New Year’s Eve, street-level edition
Sparkly dresses and gold earrings next to LED headwear that looks like it escaped a rave. High heels, mini skirts and strapless tops… walking past people in down jackets and long pants like it’s two different hemispheres sharing the same footpath. School kids high on freedom. Prams sprinkled in the crowds. Kids rugged up like tiny marshmallows. Kids on dad’s shoulders falling asleep. Mum juggling bags, snacks, jumpers, sanity. Music changing every ten metres as you pass a new restaurant - jazz, pop, techno, something Balkan, something loud, something louder. Languages overlapping. Smells colliding. Rubbish multiplying in real time. People pushing. People walking against the crowd (bold choice). Announcements no one listens to. Impatience. Phones recording everything instead of just… looking. Bare feet. Blisters. Vapes. Vomit (always earlier than expected). Young women dancing provocatively to the cameras. Young men eyeing them off like that tired old cat-and-mouse ritual, except now it’s all filmed, uploaded, and timestamped forever. Young women wearing their partner’s jackets because it’s colder than anticipated (quietly sweet). Families. Friends. Drunk. Happy. Sad. Expensive. Indulgent. Security abundant. Police calm, helpful, endlessly patient. Multicultural in the best, loudest, messiest way. No countdown anyone can hear. Ten minutes of fireworks everyone films and then immediately watches back on their phones. And woven through it all, rough sleepers, often unnoticed, often ambivalent, as the city celebrates another turn around the sun. Chaotic. Human. Overstimulating. Oddly moving. Happy New Year. Same city, new number.
The Stans, and the Joy of Not Knowing
I have a trip coming up that I’ve been quietly excited about for months now. One that feels a little bit intrepid, a little bit impractical, and entirely irresistible.
I’m heading to The Stans - well, at least five of them: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Tajikistan. I’ll then follow that up with Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Armenia.
Even writing those names makes something in me sit up straighter.
Half the joy of travel, for me, has always been in the planning. The maps spread out. The routes imagined. The gentle realisation that I’ll soon be somewhere utterly unfamiliar, different languages, currencies I don’t yet recognise, alphabets I can’t read, and food I can’t pronounce but will absolutely try.
This trip feels right now, in a way that’s hard to explain but easy to trust. I’m less interested in rushing and ticking things off, and more drawn to places where time stretches, landscapes open up, and walking becomes a way of thinking.
There will be plenty of that on this journey. Long walks through cities and villages, across open spaces, along mountain paths, past mosques and markets, and places where the road simply keeps going. Walking has become one of the ways I make sense of the world, and these feel like countries that reveal themselves slowly, at human pace.
So much of this region sits at the crossroads of history. Silk Roads, empires, nomadic cultures, trade, faith, textiles, and colour. So much blue. So much dust. So many stories layered one on top of another. It feels like a good place to arrive without too many answers.
I’m also changing the way I pack.
I’m going very light to begin with, partly because I’ve learned I don’t need half of what I’d take on a local road trip, and partly because I already know how this will go. I will come home heavier than I leave.
Silk rugs. Textiles. Ceramics. Things made by hands that have a story.
I’ve travelled long enough to accept this about myself.
But more than objects, it’s the people I’m most curious about. The conversations that happen in fragments and gestures. The kindness of strangers. The shared meals where we don’t quite understand one another, and somehow manage anyway. There’s something deeply humbling, and freeing, about not knowing the language, the rules, or even how much something should cost.
It reminds me to pay attention.
Travel like this strips away certainty. You become a beginner again. And I like that feeling, the small vulnerability of it, the way it sharpens the senses. You notice more. You listen harder. You let go of being in control.
I don’t know exactly what this trip will give me yet, and that feels like part of the point. For now, the planning is its own quiet pleasure. The imagining. The anticipation. The slow mental shift away from the familiar.
This will no doubt be one of many instalments - from this journey, from past travels, and from trips still to come.
