Day 63/365: Lunch Time Runs

The first minute of my state-mandated thirty minute break is spent rushing to get out of the office. The next minute is spent quickly changing into my running gear. Within three minutes total, I am out on the streets of Medway getting in a 15-20 minute run.

This new routine has been one of the best ideas I have come up with and I wish I had started it a lot sooner. As I train and buildup mileage for my 50km run in May, every bit of mileage is valuable and, given that I am usually too tired to run before or after work, this is the next best option. It certainly beats sitting in the break room on my phone.

The benefits have been palpable as well. It feels like I am doing two shorter shifts instead of one. I return to the office feeling reenergised, oxygenated, and blood circulated. 

I haven't quite been able to get the change back into uniform perfected yet though and this part usually takes slightly longer as I wipe myself down with baby wipes and spray myself with deodorant. I also have the added task of making myself stop sweating, but by and large this process at the moment only takes me six or seven minutes.

I used to think there wasn't enough time to go on a run during my break. I was wrong.

Day 62/365: Brume Coffee, Nice

In man's search for meaning (read: Benny's search for the world's best cafes), I made the treacherous journey one of the world's most remote locations (the French Riviera). There, I came across one of my favourite cafes yet, Brume Coffee, on the northern edge of Nice's Old Town. 

I came across this place by accident while wandering through the streets of the Old Town after a disappointing meal at a local brasserie and in search for something sweet to rejuvenate my taste buds with the taste of something sweet. After having enjoyed a coffee already at La Claque, another great coffee shop just a few minutes away, I didn't want to risk the jitters and palpitations of multiple coffees in a short period of time. 

I opted instead for a 'chocolat chaud' and cookie and it did not disappoint. That is understating it a bit - it was perhaps the best hot chocolate and cookie I've ever had. The hot chocolate was smooth, flavourful, but not too rich which hot chocolates can sometimes be. Some places think hot chocolates should practically be a melted bar of chocolate in a cup, but that's not the case in my opinion. Brume got it just right and the cookie was something to die for. Just lightly warmed up to make the chocolate chips a little melted, it was the perfect accompaniment to a hot chocolate. 

As I sat on their yellow beach chairs on the street, I watched the world go by. Taking a small bite of the cookie, followed by a sip of hot chocolate was the move, causing the cookie to melt perfectly in my mouth. I instantly forgot the disappointing meal I had just had and soaked in the perfect spring day. 

Day 61/365: What You Can Achieve On A Half Hour Lunch Break

Today I answered the age-old question of how much you can achieve in a half hour lunch break on shift. The answer is 2.82km of hard running. As the seconds counted down, I rushed to get changed into my running kit and was straight out the door, much to the confusion of everyone else in the building. 

As the volume on my ultra training increases, so will the need for me to utilise any and all available time to dedicate towards running, including lunch breaks at work. You see, after works are usually a write-off just due to where I live - a former industrial town in one of the most impoverished parts of Kent... you can imagine the kinds of people out late at night, especially on a Friday or Saturday. 

Getting over the anxiety of people seeing you in regular clothes on a work day as you rush out the building. Or coming back into the building covered in sweat. It's scary, but it will have to be done to get my weekly mileage up. Investments in baby wipes are a must, as well as a good towel and efficient routine.

It really uplifted my shift and was far more productive than sitting on my phone for half an hour, as I usually do. 

You can achieve more than you think on a half hour lunch break.

Day 60/365: Iran

Seeing the British Middle Class turn into experts on Middle Eastern foreign policy because their favourite hotels in Dubai has been bombed in the latest escalation between Iran and the West has been interesting. Apparently it has “brought the conflict a little closer to home” conveniently forgetting the war that’s been waging on the European continent for the last four years. To be fair, the average Brit is more likely to have spent time in Dubai than the Donbas, so I can’t stand on my high horse too much.

Last year, myself and a few of my family attended a sit down session with legendary BBC journalist John Simpson at the Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury. At the end of his various anecdotes from various dispatches around the world, he held a Q+A where we all got the opportunity to ask a question via a QR code. Out of the hundreds of questions he was asked, only nine or ten were answered. One of them being mine,

“Out of all the places you’ve been, which country had the friendliest people?”

John laughed, his eyes beamed, and his smile went from ear to ear as he knew instantly his answer. 

“You won’t believe this,” he started “but Iran” he said as the audience made a quiet, but noticeable, gasp.

I, however, was not in the least surprised by his answer. Having travelled to the Middle East I was already aware of the incredible hospitality of the people in the region. I have also met numerous people who have travelled to Iran on my travels who have also said the same thing. While the hospitality of the Iraqis, for me, was unmatched, I have heard that the hospitality of the Iranian people is on another level not quite comprehensible to most people unless they have been there.

