Awkward intern sandwich?

Please don't be confused by the food related title, my career ambitions have not shifted to food critic (I don't need anymore 'holiday weight' either). 

So far this year I have done 3 internships at various places and, to be put it bluntly, 2 of them have been bloody terrible.

The first was at good old Daily Echo for a measly week, and even that was enough to angrily unfollow them on twitter and give a bitter old lady tut every time I see their paper. Yes, I understand it's a daily paper and it's meant to be busy busy busy, but in reality everyone in the office looked like they were either in the stages of going doolally, or they already had turned into a genuine fruit loop. 12 hour days, a deputy editor that basically is the editor in chief from spiderman and roaring headlines such as: 'wheely bin falls over, oh no.' The entire time I was there, the editor said nothing to me, the majority of the time I spent rigorously thinking over my crucial purchase from the canteen at lunchtime and I wrote absolutely nothing.

Secondly I was at Sunday Times Travel in the News International building in London. Now this was more like it. Commuting everyday wasn't always the most joyous of occasions but I love London and as my ball and chain works there to, we went for a couple of post work meals and 'cocktails'. Fucking la di dah I know. From day one I was given work by the shovel load, mostly sub-editing and extensively fact checking there travel features. I also got to write a couple of bits and bobs, do some picture research, just generally learn which was a big shock to the system after Daily Echo. Also excited to get my name on my first flannel panel in the August issue! Another nice thing, people ACTUALLY talked to me. I wasn't just a retard in the corner looking at everyone like I was Liam Neeson in The Grey and they were the wolves. I had a nice gay guy called Gary next to me who let me water his desk plant, bought me twixes and cat-walked his daily amazing pairs of socks for me each morning. I know you don't go to internships to make bloody friends but it just makes the whole thing a little bit more enjoyable considering I was paying shit loads for a train ticket!! On the subject of expenses, I must've spent so much money on bloody coffee shop food and drink where I keep trying to be suave and sophisticated on my own at lunchtime. I need panini pocket money if I'm gonna continue keeping pret and starbucks afloat!

Lastly, I'm currently at Absolute Publishing, also in Londres. They publish National Geographic Traveller, ABTA and ASTA, Spa Secrets etc etc. The work they've been giving me is actually the alright,  a lot of writing and picture research, but again, I feel like I'm doing time in prison or something. Today for example, somebody said hello to me at 1:30pm, yes it had taken them 3 days and 5 hours to actually comprehend I had existed, but because I had said nothing all day my voice was all croaky, so when I tried to respond I sounded like a haggard old witch. She won't be talking to me again. I know I'm probably moaning, and yes it is an amazing experience and I'll get more clippings for my portfolio but I guess nothing really can compare to the office plant at the Times.

Forgot to mention those Chinese party animals...

I can not believe I forgot to mention how much I loved Chinese people's enthusiasm when it comes to drinking, dancing and bloody amazing karaoke versions of adele. Their double time rhythm and thrusting combo kind of made up for their general toilet habits and strange capability to eat noodles for three meals a day.

China: land of noodles, pagodas and bum flaps...

I can honestly say that China is probably the weirdest place I have ever and will ever go to in my life.

Aside from the people, who are incredibly curious about westerners (I had to have photographs holding so many Chinese babies...) and find us hilariously funny (especially the concept of flip flops, I don't think they have ever seen toes before) I imagined China to be a clean, technologically advanced, busy hub of excitement with chicken balls galore and pandas on every corner.

I probably should have done some more research beforehand.

The cities I travelled to, Beijing, Shanghai and Hangzhou were all ridiculously busy with communist caps on one in every three chinese tourists. The air felt like it needed to be filtered before I willingly let it into my lungs and the concept of squatty pottys still sends shivers down my spine. Another hilarious revelation was the fact that they don't believe in babies wearing nappies. Instead they have cleverly designed every trouser, skirt and pair of shorts for children to have a sly little flap around the bum to make for easy squatting whenever and wherever they so desire. At the time all I could do was laugh.

Something else that really tickled me and the people I was travelling with whilst I was there were the English translations and phrases splattered over all their 'hip, stylish' tshirts. The one on the left is a particular favourite of mine : David, providing moustache rides since 1906. Brilliant.

In all fairness, the views, their general way of life and granted, some of their cuisine (aside from bloody noodles, all my super noodles have swiftly been removed from my uni cupboards) were like nothing I have seen before. They even had intricate designs and carved dragons on the roofs of mcdonalds found on every corner, good old globalisation. (Might I add at this point that they do mcdonalds delivery over there?!?! I don't think any hangover food will ever compete!)

I also learnt some mandarin whilst staying at Zhejiang University for 2 weeks. Phrases of particular interest included I love ice cream and I have a horse definitely will come in handy in the future. (Wo ai bing bang he wo you ma for those ever considering going to China).

To be honest, despite their lack of cheese and bread, the overwhelmingly disgusting smell of bean curd EVERYWHERE and the constant noise of car horns, I had an amazing time. If I wasn't accepted onto study China I probably never even would have considered going there and I'm so glad I've experience it.

I've also smuggled back some Chinese delicacies including nutritious chicken feet, pea cakes, regenerated elbow ham and a whitening face mask if anyone would like to dabble in some far east culture. Zai jian.

I'm turning into my mother

During these past few hours it has finally dawned on me. I have become everything my mother encompasses. Please bear in mind, she is the type of person who has a separate brush specifically for her cushions, a whole entire glass cabinet dedicated to displaying her disney figurines and she cried tears of joy when Michael Jackson was found innocent. 

