Red Sails in the Sunset (Nouméa)

One of the sculptures in the grounds of the resort

And I'm sure you will want to know my curious reader, the electro 'music' went on until 9:30. One certainly can't fault his enthusiasm or dedication to his craft.

Yesterday's strong westerly has delivered bush fire smoke from Australia and the morning dawn was extremely hazy. An 8am knock at the door facilitated an earlier start than we had anticipated to our last full day here. It was housekeeping wanting to know if they could clean the room. Ah, no.

The breakfast numbers had returned to normal after the crowd yesterday. Aside from the wake up call, it was a relaxed beginning to the day. We needed to make some plans, even if that was veging out on the balcony watching others exercise. Time to chat with reception after breakfast to determine what time the shuttle would be collecting us tomorrow. We have an 8:35am flight so I figured around 5:30am. Nope. Try 5:10am. OMG! Jayne went into shock. Fortunately we hadn't had our morning espresso. I guided her carefully down the stairs to the bar and administered, what will be her final espresso. They won't be open in the morning when we leave.

The haze hadn't lifted and the organisation required to head out to Duck Island was looking insurmountable. The aquarium. Let's check that out.

Walking shoes on we headed for the poorly signposted aquarium that I had visited as a teenager in 1974. We knew where it was on the map and set out. After passing the restaurant that also showed the aquarium as next door we kept walking. There were no signs and certainly no sign of an aquarium. We walked around the point and continued to the next road where there was a small sign pointing us to our right. This road led right back to where we had been. We had circumnavigated the headland.

The aquarium was on the opposite side of the road on which we were walking. There was minimal signage and what existed was tiny and not particularly noteworthy. The most notable sign was fermé. Yes the aquarium is closed Mondays. So glad that another part of the Republic maintains the 'random closed day'. It plagued us all through France.

No really, it is lower in the water.

That skewered that plan. We crossed the road and found a bench in the shade and watched people learning how to wind-surf. Amusing. And watched the ever growing queue for the water taxi to Duck Island. It appeared to be the only place the taxis were heading. Through the haze Duck Island appeared to sinking lower into the water as the taxis disgorged their passengers. Pushed under by the weight of people or pressure from the haze. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a great plan for the day.

The fallback position? The same as always on hot day after a walk. Cold beer. We walked back to Le Faré and sat by the lagoon and waited to be served. It's almost 2 hours later and I'm certain, had I not lost patience and ordered at the bar, that we would still be waiting. That has been the only disappointment really, the service. It has a little too much islander influence.

The prized beers. Difficult to get, even more difficult to pay for.

Paying for the drinks proved to be even more problematic. The usual practice is a bill appears at the table. Not today. We went to the bar. No, you'll have to pay at the restaurant. There was now a massive queue waiting to be seated. No, again, don't wait there, go around to the side. We did. No. Not here. And the woman went off to the original station from where we were directed to the bar. Then one of the bar staff called us back over and finally we paid for our beers. Seriously.

So, now it is chill out time in the breeze on the balcony, watching the taxis ferry more and more people to Duck Island. It may not be the way we saw our last day going, but it is all good.

Beach etiquette in European influenced countries is very different to that of Australia, despite our Euro heritage. I have already mentioned the octogenarian whose skin was so tanned he looked liked he been tanned, professionally, by a tanner. His skin was leather. He couldn't get any darker and it appeared to be an all over tan. He rolled his speedos down to resemble a sort of g-string, his presumably dyed blonde pubes on display for the world to see. definitely not a colour match for his grey hair and beard.

Random flowers.

There were numerous topless bathers and baskers. Not that anything is wrong with that. Except for one woman whose g-string so was tiny as to be almost non-existent. I was not happy that she raised her legs to get up as I walked past. An eye-full does not quite sum up what I experienced.

Then there were the  numerous island boys, some drinking, some not, participating in the usual horseplay associated with teenagers trying to impress girls. The problem though, was that the beach was probably only 15 metres wide at the lowest of tides, not a lot of space. The girls, variously giggling and shouting, clearly appreciated the show.