John Simpson went on to tell a rather funny, but heartwarming, story about his time on the ground in Iran during the Islamic Revolution in 1979. Faced with a frothing at the mouth protestor screaming "Death to America, Death to Britain!" Simpson approached him, stated he was a journalist from Britain, and wanted to speak to him. Upon hearing that Simpson was a visitor in his country, the frothing protestor immediately dropped to his knees, grabbed his hand, and welcomed him to Iran and even offered him tea (my memory is hazy so forgive me John Simpson if you ever read this and it is not an accurate recollection of the story you told, but most people will get the gist). 

While it is the regime that has been hit in this latest escalation. The instability this lack of leadership will inevitably cause will not just affect Iranians, it will affect the wider region and, in the end, us here in Europe and the West too. The Ayatollah was no angel and the pretext of stopping a nuclear programme has eerily similar themes to the pretext of the War in Iraq, in which America and the West ultimately got themselves tangled up in 20 years of guerilla warfare which we are only just recovering from. When that argument fails, saying "well Saddam/the Ayatollah was pretty bad too" is still not an excuse. 

A power vacuum will lead to the rise of angry, extremist groups who want to take revenge on the West. War, instability, and poverty in the region will lead to another migrant crisis in Europe. 

It's all fun and games for Trump in sheltered Mar-a-Lago, but for millions of regular Iranians, Arabs, and Europeans, the effects of this conflict can have devastating consequences. 

Day 59/365: The Death of the Backpacker Hostel (As I Know It)

The feeling of walking into a shared dorm room hostel in the middle of the night, after arriving on a late flight or bus, has got to be universal amongst budget backpackers. Clambering in the dark, tripping over bags, asking yourself "Is that bunk bed free or have they just not returned from their night out yet?" because it's not quite clear whether the bed is taken or not. Eventually finding a free one, only to find out it's the type of hostel where you have to make your own bed. I guess when it costs next to nothing, you can't really complain too much. 

It may not have been the first hostel I ever stayed in, but that was my first experience at the first hostel I ever stayed in in Vienna in the summer of 2019. After navigating my way through Vienna's metro system I arrived on the wrong side of midnight at the Wombats City Hostel, paid my fee, including the dreaded city tourist tax, and made my way to bed. 

I'd like to consider myself a somewhat considerate traveller and, alongside my own social anxiety of waking others up, I didn't even get dressed, make the bed, and simply climbed up onto the uncovered mattress to get some sleep. It was June in Vienna so the sun rose early and the room quickly warmed up through both the sunlight coming through the window and the body heat of twelve travellers twisting and turning in their sleep. 

My late arrival meant I was one of the last to wake up in the morning, but I still managed to get downstairs in time for the hostel's free breakfast. For those not accustomed to the hostel free breakfast, it's not quite omelettes and scrambled eggs; instead it took the form of boiled eggs, stale bread, some salami and juice. When you're 22 years old, you don't really care about that though - free food is free food after all. 

Upon returning to the dorm, I meet my bunk mate from the previous night, an English chef on annual leave. We quickly chat, exchange pleasantries, what we've done so far. It's the last day of his trip, the first of mine. 

"How long have you been travellig?" I ask. 

"A week, how long are you going for?" he responds.

"Six weeks, I'm planning on going around Europe the long way."

"Oh you're going for a long time," he exclaims, "well, best of luck, nice to meet you."

I pack my bag, he packs his, and we part ways never to see each other or stay in contact ever again. I don't know his name, I don't even remember what he looks like, but I remember the exchange and conversation. The first time I, as a solo traveller, was meeting a fellow solo traveller and exchanging pleasantries on the basis we both had a mutual understanding of why we solo travel. 

Over the course of the next six weeks, I had dozens of experiences like this in hostels from Odessa down to Yerevan. Some people became friends for life, others just for a few moments. Some I still keep in touch with today, others I never saw again. While there is a sadness in making friendships for such a short period, there is also something bliss in knowing that someone came in to your life for a brief period to support you and be there when you needed it, even if you never managed to see them again. 

In recent years I have noticed a declining trend in this sort of atmosphere in hostels. The social aspect is missing. Hostels are no longer the rugged backpacker-friendly type places they once used to be. Instead of being run by former travelling hippies they are increasingly run as corporate chains. Walk into a hostel in most Western European cities nowadays and you will be greeted with an almost clinical atmosphere, any semblance of identity stripped through a theme of minimalist nothingness. 

During a recent trip to France, I stayed in a hostel in Nice for two nights. It was okay, but I couldn't help but think how much backpacking had changed. This was, according to the research I had done prior to the trip, one of the cheapest and top-rated hostels in the city. It was clean, it was welcoming, but it was clinical. Like all those years ago in Vienna, I arrived late at night to find the bed not made. While this is standard practise for many hostels, I can't help but feel it is dated and pointless. Most considerate people don't want to wake up the entire dorm as they wrestle with a bed sheet in the dark as they cannot find the personal light switch. It frustrates me because when you've stayed in cheaper hostels that do make the bed, you wonder why these corporate chains can't, while still charging me three times the price.

