I'm from Australia and one of the reasons I chose to go to Ukraine was to see if I could survive a real European winter. I'm from Western Australia and it never gets cold enough to snow in winter, there's just lots of lovely, lovely rain. I experienced a little snow in Italy but nothing which settled for months on end.

You know you're in a cold country when you can buy 300 denier stockings - and have to. I never got round to buying a hat with flaps but found a thick woollen hat tucked into the hood of my heavy winter coat was enough to keep out the cold. Fur lined boots and gloves were also the order of the day. All this stuff was stripped off the second I got home because Ukrainian apartments have the heating on 6 months of the year, mid-October to mid-April, and the temperature is around 30 degrees. Summer inside, winter outside.

I love snow! I never got tired of walking with my face to the sky so I could feel the snowflakes fall on me or crunching through packed snow, or opening my window so I could dip my fingers in new fallen flakes. I think I was the only person in Kiev who had a silly grin on her face throughout the entire season.

Unfortunately with snow comes ice and I discovered how treacherous this could be. Readers, I'm about as graceful as a baby giraffe, a new born one at that and never got the hang of the sliding motion the locals had but I had the falling motion down to an art! There was one occasion when I left work and was walking as carefully as possible down the pavement when I had to step off the curb. I slipped and my legs literally went up in the air in front of me and I landed square on my tush. It hurt like crazy and to compound it, I hadn't had a chance to put my gloves on so my choice was sit on the ice which was rapidly freezing my nether regions until I got my them on or, put my bare hands on the ice to heave myself up. I chose the latter and the second they came into contact with the ice I wondered if they might get stuck and I'd have to stay that way until spring. Boy, were they cold afterwards. I couldn't wait to get to the metro where it was warm and I could get the blood circulating again.

It was here I made my very first snow angel. There are many things I've always wanted to do and this was one of them. One day I chose to walk to work just so I could crunch through the snow and when I came to a suitable patch I couldn't resist throwing myself back into it. God, what joy! The myriad sensations of cold, soft, hard, wet, indescribably wonderful. Picture me if you will, flat on my back, laughing like a 4 year old, having the time of my life. I so want to experience it again.

Tomorrow: the most horrifying 3 minutes of my life.         

Ukrainian men pride themselves on their masculinity. By and large they tend to strut down the street, chests puffed out, arms swinging powerfully revelling in the macho image they create however it's hard to take a man seriously when he's carrying a man bag.

Let's see if I can describe it for you. Think of a large, concertina bottom briefcase with a fold over top and reduce it to miniscule proportions, just big enough to carry sandwiches and not much else. This is what most of them have. The first time I saw it, I burst out laughing. Subtle as a sledgehammer, me. Even army officers carry them and I saw lots of those because I lived next to a barracks. What is it with me and barracks? (See previous Sicily story). Big, tough soldier swinging tiny, little bag - not a very intimidating image. Police officers too had them. 'Freeze or I'll hit you with my real leather, hand tooled, Armani designed bag!'

Since I seem to be back at a barracks let me tell you about Ukrainian soldiers. The army is primarily men. In all my time there I only saw two female soldiers. They're so rare, they were featured on the local news. Likewise the police are mostly made up of men. If there are any women they are confined to the office as the force doesn't have a good reputation. In fact they're known for their corruption. Here's what I witnessed.

1. Babushkas (grandmothers) and dedushkas (grandfathers) selling vegetables on the street. Technically it's illegal as they haven't paid their tax to have their place on the pavement. I saw a woman buying some zelen (greens) from a babushka one day. Between them was a basket full of produce. They were in the middle of exchanging money when two cops walked down the street. One walked between them, picked up the basket and walked away laughing. What could they do?

2. Men approached at train stations and asked for their ID then being taken into the police office to hand over some money. It happened to our male teachers more than once.

3. A driver stopped by the traffic police. He literally ran from his car with an expensive bottle of scotch to give the cops so they wouldn't fine him.

To be honest, in most countries I've lived in there has been an element of corruption in the police. In Thailand, where the police are paid so badly they have to buy their own uniforms and  guns, they often stopped farangs (foreigners) in cars to ask for some money. In Morocco the cops stopped locals driving expensive cars. Foreigners were stopped, asked where they were from then 'welcome to Morocco', salute and drive on. No money required.

