I awake to a beautiful sunrise touching the tops of Dublin's cityscape. The bed was not that comfortable and the whole place is a bit run down, and I think I paid too much, but as it happened this was one of the only rooms left in Dublin. There is a big American football game on tomorrow and thirty-five thousand Americans have descended on Dublin - complete with marching bands. But no Dubliners are complaining, because all of these Americans will spend money on Guinness and food and souvenirs while they're here, and it will be a much-needed cash injection into this depressed economy.


At least breakfast is included in the price, and it's a big one too - sausages, baked beans, bacon, fried potatoes, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding, white pudding, porridge, toast, cereal, stewed fruit, pastries and yoghurt. I'm not fussed on big breakfasts and even though I'm in Ireland I can't bring myself to try the black pudding, because I know what it is made of. The breakfast room is decorated in what I would call "1950s granny style"... lace curtains and faded floral wallpaper, outdated prints on the walls, worn patterned carpet.

I manage to make my way on the bus without any mishaps to the University College Dublin. I'm here to visit CVERA, the government appointed agricultural research unit with the mandate of providing scientific evidence for advising government on policy, especially to do with TB control. It's a small and tightly run team, led by Australian Simon More, and despite the small size they seem to publish more in the scientific literature than any other country on the topic of bovine TB. I feel instantly at home; these people are all friendly, unassuming, quiet and kind. I am impressed by the level of detail recorded on stock in Ireland. At any time, the government knows the location and individual details of every farm animal in Ireland, and they have data going back for more than fifteen years. From this, incredibly detailed reports can be produced on cattle numbers and movements, and changes in the farming industry.

I also learn all about badger setts and what happens when a TB breakdown is detected. Badger culling is much less controversial here than it is in England, because as it's explained to me, hardly anyone in Ireland is more than one generation removed from farming and they are much more pragmatic about such things. I have a really interesting and varied conversation with Guy McGrath who is a GIS specialist. Apparently badger baiting is a popular but illegal sport in Ireland. Men in balaclavas turn up at night to badger setts with dogs and spades. They dig out the badgers and knock their canine teeth out, and set dogs on them in fighting rings. I imagine a lot of betting goes on in these underground rings. The thought makes me cringe.

I have a very worthwhile conversation with Simon More. He is a kind and genuine man and despite his unassuming manner he is one of the world's leading authorities on bovine TB. I show him my research results and he affirms my findings. New Zealand has a few things to learn from how they do things here. For a start, we have only just introduced a mandatory cattle identification scheme. It's going to make a big difference to our programme to be able to understand and monitor cattle movements.

Later in the afternoon, I meet up with Margaret Good. She is a warm and kind but no-nonsense Irish lady, with a huge wealth of experience in TB management, dating back to the 1980s. I enjoy discussing the differences in our two countries' programmes with her, and learning from what happens in Ireland.

Margaret drops me off at the guesthouse, where I pick up my bags and head off to meet Clayton, Chris's cousin, at Baggot St Bridge. Margaret had told me to walk west along the canal to the next bridge, and it's only after I've been waiting for Clayton for 40 minutes that I begin to realise I could well be at the wrong bridge and should have walked east instead. I have my heavy bag to tow for two more bridges, but I manage it by telling myself under my breath, "keep on going, you can do it", in the rhythm of my footsteps. Poor Clayton has had to wait for me and he has no idea where I am or how to contact me. But he's very good natured about it, and we walk through Merrion Square and he shows me the bronze memorial chair made for the actor who played Father Ted. Further along there's a very lifelike coloured stone sculpture of Oscar Wilde lolling on a rock. Apparently he lived very near here.

We catch the dart train towards the north of Dublin, chatting about the family on the way. It's nice to catch up with Clayton; he comes from good stock and he has inherited Grandad Davies' striking light blue eyes, which he's also passed on to his two beautiful little girls, Jorgia and Casey.

It's nice to stay with Clayton and D. They make me feel like part of the family and it brings back memories of when we had little children in the house. Jorgia is very chatty and shows me her dolls and toys, and where everyone lives on a world map on the wall. She's a great little girl.

