A few months ago I was dancing wildly under the full moon in the Sahara desert. Now I found myself in the sprawling metropolis that is New York City. They couldn’t have been more different.

Growing up in London I thought New York wouldn’t have that much of an effect on me. I was wrong.

Much like when I visited Rome last year, I spent my first night in the Big Apple exploring the city with nothing but a notebook and a bottle of water in my bag. I didn’t even have a map this time, not that I needed it; what with the streets being arranged by numbers: 5th Street was next to 6th Street and so on. I could count.

I remember coming out of my hotel on the first night and turning the corner… and squinting. I was greeted to the bright lights of Times Square. My face lit up. Not because I had a million worth of watts shining down on me but because I’d made it to New York City.

And I made it without managing to eat once on my eight-hour bus journey over from Montreal. My first port of call was to eat something. The sights and sounds of the city could bloody well wait for my stomach to stop growling, thank you very much.

I slipped down a quiet side street off of Times Square and rolled into the first dodgiest pizzeria I happened to come across.

They had slices of pizza in that joint wider than my arse, which let me tell you, is a feat you can’t even begin to imagine.

“Excuse me, what pizza do you recommend?” I asked the tiny, slightly greasy looking guy behind the counter.

He just looked at me for a moment, not quite understanding what it was I was saying. They do speak English in New York, right?

I tried again.

“What’s your favourite topping?”

He pointed over to a mozzarella, tomato and spinach slice.

It worked for me.

“I’ll take a slice of that one then, thanks.”

He nodded and put the slice in the oven. There was an awkward silence for a minute before he broke it by asking me where I was from.

“London,” I said.

“Not many people ask my opinion on pizza,” he told me.

I got a feeling not many people asked his opinion on anything – ever. So I took some time talking to him, long enough so that the mozzarella on my pizza was just the right of amount of gooey.

By the time my pizza was perfectly melted, I knew not only where this guy was from, I knew where his parents were from too (Ecuador in case you were wondering.) I knew his name, how old he was and I knew that he was available to take me on a tour of the city when his shift was through.

Sadly, I only wanted the pizza. But I thanked him kindly and asked him how much I owed him for the slice.

“You’re sweet, it’s nothing for you.”

Funny, that’s exactly what the Nurse at the hospital said to me last month when I asked her how much I owed her for my prescriptions.

I wondered if this meant I looked as ill as I did when I was in hospital. I remembered I did rush out of the hotel rather quickly, did I even bother to check what I looked like in the mirror before I left?

But then if looking rougher than an arse being wiped with recycled toilet paper gave me the ability to receive free things – I wasn’t about to complain.

A travelling hat is something you buy on your travels, and usually on a whim. It’s hopefully atrocious and fashionable in somewhere only like Bulgaria where corduroy hasn’t yet been invented.

Walking down a quiet residential street today in Montreal, I happened to cross a Salvation Army shop – full to the rafters of other people’s unwanted junk. I had a very good feeling. The hairs on the back of my arms stood up, and I’m sure if I could feel my nipples through the mountain of padding, I would have felt them pop out too.

I entered the shop and was greeted by a jumble of second hand clothing and the undeniable tang of that clothing once upon a time, living on someone else’s skin. It was like walking into a Lush shop but instead of the sickly sweet man-made smell of soap, I was assaulted by the sickly odour of old-man.

My eyes travelled over the myriad of gaudy shirts and something-even-your-dad-wouldn’t-wear trousers, when I saw it: the hat stand.

It called out to me like a working girl flaunting her wears. I had to have something from her. Tentatively my hand reached out and stroked one of the goods; soft, green corduroy caressed my finger tips. On the top of the hat was a single button.

Twee is the only word I can think of to describe it. I imagine its original owner being a fifty-six year old man with a penchant for fishing and drinking beer straight from the can, his naked, hairy toes swishing about languidly in the waters of which he is fishing from. This is the look I wanted.

Before I knew it, I had the hat on my head and was busy admiring the mess in the mirror.

It was perfect. Suitable for featuring in one of my many LOOK AT ME photos which you take whilst on holiday.

Approaching the sales register, I placed the abomination on the top of the counter and waited to find out the price: $2.

Yes, I actually paid for the opportunity of catching headlice from a second hand hat.

As Madness once sang, it must be love.

What the hell am I talking about?

You know when you meet someone amazing? Someone who completes you when you already feel whole? Someone who inspires you enough to end all sentences with a question mark, simply because using a full stop would mean putting a premature end to describing their awesomeness?

I’ve found that person in the most unexpected of places.

In between the bookshelves at work; with messy brown hair and glasses so officiously large, if they were to carry a wand around with them, they’d very well be mistaken for Harry Potter. Or a bit of twat.

No, I haven’t just discovered the literary delights of a certain JK Rowling. I did in fact discover those many years ago.

