Student

I leave my hotel with a bag containing my sunglasses, a few Euros in change, a disposible digital camera, a map, a bottle of water and pen and paper.

I was planning to use my map to hunt down various momuments to lose myself in a multitude of touristic activities, however I find myself instinctively walking. Just walking, and walking and walking through the metropolitan labyrinth with no real sense of conscious direction. I wish I didn't know these beautiful streets so well, and that I might lose myself completely and literally get lost for a day. If that doesn't distract me, I haven't thought of anything else that will!

I start to wind deeper and deeper within the cobble stone streets until, finally, I turn down a street I don't recognise. It snakes through tall, stunning Parisian appartment blocks that have their French shutters wide open, veil curtains fluttering in the breeze, red geraniums and green ferns sprawling through the iron railings, black motorcycles balanced negligently against old French doors.

I take photos with my disposible camera and wander out onto a busy, unrecognisable road lined with lovely French cafes that have red-white chequered table cloths and yellow roses in small glass bottles.

The road leads into an open square walled by ivy-covered old buildings that make me gasp with aesthetic appreciation. To the left of the square are two enormous gilded doors which, upon looking up at the tall, ancient building with its concrete gargoyles, lead to an old cathedral.

God knows why (pun not intended) but my feet carry me inside the dark, cool foyer - despite my refusal to enter a church since graduation, when my blackless dress had slipped across my lower back just enough for my inappropriate knickers to partly be on public display.
But that's another story.

At the back of the cathedral, beyond countless wooden pews and a bare altar, there are huge and brightly coloured stained-glass depcitions of Mary, Jesus, and a variety of saints. They cast a magical light over the dark pews, in a way that enchants me and irresistibly pulls me down onto the front pew.

I sit there for a while, staring ahead like a stunned rabbit, listening to a gospel CD playing on the overhead speakers quietly filling the church, when I start to think nostalgically. Which is never usually a good thing in my case, because it either invlovles me cringing at things I've said or done in the past like a crazy person, or saying something like 'shut up' outloud.

Anyway, so I'm sitting in the middle of Bordeaux in this beautiful cathedral, and I suddenly start crying. I don't know why, but it's somehow cathartic, like a really emotional song. I cry until I hear someone behind me. An old homeless man shuffles beside me and hands me a red rose, asking for a Euro in exchange. I explain that I spent my last change on a tram ticket. The man shrugs and makes me take the rose anyway, saying 'God bless and good luck' before shuffling back outside.

I want to press the rose and laminate it and keep it forever, but instead I keep it in a glass in my hotel room until it dies and email my family to tell them how much I love and miss them.

When you're travelling alone, it's important to remember who you are and who you love. Apart from keeping your money, cards, ID and passport on your person at all times, the best advice I could give anyone planning to travel solo is this - appreciate every one and every moment. And if you get lost, don't panic! There are crazy people like me who actualy want to be in that situation.

Enjoy the little things.

The last time I went to Bordeaux I was much younger, on an educational French exchange. All I really recall from that is a three-day school strike through the city about alterations in the history department, chocolate croissants, colourful espadrilles, oysters, trams and a moist, biting cold. This time, however, the region suddenly seems more compact and a lot more appealing.

It could be the fact that I'm older, or the hotter weather - I was here in winter, and it was freezing - but the city appears brighter, sleazier, smaller and strangely more attractive.

The appartment buildings are beautiful, and so are most of the people, with cobble streets that give the rues an authentic feel. The streets smell of a combination of urine, perfume and cigarettes - a juxtaposition I suppose most people would assume about France! Locals ride bikes everywhere with baguettes stuck in their wire baskets too - which is almost unreal because it also seems so stereotypical.

Within three days I suss out my favourite things about the city - the hot chocolates at Fauchon Paris near the Grand Hotel, the shops near the University of Bordeaux II, the breakfast at a petite Parisien cafe near a tourist office called Napolean 3 and the bike stands near each tourist office where one can rent a bike out for a day.

I book two wine tours at the tourist offices - I've never been a fan of wine, but I'm hoping the French summer heat and my romantic opinion of the Aquitaine region will change my mind.

The first tour at Saint Emilion is a tad pricey, but well worth it. After recieving a tour of the city and vineyard, I get to smell, taste and bottle my own mixed wine, and I intend to bring the lovely bottle home! It is a very unique experience and a truly beautiful place.
I can't remember what the second tour is called, but it's a tad cheaper than the first tour and far more intimate, with a slightly smaller group. I happen to be thrown in with a bunch of Australians and New Zealanders, so I end up making some great friends in the process. We get to eat the grapes in the vineyard before doing a unique wine tasting test, where personal questions are put forward to determine which type of wine appeals to you.
I end up falling in love with rich, fruity, aged red wines and syrup-like white dessert wines. Looks like it's possible for someone as naive as me to be a wine connoisseur after all!

These tours and more can be read about and booked at the tourist office in Bordeaux. I'd recommend anyone of them - they are all unique, and there are many various tours to suit any budget.