I digressed. Ukrainian soldiers. Those who had the unenviable task of gate duty often stood out the front like they were soliciting. Really. No standing to attention, unless an officer went past, they stood with one leg forward and one hip thrust out, very casual.

I felt sorry for the recruits because they were often given menial tasks such as shovelling the snow from the grass verge, but not the pavement, or they had to trail an officer around the local supermarket carrying his purchases.   

There were two small protests outside the barracks when I was there which seemed to involve family members. During one protest, which I presumed started very early in the morning, I was awoken around 7am by someone continually blowing a horn whilst others were shaking half full water bottles. Anyone who knows me knows I am NOT a morning person and being roused from slumber by such a god awful racket didn't exactly put me in a good mood. So, when it was time for me to head to work and I had to walk past the protesters, I particularly focussed on the horn blower and said 'you know, that really is a dreadful noise. Could you stop, please?' Or words to that effect.

Have I given you a bad impression of Ukraine and Ukrainians? I hope not because it's a beautiful country with beautiful people. In spring / summer it's a riot of flowers, colour and people enjoying their cities. In autumn it's clothed in  red and gold and in winter it's a magical, snowbound wonderland.

Tomorrow: my very first snow angel.         

I thought I'd leave Sicily and Morocco for awhile and tell you about my time in Ukraine. I hope you don't mind me jumping about like this but I'm recounting my stories as they occur to me. I also hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

I spent most of last year in Ukraine. In fact, that's where my photo was taken. We were celebrating Women's Day which is a two day festival there, a hangover from the old Soviet days. Ukraine is a beautiful country and I thoroughly recommend it as a tourist destination. Living there poses challenges as it does in any country and one of them is the language. Russian is still the dominant tongue although Ukrainian is making a resurgence.

The first thing I do in a new country is get on the transport system to find my way around and this I duly did on day 2 in Kiev armed with a map and absolutely no language skills. I was confident that, like the day before when I made my first little exploratory trip, when I got on a tram it would just do a complete circle and bring me back to my point of origin. Never assume anything. It was the number 11 tram which was my downfall. I exited the last station on the blue line and got on the first tram in front of me, as everyone else did. Off we trundled. Ukrainian trams are real bone shakers but they are usually the most convenient way of getting about the city, and Kiev is a big city. I was thoroughly enjoying the passing scenery when all of a sudden we stopped and we were all told to get out and get another tram. When I looked at the tram sign on the street it didn't mention that it was the 11 route, only the 12 and 14 route. So what was it doing going down that line when it had no business to? I don't know and neither did anyone else. Confusion reigned supreme. Gradually the others drifted away and your humble correspondent was left at the tram stop as the sun began to set watching 12s and 14s go by. In case you think I'm a comlete loser who stood for hours not knowing what to do I hasten to assure you that my journey began in the late afternoon so it was just an hour that I stood there trying to read tram, bus and taxi bus destinations as they zipped past. Remember, I had no Russian skills at that point so trying to make out the Cyrillic letters and correspond them to my English language map was challenging, to say the least. There was Russian on the reverse but I thought I'd best stick with a language I know.

I don't know about you readers, but I don't like being lost. In fact, I never consider I'm lost, I always think 'I just don't know where I am.' Why? It stops me from getting panicky.

As I said before, Kiev is a big city and it's full of parks. I happened to be outside one of them and seriously considered ringing a colleague and saying 'I'm somewhere in Kiev outside a park. Do you think you could find me?' 

Eventually I saw a Metro sign on one of the trams so I got on, pointed to the destination on the map and pronounced it as best I could to the driver and he said 'uh'. Ukrainians say that a lot. Somewhat reassured I sat opposite an old man with the most interesting set of teeth. Gold teeth are prevelant among the aged there and this guy had one gold tooth and one enamel tooth across his entire lower jaw. It was absolutely fascinating. When I asked him about the destination, in the same 'point and grunt way' you do as a tourist he launched into rapid Russian which quite clearly was 'you go so far, then you have to get off and change trams to get to that station.' I smiled weakly and said 'spasiba' which means thank you and envisioned myself being on the tram forever going round and round and round. When we got to the place he pointed to a waiting tram and said the name of the metro stop, Shevchenko. I launched myself from one tram to another and it duly took me to the station from whence I made my way home.

