Am in Bologna, love it! There is free wifi in the main piazza which means I can sit around and study, research hostels, day trips etc all for free, yay!
Today tho I am on one of their computers and have about 5 minutes before I get booted.
My Italian is WAY better than I thought it was, I can understand a lot of what's going on, and most of the questions I need to ask I have managed to ask without consulting the guide book. The Italians so far have been friendly and helpful. They correct my bad pronunciation with a smile and answer slowly so that I can understand.
My course starts on Monday so until then I'll just bum around I guess.
Catch you again when there's something to tell!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
flickr
If you're checking out my photos on my flickr account (link on the right of this page) there are sets down the right hand side. Easier to view the photos as sets than individually, they make more sense that way.
I've uploaded a bunch today, check them out if you're bored!
I've uploaded a bunch today, check them out if you're bored!
Monday, April 28, 2008
old and new favourites
Tomorrow my trip starts for real. I wonder if I'll be thinking that at every milestone? It's just all been so easy up to now. One thing that WILL start for real is budgeting! London is so expensive I haven't even bothered to try, but once I hit Bologna it'll be into the real world of saving money.
One thing I have learned so far; wool is the best fabric on earth. It doesn't smell, dries quickly, keeps you warm but not too warm. Icebreakers are becoming my clothing of choice and I've ditched the very expensive synthetic 'wonder fabric' shirt I bought. As in, 'I wonder why I bought that'.
My time in London has mostly gone towards revisiting old favourites; Gordon's Wine Bar - an underground bar that's hollowed out of the rock, the V&A Museum, Angel in general, All Bar One for a cruisey Sunday lunch, Borders - and discovering new favourites; Vinoteca in Farringdon (thanks Chris!), Primrose Hill (thanks Peta!), the Wellcome Collection (my own find, and truly incredible).
The stand-out experience was the Wellcome Collection. Located near Euston station, it's a centre dedicated to showing off a selection of the more than one million items that Henry Wellcome collected throughout his life. Henry Wellcome was responsible for the invention of tablets as a means to take medicine. He was fascinated by medicine and the ways that different cultures practised it and his collection is testament to this interest. There were some pretty amazing things there (some photos on my flickr site), for example:
One thing I have learned so far; wool is the best fabric on earth. It doesn't smell, dries quickly, keeps you warm but not too warm. Icebreakers are becoming my clothing of choice and I've ditched the very expensive synthetic 'wonder fabric' shirt I bought. As in, 'I wonder why I bought that'.
My time in London has mostly gone towards revisiting old favourites; Gordon's Wine Bar - an underground bar that's hollowed out of the rock, the V&A Museum, Angel in general, All Bar One for a cruisey Sunday lunch, Borders - and discovering new favourites; Vinoteca in Farringdon (thanks Chris!), Primrose Hill (thanks Peta!), the Wellcome Collection (my own find, and truly incredible).
The stand-out experience was the Wellcome Collection. Located near Euston station, it's a centre dedicated to showing off a selection of the more than one million items that Henry Wellcome collected throughout his life. Henry Wellcome was responsible for the invention of tablets as a means to take medicine. He was fascinated by medicine and the ways that different cultures practised it and his collection is testament to this interest. There were some pretty amazing things there (some photos on my flickr site), for example:
- A fragment of Jeremy Bentham's skin (he was a philosopher and social reformer - English)
- A shrunken head (African tribal tradition, shrinking the head of your enemy and putting in on display)
- Darwin's walking stick - made from the penis bone of a whale according to a zoologist who visited the museum at the same time that I did
- Various paintings, including many ex-voto paintings (painted or commissioned by people to give thanks for some lucky incident or recovery, most popular in the 18th- early 20th centuries)
- Florence Nightingale's moccasins
- Plenty, plenty more
Leaving the centre, I felt that 'oh wow I really am mortal, must enjoy life' feeling that you get when you look at objects like those; they are such poignant evidence of the transience of life. So, naturally, I went straight to the pub, sat down with a beer and wrote in my little notebook. I'm doing a pretty good job at making the most of my life so far. Anyone heading to London really should consider making the pilgrimage to check out this place.
On Saturday, Paul, Amber, Luke and I met up with Chris, his girlfriend Emilie, and some of her friends and we went bowling. I was fantastic... for about the first five minutes. After that I was merely average, but considering I've only been bowling once before I think I did ok. We had our own private room with a little bar and the French crew kept expressing surprise that the Aussies were all drinking OJ. To remedy that, we all went to Primrose Hill for a picnic, played some soccer, sat around eating and drinking and chatting. We had approximately 1.75 hours of sunshine - go London! Then it was back to Luke and Purdey's for the Chelsea game, and then to the patisserie at the end of the street. Paul and Amber hadn't known it was there - I think they will be very fat next time I see them. It was like something out of the Magic Faraway Tree, meringues the size of basketballs (well, maybe a 5year-old's basketball, but still big), little cupcakes with a very distinct taste of rum, cheesecakes, everything you could imagine. Far better than any patisserie I saw in France!