Families with children abound. At any given time there were more people on the shore than in the water. There were many of body types in brief swimming costumes; it appears the body nazis have not made their way to Nouméa. Sometimes that is a good thing, more often it is not.

Anyway. A pleasant afternoon was spent on the balcony reading and blogging until the sun became too intense and drove us indoors. We continued reading and blogging and eventually packing for tomorrow's very, very early start. And then, it was time for dinner. Choices were very limited. Both the 'serious' restaurants were closed. It's Monday. Le Faré, the casual dining option, where you could die waiting for table service is the only resort food place open.

No surprises, we opted for Le Faré and what I believed would be a stunning sunset courtesy of the NSW bushfires.

We organised and actually booked a table. Unnecessary. The stray cats actually outnumbered the occupied tables. The bushfire smoke, although without the smell, was still thick and made for some beautiful photos (see below) and today's title: Red Sails in the Sunset, Midnight Oil. Maybe not so obvious from the photo, but clear to us sitting there.

The lack of patronage lifted the service to a whole other level. Our existence was acknowledged. Nice. The wine arrived. Someone turned up to ask if we'd like to order. Dinner? asked Jayne. No, the kitchen isn't open yet. We'll wait then, said Jayne. Order what? We had wine.

Despite this being the most casual option at the resort, the menu was, well, uninspiring. Sort of pub offerings back home. To keep the wine order simple we both opted for the swordfish and frites. Should have known better, says Jayne now. I cut into mine and said, hmmm, not cooked. As in raw. They had sashimi on the menu, if I wanted it uncooked ... Anyway, we sent it back. First time since The Winning Post Motel in Mudgee circa 1980.

The wait staff were very apologetic. Not sure the 'cook' was pleased. We discussed whether we would get a new dish or whether the same fish would be recooked. No surprises, the same fish returned, totally overcooked. As in tough and dry. Nice one dickhead. I fed bits to the stray cats who appeared unconcerned.

It is just disappointing in a resort that promises so much and delivers on most of it, that something so fundamental as a reasonable meal at their down market dining venue would be so poor. Particularly on a night when the other two dining venues are closed.

So, would we come back? Yeah, maybe, not so much. The resort is great, generally. There is not much to see in Nouméa, and what there is we have seen. So, that leaves the surrounding islands. For service I prefer the Cook Islands. Although food options are more varied here. It is also not cheap to get about. Will we back? Probably not, but it was worth the experience.

My dinner companion who didn't mind that the fish was overcooked.

At this stage of the evening there is the contemplation of whether this is it for now. As we are getting up at 4:30am there will be little to report tomorrow except Jayne's bad mood, the lounge at the airport and the flight home. Or more importantly, whether we actually get the plane on the ground in Sydney given the weather forecast.

Either way it's goodbye from me. Until January anyway. The North Island of New Zealand beckons.

Until then ...

If I ruled the world (Nouméa)

As I sit here listening to Vikem Arman I'm finding it difficult to gather the energy to write today's post and I'm aware I didn't even complete last night's effort. Pathetic really. I'm not sure if it was the morning exercise, the rosé that followed, the anticipation of champagne in the near future or the fact that I'm now really, really old. Remember when 60 was like, a near death experience - even worse than owning a Camry? I turned 60 today. Eligible for a Senior's Card. Well, I would be if I wasn't still gainfully employed. Anyway, my long-suffering reader, enough self-indulgence I have a blog to write. And of course, my blogs are never self-indulgent. Smirk.

Last evening, we decided to enjoy the fine dining option in the resort - Le Hippocampe Restaurant. That translates as The Seahorse. There was a lot of seafood, but no seahorse. I was ok with that. I imagine they are quite bony. As a fine dining venue it has to live with the juxtaposition that we are on an island and staying in a resort (looking at you pretentious Hamilton Island - epic fail). So, there were children, despite being no children's menu. I really wanted to see what they were going to eat. And then there were the platform sneakers and track suits - yes, he could have bought and sold me, but he had no class.

Random arty shot

The food was interesting and creative. Don't try this at home. Lamb with banana. Oh yeah. Scallops with pineapple chutney. You get the picture. It worked. Well at least the scallops, we didn't try the lamb. What we had was delightful and perfectly matched with a French Marsanne. A much under-rated grape variety. 