Given I am going to China tomorrow I thought it best I actually started packing. As you can see from above I have created co-ordinated piles of stuff that I have genuinely ticked off a pre-written list... 

What has happened to me?!?!?!? Normally I just throw everything in my bag and bob's your uncle, off we go on our jolly boy's outing. Now, it's systematic packing a-go-go whilst soothing whale sounds play in the background... I'm getting old. 

Lost already

It has only just dawned on me that in six days time I will be wandering the streets of China, letting loose my mandarin phrase book (particular sections of interest include romance and homosexuality, what more could a tourist need when strolling around some of the world's oldest buddhist temples?!) and featuring in many Chinese-in-awe-of-westerner's photos. 

All I have to prepare me so far is a rather poor excuse of an organisational folder containing information on where the pandas are, which zoos provide the best panda experience and where the nearest pandas are to my hostels. Perhaps I shouldn't be so laid back about travelling 14 hours away from my timezone. 

Interesting facts I have picked up on from my minuscule research so far is:

1. Deodorant is frowned upon so I had best stock up on right guard before I embark on my travels 
2. Overnight sleeper trains contain hot water taps because they enjoy their pot noodles too much 
3. And finally on my tour programme a lot of mornings feature early starts with something I believe is called wu shu....

It's time I stopped watching mulan on repeat in hope that getting 'let's get down to business, and defeaaaat, the huns' in my head will provide enough insight into China to get me through four weeks. Oh, and it's also time to stop promising people I will bring them back a real chinese sweet and sour chicken ball, there's only so much grease and batter I can fit in my rucksack!

When I met Florence in Dubbers

On my 18th, maybe a teaspoon of that pint
was consumed

A couple of weeks ago I braved the 45 minute flight on what felt like a wind-up toy plane to Dublin to go bawl my eyes out to Florence, her machine and her magical harp. Admittedly, we stayed in a hostel called Paddy's Palace, getting picked up from the airport in a Paddywagon and I did in fact buy a t-shirt that wittily uses the word Craic, but in all honesty Dublin really surprised me.

The last time I went was for my 18th birthday, for a weekend getting horrendously intoxicated with the unbelievably vast student population and getting Irish jigs performed for me on stage in the famous Temple Bar. This time however, I made sure to try and do things outside the tourist arena, taking an amazing, (I'm not gonna lie) trip to Dublin zoo, the second oldest in Europe, and even taking a train ride to the coast for a fresh Irish seafood platter, (minus the Guiness flavoured oysters.) To be honest, I didn't want to go back to my bunk-bedded hostel from the zoo. It must've been one of Irelands only reasonably sunny days, and all of a sudden out pops an elephant from behind this gigantic enclosure and then I turn round and see orang-utans helping the zoo attendants mowing the lawn. Absolutely mental. The coast was incredibly fresh and breathtaking too, with every Irish man and his dog taking a stroll along the sands that could have been taken straight from the white stretches of Devon.

The main attraction was obviously going to be Florence. Minus the outrageously steep alcohol prices at the O2 arena I still managed to get suitably pissed enough to start emotionally sobbing, swaying and upright spooning as soon as she floated out in her magnificent cape.

Churchill's Italy

The majority of you that have visited the cultural boot that is Italy would not associate it with such things as pug-faced wartime leaders or ghastly string vests that unfortunately imprint an everlasting visual memory on all that see them. I, on the other hand, can think of nothing less when reminiscing of my recent trip to the gastronome’s paradise. Excuse the fairytale style opening, but it all began on a trip to Southwest Italy in a small village called Cersuta. 

When I proclaim it was small, I mean it had only one taxi owned by an unbelievably hairy yet suspiciously cheery man, sporting a white string vest cruising in an N-plate metro rover. Other than that, the town was absolutely beautiful and our B&B was breathtaking with a quaint terracotta veranda overlooking the turquoise seas of the Mediterranean with rolling hills behind us. 

Unluckily for us, there was a problem with our booking meaning we were only staying there for one night instead of two. However, not failing their stereotype, Italians are well known for their great hospitality and the owner said her Grandfather who had a spare room would be willing to put us up for the night. 

The following day we got back in the one and only taxi, still greeted by potentially the same string vest clad chap, and jerked and spluttered up a hill at what felt like a 45-degree angle, with cyclists seemingly speeding around us with ease. After what felt like a long and painful lifetime, we arrived at the Grandfather’s place, hopefully waving goodbye for the last time to a man that appeared happy about the chequered tan forming under his vest.

In the morning we went down for breakfast, accompanied by his Grandson called Andrea. Lucky for us, we got to be used as free English oral practise and suddenly learnt that perhaps he was still being taught an old curriculum. On the subject of politics, he exclaimed:

 “So, er, is that boss Winston Churchill still in charge?”

Regardless of the fact that he still believed England was stuck in World War two, I found it astonishing that even in the smallest Italian village with no more than perhaps 60 residents, they could speak near-fluent English. At the time I could do nothing more than laugh at how on earth I could break it to Andrea that his political hero Churchill has been and gone, but now upon reflection I find it truly inspirational. Why is it that other nationalities are bilingual yet most English residents can only speak their own tongue? I would happily wear a string vest for the remainder of my life if it meant I could speak another language.

Who knows, maybe in a few years Andrea will write an article describing his hilarity at talking to a 21-year-old English woman who believes Luigi Einaudi of 1946 is still President of the Italian Republic and pokes fun at her choice of non-stringed garments.