So, there are the London highlights for you. I'm heading back to the V&A with Blake (a work friend) this afternoon and tonight I'm cooking mussels for Paul as a thank you for my spot on his floor. It's been great - a very slow warm-up into life as a wanderer.
(p.s. I have forgotten almost all of my Italian, should be an interesting week ahead!!)
new ph #
When I'm out of Italy, my phone number will be +423 663 310 703
I'll let you all know once I have a number in Italy as well.
Cool.
Stories later, am about to watch a movie with Amber and Paul.
Ciao!
I'll let you all know once I have a number in Italy as well.
Cool.
Stories later, am about to watch a movie with Amber and Paul.
Ciao!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
travel is not safe for earrings
I packed three pairs of favourite earrings. One is broken and cannot be repaired, another has fallen to bits (but I can fix it) and I lost one of the third pair today, somewhere on the street. On my last trip I also lost my then-favourite earrings.
I hope some bum picks them up and makes himself pretty with them.
Meanwhile I bought two new pairs today to replace the lost and broken ones. They're pretty cool. I know I'm not supposed to be shopping, but earrings are the only things I have that will change from photo to photo so I've decided they are an absolute necessity to the success of my trip.
It's fun being a girl because you get to come out with crap like that and people just nod and smile knowingly.
I hope some bum picks them up and makes himself pretty with them.
Meanwhile I bought two new pairs today to replace the lost and broken ones. They're pretty cool. I know I'm not supposed to be shopping, but earrings are the only things I have that will change from photo to photo so I've decided they are an absolute necessity to the success of my trip.
It's fun being a girl because you get to come out with crap like that and people just nod and smile knowingly.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
not very helpful google
I just googled 'millinery course in italy' and the top result was MY OWN BLOG.
Ha.
Ha.
hanging with dead dudes in paris
What impression did Paris leave on me? One of romance, love, flirtatious men, golden statues and grand structures?
No, Paris is not the city of love, it is the city of staircases. Last night, after getting back to London, I went to sleep and did not dream of romance or men or golden statues; I dreamt of stairs.
I went to Paris to see Diamanda Galas in concert. She is known as ‘Hell’s Angel’ because she sounds the way one would expect an angel from Hell to sound. Her voice is truly incredible, reverberating around the hall in terrifying swirling decibels. Well worth the trip to a city I wasn’t entirely enamoured of, one of my travel goals achieved with ease.
My five days in Paris were spent wandering, stumbling across yet another breathtaking building (breathtaking as much for the walk up various hills as for anything else) and delving into the morbid catacombs under the city, lined with the bones of Parisians long-dead. I visited two of my favourite men in one afternoon – Rodin for lunch and Oscar Wilde for...dessert? Rodin’s garden was as beautiful as I remember (I took a rather delightful shot of some rather delightful statuesque bottoms) and Oscar was, predictably, smothered in kisses. I wonder if his belipsticked fans know he was (mostly) gay. Accompanying the kisses are little love notes scrawled in various languages. Perhaps defacing the grave of the object of your affection might not be the best way to show gratitude for his wit and wisdoms, but given his penchant for breaking with tradition, he might not mind too much.
So, after visiting the catacombs decorated in skulls, the Gates of Hell in Rodin’s garden, and the cemetery that houses Wilde, Morrison, Piaf and many others, it was into the world of surreality at the Dali museum. My favourite piece is the statue of the woman in flames, with drawers coming out of her body. Most of you aren’t into sculpture the way I am, so I’ll leave it at that. Between Rodin, Wilde, and Dali, I was more than happy with the improvements in my love life. Ok, so they’re all dead, but it’s a minor detail.
One afternoon, ambling around my neighbourhood of Montmartre, I followed some crowds and staggered up some steps to find myself suddenly confronted with...the Taj Mahal! Or, wait, no, the Sacre Cour. It was blinding white in the sunshine, but while I did my best to feel all spiritual and pious, I have to admit that I paid more attention to the hot guys busking on the steps than I did to the ‘Sacred Heart’. Heading back downhill, I passed many men asking to draw me (I told one that he could but that he would have to pay me, he laughed and I grinned at him and ran) and ended up at the Moulin Rouge. I took a photo of the long line of tourists feeling smug that I wasn’t one of them, and went on my way.
