There's a silly little theory that hatters went mad because of the mercury they once used. It's a huge lie; I could sniff mercury all day and be driven less mad than I was by the felt fibres that settle on your nose and itch you. I've been searching most of my adult life for a creative talent to match my creative urges, trust me to only be good at something that is expensive, requires materials that are hard to source, and itches!
Felt fibres notwithstanding, the week spent making hats was one of the most fun things I've done on this trip. There should be at least three days a year cold enough in Perth for a felt hat so my time wasn't wasted at all.
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett...
...right, Now that just won't do. You weren't impressed at all were you! Now, Central Saint Martins is London's most exclusive fashion and design school. It's a very big deal for a student to be accepted by them. Of course, I paid for the privelege but we'll just gloss over that shall we. Ian Bennett has worked for Stephen Jones who is the second most famous milliner in the world, as well as Phillip someone who makes hats for the Queen. THE Queen, not Queen the band. Ian has his own shop in the Oxo Tower on Southbank. The important thing to note here is that you are terribly impressed and interested and I am really rather special and wonderful for knowing such an Influential Person In London. So, let's try that again;
Our Central Saint Martins instructor Ian Bennett (this time I can hear you all saying "Oh my god! THE Ian Bennett? THE Central Saint Martins?! Yes, yes, I smile condescendingly and sip from my glass of champagne while waving my hand around impatiently. I am terribly important these days and travel in Distinguished Circles).
Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes you were being impressed about Ian. Well done. I was expecting him to be a self important, intimidating fashionista but as it turned out, he never name drops (I found out about Stephen Jones and the Philip guy from his website) he has cool tattoos, wears a funky bike helmet with sequins on it and is incredibly down to earth, (haha that sounds a bit contradictory doesn't it, but he is, I promise) endlessly patient, cheerful and entertaining. Thanks to him, the week was a huge amount of fun and we all learnt enough about making hats to be able to do it ourselves at home.
The first day was spent walking around London, being taken to the various stores that stock felt and trimmings (such as feathers, flowers and the like). It was depressing because I know I'll never find anywhere like that in Perth but it was still fun.
Day two was spent blocking our felts. This is when you choose a wooden block shaped the way your hat will be. The crown and the brim are blocked separately.
After brushing stiffener over the felt, we steamed it to make it pliable and pulled it into the approximate shape of our block, then steamed it some more and pressed the felt down until all the creases were out. After this, it's left to dry overnight. Next, the extra bits of felt were cut off, wire was sewn around the brim, the brim and crown were hand stitched together and the petersham ribbon was sewn around the inside of the hat. Then the feathers, sequins, flowers and whatever else go on. Given that my hats are going to spend a lot of time on planes, I kept that stuff simple.
I made three hats, one of which still needs a little sewing done on it. My favourite, a petite little pirate hat in maroon, was ready on my birthday so I wore it out that night with Chris (who I am staying with) who took me to a bar with some friends of his. It was a very cool birthday present from me to me.
On flickr, there are some photos of the hats in various stages below along with the end results. I like the red one best while the pink one was just made of some leftover sinamay that another student gave me, just to learn to work with sinamay (it's like straw and a lot harder to use than felt).
The hat making week was great, but don't all go expecting new hats ‑ the blocks cost several hundred dollars each and have to be shipped from Melbourne! I suppose I'll just have to be fabulous on my own.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
just a number in a production line
London and her intensity, her crowds, her traffic and her unmistakable 'fragrance'. I'm staying in a hostel so huge that I am merely another number on a production line. Nobody will remember me when I'm gone, nobody will even notice except for the cleaner who will change the linen on my bed. This week, the hat‑making week, I don't mind. Next week I move to a friend's place as his flatmate is going away for a few weeks. This will save me about a thousand dollars so that's pretty cool.
Munich improved, as places often do once you've decided you don't think much of them. My last day started in traditional Bavarian style; my hosts served me weissbier and weisswurst ‑ white beer and sausage, Bavarian specialties. We had a great breakfast together and I learned all sorts of things about Bavaria, such as the fact that legally, beer is not considered to be alcohol, but is in fact classed as food. I nearly cancelled my plane trip when they told me this! Starting a day on beer and sausage is great fun but it did leave me feeling like I needed a good walk. I wandered down the road, through a park where little kids rode sleds down newly snowed‑upon slopes.
Reaching the bottom of the other side of the hill I found myself following a small stream lined with the tiny garden shacks that you see everywhere in Germany. I followed the path for about half an hour until I came to another path along a bigger stream which eventually became a river, I was in some kind of nature park, the traffic noise sucked into oblivion high above me, the snow crunching under my feet and the ducks commenting to each other on how cold their bums were in the freezing water. I did a few practise snowball throws and hit my target three times, which shocked me so much that I missed the rest of my attempts. Eventually I tracked down (haha) a train station and found that I was now in zone 4 and it would cost me 5 euros to cross the 2 zones back to my street! I felt terribly smug as we went through several stops, then when I got home I couch potatoed for the rest of the day. Finally I farewelled my generous hosts and jumped on the plane to London.
Ah, London. I love it and hate it more each time I come here. The close knit buildings cocoon you in their dark colours and the people bump into you from everywhere. Things are slowly becoming familiar, I even have my own oyster card for the tube. With each visit, people here seem to be nicer and I wonder if it's my pre‑conceptions that have altered or if I'm just running into a lot of foreigners this time around! My first day was spent visiting favourite haunts; Angel ‑ because I know where everything is, Carnaby Street and Kingly Court ‑ because my favourite shops are there, and this time around, Desigual, the Spanish clothing store that is the sole reason I have managed to refrain from buying any clothes for the last 4 months, saving up for a spree there.
Tonight in the bar at the ex‑courthouse "Clink" hostel, boys are making penis shapes out of balloons, christmas lights are flashing, and I am having a night in so that I'm fresh and inspired for my week of millinery. In Kingly Court tonight I heard some girls comment on another girl's hat and when she told them she'd made it, I took it as a sign that my hats are going to be AWESOME.
And if they're not, I'll send everyone photos of someone else's hats instead.
Munich improved, as places often do once you've decided you don't think much of them. My last day started in traditional Bavarian style; my hosts served me weissbier and weisswurst ‑ white beer and sausage, Bavarian specialties. We had a great breakfast together and I learned all sorts of things about Bavaria, such as the fact that legally, beer is not considered to be alcohol, but is in fact classed as food. I nearly cancelled my plane trip when they told me this! Starting a day on beer and sausage is great fun but it did leave me feeling like I needed a good walk. I wandered down the road, through a park where little kids rode sleds down newly snowed‑upon slopes.
Reaching the bottom of the other side of the hill I found myself following a small stream lined with the tiny garden shacks that you see everywhere in Germany. I followed the path for about half an hour until I came to another path along a bigger stream which eventually became a river, I was in some kind of nature park, the traffic noise sucked into oblivion high above me, the snow crunching under my feet and the ducks commenting to each other on how cold their bums were in the freezing water. I did a few practise snowball throws and hit my target three times, which shocked me so much that I missed the rest of my attempts. Eventually I tracked down (haha) a train station and found that I was now in zone 4 and it would cost me 5 euros to cross the 2 zones back to my street! I felt terribly smug as we went through several stops, then when I got home I couch potatoed for the rest of the day. Finally I farewelled my generous hosts and jumped on the plane to London.
Ah, London. I love it and hate it more each time I come here. The close knit buildings cocoon you in their dark colours and the people bump into you from everywhere. Things are slowly becoming familiar, I even have my own oyster card for the tube. With each visit, people here seem to be nicer and I wonder if it's my pre‑conceptions that have altered or if I'm just running into a lot of foreigners this time around! My first day was spent visiting favourite haunts; Angel ‑ because I know where everything is, Carnaby Street and Kingly Court ‑ because my favourite shops are there, and this time around, Desigual, the Spanish clothing store that is the sole reason I have managed to refrain from buying any clothes for the last 4 months, saving up for a spree there.
Tonight in the bar at the ex‑courthouse "Clink" hostel, boys are making penis shapes out of balloons, christmas lights are flashing, and I am having a night in so that I'm fresh and inspired for my week of millinery. In Kingly Court tonight I heard some girls comment on another girl's hat and when she told them she'd made it, I took it as a sign that my hats are going to be AWESOME.
And if they're not, I'll send everyone photos of someone else's hats instead.
Friday, December 12, 2008
wann das weg langweilig ist
// when the trail is boring
Long term travel twists the traveller's moods back upon themselves constantly. Sometimes everything works in your favour; the sun shines, your wanderings take you to vibrant artists' squats, you find great little cafes that you'd never find at home and you meet people who suit your personality of the moment perfectly.
Other times, you are in a city who's underground is either very deep or non‑existent, where the most cultural thing you can afford to do is wander around the Weihnachtsmarks, and even if you could afford to visit all the museums, you've done it all before anyway. To cheer yourself up, you find a traditional looking pub and grab a beer, sitting down to write.
Then "Can't Fight the Moonlight" comes on the stereo and you find yourself in the deepest, darkest pit of despair. (Slight exaggeration perhaps.)
There are down days and up days, but in general for me the down days have been few and short. There's nothing wrong with Munich as a city, but I can't seem to find anything unusual here. The Hofbrauhaus, upon which Oktoberfest centres each year, is surrounded by extremely kitsch tourist junk. The buildings are cool enough but after 8 months it takes something pretty impressive to get more than a few seconds' glance. I wandered the Englischer Garten and visited the Chinese Tower but, again, a park is a park really. Nice enough though but not photo worthy. There are various other 'must‑sees' in Munich and I've seen them all while wandering around various Weihnachtsmarks. All in all, Munich has left me a bit underwhelmed, but probably through no fault of its own.
My couchsurfing hosts have been great. On my first night they bought a big christmas tree which sits in the living room where I am sleeping. The girls decorated it beautifully while the boys made Gluhwein and we all sat in the cosy house listening to christmas carols ‑ very christmassy! We also went to see Madagascar 2 which was hilarious even in a foreign language. Their apartment is decorated with a lot of cool ideas that I'm going to steal when I have my own place; so at least I have a great place to watch tv in when I'm bored with wandering around.
London in 2 days, and on to my hatmaking course. Home in just over 6 weeks ‑ luckily for the bank account! I'm not sad that the trip is coming to an end, but I'm still enjoying myself a lot ‑ the perfect balance that all my fellow travellers wish they could attain.
Long term travel twists the traveller's moods back upon themselves constantly. Sometimes everything works in your favour; the sun shines, your wanderings take you to vibrant artists' squats, you find great little cafes that you'd never find at home and you meet people who suit your personality of the moment perfectly.
Other times, you are in a city who's underground is either very deep or non‑existent, where the most cultural thing you can afford to do is wander around the Weihnachtsmarks, and even if you could afford to visit all the museums, you've done it all before anyway. To cheer yourself up, you find a traditional looking pub and grab a beer, sitting down to write.
Then "Can't Fight the Moonlight" comes on the stereo and you find yourself in the deepest, darkest pit of despair. (Slight exaggeration perhaps.)
There are down days and up days, but in general for me the down days have been few and short. There's nothing wrong with Munich as a city, but I can't seem to find anything unusual here. The Hofbrauhaus, upon which Oktoberfest centres each year, is surrounded by extremely kitsch tourist junk. The buildings are cool enough but after 8 months it takes something pretty impressive to get more than a few seconds' glance. I wandered the Englischer Garten and visited the Chinese Tower but, again, a park is a park really. Nice enough though but not photo worthy. There are various other 'must‑sees' in Munich and I've seen them all while wandering around various Weihnachtsmarks. All in all, Munich has left me a bit underwhelmed, but probably through no fault of its own.
My couchsurfing hosts have been great. On my first night they bought a big christmas tree which sits in the living room where I am sleeping. The girls decorated it beautifully while the boys made Gluhwein and we all sat in the cosy house listening to christmas carols ‑ very christmassy! We also went to see Madagascar 2 which was hilarious even in a foreign language. Their apartment is decorated with a lot of cool ideas that I'm going to steal when I have my own place; so at least I have a great place to watch tv in when I'm bored with wandering around.
London in 2 days, and on to my hatmaking course. Home in just over 6 weeks ‑ luckily for the bank account! I'm not sad that the trip is coming to an end, but I'm still enjoying myself a lot ‑ the perfect balance that all my fellow travellers wish they could attain.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
couches und wein in Wien
// couches and wine in Vienna
In Vienna I couchsurfed for the first time. Couchsurfing is like matchmaking for travellers ‑ you need a couch, someone has a couch, you speak to each other online and if you're lucky someone agrees to let you crash at their house.
Katy is a French girl who has been living in Vienna for three years. After failing to find a couch in Copenhagen she decided to host in Vienna so that other travellers wouldn't have to be lonely like she was. She's a biologist with a very open and happy personality and an incredibly generous nature. She fed me breakfast, cooked me lunch, washed my socks and guided me all over the city. By the end of the weekend we were good friends and I felt totally comfortable in the house of a girl who'd been a stranger only 48 hours ago.
For the first day in Vienna Katy took me on a personal tour all through the city. Resplendent in white stone, Vienna is far and away the most beautiful city I've seen. Older buildings are sometimes two‑tone, blackened by pollution but in the process of being cleaned to the original sparkling white; it adds to the romance of the place, almost as though the buildings are undressing for the tourists, or perhaps dressing up ‑ this is Vienna after all, not Amsterdam. The huge museums, opera house, theatres and palaces vie for one's attention, all decorations and angles and grandeur. Their imposing height somehow lends a cosy atmosphere to the streets without making them feel crowded. At this time of year Vienna is especially welcoming, with christmas lights in the shape of chandeliers or giant balls hanging in the streets, criss-crossing in gold and red, stars twinkling above the famous Weinachtsmarkts ‑ Christmas Markets. Flash floods of people crowd the streets and with all the looking up that the tourists are doing, there are a lot of collisions. In the centre of town, the writhing figures atop the Plague memorial shriek silently above a wasted and sallow old woman who personifies the Black Death, while an angel stabs her victoriously ‑ even this horrifying scene doesn't escape the Christmas decorations and the resulting festive death is bizarre.
Vienna is famous for her grandeur. Just being there makes you feel rich and privileged as you sip hot chocolate in the posh coffee shops, look at the luxury fashion, hear snatches of the opera (only 3 euros if you don't mind standing), visit the museums and marvel at the architecture (that word gets used a lot in descriptions of Europe doesn't it!). It's indescribably stunning.
My weekend there was like a weekend with friends. After my tour with Katy we went back to her apartment for a rest, and then went to a couchsurfing dinner party hosted by an excellent cook and her two playful cats. In addition to Katy and I, there were five other women, all intelligent, independent travellers. We ate mountains of lasagne and pasta and finished off with Japanese sweets and French chocolates, before being served a home made cake. We chatted well into the night, talking about our travels, exchanging information on various parts of the world, telling stories about the best and the worst couchsurfing experiences and being teased by the tomcat who thought it was hilarious to jump up from behind the couch and make everyone scream. (To be fair to the cat, it really was quite funny.)
By the end of the night we were all friends, it was just like hanging out with people from home. Even just being in a real house instead of a hostel was a welcome change, and having someone to look after me and show me around was such a pleasure after so many months of being independent. It was a really fantastic first experience and such a fun way to see the city. We shopped and drank Gluhwein and Orangenpunsch at the Weinachtsmarkt with our new friends. I bought a Christmas decoration that may or may not make it home in one piece and enjoyed feeling so at home in such a lovely city.
In Vienna I couchsurfed for the first time. Couchsurfing is like matchmaking for travellers ‑ you need a couch, someone has a couch, you speak to each other online and if you're lucky someone agrees to let you crash at their house.
Katy is a French girl who has been living in Vienna for three years. After failing to find a couch in Copenhagen she decided to host in Vienna so that other travellers wouldn't have to be lonely like she was. She's a biologist with a very open and happy personality and an incredibly generous nature. She fed me breakfast, cooked me lunch, washed my socks and guided me all over the city. By the end of the weekend we were good friends and I felt totally comfortable in the house of a girl who'd been a stranger only 48 hours ago.
For the first day in Vienna Katy took me on a personal tour all through the city. Resplendent in white stone, Vienna is far and away the most beautiful city I've seen. Older buildings are sometimes two‑tone, blackened by pollution but in the process of being cleaned to the original sparkling white; it adds to the romance of the place, almost as though the buildings are undressing for the tourists, or perhaps dressing up ‑ this is Vienna after all, not Amsterdam. The huge museums, opera house, theatres and palaces vie for one's attention, all decorations and angles and grandeur. Their imposing height somehow lends a cosy atmosphere to the streets without making them feel crowded. At this time of year Vienna is especially welcoming, with christmas lights in the shape of chandeliers or giant balls hanging in the streets, criss-crossing in gold and red, stars twinkling above the famous Weinachtsmarkts ‑ Christmas Markets. Flash floods of people crowd the streets and with all the looking up that the tourists are doing, there are a lot of collisions. In the centre of town, the writhing figures atop the Plague memorial shriek silently above a wasted and sallow old woman who personifies the Black Death, while an angel stabs her victoriously ‑ even this horrifying scene doesn't escape the Christmas decorations and the resulting festive death is bizarre.
Vienna is famous for her grandeur. Just being there makes you feel rich and privileged as you sip hot chocolate in the posh coffee shops, look at the luxury fashion, hear snatches of the opera (only 3 euros if you don't mind standing), visit the museums and marvel at the architecture (that word gets used a lot in descriptions of Europe doesn't it!). It's indescribably stunning.
My weekend there was like a weekend with friends. After my tour with Katy we went back to her apartment for a rest, and then went to a couchsurfing dinner party hosted by an excellent cook and her two playful cats. In addition to Katy and I, there were five other women, all intelligent, independent travellers. We ate mountains of lasagne and pasta and finished off with Japanese sweets and French chocolates, before being served a home made cake. We chatted well into the night, talking about our travels, exchanging information on various parts of the world, telling stories about the best and the worst couchsurfing experiences and being teased by the tomcat who thought it was hilarious to jump up from behind the couch and make everyone scream. (To be fair to the cat, it really was quite funny.)