In the morning, Clayton and the girls take me for a tour of the big park near their home. The park was donated to the city by the Guinness family. They had a huge house here until it burnt down in 1943. The red brick stables are still standing, and are used as an arts centre. Today there is a small market there. 

It's nice to be in the park; it reminds me of New Zealand, but now all I really want is to go home.

It's always hard to sleep when you know you have to get up early. I am sad to check out of this lovely hotel - it's been my little haven for the last five days and it is so clean, calm and peaceful. I have to leave before dawn but at least this time my taxi driver is kind and polite. It's a long drive back to the airport. I have mentally moved on from speaking French and I am too tired to think of the words anyway; I decide on a muffin and a smoothie for breakfast and I order in English. 

At departures I meet a nice lady called Lisa from Boston. She is also travelling by herself and she is on the same flight to Dublin as I will be on. I am surprised to find it's difficult to speak English normally and my voice sounds strange because I've become used to speaking and thinking in French.

The flight to Dublin only takes an hour and twenty minutes. We fly over England; it's a clear day and just as I'd imagined, the ground is like a colorful patchwork quilt. Coming into Dublin Airport reminds me of home. It's so green and there is a very cold wind blowing. Could be Hamilton, but the hills in the distance are very low and flat-topped. Coming through the city on the Aircoach also feels familiar - it could be Auckland except for the red brick buildings close together lining the sides of the streets.

At the hotel, I am greeted by a very nice lady called Mary. My room is on the third floor, up six flights of creaky wooden stars. When i get to my room I realise I am wearing an orange cardigan and an orange scarf - this may be culturally inappropriate in Dublin. In the old days I could be making myself a target for the Sinn Fein! I think it's best to change just in case. 

My room overlooks a busy street but it's not too bad and has a nice bathroom, and I am happy to have a bit of solitude again. I'd really rather be heading home as I'm really missing Chris and the family, but it's important that I'm here to do some networking with the people from UCD. And while I'm here I might as well have an adventure.

St Stephen's Green is very close by and it really is lovely. The grass is so soft and very, very green, and the flower beds are beautifully maintained. But beyond that, I discover Dublin is like any other city, and I am over cities right now. There is nothing really unique or interesting to commend it like Paris has, or at least not that I have seen today. In fact it is just like being in the middle of Wellington, and everywhere, everywhere cigarette smoke. I miss out on seeing the Book of Kells in Trinity College by forty minutes. To top it all off I manage to get lost again, despite having a decent map. I don't know how I manage it, honestly. I walk around the periphery of what I think is St Stephen's Green for about an hour, looking for the right road leading off it, before I eventually realise I am actually walking around Merrion Square and not St Stephen's Green. 

I've heard the Cobblestone is the place to go to hear a really good trad session, but it's a fair way and the taxi costs me fifteen euros. True, the music is great but there is a very talkative man next to me and he is telling me all about the economic situation in Ireland and his nephew who went to New Zealand, and his problems with the city council and the government, breathing Guinness all over me whenever he says something. Also it's down a side street and I don't feel too safe, so after listening to a few more sets I decide to take a taxi back to my accommodation. I think Mr Guinness can make himself useful so I ask him to come outside to make sure I can get in a taxi safely, which he obligingly does, and I'm happy to get back to the guesthouse. I'm so much happier when the music is at festivals rather than pubs, but in Ireland there's not a lot of choice because even the festivals are held in pubs! The country is economically depressed but everyone still seems to have money for beer.

Tomorrow is my last full day before I head home and I can't wait to be surrounded by familiar things and people who love me.

A grand palace on my last day

I wake up to my last day in Paris. There are still so many places I haven't been able to see yet, but there will have to be another time. Today I would like to see the Palace de Versailles. It's a little way out of town and you have to catch the RER, the overland train, to get there. Florian meets me in front of the hotel. I never could find my way there without his knowledge. First we walk to the end of the street. Then we catch a tram and I'm impressed by how fast and clean it is. Then a short walk to the train station to catch the RER. Parisians really don't have to walk anywhere. In the past few days I've probably walked more than anyone else in Paris, partly because I was worried about getting lost on the metro, and partly because I actually did get lost on the streets a few times!