Instead, I have found something, or rather, someone, who I have decided is worth giving up my job for and eloping to Canada with. I won’t mention at this point that them kissing the place just behind my ear would induce me to act in similar, irrational ways. That’s just not important.

And yes, it’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever agreed to do (except for maybe that perm I had about six years ago) but I know it’s the right thing to do, because even when the fear of giving up a perfectly reasonable job eats away at me like a bout of terminal cancer, I know that I’ll be okay.

I know that whatever absurd, embarrassing, I’m-going-to-die-of-shame moments that will undoubtedly come my way in the following weeks, I know they will be shared in the best possible company.

I know that when I find myself back in London, jobless and with no money having spent it all gallivanting around Northern America with nothing but someone else’s clothes on my back – I know it will all be okay.

And even if it won’t be, I’m sure I’ll have a hell of time getting to that point of: Where did it all go wrong?

My only concern will be, when can we do it again?

That’s procrastination at its most basic.

I can’t write about my trip to Rome, it simply won’t flow. In fact the only thing that did flow in Rome was the wine and the tears. The tears first obviously, then I soaked them up with the wine.

You see, I should have experienced Rome with the ex. It was supposed to be our romantic holiday in the eternal city – the place for love. But that was ballsed up earlier in the year when our relationship ended. So instead of forgoing the holiday, I went anyway. All by myself. The person who is crap at reading maps; who used to leave all the finer details of sorting a holiday out, to the ex.

I never even made an itinerary of things to do for whilst I was out there, because all the months leading up to the holiday, I was simply blocking it out. Delaying the inevitable, ignoring my last link to the ex – because I didn’t want to have to think about him. I couldn’t. So everyday I was out there, after consuming far too many pastries and cups of coffee than is perhaps socially acceptable and physically possible, I left the hotel complete with a bottle of water, a map,  my camera and a notebook.

And I walked, not looking at my map once.

I walked wherever my feet would take me. I didn’t stop. I saw everything. I tried everything I wanted to try. I drank everything I wanted to drink. I ate everything I wanted to eat; sometimes I even ate things I wasn’t expecting when my Italian didn’t come out as intended. I sat where I wanted to sit. I spoke to whoever and whomever I wished to speak to. I smiled whenever I found something worth smiling about. And I enjoyed and hated my time there in equal measures.

Enjoyed, because I was free to do whatever the hell I pleased. If I wanted to get ice-cream at three in the morning, I could. If I wanted to waste an hour at the colosseum staring at it in all its weathered glory, I could – and did. Enjoyed, because instead of running away at the thought of going on holiday alone, I embraced it. Perhaps I didn’t make the most of every moment I spent there, but I lived through every moment.

Hated… well, I was alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my own company. I can spend many a day by myself people watching, happily eating in a restaurant by myself – even smiling to myself. But knowing that there should have been another person with me when there clearly wasn’t – that I did not enjoy. Not at all. It started at the airport when I had to check in.

PERSON MISSING.

It continued on the flight.

PERSON MISSING.

Empty seat.

It continued checking into the hotel.

PERSON MISSING.

Yes, I’m sure there isn’t someone else checking in. No, they won’t be arriving later. No, it’s just me now.

Just me.

Me.

Single.

Singular.

No we, no us, just me. Me. Me. Me.

A double bed – a hotel suite, far too big for one person, especially one as short as me. And after closing the door to my suite, I pushed my suitcase into the corner of the room, took off my red jacket – and filled the silence with huge, I’m-feeling-very-sorry-for-myself sobs. I cried. I sat slap bang in the middle of that big bed, and I let it all out. Months and months of pretending I didn’t care about my relationship ending leaked its way down my cheeks. It ruined my mascara, but I didn’t care. No one could see me.

And then I stopped crying. I washed my face – reapplied my mascara, even added some lipstick. I took my camera, my map, my notebook, my key card and I walked. And for the next seven days, I didn’t stop walking. I mean obviously I came back to the hotel in the evenings and slept, but I walked everywhere. All the time. I was walking off the last four years, definitely the last four months – and especially those last four croissants I had for breakfast.

I’ve tried writing about the things I saw whilst over there, about the things that happened to me, I really have; but what’s the point? A guidebook could tell you better than I could. Besides, that’s what photos are for, aren’t they? I bought a camera for that exact purpose. To prove that I could go out there and do something I didn’t really want to do. Not visit Rome, no, that I did want. But I didn’t want to acknowledge how much I had been hurt. I’d been surrounded by people for so long, housemates, work colleagues, friends… and now, without that support around me, I was exposed.

The truth is, I couldn’t tell you what I saw. I didn’t see anything there except the end of my relationship. And no one wants to see that.