By the end of the night we were all friends, it was just like hanging out with people from home. Even just being in a real house instead of a hostel was a welcome change, and having someone to look after me and show me around was such a pleasure after so many months of being independent. It was a really fantastic first experience and such a fun way to see the city. We shopped and drank Gluhwein and Orangenpunsch at the Weinachtsmarkt with our new friends. I bought a Christmas decoration that may or may not make it home in one piece and enjoyed feeling so at home in such a lovely city.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
one bin man, five prayer ladies, many dogs, a stern girl on a bridge and a bearded banjo player who misses his steak
I had several strange little encounters with odd characters in Romania, it was like stepping into an arthouse movie.
Cluj brought me the bubbble‑blowing bin man, making childish noises as he blew bubbles with his own saliva. I turned to him and he said something to which I responded in my broken Italian‑Romanian, then he kindly posed for a photo before blowing me a kiss and giggling along his way.
Transylvania's towns each circle the spires of a church, usually Orthodox. I witnessed the still strong traditions of these churches one snowy morning in Brasov. As I entered the church, the shadows danced around the candlelight and five hooded ladies knelt at the far end of the room, kissing the ground repeatedly in front of a picture of the Virgin Mary. There was no alter, instead one approached the front of the church by walking along a red carpet, stopping at small lecterns to bestow three kisses upon the pictures of various important people. The ladies watched me with wary eyes as I crossed myself three times, inadvertently going the wrong way (right and then left in this branch of the religion apparently). They each passed me, turning several times to cross themselves and kiss whatever was closest. And they wondered how the Plague started.
Stray dogs are common in most cities and towns. Bucharest is famous for them and there, many have rabies. They follow you around, generally not menacing but certainly a bit disconcerting. Good luck eating your lunch in the street without an audience. presumably it's a problem that will eventually be dealt with, but for now tourists will have to continue to skip around the skinny animals.
I hate to draw such an ugly comparison, but the gypsies aren't much different except that they are better fed. Walking though town we were accosted more than once by a tiny child, whining in a high pitched voice asking for money or chocolate. When you spot the kid's family waiting up ahead you can safely assume that the disconcerting noise will stop the minute you reach them. It happens in Vietnam as well but there is something quite menacing about these little kids dressed in black and taught so young to present a pitiable aspect.
One day while crossing the bridge, Sally Charles and I met a strange young girl who said something with great authority to Sally. There was no hint of menace or question in her tone, just a touch of 'telling off' in the way that she spoke. She carried on without looking back and we all looked at each other in bemusement.
Fittingly, my train ride from Romania back to Budapest brought me the most memorable character of all these: Tom the banjo‑playing Kiwi and his "I miss mah steak blues". He'd pushbiked from western europe to Istanbul over a period of a couple of months and he was the perfect traveller stereotype with his beard, in need of a cut hair and incessant smile. He regaled us with tales of his travels and then (on request) played us the "I miss mah steak blues" ‑ here's hoping he got his steak in Budapest.
These people represent one of the reasons I was so charmed by Romania; the interesting and unusual variety of people I encountered there, locals and adventurers alike.
Cluj brought me the bubbble‑blowing bin man, making childish noises as he blew bubbles with his own saliva. I turned to him and he said something to which I responded in my broken Italian‑Romanian, then he kindly posed for a photo before blowing me a kiss and giggling along his way.
Transylvania's towns each circle the spires of a church, usually Orthodox. I witnessed the still strong traditions of these churches one snowy morning in Brasov. As I entered the church, the shadows danced around the candlelight and five hooded ladies knelt at the far end of the room, kissing the ground repeatedly in front of a picture of the Virgin Mary. There was no alter, instead one approached the front of the church by walking along a red carpet, stopping at small lecterns to bestow three kisses upon the pictures of various important people. The ladies watched me with wary eyes as I crossed myself three times, inadvertently going the wrong way (right and then left in this branch of the religion apparently). They each passed me, turning several times to cross themselves and kiss whatever was closest. And they wondered how the Plague started.
Stray dogs are common in most cities and towns. Bucharest is famous for them and there, many have rabies. They follow you around, generally not menacing but certainly a bit disconcerting. Good luck eating your lunch in the street without an audience. presumably it's a problem that will eventually be dealt with, but for now tourists will have to continue to skip around the skinny animals.
I hate to draw such an ugly comparison, but the gypsies aren't much different except that they are better fed. Walking though town we were accosted more than once by a tiny child, whining in a high pitched voice asking for money or chocolate. When you spot the kid's family waiting up ahead you can safely assume that the disconcerting noise will stop the minute you reach them. It happens in Vietnam as well but there is something quite menacing about these little kids dressed in black and taught so young to present a pitiable aspect.
One day while crossing the bridge, Sally Charles and I met a strange young girl who said something with great authority to Sally. There was no hint of menace or question in her tone, just a touch of 'telling off' in the way that she spoke. She carried on without looking back and we all looked at each other in bemusement.
Fittingly, my train ride from Romania back to Budapest brought me the most memorable character of all these: Tom the banjo‑playing Kiwi and his "I miss mah steak blues". He'd pushbiked from western europe to Istanbul over a period of a couple of months and he was the perfect traveller stereotype with his beard, in need of a cut hair and incessant smile. He regaled us with tales of his travels and then (on request) played us the "I miss mah steak blues" ‑ here's hoping he got his steak in Budapest.
These people represent one of the reasons I was so charmed by Romania; the interesting and unusual variety of people I encountered there, locals and adventurers alike.
Friday, December 5, 2008
acesta este meu journal in romania
// this is my journal in romania (romanian)
When I spoke to Doug about coming to Romania he said that in his mind, it's the epitome of mediaeval Europe. Spot on.
Two centuries collide to bring a surreal clash of time to Romania. The 19th Century meets the 21st, with the only evidence that the past 100 years touched this place being burnt out factories and industrial areas.
Flash new cars swish past rudimentary carts pulled by tired horses. Roads between villages have been bituminised only recently while villages still make do with streets of dirt and many are yet to gain running water. Stunning architecture presents its colours against the backdrop of ramshackle and rotting houses, while the wooden churches in tiny towns hold a place on UNESCO's world heritage list.
The university town of Cluj Napoca was my first stop. Architecturally it's one of the prettiest places I've visited; twin buildings reflect each other across the grand entrance of the "Mirror Street", the blue spires of an Orthodox Church splinter into the sky, a little Taj Mahal look‑alike winks at its yellow, art deco neighbour and everywhere there are colourful facades. In spite of this. without the students (who are on holidays) the town lacks
vibrancy and I moved on fairly quickly to Brasov.
In Brasov the eyes are equally as delighted. A Hollywood ‑style sign lights up the hill above the town each night, while a white tower on the opposite side of town squats over a stream. There is yet another Orthodox church set against a hill and surrounded by old gravestones, the streets are laid thick with inches of snow and ice (very hard to walk on) and the ominous air of Dracula is reflected in the shapes of the rooftops.
Refreshingly, Transylvania
doesn't cash in on the Dracula fame at all. Apart from a few kitschy items found outside Bran Castle, they don't take much notice of him. Even at Bran, where Vlad Tepes (the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula) is said to have lived...well, stayed a night...or perhaps just popped in for tea; there is only one tacky pub and a few t‑shorts. It's quite fun to sit on the coffin seats and drink hot wine after the snowy walk up to the castle. I visited the castle with Jason ‑ a fellow traveller I'd met in Budapest who'd turned up in Brasov as well. It was pretty and interesting, but I imagine the tourist hordes expecting Dracula and not a medieval museum might leave somewhat disappointed.
After Brasov, I made my way to Sighisoara. The original plan was to head from there up to remote Maramures, but a combination of the people, some romance and a lot of laziness kept me in Sigh for a few extra days.
Sighisoara, or more affectionately, Sigh, is one of the many "UNESCO" towns in Romania. Her citadel rises high above the lower town, the house where Dracula (Vlad) was born nestles close to a famous clock tower, and muddy streets are lined with posh restaurants where a meal still costs only a few euros. A river cuts through the town and, once again, a blue‑tipped Orthodox church sits sedately below the citadel, surrounded by gypsies dressed better than the people from whom they beg money (i.e. me).
At Sigh, the hostel was a vortex of timelessness. With a few 'long termers' already ensconced, I was welcomed by the very entertaining Lumi, the delightfully British Charles, the talented artist and fellow Aussie Sally and the undeniably likeable Russ. The five of us spent a week being driven around local villages (thanks Russ), eating, sleeping far too much and drinking more alcohol than I could ever justify to my grandmother.
For a number of reasons ‑ including a certain British boy who is the only person I know who talks betterer than I do ‑ I was sad to leave, but eventually I had to bow to the realities of time and travel and move on to Budapest, followed closely by Vienna.
After only a few days, I had already decided that I will definitely visit again, but next time with a car in summer. The mountains and plains are beautiful and the interspersed man‑made ugliness only adds to the appeal. The future is quickly erasing the past and Romania will soon become just another EU country. Now is the time to go.
When I spoke to Doug about coming to Romania he said that in his mind, it's the epitome of mediaeval Europe. Spot on.
Two centuries collide to bring a surreal clash of time to Romania. The 19th Century meets the 21st, with the only evidence that the past 100 years touched this place being burnt out factories and industrial areas.
Flash new cars swish past rudimentary carts pulled by tired horses. Roads between villages have been bituminised only recently while villages still make do with streets of dirt and many are yet to gain running water. Stunning architecture presents its colours against the backdrop of ramshackle and rotting houses, while the wooden churches in tiny towns hold a place on UNESCO's world heritage list.
The university town of Cluj Napoca was my first stop. Architecturally it's one of the prettiest places I've visited; twin buildings reflect each other across the grand entrance of the "Mirror Street", the blue spires of an Orthodox Church splinter into the sky, a little Taj Mahal look‑alike winks at its yellow, art deco neighbour and everywhere there are colourful facades. In spite of this. without the students (who are on holidays) the town lacks
vibrancy and I moved on fairly quickly to Brasov.
In Brasov the eyes are equally as delighted. A Hollywood ‑style sign lights up the hill above the town each night, while a white tower on the opposite side of town squats over a stream. There is yet another Orthodox church set against a hill and surrounded by old gravestones, the streets are laid thick with inches of snow and ice (very hard to walk on) and the ominous air of Dracula is reflected in the shapes of the rooftops.
Refreshingly, Transylvania
doesn't cash in on the Dracula fame at all. Apart from a few kitschy items found outside Bran Castle, they don't take much notice of him. Even at Bran, where Vlad Tepes (the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula) is said to have lived...well, stayed a night...or perhaps just popped in for tea; there is only one tacky pub and a few t‑shorts. It's quite fun to sit on the coffin seats and drink hot wine after the snowy walk up to the castle. I visited the castle with Jason ‑ a fellow traveller I'd met in Budapest who'd turned up in Brasov as well. It was pretty and interesting, but I imagine the tourist hordes expecting Dracula and not a medieval museum might leave somewhat disappointed.
After Brasov, I made my way to Sighisoara. The original plan was to head from there up to remote Maramures, but a combination of the people, some romance and a lot of laziness kept me in Sigh for a few extra days.
Sighisoara, or more affectionately, Sigh, is one of the many "UNESCO" towns in Romania. Her citadel rises high above the lower town, the house where Dracula (Vlad) was born nestles close to a famous clock tower, and muddy streets are lined with posh restaurants where a meal still costs only a few euros. A river cuts through the town and, once again, a blue‑tipped Orthodox church sits sedately below the citadel, surrounded by gypsies dressed better than the people from whom they beg money (i.e. me).
At Sigh, the hostel was a vortex of timelessness. With a few 'long termers' already ensconced, I was welcomed by the very entertaining Lumi, the delightfully British Charles, the talented artist and fellow Aussie Sally and the undeniably likeable Russ. The five of us spent a week being driven around local villages (thanks Russ), eating, sleeping far too much and drinking more alcohol than I could ever justify to my grandmother.
For a number of reasons ‑ including a certain British boy who is the only person I know who talks betterer than I do ‑ I was sad to leave, but eventually I had to bow to the realities of time and travel and move on to Budapest, followed closely by Vienna.
After only a few days, I had already decided that I will definitely visit again, but next time with a car in summer. The mountains and plains are beautiful and the interspersed man‑made ugliness only adds to the appeal. The future is quickly erasing the past and Romania will soon become just another EU country. Now is the time to go.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
budapest
Leafy, hilly Buda and busy traffic clogged Pest ‑ two cities united in 1111 by a king and a bridge to become Budapest.
As we were pulling into Keleti train station, the reflections of rainbow coloured neon lights caught at the periphery of my gaze, Turning my head I was confronted with a sight that founded my first impression of Budapest. If there is anywhere in the world where fairies and elves come to do acid and design lighting displays on very large buildings, it must be Budapest. The 'arena' shopping centre was the culprit of this neon glow and I was suddenly, desperately in love with this crazy, vibrant maze of a city.
Budapest defies comparison. Even as I write this, I am sitting on the rug adorned floor of an unmarked teahouse, where a mirrored hallway leads to a rope playground, ladders spiral upwards to secret hideaways above the masses, little tables dot the room and teacups and matching saucers dance around in the haze of shisha smoke. I feel like I'm in Alice's wonderland but in a city like this, such a place makes perfect sense.
My timid romance with Budapest blossomed into a love affair when, on a dreary, wet morning I wandered aimlessly through her streets and ended up on the Chain Bridge. I paused to take in the spectacle of the riverbank architecture and took out my camera, swiveling to see the sun glint off the river and the huge Parliament building filling the lens. Never before have I seen such breathtaking and unexpected beauty in such a large, populated city.
My days in Budapest have been spent ambling back and forth, squinting against the snow which darts towards my eyes like little icicles determined to blind me. I've skipped through the Christmas markets and eaten a disgustingly huge crepe‑log thing (made of pancake stuff but cooked on a spit so that you end up with a big hollow roll of sugary sickness). My visit was happily timed with the Art Fair so I spent a day looking at beautiful art that I can't afford, but not before visiting the "Mákos Briós Kutyaszar Fesztivál" (brioche with poppy seed dog shit festival) that I'd heard about through my intrepid seeking of underground news (thank you google).
You'll no doubt be curious as to what happens at a dog shit festival. First, there are hippies. On the ground are brioche twirled into the shape of a dog's street offering, which passing dogs sniff at in some consternation. Then there are smaller brioche‑turds in a basket, which are handed out to passers by who stop to dance to the hippy music. People talk about the scourge of dog doo and dance around eating free brioche and laughing at the disapproving looks thrown their way by nearby cafe owners. It was crazy, but plenty of fun.
The fact that this event existed underlines what is perhaps my favourite thing about Budapest ‑ that it doesn't shut down for winter the way so many places do. There are still festivals, parties, meetings, shops still open for their normal hours, tourist places still run and people still smile.
Even though Hungarians are statistically the most depressed people in Europe, and in spite of the way many people have commented to me that Hungarians are unfriendly, my own experiences have led me to a different conclusion. People smile and help even when you approach them clumsily with English. Ladies in shops take the time to help you out and orders in cafes are taken down with a smile. I like Hungarians, at least the Budapest version.
While the idea of unfriendly people seems undeserved, Budapest certainly does deserve the fame she has been granted for her stunning and challenging architecture, her mysterious nature and her position, both geographical and metaphorical, as gateway to the east.
Of course, what Budapest is most famous for is her thermal baths, but that's an experience worthy of a post of its own...
As we were pulling into Keleti train station, the reflections of rainbow coloured neon lights caught at the periphery of my gaze, Turning my head I was confronted with a sight that founded my first impression of Budapest. If there is anywhere in the world where fairies and elves come to do acid and design lighting displays on very large buildings, it must be Budapest. The 'arena' shopping centre was the culprit of this neon glow and I was suddenly, desperately in love with this crazy, vibrant maze of a city.
Budapest defies comparison. Even as I write this, I am sitting on the rug adorned floor of an unmarked teahouse, where a mirrored hallway leads to a rope playground, ladders spiral upwards to secret hideaways above the masses, little tables dot the room and teacups and matching saucers dance around in the haze of shisha smoke. I feel like I'm in Alice's wonderland but in a city like this, such a place makes perfect sense.
My timid romance with Budapest blossomed into a love affair when, on a dreary, wet morning I wandered aimlessly through her streets and ended up on the Chain Bridge. I paused to take in the spectacle of the riverbank architecture and took out my camera, swiveling to see the sun glint off the river and the huge Parliament building filling the lens. Never before have I seen such breathtaking and unexpected beauty in such a large, populated city.
My days in Budapest have been spent ambling back and forth, squinting against the snow which darts towards my eyes like little icicles determined to blind me. I've skipped through the Christmas markets and eaten a disgustingly huge crepe‑log thing (made of pancake stuff but cooked on a spit so that you end up with a big hollow roll of sugary sickness). My visit was happily timed with the Art Fair so I spent a day looking at beautiful art that I can't afford, but not before visiting the "Mákos Briós Kutyaszar Fesztivál" (brioche with poppy seed dog shit festival) that I'd heard about through my intrepid seeking of underground news (thank you google).
You'll no doubt be curious as to what happens at a dog shit festival. First, there are hippies. On the ground are brioche twirled into the shape of a dog's street offering, which passing dogs sniff at in some consternation. Then there are smaller brioche‑turds in a basket, which are handed out to passers by who stop to dance to the hippy music. People talk about the scourge of dog doo and dance around eating free brioche and laughing at the disapproving looks thrown their way by nearby cafe owners. It was crazy, but plenty of fun.
The fact that this event existed underlines what is perhaps my favourite thing about Budapest ‑ that it doesn't shut down for winter the way so many places do. There are still festivals, parties, meetings, shops still open for their normal hours, tourist places still run and people still smile.
Even though Hungarians are statistically the most depressed people in Europe, and in spite of the way many people have commented to me that Hungarians are unfriendly, my own experiences have led me to a different conclusion. People smile and help even when you approach them clumsily with English. Ladies in shops take the time to help you out and orders in cafes are taken down with a smile. I like Hungarians, at least the Budapest version.
While the idea of unfriendly people seems undeserved, Budapest certainly does deserve the fame she has been granted for her stunning and challenging architecture, her mysterious nature and her position, both geographical and metaphorical, as gateway to the east.
