Austrians love pork. They love it on the barbie, they love it in a pan and they love it in the oven. I waited 4 years for my first, traditional, Austrian, home-cooked pork roast, but it was well worth the wait.
Sure, I’ve had it in restaurants – it’s on every Gasthaus menu, right up there with schnitzel and Kärntner Nudeln. But somehow it’s different when it’s home cooked.
I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting from Bangkok when we arrived for a 4-night stopover on our way to Australia at the end of last year. And maybe it was because we’d been in India just a month earlier, but what struck me immediately was how clean it was, how sweet-smelling and how super organized.
Look… I know it’s a big city, and also a big tourist city, so that’s probably what most people would expect, but I hadn’t been. We arrived very early in the morning, and after breakfast in our hotel at the Lamphu Tree House, were delighted to have access to our room just after 9am for a quick nap after our overnight flight.
There’s plenty of info out there about things you definitely should not do in India. From wearing inappropriate clothing, to limiting PDA and not bad-mouthing cricket, the list is long. Now, I don’t feel like I put myself in any undue danger in India, but I didn’t necessarily follow all the rules to a tee. Here are the ones I broke.
When I returned from my recent Christmas trip to Australia, no one really cared how my holiday was. They just wanted to know two things:
At the end of our two week, action packed, exhausting tour of the Rajasthan region of India, hubby and I booked ourselves three nights in a 5 star hotel in Delhi. We were well aware we would want some time to kick back, chill, and process all we’d seen and done before rushing onto a plane back to real life.
The hotel we were staying at on the last night of the tour in Delhi was fine… but it wasn’t more than that. And when we were woken up early because apparently breakfast was served right outside our room, we decided, time to go.
My time on the overnight train from Delhi to Jodhpur is not my favourite memory of northern India. It’s possibly my worst memory. My time on the overnight train from Delhi to Jodhpur felt like a hideous place I would never escape from. I was sandwiched in the middle bunk between two plastic mats – parallel to me was a heavy Indian man who only stopped snoring to cough; rasping toxic coughs that sounded like one of his lungs was being dragged from his insides out through his mouth.