I spent a day wearing blisters into my feet around the city centre, checking out all the places I’ve been to before. I was disappointed that the white gravel under the Eiffel Tower my friends and I once made snow angels in, has been replaced by bitumen. Shame. At the Tower, I was stalked. A young guy in a stripey yellow and black jumper asked me to take his photo, and he returned the favour with a far-too-close close up. My laughing face and crooked tooth were deemed ‘bon’. Finally recapturing my camera I went to take a few shots of the tower and noticed his bee-stripes following me. In the corner of my eye, I saw him follow me, so I went to cross the street. He followed me there too, I slowed down when the pedestrian light went green and he turned to look for me, then turned back once he found me and kept walked. I about-faced, went back across the street and peeked out from behind a van. There he was, on the other side of the street, looking around in confusion.
Dear French Dudes: If you are going to stalk foreign tourists, don’t wear bright yellow and black stripes.
I ate the best yoghurt I’ve ever tasted, upped and downed over the steps throughout Montmartre, sailed around the many merry-go-rounds that seem to dot that part of Paris, dodged the pickpockets and suspicious guys trying to put bits of string on my finger for ‘good luck’ (their good luck, not mine, apparently the string doesn’t come off and then you have to pay for it). On Saturday I climbed the tower with Paul and Amber who joined me for a romantic weekend. We went to the Notre Dame, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomph, ate a lot of food and drank not nearly enough wine. I saw someone get run over outside my cafe (don’t know if he was ok, he was taken away in an ambulance).
I hung out with some cool dead guys, stepped up and up and up and now fit back into my pants, found the perfect hat (didn’t buy it but I’m going to do a millinery course in Italy if I can find one, so perhaps I will make one like it) and, most importantly, had romantic evenings with wine and friends.
I’d never admit it in person, but I actually enjoyed my time in Paris.
Back in London now, looking forward to catching up with Chris, Peta, Blake (if he gets here in time) and of course Paul and Amber. Am crashing on Paul’s floor until next Tuesday, when it’s on to Bologna and the trip will start for real.
New photos should be on flickr tomorrow sometime.
No, Paris is not the city of love, it is the city of staircases. Last night, after getting back to London, I went to sleep and did not dream of romance or men or golden statues; I dreamt of stairs.
I went to Paris to see Diamanda Galas in concert. She is known as ‘Hell’s Angel’ because she sounds the way one would expect an angel from Hell to sound. Her voice is truly incredible, reverberating around the hall in terrifying swirling decibels. Well worth the trip to a city I wasn’t entirely enamoured of, one of my travel goals achieved with ease.
My five days in Paris were spent wandering, stumbling across yet another breathtaking building (breathtaking as much for the walk up various hills as for anything else) and delving into the morbid catacombs under the city, lined with the bones of Parisians long-dead. I visited two of my favourite men in one afternoon – Rodin for lunch and Oscar Wilde for...dessert? Rodin’s garden was as beautiful as I remember (I took a rather delightful shot of some rather delightful statuesque bottoms) and Oscar was, predictably, smothered in kisses. I wonder if his belipsticked fans know he was (mostly) gay. Accompanying the kisses are little love notes scrawled in various languages. Perhaps defacing the grave of the object of your affection might not be the best way to show gratitude for his wit and wisdoms, but given his penchant for breaking with tradition, he might not mind too much.
So, after visiting the catacombs decorated in skulls, the Gates of Hell in Rodin’s garden, and the cemetery that houses Wilde, Morrison, Piaf and many others, it was into the world of surreality at the Dali museum. My favourite piece is the statue of the woman in flames, with drawers coming out of her body. Most of you aren’t into sculpture the way I am, so I’ll leave it at that. Between Rodin, Wilde, and Dali, I was more than happy with the improvements in my love life. Ok, so they’re all dead, but it’s a minor detail.
One afternoon, ambling around my neighbourhood of Montmartre, I followed some crowds and staggered up some steps to find myself suddenly confronted with...the Taj Mahal! Or, wait, no, the Sacre Cour. It was blinding white in the sunshine, but while I did my best to feel all spiritual and pious, I have to admit that I paid more attention to the hot guys busking on the steps than I did to the ‘Sacred Heart’. Heading back downhill, I passed many men asking to draw me (I told one that he could but that he would have to pay me, he laughed and I grinned at him and ran) and ended up at the Moulin Rouge. I took a photo of the long line of tourists feeling smug that I wasn’t one of them, and went on my way.