It was then off to the bar for an aperitif and some music. I tried ordering Zambucca. What? Then I tried for something aniseed? Hennessy? They asked. No. Ok, I give up. Cointreau? Oui, but non, I believe it was Grand Marnier. Yes. French and orange but NOT Cointreau. Ah well.

Finally to the present. Today dawned grey and blustery. It is probably the worst morning weather we've experienced. My day commenced far more positively, but that is none of your business. The breakfast restaurant was crowded, they confused freshly pressed OJ with apple juice, there were NO fried tomatoes ... first world problems. They get a lot very right here, but the little things, the island culture, tends to erode the good and make it, well, bad.

Post-breakfast it was straight to Bar Latitude 22. No. Not for an early morning drink, but for an espresso coffee. A real coffee. Not made with pre-packed plastic pods. If, my decaffeinated reader you who think that is good coffee - stop reading my blog. No. Really. Stop. Go to a café and have a real coffee. If you think pod coffee is good, you are not my friend.

The Cultural Centre off in the distance

I digress. After espresso, we headed to the Parc Zoologique and Forestier. (Warning: bird and plant photos following). By taxi of course. It costs around 2000xpf or $27 aud. It appears taxis are the only way to get around but on this trip, we had a lovely driver who asked if we would like the air conditioning on in the car and then proceeded to point out the tower on the mountain towards which we were heading.  

Drinking spot of choice.

He asked could he take a one minute detour to show us the view from the tower before depositing us outside the park entrance.  Bien sûr. The 360° view was great although around the base of the tower was not so pretty - seems this is a gathering spot for the island youth who want to party into oblivion, man, - some of whom were still there after Saturday night despite it being mid-Sunday morning. I was keen to take some photos, the view really was spectacular. The driver was equally keen not to stop the car. OK. I get it. Not a tourist destination.

Jayne was indulging me, taking me to the Forest Park, but it is my birthday. The national bird, Kagu or Cagu, the spelling seemed variable, is native to NC only and obviously I was keen to see it.

The park is spread across a hillside overlooking the cultural centre. It weaves in and around exhibits, largely avian, although there were some monkeys and a mini ferme. Don't think Taronga petting zoo, all animals were behind fences. That really set the tone for the park and the day. In an age of ecological sustainability (unless you vote Liberal in Australia or for Trump in the US, in which case ... never mind, you wouldn't be reading my blog) the park was a throwback, almost to the '70s. Where one might expect a walk-in aviary to allow the inhabitants the necessary freedoms to fly and breed, there was a succession of, well, backyard aviaries. As a former backyard bird breeder I'm the last to criticise, but my aviary was bigger than some in the park. And to keep hawks and falcons in captivity where they can not even fly for more than a few metres is wrong.

Yes, St Helena Waxbills again

We wandered the hillside looking at birds, with constant call of peacocks in the background. They were in plague proportions, white as well as the regular colour. The layout of the park was challenging, even for consummate map readers like Jayne. We negotiated the bends and the backward turns and saw the Kagu. We even saw budgies, galahs, cockatoos, lorikeets and other Aussie nationals.

The Kagu

There were many turning points, forks stuck in the road, and time grabbed you by the wrist, to direct you where to go, but we weren't in a hurry and chose our own path. Jayne was with me, so it was not the road less travelled (unless you remember the red path vs the blue path at Cinque Terre??). [Hahaha, that was a Jayne edit, the full story can be read, and it's worth a read - language warning - if you go to the blog index] Instead, we selected the Promenade with view. With what? View? Oh. You mean through the mesh fence? Sure, that's a view. Sort of. Three vantage points. We found one. Not so good.

I get the picture, but there was no toilet in sight.

Back to the hotel by lunch time and after the heat and the walking, I was looking forward to a beer. They were setting up for Vikem so service was even slower than usual. No beer. the moment had passed. Rosé and a bowl of frites please, as we watched the kite surfers scudding along the lagoon and the eviction of non Le Méridien patrons. We had our access wrist bands safely tucked into our pockets but were not asked to produce them despite watching a number of people denied entry or evicted because they didn't have a ticket or wrist band.

