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Seeing as I can’t travel thanks to COVID, it is time to reminisce and travel in my head. And catch up my blog! So camel experience aside, what of Mongolia itself? The real focus of this tour for me was meant to be the Transsiberian Railway experience, and the four days in Mongolia seemed like a nice little add-on but not really the star of the show. When I read the travel brochure I figured that travelling over the Gobi desert would be kinda cool (it was) as would sleeping in a ger, the Mongolian equivalent of a yurt.

How surprised I was to discover that Mongolia was an absolutely incredible place and easily one of the highlights of the four month trip. What is it about Mongolia that makes it so amazing ?

Well first, you are automatically a millionaire. I carried around 200,000 tugrik, the local currency, in my pocket. I’ve never carried 200,000 of anything in my pocket in my life. It was the equivalent of NZ$100. Everything was ridiculously cheap. Dinner for an enormous platter of dumplings and other mixed delicacies was NZ$7. Everyone else had huge portions too. Beer $3.

Ulaan Baatar, the capital where we stayed, is like the Las Vegas of Asia – arising out of the desert is a reasonably modern city at high altitude sprinkled with traditional buildings, and Chingghis Square which is dedicated to Ghengis Khan. We visited another famous Genghis Khan statue and nearby, a man doing Mongolian script calligraphy. $10 later and I had a scroll of my name. We went shopping for a half day and it simply was not enough – beautiful handmade bags, cushions, homewares and ohhh the Gobi cashmere. Again, all at insanely cheap prices. This is definitely one destination for a girls’ trip.

Near Chingghis Square is an irish pub, the only one in Mongolia. Apparently anywhere in the world you go, you’ll always find an irish pub. One of my irish friends recounted the tale of going trekking in the Himalayas where he started to get altitude sickness. As he trekked along becoming increasingly unwell he told himself that he needed to find a first aid station fast. In the distance he saw a guiness sign with shamrock and thought he was hallucinating from the altitude. But no, it was in fact an irish pub halfway up the Himalayas. One guinness later, he felt much better and carried on his way.

But back to Ulaan Baatar. The centre is very colourful, in fact, so is most of Mongolia and the Mongolians think nothing of painting their buildings bright pink, or having roofs of bright blue, orange or yellow. Around 40% of the population live in Ulaan Baatar, the rest still living the nomadic lifestyle in their yurts. In fact, some have decided they want the best of both worlds and moved to the city, to a small patch of land…where they have erected their yurts.

We got treated to the typical touristy cultural show but it was actually really good – dancers, singers, traditional costumes, and Mongolian throat singing. Yes throat singing. It’s actually incredible to listen to, hypnotic . The Mongolians are also extremely friendly, and in Ulaan Baatar speak impeccable English, which really surprised me, given my experiences in Beijing. They also speak Russian. Along with the Russian influence comes Mongolian vodka. You are in for a treat with this.

Then we headed out into the countryside to experience two nights in a yurt. The first thing that you have to get used to is in fact the altitude. Mongolia sits at a height of on average 1580m above sea level and, out in the parks where you go hiking, it is obviously higher. Think spending 4 days two thirds of the way up Mount Ruapehu. It’s not high enough to get altitude sickness but it is high enough to be puffing up the hills after only 45 minutes and getting headaches.

Yurt life is roomy and magnificently unecological. In the centre of the yurt is a coal-based fire which gets stoked for you every two hours. You need it though, because in May it is still cold and the temperature drops below zero at night. Just a shame there is no other developed source of energy.

Still, it was huge amounts of fun, particularly as we came across another tour group filled largely with Australians, including one very drunk lad who managed to scrape the top of his head off on the ceiling of his yurt. Yurts aren’t designed for tall people. In fact, they’re not even designed for average sized people. Fortunately there was a nurse on hand in the tour group, and I could see the tour guides muttering something about insurance.

We were in a yurt camp with a yurt dining hall and of course yurt loos, which didn’t fare too badly even though they were basically longdrops. One in particular required a degree of dexterity to use as the hole was quite wide. In positioning yourself, you needed to semi hover and clutch the sides so as not to fall in. It was not something to be attempted after drinking Mongolian vodka. As well as vodka, traditional Mongolian food is beef/yak stew with potatoes. There are few greens as it is hard to grow crops here, so it is largely a meat-based diet.