After this, and a quick tour of the steaming hot streets (I'm on a hunt for the perfect French macaroon, an obsession I've developed since being here, but, sadly, no luck yet) it's time to head back to my hotel for a long bath and a far longer sleep! I'm staying at the Comfort Suites, which is in a very convenient location, near the University of Bordeaux. It costs around eighty Euros a night, which is very expensive for most students who are traveling, but you can book seven nights for around fifty Euros, which is actually quite ideal, if you've got the time! I'd love to spend a week here.

But until I can work in England long enough to afford it, it's time to be on the move...

In the port of Sotogrande, the tall Spanish buildings with bright shutters shine under the hot sun, and the palm trees sway in the gentle, perfect breeze like Hawaiian dancers.
L hugs her boyfriend as we walk along. I remember the guy I'd been seeing in England and, for the first time, I'm struck by a little pang of guilt.
Mum always told me that I should never buy the first item of clothing I try on a shopping trip. So I never invested in our relationship. But in retrospect, I'm pretty sure she was just talking about clothes.

We walk down a strip of cement fenced by gleaming speedboats. One of our friends who's staying with us has invited us onto his dad's speedboat for the day.

After we get on, the boat gently reverses out and slowly leaves the port, accumulating speed as we race through the exit gates, away from the dazzlingly pale green waters and into the vast, dark, glittering blue sea.

My blonde hair whips away from my face, streaming behind me. L's boyfriend calls out, ‘you girls need champagne or some high heels or something!' I wrinkle my nose at his subtle chauvinism, but can’t help agreeing along. Heels and champagne would definitely perfect this experience!

The underages have a turn in the donut first – a big inflatable wheel with handles and two hollow holes, and a strong rope that connects to the back of the boat. They scream and laugh, their faces moulded into Halloween masks from the wind as they bounce, skid and fly along the surface of the water.
The boys, thus having been tossed up and over the waves like flying fish, hit a big wave and somersault off the donut.
Everyone encourages me to have a go next. I say no. Someone asks me if I'm afraid of sharks. A feeling of pure fear creeps up my back and seeps into the back of my head, injecting pain behind my eyes whilst sending shivers across my body.

Someone suddenly pushes me from behind and I scream, falling into one of the donut holes, reaching desperately for the handles.
I take a deep, trembling breath and shakily turn over, wriggling my bottom into the hole and clutching the handles tightly, urging R to get in quickly. Everyone laughs and one of the boys leans over to get a photo of my terrified face. I try to look pissed off but end up breaking out in smile, causing our friend to nod and restart the engine.
The boat roars to life and my heart skips a beat.
Holy shitballs... I'm going to die.

The boat moves away and the rope tightens, starting to gently pull us through the water. I keep my feet up, terrified of being bitten by something, watching the waves lap up over the front of the donut. Some of the water gets into the holes and we have to go faster before it fills up with water. I’m terrified of sinking, but at the same time I don’t want to go too fast – if we speed up there’s a high possibility the waves from the boat will force us off and I’ll be bobbing, alone, in the middle of the ocean, waiting for the boat to come back.
Feck that.

I start to scream to stop, but the sound of the waves and the engine drown my screams. Great. I scream louder and R laughs. I glance at him sideways and he’s smiling, letting the saltwater spray his face, embracing the speed and the wind in his hair. He looks delighted as we fly over the waves, clearly enjoying himself.

Screw sharks. I stare ahead, at everyone cheering from the boat, at the sun reflecting off the glittering water, at the emerald and sapphire waves carrying our donut across the water. We hit a giant wave and fly through the air, landing hard before skidding out to the side. We’re going so fast that we barely skim the surface of the water. I can’t help smiling and laughing. Flying across the sea like kingfishers, we finally hit a giant wave and fly off the sides, somersaulting into the water. I hardly notice the impact or temperature because I’m too busy benefiting from the adrenalin pulsing through my veins. I burst to the surface, laughing.

R is at least one hundred feet away, waving like a lunatic. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m alone, bopping like a seal in the middle of the sea - a sitting duck. Panic sweeps through me. I ferociously swim toward him.
By the time I reach him I’ve adopted my horrified face again and I’m crying.
What a loser.

We turn around as the boat arrives, slowing and gently reversing to us. Everyone on board is laughing at us, taking photos. Someone lowers the ladder and helps us up, pulling my lifejacket off.
‘Want to go again?’
R gets back on before signalling to go straight away.
I admire him as I sit at the front of the boat to reapply my sun cream, drink some water and recover what’s left of my dwindling dignity.
I was such a pussy. Our friend assures me that I was a sexy one, but I'm pretty sure that looking like the killer from Scream isn’t sexy.

Still, I could get used to this.

PS - Sotogrande is accessible! You don't need to have connections there. It might be a small, niche resort but it isn't exclusive - there is a Sotogrande tourism website for looking into renting out rooms in villas or appartments, and all it takes is a flight from Madrid to Malaga and a cheap bus trip from Malaga to the Sotogrande port! The people, beaches, language and weather are all beautiful, but it is closed in winter (September - May) so it really only comes to life in summer.

With my employer and newly appointed 'mum', we drive past a load of hotel bars in Soto where tan young women in embellished kaftans with silver bracelets and huge designer sunglasses are enjoying icy rainbow cocktails.