Of course, what Budapest is most famous for is her thermal baths, but that's an experience worthy of a post of its own...
snowy steamy heaven
There are many thermal baths in Budapest and their quality is varied, but the general consensus is that the Szechenzyi Baths in City Park are the best. On a snowy Sunday I went there and getting off the metro stop I walked to where I could see steam rising from the water. There were no people, only ducks. Two Italians had made the same journey as me and we got chatting, I was surprised to discover that my Italian was better than their English and we slipped into Italian as we walked away from the dirty duck infested water in disappointment. Coming across a large yellow building we decided to take a look, and as it turned out these were the actual baths!
The Budapest bathing ritual is fairly simple. You go in, change, leave your things in a locker, get a massage if you like (you will) and a dreamy half hour later you walk through two large doors into a grandly decorated room full of fat people, steam and hot water. Avoiding the hungry gazes of Hungarian men, you delicately lower yourself into the water and exhale. It's warm and relaxing and the heat in the air makes you sleepy...until a blast of freezing cold air startles you awake and you turn your head to see a door that goes outside, to where the 'real' baths are.
Oh dear, you think, I have to walk out there in a bikini, through the snow, to get to the water. Bracing yourself, you take a breath and run for it, down the slippery stairs, through the crowds, past the fat people, wash your feet in the little pools around the edge and then jump, relieved that you are still alive, into the 38 degree water.
Typically there are three pools, a hot one, a warm one, and a cooler one for swimming laps. The hot one is for spacing out and relaxing in the mineral thick water until you start to feel faint. The cool one you swim through to get to the warm one at the other end, where there is a whirlpool which takes you back to age 10 as you whirl around it giggling.
Being brave and holding fast to the theory that hotcoldhot is good for one's circulation, I walked the 50 frozen metres back to the hot pool and stayed there a while longer. People bring plastic chess sets to the pool and there are always at least four games going on. The steam rising into the sub zero air envelopes people in a false sense of privacy and lovers can be seen kissing while men are caught out staring. I chatted to the Italians and some English lads, on who's recommendation I then went to the sauna.
The sauna is part of another circulation stimulating hot‑cold‑hot ritual. It's about 50 degrees, maybe more. The heat teases the chill from your skin and prickles at your face. Your lungs complain as you try to breathe and everyone in there looks somewhat distressed. You sit there until the goosebumps have disappeared and then you walk into the next room where there is a deep plunge pool. Jumping in, your body is subjected to water of only 5 or so degrees and your blood vessels come alive, singing and zinging. Thirty seconds is all I bother to handle ‑ more than that is for people with numerous fat rolls. Then it's back to the sauna to repeat the process until you don't even notice the heat or the cold anymore ‑ they are just sensations equally comfortable or uncomfortable as each other. It's a strange feeling and leaves you a little high, giggly and childlike.
Finally you shower off, change back into your clothes and, hair wet and dripping, you get back on the metro and make your way towards the gluhwein (hot wine) stall at the christmas markets.
We need one of those in Perth.
The Budapest bathing ritual is fairly simple. You go in, change, leave your things in a locker, get a massage if you like (you will) and a dreamy half hour later you walk through two large doors into a grandly decorated room full of fat people, steam and hot water. Avoiding the hungry gazes of Hungarian men, you delicately lower yourself into the water and exhale. It's warm and relaxing and the heat in the air makes you sleepy...until a blast of freezing cold air startles you awake and you turn your head to see a door that goes outside, to where the 'real' baths are.
Oh dear, you think, I have to walk out there in a bikini, through the snow, to get to the water. Bracing yourself, you take a breath and run for it, down the slippery stairs, through the crowds, past the fat people, wash your feet in the little pools around the edge and then jump, relieved that you are still alive, into the 38 degree water.
Typically there are three pools, a hot one, a warm one, and a cooler one for swimming laps. The hot one is for spacing out and relaxing in the mineral thick water until you start to feel faint. The cool one you swim through to get to the warm one at the other end, where there is a whirlpool which takes you back to age 10 as you whirl around it giggling.
Being brave and holding fast to the theory that hotcoldhot is good for one's circulation, I walked the 50 frozen metres back to the hot pool and stayed there a while longer. People bring plastic chess sets to the pool and there are always at least four games going on. The steam rising into the sub zero air envelopes people in a false sense of privacy and lovers can be seen kissing while men are caught out staring. I chatted to the Italians and some English lads, on who's recommendation I then went to the sauna.
The sauna is part of another circulation stimulating hot‑cold‑hot ritual. It's about 50 degrees, maybe more. The heat teases the chill from your skin and prickles at your face. Your lungs complain as you try to breathe and everyone in there looks somewhat distressed. You sit there until the goosebumps have disappeared and then you walk into the next room where there is a deep plunge pool. Jumping in, your body is subjected to water of only 5 or so degrees and your blood vessels come alive, singing and zinging. Thirty seconds is all I bother to handle ‑ more than that is for people with numerous fat rolls. Then it's back to the sauna to repeat the process until you don't even notice the heat or the cold anymore ‑ they are just sensations equally comfortable or uncomfortable as each other. It's a strange feeling and leaves you a little high, giggly and childlike.
Finally you shower off, change back into your clothes and, hair wet and dripping, you get back on the metro and make your way towards the gluhwein (hot wine) stall at the christmas markets.
We need one of those in Perth.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
oswiecim/auschwitz
I read a short dialogue that puts into words what ran through my mind as I stepped over the ground that so many people are buried under.
The burning question: "In Auschwitz, where was God?".
The resonant response: "Where was man?"
Contrary to the image I held in my mind, Auschwitz wasn't covered in snow the day I went with five of my friends. I was glad of their company as we disembarked from the bus and entered the huge hall containing the ticket office. We were standing in a crowd of people, being assigned little stickers with the date scribbled on them, feeling strangely nervous at the disorganised chaos and drawing comparisons between our stickers and the tattoos of the original victims. The air shudders with nerves and the mind conjures stupid comparisons. When we watched the introductory documentary we became even more frazzled as we could all swear that we smelt gas!
The entrance to the Auschwitz camp still bears the iron letters "arbeit macht frei" ‑ work brings freedom. If death is considered freedom then this seems true enough. The many Poles, Romanians, Gypsies, Jews and others who were brought to this place were worked through Summer's fire and Winter's freeze, up to 18 hours a day, until they died of exhaustion, starvation, cold or disease. The 'lucky' ones were assigned jobs such as cleaning the toilet blocks or stripping the dead, gassed bodies of people for their gold teeth, hair, anything found on their body that could be used. These people lived a little longer, sometimes even six months.
As you begin your tour the facts assault your consciousness, but you won't remember any of them. The numbers are too huge and the atrocities too unimaginable for now, but soon you will see for yourself the horrors of this place that linger in your mind long after you leave. Everybody knows about the gas chambers, but to stand in the place where people were forced to strip naked before being herded into them brings new light to what happened here. In other parts of the museum/camp you see piles upon piles of glasses, women's make up products, children's toys, shoes and clothes that were taken from the people who came here. Huge hessian sacks containing human hair were discovered by the camp's liberators; the Nazis in their retreat hadn't had time to remove all the evidence. Walking along a huge corridor you start to feel sick as plaits, ponytails, masses and masses of hair rests disheveled on the other side of the glass. At the end of the corridor is a piece of cloth woven from this hair and your breath deserts you as you wonder: who weaved this cloth? Who wore it?
The next room holds a mountain of shoes. Then prosthetic limbs, so many of them that your mind boggles ‑ in my life I've met three people who had a prosthetic leg; here there is a room full of these plastic and metal limbs ‑ how many people died here! Then it's the dolls, little toys that were taken from children who would die and given to other children who would live.
The museum continues to the grey/black execution wall in a courtyard surrounded by basement windows. The windows look into the torture rooms, the starvation room, the dark room, the standing room, the suffocation room into which enough people were forced that they would slowly suffocate to death. The entrance to these basement rooms is through another long corridor lined with the mug shot style photographs of victims that were taken in the early days of the camp. Most people look vacant and shocked. Some look confused, others defiant, a few have a wry, sardonic smile on their face that seems to say "do your worst, my body is not my soul". Flowers adorn some of the photos and bring the faces to life; these were real people!
After hours of this your mind starts to shut down and you simply absorb the truth without question; perhaps this is how people performed these atrocities, their minds switching off at the extent of the horror.
In the early days, those arriving on the cattle trains thought that they were being taken to a new camp, like the ghettos they had left but in the open air and away from other people, where they could continue to live out their lives and have their freedom. On arrival, they were told that this is not a sanitarium but a concentration camp, that Jews were to die immediately and others would not live beyond three months. They were divided into groups of healthy and unhealthy; the healthy ones were sent to work as slaves while the unhealthy ones went straight to the gas.
It's certainly true that greater atrocities have occurred in this world. Genocide is not new to human history. Rwanda's 1994 genocide saw the deaths of 1 million Tutsis in only 100 days - one sixth of the number of Jews killed in the entire war. What makes Auschwitz and similar camps so much more horrifying is the methodical, relentlessly cold blooded nature of the 'final solution' that was put into action here.
At the end of the tour, after seeing evidence of unimaginable evil, I reflected on the question of where was God and where was man. I stood gazing at the barbed wire etched against the sky, surrounding the lurking gas chambers of Birkenau, and beyond it I watched the sunset colour the clouds in bright shades of orange and pink. I took it as a metaphor, found the answer to the question.
It might sound abhorrent, but to do evil is easy. To herd weak, scared, travel weary, confused people into gas chambers and flick a switch is simply a matter of being weak yourself. But to risk your life and your family to save these people takes great strength and boundless courage. The glow of the sunset is reflected in the entrance hall of Auschwitz, which is lined with the stories and photographs of ordinary people who found the strength to risk everything they loved for the sake of a stranger.
These people represent the best and brightest that humans are capable of, and their deeds came at such great cost that their worth is so much more than any act of cruelty.
Staring at these people's faces you realise why you can still appreciate the beauty of a sunset over such cursed ground. You realise that humankind goes to greater lengths to fight evil than to create it, and therein lies our salvation, therin lies God, therein lies man.
The burning question: "In Auschwitz, where was God?".
The resonant response: "Where was man?"
Contrary to the image I held in my mind, Auschwitz wasn't covered in snow the day I went with five of my friends. I was glad of their company as we disembarked from the bus and entered the huge hall containing the ticket office. We were standing in a crowd of people, being assigned little stickers with the date scribbled on them, feeling strangely nervous at the disorganised chaos and drawing comparisons between our stickers and the tattoos of the original victims. The air shudders with nerves and the mind conjures stupid comparisons. When we watched the introductory documentary we became even more frazzled as we could all swear that we smelt gas!
The entrance to the Auschwitz camp still bears the iron letters "arbeit macht frei" ‑ work brings freedom. If death is considered freedom then this seems true enough. The many Poles, Romanians, Gypsies, Jews and others who were brought to this place were worked through Summer's fire and Winter's freeze, up to 18 hours a day, until they died of exhaustion, starvation, cold or disease. The 'lucky' ones were assigned jobs such as cleaning the toilet blocks or stripping the dead, gassed bodies of people for their gold teeth, hair, anything found on their body that could be used. These people lived a little longer, sometimes even six months.
As you begin your tour the facts assault your consciousness, but you won't remember any of them. The numbers are too huge and the atrocities too unimaginable for now, but soon you will see for yourself the horrors of this place that linger in your mind long after you leave. Everybody knows about the gas chambers, but to stand in the place where people were forced to strip naked before being herded into them brings new light to what happened here. In other parts of the museum/camp you see piles upon piles of glasses, women's make up products, children's toys, shoes and clothes that were taken from the people who came here. Huge hessian sacks containing human hair were discovered by the camp's liberators; the Nazis in their retreat hadn't had time to remove all the evidence. Walking along a huge corridor you start to feel sick as plaits, ponytails, masses and masses of hair rests disheveled on the other side of the glass. At the end of the corridor is a piece of cloth woven from this hair and your breath deserts you as you wonder: who weaved this cloth? Who wore it?
The next room holds a mountain of shoes. Then prosthetic limbs, so many of them that your mind boggles ‑ in my life I've met three people who had a prosthetic leg; here there is a room full of these plastic and metal limbs ‑ how many people died here! Then it's the dolls, little toys that were taken from children who would die and given to other children who would live.
The museum continues to the grey/black execution wall in a courtyard surrounded by basement windows. The windows look into the torture rooms, the starvation room, the dark room, the standing room, the suffocation room into which enough people were forced that they would slowly suffocate to death. The entrance to these basement rooms is through another long corridor lined with the mug shot style photographs of victims that were taken in the early days of the camp. Most people look vacant and shocked. Some look confused, others defiant, a few have a wry, sardonic smile on their face that seems to say "do your worst, my body is not my soul". Flowers adorn some of the photos and bring the faces to life; these were real people!
After hours of this your mind starts to shut down and you simply absorb the truth without question; perhaps this is how people performed these atrocities, their minds switching off at the extent of the horror.
In the early days, those arriving on the cattle trains thought that they were being taken to a new camp, like the ghettos they had left but in the open air and away from other people, where they could continue to live out their lives and have their freedom. On arrival, they were told that this is not a sanitarium but a concentration camp, that Jews were to die immediately and others would not live beyond three months. They were divided into groups of healthy and unhealthy; the healthy ones were sent to work as slaves while the unhealthy ones went straight to the gas.
It's certainly true that greater atrocities have occurred in this world. Genocide is not new to human history. Rwanda's 1994 genocide saw the deaths of 1 million Tutsis in only 100 days - one sixth of the number of Jews killed in the entire war. What makes Auschwitz and similar camps so much more horrifying is the methodical, relentlessly cold blooded nature of the 'final solution' that was put into action here.
At the end of the tour, after seeing evidence of unimaginable evil, I reflected on the question of where was God and where was man. I stood gazing at the barbed wire etched against the sky, surrounding the lurking gas chambers of Birkenau, and beyond it I watched the sunset colour the clouds in bright shades of orange and pink. I took it as a metaphor, found the answer to the question.
It might sound abhorrent, but to do evil is easy. To herd weak, scared, travel weary, confused people into gas chambers and flick a switch is simply a matter of being weak yourself. But to risk your life and your family to save these people takes great strength and boundless courage. The glow of the sunset is reflected in the entrance hall of Auschwitz, which is lined with the stories and photographs of ordinary people who found the strength to risk everything they loved for the sake of a stranger.
These people represent the best and brightest that humans are capable of, and their deeds came at such great cost that their worth is so much more than any act of cruelty.
Staring at these people's faces you realise why you can still appreciate the beauty of a sunset over such cursed ground. You realise that humankind goes to greater lengths to fight evil than to create it, and therein lies our salvation, therin lies God, therein lies man.
Friday, November 14, 2008
pierogis in poland
Three cities is not a country, but in spite of not existing all throughout the war, Poland has kept enough of her sense of self that even after only three cities, her personality is evident.
Ravaged by the Germans and Soviets, like all countries in this part of the world, Poland was occupied for many years and still has some cities with names in both Polish and German. Even Auschwitz is the German name for Oswiecim.
Polish people are closed, not exactly a surprise in Europe, but they do seem to have a sense of pride, determination, and are willing to greet the murder of their language by foreign tongues with a wry smile.
Polish food is great in winter time, Most of the weather we've had has been sunny but it's still cold, so the "pierogis" ‑ dumplings ‑ are always welcome. They also do some great soups here; sorrell soup with egg, borscht hot or cold with egg, sour soup with sausage, soup with dumplings... It's ok, I've done lots of walking too.
Still travelling with Taro, I've been to Warsaw, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrotswahv' as if that makes any kind of sense) and Krakow. All three cities had a strong personality which is interesting, given that the cities in the Baltics all have basically the same vibe. Warsaw is large and open with a few treats. Wilanow is a nearby park with a large yellow palace and a poster museum ‑ Polish graphic design is extremely good. In the city centre, the Church of the Holy Cross holds Chopin's heart in one of the altar naves. The museum of Madame Curie is on a little street that swings around from the main square and there is a castle on the hill surrounded by colourful, unique buildings jostling each other for attention.
Wroclaw is an arty city, with little gnomes hidden throughout the streets. Tourists and locals can be seen hunting them. Each one has its own personality, name and occupation and it's not at all unusual to find yourself surprised by a little man skiing, napping, climbing a tree or even sleeping outside a hotel. There's a large indoor flower market, a beautiful old cathedral on an island, lots of bridges and buildings painted in all colours.
Krakow is a central hub useful for getting to the nearby salt mines and to Auschwitz, but it's also a nice city in its own right. It boasts the largest medieval town square in all of Europe, a leaning tower, a strange giant hollow head statue, plenty of museums and the world's coolest, funkiest, cosiest second hand bookstore. Founded by a king who slew a dragon, Krakow has an air of self assurance. The castle is built right on top of the alleged dragon's lair and the dragon statue outside it breathes real fire. There is a lively Jewish quarter where all the funky artistic types hang out (this is the case in most European cities because the ghettos are cheap and so are artists). Krakow is attractive and interesting but it's still just another city.
Overshadowed as it is by the dark history of anti semitism (some Polish people murdered jews after they were released from Auschwitz, though it must be noted that others helped to save them) Poland has a grey mood to it. Having a notorious death camp as its main tourist attraction probably doesn't help. In Poland, one gets the impression that the scars left by such a dark history will not be slow to fade. It feels like an injustice to a country that's already suffered so much, but these shades of past horrors are what make the country most memorable, and most valuable. Here, humankind's greatest crimes seem so recent, so close, that when you leave the country you feel as though you are throwing off a cloak of ice. It's a fascinating, unnerving place.
Ravaged by the Germans and Soviets, like all countries in this part of the world, Poland was occupied for many years and still has some cities with names in both Polish and German. Even Auschwitz is the German name for Oswiecim.
Polish people are closed, not exactly a surprise in Europe, but they do seem to have a sense of pride, determination, and are willing to greet the murder of their language by foreign tongues with a wry smile.
Polish food is great in winter time, Most of the weather we've had has been sunny but it's still cold, so the "pierogis" ‑ dumplings ‑ are always welcome. They also do some great soups here; sorrell soup with egg, borscht hot or cold with egg, sour soup with sausage, soup with dumplings... It's ok, I've done lots of walking too.
Still travelling with Taro, I've been to Warsaw, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrotswahv' as if that makes any kind of sense) and Krakow. All three cities had a strong personality which is interesting, given that the cities in the Baltics all have basically the same vibe. Warsaw is large and open with a few treats. Wilanow is a nearby park with a large yellow palace and a poster museum ‑ Polish graphic design is extremely good. In the city centre, the Church of the Holy Cross holds Chopin's heart in one of the altar naves. The museum of Madame Curie is on a little street that swings around from the main square and there is a castle on the hill surrounded by colourful, unique buildings jostling each other for attention.
