Musical around the clock. May God help us all and save us from Zac Ephron's winning smile.

We built sandcastles and we paddled in the sea. I held my niece's hand and we waded out to her waist deep in water - just above my knee. She's 3 now, soon to be 4 and she's just adorable. Her brother (5, soon to be 6) is pretty gorgeous too. We paddled and we wrote our names in the sand. We collected stones and shells and seaweed pods.

We got a bit of well-deserved sunshine and lay laughing and baking in the last rays of the afternoon. We moved into the shade and with one next to me and one lay on my chest, we snoozed.

As it dawned on me that we needed to get back, I was suddenly hit by how much I love this pair and how much I miss them. I realise how this will never be my life and it makes me a little sad, not that I'd change it.

Sometimes they drive me crazy with their arguing and general three and five year old stuff, but more often than not they just stop me in my tracks and make my chest swell.

With a singing heart and red shoulders, I bundle them in the car and we head home. 'I love you Uncle' says my niece. 'Me too' says nephew. And they both promptly fall asleep.

Ye gods, how great these days are.

Deal. Or no deal?

Heathrow. Terminal one, thank the lord. Which seems to have turned into a beautiful airport to fly from (once past security, natch) now that BA have shifted most of their flights over to T5. I'm flying BA, but curiously the Nice flight is staying here for the time being. Anyway, I'm not complaining - the shops are empty, there are loads of seats, the staff seem chilled and it's how airports should be.

Shame that the same can't be said for T5, but hey, je m'en fiche.

So, the deal has been done. I've signed up for two years in Paris.

I've had to pretty much sign my soul over to the devil, but I'm working on the basis that two years in Paris at someone else's expense doesn't come along every day.

The deal sees me travelling much less (but I'll believe it when I see it) and I'll also be getting an office (i.e. not the corner of my living room) and an assistant (praise be - I'll never have to put another printer cartridge in). No doubt the search for new office/home/assistant/slave will feature heavily over the coming weeks. You have been warned.

Now, all this is very well but it is only a two-year deal. As you may have noticed, I'm not really a man with a plan. But I fear I need one. It seems I have but two years to get this damn book written and achieve international-literary-god status so that I never have to sign of of these contracts again.

Am I setting myself up for a massive fall? Move to Paris, start new job, work full-time, and write a book in two years? Oh, and somewhere along the line I'm kind of hoping to fall in love.

That's all going to happen isn't it?

Yeah, right.