When we get on the train, there is a friendly big man in his 60s playing some fast French music on a piano accordion. I can appreciate this and I give him 2 euros. What a very French thing to experience - an accordion player on a train.

It only takes about 20 minutes on the RER and we arrive at the station at Versailles. There are crowds of people everywhere and we are told that the queue will take about an hour to get through. It's already very hot in the sun, so we don't want to wait, but the gardens have free entry and there are some shady parts. At least here there are not so many people! The gardens are famous for their clipped conifers, white courtyards, fountains and flower borders. It's very beautiful and goes for miles, blending in with the countryside around. As a New Zealander I enjoy seeing some forest for a change and it really is nice to get out of the city.

Florian and I buy an icecream and we go to sit by the lake where people are rowing around in little boats. There are enormous grey carp in the lake - some of them would be 80 centimeters long, and they have gold scales along their backs, wide mouths and goggly eyes. They are the ugliest fish I've ever seen, and they are taking bread from people's hands like the ducks and swans.

Florian has to go to work at Orly airport, so I wave goodbye to him. I will miss him - he has been so kind to show me around this amazing city for the last couple of days. The queues are much smaller now so I decide to go and have a walk around the palace. It's exactly as I imagined inside - wide marble halls with statues and chandeliers, frescoed domed ceilings and everywhere ornate gilt edged paintings, mirrors and architraves. These kings certainly lived in opulent luxury, probably while most of their people suffered under grinding poverty. On the other hand, being a king would certainly have had its challenges. The poor guy would never have had a moment to himself, from the time when the servants drew the heavy gold brocade curtains on his elaborately carved four-poster bed at night to when he woke up in the morning. Apparently each morning there was a waking up ceremony. I wonder what that involved? I would like to catch a glimpse into how they lived.

I think it's a very unfortunate thing, but the halls of the palace are being used at the moment for some sort of avant garde modern sculpture exhibition. It is so out of sorts with the opulent grandeur of the palace. I suppose that this was the only place big enough to house these works, if you could call them that. One is a giant pair of high heeled shoes, standing about four or five metres tall and made completely out of stainless steel pots and pans and lids. I suppose if you half closed your eyes, they would look like giant sequins. Another is a pair of very large prawns covered in white lace facing each other as if talking over an oval table. The title is "Le dauphin et dauphine". I suppose it means the male and female prawn, but later when I see Marie Antoinette's quarters, that is called the chambre de dauphine, so I guess I was wrong - it must mean king and queen!

The worst sculpture by far is a full sized one seater helicopter, all painted gold and decorated with, guess what, large diamantes and pink ostrich feathers. Ever the rotor is covered in pink ostrich feathers. I have never seen anything in quite so bad taste.

Ambling along the halls with the crowds of people, I come across an elderly lady pushing her husband in a wheelchair. It looks like hard work for her, especially in the heat, and I offer to push for a while. She quips, "no, it's OK thank you, I'm just about to push him down the stairs." They are from Canada. She asks me where I am from and I tell her New Zealand. Are you travelling alone? Yes, I tell her. "Oh look, Emmett!" she tells her husband. "Another woman from New Zealand traveling alone!" They also met a solo NZ traveller in Italy. You must be very careful in Paris, she tells me. The other Kiwi was chased down the road by a group of black guys. She herself had her purse snatched twice, once in a laundromat, but each time the thief was apprehended and she got her purse back. She also saw a Japanese tourist's laptop stolen from right beside her. I tell her I have been in Paris for five days, and I have felt completely safe. Nothing bad has happened to me. Well nothing but that first experience with the taxi driver, but I would prefer to forget about that. All the people I've met have been very kind and helpful, and I have walked all around the city and taken the metro and have been safe and well cared for. She cautions me again to be careful, and she and Emmett get into a lift and they are gone.

