tzars and vodka

Russia has been a far‑off mysterious place to me since I was a child. It's a fascination that was passed down to me by my mother, along with my Russian name. In my mind, towering colourful Byzantine spires rose out of dark, murky Communist streets, the freezing air was broken by breath warmed with vodka and hulking figures stomped along the icy streets, eyes on the ground.

Well, perhaps the height of summer and the aftermath of the White Nights wasn't the best time to visit for these images, but St Petersburg is nevertheless overwhelmingly incredible. Known as the city of a thousand palaces, the streets of St Petersburg's historical centre are lined with palace after palace after palace. Originally built to house the nobility (Russia had no middle class, only the very rich and the very poor) these palaces now house offices and apartments. Not all of them were lived in for long. The Tsar's daughter Elizabeth wanted increasingly more opulent decorations and more rooms in the palace her father was building for her; consequently it wasn't finished until after her death. The last palace built here was completed just before the Tsar's rule ended, so the owners lived in it for only a few weeks. Yet another palace was lived in for only 40 days before its occupant Paul the First (there was no Paul II but he liked the sound of it) was murdered. Left untouched by the Soviets, these buildings still stand and are excellently maintained. Some were interestingly repurposed during Soviet times; with Communism being the only accepted "religion", one important cathedral became the Museum of Atheism, another was used to store vegetables. A third was saved from destruction by the second world war; the men who would have destroyed it were all called to war instead.
By the end of a day spent wandering the city, you can walk past a 14 story building with grand painted facades and barely even notice it.

The Church of the Spilled Blood is the only building in St Petersburg that was built in the Byzantine style (the iconic Russian buildings you've seen photos of are Byzantine style ‑ influenced by Turkish architecture). It was built where Prince Alexander II was assasinated and it is truly spectacular, winking at you through the gaps in the buildings as you sail along the river or wander down Nevsky Prospekt, the main street.

The history in this city is incredible. Its name has changed three times, from St Petersburg, to Petrograd, to Leningrad, and now once again to St Petersburg. Photos of the world's third largest church, St Isaac's, show locals harvesting cabbages from the church grounds during WWII. Assassinations and wars and uprisings and Bloody Sunday, the taking of land from Sweden, a princess reknowned for her lovers, civil war, starvation, Tsars... All of it combines to create a shroud of mystery that can't be pierced by the summer's heat or light.

Nor have the Tsars lost any of their mystery, in fact the more I hear about them the more interested I am. From the false mystery surrounding the "missing" remains of Anastasia (discovered a couple of decades back, identified and reburied) to the real one surrounding the remains of her younger siblings ( burnt with acid so their bones would never be found; the rain started after that and the rest of the family had to be buried in a mass grave instead), the family has retained its mystique. The Soviets killed the last of the Romanovs to take the heart out of the monarchist uprising, but in doing so they ensured their enemies would be forever remembered. The city is so indelibly marked by the characters of its history that it feels haunted, you keep expecting the unusual figure of the city's founder, Peter the Great, to appear at the next corner and demand that you have another shot of vodka. Incidentally, he was the world's first recognised alcoholic and had around 19 diseases when he died at 53.

The biggest surprise of St Petersburg however, is its prison. The rooms were about three times the size of my boarding school cubicle, heated with wood stoves, funished with beds and the walls patterned with wallpaper! The Communist prison in Romania's northern city of Sighetu Marmatiei contained a punishment cell in which prisoners were chained in the middle of the floor, barefoot and naked in total darkness, with their feet tied to a grill under freezing water. St Petersburg's punishment cell was dark and cold, or dark and hot depending on the season. By comparison it is almost a holiday home.

Rising out of the swamp, this truly remarkable city is an experience that measures up to whatever imaginings you might have. People walk the streets drinking vodka, palaces line the footpaths, canals run through the city in the image of Amsterdam. Peter's favourite European city. There are no strange contrasts here; it is all Russia and everything you expect.

where horse & carts meet cars

Today I awoke in Maramures, where centuries old customs jostle for position amongst the new ways of the western world. Pots sit drying on the tree outside ‑ back in the day the locals were so poor they had nowhere to dry their pots so they hung them on trees. Today it's a nod to the old legends that arose about red pots signifying a marrigeable woman in the house. Nobody seems to know whether or not that was really ever the case.

We're in the western part of the Carpathians where it gets so cold that even in the warm summer afternoons you can almost see the snow; everything here is preparing for the winter from the frantic roadworks to the piles upon piles of chopped wood.

