Mark Kotting
London cabbie Mark, 40, his wife Tracy and children Billie and Etta have arrived in Bangkok, the first stop on their round-the-world trip.
Boom, blast off, the best bit; the plane's going down the runway and Etta looks up and says, "Has the trip started yet?" I smile and say I guess it has. She's reading the menu. She says, "What are we having first: breakfast or dinner?" Whatever you want, I say. "Yeah, we're on holiday," she says, closing her eyes as the plane tips back, taking us higher. We bounce our way over, one with her head in a sick bag, the other changing channels.
We arrive and Billie's sick again, as we walk through the terminal.
We're driven downtown by a man who doesn't stop talking. He says the girls should swim with crocodiles, ride elephants, drink Coke, and do it all with him - him cheap. Billie taps me and says, "Doesn't he realise we're tired?"
Bangkok's hot, very hot, and we're here when it's cold, so the taxi driver tells us; he rubs his arms and shivers. We get out and a man salutes us. I salute back, the girls ask why he did that. No idea, I reply.
We're in the red light district; that's where the hotel is. Billie's already noticed how many men from England come over and fall in love with Thai women.
When we're out walking, the child's grip gets tighter. The kids are being hit by heat, dust and noise, smiles and touching hands. They're in shock. It's difficult getting Billie and Etta out of the hotel; it takes patience, something I have a little of.
We walk past a tailor. He says, "You very lucky; how you find me?" I didn't, I say. I'm not a suit man. He smiles and replies, "In my profession, everyone a suit man." I had a shirt made and he made me laugh.
I slipped out last night, had a massage. None of that number 73 or 56 stuff, just a regular - and it hurt. He could have pushed a nail through a piece of two by two with his thumb. I've never had someone else's finger shoved so far into my ear. He used every part of his body: elbows, knees, even his jaw. He even got on top and stamped. I'd had enough, and tried to shake him off. He just smiled and carried on stamping. He thought he'd take out his aggression on the big fella.
Beer bottles are written in English on the front, Thai on the back - the power of the English language. I was drinking one when Elvis popped into the middle of the restaurant floor and started to sing. When he had finished doing his stuff, he came over and pointed to my hair (I've got a little quiff going on) and we started talking. He was the owner of the restaurant. He'd bought it so he could sing his Elvis songs in his rhinestones, his big white boots, his large collars. When he left, he shot us a pistol wave.
Wat Pho was amazing. Inside there's a big golden Buddha, as big as a sub, smiling with one eye open. Makes you feel small. The noises are loud, the heat hot, the selling hard, every sense is alive, and this Sunday isn't like last Sunday, and who knows what tomorrow holds.
Billie's take: I had to walk with a big bag; my back hurt. On the tube, I stared at a big girl and her mother. The big girl was called Hannah and her mum was called Lucy.
At Heathrow, I saw a lovely teddy bear. Then we got on the plane, I felt sick and slept nearly the whole way. About half an hour from landing, I was sick and managed to get it in the bag. I got off and in the tunnel getting into the airport I was sick again. I had to use a bag which had my toys in it.
We caught a taxi to the hotel and daddy kept tipping people. We then went out and had a lovely meal - I had rice. When we woke up, we went shopping.
When we were walking down from the sky train at Na Na station, Etta was sick. I was feeling the same. I was thinking, please don't be blooming sick, Billie.
Nicholas Hall
Nicholas, 21, who aims to conquer the budget route maps, gets off to a flying start in Valencia.
The journey began with an unsociable 6am flight from London Stansted. Arriving for check-in shortly after 5am, I had to step over all the late risers who had spent the night at the airport to catch their morning flights.
A few pleasant surprises helped get me off to a good start. First, my overweight hand baggage posed no problems at check-in. Second, the razors and screwdriver packed into my rucksack seemed to be no cause for alarm at security, despite the many notices and video demonstrations suggesting otherwise.
After queuing for half an hour at security I headed to the boarding gate - a 10-minute walk from the main terminal. With 25 minutes to spare and the departure gate in sight, there was no need to rush - until I heard the airport Tannoy announce: "Flight FR8321 to Valencia is now closed." It went on to add that if the last remaining passenger (myself) didn't show in one minute, that person would not be allowed to fly. The flight was subsequently delayed by 30 minutes after they discovered they had no fuel to fly the plane.
Enduring an hour and a half of heavy marketing of drinks, snacks, fragrances and gifts, as well being given the opportunity to purchase a Ryanair scratch card for €2 or in-flight digital entertainment for €7, sets things straight from the start: you pay for what you get.
However, leaving Stansted in a blanket of early morning drizzle and heading for the sun in Spain less than two hours away makes it worthwhile.
This was Ryanair's inaugural flight to Valencia and the local Spanish media greeted its arrival with film crews. All passengers were given goodie bags with shirts, pens and wooden fans.
I had few preconceived ideas or expectations, and chose to simply wander the wide avenues lined with palm trees, sit at cafés, listen to musicians and enjoy the Mediterranean way of life until it was time to meet up with Jess, a Guardian reader who works as a teacher just outside the city and who had kindly offered to put me up for the night.
We decided to try out Valencia's student nightlife, and started off in a small but cosy bar named Turia. Then we headed on to Arena, a club with a mainly student crowd in the university district. The clubs don't fill up until around 2am and most offer free entrance and a free drink to entice you in. Sadly, we had to head home at 2am, as Jess had work and I was beginning to feel the consequences of serious sleep deprivation.
Jess lives in a shared apartment a short walk from the central railway station, a convenient starting point for seeing the city. Directly in front of the station is Valencia's old town, an area noticeably quieter than the rest of the city. The Rio Turia, a 10km park running along the dry river bed, encircles the old town making it a pleasant haven away from the wide eight-lane city roads nearby. Determined to save money wherever possible, I borrowed Jess's bike to get around.
It's certainly a city I will be returning to, if only for a night out with my new-found friends. Three days just doesn't do it justice.
But I'm off to a good start and looking forward to enjoying my first two weeks, jetting around some of Spain's major cities, reclaiming summer and trying to avoid thoughts of my inevitable trip to sub-zero Baltic Europe, intriguing as it may be.