Wroclaw is an arty city, with little gnomes hidden throughout the streets. Tourists and locals can be seen hunting them. Each one has its own personality, name and occupation and it's not at all unusual to find yourself surprised by a little man skiing, napping, climbing a tree or even sleeping outside a hotel. There's a large indoor flower market, a beautiful old cathedral on an island, lots of bridges and buildings painted in all colours.
Krakow is a central hub useful for getting to the nearby salt mines and to Auschwitz, but it's also a nice city in its own right. It boasts the largest medieval town square in all of Europe, a leaning tower, a strange giant hollow head statue, plenty of museums and the world's coolest, funkiest, cosiest second hand bookstore. Founded by a king who slew a dragon, Krakow has an air of self assurance. The castle is built right on top of the alleged dragon's lair and the dragon statue outside it breathes real fire. There is a lively Jewish quarter where all the funky artistic types hang out (this is the case in most European cities because the ghettos are cheap and so are artists). Krakow is attractive and interesting but it's still just another city.
Overshadowed as it is by the dark history of anti semitism (some Polish people murdered jews after they were released from Auschwitz, though it must be noted that others helped to save them) Poland has a grey mood to it. Having a notorious death camp as its main tourist attraction probably doesn't help. In Poland, one gets the impression that the scars left by such a dark history will not be slow to fade. It feels like an injustice to a country that's already suffered so much, but these shades of past horrors are what make the country most memorable, and most valuable. Here, humankind's greatest crimes seem so recent, so close, that when you leave the country you feel as though you are throwing off a cloak of ice. It's a fascinating, unnerving place.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
cod tow ahsh‑ease k'ellneh‑say eezhdeakoo
//let the hedgehog appear in your pants (lithuanian saying)
Like most parts of the world, the Baltics are characterised by a few things unique to this area. Shops sell amber trinkets, knitted handicrafts, mittens, linen and rag dolls. Outside of the cities, the landscape is covered with lush green and red grasses, yet somehow in winter it comes across as barren. The trees have long shed their leaves and the paddocks are unfenced; crops abound here but there is very little livestock. Billboards dot the landscape along major highways, advertising products that belong in another world. The cemeteries you see are the most colourful part of the view, perhaps because so many of the graves are relatively new they are scattered with bright flowers. House loom out of the mist and people sit at unsheltered bus stops, braving the freezing wind. Frost adorns the grass and a heavy mist can persist well past noon. The country is flat and frankly, while it is interesting I wouldn't call it beautiful.
I've seen this from various bus windows, but noticed it most on one particular trip in a car, hitching with Taro and bound for Lithuania's Hill of Crosses.
Taro and I had planned to stay a night in Liepaja, visit Karosta and then catch an evening bus to Siaolaiai. We wandered the town, played some pool, ate dinner and killed time until it was time to catch the bus... which we missed. Let's not go into that, suffice to say that trams do NOT come every 5 minutes as advertised.
So, after another night in Liepaja we headed out bright and early to the southbound road, our hitching thumbs at the ready. Taro had hitched in the Baltics with locals and was confident that we'd get a ride fairly soon. We passed the time by listening to music and compiling very scientific statistics on how many cars stop for hitchers in the Baltics ‑ one in ten! Many Baltic locals hitch as students and as a result they are always willing to take travellers with them. We had 8 cars stop for us in 45 minutes and the last car was going our way ‑ he ended up taking us all the way to the Hill of Crosses once we mentioned that we wanted to see it. He told us about Lithuanian food, taught us some basic words and answered all our curious questions, so very kind but apparently not rare in this area.
It's strange here. People don't look at you when you hold doors open for them ‑ the best you can hope for is a muttered thank you. They won't return any smiles and the locals can sometimes seem a bit faceless; yet they'll pick you up and take you across international borders before dropping you right at the gate of your chosen destination. When it comes down to it, even the coldest people seem to have a soft spot if you know where to find it.
We jumped, warm hearted but cold fingered, out of the car and into the icy windscape of the Hill of Crosses (don't look it up, windscape isn't a real world, but it's an accurate description).
The Hill of Crosses is a persistent sign of Christianity in a country that held on to paganism for much longer than those around it. It means many things to the people who pilgramage here, but most of all it's testament to the strength of the human spirit. Bulldozed by the Soviets at least 4 times, the hill never remained without her adornments for long. People risked being shot to plant their crosses here all throughout Soviet occupation and the tradition continues today. The two mounds that make up the 'hill' are resplendent with shining silver, burnished wood, faded paint, tinkling rosaries and a single 'no candles' sign. The chill and the mist made an already unreal place seem like something straight from the realms of magic. If a medieval Christian crusader knight in full armour and shining sword materialised in this place you'd simply shrug and think "well of course". Even an atheist can respect the ferver and faith that has driven people to place crosses here since the 1800s, undeterred by any force of man or nature.
Well, we were deterred by nature. It was bloody freezing out there so we took some photos, mumbled something about how amazing it all was, then hitched our way to the nearest bus station, this time bound for the bustling and bubbly university town of Kaunas.
Like most parts of the world, the Baltics are characterised by a few things unique to this area. Shops sell amber trinkets, knitted handicrafts, mittens, linen and rag dolls. Outside of the cities, the landscape is covered with lush green and red grasses, yet somehow in winter it comes across as barren. The trees have long shed their leaves and the paddocks are unfenced; crops abound here but there is very little livestock. Billboards dot the landscape along major highways, advertising products that belong in another world. The cemeteries you see are the most colourful part of the view, perhaps because so many of the graves are relatively new they are scattered with bright flowers. House loom out of the mist and people sit at unsheltered bus stops, braving the freezing wind. Frost adorns the grass and a heavy mist can persist well past noon. The country is flat and frankly, while it is interesting I wouldn't call it beautiful.
I've seen this from various bus windows, but noticed it most on one particular trip in a car, hitching with Taro and bound for Lithuania's Hill of Crosses.
Taro and I had planned to stay a night in Liepaja, visit Karosta and then catch an evening bus to Siaolaiai. We wandered the town, played some pool, ate dinner and killed time until it was time to catch the bus... which we missed. Let's not go into that, suffice to say that trams do NOT come every 5 minutes as advertised.
So, after another night in Liepaja we headed out bright and early to the southbound road, our hitching thumbs at the ready. Taro had hitched in the Baltics with locals and was confident that we'd get a ride fairly soon. We passed the time by listening to music and compiling very scientific statistics on how many cars stop for hitchers in the Baltics ‑ one in ten! Many Baltic locals hitch as students and as a result they are always willing to take travellers with them. We had 8 cars stop for us in 45 minutes and the last car was going our way ‑ he ended up taking us all the way to the Hill of Crosses once we mentioned that we wanted to see it. He told us about Lithuanian food, taught us some basic words and answered all our curious questions, so very kind but apparently not rare in this area.
It's strange here. People don't look at you when you hold doors open for them ‑ the best you can hope for is a muttered thank you. They won't return any smiles and the locals can sometimes seem a bit faceless; yet they'll pick you up and take you across international borders before dropping you right at the gate of your chosen destination. When it comes down to it, even the coldest people seem to have a soft spot if you know where to find it.
We jumped, warm hearted but cold fingered, out of the car and into the icy windscape of the Hill of Crosses (don't look it up, windscape isn't a real world, but it's an accurate description).
The Hill of Crosses is a persistent sign of Christianity in a country that held on to paganism for much longer than those around it. It means many things to the people who pilgramage here, but most of all it's testament to the strength of the human spirit. Bulldozed by the Soviets at least 4 times, the hill never remained without her adornments for long. People risked being shot to plant their crosses here all throughout Soviet occupation and the tradition continues today. The two mounds that make up the 'hill' are resplendent with shining silver, burnished wood, faded paint, tinkling rosaries and a single 'no candles' sign. The chill and the mist made an already unreal place seem like something straight from the realms of magic. If a medieval Christian crusader knight in full armour and shining sword materialised in this place you'd simply shrug and think "well of course". Even an atheist can respect the ferver and faith that has driven people to place crosses here since the 1800s, undeterred by any force of man or nature.
Well, we were deterred by nature. It was bloody freezing out there so we took some photos, mumbled something about how amazing it all was, then hitched our way to the nearest bus station, this time bound for the bustling and bubbly university town of Kaunas.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
e's ass'mo koo a koo t'arps
// i am a woodworm (Latvian)
Moving on from Riga after only a couple of nights, we made our way to Liepaja which is Latvia's biggest rock music town, churning out a number of Latvia's most popular bands. The purpose of our visit was the nearby Karosta Prison, a former Soviet military prison where tourists can pay to be treated like a prisoner and in summer, can stay the night in the cells. I'd read about it and was terrified at the prospect ‑ it sounded fairly harrowing and the guy working in our hostel said his friends had been reduced to tears of terror. Naturally, I had to do it! Taro has a similar adventurous spirit so he was hooked, and so began our time in tandem.
At 9pm we got off the bus in Liepaja and made our way through the quiet town to the hostel. A thick mist languished in the cold air. It shrouded the street lamps in a pale glow and muted the sounds of life, parting only to allow the screams of small children to waft to our ears. (We assume they were playing). Our hostel had a very haunted house feel to it and we had it to ourselves, so we grabbed some burgers and watched a movie before crashing.
The mist still lingered in the morning but this time it was a pretty complement to the thick frost that covered the ground like snow. We jumped on the bus to Karosta, wondering what to expect.
In Karosta we were taken to the prison entrance by a kind bus driver, where we stood for an age with frozen toes until one of our guards arrived. He spoke some French, Taro spoke some French, I used my Italian to understand the conversation but was unable to take part. We were invited by the kindly guide (who's job in a few more minutes was to be our tormentor) into his car, where it was warm. We waited there with him, chatting about various things in broken French until our other guards arrived, decked out in proper Soviet uniforms and yelling at us.
We were made to squat on the ground before waddling into the prison grounds with our hands on our heads. Lots of yelling in Latvian ensued, with some French aimed our way as it was the best lingual compromise (it seems I can understand French now, not sure when that happened). There were pushups on the freezing ground with no gloves on, but as we were with a school group it was only the school kids who had to do it. The Aussie tourists were a bit of a tag‑along so we hung about on the edge clutching our English audio guide.
After the discipline session, there was a history lesson in Latvian while we stayed in a squatting position on the ground (we still had the audio guide but we wanted to get a feel for the place). We were pushed around, told off, forced to stand in the cold and then taken into a room containing a stern nurse and lots of scary looking implements. We were quizzed on our health and told off for not having listened to the audio guide yet, then sent outside to stand with our hands on our heads, facing the wall, waiting.
A guard collected us and took us to the interrogation chamber. In real Soviet times, this was where the sleep deprived prisoners would have been tortured. For us, it was a simple interview.
"I see you are Australian. Why are you in Latvia?"
"For a holiday."
"What? WHY are you in Latvia!?"
I laughed and the guard smiled, then asked in great detail about my drinking habits before taking us to a pitch black cell and slamming the door behind us.
Finally we had time for the audio guide, so we stood in silent, cold darkness and listened to tales of the prison's grim history.
The door was suddenly thrown open, a fellow tour group member was thrust inside and the door was slammed shut again. This was the most poignant moment of the tour; in this particular prison the inmates were all military people who knew what they had done wrong, but in other Soviet prisons there would have been a lot of terrified silences and a lot of unanswered questions. We stood quietly until the room gradually filled up with other school kids who naturally started to giggle and whisper. Moment lost.
After a few more cell visits, a ghost story and some time to contemplate the words and symbols scratched into the walls by prisoners, we were let out, subdued but a little disappointed that the scary Soviet challenge was so easily overcome. I imagine that with a more serious tour group it would have been a far more gruelling experience.
The frost, the barbed wire, the still‑standing guard towers, Karosta wasn't terrifying but it's certainly nothing to be laughed at.
Moving on from Riga after only a couple of nights, we made our way to Liepaja which is Latvia's biggest rock music town, churning out a number of Latvia's most popular bands. The purpose of our visit was the nearby Karosta Prison, a former Soviet military prison where tourists can pay to be treated like a prisoner and in summer, can stay the night in the cells. I'd read about it and was terrified at the prospect ‑ it sounded fairly harrowing and the guy working in our hostel said his friends had been reduced to tears of terror. Naturally, I had to do it! Taro has a similar adventurous spirit so he was hooked, and so began our time in tandem.
At 9pm we got off the bus in Liepaja and made our way through the quiet town to the hostel. A thick mist languished in the cold air. It shrouded the street lamps in a pale glow and muted the sounds of life, parting only to allow the screams of small children to waft to our ears. (We assume they were playing). Our hostel had a very haunted house feel to it and we had it to ourselves, so we grabbed some burgers and watched a movie before crashing.
The mist still lingered in the morning but this time it was a pretty complement to the thick frost that covered the ground like snow. We jumped on the bus to Karosta, wondering what to expect.
In Karosta we were taken to the prison entrance by a kind bus driver, where we stood for an age with frozen toes until one of our guards arrived. He spoke some French, Taro spoke some French, I used my Italian to understand the conversation but was unable to take part. We were invited by the kindly guide (who's job in a few more minutes was to be our tormentor) into his car, where it was warm. We waited there with him, chatting about various things in broken French until our other guards arrived, decked out in proper Soviet uniforms and yelling at us.
We were made to squat on the ground before waddling into the prison grounds with our hands on our heads. Lots of yelling in Latvian ensued, with some French aimed our way as it was the best lingual compromise (it seems I can understand French now, not sure when that happened). There were pushups on the freezing ground with no gloves on, but as we were with a school group it was only the school kids who had to do it. The Aussie tourists were a bit of a tag‑along so we hung about on the edge clutching our English audio guide.
After the discipline session, there was a history lesson in Latvian while we stayed in a squatting position on the ground (we still had the audio guide but we wanted to get a feel for the place). We were pushed around, told off, forced to stand in the cold and then taken into a room containing a stern nurse and lots of scary looking implements. We were quizzed on our health and told off for not having listened to the audio guide yet, then sent outside to stand with our hands on our heads, facing the wall, waiting.
A guard collected us and took us to the interrogation chamber. In real Soviet times, this was where the sleep deprived prisoners would have been tortured. For us, it was a simple interview.
"I see you are Australian. Why are you in Latvia?"
"For a holiday."
"What? WHY are you in Latvia!?"
I laughed and the guard smiled, then asked in great detail about my drinking habits before taking us to a pitch black cell and slamming the door behind us.
Finally we had time for the audio guide, so we stood in silent, cold darkness and listened to tales of the prison's grim history.
The door was suddenly thrown open, a fellow tour group member was thrust inside and the door was slammed shut again. This was the most poignant moment of the tour; in this particular prison the inmates were all military people who knew what they had done wrong, but in other Soviet prisons there would have been a lot of terrified silences and a lot of unanswered questions. We stood quietly until the room gradually filled up with other school kids who naturally started to giggle and whisper. Moment lost.
After a few more cell visits, a ghost story and some time to contemplate the words and symbols scratched into the walls by prisoners, we were let out, subdued but a little disappointed that the scary Soviet challenge was so easily overcome. I imagine that with a more serious tour group it would have been a far more gruelling experience.
The frost, the barbed wire, the still‑standing guard towers, Karosta wasn't terrifying but it's certainly nothing to be laughed at.
Monday, November 3, 2008
cool runnings
Near Riga in Latvia is the bobsledding track used by the Latvian olympic team for practise. Arcing down a steep hill, with views of a forested valley showing off her autumn colours, the track is like a white plume of smoke snaking away to certain death. Travel insurance double checked, Taro, Steve (also from our hostel) and I stood at the top of this dubious adventure trail and made jokes about "feeling very olympic today".
There were no release forms to sign, just a couple of dudes who said "ok we go now", jammed helmets onto our heads and then told us where in the bobsled to sit.
One, push ‑ pull, two, push‑pull, just like in Cool Runnings, good to know the movies are accurate sometimes...or wait...maybe these guys just SAW it in the movie? Too late to back out, 'treeee!' is Latvian for three and the guy was yelling it.
The ground dropped away and my head was pushed down by the force of the descent; my job as the second person was to make sure my helmet didn't slam into the pilot's. We were thrown around the first corner and the freezing air dragged tears from my eyes, drying them off almost instantly. I heard myself laughing as we hit the second corner, the turns were too fast to prepare for and it was like being bodyslammed by a crowd of Rugby fans. I was glad of the helmet as it hit the sides at every turn, but didn't hit the pilot, good work! A few more corners, the slope dropping away beneath us and the sled hitting 100km per hour, my heart quite literally crawling somewhere around in my stomach, the exhilarated yells of the guys behind me and my own voice echoing in my ears; persistent laughter and there we were, safely at the bottom.
The whole thing was over in a lot less time than it took you to read about it, but judging by my maniacal giggles all along the slow home stretch, it was a pretty good way to spend 40 seconds.
Afterwards, a quick wander through town and a 2 hour train ride back to Riga at 40km per hour.
Olympic bobsledder at your service.
There were no release forms to sign, just a couple of dudes who said "ok we go now", jammed helmets onto our heads and then told us where in the bobsled to sit.
One, push ‑ pull, two, push‑pull, just like in Cool Runnings, good to know the movies are accurate sometimes...or wait...maybe these guys just SAW it in the movie? Too late to back out, 'treeee!' is Latvian for three and the guy was yelling it.
The ground dropped away and my head was pushed down by the force of the descent; my job as the second person was to make sure my helmet didn't slam into the pilot's. We were thrown around the first corner and the freezing air dragged tears from my eyes, drying them off almost instantly. I heard myself laughing as we hit the second corner, the turns were too fast to prepare for and it was like being bodyslammed by a crowd of Rugby fans. I was glad of the helmet as it hit the sides at every turn, but didn't hit the pilot, good work! A few more corners, the slope dropping away beneath us and the sled hitting 100km per hour, my heart quite literally crawling somewhere around in my stomach, the exhilarated yells of the guys behind me and my own voice echoing in my ears; persistent laughter and there we were, safely at the bottom.