The locals here are friendly, unlike a little further south where they are yet to make the connection between good service and increased tourism. Yesterday, near the famous old wooden church of Surdesti, we chatted to a worker who had been hired by the priest to cut his grass. The priest's son hung around, playing with the grass clippings, while the worker jovially explained to our guide Daniel that he was cutting the lucerne (growing freely) for stock feed. He let Dad have a go with his scythe and told us that a scythe can cut closer to the ground than a machine ever could. Other crops are not cut manually, it depends on how it grows.

For Australian farmers, it's been amazing to see the endless lush grass on the hills, the flowers scattered brightly everywhere, perched high in pots on the light poles and surviving just on rain. Shepherds and their flocks dot the hillsides. The shepherds are hired by people to take their sheep and goats into the mountains for feed during summer and they usually spend three or four months living in a small mountain hut, surrounded by the pretty jingling and jangling of the goats' bells. It's a lovely sound, like a giant set of wind chimes happily singing away.

Our day yesterday was spent mostly driving, with the trip made even longer by roadworks almost the whole way. There is a lot of building and restoration going on in the country, from ancient churches to new roads. We dropped into Baia Mare, the town square peppered with the brightly coloured buildings that we've come to expect here, and then made our way to th Surdesti wooden church. Built in the 1700s, the church has the highest steeple of any in Romania (and Romania has the highest wooden churches in the world). It was originally built as an Orthodox church, but when the catholics came to town, they made a deal with the notoriously stubborn locals; they could keep their traditions if they would at least recognise the Catholic Pope. So the church is now Catholic Orthodox, a rather unique combination.

It is spectacular, rising high above the grass with a steep roof and perfectly aligned shingles.Inside, the joins in its wooden beams were covered with cloth to allow the interior to be painted, and painted it is! The whole church is adorned with beautiful paintings by the locals, whose talents also extended to making the carpets on the floor and seating, the intricate embroidery on the cloths, and the incredibly impressive carvings in the wood. Not to mention of course, building the church itself.

In stark contrast to the centuries old church, we also visited a salt mine. Expecting a few exhibits in the mine, we were blown away when we popped out at the top of a huge shaft, winding salt patterns on the roof, stalactites holding on for dear life, and 40 metres below us a theme park! Bright lights shone down on table tennis, a lake with boats in it, badminton, a little cafe and even a Ferris wheel! The air in the mine is good for the lungs and people come here for holidays, spending 2‑3 hours a day entertaining themselves in the huge mine while breathing the salty air. There's even a wifi connection. (If anyone from Yandi is reading this, I suggest we start up a petition for better conditions in the field!) It was truly incredible, and for my geologist friends I took plenty of photos.

Yesterday was a long day, so today was more relaxing. We visited more wooden structures ‑ this time the world's tallest wooden structure which was built without the use of a single nail. We walked through the local markets, had a chat to a lady in an antiques shop and bought from here some of the goat bells we so loved the sound of. We visited the local prison in Sighet where many, many of Romania's elite perished during communist times. The photos of all the people who died were especially moving, not only for their sheer number but also because, unlike at Auzshwitz, the photos were taken when the people were in the prime of their life. Smiling, happy faces of people with gentle demeanours and kind eyes were juxtaposed with a photo of the same person only a year or two later; old, haggard, broken. No matter how many museums like this I have visited, each time the horrors of what people can do to their neighbours shocks me. In Romania, the adults were killed while their children were brainwashed and totured, before being forced to become the torturer of the next victim. Daniel tols us a story about a man who was beating another man in the street, and then looked up into the eyes of a passer by.In his expression of shameful pity, he said he saw for the first time what his father would have thought of him. Instantly, he shot the passer‑by for this reminder of the humanity he had set aside in himself.

Finally, we returned to the small village that our guest house is in, where we wandered for an hour or so around the traditional wooden houses. We saw the carved gates which have symbols of the sun, the cross and the rope (eternal life); each time one passes through these gates it is supposed to bring good luck. We saw a local distillery, traditional carpet washing using a water wheel, and met lady, widowed for seven years, who asked us to leave the man (dad) behind because there are not enough men here. I said I would sell him for three lei, and she said that we had to pay HER because she is worth more. I said "four lei" and she laughed and slapped me for being cheeky. She told us that we should not make her mistake and get fat ‑ she drinks, eats and sits and now her shoulders, her waist and her hips are all the same! She posed for a photo with us, lamenting her lack of lipstick, and laughed as she wished us goodbye.

