There are a ton of amazing things I want to do in Cape Town, and many people have recommended restaurants and activities. I will be staying with The Backpack; I chose them because of their dedication to responsible tourism and their involvement in community projects. One thing a few people have asked me is this, however: will you be cage diving with great white sharks?

If you’ve read this blog long enough, or have ever glanced at my Media/PR page, you know that I get very suspicious of companies. There is no paid advertising on this blog, nor are there any sponsored links (not even hidden ones, what you see is what you get). While I’m willing to work with companies and tourism boards for complimentary trips and tours (like my visit to London Cru a few weekends ago), I have no desire to participate in anything that does not keep up with the theme of This Battered Suitcase, or that I think would not be beneficial to readers. I also almost always turn down product reviews.

So when Tom emailed me, I responded politely but firmly. “I won’t write a post specifically about your bracelet, or even guarantee that I will put El Camino in the title of a post,” I wrote. And yet here I am, two months later, doing both of those things. Why?

I’ve done a few other winery/vineyard tours, and they often end up being the same: here are the barrels, here’s some information about the wine/grapes, and here’s some samples. London Cru felt different, though, much more personal and much more hands-on. Being a small space, we were able to see each piece of equipment and stand in the very room the wine was made. As their website says, they wanted to create a “hands-on, informative, and entertaining experience”. This, combined with their passion for wine, leads me to believe that they will be very successful in their endeavour.

We had flown into Gdansk from London mere hours ago; the flight to Poland, lasting only a couple of hours, was found online for £50 return. Our weekend had come about because of a semi-drunken conversation I had with a group of women a month or so earlier.

“Seriously, if any of you want to go away for a weekend, just say the word.” I may have been emboldened by beer, but I was indeed serious. Some of my favourite trips have been the spontaneous ones, the ones where very little is planned other than a flight and perhaps a hostel. The next day, Beverley tweeted me.

“How about Poland?”

“There she is.” The pilot’s finger, held up against the window of the cockpit, nearly obliterated the very thing I had come all this way and paid all this money to see.

“That one?” I put my own finger to the cold glass, aware that the propellers on the small airplane were swallowing my voice. Each mountain seemed roughly the same, barely varying in shape or height. I looked to the pilot for confirmation. He smiled with big, white, snowcapped teeth.

“Yes,” he mouthed over the whir of the propeller’s blades. “That’s Everest.”

When I walked out of my hostel in Rangoon all those years ago, I couldn’t stop whirling around, taking in all of my surroundings. I felt overcome by my senses: the jangling of the sugar cane man’s bells, the smell of frying vegetables, the air so thick and humid I could open my mouth and drink it in. And the colours, too, drip-drying at the laundry and splashed across markets and swirled on the faces of those around me.

But what about in London?