The whole thing was over in a lot less time than it took you to read about it, but judging by my maniacal giggles all along the slow home stretch, it was a pretty good way to spend 40 seconds.
Afterwards, a quick wander through town and a 2 hour train ride back to Riga at 40km per hour.
Olympic bobsledder at your service.
es uz has kah brud jak mens
// i feel like a cobblestone (Latvian)
From Tallinn I went south to Riga, pretty town ruined by cheap Ryanair flights that have made it a stag party haven. It shows in the attitude of the locals and the many hostels that have banned stag parties from staying there. You have to dodge around the drunkard Brits and Irish lads to peel back the town's culture, but it's there.
You'll notice I haven't written about Berlin, Frankfurt or my stint at home; it's hard to motivate oneself to write about places that you've already left. Unfortunately the city of Riga is to suffer the same undeserved fate. It's a cool town, but essentially there are lots of pretty art nouveau buildings, the aforementioned Brits and a cool tour guide called Alex. Other than that, there isn't really a great deal to report.
I did, however, meet a travelling companion there. Taro is a med student taking a year off to travel, he lives around the corner from me in Perth and I went to school with his sister. We did the obligatory small world chat and then discovered several common goals, so set out to achieve them together. Read on.
From Tallinn I went south to Riga, pretty town ruined by cheap Ryanair flights that have made it a stag party haven. It shows in the attitude of the locals and the many hostels that have banned stag parties from staying there. You have to dodge around the drunkard Brits and Irish lads to peel back the town's culture, but it's there.
You'll notice I haven't written about Berlin, Frankfurt or my stint at home; it's hard to motivate oneself to write about places that you've already left. Unfortunately the city of Riga is to suffer the same undeserved fate. It's a cool town, but essentially there are lots of pretty art nouveau buildings, the aforementioned Brits and a cool tour guide called Alex. Other than that, there isn't really a great deal to report.
I did, however, meet a travelling companion there. Taro is a med student taking a year off to travel, he lives around the corner from me in Perth and I went to school with his sister. We did the obligatory small world chat and then discovered several common goals, so set out to achieve them together. Read on.
Friday, October 31, 2008
eesti
//estonia
Estonia, a tiny little country in the north east of Europe, has a history of being invaded by just about everyone. Having lost 32% of their population during Soviet occupation, Estonia is a country of young people. Some of their prominent government ministers are in their early 30s, a fact that is reflected in the government's stance that everyone has a right to internet access.
Emerging from recent terrors into a world of plenty has brought some strange contrasts to modern Estonian culture. Sweet faced girls in medieval costumes stand outside restaurants while red‑leather‑clad hookers walk arm in arm with embarrassed looking men. Most of the imposing structures built during Soviet times are frequently painted in bright colours lending a strange sort of duality to the streets. In spite of the horrors that occurred during German occupation, there are a number of skinheads here, while the most popular music genre in the country is reggae. Old people don't smile when smiled at; in general they look wary and tired, but a lost tourist is always treated with kindness and concern. The shades of Soviet occupation still haunt the country ‑ after all it's been less than 20 years since the country emerged from Soviet rule.
Estonians are sweet, stoic people. Recent injustices are remembered, even visible, but they are not dwelled on. The most important task at this point is to reinstate Estonian culture. That, and to party. There's a magazine ‑ B East ‑ which highlights all the cool stuff going on in various towns still considered pretty obscure to the western world. The nightlife is rocking and varied. Even under autumn's dark skies the air is buzzing with a strong sense of serious fun. Rebellious art forms that are traditionally frowned upon by more affluent societies are celebrated here ‑ street art is huge and graffiti is welcomed as a way to colour in the grey. One of the most famous eastern european artists gained his fame through illegal, anti establishment art. He now flies himself around Europe in his own Cessna and is currently wondering how he's going to continue to push the envelope when his once illegal works are now commissioned by various governments and corporations. When you look at the history of this part of the world, it seems incredible that there are any people left at all, let alone that they have such energy.
The thing that strikes me most about Estonia is that every day, I am passing people in the street who lived through atrocities that I can hardly imagine, yet the youthful spirit of Estonia is pushing past the dark memories one brightly coloured facade at a time.
Estonia, a tiny little country in the north east of Europe, has a history of being invaded by just about everyone. Having lost 32% of their population during Soviet occupation, Estonia is a country of young people. Some of their prominent government ministers are in their early 30s, a fact that is reflected in the government's stance that everyone has a right to internet access.
Emerging from recent terrors into a world of plenty has brought some strange contrasts to modern Estonian culture. Sweet faced girls in medieval costumes stand outside restaurants while red‑leather‑clad hookers walk arm in arm with embarrassed looking men. Most of the imposing structures built during Soviet times are frequently painted in bright colours lending a strange sort of duality to the streets. In spite of the horrors that occurred during German occupation, there are a number of skinheads here, while the most popular music genre in the country is reggae. Old people don't smile when smiled at; in general they look wary and tired, but a lost tourist is always treated with kindness and concern. The shades of Soviet occupation still haunt the country ‑ after all it's been less than 20 years since the country emerged from Soviet rule.
Estonians are sweet, stoic people. Recent injustices are remembered, even visible, but they are not dwelled on. The most important task at this point is to reinstate Estonian culture. That, and to party. There's a magazine ‑ B East ‑ which highlights all the cool stuff going on in various towns still considered pretty obscure to the western world. The nightlife is rocking and varied. Even under autumn's dark skies the air is buzzing with a strong sense of serious fun. Rebellious art forms that are traditionally frowned upon by more affluent societies are celebrated here ‑ street art is huge and graffiti is welcomed as a way to colour in the grey. One of the most famous eastern european artists gained his fame through illegal, anti establishment art. He now flies himself around Europe in his own Cessna and is currently wondering how he's going to continue to push the envelope when his once illegal works are now commissioned by various governments and corporations. When you look at the history of this part of the world, it seems incredible that there are any people left at all, let alone that they have such energy.
The thing that strikes me most about Estonia is that every day, I am passing people in the street who lived through atrocities that I can hardly imagine, yet the youthful spirit of Estonia is pushing past the dark memories one brightly coloured facade at a time.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
kiek in der kok
//peek in the kitchen ‑ the name of a tower in tallinn
Often one's impression of a town is highly dependent on the hostel you stay in. In Tallin, I've felt very much at home. Having a kitchen, regular dropins, a large lounge, a dvd library, even a free SAUNA in the bathroom has made it a really lovely way to dive back into the sometimes intimidating world of solo travel. Each night has been a raucous evening of discovery. One the first night, at my request we visited a nearby underground tavern and were rewarded by meeting several locals; unfortunately they turned out to be white supremacists. The phrase 'white power' always strikes me as ironic when it's emblazoned across the neck of a skinny, jumpy little guy with questionable taste in facial hair and a tendency to threaten anyone who says the wrong thing ‑ but only if they're smaller than him.
It's been a period of contrasts here. The scars of the Soviet era are evident in the strangeness of the people. Even the weather is having an identity crisis. Lured from sunny streets into a church by surprisingly cool organ music, I sat through a five minute thunderstorm without even realising (thanks God, well timed). Turning the corner from the church, I came across the former KGB headquarters and noted the sealed basement windows; bricked up to block the sounds of interrogations. One marvels at the fact that it sits opposite the church. What did the KGB agents think about when they stood at their office window staring at the church steeple?
Tallin is very tourist oriented. Every street is lined with handicraft stores selling knitted clothing, blown glass and ceramics. The old town dances just a little too far across the line between authenticity and touristy but is rescued by the saviour of Tallinn's soul ‑ the cafe culture.
Even in Soviet times, Tallinn was known for its cafes. There are lots of cosy loungey underground bars and coffee shops and it's there that Tallinn's culture retreats and regroups when the British accents abound on the streets.
I've wandered a lot in this town. I've ignored the museums and the handicraft shops and wandered the flower seller's street, stalked through the ruins of buildings bombed in 1944 and traipsed up through the town square, down through the town square, around the edge of the town square; it's one of those towns where you try to get lost and end up inexplicably back in the centre. Each time I've found myself on a certain street corner I've been accosted by locals dressed in old style clothing selling sugared almonds (wonderful but eventually sickening) whose hot sugar scent remind me of christmas in Germany.
The longer I spend in a town, the more I feel there is to do. It's too easy to drop in for a day, wander around, smugly announce that you've 'done' that town and then leave frantically for the next spot. I've tried to avoid doing that and have found that once you've ticked all the boxes, the real discovery begins. Today was my last day in Tallin, two days extra than anybody else has recommended I stay here, but it was by far the most interesting. I decided to head out along the coastline, past the phallic yet dreary Soviet monument that the locals have dubbed "the impotent's dream" and through a stunning park bejewled in Autumn leaves. I spent some time in a huge art gallery and fell in love with the modernist works of Estonians Konrad Magi and Nikolai Kormasov. I drank a coffee that had been lovingly and painstakingly decorated by the waitress, took some random photos of strange buildings and stood indecisively in the doorway of a ruined chapel for a while before turning away, having chosen not to visit yet another ruined building.
I've found Tallinn's soul in the spaces between her cobbled streets; it oozes stubbornly from the cracks.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for Tartu with sugar scented, wine coloured memories of Tallinn.
Often one's impression of a town is highly dependent on the hostel you stay in. In Tallin, I've felt very much at home. Having a kitchen, regular dropins, a large lounge, a dvd library, even a free SAUNA in the bathroom has made it a really lovely way to dive back into the sometimes intimidating world of solo travel. Each night has been a raucous evening of discovery. One the first night, at my request we visited a nearby underground tavern and were rewarded by meeting several locals; unfortunately they turned out to be white supremacists. The phrase 'white power' always strikes me as ironic when it's emblazoned across the neck of a skinny, jumpy little guy with questionable taste in facial hair and a tendency to threaten anyone who says the wrong thing ‑ but only if they're smaller than him.
It's been a period of contrasts here. The scars of the Soviet era are evident in the strangeness of the people. Even the weather is having an identity crisis. Lured from sunny streets into a church by surprisingly cool organ music, I sat through a five minute thunderstorm without even realising (thanks God, well timed). Turning the corner from the church, I came across the former KGB headquarters and noted the sealed basement windows; bricked up to block the sounds of interrogations. One marvels at the fact that it sits opposite the church. What did the KGB agents think about when they stood at their office window staring at the church steeple?
Tallin is very tourist oriented. Every street is lined with handicraft stores selling knitted clothing, blown glass and ceramics. The old town dances just a little too far across the line between authenticity and touristy but is rescued by the saviour of Tallinn's soul ‑ the cafe culture.
Even in Soviet times, Tallinn was known for its cafes. There are lots of cosy loungey underground bars and coffee shops and it's there that Tallinn's culture retreats and regroups when the British accents abound on the streets.
I've wandered a lot in this town. I've ignored the museums and the handicraft shops and wandered the flower seller's street, stalked through the ruins of buildings bombed in 1944 and traipsed up through the town square, down through the town square, around the edge of the town square; it's one of those towns where you try to get lost and end up inexplicably back in the centre. Each time I've found myself on a certain street corner I've been accosted by locals dressed in old style clothing selling sugared almonds (wonderful but eventually sickening) whose hot sugar scent remind me of christmas in Germany.
The longer I spend in a town, the more I feel there is to do. It's too easy to drop in for a day, wander around, smugly announce that you've 'done' that town and then leave frantically for the next spot. I've tried to avoid doing that and have found that once you've ticked all the boxes, the real discovery begins. Today was my last day in Tallin, two days extra than anybody else has recommended I stay here, but it was by far the most interesting. I decided to head out along the coastline, past the phallic yet dreary Soviet monument that the locals have dubbed "the impotent's dream" and through a stunning park bejewled in Autumn leaves. I spent some time in a huge art gallery and fell in love with the modernist works of Estonians Konrad Magi and Nikolai Kormasov. I drank a coffee that had been lovingly and painstakingly decorated by the waitress, took some random photos of strange buildings and stood indecisively in the doorway of a ruined chapel for a while before turning away, having chosen not to visit yet another ruined building.
I've found Tallinn's soul in the spaces between her cobbled streets; it oozes stubbornly from the cracks.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for Tartu with sugar scented, wine coloured memories of Tallinn.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
bloemen en coffeeshops
// flowers and coffee shops
"She's a beauuuutiful flowerrrr" sings an equally beautiful man. He is blessed with great depth of tone and I am greatly blessed to hear it. He is zipping past me on an electric wheelchair, barely avoiding several collisions while his words echo around us along the street. He takes off around the corner still singing and as a few people chuckle good naturedly, my first impression of Amsterdam is formed. Crazy people are part of the charm here, which is lucky because they are in no short supply!
It seemed fitting that my first taste of Amsterdam left me with a quickened heart and involved a beautiful flower. Over a century ago, when Tulip Fever ravaged the Natherlands, fortunes were made and then lost on the tulip marketwhich boomed and then crashed as markets do. The Dutch didn't lose their love for flowers though, as the visually unimpressive but very well stocked flower markets attest. Pushbikes and statues are often decorated with flowers for no apparent purpose. The city is many things, but the three that stand out are the flowers, the weed, and the red lights.
Amsterdam is not a place that does anything half heartedly, except perhaps for making rules. The rules pertaining to soft drugs are notoriously soft themselves, and the city streets are lined with "coffee shops" where alcohol is unavailable and weed, in various forms, sells for about 2‑5 euros a gram. The coffee shops are great hangouts with or without the pot..
The vibrance with which Amsterdam approaches each day is in contrast to the number of potheads that inhabit the place. There is a strong, almost mainstream activist culture. Discussions on the right to free speech are on everyone's lips in the still resounding aftermath of the Dutch newspaper that printed anti Muslim comics. Of course, environmental concerns are high on the list as with everywhere in the western world. Nobody talks much about the sex industry, it seems to be accepted at face value, much like the women winking from their windows. The night time girls pose and wave, some look nervous, most look bored, the best ones make you believe they want you and not your money ‑ according to my observations it's large groups of drunken poms that this works best on. The red light district begins in the street behind my hostel, which puts me in a 'good' part of Amsterdam but not the posh bit. I like it here. There are clothing and shoe shops, the pretty red lights (is it menat to look like Christmas I wonder?!), a good variety of interestingly decorated coffee shops and lots of people all through the day and night. Amsterdam sleeps between the hours of 6 and 10am; at any other hour the streets are busy and safe.
Amsterdam's good points are in most cases also her bad points. Pot is easily accessible but it means that many tourists see little more than the inside of various coffee shops. Mushrooms are also easy to get hold of and while I've had a lot of funny conversations with very happy people who insist that the walls are melting, I've also seen more than one person end up in an Ambulance after taking the 'really strong' ones. The red light district is a great, giggly little outing at night, but the daytime girls are testament to what happens when you don't leave in time ‑ they are older women to whom daylight is not kind and life is even less so. The live sex shows run continuously through the night and are at first surreal, but swiftly become more remniscient of the Melbourne Comedy Festival than of the star‑shaped‑sunglasses‑toting porn industry. The couples (they have to be real couples to be hired) have created routines that tie in with the music so you are treated to some very energetic displays, which are hilarious until you realise that your boyfriend will never, ever be that fit. Hmpf.
My favourite thing about Amsterdam is the canals. Each canal belt has its own personality and the shops I've found along the way have provided delightful window shopping (and occasional purchasing). I have the prettiest dress in the world that I bought from a shop where everything was red. I also have some cool earrrings that I will probably give to Billie because they would look great on her. I found some boots after 2 days of shopping and they are extremely comfortable and warm. I also found a shop full of 60s lamps, a stunning hat shop, several excellent vintage shops (luckily my suitcase is definitely full now) and lots of other little paradises of antiquities and oddities. I have a favourite shopping street that I am studiously avoiding, nestled between two canals near Anne Frank's house.
And of course, between all the flowers and cycles and space cakes, there was time to visit Anne. With three other Perth girls from my hostel, I walked through the Secret Annexe that hid eight people for so long and pretended there weren't tears tapping insistently at my eyelids when I thought of the little girl's hopes for the future, her longing to breathe fresh air (which she finally would, in the concentration camp where she died) and her many plans for her future. It's not the first time on this trip that the extent of my own good luck has been contrasted against the extreme misfortunes of others. It makes me feel obliged to pursue everything I desire with everything I have, given what a head start I've had. You resolve to live your life with inspired abandon when the shadow of your freedom is cast in the light of such heart‑rending courage.
It's been a lovely trip to Amsterdam; I'm no longer feeling so uninspired by western europe, though the adventures awaiting me in eastern europe still beckon.
Tonight I take another overnight bus to Berlin, where by a stroke of luck Chris the London lad is working. He has a twin room at the Grand Hyatt so we're sneaking me in. Free 5 star accommodation is becoming a bit of a habit for me! After Berlin it's off to eastern europe, specific locations yet to be determined.
As I conclude, there is someone posing outside under a sign for "The Cock Ring". For me, Amsterdam will always be cyclists, flowers, canals and, now, cock rings.
"She's a beauuuutiful flowerrrr" sings an equally beautiful man. He is blessed with great depth of tone and I am greatly blessed to hear it. He is zipping past me on an electric wheelchair, barely avoiding several collisions while his words echo around us along the street. He takes off around the corner still singing and as a few people chuckle good naturedly, my first impression of Amsterdam is formed. Crazy people are part of the charm here, which is lucky because they are in no short supply!
It seemed fitting that my first taste of Amsterdam left me with a quickened heart and involved a beautiful flower. Over a century ago, when Tulip Fever ravaged the Natherlands, fortunes were made and then lost on the tulip marketwhich boomed and then crashed as markets do. The Dutch didn't lose their love for flowers though, as the visually unimpressive but very well stocked flower markets attest. Pushbikes and statues are often decorated with flowers for no apparent purpose. The city is many things, but the three that stand out are the flowers, the weed, and the red lights.
Amsterdam is not a place that does anything half heartedly, except perhaps for making rules. The rules pertaining to soft drugs are notoriously soft themselves, and the city streets are lined with "coffee shops" where alcohol is unavailable and weed, in various forms, sells for about 2‑5 euros a gram. The coffee shops are great hangouts with or without the pot..