Now, we are back at our guest house. Someone is practising violin and we are each taking some time to ourselves to drink beer, write blogs and relax before dinner.

There is so much more to say about Romania, and I will, but for now this is your snapshot of the little part of the nation sitting on the border of Ukraine, called Maramures.

life's little coincidences

In my hotel room, I am watching a documentary on towns. And the town that tonight's doco is about? Perth, Scotland!

dalla montagna alla città

// from mountain to city

The Hutte was designed by two famous mountaineers, Arturro and Oreste Squinobal: brothers who had travelled the world together climbing mountains. Before Oreste died, he and Arturro drew up plans for a mountain refuge in Monte Rosa, high in the Valley of Aosta. Arturro and his family finished Oreste's dream, and today Arturro's children, Marta and Emil, live the long‑held dream in honour of their uncle. Their refuge is a luxury escape nestled against the mountainside, catering for climbers, hikers and skiiers.

The Squinobals are desecnded from the Germans who migrated across the mountains thousands of years ago. They speak a dialect that is a mixture of German and Italian and it's quite beautiful. Their German ancestry is evident in the efficiency and design of the Hutte; from the solar panels that heat both the water and the floors, to the perfect carpentry that is seen throughout their home.

Built over several years, the Hutte is made of wood that was flown in by helicopter. When asked by tourists if the wood is local, Phill has been known to say "yes, there used to be a forest here!". In truth, the tallest tree that can grow in the area is only about 2 metres tall and is situated half an hour's walk below the Hutte. Photos of the Hutte's construction show people sitting on top of loads of wood, which dangle from the chopper. Mountain people, not surprisingly, have a head for heights.

I spent my time at the Hutte recovering from the week of partying in Lndon, eating the wonderful meals cooked by the talented chef Giovanni, chatting to Linea, Giovanni, Emil, Marta and Ladzo who all work at the Hutte, and hiking.

Marta suggested I visit the "Lago Blu" which Linea ‑ a danish girl ‑ swims in occasionally. It's freezing cold as Phill once discovered when, not to be outdone by a girl, he jumped in. The Lago Blue is about a half hour hike from the Hutte, along a path that is clearly marked by the "sentieri", stones showing the path's number and arrows in bright yellow pointing the way. I passed two smaller lakes and stepping‑stoned my way to a rock in the middle of one of them. On the rock, I found a tiny puddle housing tadpoles so I rescued them before the sun turned them into something the French would eat. Finally, I arrived at Lago Blu and I sat, admiring the view and eating some fruit.

The day was sunny and there wasn't much wind, so I decided to keep wandering. Looking up, I noticed two silhouettes hiking along a ridge with the snowy peak of Mantoba behind them. I glanced at the peak they had come from and thought "I can do that", so I picked out a path and started my ascent. The path I chose looked like the aftermath of a small avalanche, with green grass giving way to grey stones. Wedging my toes against the rocks, I used them as though they were steps up the mountainside. The breath runs out quickly at that altitude (2700 metres) so the going was slow, but steady.

At the top was a small cairn with a stick wedged into it ‑ the designated marker for a peak of some sort ‑ really just something to aim for. When I reached it I took out my camera to immortalise my achievement, and then nearly dropped it as I looked down and saw a near vertical cliff face right in front of me! What had been a relatively easy climb on one side was a sheer drop on the other. The photo I took shows me giggling with delight at how impossibly high I was. Like a stambecco (mountain goat) I then picked out a new path and bounded down... ok. more like a grandma because it really was bloody high, so I took it easy. But in whatever manner, I did finally arrive back at the Hutte where I was treated to a beautiful lunch. Marta, Phill and I then went down the mountain to Gressoney St Jean, where Marta's parents live, and we spent the night there.

On my last day in the mountains, Phill and I drank beer, chatted to the locals, ate and wandered around the tiny town. These days, most of the local villages are ghost towns, with the locals having departed for France and Germany and holidaymakers buying their vacated homes.

AFter lunch, Marta returned to the Hutte and Phill and I spent the afternoon swapping stories, suggesting new music to each other, then rounded off the evening with episodes of Salad Fingers. (It's creepy but funny ‑ google it.)

Today I rose early and bid farewell to Phill, leaving him in his new home where he seems happy and settled. I took the bus (the bus driver filled me in on the area's history) and train to Turin and wandered the streets for a while.