I know I have been looked after and it has been the result of prayer, but I'm also glad that I took the time to read up on how to look like a local in Paris. And here, for a very small fee, is my advice on the subject. If you look like a tourist you are a target, but look and act like a local and you will be safe. There is a particular way of dressing, casual but dressy and not overdone. I have been careful to wear the right clothes, and carry the right bag. I have a lovely striped black and white handbag that I bought just for Paris. It fits my iPad, phone, books and maps. You must not wear a belt bag - they hate them here and it marks you out as a tourist. Backpacks are best avoided but mine was ok at a pinch because it is small and nearly all black. Most of the time I avoided using it.

I have also discovered that in order to blend in, you must not ever look lost. Consult your map surreptitiously if you must, but don't carry it in your hand. Looking at the street metro maps is much better. If you don't know where to go, just choose your best option and walk with confidence. If you're lost, be confidently lost! You are a Parisienne woman on her way to work and you know exactly where you are. If you don't open your mouth, no-one will know that you are not a local. And if you do need to open your mouth, smile and use your best schoolgirl French and most of the time you will get by just fine.

In the late afternoon I want to visit one more museum. Now that I know how to get around on the metro, it's easy. The last museum is the Musee d'Orangerie. It houses the very biggest of Monet's works, as well as paintings from Renoir, Gaugin, Cezanne, Degas and others. I only have about twenty minutes here and it's really not long enough to appreciate Monet's work. I have read how he gradually lost his eyesight, so the progression of Impressionism in his paintings shows how the world actually looked to him.

I must spend one last lovely summer evening in the Parc Georges Brassens just up the road. I realise how much I have learnt here in a very short time and how much I have learnt to love Paris. But it's nearly time to go home; just one more place to visit and then the long haul home. I am missing the family and I am excited to plant my new spring garden and put up some art works on our walls. This trip has challenged, inspired and changed me in ways I didn't think possible.

Un bon jour avec un bon ami

I'm sitting on the grass in the Parc George Brassens, just up the road a little way from where I'm staying. The sun is just going down and families are playing and walking in the park. There are fountains, playgrounds and courtyards and a scented garden, and under the trees, there is a man with three little ponies. Overhead are jet streams and high cirrus clouds. Everywhere I can hear a relaxed and happy buzz of people. I have just had my own little picnic with food that i bought from the little organic supermarket over the road. I feel contented to the core.

This morning, another bad attack of homesickness but then it all starts to improve. First there was a message from Florian saying yes, he could meet me today. Then I got a surprise phone call from my very good friend. How strange to hear a NZ accent and to be speaking English! And then another phone call from Chris. So good to hear all is going well at home.

I get ready and head down the street to meet Florian. We have arranged to meet at the laundromat where I first met him on Saturday. And before I know it, I am getting on a Paris bus, and then on the metro! Florian explains how to navigate around using the public transport, and it seems so easy. I could have saved myself so much walking for the last two days, but then again I have been able to see Paris close up, parts that most tourists would never see.

We are heading for Sacre-Coeur because Florian wants to show me the cathedral and the little streets of Montmartre. It is a little way outside the city but I am amazed how quickly we arrive at the metro station. The beautiful spired and domed cathedral is up on a hill and there is a "funiculaire", a little cable car, that takes people up and down. The building is breathtaking from every angle. It is much prettier than Notre Dame; I suppose because it was built in a much later period. We go up the steps; Florian takes photos of me - finally I will have some photos of myself in these places; up till now it's just been photos of the scenery and I wondered if perhaps people will think I was never there at all.

 

Inside Sacre-Coeur it is very peaceful and majestic. Photos are not permitted in here and there are signs up saying "Silence". I don't have a problem with that because I am lost for words anyway. The architecture, stonework and art are unbelievable. I buy a guidebook for five euros - I will enjoy reading it later.

Underneath the cathedral, you can buy a ticket to gain access to the basement vault and the dome. I buy tickets for Florian and myself, despite his protests - although he has lived in Paris all his life he has never been up to the dome, and it's the least I can do to show my gratitude for his hospitality.

The vault is interesting with a sort of museum containing things like the ornate cardinal's vestments, a large choir book and some heart shaped lockets dating back to the First World War, in which we figured out, you were to put an offering for the church and a written prayer for your soldier.