Sorry to have left you with your thoughts my patient reader I needed to open the champagne. You didn't notice? Oh, d'accord. The beat from Vikem's music is getting more urgent as the afternoon wears on and I need something to help me keep pace. There is still  no one dancing. Just saying.

Where was I? Oh yes, listening to the electro music. A group sat down near us. Well, two men. Carrying their beers with G&Ts for the girls. Thoughtful. The patriarch not so much. He sat down directly opposite me and threw one leg up and over the other onto his knee. A combination of his excessive weight, his shorts and the breeze provided me with a view that no one really wants. Not even his wife, I imagine. Nice white jocks though. Didn't think anyone wore those anymore.

Then he started in his East London accent, "if I ruled the world". Oh dear God, take me now. Obviously this inspired fear and today's title. Thankfully the breeze and Vikem's 'music' drowned out his manifesto.  Mine would have opened with: 1. All fat middled-aged British men must wear long trousers.

And so as the afternoon breeze takes us into evening, Vikem is still doing what DJs/electro artists do, (allegedly) ripping off other people's music and pretending to be creative by mixing it man! (50 ways to leave your lover, all I am saying ... and that wasn't the only recognisable tune) The crowd numbers have not built as the sun begins its journey to the other hemisphere and still there is no one dancing.

As I contemplate whether I will add to this post later, I leave you with a picture that sums up the world of Donald Trump.

In case you are wondering, yes, it's looking into a mirror.

OK, so I'm still here, it's 6:15pm. The music has been pulsating for over 4 hours and the dancers are more sparse than hairs on my palm. I'm now beginning to understand why it is necessary for people who attend electro dance festivals, raves, if you will, to take drugs. Although Vikem's more middle eastern influenced music seems to get more people up and moving. If the purpose of music is sex, this crowd is in real trouble, unless they staying at the resort. The tide is in. There is no beach. The garden is too well manicured to hide one amorous couple. There is security at every entry and exit point (i'm smirking smugly). Temptation. Frustration. So bad it makes him cry. It is going to be wet and messy people. Happily, it finishes at 8pm so most of the mess will be elsewhere.

And finally, nearly 5 hours after the music began, or is it a social experiment? The white boys in the audience have consumed sufficient alcohol to make them think they have the moves. The impending cover of darkness, well current twilight, helps. Suddenly people are dancing and the show is almost over. I've always assumed this is what Ibeza is like, some sort of schoolies for 'adults', a cruise that doesn't leave shore.

We are setting sail for dinner. If there is anything of further interest it will be recorded for the annuls of posterity in the next post.

à demain

ps: it's a wrap at 9:04pm despite the chanting. Amazing what darkness and alcohol can do for enthusiasm. OK, he's back again. Enough. I'm posting.

Yellow (Nouméa)

And as we begin today's reflection on our travels, dear reader, I am without a title for this post. Not that I was not inspired, but that I was inspired too much. Was it colour, was it sound, was it an art work or was it the near nude 80 year old guy on the beach? Once seen, never unseen. Skin crawl. More of that later. The songs span the decades from disco through to the 90s.

For the ornithologists: a pair of St Helena waxbills. I was very excited!

The day commenced as all days should with sunrise, a tad earlier than we are used back in Sydney and the curtains and frosted glass don't keep out all of the light. After pretending it wasn't morning for an hour so, we headed for breakfast. As I wrote before, quite an amazing selection: bacon, tuna, ham, fruit, pastries, hash browns (not real hash judging by the reactions of those eating them), cereals, cakes, cheeses, eggs and an interesting collection of fruit juice, the combinations of which one could only guess.

Once the day had begun it was time to continue. The forecast was for an overcast sky so no snorkelling. Instead it was the Tjibaou Cultural Centre (TCC) - we have free entry because we stayed at Le Méridien Resort. Just a short cab ride from the resort. Everything, it appears, is a short cab ride from the resort. This time we headed in the opposite direction to Nouméa and were able to appreciate the other side of the island. The trip wasn't that long and unlike yesterday, we didn't have a smart arse driver. Straight there, no dramas.

