Dean Vowles discovers Curry contentment in London’s East End
Six Months, twenty-three countries, countless train journeys, more money than I care to recall, and a plane load - I’d like to think – of new friends. I contemplated what I had achieved, what I had experienced in my life since I left Australia. I’m not going to lie - I was pretty impressed. I left home a fresh faced, clean-cut, innocent, run-of-the-mill nineteen year old. Six months later, and in less than twenty-four hours, I would be returning to my homeland a travel worn, under-slept, stubble ridden twenty year old with hair resembling the household mop. Would my friends still know me? What would my parents think of my lifestyle of recent? How would I find work? These questions, and many more (Will that girl still have a killer body?), are what I should have been thinking about as my once-in-a-lifetime trip drew to its inevitable end. I should have been researching ways that I could somehow stay longer, trick the visa system, find some long forgotten wad of travellers cheques in my travel folder. Memories should have been flooding through my head, overwhelming me with feelings of anxiety and sorrow in prospect of my return home. But that wasn’t how I’d been living this trip, and I definitely wasn’t going to start acting that way now. And, to be blatantly honest, all I really wanted – all I really felt like - was a curry.