Kerre Woodham - Short fat chick in Paris

I never get tired of landing at Heathrow. Even though the planes always seem to arrive at dawns crack, and theres a queue of weary travellers waiting to be processed that stretches back almost to New Zealand, landing in England always brings back those same feelings of exhaustion, exhilaration and excitement that I experienced on my very first big OE.

My OE wasnt the traditional Kiwi experience though. I didnt head off to Blighty with a pack on my back and the names and addresses of three distant relatives who could probably put me up if things turned to custard. I didnt end up in a squat in Earls Court, sharing a bathroom with seven Aussies and half-a-dozen Kiwis. I didnt work as a barmaid in The Spanking Roger, and I didnt have my heart broken by a Greek waiter in Santorini.

In fact, I didnt see the worldwell, the world beyond Australia and the Pacific Islandsuntil I was nearly 30. While my friends from school were working at menial jobs to get the dosh together for the international airfare and three months emergency supply of baked beans, I was working as a cadet at Radio New Zealand. I wanted to concentrate on my career; my school friends werent sure what they wanted to do and were quite happy to travel and see what turned up. I envied them, and whenever their postcards would turn up from Spain or Greece or Africa, Id stare out of the nicotine-clouded windows of the RNZ newsroom in Palmerston North or Rotorua or Tauranga onto the grey, rain-drenched streets below and wonder whether Id made the right decision.

Then when my daughter Kate came along when I was 23, I thought that was itId be an old lady in support hose before I saw the places Id only ever read about. Travelling the world seemed like an impossible dream. Oh sure, like many of us whod grown up in small towns in the 1960s and 70s, Id harboured a flicker of hope that one day, after many years of tireless employment, and if I managed to tuck away a little bit left over from the housekeeping, and once my yet-to-be-met husband and I had retired, and if we were certain of our civil service pensions, we might be able to take a six-week grand tour of Europe on a coach with other like-minded 60-pluses whod been waiting all their lives to see St Pauls Cathedral, the Eiffel Tower and the canals of Venice.

Travel was incredibly exotic back in the 70s. Remember, New Zealand had one of the most protected economies outside of the Communist bloc and we were a remarkably compliant little nation. When the oil crisis hit, we obligingly agreed to car-less days. Shops stayed shut on a Sunday and New Zealand-made goods were protected from cheaper imports by the imposition of ruinous taxes. Very few people holidayed overseas and those who did were regarded as fantastic creatures. To even be in the same classroom as someone whod been to Disneyland (!) in America (!) lent you an aura of sophistication.

Then in the 80s, along came the Lange/Douglas government; it was hoots wah hey and all controls were off. Champagne flowed in the streets, imported clothes and make-up filled the shelves and money-market dealers and their leggy girlfriends flew across the Tasman for the weekend as if they were catching the bus to the beach. Those were heady times, but even then I wondered whether I would ever get to see the world. I wasnt leggy enough to be asked as a companion and I didnt earn enough to pay my own way. Even though my friends had found the nerve and the dosh to head away for a couple of magical years, I couldnt see how I was ever going to do it, given the direction my own life had taken.

Then out of the blue, I was asked if Id like to front a travel show on TV3 called Destination Planet Earth. Strictly speaking, it wasnt entirely out of the blue, because Id accompanied a friend to a tarot-card reader at the Courtenay Place market in Wellington. My friend was a big believer in the ooky-spooky side of life and had persuaded me to have a go after the reader had done herso to speak. The reader looked at my cards and said, Oooh, lucky you! Youll be in Europe by the end of the year. I see London andsomewhere elseSpain? Italy? Do you have any plans to travel?

I shook my head and thought what a waste of 20 bucks that was. As a waitress earning 15 bucks an hour, Id only just managed to get together the readies to get the electricity put back on in my flat after it had been disconnected for non-payment of the bill. Life was a hand-to-mouth kind of existencethere was precious little left over at the end of the week, if any at alland I didnt have any wealthy rellies poised to pop off their perches any time soon, so travel to exotic destinations was not an option.

But like I say, just a few months later, the call came in from an old mate of mine who was now producing a new travel show. He wanted me to help break in a young presenter they had lined up, and how did London and Rome sound for starters? I couldnt say yes quickly enough. I sent a mental apology to the tarot-card reader for doubting his prowess.

It was a busmans holiday, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. I think I bounced the whole way from Auckland to Heathrow, chatting to every person on the plane, be they staff or passengers. The excitement I felt landing in the UK and exploring London I still feel today whenever I return. Everything was so exotic and yet somehow familiarprobably from years of watching British television dramas and from long summer holidays playing Monopoly at the bach.

And then Romeoh, what a city! The first night we were there the crew decided to eat at McDonalds because they felt like something light and familiar. I couldnt believe it. We were in a city with so much history and so many great restaurants, and they were heading for Maccas? I wasnt having a bar of that. Putting on my best frock and my highest heels, I strolled the Via Veneto and found an appropriate caf. The waiters looked askance at me when I asked for a table for one, but when I explained about my Philistine travelling companions, they couldnt have been more helpful. Beautiful silky rounds of buffalo mozzarella were delivered to me; steamed artichokes served simply with garlic and the fruitiest of olive oil arrived; a bottle of red wine made by the cousin of the uncle of the owner of the place was opened. It was absolutely everything Id ever dreamed of.

Even the old lech who wandered over in his cream pants and tasselled loafers and asked if I wanted to come up to his gallery to see his Modiglianis seemed to be straight out of central casting. Given the tightness of his pants, I felt Id already seen as much of his Modiglianis as I wanted to see, so I demurred, tipped the waiters generously and returned to my digs, utterly enchanted with London, Rome and Planet Earth in general.

I could see why people had raved so much about the world. Travelling was pretty cool, and perhaps because Id left it so late to experience the wonders of the four corners of the earth, Ive never lost that thrill of arriving in another country, no matter the hour and no matter how long the flight.