On a Thursday afternoon many moons ago, my friend and then-colleague Madeleine asked if I wanted to join her that evening at a secret tiny post-premiere gig by formerly-Prince-formerly-Squiggle-now-Prince-again*. It involved going home to change into suitable attire and also pack for a wedding I was heading to straight from the office the following day, returning to Soho for 11pm, falling into bed around 3am, then sloping back to work a few hours later, suitcase in tow.
Naturally, I jumped at the chance.
Of course, she knew I’d say yes. We’ve always admired each other’s determination to seize the day. Or, you know, both have a severe case of FOMO.
Therefore when, prior to my departure, Madeleine and I discussed my impending travel plans, and I said “you should join us when we’re in South East Asia!” and she said “ok! Tell me when you’re in Thailand and I’ll fly out”, I knew she meant it.
I’m strangely intrigued by international borders. I think it’s because as a Brit, we don’t have any. I don’t really understand why I can’t simply step over the imaginary line a few miles down the road, thus avoiding all the tedious formalities, but that aside, they intrigue me with their subtlety. The scenery should be identical. The vegetation remains the same. Unlike in Britain, where crossing into a neighbouring state involves traversing either over or under a large body of water, there is no buffer zone to enable a distinct separation of cultures and therefore there should be no obvious difference.
There is, of course.
Some time ago we came up with the bright idea that we should travel from Sarajevo to London by train. The Sarajevo part came from Peter’s studies; the train travel from me. I love trains. I mean, I know naff all about trains but I love to travel on them. Stations are easier to reach than airports, the journey is simpler, the scenery is often second-to-none (and unspoilt by traffic or clouds), you can walk around on board, it’s easier than flying to meet interesting people (and similarly to escape from weirdos), no passport control, no hideous journey to the suburbs four hours before your scheduled departure time, and you end up slap-bang in the middle of your destination.
What began as a great idea (fly one-way to Sarajevo, then wind our way back to London via rail alone) slowly disintegrated as we left it far too long to book flights and based our travel plans entirely on the SkyScanner results of some six weeks previously. When we finally got around to sorting tickets to Bosnia, we discovered that the cheapest flights went via Istanbul. Istanbul. Further away from London than Sarajevo – but cheaper to reach. And with a 18-hour layover. We shrugged and optimistically added another destination to our already bulging travel plans. Five countries in eight days was for suckers. We could easily do six.
The biggest joy of having neither children nor pets is the ability to jet off for a weekend and simply lock the door behind you and hope you don’t get burgled or that you left the gas on.
The other weekend, my boyfriend and I did precisely that. I had some holiday I needed to use up, we were free of 30th birthdays (they’re doing the rounds at the moment), and the opportunity was there to be seized. We had initially decided on Amsterdam but literally moments before I was about to press “buy” on eBookers, he suggested we check out the alternatives. A quick root through available flights to Tallinn, Riga, Copenhagen and Helsinki (cross-referencing prices and best possible timings) brought Helsinki out on top. Flights: purchased. I teetered on a tantrum when it turned out that average temperatures in February are -6°C, but then discovered a luxury hotel housed in a 19th century prison, and the mood was restored. Sadly AirBNB (my accommodation stalwart) doesn’t have a great foothold in Helsinki; whereas the Best Western Katajanokka had a history, good location, and breakfast included for less than the price of the few unappetising AirBNB apartments on offer.
Marrakech had always been on my to-visit list but, as a tall blonde woman, I thought it best to visit with a man. As such, I didn’t arrive until 2013, when I visited with my boyfriend.
My strongly feminist leanings rage at such a situation but nonetheless it seemed sensible, and in retrospect I don’t regret holding off as long as I did. Still, in practice, I’d say that Marrakech is a reasonably safe environment for a woman, solo traveller or otherwise, and (unlike India), I haven’t advised any other female travellers against going.
Marrakech was, nonetheless, something of a starting-off point for our travels. We had ten days in total and I was keen to explore the souks and soak up the atmosphere of this ancient city. Still, we only hung around for two nights at the start before heading off to pastures new.
“Flashpacking” as a term has been around for several years now, although it’s only recently begun to gain prominence.
It’s the evolution of backpacking; the inevitable next step for scrimpers who spent their student years taking chicken buses from one “budget friendly” Lonely Planet suggestion to the next. Our hotels these days have balconies, and bedding is provided in the cost of the room . . . even if there’s chipped tilework and a strange smell near the window. We no longer share bathrooms but we do still rent bicycles. We like breakfast to be included but local-style, not Full English. We take cookery courses instead of booze cruises. We choose AirBNB over Couchsurfer.
Welcome, fellow Flashpackers!
This blog intends to document, inform, suggest and inspire.
It’s aimed at 30-something travellers (although there’s no age limit either way!) who maintain the ethos of their penny-pinching backpacking twenties but, these days, have a little more cash to play with.