I always find it a strange sort of homecoming when I return to a foreign city that I know well. It's a little like encountering one's own ghost ‑ you pass the fountain that was your landmark, sit on the seat where you once spent an afternoon reading the whole of Harry Potter in Italian, glance towards the bridge that took you to your hostel. Only three years, during which so much and so little has changed. Licking a lemon gelato, I retraced old steps through the pretty streets and made my way back to the train; it was a sweet little farewell to a country that has found its way into my heart.

riots!

All is well with regards to the riots in London and the UK. By the time I get back there it should have settled down, and mostly in London it's happening on the outskirts. So no concerns!

xx

sopra tutto il mondo

//on top of the world

It was Sunday, the holy day; I ascended to the heavens.

From London, a flight to Turin. A bus to the train. A train to Ivrea. Another train to Pont Saint Martin. A bus to Gressoney la Trinite. Each town a little smaller and a little higher until finally a ten minute ride up a ski lift to a small mountainside bar called Punta Jolanda. Phill met me there and we embarked on the one hour hike up the mountain to Orestes Hutte. So here I am.

The Hutte is a ski retreat in the Italian Alps. The ski‑lift ride, an hour's walk below us, took me through the treetops and through the clouds. Now, as I glance up through the wide window I can look beyond the balcony to a small road, meandering as only mountain roads do down through the peaks. I can see snow adorning the mountainside, interrupting the grass that dances in the wind like ocean waves. A small blue lake twinkles in the triangle of the valley; beside it is a shed that houses the hydro electrics. The clouds are scarpering eastwards, the chill wind chasing them away to leave behind a vacant blue sky. The sun throws shadows through the rocks and there is barely a sound.

The Hutte is owned by my friend Phill's girlfriend and her family. Marta and her brother Emil run the place, with the help of various travellers, a cook, and Phill. In winter they cater to tourists and local skiers but in summer tourists are few, so I have my own room downstairs. The main room upstairs houses a small library and bar, with an outlook across the mountains.

As much as possible, they arekind to the environment here. In winter the food is stored in a concrete space that surrounds the house like a verandah: in summer the same space provides insulation. This summer has been the coldest and wettest that Marta can remember, but to a girl from Australia it is nevertheless beautiful.

After I arrived yesterday we sat around and chatted in various languages. Marta showed me a tea that changes colour as you brew it. First the water turns blue, then violet, then orange, yellow and finally settles on a muddy transparency. She said that while pretty, it doesn't taste like anything much at all.

Not to be outdone, the sun also put on a display, casting pink light across the sky as it went to bed at 9pm. In keeping with the colourful evening, the chef made an orange risotto (amazing) and we shared a local wine, swappped stories and laughed. Finally I went to bed around 11 and arose this morning to the bella vista I've described.

For the next few days I will meditate, do some yoga, increase the number of red blood cells in my body (thin air up here) and rest. Already life feels slow and the world is quiet.

London Life in the Summertime...

Until now, I've only visited London in the winter or the spring. Summer A whole new world for me.

I'm staying at Paul and Lois's house in Chelmsford, which is a 30 minute ride from Liverpool St Station and almost out in the country. It's quite lovely really ‑ reminiscent of the England conjured up by Enid Blyton and others of her ilk.

Naturally, since arriving here I have shopped, eaten and shopped. With the excahnge rate as it is, I've had the incredibly strange experience of thinking that whatever I am paying for something is a bargain! Things that cost $200 at home cost only $150 here. I've sucessfully filled my previously emaciated suitcase to a more respectable weight of 15 kg rather than the 9.6 it arrived with. The real delight, though, is in escaping the London madness and returning "home" to a little village town.
Chelmsford has a canal ambling through its centre and cobbled streets (of course). It has a much slower pace than London. Paul and Lois's new home has a backyard with two‑tiered grass (the electric lawnmover's cord only reaches four fifths of the length of the lawn). When Lois arrived, we went to see the wedding cake which was made by her aunt, and then returned home where I joined Lois and her friends in the backyard to bask in the warm, gentle european sunshine. Lois, Paul and I then went for a drive to a little lock nearby ‑ houseboats sitting on the river, green algae barely disturbed by the swans, swans barely disturbed by the children, and the grass barely disturbed by the gentle breeze. As my huge piece of carrot and orange cake arrived, the fact that I am on holiday started to sink in.