Soon enough, I’ll be there. Walking, watching, carrying very little, and leaving space for whatever wants to meet me along the way.
Women on Water: A Ripple Effect of Connection
In the early 2000s, I was living in a small rural township of just over 2,000 people, raising three kids under the age of 4 1/2, juggling playgroup, kindy, and the ever-moving parts of home life. Life was full, noisy, and busy. But amid the routine, I saw an opportunity to bring women together in a new and unexpected way.
I came up with WOW: Women On Water.
The idea? A day of white-water rafting on the Goulburn River, designed exclusively for the women of our township. It would be equal parts adventure and connection, a space for women to try something new, share stories, and simply be, together.
I spread the word through good old-fashioned word of mouth. Within days, it had booked out.
Behind the scenes, I called on my network and the response was overwhelming. Two outdoor companies generously donated rafts, paddles, helmets and PFDs. Three experienced, professional women guides volunteered to lead the boats. All I had to do was organise permits, trailers, parking, and refreshments.
When the day arrived, it was pure magic. Dozens of women, some friends, many strangers, came together, ready to take on the water with wide smiles and nervous laughter. For many, it was their first time doing anything like this. By the end of the river run, the shyness had melted away. Laughter echoed between the bends. Strangers became teammates. And new friendships were forged, paddle by paddle.
The feedback was glowing. The connections made? Unshakable.
What it reminded me of is this: people want to help. All you have to do is ask. An idea, no matter how bold, can come to life through generosity, collaboration, and belief. Everyone who contributed—be it gear, time, or trust, created a legacy that day. One that still ripples in my heart, and in the lives of those women, years later.
WOW wasn’t just about water. It was about women making waves - together.
Kindness in Action: Helping Communities
Over the years, I’ve come to realise that generosity doesn’t always mean writing a cheque. Sometimes, it’s sharing your skills. Sometimes, it’s connecting the right people. Sometimes, it’s simply showing up and offering encouragement when it’s needed most.
I’ve always been driven by a deep belief that when one person thrives, the whole community benefits. So I make it my mission to lend a hand whenever and however I can.
Whether it’s helping a local restaurant grow their online presence after a simple food review sparked a surge in business or calling on my network to donate prizes to a grassroots film society trying to keep their lights on, I look for the quiet opportunities to make a difference.
When a local artist needed help setting up an Etsy store, I walked them through it step-by-step. When a struggling market stallholder couldn’t afford signage, I bartered design support in exchange for some of their incredible handmade goods. And when I see someone with a spark of an idea but no resources, I do my best to offer both practical guidance and, when possible, small-scale funding to get them started.
And one of the places that grounds me most is Shop 16 Food Relief, where I volunteer each week. Sorting produce, chatting with community members, helping people choose what they need. It’s simple, hands-on work, but deeply human. There’s something profoundly satisfying about being part of a place that makes sure people feel supported, dignified, and fed during their hardest moments. It reminds me that generosity isn’t abstract; it’s practical, immediate, and often quietly lifesaving.
These may not be grand gestures, but they’re genuine. They’re rooted in kindness, collaboration, and a belief in the power of small beginnings.
I don’t help others for recognition. I do it because I’ve seen how one generous act can ripple outward, lifting others, strengthening communities, and inspiring people to believe in themselves.
That’s the kind of legacy I want to build.
The Compass Always Points Forward: Why I Travel, Why I Write
Some people call me a gypsy. Maybe they’re right. I’ve spent more than 30 years in the outdoor education world, which means I’ve clocked over a thousand nights sleeping under the stars, hiking through wild terrain, paddling remote rivers, and soaking up the kind of silence you only hear when the world is stripped back to its essentials. These days, I still love rolling out a sleeping bag… though I’ll admit I’ve softened into a fair-weather camper. Creature comforts have earned their place but the urge to roam? That’s never faded. I’m an avid traveller, like many of us are. But the reason I travel is what sets my compass. I don’t chase landmarks, bucket lists or rigid itineraries. I chase conversations. I seek out dusty backstreets and family-run cafés. I talk to stallholders, buskers, schoolteachers, artists, aunties running community kitchens, and the quiet changemakers who hold a place together. I want to know what drives them. What challenges them. What keeps them hopeful. What they dream about when the world isn’t looking. That curiosity, that love of people and their lived stories, is the engine behind everything I write.