After a shot of vodka it of course seemed like a good idea to finish the night off with some Yin Yurt Yoga. Our poor Russian tour guide had never done yoga so I eased him gently into it with a few cat/cows, child’s pose, and downward facing dogs. He appeared to get more anxious as the poses became increasingly bizarre. The kicker was Happy Baby at which point he shouted “I don’t know you well enough!” and promptly ran out of the yurt, to fits of laughter from us.

But the highlight and most magical part of Mongolia is its scenery. Miles and miles of mountains and steppe, together with all sorts of wildlife – yaks, large vultures, and two-humped camels, only 500 of their type left. Our first full day at the camp we spent hiking including to a nearby buddhist monastery with stunning views. The path was dotted with signs each with a buddhist message to reflect on. At the start of the path to the monastery was a spinning wheel. You spun it and whatever number it landed on, that was the number of the sign you were supposed to find and take the message for yourself. At the top you could look out over the plains to more mountains. Breathtaking. We finished the day off with a spot of Mongolian archery. May I say that I am not destined to be selected for the archery team at the Olympics.

Then there was the eagle. On our way back to Ulaan Baatar we passed by some market stalls, and I noticed a stand where an eagle was perched. You could pay to hold him, so I had a turn. I don’t have the words to do justice to this experience, which was almost spiritual. I put gloves on and held him by the rope that he was attached to and lifted him. He was very heavy, but this great bird turned and looked directly at me, as if he was looking straight into my soul. I couldn’t say anything, just met his gaze back. He lifted his wings and began to beat them, creating a hum that throbbed through me. He just seemed so calm and trusting, but so powerful. I can never forget it.

Thank you Mongolia, I will definitely be back.



At this time of the year, one usually reflects on the joys and challenges of the year that has been, goes Christmas shopping, and prepares for a family Christmas Day involving turkey, ham, or a good ol’ summer BBQ, family tensions washed down with copious quantities of wine, and Uncle Bernie loudly snoring as he naps in the corner. I don’t have an Uncle Bernie but I imagine if I did, he would be the one drinking a little too much port and telling inappropriate jokes.

My first Christmas in France was spent with Philippe’s* absolutely lovely French farming family who did not speak English. My French at the time was…ok…though I did manage to cock up a conversation about something to do with a comedian called Fasse (I think), loudly substituting it for another similar French word referring to one’s bottom (les fesses). First time meeting them all, I pride myself on first impressions.

In France, Christmas is actually celebrated on Christmas Eve at night. It is a grand affair. Well, at least the one I went to was. There were approximately 20 members of the family and the elders all lined up while the younger ones filed past in an orderly fashion to shake hands and bisous (three cheek kisses). The number of bisous (or bises for short) depends on the region you’re from. Where we were it was three. All rather formal and a little different from the “Here you go, wrap your laughing gear around that” as a glass of bubbles is placed in your hand that I associate with New Zealand Christmases.

Champagne there was, which is just as well because I found the family to be very reserved with me at first. I tried to make polite conversation, help the hostess etc but to no avail. Not what a kiwi welcome would have been. Once we were seated at 9pm, well, that was when the fun began. Foie gras, huge seafood platters, course after course of food – duck, fresh farm vegetables, bottle after bottle of extremely good wine, and plenty of pointed questions about why I was in France, washed down with more wine and food and laughs. It was 4am by the time we’d finished. When I expressed my concern to Philippe that I hadn’t felt very welcome at first, he explained that of course I was, they had brought out the best wine for me and that showed they had decided to accept me.

Christmas Day itself in France appears to be a day of rest, and I can see why. I did manage to drag my sorry self into 11am mass, but after that the day was spent recovering. I really miss Philippe’s kind and generous family but that’s a story for another time.

In other European countries, particularly the Netherlands, there are two Christmas Days simply known as First Christmas (25th) and Second Christmas (26th). Ever the practical culture, the first Christmas Day is spent with one family and the second Christmas spent with the other side of the family. The only argument is who gets to go first.

