Boundless and Unfiltered

Tag: travel

  • Ballarat: The City of Sky (and Why I’m Running My First Marathon There)

    I grew up between London and Bombay – two cities where the sky is more of a rumour than a reality. In London, the clouds hog the limelight. In Bombay, the buildings do. You learn to live under a low ceiling… literally.

    So imagine me, a fully grown adult, arriving in Ballarat for the first time and being stunned – not by some landmark, not by a bustling street, but by the sky. Just… endless, unapologetic sky. A sky so big it felt like it had elbowed everything else out of the way. A sky that made me feel tiny, free, alive, and somehow wealthy.

    Honestly, I’ve decided your true wealth is measured not by what’s in your bank account but by how much sky you get to stand under. And Ballarat? Ballarat is loaded.

    I went there because of a boy – now my husband, Don – Ballarat born and bred, who casually introduced me to what he obviously assumed was a normal little town. Meanwhile, I was having a full spiritual awakening.

    Here’s how it happened:
    We’re driving in, and I’m thinking, Well this is quaint. Then the winter flowers start lining the streets like they’re auditioning for some kind of cosy fairytale. Before I know it, I’m feeling like I’ve walked into an Enid Blyton paperback (the wholesome version, not the slightly questionable ones).

    And then it hit me:
    I wasn’t just visiting.
    I belonged.

    Ballarat felt like home in the weirdest, warmest way. Not my “new” home – my original one. The one with cold air, grey skies, and the kind of comforting dreariness that instantly transported me back to my London childhood. But this time, with slow, quiet weekends that make you remember how to breathe.

    It’s funny – so many people talk about Ballarat like it’s the runt of the Victorian litter. The moody cousin. The town you only pass through on the way to somewhere shinier. People love to call it cold, boring, bleak… basically the Eeyore of Victoria. But to me? It’s magic. Underrated, underestimated, quietly spectacular magic.

    And then there are the lakes.
    Everyone knows Lake Wendouree. She is stunning. She’s also manicured, polished, and flanked by wealth. She’s the kind of lake that went to private school, plays piano, and probably has a trust fund.

    But Lake Burrumbeet?
    Oh, she’s wild. She’s gritty. She’s magnificent in a messy bun with no makeup. On a cold, stormy day, she comes alive like she’s starring in her own dramatic period film. The sky rolls in like theatre curtains. The wind gets ideas. The water doesn’t even pretend to behave. It is perfection.

    There was a day Don took me there, and for at least 20 kilometres, it was just us, the dogs, and nature, completely unbothered by civilisation. No people. No noise. No expectations. Just raw, Australian beauty at full volume. That’s when I decided that every good thing is close to nature – and Ballarat is very, very close.

    We go often now. It’s only an hour from home, but every time we roll in, it feels like the city gives me a giant bear hug. A cold bear hug, but still – love is love.

    And that’s why, in a few months, I’ll be running my first ever marathon there – the Ballarat Marathon. Because what better place to run 42.2 km than in the town that gave me sky, belonging, and a second home?

    Ballarat may not market itself as magical. But it has been for me. And I will forever be grateful to my husband for being from Ballarat – and for inviting me into this enchanted little underdog of a city that somehow became one of the great loves of my life.

  • Living with no reservations, thanks Tony

    Every year, like clockwork, 8 June sneaks up and smacks me in the face like a dodgy oyster from a Bangkok street vendor. It’s the day I remember that Anthony Bourdain–Tony – left this world, and somehow, even now, I still can’t quite believe it.

    Tony wasn’t just a TV host or a celebrity chef. He was the guy – the salty, no-nonsense, noodle-slurping travel philosopher who made you want to eat soup on a plastic stool in the middle of a chaotic market in some sweaty corner of Southeast Asia. And dammit, I did.

    He taught me everything:

    – How to travel with curiosity, not arrogance

    – How to eat with reverence, not snobbery

    – How to tell a story with bite, not fluff

    – And how to weaponise dry humour with surgical precision

    I still remember the day I read the news about his death. My first reaction? “Nah, fake news. No way.” Tony was indestructible. He waded through jungles, dodged angry chefs, and drank suspicious local booze with grace and guts. But then came that sinking feeling in the stomach. You know the one – the oh-no-this-is-actually-real kind.

    And that was it. The man who, through a flickering TV screen, gave me the courage to pack up my life at 20 move to a random dot on the map… was gone. My idol, my invisible mentor, the curmudgeonly uncle I never had –but always wanted – was no more.

    I still watch reruns of A Cook’s Tour and No Reservations like they’re gospel. It’s like clinging to the voice of an old friend – someone you never actually knew but knew you, somehow. It’s not quite enough, but it’s all we’ve got.

    And yet, even now, he’s part of my DNA. He lives in the way I travel, the way I eat, the way I seek out chaos and charm in the same breath. He changed the way I think. He made me move. He made me feel. He made me want more from life than boring cruises and beige conversations.

    So today, I grab a bowl of something unpronounceable, find the most uncomfortable seat I can, and remember the guy who made it all make sense.

    Here’s to the man who said:

    “If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. The extent to which you can walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food, it’s a plus for everybody. Open your mind, get up off the couch, move.”

    You changed everything. Thank you, Tony.

  • Confessions of a street food addict (stranded in the west)

    Having lived in various white-washed Western countries for most of my life, there is one thing my soul constantly yearns for. No, it’s not snow at Christmas or overpriced coffee from a hipster café with exposed brick walls. It’s street food.