Stories Are Meant to Be Shared I’ve written books, travelled widely, gathered moments, and listened deeply. But what makes my storytelling different is simple: I don’t write from the outside looking in - I write from alongside. I’ve written books, travelled widely, gathered moments, and listened deeply. But what makes my storytelling different is simple: Whether I’m in a café in Guatemala, a market in Mexico, a roadside eatery in the Balkans, or a suburban spot here in Melbourne, I step into people’s stories with care, curiosity, and the belief that every voice matters. Sometimes that curiosity becomes a service. I’m occasionally hired as a mystery reviewer. Businesses engage me quietly to assess not just their customer experience, but their:
- premises and presentation
- products and menus
- tour experiences and guiding quality
- staff interactions
- brand story and authenticity It’s not about catching anyone out, it’s about helping them shine, refine, and align with what they promise the world. And now, through this new space on micro.blog, I want to bring you with me, not as an audience, but as fellow wanderers. If You’d Like to Follow the Journey… If you enjoy my storytelling, café adventures, honest reviews, or the way I highlight the people behind the places, you can find me here: Instagram - The Wandering Reviewer instagram.com/thewander… Facebook - The Wandering Reviewer www.facebook.com/thewander… These platforms hold years of stories, photos, food discoveries, and the kind of encounters that make travelling, near or far, worth every step.
Looking for Honest Reviews or Creative Collaboration? If you’re a café, small business, tourism operator, or creative project looking for:
- Authentic, thoughtful, beautifully written reviews
- Photography with heart
- Human-centred storytelling
- Spotlighting your people, place, or purpose I’d love to work with you. My past collaborations have been meaningful, warm, and successful and my clients often tell me they value my honesty, professionalism, and ability to capture the soul of a place. You can reach out anytime via Instagram or Facebook DM.
A Final Note: Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here. And thank you for believing, as I do, that stories, real stories, can change how we see the world and each other. Here’s to roaming. Here’s to listening. Here’s to the small moments that become big ones. And here’s to us, wandering, noticing, and writing it all down.
My second book, full of questions, curiosity, and quiet courage
A quiet boy. A loud world. A story that makes room for both.
Levi Sprocket came to life with a big imagination and even bigger questions, about identity, emotions, and how to navigate a world that doesn’t always understand sensitive souls. He’s curious, thoughtful, sometimes anxious and always carrying something in his pocket to help make sense of the world around him.
This story dives into the inner lives of kids who feel deeply and think differently. It’s about neurodivergence, emotional regulation, friendship, and the literal and symbolic tools we all carry to help us feel safe, strong, and understood.
The inspiration came after the release of my first book, Poppy Pretzel. Friends who loved Poppy began asking, “Do you have something like this for boys?” They saw their sons struggling with similar questions, how to handle big feelings, growing bodies, and changing friendships—but couldn’t find anything that spoke to them in the same way. And once again, I saw that while there were plenty of books on the biology of puberty, there was a real gap in resources that spoke to the emotional journey, especially for boys.
Writing Levi Sprocket: What’s in My Pocket? reminded me that every child experiences the world in their own way. And it’s our job—as parents, carers, educators, and storytellers to make space for every kind of brain, heart, and voice.
It’s a gentle, hopeful read for kids who need reassurance, and for the adults who want to better understand and support them.
Thank you to everyone who has embraced Levi and the quiet questions he carries.
My very first book and the beginning of something special
Poppy Pretzel wasn’t just a character I created, she became a voice for every girl navigating the strange, exciting, and awkward rollercoaster of puberty.
