Rainbow Daze

'No nay, no no,' said the White Rabbit, 'don't drink the potion! It will make you shrink in size. Follow me, hee hee, follow me this way, it's much more fun. Let me take you to this amazing place, follow me. Follow me!'

Alice hesitated, but quickly gave in and followed the White Rabbit down the tunnel, swayed by his enthusiasm and curious for discovery. 'What can there be? What will I see?' she asked herself, fidgeting with excitement.

Running as fast as her new school shoes would allow her, she pursued him desperately, but he hopped and he skipped very fast indeed, too fast for poor Alice. Before she could call out for him to slow down, he disappeared out of sight. There was very little light in the tunnel, and although not cold, Alice felt a slight shiver run up her spine. Wishing she had taken the potion after all, she reached into her dress pockets to warm her hands and... WHOOSH!

When Alice woke up, of the White Rabbit there was no sign, although she did not notice this, so surprised was she by the sight that greeted her eyes. She was in a city, that much was obvious, but the kind of city Alice had never been to before, or even seen, or heard of. Everywhere, a riot of colours, geometric patterns, whirls and whorls of all shapes and sizes overwhelmed her confused sense of sight. 'What a crazy place this is!' she thought.

Every building she looked at (and she looked at many) was painted a different shade of pink or orange or green or blue or yellow or red or any wonderful combination of primary and secondary colours. Here and there, two-dimensional coloured cubes bounced gayly in the midday sun. The whole place radiated warmth and energy, where none there ought to have been, so desolate and poor was this part of the world.

'What is this place, where am I?' Alice asked herself.

Welcome to Tirana, Albania:









Emerging in 1999 after 45 years of grim communist isolation, the good citizens of the Albanian capital must have shared Alice's confusion as they struggled to come to terms with their new and surreal environment and relative freedom. Finding themselves staring into the dazzling headlights of democracy like a wheelchair-bound deer with two flat tyres, they promptly elected a charismatic former national basketballer with a diploma in fine arts from a prestigious Paris school as their new mayor. As one does.

Within weeks of being elected, 6'7"/1m97 Edi Rama had slam-dunked the ultimate cosmetic make-over in a wave of instant change that rapidly swept over his city. Pothole-ravaged streets were repaved and derelict buildings bulldozed; the environment regained an urban footing as 4,000 trees were planted along the central avenues; but most visibly of all, the majority of Tirana's architectural drabness was dramatically transformed by an army of painters on a psychedelic mission to create an ocean of colour on the world's largest blank canvas.

No other vassal of the former Soviet Union had undergone such a radical and sudden political, structural and psychological change since the collapse of Stalin's totalitarian ideology. Yet all this was unknown to the western world, or at least to me. Rama even achieved the incredible feat of being voted World Mayor of the Year in 2004 and one of Time Magazine's Heroes of 2005.

This being Albania, Rama has already survived two attempts on his life since his election 10 years ago, and his most vocal opponent has vowed to repaint the city in lustrous shades of grey if or when he is invited to power. Still running the city, today's mayor of Tirana is currently campaigning to become the country's Socialist Party leader and is a strong contender for Prime Minister in this year's elections. Europe's 2nd poorest country and its 40% unemployed populace can dream of better times ahead.

But this is not about politics, progress or even hope. I feel like the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland, so wide is my grin, so unexpected is this heart-warming kaleidoscope skyline. This is the purest form of satisfaction that travel can offer: the powerful surprise of discovery that surpasses even the most breathtaking beauty.

That my last evening in this architectural crack alley is spent in a 16-floor high revolving bar that draws my gaze over the crazy stripes and pastel hues for one last time at sunset - and in the company of some equally appreciative travellers - is fitting. It truly is.


Of Alice there is no sign however, maybe she has fallen down one of the few remaining potholes after one too many shots of raki...

Different Strokes

'I believe in a purer form of love, where sincerity of sentiment transcends all aesthetic beauty to create an overwhelming rush of blind understanding', my next-table-neighbour announces cheerily to his fellow diner, before delicately popping a rosy sliver of entrecôte au poivre into his eloquent mouth. Only some supreme in extremis control over my oesophagus prevents me from projecting a minor mountain range of deliciously buttery mashed potato onto the partition wall in surprise at this casual conversation opener. 'YOU WOT?', my mind screams.

Meeting this statement with a look of bored insouciance that betrays his nationality, his compagnon takes a slow, measured and savoured sip of his verre de rouge and remains silent. They can be no older than 20.

I am confused. These are multi-syllabled words being spoken here. Where are the Texa Fried Chicken drumsticks and cans of Tennents Super? What is this love that is being mentioned? Love is Tracy on Monday and Jenny on Tuesday and whatever her name was on Wednesday, who cares anyway?

All of a sudden, I remember that I am in France, and that these people are French. They think. Actually, they think. And they do it very well.

Even as I accept, understand and adjust to my new surroundings, I can feel the inevitable change come over me. I am becoming more introspective with every passing minute, as I always do when I find myself sitting alone at a Parisian bistrot with a glass of red wine within lazy reach. France does this to me: it rekindles a fire that has no right to burn in me.

Eight years of French schooling and a lifelong proximity to all things gallic have made me as close as one can come to being French without routinely pan-frying amphibians and perfecting the complex art of subtle retreat. Until the age of 12, I read the same comics, watched the same cartoons and stole the same 1980s additive-ridden sweets as any Thibaut, Luc or Guillaume from Brest to Biarritz. I know the French, I know them very well and feel myself inexorably drawn to their smooth and cultured ways whenever I set foot on Gaul.

And here I am again, in fair Gaul. Having left the safe haven of Queenie's noble shores, it is not long before vague after vague of existential questions batter my uncouth saxon morality: Am I a good person? Will I ever see the bigger picture? What legacy will I leave to this planet? And more importantly, did I really need that last profiterole?

I love France for doing this to me, for challenging the very core of my system of belief and how I function. I willingly give in to my masochistic urges and strip myself bare: here I am, the real moi. I can look at myself in a way I could not even imagine possible from the safety of my comfortable middle-class life in leafy South West London. I am.

But just then, as I prepare to hang my soul out to dry on the clothes line of purgatory, I am yanked back into the realm of reality and saved from certain think-too-much doom by a fortuitous glance at my briefcase. All thoughts of complicated self-improvement vanish in a genial flash as I see the beacon masthead of the Daily Mail smile at me in all its glory.

What truly matters in my life is not here, it is not introspection or even understanding. There are more important things in life than morality and humanity: it is transfer deadline day in the Premier League and the Villa were about to sign a central defender. There is nowt more existential than a change to your playing formation two weeks before the local derby.

I lean back into my chair and relax, gradually fading out the dull sounds of silent debate to my right. My life status improves from good to perfect as I turn to the games page and realise that I still have two Sudoku puzzles to solve.

Bliss...