I spent a day wearing blisters into my feet around the city centre, checking out all the places I’ve been to before. I was disappointed that the white gravel under the Eiffel Tower my friends and I once made snow angels in, has been replaced by bitumen. Shame. At the Tower, I was stalked. A young guy in a stripey yellow and black jumper asked me to take his photo, and he returned the favour with a far-too-close close up. My laughing face and crooked tooth were deemed ‘bon’. Finally recapturing my camera I went to take a few shots of the tower and noticed his bee-stripes following me. In the corner of my eye, I saw him follow me, so I went to cross the street. He followed me there too, I slowed down when the pedestrian light went green and he turned to look for me, then turned back once he found me and kept walked. I about-faced, went back across the street and peeked out from behind a van. There he was, on the other side of the street, looking around in confusion.
Dear French Dudes: If you are going to stalk foreign tourists, don’t wear bright yellow and black stripes.
I ate the best yoghurt I’ve ever tasted, upped and downed over the steps throughout Montmartre, sailed around the many merry-go-rounds that seem to dot that part of Paris, dodged the pickpockets and suspicious guys trying to put bits of string on my finger for ‘good luck’ (their good luck, not mine, apparently the string doesn’t come off and then you have to pay for it). On Saturday I climbed the tower with Paul and Amber who joined me for a romantic weekend. We went to the Notre Dame, the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomph, ate a lot of food and drank not nearly enough wine. I saw someone get run over outside my cafe (don’t know if he was ok, he was taken away in an ambulance).
I hung out with some cool dead guys, stepped up and up and up and now fit back into my pants, found the perfect hat (didn’t buy it but I’m going to do a millinery course in Italy if I can find one, so perhaps I will make one like it) and, most importantly, had romantic evenings with wine and friends.
I’d never admit it in person, but I actually enjoyed my time in Paris.
Back in London now, looking forward to catching up with Chris, Peta, Blake (if he gets here in time) and of course Paul and Amber. Am crashing on Paul’s floor until next Tuesday, when it’s on to Bologna and the trip will start for real.
New photos should be on flickr tomorrow sometime.
Monday, April 14, 2008
songkran, miracle shoes & the soul destroying highlighters
Where else but London can you buy a 4 pack of ugly mini highlighters in a supermarket and end up paying more than if you had bought 6 pretty ones from a boutique book store! Every time this place gets under my skin with just a little touch of charm, something happens to remind me that London will always be like the charming guy who starts the night buying you drinks and ends it puking on your new shoes. It starts off all friendly with the chilled out customs and the cute accents, but three hours later you walk out of a shop and realise that while you weren't looking London has stolen not only your wallet but also YOUR SOUL.
The beauty of being a traveller with no plans is you seriously do have the time to start a train of thought at 4 mini highlighters and end it philosophising in the vicinity of The Divine Comedy.
By some weird coincidence, Paul (who I am staying with tonight) has recently moved into a place just a few streets away from where Chris lived when I visited him 2 years ago. Consequently, I rocked up at a tube spot I know well, knew which way to turn, and with Paul collecting me the whole arrival thing was a cinch. (OK - I must admit I got slightly lost but my pack is comfortable and the little walk did me good.)
This afternoon was spent returning to places that I remember better than I expected to; the pub where I drank with Chris on my last night here, the shopping mall where I decided not to buy a cool jacket (which in retrospect I now realise was quite hideous - good decision), the supermarket that once graced me with cheap wine but today ripped me off with the highlighters. Knowing where everything is makes it all feel strangely familiar; I keep meeting my own ghost. I wandered down a street today in my new Miracle Shoes (more on these below) and suddenly remembered walking down it two years ago, on a fresh quiet morning headed for the train station.
So. Onto more important less rambly things - the Miracle Shoes. They are from Singapore and I have named them thus for three reasons. One - they were instantly comfortable. Two - they are extremely light, can be folded in half and stuffed into a bag, making them perfect for toting around the world. Three - On shaky directions from a friend we searched four floors of a Singapore department store before Kate found them for me a moment before I decided that I was going to give up. She truly was the perfect host. The shoes are even black and red to match my colour coded travel gear. For $20 they are awesome. Mental note: Singapore is better than London.
My last day in Singapore was Songkran, the Thai New Year. An ancient tradition of sprinkling water over each other as a symbol of cleansing and renewal has evolved into a giant waterfight. There are some pretty funny photos of me being doused by a crazy dripping wet Thai girl, I'll flickr them soon. After lunch by the river we embarked on our successful Miracle Shoe Finding Mission, bought some groceries and then, after a wildly rushed packing adventure (managed to forget my bikini bottoms, think the Euros will notice if I am bottomless instead of topless? It's all the same, surely...), Kate, her flatmate Callie and I had a picnic by the pool.