Beyond the move to corporate, almost McDonald's-like chains that modern day hostels have become (I'm looking at you Generator Hostels), it seems hostel culture is also changing. They're not as social anymore and. while I've not always been the most socially confident, I could always meet someone somewhere that was willing to have a chat. Nowadays, guests at hostels are more interested in their phones. Gone are the days of buying a case of beer or ice cream, sitting in a common room, and inviting others to have a drink/some ice cream with you (again, these spaces exist less now as corporate hostels maximise every single space to include as many beds as possible). 

With that, hostel etiquette is slowly dying. I'll never forget at a Generator Hostel in Stockholm waking up to the girl in the bunk above playing herself music through a loudspeaker to get to sleep - in a 12 bed dorm no less. On my trip in France, I was woken in the early hours of the morning to a fellow guest wrestling with a suitcase, plastic bags, and a zipper. With the risk of sounding like an old man, "back in my day" it was considered hostel etiquette to pack your bags the night before. It felt as if the effort I had gone through to be relatively quiet as I arrived late at night had been put to waste, going so far as to not even make my bed and sleep on top of the mattress itself. 

I can't help but think if it's me that needs to change, if people are changing, or if I've just been plain unlucky. I find myself staying in hostels less and less often and, if I do, it tends to be a private room. As such, maybe by lack of exposure, I come across the social types less often. I'm sure traditional old-school backpacking type hostels still exist (not to be confused with party hostels..), but they are a slowly dying breed, at least in Europe. 

Staying at a sociable, backpacking hostel is in large part why I still like to travel solo. Many of my best travel memories were either made in great hostels or with people I met in such hostels. If there's a lesson I'm taking home from recent trips, it is to support local hostels where possible.

Day 58/365: The War On Lattes

A latte is not a coffee. 

If you go out for a coffee and order a latte, you are drinking a hot coffee flavoured milkshake. Let’s stop calling it as such. If you had a coffee-flavoured ice cream, you wouldn’t call it a coffee, would you?

So why do we do it with lattes? 

Latte is the Italian word for ‘milk’. If you order a latte in Italy, arguably the home of coffee, you will get a glass of milk and rightfully so. The weakest coffee drink they will give you is a cappuccino and if you order a coffee, they will give you a shot of espresso.

My heart sinks when I stand behind someone in a queue at a cafe and someone orders a latte. Not only is it a waste of coffee beans, it’s a waste of milk. Only babies drink big bottles of hot milk, so why is it normalised as adults?

Corporations are waging a war against proper coffee and we, true coffee aficionados, must fight back. There isn’t such thing as an Iced Caramel Machiato from Starbucks, despite what they tell you. A machiato is, and always will be, an espresso with some milk foam. I don’t know whatever nonsense they serve at Starbucks is when you order one, but it ain’t it. 

So, reject corporate coffee chains. Drink local, speciality coffee and don’t order anything weaker than a flat white. A cappuccino at worst. 

Learn to enjoy the bitter taste of an espresso. It’s an acquired taste, but it will change your life. 

Day 57/365: The Verdict On Monaco

“Pickpocket! Pickpocket!” shouted one of the Nice Train station staff members, pointing at two women who were now leaving the platform. 

Shit I thought to myself. I was trying to squeeze onto the train for Monaco and it turned out I was right next to these two thieves the whole time. I check for my passport - still there; then for my wallet and phone - also still there. Thank God.

I manage to get to another door on the train and squeeze in. The two carriage train to Ventigmilia, via Monaco Monte-Carlo is not big enough for us all and it feels more like a London tube at rush hour than 11am on a Thursday on the Riviera Railway. 

Facing the window, I immediately decide that the French Riviera is one of the most beautiful spots in Europe, if not the world. We pass through the towns of Villefranche, Beaulieu, Eze, and Cap d’Ail. Each with beautiful white sand beaches and light blue water. Out in the sea there are people paddle boarding and kayaking. It’s still February but the sun is out and it’s a beautiful day.

It’s only a few stops and, within 25 minutes, I am in the territory of the Principality of Monaco, a new country for me. Immediately I feel out of place. As I walk down the first road I come across, it’s clear that there is serious wealth in this micro-state. I text Layla saying even the pigeons look posh here. 

Designer clothing seemed to be the norm amongst various pedestrians. If you weren’t on the bus, you were driving a super car and as I made my way to try and find some Monganesque food I had read about, I couldn’t help but feel the whole place was soulless. 

Monaco is very evidently a rich-person’s playground. It felt like I was walking on a 3D version of those carpets you used to get when you were younger, with the roads and you’d drive your toy cars around it. Although I haven’t been to Dubai, it felt like how that might feel except with a few more historical buildings thrown in. 

I never did find the Monganesque food and after an hour or so of mindlessly wandering around, coming across only designer shops and pretentious people, I thought “sod this” and caught the next train out. 

Nice is far nicer anyway.