    Glorious, unapologetic, spice-laden, oil-dripping, joy-inducing street food.

    Let me tell you, I think about street food more than I’d like to admit. It’s basically my Roman Empire. Every. Single. Day. I reluctantly accept – sometimes multiple times a day – that it just won’t be the same here in Australia as it is back in India or really, anywhere in Asia.

    Because here’s the thing: Asia doesn’t just serve street food. Asia is street food. It’s alive. It has a pulse, a heartbeat. It dances in the chaos of the streets, it sings from a sizzling wok, and it hugs your soul in a crinkly paper plate dripping with chutney.

    As a kid, some of my happiest memories involve eating copious amounts of pani puris and bhel puris on Juhu Beach with my grandfather.

    It was a whole evening of messy, magical perfection: Eat a pani puri, play in the sand, hop on a horse that may or may not have been retired from racing, and finish the night off with fresh coconut water straight from the coconut.

    The coconut guy would expertly hack it open with a machete (with the swagger of a Michelin chef), and then use the top to carve out that soft, sweet tender coconut flesh. Pure heaven. Gordon Ramsay could never.

    And how can I not mention gola – that iconic tower of crushed ice drenched in syrup, the king of childhood cravings. Specifically, kalakhatta. That sour, sweet, pungent flavour that I haven’t tasted since I left India decades ago. It’s a memory etched in my taste buds. I mean, come on – that’s the original umami, at its absolute dramatic, tongue-staining best. On a hot summer evening at Chowpatty, nothing calmed your soul (or sweat) like a kalakhatta gola. Sticky fingers, purple tongue, and total bliss.

    As an adult, every trip back to Asia reminds me just how intrinsic street food is to the culture. You could be drenched in sweat, dodging scooters, and possibly being eyed by a stray dog—but one bite of that snack and it’s all forgiven. Your taste buds are doing a Bollywood dance sequence, and honestly, who needs aircon when you’ve got that kind of joy?

    I blame (and thank) Anthony Bourdain for keeping this love alive during my early adulthood. I devoured his shows like I devour a good banh mi. I’m talking reruns, quotes, emotional breakdowns—the whole fan club kit. I still remember the pure serotonin hit watching lanky Tony awkwardly perch on a bright red stool in Vietnam, slurping a local soup handed to him by a woman with a bubbling pot and zero time for nonsense. I felt that moment. His commitment to eating everything, everywhere, all the time? Iconic. Relatable. Deeply validating.

    I, too, would sit curbside in the most chaotic of places just for a bite of samosa chaat in Bombay, or noodles in Singapore, or fried things on sticks in Thailand that I can’t even name but will dream about for years. Tony got it. Tony was us.

    But now, back in Australia – the land of brunch and politely portioned tacos – I find myself dreaming of a different foodscape. Sure, we have “street food festivals” and “hawker-style events,” but if I need to sell a kidney to buy a $20 bao bun, we’re not really talking street food anymore, are we?

    I’m craving the real deal. The grit. The flavour. The auntie yelling “next!” without looking up. The faint hum of Bollywood music in the distance. The unapologetically spicy chutney that makes your eyes water but you go back for more anyway. THAT is the street food dream.

    So here’s to hoping that one day, we embrace a little more of that glorious chaos. Not a neatly plated, avocado-smeared version – but the real stuff. The soul food. The kind that doesn’t need a PR campaign because it’s too busy making you fall in love with life again.

    Until then, I’ll keep watching Bourdain reruns, dreaming of Juhu Beach, and maybe – just maybe – trying to recreate that coconut-carving technique in my suburban backyard (results pending, finger count may vary).

    Thanks for everything, Tony. And to street food – my forever love story.

  • Embla: Melbourne’s very own Diagon Alley hidden bar(but with great cocktails)

    If Melbourne had its own version of Diagon Alley, Embla would be the tucked-away little bar you’d only find if you knew exactly where to look.

    No big sign. No fanfare. Just a nondescript shopfront that looks like it could be abandoned – or worse, one of those places that sells “antiques” but really just hoards broken typewriters and existential dread. Blink, and you’ll miss it. But if you do notice it, you’ll pause, squint, and think, Is this a secret club? A front for something? Am I about to make a terrible life choice?

    Luckily, we decided to roll the dice and open the giant, slightly intimidating door. And thank Merlin we did. Because behind that door is pure, unfiltered, culinary magic.

    First up: the bar. The glorious, spacious bar where bartenders aren’t just slinging drinks – they’re conducting alchemy. Negronis shimmer like liquid amber, margaritas shimmy across your taste buds, and the wine list? Generous. Thoughtful. The kind that makes you pretend you know more about tannins than you actually do.

    And then there’s the food. My goodness, the food.

    The beef? Magnificent. Like, “forget everything you thought you knew about beef” magnificent.
    The chicken crisps? Impossible to stop at two. I’m not even sure stopping at ten is realistic.
    The peppers in sesame and macadamia sauce? I’d trade a family heirloom for another plate.
    The pasta? Exactly how pasta should always taste but rarely does. Fresh, silky, perfect.

    Every time I leave Embla, I’m already plotting my return before I even hit the footpath. When are we coming back? I ask my husband, like a kid who just discovered theme parks exist.

    So, if you haven’t been, do yourself a favour: find that hidden door, step inside, order a Negroni, and let the magic unfold.

    EMBLA: https://embla.com.au