I never got lost after that because I made sure I had Russian lessons so I could at least read the destinations of buses and such.           

Tomorrow - man bags.    

There I was readers, in the pool yesterday, getting my bliss fix when the lovely people who run the place offered me a plastic cup (dead classy!) of champagne. If they do this every morning it explains why they're so happy when I arrive. I politely refused but under different circumstances the response would have been way more enthusiastic. For example, evening, private setting, candles, background music, gorgeous man, yeah baby! The reason for the bubbly was yesterday was the final day for that particular pool. Sniff!  I'm off to another pool this evening which theoretically is open until 9pm but it's super popular and I'll have to share it with others. I'm an only child, I don't like sharing my things! I can feel a massive sulk coming on so I'll change the subject.

Technology. It is just because I'm a woman that every mechanical thing I touch seems to have a grudge against me? I signed up at my local DVD shop which was quite an experience, meaning, I had to be fingerprinted. I've never been fingerprinted before. Because the shop has 24 hour access but is only staffed a couple of hours a day, if you want to rent a movie you need to show your fingerprint, use a swipe card on everything in sight and hope that it works. All very high tech except after giving my print, the machines wouldn't recognize it! I had to wait until a staff member showed up and he had to retake my print. It all seems to be chuffing along nicely now but my next  machine challenge is the DVD player in my apartment. It turns on, it plays the movie until the selection menu and then nothing. I have to press every button on the universal control until something magically works. You'd think the play button on either the remote or the player would work but no, at least, not for me. It took half an hour of trying yesterday and I ended up pressing all the buttons at once before the move started playing. It was worth it though.  I finally got to see American History X all the way through. What a shocking film but isn't Ed Norton a fantastic actor?

And now, faithful readers, Monday and its demands call me away. I hope you all have a great day and if any of you are reading this from New Orleans or the surrounding areas, please stay safe.

I lived in Casablanca for about 14 wonderful months. It's nothing like the film but the local Hilton does have a bar called Rick's which is outrageously expensive.

Across the road from my apartment was a hammam, a traditional bath. Oh, the joy of this place! Saturday afternoon was bath time which meant buying special brown coloured soap from the market, paying the entrance fee, being given a bathrobe then escorted downstairs to the steamroom. It's traditional to sit here first to let your pores open up then, when summoned by a beefy matron, duly depositing yourself on the marble slab to be gone over by her powerful hands. They show no mercy but you're squeaky clean by the end of it. Next it's into the shower then back upstairs to recline on a chaise lounge and sip orange juice before going home for a nap. At least that was my usual routine. One day my curiousity got the better of me and I decided to book a 15 minute relaxation massage.

Folks, there was nothing relaxing about it. It was a bit like the bath only without being wet and slippery. This lovely, gentle looking young woman invited me to get on the massage table. Lulled into a false sense of security I did as I was asked, ready to be gently massaged and have scented oils rubbed into my skin. Boy can looks be deceiving. She looked like she couldn't blow out a candle on a cake but when she went to work on yours truly, I thought I wouldn't live to see the end of it.

She started off with a gentle massage then without warning she picked up my ankles and slapped my thigh fat together, then asked me to lay on my back and did it again! And she wasn't gentle about it either. Then back on my stomach, her hand went under my shoulders and she bent me upwards. Luckily I'm pretty flexible so she was pleasantly surprised at how high I went. Next it was back on my back and my legs were being lifted and propelled in all different directions. I'd never had a massage before, nor since, so I don't know if what she did was proper but I didn't feel too relaxed afterwards. She asked me if I wanted to book a half hour medical massage but god alone knows what horrors that would have entailed so I politely declined.

When I visited Marrakesh, I also had a hamman there but the only difference was instead of being on a slab, I had to lie between another woman's legs. It's not as erotic as it sounds, not when the lady in question is 60+, over 300 pounds and most of those pounds are in your face.

Try a hammam if you can as there's truly no more relaxing experience you can have.