Then, to the airport for check in which took an HOUR and involved being swapped among three different flights, politely reminding the lady behind the desk that gate 25 was too far away for me to make it there in only three minutes and making her book me on a more realistic flight, 11 hours on the plane, arriving, Heathrow customs always make me laugh and the duty free was a joke. To Paul's, shower, wash clothes, wander out for lunch (AUD60, jesus!) and then into Borders, memory lane and now back here. Tired. Yep, this post is terribly disjointed. Forgive me.
The beauty of being a traveller with no plans is you seriously do have the time to start a train of thought at 4 mini highlighters and end it philosophising in the vicinity of The Divine Comedy.
By some weird coincidence, Paul (who I am staying with tonight) has recently moved into a place just a few streets away from where Chris lived when I visited him 2 years ago. Consequently, I rocked up at a tube spot I know well, knew which way to turn, and with Paul collecting me the whole arrival thing was a cinch. (OK - I must admit I got slightly lost but my pack is comfortable and the little walk did me good.)
This afternoon was spent returning to places that I remember better than I expected to; the pub where I drank with Chris on my last night here, the shopping mall where I decided not to buy a cool jacket (which in retrospect I now realise was quite hideous - good decision), the supermarket that once graced me with cheap wine but today ripped me off with the highlighters. Knowing where everything is makes it all feel strangely familiar; I keep meeting my own ghost. I wandered down a street today in my new Miracle Shoes (more on these below) and suddenly remembered walking down it two years ago, on a fresh quiet morning headed for the train station.
So. Onto more important less rambly things - the Miracle Shoes. They are from Singapore and I have named them thus for three reasons. One - they were instantly comfortable. Two - they are extremely light, can be folded in half and stuffed into a bag, making them perfect for toting around the world. Three - On shaky directions from a friend we searched four floors of a Singapore department store before Kate found them for me a moment before I decided that I was going to give up. She truly was the perfect host. The shoes are even black and red to match my colour coded travel gear. For $20 they are awesome. Mental note: Singapore is better than London.
My last day in Singapore was Songkran, the Thai New Year. An ancient tradition of sprinkling water over each other as a symbol of cleansing and renewal has evolved into a giant waterfight. There are some pretty funny photos of me being doused by a crazy dripping wet Thai girl, I'll flickr them soon. After lunch by the river we embarked on our successful Miracle Shoe Finding Mission, bought some groceries and then, after a wildly rushed packing adventure (managed to forget my bikini bottoms, think the Euros will notice if I am bottomless instead of topless? It's all the same, surely...), Kate, her flatmate Callie and I had a picnic by the pool.
Then, to the airport for check in which took an HOUR and involved being swapped among three different flights, politely reminding the lady behind the desk that gate 25 was too far away for me to make it there in only three minutes and making her book me on a more realistic flight, 11 hours on the plane, arriving, Heathrow customs always make me laugh and the duty free was a joke. To Paul's, shower, wash clothes, wander out for lunch (AUD60, jesus!) and then into Borders, memory lane and now back here. Tired. Yep, this post is terribly disjointed. Forgive me.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
singapore smoothies
Yeah, yeah, we went to the Raffles for a Singapore Sling, terribly posh and all that. Quite depressing in fact for one who is about to spend a year in 8 bed dorms, haha!
HOWEVER any visit to Singapore is truly incomplete without one of Kate's Singapore Smoothies. Banana, yoghurt, honey - they're wonderful! I'm sipping one as we speak (or...converse interwebly) and for once the Singapore weather is warm but not hot or sticky. Try drying your clothes here though, it's a joke.
Singapore has been a great resting point after the madness of Vietnam. It's all the things they advertise it to be; clean, organised, safe, easy, full of shopping centres. I've bought some earrings (always room in any budget for earrings), some little strappy thongs (suddenly decided they were a necessity) and today I'm hoping to track down some accessories for my phone (speakers, keyboard, spare battery).
We've shopped a lot and done the touristy bits, but mostly just hung out. We went to the Northbridge of Singapore which is Clarke Quay and bar hopped for a bit, watched people on the G-Max (opposite of bungee jumping), and checked out the hot boys. Last night we went clubbing. I wore a low cut top and denim skirt - no more revealing than anything the locals were wearing, but my boobs are a little bigger. This detail s relevant because last night a snooty woman tapped me on the shoulder and bitchily said "you know, prostitutes are banned here". Naturally I burst out laughing and she looked surprised and sheepish then wandered off. The lighting display was bizarre - constant flashing. It pretty much drove me insane but I held up for a while and rocked out to the likes of Fergie and other artists of qestionable talent. Pretty fun night actually.
Also, HAPPY SONGKRAN - Thai New Year. We're off now to check out the festival at the Asian Civilisation Museum with Mon, who is Kate's Thai flatmate.