The idea sparked when my then eight-year-old daughter, Yasmin, began asking thoughtful, curious questions about what growing up would mean for her. What I quickly realised was that while plenty of books covered the biology of puberty, very few explored the emotional landscape, the self-doubt, the mood swings, the shifting friendships, and the quiet confusion that can shadow those years.
So I wrote Poppy to help fill that gap. To ensure young people like Yasmin felt seen, supported, and never alone as their bodies and lives began to change.
With honesty, humour, and heart, Poppy Pretzel: Passage Into Puberty dives into both the emotional and physical realities of growing up. From her first period to feeling left out or overwhelmed, Poppy’s story is relatable, reassuring, and refreshingly non-clinical. It’s the book I wish I’d had at that age and I’m honoured it has resonated with so many young readers and their families.
When I first sent the manuscript to seven publishers, I was stunned to receive interest from two, almost unheard of at the time (especially in 2009). I chose to publish with New Holland Publishing, who helped shape the manuscript into something even more readable and relatable, pairing it with engaging artwork and strong distribution. The book was released in 2010 and, just like that, Poppy Pretzel stepped into the world.
This book launched my journey into writing for young people and continues to remind me why stories like these matter: because every child deserves to feel understood, heard, and just a little less alone.
Thank you to everyone who believed in Poppy and in me.
Is it a gift to be curious, or am I just nosey?
Three fleeting encounters and the beautiful truth that every person carries a world within them. In the space of just one day, three strangers crossed my path on Melbourne’s train network. Each encounter unexpected, unplanned, and quietly profound. First was Sofia. She leaned over and asked if I had a pen. When she returned it, I noticed the beautiful script in her notebook. Elegant, confident, expressive. A conversation unfolded. Sofia is 16, originally from Myanmar, now an Australian citizen, and was on her way to the opening of her third exhibition. Incredibly talented and thoughtful, she carries a maturity far beyond her years, navigating her new home with a calm grace. I’ve shared one of her pieces, a striking portrait of Aung San Suu Kyi. You can find her work at @yadanargoldenstudio. Next was a South African family, travelling with two small children and bound for the NGV’s Plans for the Planet exhibition. By the time we parted ways, I knew their names, the movies we’d all recently watched, and snippets of their weekend adventures. Even the mother’s name, Debora, without the “h” stayed with me, tucked neatly into memory alongside the warmth of our brief connection. Finally, on my way home, there was Imre. A 75-year-old Hungarian, a retired project manager, and now a full-time wanderer of Melbourne’s train lines. He spends his days sharing his love of books, ideas, and the puzzle pieces of a life richly lived. He carries with him more than 150 handwritten pages, flowing script, connected letters, lists of reading recommendations ranging from The Handbook of Qualitative Research Methods for Psychology and the Social Sciences to Bill Gates’ writing to How to Play Bridge. He talked; I listened. Imre arrived in Australia 40 years ago, having lived near the Hungarian–Romanian border and later in Budapest. His eyes shimmered with pride when he spoke of his daughter, her Master’s degree, her two children - “She’s smart,” he said, with a glint that said everything. When my stop arrived, I stood to leave. I shook his hand. He placed his other hand over mine and said softly: “Thank you for listening. Not everyone is kind.” I’m a chatterbox, yes. But I’m also a listener, a story-gatherer, a carrier of lives briefly shared. I truly believe everyone has a story worth hearing, and these small encounters deserve a certain gravity. And interestingly, every person I met that day was born outside Australia. A gentle reminder that this is the beauty of where we live: our diversity isn’t a statistic, it’s a heartbeat. At the core of who I am is this simple truth: Be curious. Be kind. Be helpful. The rest takes care of itself.
Kindness in Action: From One Meal to a Movement
In mid-2024, I stopped into a small local restaurant for a casual meal. I ordered the Curry Laksa, one of my favourites and, as always, took a few minutes to snap some photos. It was a picture-perfect dish: colourful, beautifully presented, and steaming hot.