Honestly, Vancouver is nothing like I expected it to be and I mean that in the nicest way. Yes, the town has its flaws; just go downtown to Hastings and everywhere you look you’ll see a crack head jacking up in the alleyways or some woman selling her body. The street stinks of piss and you really can’t believe just a few feet away is a beautiful backdrop of mountains and sea.

But the city also has another side. Amazing high-rise buildings, beautiful views of mountains, forests, lakes and wildlife. The two sides coexist and it’s an incredible sight. I can understand why people don’t want to leave once they arrive. It’s a world away from London yet utterly similar at the same time.

I’ve learnt something profound since I’ve been here. I’ve been put in situations I haven’t been a hundred percent comfortable in but enjoyed once I put my fears aside; I’ve met family I’d never known before, I’ve learnt so much more about my own family which has been very emotional for me for a number of reasons; and I’ve discovered the joy of living for the moment. Which is a foreign concept to me as I’ve always thought about the future and an awful lot about the past.

I’m here, right now, sitting outdoors in a country I’m not familiar with, all by myself and loving every second. Nothing is impossible for me at this moment and all I have to do is believe. The air is filled with possibility and all I have to do is breathe it in and live.

British Columbia really is a beautiful country.

I returned from Malta yesterday morning. I’m trying to get everything down as it’s still fresh in my mind, so I apologise if the following post is a little jumbled.

I bought a notebook (as if I need excuse to buy more stationery) before I went away to Malta. I wanted to journal my experience down to paper as it happened rather than trying to remember afterwards. Plus I thought it’d be nice to look back on. It’s always the little things you forget. That notion lasted less than twenty-four hours. I did try, honestly. But the first night of the holiday didn’t go to plan. In fact the flight over was a little annoying because we were sat on the same row as an uncompromisable three year old… I could handle the screaming (it’s nothing a bit of mp3 playing can’t fix) but it was mainly the parents, threatening to smack the boy if he didn’t shut up. No wonder he was crying!

Then there was the plane food, I really wish I took a photo of it. In fact my “journaling” covered the flight experience, so I very much remember the plane food (not that I could forget it if I’m honest). I remember Paul getting up and going to the bathroom, coming back and saying he could smell something beefy. A few minutes later, they were dishing out the food. We were presented with rice, green beans… and cat food. Actually, Paul said it looked like something a cat ate and then sicked up, but meh, what’s the difference? Paul didn’t touch the stuff, but me being daring person I am, shovelled some on to my fork and took a bite or two. It didn’t taste that bad (I didn’t throw up) and the texture was pretty rank (mashed, hairy stuff and brown, very brown) but it did smell of beef. So at least they got the smell right (unless it was supposed to be chicken or something, oh god what did I eat?).

Bad plane food and scary parents aside, the flight wasn’t too bad. We landed in Malta with no problem and even managed to get a taxi to the hotel. The first thing the taxi driver said when we got in to his car was “the seat belts don’t work”. Great… thanks for mentioning that after we started driving… His foot was hard down on the accelerator throughout the entire drive and I think at one point we even reached 30mph. At times, we were even driving on the wrong side of the road, just for the hell of it I think. And there was the time he even stopped for someone to cross the road, but they were too slow so he just drove across before they could get started and said “ahh, too slow”.

So we survived the crazy taxi driver and made it to the hotel in one piece, actually it was more like one and a half pieces; my face was swelling fast. Even though I booked the holiday, Paul paid for it on his card so it turned out everything was in his name. Yay for ten minutes wasted there trying to figure out why there was no room booked under the name of Casebere. We were given a delicious drink of Cranberry juice and Champagne while we waited though so it wasn’t so bad. And our suitcases were brought up whilst we went up ahead to our eighth floor room. The room was a good size and the view from the balcony was a nice touch. Paul and I spent nearly every evening out there with a drink and just watched the crazy driving down below.

We spent the rest of the first evening walking around the town and bay seeing what was about, checking out the food places for future reference and just enjoying the fact we had absolutely nothing to do. Much later, when we decided to call it a night, I couldn’t. I was tired, I wanted to sleep, I did, really. But I couldn’t. No matter which way I put my head, my neck was getting in the way. In fact it wasn’t even a neck anymore, I was just a head on a torso. I resembled Homer Simpson just not so yellow. It was getting more difficult to breathe and in the end, I had to “sleep” on the chair in the room, as I couldn’t lie down without hurting. The room was dark, I didn’t want to wake Paul (although I think I did lots of times he was just too nice to say anything) and there I was sat in a chair, blanket around me, panicking. What if my face swelled up so much my head exploded? Honestly, I thought I was going to die. The inside of my throat closed up as it was so swollen and I had to breathe through my nose. There were moments when I did drift off to sleep, but when that happened I stopped breathing through my nose and because my throat had closed up, I stopped breathing altogether and then woke up because I couldn’t breathe. It was a vicious circle.