The Centre itself is quite amazing. Like Sydney's Opera House, there was a design competition and the final three are on display. I'm not sure why they bothered with the other two finalists; the winner was a lay down misère from my perspective. One finalist borrowed a little too much from colonial heritage, as the type of thing they were trying to negate with the cultural centre. Wouldn't it be exceptional if we could do something like this in Australia? Nah, that would suppose a government with vision and heart. Not going to happen in my lifetime. Sadly.

From a distance, and in all the promo shots we saw, the structure itself looks like it is made of metal. I actually remarked walking down towards the entrance that I wouldn't want to be there in a thunder storm. The entire structure is in fact made form timber. It has weathered to that grey colour and looks like metal. Each of the curved structures houses a gallery. Some are permanent like the library or the display of the finalists, pre-construction. Others house temporary exhibitions.

Not sure why he is unhappy

The TCC contains a large number of exhibition rooms and the grounds are structured around walks and traditional carvings and buildings. Every second visitor on Saturday was a nun. No, seriously. Given the number of phallic carvings I mused as to whether this was their form of sex education. The dude to the right meets you at the door. Nothing to see here folks.

Some of the exhibitions seem a bit esoteric, but their link is the Kanak/New Caledonia culture. The first room contained a history of the artist Aloi Pilioko, the Prince-Artist and his 'long time companion' Nicolai Mitushushkin. Some cultures might have used the term partner or gay lover, but not here. Remember Israel Folau?

Aloi clesrly loved yellow. Nothing wrong with that all. If you think I'm obsessed, he's taken it to another level. House, car, art work, toilet seat, hair, all yellow. Hence today's title. And it's the only decent song Cold Play ever released.

Then there was this dude. I'm not sure what's going on. He has a giant bird landing on his head. He doesn't look happy either. You might need to expand the picture my myopic reader to gain full understanding. Perhaps bis poor mood results from his dick being tucked into his belt. Not comfortable. I mean, as a teenager there were times when it was necessary, but never comfortable. And he doesn't appear to be a teenager.

We spent a couple of hours wandering through the exhibitions, permanent and temporary. It is a beautiful site sitting on the side of the lagoon and the building really lends itself to purpose.

Ring my bell

There was the bell exhibition. Nope. I have no idea. But I wanted to run along the hall and ring every bell as I passed. However, Jayne the adult in the relationship, wouldn't let me. All I could hear was Anita Ward singing, "Ring my bell, ring my bell." There's one for the disco generation. Circa 1979. And here's a picture to go with the  memory.

No, the choice of title is still not over. Next contender is The Police. There was a display called Letter to Facebook. I didn't understand the last part, but the former was depicted by a series of over-sized bottles, well flagons, filled with messages. Cue Sting, "Message in a bottle, yeah."

Message in a bottle

Enough of being inside - it was time to check out the permanent buildings. These structures were made all the more amazing by a video of how they were actually constructed. No nails, no hammers, no power tools. No scaffolding. Definitely no WHS, but amazing structures.

This guy was the welcome committee

No ropes, no shoes.

And a couple more phallic symbols just to help the nuns focus on the real purpose of their visit. And that doesn't include the numerous male calendars on the wall in Aloi's bathroom. More dicks than a group of Year 9 boys.

After a vain attempt to locate a leather and pearl bracelet that I saw in the plane magazine, and a successful attempt to obtain more cash since the majority of transport modes here only accept cash, we returned to the resort for a couple of French Rosés and a bowl of frites while we sat overlooking the lagoon at Le Faré,  the  more relaxed  in-resort eating option.  After that, it was time to read on the balcony and do some blogging.

I think that's probably enough for one day. We are dining at the ritzy French restaurant tonight because it is closed tomorrow night. But tomorrow night we have a whole new adventure. We are seeing Viken Arman perform live at the resort - for guests only (blue wrist bands required for entry). Do yourself a favour, google it kids. Or follow this link.