Off to London tonight, crashing tomorrow at Paul's, then Paris for 5 days. Going well so far.
HOWEVER any visit to Singapore is truly incomplete without one of Kate's Singapore Smoothies. Banana, yoghurt, honey - they're wonderful! I'm sipping one as we speak (or...converse interwebly) and for once the Singapore weather is warm but not hot or sticky. Try drying your clothes here though, it's a joke.
Singapore has been a great resting point after the madness of Vietnam. It's all the things they advertise it to be; clean, organised, safe, easy, full of shopping centres. I've bought some earrings (always room in any budget for earrings), some little strappy thongs (suddenly decided they were a necessity) and today I'm hoping to track down some accessories for my phone (speakers, keyboard, spare battery).
We've shopped a lot and done the touristy bits, but mostly just hung out. We went to the Northbridge of Singapore which is Clarke Quay and bar hopped for a bit, watched people on the G-Max (opposite of bungee jumping), and checked out the hot boys. Last night we went clubbing. I wore a low cut top and denim skirt - no more revealing than anything the locals were wearing, but my boobs are a little bigger. This detail s relevant because last night a snooty woman tapped me on the shoulder and bitchily said "you know, prostitutes are banned here". Naturally I burst out laughing and she looked surprised and sheepish then wandered off. The lighting display was bizarre - constant flashing. It pretty much drove me insane but I held up for a while and rocked out to the likes of Fergie and other artists of qestionable talent. Pretty fun night actually.
Also, HAPPY SONGKRAN - Thai New Year. We're off now to check out the festival at the Asian Civilisation Museum with Mon, who is Kate's Thai flatmate.
Off to London tonight, crashing tomorrow at Paul's, then Paris for 5 days. Going well so far.
Friday, April 11, 2008
saigon and the mystery of the street stamps
The first thing that hits you (almost literally) about Saigon is the swarm of mopeds. In this city of 8 million people, 4 million get around on motorbikes. It's a maze of insanity; whole families risk wiping out their name for the sake of dodging a few centimetres ahead of our bus. There are face masks everywhere even though the air is fairly breathable, and long gloves to protect the arms from the sun. Tiny children are squished in between mum and dad, their litle faces squashed up under tiny helmets while their parents weave in and out of the vaguely defined lanes. Traffic jams start and end abruptly when it rains and the mopeds, who clearly rule the road, stop under a bridge for shelter and ignore the furious beeps of the horns on giant trucks and buses wanting to get past. Rain stops, no more need for shelter, traffic jam is over.
The city has a vibrant madness to it, evident not only in the constant revving of the bikes but also in the mess of powerlines adorning every street, the art gallery shops jammed against ball dress shops, cafes and the occasional garage, and the kids running around the place selling postcards and other things, but refusing to take money without a sale - anti begging laws perhaps, or maybe a communist leader trying to save face.
An afternoon traipsing around the city goes quickly. Seeing locals worship unfamiliar gods preys on a traveller's curiosity and once you stop t look, you are herded inside. Incense and a small leia are thrust into your hand and you are directed, with some impatience, to leave your offering and say your prayers at the foot of whichever god you worship, or in this case, think more photogenic. You hear someone mention to a friend that frangipani is only planted near temples and other holy places; the flower's strong smell attracts bad spirits so it isn't safe to have it in one's garden. Small children cavort around the room and are delighted to pose for a photo,rushing up to see the outcome on your digital camera. On exiting, you're unsurprised to discover that suddenly money is expected. (All religions are the same!)Innocently you proclaim that you have no money and just keep walking away - they won't stray too far from the temple for the sake of chasing down one traveller who claims to have no cash. Better to give it to the kids who ask for it up front instead of the adults trying to trick you. One lady smiles in a "well done" sort of way and they shrug and wander off.
Wandering accidentally off the map, you pass building sites with shirtless, shoeless, hatless, glasses-less men welding, hammering, lifting and working. Not quite the worksafe capital of the world. The construction is always contained by elegant gates and the streets are always clean, constantly being swept. The buildings flaunt their colourful facades, a gift from French colonial times. Teal, orange, pink, green walls with little flourishes at the corners and in the doorways. Yellow buildings are usually the official buildings, the communist government has inherited some style. There is no graffiti - probably because all the kids are working full time from the age of 6 and have no time to deface buildings with expensive paint. There are official looking stamps on many buildings, nobody can explain what they are.