The vibrance with which Amsterdam approaches each day is in contrast to the number of potheads that inhabit the place. There is a strong, almost mainstream activist culture. Discussions on the right to free speech are on everyone's lips in the still resounding aftermath of the Dutch newspaper that printed anti Muslim comics. Of course, environmental concerns are high on the list as with everywhere in the western world. Nobody talks much about the sex industry, it seems to be accepted at face value, much like the women winking from their windows. The night time girls pose and wave, some look nervous, most look bored, the best ones make you believe they want you and not your money ‑ according to my observations it's large groups of drunken poms that this works best on. The red light district begins in the street behind my hostel, which puts me in a 'good' part of Amsterdam but not the posh bit. I like it here. There are clothing and shoe shops, the pretty red lights (is it menat to look like Christmas I wonder?!), a good variety of interestingly decorated coffee shops and lots of people all through the day and night. Amsterdam sleeps between the hours of 6 and 10am; at any other hour the streets are busy and safe.
Amsterdam's good points are in most cases also her bad points. Pot is easily accessible but it means that many tourists see little more than the inside of various coffee shops. Mushrooms are also easy to get hold of and while I've had a lot of funny conversations with very happy people who insist that the walls are melting, I've also seen more than one person end up in an Ambulance after taking the 'really strong' ones. The red light district is a great, giggly little outing at night, but the daytime girls are testament to what happens when you don't leave in time ‑ they are older women to whom daylight is not kind and life is even less so. The live sex shows run continuously through the night and are at first surreal, but swiftly become more remniscient of the Melbourne Comedy Festival than of the star‑shaped‑sunglasses‑toting porn industry. The couples (they have to be real couples to be hired) have created routines that tie in with the music so you are treated to some very energetic displays, which are hilarious until you realise that your boyfriend will never, ever be that fit. Hmpf.
My favourite thing about Amsterdam is the canals. Each canal belt has its own personality and the shops I've found along the way have provided delightful window shopping (and occasional purchasing). I have the prettiest dress in the world that I bought from a shop where everything was red. I also have some cool earrrings that I will probably give to Billie because they would look great on her. I found some boots after 2 days of shopping and they are extremely comfortable and warm. I also found a shop full of 60s lamps, a stunning hat shop, several excellent vintage shops (luckily my suitcase is definitely full now) and lots of other little paradises of antiquities and oddities. I have a favourite shopping street that I am studiously avoiding, nestled between two canals near Anne Frank's house.
And of course, between all the flowers and cycles and space cakes, there was time to visit Anne. With three other Perth girls from my hostel, I walked through the Secret Annexe that hid eight people for so long and pretended there weren't tears tapping insistently at my eyelids when I thought of the little girl's hopes for the future, her longing to breathe fresh air (which she finally would, in the concentration camp where she died) and her many plans for her future. It's not the first time on this trip that the extent of my own good luck has been contrasted against the extreme misfortunes of others. It makes me feel obliged to pursue everything I desire with everything I have, given what a head start I've had. You resolve to live your life with inspired abandon when the shadow of your freedom is cast in the light of such heart‑rending courage.
It's been a lovely trip to Amsterdam; I'm no longer feeling so uninspired by western europe, though the adventures awaiting me in eastern europe still beckon.
Tonight I take another overnight bus to Berlin, where by a stroke of luck Chris the London lad is working. He has a twin room at the Grand Hyatt so we're sneaking me in. Free 5 star accommodation is becoming a bit of a habit for me! After Berlin it's off to eastern europe, specific locations yet to be determined.
As I conclude, there is someone posing outside under a sign for "The Cock Ring". For me, Amsterdam will always be cyclists, flowers, canals and, now, cock rings.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
københavn
// copenhagen
It's beautiful, spacious, safe, sunny, but my god, Copenhagen is expensive! I bought lunch one day which consisted of some blackberries, cheese and almonds and it came to 12 aussie dollars! A beer costs close to what you pay for your meal (sometimes more). Clothes are outrageously priced. The people are happy though so one assumes that the cost of living is in line with wages.
In most annual worldwide happiness polls, the Danes come out on top. Wandering around Copenhagen you can believe it; smiles and laughter are everywhere, nobody is rude or in a hurry, people smile at you in the street and they are so willing to speak (annoyingly perfect) English that you forget you're in a foreign country.
The Danes are pretty low key. I'm told that the queen's favourite hat shop is next to a pizza shop, in a middle class neighbourhood ‑ a guy I met sees her there sometimes. Pubs stay open until 5am but the streets are not lined with drunks, it's safe to walk around and there is little fear of violence. In a country of only 5 million people I suppose that isn't a surprise, but it does make a pleasant change. Best of all, it doesn't smell like dog pee, even in the metro stations!
Rivaling Sweden in the industrial design stakes, Denmark is well organised and clean.Spotless and fragrance‑free, the driverless metro trains run so on time that the 'next train' signs show arrivals down to the nearest thirty seconds. It takes about 15 minutes to get from the airport to the centre and 35 minutes to get to Sweden, where I had lunch today.
The best thing about Copenhagen is how accessible different areas are. There's Dyrhavn (Deerhaven) 20 minutes to the north, a beach just a little fiurther, a pretty star shaped military area that more closely resembles a public garden and opens to the public daily, and the free state of Christiania just a few minutes walk from the centre. You feel that you are being cradled comfortably by a city that is willing to let you enjoy your freedom. After the enveloping magnitude of London, it's like being on top of a sunny windswept hill. Strangely, I really do feel that I'm a long way north here.
Copenhagen is a spacious city with a lovely vibe but I will be glad to get back to the euro and to meals that cost closer to 4 dollars than 15. Next stop, after a 10 hour bus ride, is Amsterdam. See you there.
It's beautiful, spacious, safe, sunny, but my god, Copenhagen is expensive! I bought lunch one day which consisted of some blackberries, cheese and almonds and it came to 12 aussie dollars! A beer costs close to what you pay for your meal (sometimes more). Clothes are outrageously priced. The people are happy though so one assumes that the cost of living is in line with wages.
In most annual worldwide happiness polls, the Danes come out on top. Wandering around Copenhagen you can believe it; smiles and laughter are everywhere, nobody is rude or in a hurry, people smile at you in the street and they are so willing to speak (annoyingly perfect) English that you forget you're in a foreign country.
The Danes are pretty low key. I'm told that the queen's favourite hat shop is next to a pizza shop, in a middle class neighbourhood ‑ a guy I met sees her there sometimes. Pubs stay open until 5am but the streets are not lined with drunks, it's safe to walk around and there is little fear of violence. In a country of only 5 million people I suppose that isn't a surprise, but it does make a pleasant change. Best of all, it doesn't smell like dog pee, even in the metro stations!
Rivaling Sweden in the industrial design stakes, Denmark is well organised and clean.Spotless and fragrance‑free, the driverless metro trains run so on time that the 'next train' signs show arrivals down to the nearest thirty seconds. It takes about 15 minutes to get from the airport to the centre and 35 minutes to get to Sweden, where I had lunch today.
The best thing about Copenhagen is how accessible different areas are. There's Dyrhavn (Deerhaven) 20 minutes to the north, a beach just a little fiurther, a pretty star shaped military area that more closely resembles a public garden and opens to the public daily, and the free state of Christiania just a few minutes walk from the centre. You feel that you are being cradled comfortably by a city that is willing to let you enjoy your freedom. After the enveloping magnitude of London, it's like being on top of a sunny windswept hill. Strangely, I really do feel that I'm a long way north here.
Copenhagen is a spacious city with a lovely vibe but I will be glad to get back to the euro and to meals that cost closer to 4 dollars than 15. Next stop, after a 10 hour bus ride, is Amsterdam. See you there.
Friday, September 26, 2008
anføres af christiania
// quotes from christiania
"Hello! I am Italian. Italians are the best lovers you know. I need a woman. I really need a woman. With beautiful lips. Like yours."
‑ An "Italian" guy who spoke with a Danish accent and didn't understand a word I said to him in Italian. Hmmm.
"The thing I like best about living in Denmark is that we can sit here like this, free to talk to new people without being afraid, free to be who we want to be."
"And what do you like the least?"
"That we have soldiers fighting in the world. Little Denmark! What are we doing out in the world! It's just because our stupid little prime minister wants a top job in the UN so he is kissing ass to the Americans."
‑Lyhne, a court jester
"Be careful of your drinks around here. Most people are good but you never know when there is someone bad."
‑Bo, a magician
"I like our royal family because they are just like normal people. Plus I am a court jester and I couldn't be a court jester with no court!"
‑ Lyhne
"Look, I can make this stone disappear!"
‑ Bo, who did
"Christiania is a wonderful place because it lets me develop my art and share my ideas. I could not do the things I do with my art if this place did not exist."
‑ Anders, an african dancer
"Yes, it's a good place for people like us. In other places people just think we are crazy men, but here our performances are appreciated."
‑ Lyhne
"You know, the world is getting better, not worse. Of course we hear more about the darkness in the world because it's getting less and less, so they have to shout louder to be heard: 'look! we are still here!', but most of the people in the world are like you and me. Good people who just want to meet each other and have conversations and help each other. The world is definitely getting better."
‑ Lyhne
"The best thing about Danes, for a traveller, is that we know our cities. When we were in Amsterdam we asked some local people for help and they took us two busses, and one train then we had to walk a long way. They were very kind to us but when we arrived we could see where we had started, it was only ten minutes by foot! But they didn't know their own city and they took us all that way!"
‑ Bo on Danes versus the rest of the world
If you walk about 20 minutes north of Copenhagen's main square, you leave Denmark and enter Christiania. Christiania is a free state, abandoned by the military and taken over by the hippies 37 years ago today.
As you walk in, past the red Christiania flag with three yellow dots, past the grocery store where you get your change in Christianian 'lom' instead of Danish kroner, past the giant snail that embodies the local motto of "hurry slowly", you finally come to a large picture of a camera with a red cross through it. You are on "Pusher Street" and photos of this street are not taken to kindly by the locals for reasons closely connected to the street's name.
I made the trip to Christiania the day before the big bash and got talking to a shop keeper who told me to come back the next day for the party. He said they were preparing for it in the workshop out the back and peeking through I saw a joint rolling factory line. Ha!
As the day dawned on her 37th year, Christiania's inhabitants and friends were setting up stages, rolling joints, cracking open beers and dressing up for the 24 hour party that was about to begin. I chose to visit in the daytime (I'm daring, but not daring enough to visit a drug haven alone at night in a foreign country) and a girl from the hostel came with me.
After some wandering, Chantelle and I found ourselves a spot at the bar, where we ate our free bread, jam and cheese snack and drank the organic Christianian beer, brewed somewhere in Jutland and emblazoned with the Christianian flag. It tasted like Toohey's New.
At the table we were soon joined by a group of the most interesting looking people in the whole place, who are responsible for the quotes and insights above.
It was great to talk to the locals about such a unique place. We chatted to them for about an hour before Lyhne went off to play on one of the stages, Bo wandered away to make snails out of balloons and hide them in potplants, and the others headed off together discussing their latest ideas. We had to move on, so we left Christiania and her colourful fairy folk to the serious business of partying.
It was a little like being in the Magic Faraway Tree, but maybe that was all the pot smoke in the air!
"Hello! I am Italian. Italians are the best lovers you know. I need a woman. I really need a woman. With beautiful lips. Like yours."
‑ An "Italian" guy who spoke with a Danish accent and didn't understand a word I said to him in Italian. Hmmm.
"The thing I like best about living in Denmark is that we can sit here like this, free to talk to new people without being afraid, free to be who we want to be."
"And what do you like the least?"
"That we have soldiers fighting in the world. Little Denmark! What are we doing out in the world! It's just because our stupid little prime minister wants a top job in the UN so he is kissing ass to the Americans."
‑Lyhne, a court jester
"Be careful of your drinks around here. Most people are good but you never know when there is someone bad."
‑Bo, a magician
"I like our royal family because they are just like normal people. Plus I am a court jester and I couldn't be a court jester with no court!"
‑ Lyhne
"Look, I can make this stone disappear!"
‑ Bo, who did
"Christiania is a wonderful place because it lets me develop my art and share my ideas. I could not do the things I do with my art if this place did not exist."
‑ Anders, an african dancer
"Yes, it's a good place for people like us. In other places people just think we are crazy men, but here our performances are appreciated."
‑ Lyhne
"You know, the world is getting better, not worse. Of course we hear more about the darkness in the world because it's getting less and less, so they have to shout louder to be heard: 'look! we are still here!', but most of the people in the world are like you and me. Good people who just want to meet each other and have conversations and help each other. The world is definitely getting better."
‑ Lyhne
"The best thing about Danes, for a traveller, is that we know our cities. When we were in Amsterdam we asked some local people for help and they took us two busses, and one train then we had to walk a long way. They were very kind to us but when we arrived we could see where we had started, it was only ten minutes by foot! But they didn't know their own city and they took us all that way!"
‑ Bo on Danes versus the rest of the world
If you walk about 20 minutes north of Copenhagen's main square, you leave Denmark and enter Christiania. Christiania is a free state, abandoned by the military and taken over by the hippies 37 years ago today.
As you walk in, past the red Christiania flag with three yellow dots, past the grocery store where you get your change in Christianian 'lom' instead of Danish kroner, past the giant snail that embodies the local motto of "hurry slowly", you finally come to a large picture of a camera with a red cross through it. You are on "Pusher Street" and photos of this street are not taken to kindly by the locals for reasons closely connected to the street's name.
I made the trip to Christiania the day before the big bash and got talking to a shop keeper who told me to come back the next day for the party. He said they were preparing for it in the workshop out the back and peeking through I saw a joint rolling factory line. Ha!
As the day dawned on her 37th year, Christiania's inhabitants and friends were setting up stages, rolling joints, cracking open beers and dressing up for the 24 hour party that was about to begin. I chose to visit in the daytime (I'm daring, but not daring enough to visit a drug haven alone at night in a foreign country) and a girl from the hostel came with me.
After some wandering, Chantelle and I found ourselves a spot at the bar, where we ate our free bread, jam and cheese snack and drank the organic Christianian beer, brewed somewhere in Jutland and emblazoned with the Christianian flag. It tasted like Toohey's New.
At the table we were soon joined by a group of the most interesting looking people in the whole place, who are responsible for the quotes and insights above.
It was great to talk to the locals about such a unique place. We chatted to them for about an hour before Lyhne went off to play on one of the stages, Bo wandered away to make snails out of balloons and hide them in potplants, and the others headed off together discussing their latest ideas. We had to move on, so we left Christiania and her colourful fairy folk to the serious business of partying.
It was a little like being in the Magic Faraway Tree, but maybe that was all the pot smoke in the air!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
bonjourolahellowhereyoufrom?
// the common cry of the moroccan salesman
Morocco is indeed fresh air for the jaded traveller. Even Marrakech, where tourists abound, the magic of being in a vastly different culture washes across you, in the texture of everything you touch and in the timbre of every sound.
This post goes on forever so I'll break it up into sections.
people
Moroccans are cheeky, they smile their toothless smiles a lot and they all say hello, to everyone, all the time.
My first real encounter with Moroccans was on the train. I chose a compartment with two young girls in it. They spoke only French and Arabic so we didn't talk, but they smiled a lot and seemed friendly. Soon we were joined by others, eventually there were three women and five young men in the compartment. One of the guys spoke English and he became the translator, asking me questions on behalf of the others. They were all interested to know where I was from, what I thought of their country and a lot of other very random questions. The girls said that they wished I could speak French so they could talk to me. I was congratulated by one man on my choice of water, apparently I had chosen the best quality brand so I was obviously very intelligent. I was invited by three of them to stay at various uncles' riads or to go on this or that tour.
At the same station they all left and my compartment was immediately filled with a small family of 6. The father was a maths teacher and spoke excellent English, so once again there were questions to be answered. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to 11 and they looked at me and giggled a lot. The little girl was very excited to be the one who sat next to me. They taught me to count in Arabic (I only remember one and two) and then to say various words, all of which I have forgotten except for "Shokran" which means thank you. They shared their meal with me and all tried some vegemite, which was hilarious. The kids screwed up their faces and asked if I was joking about eating that stuff in Australia, and the father politely ate his piece but laughed when I said that no foreigners ever like it. They were happy, interested, kind and amusing. At one point I passed my camera around and the kids were in stitches taking photos of themselves and me. It really was a lot of fun.
Moroccans everywhere seem to be like this, they remind me of the Malaysians and Vietnamese in their mannner, but with perhaps a little less 'cuteness' about them.
The women seem on much more equal footing than we are led to believe. They laugh with their boyfriends, beat up their little brothers and wear what they like in the new town (but wear their hajibs in the old town where it's more traditional). Generally they seem happy enough.
accommodation
I am staying in a beautiful riad, a traditional Moroccan dwelling. My bedroom is large, with high ceilings and white walls decorated with lamps, silks, sumptuous cushions and colourful tiles. The bed is fit for a princess, complete with romantic white netting hanging from the ceiling; I've always wanted to sleep under one. Like all riads, the house is built around a central courtyard which opens to the sky. There are many many different tiles on the floors and walls, the bathrooms are plaster and there are lamps, lamps, lamps everywhere. It's run by a French expat who breaks every stereotype of his countrymen and is incredibly funny, helpful and willing to speak any language you ask for. It's a beautiful, peaceful place in a residential area, close to the main square but far enough away that it feels real. At 25 euro a night it's considerably better than anywhere I stayed in Italy.
ramadan
I am here in Ramadan, the fasting month. High season is over so there aren't many tourists. It's nice but it can also be annoying because I get a lot of attention.
During the day Muslims eat no food and drink no water. Some cafes remain open for tourists so it isn't hard to find food in spite of the fast.
Each evening at sunset, the fast is broken. As sunset approaches the streets are full of people rushing to get home. At 7 o'clock a cry rings out over the city and a siren (which I first thought was a cow) is sounded. The main mosque starts its chanting and then each smaller mosque starts up in five second intervals, giving the impression of a circular echo around the city. The day's fast is over.
Families gather together to share the traditional soup of the Ramadan called harira; it's made of a varying mixture of vegetables and sometimes meat. Even in my riad we share the harira together to follow the tradition and my host tells me stories about his experiences in Morocco.
In the morning at five there is the call to signal the start of the day's fast. Having one's days marked by silence and singing is actually very beautiful; a short time of peace before the chaos begins.
streets
My host tells me that during Ramadan Marrakech is a ghost town, which made me laugh because it's absolutely insanely busy! I'd hate to see high season. There is less traffic than in Vietnam but I feel much more at risk of being run over. The streets are brimming with touts, kids, beggars, shops shops shops, motorbikes, donkeys. Everywhere you go there are young boys telling you that certain (visibly busy) streets are closed but they know somewhere better, you can follow them, this way, this way.