Just one bite, and I knew I had to say something. When I paid, I told the owners, who are also the chefs, that it was one of the best Curry Laksa I’d ever had. Their eyes lit up with quiet pride.
I asked if they’d be comfortable with me posting the photos and sharing an honest review. They agreed, a little shyly, and thanked me sincerely.
A few weeks later, I returned and the change was palpable.
The owners greeted me with huge smiles. “People have been coming in,” they said, “showing your photo on their phone and asking, ‘I want this!’” That single post had sparked new interest, new customers, and a renewed sense of excitement.
As we chatted more, I discovered their social media accounts were still under the previous owner’s control. We came up with a strategy: I’d help them access and rebrand their profiles, creating a fresh digital presence that reflected their unique personality and menu.
With cash flow tight, we agreed on a simple quid pro quo: I’d offer marketing support and mentoring and in return, they’d feed me like royalty once a week.
Since then, their business has grown steadily, even in a tough economic climate. Their confidence has soared, their social media is thriving, and they’ve built a loyal new customer base.
To this day, I still offer guidance in the background, because sometimes, the smallest gestures can ignite the biggest changes. A kind word. A good review. A little help behind the scenes. That’s the power of community, and that’s the heart of what I do.
Kindness in Action: Community, Connection & the Ocean Grove Film Society
It’s always heart-warming to see a community step out of left field and create something truly special. A dear friend of mine, along with a group of clever, community-minded people, recently did just that by founding the Ocean Grove Film Society. With a thoughtful plan in hand, they sought funding, secured a venue, and gathered support through a local grant. It all came together beautifully. On opening night, over 60 people attended and by the end of their launch month, 83 had signed up as annual members. A stunning show of support. Every month, a local caterer donates a platter of homemade cakes, sweet treats, and fresh fruit donated by Happh Apple. A raffle is held to raise additional funds, with all the prizes generously donated by local businesses and individuals. It’s not just a movie night, it’s a community celebration. Although Ocean Grove is 70 minutes from home for me, I was honoured to be invited to join. And honestly, who could say no to the joy of gathering with like-minded souls to dive into a powerful story on the big screen? As of this writing, they’ve screened three films: Judy and Punch – a quirky Aussie comedy/thriller The Old Oak – an English social drama with heart The Teacher Who Promised the Sea, a moving Spanish historical film (subtitled) Each film has offered something different, thought-provoking, emotional, sometimes confronting but always uniting a roomful of people in 90 minutes of shared focus and emotion. Recently, the committee put out a call for raffle prize donations and I saw an opportunity to help. I reached out to my network, and the response was humbling. People offered Irish woollen socks, handmade jewellery, body care products, kitchenware, and more. These little gestures are now helping to grow the Society’s capacity, one ticket, one prize, one community member at a time. I can’t always give financially. But I’m lucky to have an incredible network to call on. And sometimes, that’s just as powerful.