When we get to the villa - a huge Spanish white holiday house in the middle of the resort - I meet the others - R, my newly adopted brother, L, my newly adopted sister, her boyfriend, two unknown boys and two unknown girls. The girls are sunbathing on the lawn and the boys are playing cards at a wooden table in deck chairs, glasses and bottles of Coke and Jack Daniels scattered around their game.
I go to put my bag in the back wing of the house – which has a huge double bed, three big wooden walk-in-wardrobes and an enormous bathroom with a shower, bath, two sinks, two lit-up mirrors, a toilet and heated towel racks.
Not bad.
I change into my blue swim suit and go back out onto the back lawn. Everyone has to the beach, according to my employer. Let's call her G.
I shrug and go to their bright sapphire blue pool and slip into the warm water.

We eat dinner at the house, Burger King.
A truly authentic European meal, of course.

I get ready for my first night in Spain with the girls, who help me choose a sheer orange top and gold earrings. Luckily, no one wears heels to clubs in Spain, so my gold sandals – which are the only shoes I’ve brought with me – are acceptable.
We straighten our hair but don't put on make-up because it will run off in the heat anyway. Which is good, because all I have is my small stick of Krayolan foundation.
I pretty much fail at being a girl.

We play drinking card games with bright blue vodka and lemonade on the deck, which evolves into rosy white wine then Malibu with pineapple juice.
Note to self: don't ignore rumours that heat makes alcohol go to your head faster. Recent experience now proves that's likely to be very true.

By the time we clamber into G's Renault, with sober L driving, we’re all pretty much drunk.
Those of us who are old enough go to the Soto club called Pulses, where the security guards are huge bulbous strict wankers with faces round and phosphorous like toxic mushrooms. Not that I resent them for being uptight or anything.

We all drink far too much and make friends with a Gibraltarian guy called Jo. Jo buys us champagne and chi-sha – I think that's how you spell it - colourful bongs with flavoured tobacco – that we use to pass smoke from mouth to mouth in a group in a white leather booth.
My advice for such a game? Don't get drunk and sit next to the guy who licks his lips constantly. It won't be pleasant.

We then decide to go home at six in the morning, when the sun starts to rise over the deck.
We get back home to find the underagers passed out in the kitchen, one of them clutching an empty bottle of Smirnoff. After checking their pulses and taking several photos whilst laughing loudly, we go to our rooms and wake up at lunch time the next day to sunbathe for a few hours.

I highly advise against getting as I drunk as I was when there are cameras present. I pretty much looked like a sweaty goat on Facebook the next morning.
I also advice against using tanning oil that claims to contain SPF.
Chances are it probably doesn't really.
My lobster skin wishes I'd thought of this revelation sooner...

I start to see some boys in England, one in particular. He’s sweet to me and treats me like a delicate flower, probably because he’s much older, but I still somehow feel strong and sure when I’m with him. My heart doesn’t race when I see him, but I trust him and we talk about everything.
I feel disappointed in myself for being so repelled about getting in relationships or falling in love before. Part of me thinks there must be something wrong with me and that I mustn’t be a normal girl, because I don’t feel anything that I want to feel about him. I've definately got to be a masochist. Or a sadist, depending on your perception.
As the summer heat gets so dense that I spend most days smoking on the balcony, wiping my oily forehead, drinking ice tea or taking cool baths, I avoid his messages without a hint of remorse, until I stop thinking of him altogether, and it ends quietly so I can forget he exists. Maso-sadist. Yep, that must be me... merr.

Having saved over a thousand pounds at work, I then ask for some time off and pack a small weekend bag. My new 'family' invites me to their villa at a holiday resort called Sotogrande, and I agree with gleeeeeee. I pack three swim suits, a few underclothes, several dresses, bath gel, Krayolan foundation, my laptop and charger, a hair straightener, organic sun cream, a pair of shorts, some dresses and t-shirts with nothing else and get on a train to the airport.
Thanks to mum's amazing frequent flyer points, I have a business class flight, so I go upstairs to the VIP lounge, take a nap, read my book, eat some croissants and call mum on the payphone until it’s time to check in and board my flight.
I drink champagne on the plane and start mouthing ‘Glamorous’ by Fergie, bopping my head along... until I realise that the guy in the aisle opposite is staring at me incredulously. I stop mid-chorus, deciding to flick through a magazine instead.
Note to self: don't murmur songs about flying first class like a homeless child who just came across a good plane ticket. Because you will look like a tool.

The airport in Madrid is big and cold, but outside in the smoking area it is steaming hot. On my next connection flight to Gibraltar I pay attention not to mouth songs about feeling g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s like a wanker.
My new 'mum' and employer picks me up from the airport, which is big, hot, dusty and surrounded by shiny boats that make me go ooh, ah.

As we pass through Sotogrande, my mouth drops.

Tall Spanish buildings with brightly coloured shutters and palm trees line the roads, which run alongside a glittering port filled with innumerable shiny speedboats and glittering pale emerald green water. There is a perfect, slight breeze sighing through the sunny heat, kissing my skin. The sky is azure blue.
I’m in paradise!