I have been told several times that there is no hotel where my hotel is, that the big square is in the opposite direction (where the small one actually is), that the palace is closed today for Ramadan but there is a bigger one around the corner. "I will take you, I not guide, I not ask money, I just to help you." Hmmm. Their plan is to get you lost and then charge you to bring you to wherever you want to go, which is usually where you were to start with.
Taxi drivers do this too ‑ I met a couple today who were charged 4euro to be taken to the middle of nowhere and then charged 6euro to get back. Yesterday I encountered a very embarrassed and confused young Japanese man who had about six kids leading him around, I showed him my map but I think he was too polite to tell the kids to leave him alone. It really does pay to know your way in Morocco. Thankfully my host gave me an excellent map. Having been to Turkey also helps, the constant hellos can be tiring but there are no furtive bum grabs (ok, well only one so far), the men don't openly proposition you in the street and they don't chase you around...very much. One guy did try to sell me a chameleon and lots of boys have tried to sell me wooden snakes. I told the boys that I am from Australia and I have a real pet snake at home, then I told the chameleon guy that my snake would get jealous and probably eat it.
food
I am too scared to eat salad here, it almost guarantees diarrhoea. My host says that meat is always safe as long as it's hot. The food is excellent. Today I ate a tahini, which is a pot of chicken with potatoes and vegetables. It cost me about 5 Australian dollars and was excellent.
Yesterday's lunch was less satisfying but at around 3 AUD I wasn't too concerned about that. It's a great place for short term eating but trying to buy fruit and vegetables here would be hard, so I feel blessed that I'm not a vegetarian.
the souks
I have spent two days wandering the souks, telling people who want me to look in their shop that my mean nasty husband (Blake) is coming on Sunday and I am too afraid to buy anything without his permission. It's meant that I can get an overview of quality and prices without finding it too hard to escape. Blake doesn't know it yet, but his job is to be constantly annoyed with his silly wife who wants to buy everything at ridiculously expensive prices. My job is to be the naive little princess who will surprisingly drive the hardest bargain the seller has ever seen. (I may be better at the first bit than at the second.)
Unfortunately though, I can tell when something is good quality. I keep falling in love with antique silver Berber jewellery that has a starting price of 17000 dirhams, which is about 1700 euros. Considering you start the bargaining at half the starting price, no amount of pretending to walk away will ever succeeed in getting them at a price I'm willing to pay, even though they look like they're worth what they cost. I am taking photos of things instead.
I've managed to talk myself out of pretty much everything I originally had my eye on, so it's a good thing that I'm taking my time. However, today I made my first purchase...
bargaining
I found four little brass oil burners that I adored, and which were much nicer than any I had seen over the past two days. The bargaining process was actually quite fun. In Turkey it can be quite agressive but here it's treated like a game. The shop keeper was a young guy, whose mother was a Berber. The Berber are from the Atlas mountains and have some truly beautiful jewellery and silverwork. He told me that the lamps I liked were very old Berber oil lamps, hand made from brass. I couldn't tell if this was entirely true but they were pretty and heavy enough to potentially be brass. I'd also seen enough lamps by this point to know that these were the best I was likely to find.
I showed an interest in the workmanship and took an unhurried approach. I told him that I wanted to wait for my husband to arrive on Sunday because I would get in trouble if I bought them without him. He told me that today is Friday, a day of good luck for Muslims, and one dirham today is better than five dirhams on Sunday, so he would give me a good price. He asked for 400 dirham for one. I asked how much if I bought all four; he said 1000. I said no, that's 100 euro and that means 200 dollars in Australian, it was too much. I asked for 500 and he said no, give me a serious price. I said I was afraid my husband would yell at me and maybe I should wait until Sunday. He said he would give me a good price today because I am a nice girl and not rushed like the other tourists (from what I've seen this part is true). He said he feels like a friend of mine and dropped the price to 950. I shook my head sadly and looked longingly at the oil lamps that I couldn't possibly afford. I said maybe I could do 600. He said no, his father would be angry. I said I needed a calculator. He brought me one and told me to relax on a chair and I punched in lots of numbers, frowning and sighing. Finally he gave me his last offer of 750. I shook my head sadly, shoulders slumped in defeat and said I could only afford 650. He said "we make half half, 700." I said "we make half half again, 675." He laughed and said I am a very good bargainer and said 680.
This put the oil lamps at 25 AUD each and I was happy, we shook hands the traditional way (normal handshake, then handshake with thumbs wrapped around each other, then touch your heart with your palm). While he wrapped my lamps he told me that normally when a man does business with a woman, it is sealed with a kiss on the mouth instead of a handshake, Sadly, when it is Ramadan you cannot kiss during the day so we had to shake hands instead. Praise Allah!
no more of the green stone
I'm feeling decidedly less jaded about travel now. When Blake arrives we will head out for a camel ride, see some of the landscape and wander further afield than I am comfortable going on my own.
I was told today by a man that if I love Morocco, Morocco will love me. This is a good sign, because within half an hour of arriving in Morocco, I had already decided that someday I will return.
Morocco is indeed fresh air for the jaded traveller. Even Marrakech, where tourists abound, the magic of being in a vastly different culture washes across you, in the texture of everything you touch and in the timbre of every sound.
This post goes on forever so I'll break it up into sections.
people
Moroccans are cheeky, they smile their toothless smiles a lot and they all say hello, to everyone, all the time.
My first real encounter with Moroccans was on the train. I chose a compartment with two young girls in it. They spoke only French and Arabic so we didn't talk, but they smiled a lot and seemed friendly. Soon we were joined by others, eventually there were three women and five young men in the compartment. One of the guys spoke English and he became the translator, asking me questions on behalf of the others. They were all interested to know where I was from, what I thought of their country and a lot of other very random questions. The girls said that they wished I could speak French so they could talk to me. I was congratulated by one man on my choice of water, apparently I had chosen the best quality brand so I was obviously very intelligent. I was invited by three of them to stay at various uncles' riads or to go on this or that tour.
At the same station they all left and my compartment was immediately filled with a small family of 6. The father was a maths teacher and spoke excellent English, so once again there were questions to be answered. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to 11 and they looked at me and giggled a lot. The little girl was very excited to be the one who sat next to me. They taught me to count in Arabic (I only remember one and two) and then to say various words, all of which I have forgotten except for "Shokran" which means thank you. They shared their meal with me and all tried some vegemite, which was hilarious. The kids screwed up their faces and asked if I was joking about eating that stuff in Australia, and the father politely ate his piece but laughed when I said that no foreigners ever like it. They were happy, interested, kind and amusing. At one point I passed my camera around and the kids were in stitches taking photos of themselves and me. It really was a lot of fun.
Moroccans everywhere seem to be like this, they remind me of the Malaysians and Vietnamese in their mannner, but with perhaps a little less 'cuteness' about them.
The women seem on much more equal footing than we are led to believe. They laugh with their boyfriends, beat up their little brothers and wear what they like in the new town (but wear their hajibs in the old town where it's more traditional). Generally they seem happy enough.
accommodation
I am staying in a beautiful riad, a traditional Moroccan dwelling. My bedroom is large, with high ceilings and white walls decorated with lamps, silks, sumptuous cushions and colourful tiles. The bed is fit for a princess, complete with romantic white netting hanging from the ceiling; I've always wanted to sleep under one. Like all riads, the house is built around a central courtyard which opens to the sky. There are many many different tiles on the floors and walls, the bathrooms are plaster and there are lamps, lamps, lamps everywhere. It's run by a French expat who breaks every stereotype of his countrymen and is incredibly funny, helpful and willing to speak any language you ask for. It's a beautiful, peaceful place in a residential area, close to the main square but far enough away that it feels real. At 25 euro a night it's considerably better than anywhere I stayed in Italy.
ramadan
I am here in Ramadan, the fasting month. High season is over so there aren't many tourists. It's nice but it can also be annoying because I get a lot of attention.
During the day Muslims eat no food and drink no water. Some cafes remain open for tourists so it isn't hard to find food in spite of the fast.
Each evening at sunset, the fast is broken. As sunset approaches the streets are full of people rushing to get home. At 7 o'clock a cry rings out over the city and a siren (which I first thought was a cow) is sounded. The main mosque starts its chanting and then each smaller mosque starts up in five second intervals, giving the impression of a circular echo around the city. The day's fast is over.
Families gather together to share the traditional soup of the Ramadan called harira; it's made of a varying mixture of vegetables and sometimes meat. Even in my riad we share the harira together to follow the tradition and my host tells me stories about his experiences in Morocco.
In the morning at five there is the call to signal the start of the day's fast. Having one's days marked by silence and singing is actually very beautiful; a short time of peace before the chaos begins.
streets
My host tells me that during Ramadan Marrakech is a ghost town, which made me laugh because it's absolutely insanely busy! I'd hate to see high season. There is less traffic than in Vietnam but I feel much more at risk of being run over. The streets are brimming with touts, kids, beggars, shops shops shops, motorbikes, donkeys. Everywhere you go there are young boys telling you that certain (visibly busy) streets are closed but they know somewhere better, you can follow them, this way, this way.
I have been told several times that there is no hotel where my hotel is, that the big square is in the opposite direction (where the small one actually is), that the palace is closed today for Ramadan but there is a bigger one around the corner. "I will take you, I not guide, I not ask money, I just to help you." Hmmm. Their plan is to get you lost and then charge you to bring you to wherever you want to go, which is usually where you were to start with.
Taxi drivers do this too ‑ I met a couple today who were charged 4euro to be taken to the middle of nowhere and then charged 6euro to get back. Yesterday I encountered a very embarrassed and confused young Japanese man who had about six kids leading him around, I showed him my map but I think he was too polite to tell the kids to leave him alone. It really does pay to know your way in Morocco. Thankfully my host gave me an excellent map. Having been to Turkey also helps, the constant hellos can be tiring but there are no furtive bum grabs (ok, well only one so far), the men don't openly proposition you in the street and they don't chase you around...very much. One guy did try to sell me a chameleon and lots of boys have tried to sell me wooden snakes. I told the boys that I am from Australia and I have a real pet snake at home, then I told the chameleon guy that my snake would get jealous and probably eat it.
food
I am too scared to eat salad here, it almost guarantees diarrhoea. My host says that meat is always safe as long as it's hot. The food is excellent. Today I ate a tahini, which is a pot of chicken with potatoes and vegetables. It cost me about 5 Australian dollars and was excellent.
Yesterday's lunch was less satisfying but at around 3 AUD I wasn't too concerned about that. It's a great place for short term eating but trying to buy fruit and vegetables here would be hard, so I feel blessed that I'm not a vegetarian.
the souks
I have spent two days wandering the souks, telling people who want me to look in their shop that my mean nasty husband (Blake) is coming on Sunday and I am too afraid to buy anything without his permission. It's meant that I can get an overview of quality and prices without finding it too hard to escape. Blake doesn't know it yet, but his job is to be constantly annoyed with his silly wife who wants to buy everything at ridiculously expensive prices. My job is to be the naive little princess who will surprisingly drive the hardest bargain the seller has ever seen. (I may be better at the first bit than at the second.)
Unfortunately though, I can tell when something is good quality. I keep falling in love with antique silver Berber jewellery that has a starting price of 17000 dirhams, which is about 1700 euros. Considering you start the bargaining at half the starting price, no amount of pretending to walk away will ever succeeed in getting them at a price I'm willing to pay, even though they look like they're worth what they cost. I am taking photos of things instead.
I've managed to talk myself out of pretty much everything I originally had my eye on, so it's a good thing that I'm taking my time. However, today I made my first purchase...
bargaining
I found four little brass oil burners that I adored, and which were much nicer than any I had seen over the past two days. The bargaining process was actually quite fun. In Turkey it can be quite agressive but here it's treated like a game. The shop keeper was a young guy, whose mother was a Berber. The Berber are from the Atlas mountains and have some truly beautiful jewellery and silverwork. He told me that the lamps I liked were very old Berber oil lamps, hand made from brass. I couldn't tell if this was entirely true but they were pretty and heavy enough to potentially be brass. I'd also seen enough lamps by this point to know that these were the best I was likely to find.
I showed an interest in the workmanship and took an unhurried approach. I told him that I wanted to wait for my husband to arrive on Sunday because I would get in trouble if I bought them without him. He told me that today is Friday, a day of good luck for Muslims, and one dirham today is better than five dirhams on Sunday, so he would give me a good price. He asked for 400 dirham for one. I asked how much if I bought all four; he said 1000. I said no, that's 100 euro and that means 200 dollars in Australian, it was too much. I asked for 500 and he said no, give me a serious price. I said I was afraid my husband would yell at me and maybe I should wait until Sunday. He said he would give me a good price today because I am a nice girl and not rushed like the other tourists (from what I've seen this part is true). He said he feels like a friend of mine and dropped the price to 950. I shook my head sadly and looked longingly at the oil lamps that I couldn't possibly afford. I said maybe I could do 600. He said no, his father would be angry. I said I needed a calculator. He brought me one and told me to relax on a chair and I punched in lots of numbers, frowning and sighing. Finally he gave me his last offer of 750. I shook my head sadly, shoulders slumped in defeat and said I could only afford 650. He said "we make half half, 700." I said "we make half half again, 675." He laughed and said I am a very good bargainer and said 680.
This put the oil lamps at 25 AUD each and I was happy, we shook hands the traditional way (normal handshake, then handshake with thumbs wrapped around each other, then touch your heart with your palm). While he wrapped my lamps he told me that normally when a man does business with a woman, it is sealed with a kiss on the mouth instead of a handshake, Sadly, when it is Ramadan you cannot kiss during the day so we had to shake hands instead. Praise Allah!
no more of the green stone
I'm feeling decidedly less jaded about travel now. When Blake arrives we will head out for a camel ride, see some of the landscape and wander further afield than I am comfortable going on my own.
I was told today by a man that if I love Morocco, Morocco will love me. This is a good sign, because within half an hour of arriving in Morocco, I had already decided that someday I will return.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
la prima imprezione
// the first impression
Immediately after stepping off the ferry in Morocco I thought 'god I hope that terrible smell is just the boat and not the city'. It turned out to be the city but never mind, the weird dead fish smell makes a welcome change from dog pee scented Europe.
I took the ferry from Spain to Tangier, from where the night train to Marrakesh leaves. I was a little stressed about whether I would have enough time to find my way from the Tangier port to the train station but shouldn't have worried; it took me ten minutes to get here and taking into account the new time zone I have three hours to wait.
Morocco is daunting for a lone female traveller. I've met people who had been here and they told me that it's all perfectly safe but I wasn't convinced. However, when I got off the ferry and found a free transit bus waiting for me, which dropped me at the taxi rank, where a kindly taxi driver approached me and offered to take me to the train station for three euro (which I later learned is a rip off, but oh well), I started to relax. I jumped in along with two Czech girls and he chatted away to us in flawless English, telling us how much he loves Morocco, not to bother visiting Casablanca because it's just like Europe, that the people here live together in harmony and that we won't have any problems. It was like being collected at the ferry by a favourite uncle. He pointed out the bank for me, the ticket seller guy spoke perfect English and quoted the price in both dirham and euro and nobody turned their head to look at me.
In spite of having a good first impression I remained wary and kept a close eye on my bag when a man in the train station approached me. He guessed that I was Australian because he meets so many of us. From past experiences in Turkey, Italy and Spain I was suspicious and expected the familiar awkwardness of a 'you are very beautiful girl' type of comment, but he just chatted along, reminded me that it was Ramadan and then wandered off back to his friends. So far, so good.
I've just arrived so there isn't much more to say than that. I'm feeling really excited about being somewhere so different. I'm sure that many adventures await.
Immediately after stepping off the ferry in Morocco I thought 'god I hope that terrible smell is just the boat and not the city'. It turned out to be the city but never mind, the weird dead fish smell makes a welcome change from dog pee scented Europe.
I took the ferry from Spain to Tangier, from where the night train to Marrakesh leaves. I was a little stressed about whether I would have enough time to find my way from the Tangier port to the train station but shouldn't have worried; it took me ten minutes to get here and taking into account the new time zone I have three hours to wait.
Morocco is daunting for a lone female traveller. I've met people who had been here and they told me that it's all perfectly safe but I wasn't convinced. However, when I got off the ferry and found a free transit bus waiting for me, which dropped me at the taxi rank, where a kindly taxi driver approached me and offered to take me to the train station for three euro (which I later learned is a rip off, but oh well), I started to relax. I jumped in along with two Czech girls and he chatted away to us in flawless English, telling us how much he loves Morocco, not to bother visiting Casablanca because it's just like Europe, that the people here live together in harmony and that we won't have any problems. It was like being collected at the ferry by a favourite uncle. He pointed out the bank for me, the ticket seller guy spoke perfect English and quoted the price in both dirham and euro and nobody turned their head to look at me.
In spite of having a good first impression I remained wary and kept a close eye on my bag when a man in the train station approached me. He guessed that I was Australian because he meets so many of us. From past experiences in Turkey, Italy and Spain I was suspicious and expected the familiar awkwardness of a 'you are very beautiful girl' type of comment, but he just chatted along, reminded me that it was Ramadan and then wandered off back to his friends. So far, so good.
I've just arrived so there isn't much more to say than that. I'm feeling really excited about being somewhere so different. I'm sure that many adventures await.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
assino con banjo
//donkey with banjo
There's a donkey wearing an Indian headdress and playing a banjo staring down at me from the ceiling. Nope, I'm not on drugs, I'm in Spain.
Spain was never supposed to be a big tourist thing for me, it was always going to be a chill out recovery phase, to relax from the hard work of constant sightseeing. My last couple of weeks have been a lot of wandering, sitting, pretending I know how to meditate and drinking beers with random people on hostel rooftops.
I've been through Valencia where I had many drunken adventures, Granada where I saw a pretty Arabic and Christian palace, Seville where I saw more of the same, Jerez de la Frontera where I had an Arabic bath, and now I am in Cadiz.