Travel Journal – San Juan La Laguna, Guatemala
Catching the boat across Lake Atitlán from Panajachel felt surreal. The glassy surface parted beneath the bow, leaving a soft wake behind us on this ancient crater lake. As I stepped off the boat and made my way up the rickety pier, I was greeted by a street brimming with life, market stalls lined the way, vibrant hanging umbrellas overhead, and murals splashed every wall, depicting everything from children playing soccer to vivid celebrations of Mayan culture. The climb into the heart of San Juan La Laguna is steep, and the path is alive with local artisans, painting, weaving, baking, fully immersed in their craft and livelihood. I’d done my research beforehand, so my first stop was Casa Flor Ixcaco, a women-led cooperative perched at the top of the hill. This group of women holds a place of deep respect in the community, more so than in other neighbourhoods, for the way they have harnessed tradition to support local families. Founded in 1996 by Teresa Ujpan Perez, Casa Flor Ixcaco began with a vision: to transform generations-old weaving skills into sustainable income for local women and their families. Today, the cooperative directly supports 34 women and impacts more than 100 community members. Marion was our host that day, bright-eyed, articulate, and deeply proud. With her warm smile and flawless English, she walked us through every step of their process. We watched as she demonstrated how they extract colour from seeds, leaves, flowers, bark, and fruit. Every dye is 100% natural; every thread of cotton is locally grown and handpicked. These aren’t just textiles, they are stories spun from earth and heritage. The shop is a feast for the senses. Shelves overflow with handcrafted bags, blouses, blankets, throws, and scarves in rich, earthy tones. I took my time, touching everything, letting the textures and colours speak to me. Eventually, I chose a scarf, in blues, indigos, and soft whites. I haven’t worn it yet. Somehow, it feels sacred, so it’s draped over my favourite chair at home, tags still attached, a quiet reminder of who wove it and where it came from. Sure, in other parts of Guatemala I could’ve wandered into a market, picked up an armful of textiles, and felt like I’d captured some essence of Mayan culture. But you can’t distil a community into a mass-produced souvenir from a vendor you’ll never remember. This was different. Marion will stay with me, a woman who, with quiet grace, carries the weight of generations on her traditional backstrap loom. The hours she spends hunched over her work, the mastery in her hands, and the pride in her voice have woven themselves into my memory just as surely as they’ve been woven into my scarf. Since returning home, I’ve shared Casa Flor Ixcaco with four organisations in Australia, three are now stocking their work or in active discussions. That, to me, is what travel is about: connection, respect, and helping stories like Marion’s continue to be told.
A Bridge of Gratitude: Red Balloons and a Message from the Heart
In January 2014, fires raged around my hometown of Warrandyte, casting a thick haze of smoke and fear over our tight-knit community. We didn’t know what would happen next, whether the flames would reach our homes, destroy the bushland, or upend everything we knew. But through the fear and uncertainty, one thing was clear: the Country Fire Authority (CFA) was fighting with everything they had to protect us. Their dedication didn’t just save houses, it saved wildlife, ancient trees, bird habitats, power lines, roads, local businesses, and the invisible threads that hold a community together. It was nothing short of heroic. In the quiet that followed the worst of the threat, I felt an overwhelming mix of relief, gratitude, and the need to give back. My creativity, so often a source of personal expression, became something more: a way to honour the courage and sacrifice of others. So I gathered a bunch of red balloons, the colour of fire, yes, but also of courage and love and began to write. Each balloon carried a handwritten message of thanks, hope, and appreciation for the CFA volunteers: “Thank you for saving more than just homes.” “We see you. We honour you.” “You are the heartbeat of this community.” Then, one by one, I tied them along the Warrandyte Bridge over the Yarra River, quietly, early in the day, as the sun rose over a town still breathing in the aftermath of what could have been. I didn’t expect attention. It wasn’t for recognition. It was an offering, a creative act of community love. To my surprise, the gesture resonated. People walking across the bridge stopped to read. They took photos. They shared stories. They cried. And they passed it on, online, in conversations, through quiet nods of understanding. What started as a deeply personal thank-you became something bigger: a collective moment of remembrance and gratitude. The act was described by many in the community as a kind and moving tribute. For me, it was simply a way of putting emotion into action, of transforming thankfulness into something tangible. That day reminded me of the incredible power of volunteers and of creativity. And how, sometimes, a simple red balloon can carry more than air. It can carry a community’s heart. Word spread quickly through town. Locals walking across the bridge stopped, smiled, read the notes. Some took photos. Others cried. Messages of thanks began appearing online. The gesture, though small, was deeply felt and the CFA volunteers heard it. It was later described by some in the community as “a kind and creative act,” and that warmed my heart more than I can express. Because this wasn’t about grand statements. It was about honouring those who serve quietly and bravely. It was about using creativity as a language of gratitude. And it reminded me how powerful small actions can be when they come from a place of genuine love. I believe every community is held together by people like our CFA. I just wanted to make sure they knew it and that, even in quiet moments, someone sees them. Someone is thankful. And someone cares enough to tie a red balloon to a bridge in their honour.