My next Christmas was spent back in New Zealand with my family, and started with my autistic and speech-less eldest brother throwing an almighty tantrum due to being in significant pain as we later discovered. Fortunately there were also bubbles which I quickly poured for everyone after my brother had calmed down and my daughter and I had cleaned up. Luckily he did settle and seemed to enjoy his Christmas dinner before having a nap on the couch.

This year was different. I was back in France, not able to get to New Zealand because of border restrictions and quarantine facilities being booked up until February. The two week quarantine would also have come with a $3000 price tag on top of an already inflated airline ticket.

France locked down again with 24 hours’ notice on October 31 until the middle of December after which time shops were allowed to open for Christmas shopping and a curfew put in place from 8pm till 6am. For Christmas Eve there was no curfew, but restrictions of maximum 6 people in one house at a time were in place. Yeah right. No famous European Christmas markets this year except for a street of appropriately-distanced cabins that I discovered in Paris after Christmas. Oh and one cabin in Orlean where I was able to have a vin chaud/gluhwein/mulled wine. For New Year’s Eve the curfew was back.

After already 6 weeks of literally just working and sleeping, I decided to take a good ten days’ off over Christmas. It was just as well that there was sleep that I needed because that was really all there was to do. Well, other than to battle the now non-socially-distanced-but-still-mask-wearing-crowds at the supermarkets for the Christmas Eve dinner.

Yes, even though it would be a Zoom Christmas, I had a friend coming over and thought I would still do a proper Christmas. I bought my first lot of European lights (the batteries cost more than the actual lights), a sapin (christmas tree) that I dragged up six flights of stairs and decorated with my first ever lot of European decorations. Naturally the cat thought it was a toy and spent many a happy evening pulling off a decoration that took her fancy before the obligatory knock-it-all-over moment.

Of course the butcheries were all full of beautifully prepared meat (usually volaille – poultry game meat – quail, duck, capon (don’t ask me what this is, I still need to google it), guinea fowl, and yes, turkey). The magic is that the butcher has already stuffed and prepared it all for you. I picked a stuffed capon (what the hell is a capon?), boned, and smothered in truffled butter. My friend, being Dutch and not overly enamoured with Christmas, played the Grinch due to previously poor experiences. When I asked what Dutch food I could add, I was told about Oliebollen and Appelflappen – both deep-fried apple fritter type desserts. Although traditionally served at New Year’s. Dutch Christmas food is just meat and veg.

So we had a mixed New Zealand and French Christmas with foie gras and fig toasts, prawn and avocado, salmon, the capon, and a French buche – Christmas log dessert. No, I didn’t make it, I queued for miles outside the patisserie with everyone else who was picking up their buches. Socially-distanced this time.

The beauty of the fact France celebrates Christmas on the evening of the 24th is that New Zealand is celebrating it at the same time even though there is a twelve hour time difference. So I was able to call everyone after dinner while they were preparing for lunch.

Afterwards it was…well… back to re-balancing chakras. After a year of lockdowns and restrictions, I feel I have sufficiently self-reflected already. I’ve developed a 5 year plan. Organised my finances. I’ve tried a new repertoire of recipes. I drink a green smoothie every day. Joined a diet group (or rather as they market it “a psychology-based eating lifestyle-change group”) and lost precisely no weight in two months. I have already transformed my second bedroom into a hot yoga studio with lavender oil burner and meditation chair. Spring cleaned in Autumn, even though I’m already a minimalist. Have signed up for online Excel courses ( dear Lord) and Zoom online French group classes so that I’m not too isolated. Started this blog. Donated to COVID charities. Read motivational books and books on French workplace culture so that I behave properly at work. Subscribed to Kindle magazines. Binge-watched Netflix and Amazon Prime. Researched wine tours and cooking classes. Joined a gym. Which of course has shut to all but those who are professional sportspeople and students. And, as I discovered, those with a medical reason to be there (justification required). One quick trip to the doctor and I was back at the gym, necessary piece of paper in hand, mask on, and wiping every piece of equipment down with hand sanitiser.