The bikes are everywhere. People transport huge collections of flat-packed boxes, panes of glass, ladders, mattresses - all sorts of things are somehow tied to the back of a moped. People travelling together are so relaxed in their mode of transport that they rest their feet on each other's bikes! Horns sound constantly, the "bip bip bip" means "I'm here". Tourists dart fearfully across the street, even though the first thing you notice about the locals is that they merely amble through the traffic, not stopping, not hurrying. Everyone goes around everyone and the merge rule is basically "give way to anything bigger than you". The bike riders seem protective of tourists, yelling out when to cross and signalling each other to stop and wait.
Bikes, power cables, street kids and traffic. Traditional old ladies next to business men, ladies in market stalls ensuring a large western woman that the tiny t-shirts are "one size fits all". Tourists are pulled into shops and those who have lost their patience just keep walking, dragging small Vietnamese along until they give up and let go.
The bustle isn't chaos, the locals smile and laugh and are happy to help, the city is everything a city should be. Charming.
The city has a vibrant madness to it, evident not only in the constant revving of the bikes but also in the mess of powerlines adorning every street, the art gallery shops jammed against ball dress shops, cafes and the occasional garage, and the kids running around the place selling postcards and other things, but refusing to take money without a sale - anti begging laws perhaps, or maybe a communist leader trying to save face.
An afternoon traipsing around the city goes quickly. Seeing locals worship unfamiliar gods preys on a traveller's curiosity and once you stop t look, you are herded inside. Incense and a small leia are thrust into your hand and you are directed, with some impatience, to leave your offering and say your prayers at the foot of whichever god you worship, or in this case, think more photogenic. You hear someone mention to a friend that frangipani is only planted near temples and other holy places; the flower's strong smell attracts bad spirits so it isn't safe to have it in one's garden. Small children cavort around the room and are delighted to pose for a photo,rushing up to see the outcome on your digital camera. On exiting, you're unsurprised to discover that suddenly money is expected. (All religions are the same!)Innocently you proclaim that you have no money and just keep walking away - they won't stray too far from the temple for the sake of chasing down one traveller who claims to have no cash. Better to give it to the kids who ask for it up front instead of the adults trying to trick you. One lady smiles in a "well done" sort of way and they shrug and wander off.
Wandering accidentally off the map, you pass building sites with shirtless, shoeless, hatless, glasses-less men welding, hammering, lifting and working. Not quite the worksafe capital of the world. The construction is always contained by elegant gates and the streets are always clean, constantly being swept. The buildings flaunt their colourful facades, a gift from French colonial times. Teal, orange, pink, green walls with little flourishes at the corners and in the doorways. Yellow buildings are usually the official buildings, the communist government has inherited some style. There is no graffiti - probably because all the kids are working full time from the age of 6 and have no time to deface buildings with expensive paint. There are official looking stamps on many buildings, nobody can explain what they are.
The bikes are everywhere. People transport huge collections of flat-packed boxes, panes of glass, ladders, mattresses - all sorts of things are somehow tied to the back of a moped. People travelling together are so relaxed in their mode of transport that they rest their feet on each other's bikes! Horns sound constantly, the "bip bip bip" means "I'm here". Tourists dart fearfully across the street, even though the first thing you notice about the locals is that they merely amble through the traffic, not stopping, not hurrying. Everyone goes around everyone and the merge rule is basically "give way to anything bigger than you". The bike riders seem protective of tourists, yelling out when to cross and signalling each other to stop and wait.
Bikes, power cables, street kids and traffic. Traditional old ladies next to business men, ladies in market stalls ensuring a large western woman that the tiny t-shirts are "one size fits all". Tourists are pulled into shops and those who have lost their patience just keep walking, dragging small Vietnamese along until they give up and let go.
The bustle isn't chaos, the locals smile and laugh and are happy to help, the city is everything a city should be. Charming.
vietnam, and 10 kilos heavier
Okay maybe not quite ten.
Last night, after a week spent in five star accommodation, eating 5 star food and hanging out with 5 star people, I arrived in Singapore and was met by a smiling Kate (thanks for collecting me Kate!!) Today I am sitting in her extremely classy living room, overlooking Singpore, finally getting some diary entries done. There's a gym and a pool - and I thought my 5 star living was over!
Vietnam was wonderful. In a group of about 70 people, we travelled first to Saigon and then to Danang. The people on the trip were all a lot of fun and I was sorry to see them go by the end of the trip (better get used to it, I know!)
We spent a couple of days in Saigon, where we visited the Cu Chi Tunnels, many shopping centres and markets, and somehow avoided being run over by one of the millions of bikes on the road.
As with any country, there are small differences that are unique to the place. In Vietnam, there are art galleries everywhere; although these are really art shops. They have some great homewares, a particular style of lacquer that is very bright and colourful, and everywhere there are the little conical hats that I had long assumed were merely a relic of the past, but are in fact still used widely. The parts of the country that I saw were surprisingly clean.