Cadiz is said to be the oldest city in Europe, having been founded by Phonecian sailors in whenever BC. Yep, I'm a history buff. It's a cool city but they're all starting to look a bit that same. I did manage to find a clothing store that was obviously designed to empty my wallet ‑ I spent a week's worth of money there in about fifteen minutes, then ran out with my eyes closed. The shop assistant recommended a restaurant for dinner so I and a guy from the hostel went there, me wearing my funky new outfit. It was on the beach, the food was incredibly good and it cost us ten euros each, with drinks. It was a giant success so I felt a bit better about my enormous cash outlay.
After being in Italy and seeing first hand the extent to which one's impressions of a place can change after a few months, I feel totally unqualified to comment on Spain or any of the cities I've visited here. I'll say some things anyway but take them with a grain of salt.
Ok, like Italy the whole place smells of dog pee. Nothing new there. The vibe is more relaxed than Italy, the people seem happier but the waiters are still rude. The hostels are about half the price of Italy, they all have kitchens and everyone hangs out in hammocks playing guitars. Mostly due to La Tomatina the country is currently overridden by Aussies, we are like a plague.
The bars do tapas in Spain which is similar to Italy's aperitifs, so eating is cheap. There are lots of buildings with pretty blue tiles. The palaces are mostly a mixture of Arabic architecture with Christian influences, proving that once upon a time the two religions got along. The beaches are better than in Italy but not quite up to Aussie standards. The buildings have more character than I've seen in most other parts of the world. Flamenco is alive and kicking and is not just for the tourists. Breakfasts are still a lot of cake and biscuits, but they seem to have also caught onto cereal here. The architecture really is striking and the cities have public gardens! GREENERY! Pretty revolutionary stuff happening in Spain.
I like the place but somehow I feel kind of removed from it. I think it's all the hanging out being cool that people do here ‑ not really my scene. It's probably also a lot to do with the way I've approached it ‑ viewing it as a place to relax, party, go to La Tomatina and make my way down to Morocco. I find that I don't have much to say about it, it's just more of western Europe, more of the same with a slightly different flavour.
Fantastic place and a lot of fun, but it hasn't touched my heart. Italy feels more like home in the way that your dodgy little one‑room flat might feel more like home than the penthouse suite of the Hyatt...
So, I'm sorry there are no lyrical musings on Spain. I had a lot of fun here but going on drunken nights out in Spain is the same as going on drunken nights out in Australia, except more expensive and with better Mojitos.
I'm hoping that Marrakech will dish out a little much needed culture shock.
There's a donkey wearing an Indian headdress and playing a banjo staring down at me from the ceiling. Nope, I'm not on drugs, I'm in Spain.
Spain was never supposed to be a big tourist thing for me, it was always going to be a chill out recovery phase, to relax from the hard work of constant sightseeing. My last couple of weeks have been a lot of wandering, sitting, pretending I know how to meditate and drinking beers with random people on hostel rooftops.
I've been through Valencia where I had many drunken adventures, Granada where I saw a pretty Arabic and Christian palace, Seville where I saw more of the same, Jerez de la Frontera where I had an Arabic bath, and now I am in Cadiz.
Cadiz is said to be the oldest city in Europe, having been founded by Phonecian sailors in whenever BC. Yep, I'm a history buff. It's a cool city but they're all starting to look a bit that same. I did manage to find a clothing store that was obviously designed to empty my wallet ‑ I spent a week's worth of money there in about fifteen minutes, then ran out with my eyes closed. The shop assistant recommended a restaurant for dinner so I and a guy from the hostel went there, me wearing my funky new outfit. It was on the beach, the food was incredibly good and it cost us ten euros each, with drinks. It was a giant success so I felt a bit better about my enormous cash outlay.
After being in Italy and seeing first hand the extent to which one's impressions of a place can change after a few months, I feel totally unqualified to comment on Spain or any of the cities I've visited here. I'll say some things anyway but take them with a grain of salt.
Ok, like Italy the whole place smells of dog pee. Nothing new there. The vibe is more relaxed than Italy, the people seem happier but the waiters are still rude. The hostels are about half the price of Italy, they all have kitchens and everyone hangs out in hammocks playing guitars. Mostly due to La Tomatina the country is currently overridden by Aussies, we are like a plague.
The bars do tapas in Spain which is similar to Italy's aperitifs, so eating is cheap. There are lots of buildings with pretty blue tiles. The palaces are mostly a mixture of Arabic architecture with Christian influences, proving that once upon a time the two religions got along. The beaches are better than in Italy but not quite up to Aussie standards. The buildings have more character than I've seen in most other parts of the world. Flamenco is alive and kicking and is not just for the tourists. Breakfasts are still a lot of cake and biscuits, but they seem to have also caught onto cereal here. The architecture really is striking and the cities have public gardens! GREENERY! Pretty revolutionary stuff happening in Spain.
I like the place but somehow I feel kind of removed from it. I think it's all the hanging out being cool that people do here ‑ not really my scene. It's probably also a lot to do with the way I've approached it ‑ viewing it as a place to relax, party, go to La Tomatina and make my way down to Morocco. I find that I don't have much to say about it, it's just more of western Europe, more of the same with a slightly different flavour.
Fantastic place and a lot of fun, but it hasn't touched my heart. Italy feels more like home in the way that your dodgy little one‑room flat might feel more like home than the penthouse suite of the Hyatt...
So, I'm sorry there are no lyrical musings on Spain. I had a lot of fun here but going on drunken nights out in Spain is the same as going on drunken nights out in Australia, except more expensive and with better Mojitos.
I'm hoping that Marrakech will dish out a little much needed culture shock.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
la tomatina
the tomato fight
After two hours of sleep, we dazedly crawled onto the bus and caught as much sleep as we could on the way to Buñol. When we arrived we staggered off the bus again and headed down the windy road into town with 60 thousand other crazies like ourselves.
Locals had set up little stalls selling goggles, swimming caps, t-shirts, food and cheap beer. As we ambled down the road we came across a lot of costumes, including some drag queens, a guy wearing goggles, snorkel and a giant floatie, and I posed for a photo with a group of poms wearing orange wigs and white cricket gear. The atmosphere was charged with expectation and trepidation. So far, not a tomato to be seen.
The tiny town square where the fight takes place was already packed by 9am and the fight wasn't to start until 11. Sticking with five other girls from my tour group, I picked out a spot in a sidestreet near a wall. So began the warm up to the main event.
Some crazy local guys near us started the annual tradition of t‑shirt ripping early, t‑shirts went sailing through the air and more and more guys ended up bare shouldered, Some girls were also attacked but most of us were wearing at least two shirts and a sports bra, some had even duct‑taped their clothes to their bodies. One girl was completely unscathed except for the skin on her knuckles, which had done battle with many a Spanish nose, and won. Some people were standing calmly while others were singing and dancing and pushing. We were jostled for 2 hours, the crowd getting crazier and crazier, the locals getting scarily over the top.
Before the fight even began we saw a girl faint, several broken noses, someone break into a nearby house and throw bits of the door from the balcony into the crowd (a group of Aussie guys tossed it back and hit the guy on the head, before the police arrived and arrested him). Some forgetful local had left their window open and their white couch glistened in the sunlight, enjoying its last few moments of pristine cleanliness before a world of tomatoes ruined its beauty.
All this time, the competition to capture the ham was in progress. There was a wobbly pole with a ham stuck on top and a lot of very smelly fat all up and down it to make it slippery. Guys and some girls clambered over each other to pull off globs of fat in their hands and render the pole climbable enough to finally reach the ham. Finally it was touched, which signals the start of the fight and the tomato trucks rolled in.
My rib cage was nearly squashed when the trucks rolled past, dumping tonnes of tomatoes into the crowd. The first tomato bounced off someone's head near me and a friend giggled as she squashed it into my hair. We all got a bit dirty and then the tomatoes ran out. We stood around, waiting, grinning at our first taste of the fight. Truck two rolled past, more of the same, until finally truck three dumped its load and suddenly we were in a river of tomato juice halfway up our shins. The white wall behind us was splotched with red, our hair was disgusting, our faces were covered, our goggles saving our eyes from the acid.
I don't know, or want to know, what I ingested that day as torn t‑shirts were thrown through the crowd, landing on faces, heads, shoulders. I kept my mouth closed as tightly as I could and watched the madness of the centre of the square.
Suddenly a friend materialised and said 'come into the middle, it's awesome!'. I grabbed her hand and we slipped through the tomato‑juice lubricated crowd into the middle of the mosh pit.
At this point the madness really began. We were all covered with tomato, it was in our hair, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths, our shoes. I was wading through a lake of tomato juice, slipping against body after body, not even throwing tomatoes because my main mission was just to stay upright. My arms were around the shoulders of the nearest tall guy and my legs were wrapped around whoever was standing nearest to me. My mine‑site issue steel caps were doing their job very well. I laughed when some British guys near me said "man this is insane, I want to get out of here, these people are nuts, I'm scared."
Eventually I squeezed out of the crowd into the street and joined the other tomato‑pasted zombies. People's eyes widened when they saw me so I got the impression that I was fairly tomato‑ed. When I got in line for the first hose (the locals water everyone down after the fight) the girls in front of me said "oh my god, you should go first, you need it more". Sadly my disposable camera was out of film by that point so I couldn't capture the moment forever.
The rest of the day was spent picking tomato seeds out of my hair, washing and re‑washing my underwear (still smells like tomato juice, might have to accept that it's time for it to go)
and sleeping.
La Tomatina was some of the best fun I've ever had. Welcome to Spain.
After two hours of sleep, we dazedly crawled onto the bus and caught as much sleep as we could on the way to Buñol. When we arrived we staggered off the bus again and headed down the windy road into town with 60 thousand other crazies like ourselves.
Locals had set up little stalls selling goggles, swimming caps, t-shirts, food and cheap beer. As we ambled down the road we came across a lot of costumes, including some drag queens, a guy wearing goggles, snorkel and a giant floatie, and I posed for a photo with a group of poms wearing orange wigs and white cricket gear. The atmosphere was charged with expectation and trepidation. So far, not a tomato to be seen.
The tiny town square where the fight takes place was already packed by 9am and the fight wasn't to start until 11. Sticking with five other girls from my tour group, I picked out a spot in a sidestreet near a wall. So began the warm up to the main event.
Some crazy local guys near us started the annual tradition of t‑shirt ripping early, t‑shirts went sailing through the air and more and more guys ended up bare shouldered, Some girls were also attacked but most of us were wearing at least two shirts and a sports bra, some had even duct‑taped their clothes to their bodies. One girl was completely unscathed except for the skin on her knuckles, which had done battle with many a Spanish nose, and won. Some people were standing calmly while others were singing and dancing and pushing. We were jostled for 2 hours, the crowd getting crazier and crazier, the locals getting scarily over the top.
Before the fight even began we saw a girl faint, several broken noses, someone break into a nearby house and throw bits of the door from the balcony into the crowd (a group of Aussie guys tossed it back and hit the guy on the head, before the police arrived and arrested him). Some forgetful local had left their window open and their white couch glistened in the sunlight, enjoying its last few moments of pristine cleanliness before a world of tomatoes ruined its beauty.
All this time, the competition to capture the ham was in progress. There was a wobbly pole with a ham stuck on top and a lot of very smelly fat all up and down it to make it slippery. Guys and some girls clambered over each other to pull off globs of fat in their hands and render the pole climbable enough to finally reach the ham. Finally it was touched, which signals the start of the fight and the tomato trucks rolled in.
My rib cage was nearly squashed when the trucks rolled past, dumping tonnes of tomatoes into the crowd. The first tomato bounced off someone's head near me and a friend giggled as she squashed it into my hair. We all got a bit dirty and then the tomatoes ran out. We stood around, waiting, grinning at our first taste of the fight. Truck two rolled past, more of the same, until finally truck three dumped its load and suddenly we were in a river of tomato juice halfway up our shins. The white wall behind us was splotched with red, our hair was disgusting, our faces were covered, our goggles saving our eyes from the acid.
I don't know, or want to know, what I ingested that day as torn t‑shirts were thrown through the crowd, landing on faces, heads, shoulders. I kept my mouth closed as tightly as I could and watched the madness of the centre of the square.
Suddenly a friend materialised and said 'come into the middle, it's awesome!'. I grabbed her hand and we slipped through the tomato‑juice lubricated crowd into the middle of the mosh pit.
At this point the madness really began. We were all covered with tomato, it was in our hair, our ears, our nostrils, our mouths, our shoes. I was wading through a lake of tomato juice, slipping against body after body, not even throwing tomatoes because my main mission was just to stay upright. My arms were around the shoulders of the nearest tall guy and my legs were wrapped around whoever was standing nearest to me. My mine‑site issue steel caps were doing their job very well. I laughed when some British guys near me said "man this is insane, I want to get out of here, these people are nuts, I'm scared."
Eventually I squeezed out of the crowd into the street and joined the other tomato‑pasted zombies. People's eyes widened when they saw me so I got the impression that I was fairly tomato‑ed. When I got in line for the first hose (the locals water everyone down after the fight) the girls in front of me said "oh my god, you should go first, you need it more". Sadly my disposable camera was out of film by that point so I couldn't capture the moment forever.
The rest of the day was spent picking tomato seeds out of my hair, washing and re‑washing my underwear (still smells like tomato juice, might have to accept that it's time for it to go)
and sleeping.
La Tomatina was some of the best fun I've ever had. Welcome to Spain.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
neve nell' estate
// summer snow
On my first day in Italy, the air was full of floating blossoms that resembled gently falling snow. Today, my last day here (for now) there are little star-shaped seeds drifting down from the window sill and landing in my hair, as if to remind me that the magic of Italy is still there if you look hard enough...
...one does, however, have to look very very hard.
Oh I know I sound cynical and jaded and whiny, I have actually had fun here, have had the good fortune to meet some kind, generous, wonderful people, and have seen some very pretty places. But four months in Italy is enough to make it very hard to write a post about how kind the people are, how beautiful it all is, what magic there is floating in the air (see my attempt above) and all that guide booky stuff.
There is so much to say about this country and I am in no mood to write a proper essay, probably you are in no mood to read one. Point form to the rescue!
the bad
An Italian friend told me that Italians won't try food that doesn't look good. First they taste with their eyes, and then with their taste buds.
This might explain how a service station I visited got away with making panini that are stuffed full of beautiful red tomato, lashings of fluffy white cheese and layers of ham and lettuce...for the first few centimetres which is all you see in the window display until you have bought it. You bite into it and realise that most of the panino is merely bread.
I can't help but suggest that my panino may be the perfect metaphor to describe Italy.
On my first day in Italy, the air was full of floating blossoms that resembled gently falling snow. Today, my last day here (for now) there are little star-shaped seeds drifting down from the window sill and landing in my hair, as if to remind me that the magic of Italy is still there if you look hard enough...
...one does, however, have to look very very hard.
Oh I know I sound cynical and jaded and whiny, I have actually had fun here, have had the good fortune to meet some kind, generous, wonderful people, and have seen some very pretty places. But four months in Italy is enough to make it very hard to write a post about how kind the people are, how beautiful it all is, what magic there is floating in the air (see my attempt above) and all that guide booky stuff.
There is so much to say about this country and I am in no mood to write a proper essay, probably you are in no mood to read one. Point form to the rescue!
the bad
- The one scent that I will forever associate with Italy, is the smell of dog piss. It's everywhere, in all the streets of all the cities, wafting up from the grass.
- In every region of Italy, the Italians will tell you that the Italians from a different region are 'chiusi' ‑ close minded. They are all too close minded to consider that it might just be all of them.
- Italians don't hesitate to tell you that Italians are not helpful people. They don't help old ladies, don't stand aside for each other on trains and buses, don't help people with their luggage, generally just don't help each other at all.
- Parts of Italy (eg Napoli) resemble a third world country, in terms of the cleanliness, the chaos and the smell.
- Italy is a country where they do everything the hard way and then complain about how it should be easier.
- The only thing that makes Italy more fashionable than, say, Australia, is that they don't do muffin tops here. Everything else is pretty blah.
- The beaches are crap, the pools are crap, there is no grass anywhere, everything is hugely overpopulated (not as much in the south though).
- A sandwich is ham and cheese. While the type of ham and the type of cheese may differ, you will never find one with tomato, not to mention anything else.
- At every city I visited, there was at least one 'information booth' which was empty when it should have been open. It got to the point that an open tourist bureau was a big surprise.
- Even bus timetables allow for lunch breaks, so you can end up waiting an hour or two if you expect to be able to catch a bus at midday.
- They pick songs at random to go into ads, with no idea what the lyrics mean. Who thinks that an emo broken‑heart song by Evanescence belongs in a luxury car ad? The Italians!
- There are cross walks all over the country that lead to nowhere; a brick wall, around a blind corner where speeding cars zoom past, a fence, the top of a cliff... one wonders if they are trying to increase their death rate.
- Stunning Italian women in tight pants struggle through the cobblestone streets on stilettos, it's great to watch.
- It's not rare to see an 8 year old kid being lovingly pushed around the streets in a pram.
- Every train has a gypsy who walks along the carriage depositing bits of crap for sale. You take what you want and leave the money in its place, and if you don't want anything they just collect it again a few minutes later. It's actually a good system, but sad to see how many of them there are.
- Every city has water fountains with potable water all over the place.
- There are castles, nuns and churches everywhere ‑ a town with 4000 inhabitants can have 18 churches.
- On Sundays, the kids and the women are always beautifully dressed.
- Italians don't tag the way we do; Italian graffiti is always romantic. "Ti amo" is everywhere. One guy scrawled the name of his ex‑girlfriend, Francesca, on the walls of train stations in several major cities. "Francesca, torna a me, ti amo, chiami mi" ‑ "come back to me, I love you, call me".
- The train service is excellent and not nearly as unreliable as people like to pretend.
- There always seems to be a festa going on when you arrive in a town around July or August. The festas are very family oriented and there is a notable lack of drunks.
- There are very few fat Italians, except for the old ladies.
- Vespas are everywhere, perfect for taking that touristy Italy shot.
An Italian friend told me that Italians won't try food that doesn't look good. First they taste with their eyes, and then with their taste buds.
This might explain how a service station I visited got away with making panini that are stuffed full of beautiful red tomato, lashings of fluffy white cheese and layers of ham and lettuce...for the first few centimetres which is all you see in the window display until you have bought it. You bite into it and realise that most of the panino is merely bread.
I can't help but suggest that my panino may be the perfect metaphor to describe Italy.
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