So what will 2021 bring? I’m done with jinxing that it would have to better than 2020. But who knows? There is hope – travel is still possible while taking all necessary precautions, and having the vaccine is a great relief. Europe with its still elevated number of COVID cases and now two new mutant strains out of the UK and South Africa, the only good news is that the vaccine is finally here and by the end of April those who want to be should be vaccinated. Not that this is going to make much difference to quarantine requirements in New Zealand, but I’m still hoping there will be some easing of restrictions for those vaccinated.

You don’t plan for a 1-in-100 year global pandemic when becoming an expat, you take for granted that, but for money and time off work, you’ll still be able see your family and friends regularly and be able to come back quickly if need be. It’s been over a year since I saw family and friends in person and I’ve missed three funerals in this time, including my stepfather’s and my mother’s best friend. I’ve had friends unable to visit their very ill family members because of COVID. People saying their final goodbyes to family on deathbeds via an Ipad.

New Year’s Eve was spent in Luxembourg, fully locked down from 9pm, maximum 2 people in a household, and an alcohol ban. I literally drank a cup of lavender and chamomile tea. But as midnight struck, there were fireworks outside in the empty streets, there was a televised concert from an empty Palace of Versailles with more fireworks and some very funny memes circulating on the internet as we kicked 2020 to touch. And I got to see in the New Year…via Zoom, in two different years at the same time, with a friend in New Zealand.

Happy New Year everyone!

“Charlotte! Comment tu vas?!” The barman’s face lights up as I slump myself down on a barstool, taking off my backpack, work laptop inside. It’s 9pm on a weeknight and I’ve just finished another long workday. Koko* takes one look at me and pours me a glass of red wine. “Petit vin rouge” he announces. Koko speaks barely a word of English and those words appear more suited to the bedroom. He arrived in France 16 years ago from Turkey, not knowing a word of French. He’s learnt off the street and still has a very thick Turkish accent. It really tests my own French abilities, but he’s so cheeky and just adorable with a big smile that it’s easy to make the effort.

I love small village life. Most people think I live in Paris but actually I’m in a small village nearly an hour’s train ride from central Paris. Much as Paris is gorgeous to visit and I love wandering the streets there, rent is twice what I pay out here and that’s if you can actually find an apartment. They tend to be tiny apartments with windy stairs and only an elevator if you’re lucky. The general pace is one of stress – metros are crowded and people are pushy and shovey. I much prefer the tranquility of village life at the end of a long day where I can come home to my large, quiet apartment on the third floor. No elevator but you can’t have it all.

The village centre is awash with bakeries, butcheries, charcuteries, a fish shop, nic nac shops, tobacco shops (yes the French are still one of the world’s worst lot of smokers), patisseries, “cheap” mobile phone shops, and cafés. In fact I’ve never seen so many butcheries and bakeries in one village. I counted at least 4 bakeries and three butcheries in one street.

The outdoor marketplace is the hub of the centre and every Friday and Sunday mornings there is a fantastic market that draws everyone in to do their shopping. I usually go in on a Sunday where there are queues of people outside the bakeries and butcheries, all socially-distanced now of course. I love the fact that the butcher offers me a bone when he knows I want to do a slow-cooked beef and busily saws off one for me . There is no mince on display either – you have to ask for it, and they’ll take a slab of meat and mince it fresh for you.

At the market, it’s commonplace to strike up a chat with random strangers in the queue to discuss produce, where it comes from and what to do with it, and a general sense of satisfaction when everyone agrees together on what is best for the pecorino cheese you just picked up. You’d never get this in the rush of Paris. I love the cheeses.

As well as the Italian pecorino , there are, of course, a wide range of mostly French cheeses at the fromager’s stand. A woman asks me what is in the cheese I am getting. It’s the more Sicilian variety of pecorino with peppercorns. We discuss the stuffed vegetable dish I’m going to make with the cheese to be sprinkled on top, to nods of approval, despite it not being a French cheese. I just have to have a wee slab of Epoisse too – a gooey creamy cheese that is just to die for. I resist the Livarot, a strong Normandy cheese that I also love and the truffled goat’s cheese at 10 euros a ball. It is not uncommon for people to spend 30 euros just on cheese here.