The people in Vietnam were friendly but very direct; they had a sense of humour that didn't always shine through in their speech but was evident in their giggles and their cheeky grins. Vietnam is still finding its way around the English language so it still feels like you're a "real" traveller. One nightmare taxi ride at 20kph with the driver yelling at random people on street corners for directions (in spite of being handed a map) was testament to this.
Remnants of the war are everywhere in the stories they tell. I couldn't tell if they still feel it close to their lives or if they are just humouring the interested tourists. After visiting the Cu Chi Tunnels we realised what industrious, clever people they are. They lived underground, building an ant's nest of tiny tunnels, converted animal traps to American traps, disassembled unexploded American bombs and rebuilt them into bombs of their own. Seeing it all, you gasp with the realisation that the Americans never stood a chance against these people.
One thing that sets the Vietnamese apart from other warriors is that it's hard to imagine them enjoying the torture. There is an air of "it just had to be done" about the way they talk. A sense of pride for their ingenuity but not a sense of pride for their kills. Although, it has to be said that the communist documentary we were shown did make mention of many a "cute little schoolgirl" being awarded "NUMBER ONE AMELLICAN KILLER HERRO AWARD". The Vietnamese are a very matter-of-fact people, very kind, bright, interested, and funny.
Trivia: "Viet" means elite and "nam" means man. The elite man.
To break it up a bit, I'll post about Saigon separately.
Last night, after a week spent in five star accommodation, eating 5 star food and hanging out with 5 star people, I arrived in Singapore and was met by a smiling Kate (thanks for collecting me Kate!!) Today I am sitting in her extremely classy living room, overlooking Singpore, finally getting some diary entries done. There's a gym and a pool - and I thought my 5 star living was over!
Vietnam was wonderful. In a group of about 70 people, we travelled first to Saigon and then to Danang. The people on the trip were all a lot of fun and I was sorry to see them go by the end of the trip (better get used to it, I know!)
We spent a couple of days in Saigon, where we visited the Cu Chi Tunnels, many shopping centres and markets, and somehow avoided being run over by one of the millions of bikes on the road.
As with any country, there are small differences that are unique to the place. In Vietnam, there are art galleries everywhere; although these are really art shops. They have some great homewares, a particular style of lacquer that is very bright and colourful, and everywhere there are the little conical hats that I had long assumed were merely a relic of the past, but are in fact still used widely. The parts of the country that I saw were surprisingly clean.
The people in Vietnam were friendly but very direct; they had a sense of humour that didn't always shine through in their speech but was evident in their giggles and their cheeky grins. Vietnam is still finding its way around the English language so it still feels like you're a "real" traveller. One nightmare taxi ride at 20kph with the driver yelling at random people on street corners for directions (in spite of being handed a map) was testament to this.
Remnants of the war are everywhere in the stories they tell. I couldn't tell if they still feel it close to their lives or if they are just humouring the interested tourists. After visiting the Cu Chi Tunnels we realised what industrious, clever people they are. They lived underground, building an ant's nest of tiny tunnels, converted animal traps to American traps, disassembled unexploded American bombs and rebuilt them into bombs of their own. Seeing it all, you gasp with the realisation that the Americans never stood a chance against these people.
One thing that sets the Vietnamese apart from other warriors is that it's hard to imagine them enjoying the torture. There is an air of "it just had to be done" about the way they talk. A sense of pride for their ingenuity but not a sense of pride for their kills. Although, it has to be said that the communist documentary we were shown did make mention of many a "cute little schoolgirl" being awarded "NUMBER ONE AMELLICAN KILLER HERRO AWARD". The Vietnamese are a very matter-of-fact people, very kind, bright, interested, and funny.
Trivia: "Viet" means elite and "nam" means man. The elite man.
To break it up a bit, I'll post about Saigon separately.
whoops
Due to an oversight on my part, anonymous users couldn't comment until now. That's been fixed, you just need to choose the "anon" option, put your name in and enter the letters shown on the page (to prove you aren't a spam robot).
Now you can all tell me how much you miss me and want me to come home, hehehe
Now you can all tell me how much you miss me and want me to come home, hehehe
Monday, April 7, 2008
vietnam
in the hotel lobby on the free wifi connection on my phone. Cant wait to buy a keyboard in singapore because this is a joke! Vietnam is great, ive posted a couple of phone photos on my flickr account - link is on the right of this page. Ill put more online once i get to a proper internet connection and figure out the whole camera to web thing. Feels quite surreal to be finally on the road but a 5 star holiday for free is a great launchpad!
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