à demain

Rock lobster (Nouméa)

The balcony looking north ish

This morning was beautiful and cloudless. Down to the buffet breakfast to sample the wares and then head off along the beach to justify the champagne I know will be coming later in the day (call me Nostradamus). The pastries were OK, not really up to French standard, but better than home. Although not as good as the patisserie in Osaka, Burdigala. It's in Herbis Plaza. Totally recommend that place.

There is a pool behind those palm fronds

West, straight out to the lagoon

As promised my loyal reader I snapped some shots from the balcony. Despite using the camera, they seem a little over exposed. Our suite is at the very end of the block on the top (4th) floor looking west. From different vantage points we have views of the garden, the pool or the lagoon. Hoping for some sunset shots tonight.

There was plenty of action in the water this morning. Aqua aerobics in the pool. People running circuits while the instructor, a sun-tanned prune, provided directions from pool-side safety. I'm not sure what was happening in the lagoon. There were a number of people swimming laps, a lone snorkeler and a bunch of, ahem, more mature people floating around on noodles making a lot of noise. At least they appeared to be having fun.

The walk along the lagoon can be achieved on the sand or the footpath above. Reef shoes are recommended if you stay on the sand as there are plenty of rocks and shells that make the walk difficult in bare feet. Not to mention broken glass, although most of this has been polished by sand and wave action. We walked down to the aquarium and sat on a bench and enjoyed the view and the morning before trekking back to the hotel. We didn't quite get to 10,000 steps. 

One peculiarity of this area is the vast number of people who sit in their cars. As we walked along the lagoon promenade this morning, most cars had a least one person inside. Smoking, sitting, on the phone, air conditioning on. Bizarre. It was a beautiful day outside. Mind you, the number of people who were baking themselves in the sun was also an unusual sight for an Australian. We have long learnt to cover up and stay out of the sun as much as possible. In Nouméa the practice seems to be to bake yourself. There were people who still glowed pink from yesterday's tanning session out again today. Rock lobster is the skin colour of choice - hence today's title. And a nod to the B52s from way back in 1979. I know. It's been around for ever, just like me.

One of the nice touches at Le Méridien is a free coffee every day. We needed to check a few things out with the Concierge but detoured to sample the espresso. A coffee shot served with dark chocolate and a glass of water. Oh yeah. It was good and nice end to our walk.

A quick change of footwear and it was down to the foyer to catch a cab into the down town area.  The cab driver was a pedant and for a moment I was transported to Paris with one of those arrogant drivers who believe doing their job and transporting you somewhere in a cab is beneath their station in life. He wanted to be difficult about pronunciation and abbreviated street names.  Local knowledge. Crétin. 

They have a Latin Quarter and an Asian Quarter in Nouméa and we saw them both. In minutes. You could tell the Asian Quarter because it had a sign and some red Chinese lanterns hanging in the street. Yes, street. One street in fact, well, part of one street. Let's call it China Street because it's certainly not China Town or the Asian Quarter ... unless it's a quarter of a street.

The Latin Quarter was harder to identify, even with a map. I'm not sure how it earned its name, I saw nothing in particular that would make me think, "ah, yes. I'm in the Latin Quarter." It, like much of down town Nouméa was a series of dodgy shops. It was dirty and depending on what area you were in, smelled strongly of sewer. Our expedition did not last long before we headed for Coconut Park and the taxi stand to make the trip back to the hotel for some quality time on the balcony.

Nouméa is often criticised as not being a holiday destination and people pass it by for nearby islands. That said, I'd happily sit on the balcony here and listen to the world happen around me. The food is fine, the view is gorgeous and the champagne chilled, like me. Room service can be a little slow, first world problems, but we enjoyed a cheese platter with our duty free Perrier Jouet and respective books. Heads up Gin Austen Bookclub, Jayne is reading Damascus by Tsiolkas and I'm onto the other Booker winner.

I can't see any ducks from here

Just off the coast is the île du canard. A party nightspot. We drifted to sleep last night to the sounds of drums and electronic beats, complete with a search light climbing into the night sky. We are intending to take a water taxi out there in the next day or so because it is a protected underwater haven and the best snorkelling near the main island. They actually have five marker buoys delineating the area, each with under water information. Looking forward to this.