Then there are the bars like Koko’s. When I picked up the keys to my apartment on my first day in the village, it was at Koko’s that I stopped for lunch while waiting for a very stressful visa appointment. After that he would wave at me until one day he offered me a drink to entice me in and to meet everyone.

Bars are not quite the same as in New Zealand. They’re a specific type of pub where people, mainly men, usually stand at the counter, and discuss the woes of the world with the barman. Some, like Koko’s, do have seating and outdoor spaces but life happens more inside. Everyone knows everyone, everyone has a nickname, and everyone seems to drink an awful lot of beer.

Everyone has a place too. Koko, the bar owner, is the one who decides what’s what. Everyone has a huge respect for him as owner and will do whatever he says. Then there’s Hamish* the French ex-military colonel with the very English name who wears dark glasses inside, is in his 70s but still works out every day, and sounds like the Godfather when he speaks. He can be found reading his book at the end of the bar drinking coffee after coffee before heading home at a respectable hour. There are many Portuguese, Turks, and Moroccans as well as French who pass their time “pour discuter”. This is a very multicultural village.

There’s the two businessmen who have been accepted even though they are not locals, because they spend three nights a week in the village for business. One has his own purpose-built wine cave with 735 bottles of wine in it. He says he needs to drink 100 of them in the next year. That’s two a week. Naturally we struck up conversation. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner one night talking all things wine and food and the next week he came to the bar with two bottles of reds that I’d always wanted to try and got Koko to order in platters of charcuterie and cheese (yes, Epoisse and Livarot included).

Finally, there’s Mr Mayor, so-called because he works at the local town hall. I’m not quite sure what he does there but he has long and intense conversations with himself at the bar as he downs pint after pint. Everyone looks after him, makes sure that he gets home ok. Remarkably he can speak English reasonably well but gets too shy. Some others can speak English and take turns practising with me and teaching me some street French. One guy tried to teach me Turkish. He spoke next to no English and not much French. It was an entertaining lesson in pronunciation.

“Merhaba” “Hello”

“Merrrhabar”

“No! No r . No French r. Stop r.”

I tried again. He shook his head and smiled. Third time lucky maybe ? “Yes! Better.” Next word. Again I failed. “No! Please no.” I got exactly three words down in half an hour before he needed to leave.

While Koko is cheeky and adorable he also can be very fiery and extremely protective. He is not a small man either. I learned a valuable lesson about acceptance one day. When I first came in I was asked if I was just visiting and I explained that no, I had moved to Arpajon and lived just around the corner. This seemed to satisfy everyone and drinks flowed. I was Arpajonaise now so I was OK.

One night a group of young lads were sitting out on the terrace having a few drinks and started talking to me. Being the kiwi that I am, I thought nothing of it, and started chatting away to them and having a few laughs. I could feel the eyes of the others watching us. Soon the lads invited me to a party which I politely declined. When they started to insist, out of nowhere Koko arrived like a rocket and exploded at them. They tried to placate him by inviting him to the party too, but he was having none of it and kicked them out.

Meanwhile I had been steered inside the bar and was being given my own talking to by one of the others. “You can’t talk to people like that, they are not from here, we don’t know them.” I protested “But they’re just a few young lads enjoying some beers, I wasn’t going to go with them.” “Doesn’t matter. What if they followed you as you were walking home? Men do that here.” I repeated my protests. “No, you have to understand, you can’t trust people here, especially if they are not from here. You are one of us, they are not”

Koko came back inside and glared at me with a face of thunder. It didn’t take him long to calm down however and soon he was laughing away and recounting how they’d invited him to the party too. But not before he’d given me a similar talking-to.

It is nice to know that I am considered a part of the community. It’s not easy to be accepted in France as a foreigner, but somehow this little bar in a small village seems to enjoy this strange kiwi woman who comes in to chat. With COVID19 and being far from home, it’s living in a village and this little bar that make these tough times that little bit easier.

Of course, now that we are locked down again, the bar is closed and not likely to re-open until at least mid January. I miss it, I really do.

*Not their real names

Koko’s bar on a sunny summer’s day

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