 

Then through another gate and we begin a very steep climb up spiral stone steps. The space is very small and dark, and the climb is not for the faint hearted! Halfway up I am puffing hard and I say to Florian, "Tu es plus jeune que moi!" You are younger than me. We laugh and our voices echo around in the stone stairwell. But then we are at the top and it was worth every step - the view is beyond description. You can see every part of Paris from here. It's just amazing.

 

Back down the stone stairs and I keep having to "unwind" by turning clockwise every couple of rounds. Florian is laughing. Here is your word for the day, I tell him. "Dizzy". How do you say it in French? "Tournee", he tells me. Turned. It makes perfect sense. French is so much more logical than English.

We decide to go down on the "funiculaire" and then we are in a little town square. People are everywhere, selling all sorts of things, mostly tacky, but some good things. There are also beggars, and some of them plead with tears in their eyes, but I am smarter now, and I even see a girl with the same "deaf and dumb association of Paris" clipboard, so at least I know what that is all about. Being with Florian seems to offer some kind of protection too, though at the bottom of the steps to Sacre-Coeur there are some men who think he is Italian and are trying to tie something around our wrists, some sort of string bracelet. They only want money but you can see how tourists would be sucked in. They are extremely pushy. As Florian says, if I want something I will go and buy it; I don't want to be forced into buying something I haven't planned on. but further along there are two smiling black guys busking with a guitar. They are seriously good, so we stop and listen for a while. This is something that I can support, I tell Florian, and we both give them some money.

Further down a street it is quieter, and this is the space that Renoir did his paintings. I can imagine it; it's very pretty here. I'm surprised to see a sign saying "Attention, abeilles" - there are beekeepers working on hives in a little park above the street. I tell Florian that in New Zealand we only have bees in the country, never in the city. Apparently a lot of city parks here have hives.

Back on the metro and Florian is taking me to see the canals and parks by the Seine. We are walking along the canal and I want to take a photo, but he won't let me yet; he says it is not pretty enough. And he is right; just around the corner there is a canal lock under willow trees and a passenger boat is waiting in the lock. We watch as the gates open and water pours into the lock; the boat rises and then the next part opens and the boat can pass through.

We walk for a while up the canal and then it's time to go back on the metro - Florian has to go to work. I have had such a lovely time - I tell him he is the best tour guide ever. He is just a beautiful young man, so friendly and gentle and easy to talk to. What a wonderful thing that I met him in the laundromat. He is also free tomorrow morning, so we decide to meet up again, as it's my last day in Paris.

On my own now, I take the metro to the Musee d'Orsay. The building used to be a railway station and there are some enormous glass clocks in the arches of the roof. It reminds me a lot of the movie "Hugo". I must see that movie again when I get home, only this time I will watch it in French.

I like this much better than the Louvre. The paintings are gentler, softer, more full of light, than what I saw there. Of course this museum houses the paintings of the most famous impressionists - Monet, Renoir, Gaugin, Manet, van Gogh. I find myself getting quite lost in each piece. It's actually a very happy thing that I'm on my own, because I can pause as long as I like in front of each painting and the only dialogue is internal. Somehow, conversation spoils this process. Especially when I hear an American or Australian accent it seems to grate on the nerves and is out of character in this beautiful place of culture. I am glad I don't have to hear my own voice.

I am hungry so I queue up for some lunch at a cafe inside the Musee. In front of me there is an Australian family. They order "two iced teas..." and something else and then with my new found confidence in French I order "une baguette au fromage et jambon, un jus d'orange et un petit gateau chocolat, s'il vous plait". I am so glad that I can do that. I would hate to be ordering in English. It would just be wrong somehow.

In all I spend about four wonderful hours at the Musee, but then I decide it's time to go. I am so glad that Florian showed me how to use the metro, because in a very short time and two train rides later, I am at the end of Rue Brancion and I only have a very short walk. What a contrast from last night when I finally found my way back, tired and footsore and so homesick. Tonight after stopping off to buy myself some groceries at the lovely organic supermarket over the road, I arrive back at my room full of energy and bursting with happiness at what has been the most perfect day. I am still missing home, but I am loving Paris and feel so grateful to be alive and to see all of these wonderful places.