In the meantime as the sun sets and revellers rise form their beds to party again, we are preparing for dinner at Shogun the Japanese restaurant on the hotel premise.

Speaking of sunset, here are a couple of the sun setting on the sea today. Just like Broome, it brings the people out. Still not sure what is the fascination, we get some more spectacular sunsets over land at Redfern.

Redfern, May 2019.

The Japanese restaurant was crowded and inefficient - very unJapanese. To be fair the only Japanese in the place were the two chefs and some customers. Inefficiency explained. The sushi was excellent and the tempura was pretty good too. We thought we'd grab a nightcap and dropped into the bar for a liqueur and coffee to find a three piece jazz ensemble.

Back in our suite and Duck Island is quiet tonight. A great finish to our first full day.

à demain

Happy Talk (Sydney to Nouméa)

Well hello dear reader. Yes, I'm back with another series of posts in the 'year of the holiday'. Sadly, our last for the year. It has been wonderful: The Cook Islands, Hamilton Island, the Kimberley expedition cruise and now New Caledonia, specifically Nouméa. It's only a brief sojourn - we will be back in Sydney next Tuesday. Long enough to avoid a significant birthday, unwind and enjoy French food and wine with a south Pacific twist. A segue to today's title, Happy Talk from the musical South Pacific.

A nice way to begin the holiday

Flying around lunch time is the thing. There were no queues. Anywhere. We left home at 10am and were seated in the Qantas First Lounge enjoying a glass of Perrier Jouet before 11am. Nice. Just when you think things can't get any better, one of the wait staff appears with a fruit platter, a chocolate muffin and a chocolate 'happy birthday' sign.  Awesome. A pity we're flying economy, but it's less than 3 hours.

I visited Nouméa about 45 years ago as a 15 year old captive on a cruise with my parents. Too young to hang with the adults, too old to be with the kids and girls my age were not interested. Fun times. To add insult to injury, the ship went through the tail end of a cyclone throwing the schedule out and inducing sea sickness, for the only time ever. We arrived late in Nouméa. Siesta time. We went to the aquarium and looked through shop windows because they were closed. The shops re-opened and life resumed as we boarded the ship. It was such a magical experience that I wouldn't attempt a cruise again for 45 years.

And here we are, sitting in the lounge enjoying our champagne and fruit platter when another of the wait staff suggests we should move to the 'restaurant area' for lunch. Menus were produced. Hmm, salt and pepper squid, duck, lamb, salads, chips ... way too much choice.

The salt and pepper squid was beautiful, perfectly accompanied by a Yarra chardy for Jayne and a pinot gris for me. The lime chilli dipping sauce was very tasty and something I will attempt to replicate when I return to my other life.

Birthday messages everywhere

The flight was uneventful which was fortunate because there were no screens to distract our attention had something gone wrong. It was only 3 hours, but that is a long time to be a seat captive without something to watch. Thankfully the lunch and wine we had made me drowsy and I napped part of the way to Nouméa.

The airport is 42km from the city. When you add peak traffic flow, that translated into an hour on the coach. Le Meridien is the last drop-off point because it is the last hotel on the point. As we are only staying for a short time I upgraded our room and as it is my birthday, they made sure we scored the best of the upgrade. We arrived after sunset so you'll need to wait my dear reader for shots of the view, but the suite itself is beautifully appointed and everywhere I look there are birthday messages.

The lounge looking into the kitchenette

Yes, you guessed it, the bedroom

Dinner tonight was at one of three restaurants, Le Sextant. A seafood buffet. Oh yeah. You name it they had it and they catered across the continents too. The oysters weren't up to Sydney rock standard, but the prawns, sashimi tuna and king fish, plus hot dishes, just yum. All washed down with a nice Sancerre white and some sparkling water. There was also bread. French bread ... I'm in heaven ... and a dazzling array of desserts. All in all, a very tidy way to conclude the day.

Except it wasn't over. We needed to drink our complimentary champagne and eat the birthday eclairs in the fridge.

What was it Ned Kelly said? Such is life.

à demain