In the end, I’d had enough. I pulled on some clothes, crept outside the room, and headed downstairs to the twenty-four hour reception. I glimpsed a look of myself in the mirror lift and I looked so fucking scary, I didn’t even recognise myself. The only thing that resembled me was my eyes and they looked tiny. After speaking with the people at reception, they called the 24-hour doctor for me and I spoke to him on the phone (although I think he was sleeping when I called, so I don’t think he really was a 24-hour doctor, oops). I say I spoke to him, but I really squeaked at him, I couldn’t speak properly either. They receptionists were a little shocked the Doctor didn’t come out right there and then but I told them there was nothing he could do for me now and anyway, I’d probably need medicine and no pharmacy was open at 3am. With the promise of the Doctor visiting me at 8:30am the next morning, I headed back upstairs, stopped off at the ice machine on our floor, and filled a glass of ice for me to “drink” until the Doctor arrived.

I didn’t sleep at all after that. I watched each agonising minute go past on the clock in the room until 8:30am arrived. When it did, so did the Doctor. He took my temperature (normal), felt my neck and immediately declared I needed to be admitted to hospital straight away. So I did. I had a blood sample taken at the hospital and was injected with something to ease the swelling. After about thirty minutes, it was taking effect as I could sort of breathe through my mouth again. Afterwards I was put on fluids and antibiotics via an IV drip. Great. When could I leave? Oh, wait, what was that? I couldn’t? I had to stay in, possibly until Monday. It was only early Saturday morning, I’m on holiday, I can’t be stuck in hospital. But I was.

I was taken upstairs to a sea view room (private), with TV, internet, bathroom and shower, a menu of food to choose from and my very own buzzer to call in the nurses in the hallway (which I didn’t abuse… much). Why exactly did I book a 5* hotel in the first place? Ok so I wasn’t in some crappy NHS hospital in the UK, but I was still in hospital. The staff were lovely, coming in to ask if I needed anything at least five times a day, changing my drip, bringing in my breakfast, lunch and dinner, heck I’d never eaten so well and the food was delicious. It was a good experience despite the reason for actually being there. Paul stayed with me for the entire day, even going out and bringing back some water and chocolate (naughty!!) and most of the evening. He could have stayed with me overnight at the hospital but he doesn’t like them, so he went back to the hotel in the evening.

I even slept that night despite being woken up at various times so the nurses could change my drip. Sunday morning came around and so did Paul. I felt better. I was itching to get out of the hospital. It was a nice place but I didn’t come on holiday to spend time in hospital. I convinced the Doctor I was ok (which I was, I was still a bit swollen but I could breathe and it didn’t hurt anymore unless I pressed really hard on my neck), so at around 4pm, they discharged me. With the promise of coming back the following day and having another IV course of antibiotics and taking a course of antibiotics in tablet form (which I’m still on btw…). I got to leave and enjoy the remainder of my holiday. I just couldn’t drink any alcohol. This is fine. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, but I was looking forward to having a cocktail or two… or another pint of Cisk… or some Whiskey… and sitting on our balcony with a bottle of wine or two… but what’s a drop of alcohol when you have your health?

We walked back to the hotel, it was only about a fifteen-minute walk away and I took it easy. I even think we went into the spa pool on the second floor for an hour or two that evening which was nice as swimming and floating around in a hot spa pool was just what I needed.

The days that followed were spent looking for a beach, who knew that Malta was effectively just a lump of rock and that all shore lines where we staying were just rock also? But that didn’t matter in the end as sand is so over rated. Your towel gets full of sand and so does your hair, and your swimming costume… and getting sand down there isn’t a pleasant experience either. So it worked out pretty well. I even ventured into the gym and exercised for an hour during my stay (and so did Paul who I think enjoyed it but won’t admit it).

One afternoon we ventured off land and went on the harbour cruise, which was a nice excursion, despite being ruined by some French people; but that’s a story for another time. In all we took over 500 photos and I narrowed it down to about 350 and have already put them up in the photo gallery. We did a lot of walking. There were frequent busses close by to utilise but we didn’t. Would you want to travel the way those people drive? And the doors on the busses don’t even close, they drive with them wide open, really fast and crazily. Enough said really.

Overall, the hotel was really good, good service, nice views, beautiful spa (which we used every evening), the Maltese are friendly people, very welcoming but I don’t know if I’d visit St Julian’s again. I loved all the old buildings, the stone colour, the design, everything. They were beautiful. But for stuff to do? It was a little bit slow. I did have a great time and it was good to spend time away from work and from London and see some different faces and places.

So that was pretty much my week, how was yours?

Thanks for sticking with me if you’ve made it this far. If you want a shorter version of our holiday experience, take a look at Paul’s Malta review. Men.