Paul and I rounded off the evening with beers and games of pool ‑ I won three out of four! I'm not sure how that happened (the word "fluke" springs to mind) but it was a nice change for me to win something. Finally, with the long dusk just settling into darkness at nine o'clock, we went home and to bed.

Day two was a foot‑flattening day of walking and shopping in central London. I dropped into Harrods which left me feeling vaguely unimpressed ‑ except for the food hall which was like the David Jones food hall but a milion times better. According to Paul, a fascinator or hat is essential at a London wedding ‑ I might move to the UK for that reason alone! So I dutifully bought a fascinator (was sorely tempted to buy a $1300 Philip Tracey hat but resisted), before revisiting old favourite haunts (Carnaby Street, Kingly Court, Regent Street) and made my now traditional purchase of earrings in a little Kingly Court boutique. By 5.30, I and my credit card were exhausted and we agreed it was time to go home...apprarently at precicely the same instant that everyone else in Oxford Circus came to the same conclusion. The entrance to the tube station was completely obscured by row after row of patiently waiting Londonites. A station attendant was yelling to the crowd that they must wait before they could enter. It looked like a half hour wait just to get the bottom of the stairs! What was a girl to do?! Well...shop of course! So I wandered some more, until 7.30 when I really had had enough and the tube station was finally clear again. In Chelmsford, I stopped for a meal by the canal where I was served by a particularly disinterested waiter whose smiles (aimed somewhere over my head) were so fake as to be insulting. I tipped him three pennies in the tip jar so it made a noise. (haha)

And now it is today, and here I am in a posh wine bar where I am not entirely welcome, owing to my alone‑ness (table for one? perhaps you can find a seat at the back). As I sip on an Italian wine, it reminds me that whenever I dined alone in Italy ‑ which was often ‑ I was given exceptional service with a side of compliments. "Table for one? Why is such a beautiful woman eating alone?"

London does, however, have its charms ‑ many of which have been weighing down my left arm which is my shopping‑carrying‑arm; the people seem friendlier than other times I've visited. I think perhaps my certainty of where I am going helps ‑ I'm not standing in people's way clinging desperately to a map. Instead I sigh along with the Londoners when soemone dares to STAND on the LEFT of the escalator! Don't they KNOW we need to get to the tube because the next one will take a whole three minutes to arrive and we can't possibly wait that long?

It always surprises me how quickly a city can become familiar. I've spent a total of maybe 7 weeks here over the past decade, and I feel quite at home in this dreary, vibrant, friendly, impatient, contradictory city.

la via ricomincia

//The Trail Picks Up Again

London for me is like that hilarious good-time friend we all have. The one who comes to your house, entertains you with crazy antics, gets you ridiculously drunk, drinks all your gin, steals all your money, pukes in the bathroom and then leaves without saying goodbye. You wake up with a hangover and smile ruefully as you clean up their mess, again.

I last saw London in early 09 when I rang in the new year somewhere around Maida Vale.

Late April, 2011. I'm sitting on the train in Perth and a song comes on my iPod that reminds me of that night. With a self deprecating smirk I realise I kind of miss the place. I shrug my shoulders against it - I know I won't be going back there for a long time.

Late May, I sign into my gmail account. In the bottom corner a chat window pops up and I know it's Paul, because he's the only friend I have who is tech savvy enough to operate it.

"What are you doing in August?"
"No plans. Why?"
"Want to come to London?"
"Paul - are you getting married?"
"Yep!"
"Excellent. I'm there."

Yep. Just like that. A rendezvous with London.

But it can't just be London. I've regretted the part of Romania that I missed out on due to the combination of winter snow and 5L plastic bottles of wine. I've always wanted to see Russia. I have a friend living in Italy near my favourite part of the country....

So I pull together a few plans.

August.

London - England
Gressoney St John - Italy
Maramures - Romania
St Petersburg - Russia
Helsinki - Finland
Perth - Australia

And so The Kara Trail picks up again.

wedding

Wake early, start the shower run. Groom writes his speech at 7am. Boys everywhere. Sister does her hair. Check the speech for the groom, throw together an ipod playlist for the pre‑dinner drinks. Dance around furtniture and people to the bathroom, do make‑up, put on a dress, steam the fascinator. Someone asks who can iron a shirt? I iron the groom's shirt. Someone asks who can tie a cravatte? I tie the groomsmen's cravattes. Golden‑yellow silk at their throats. Where are the cufflinks? We find the cufflinks. Best man checks his pocket once again for the rings. Controlled chaos in the air as 12:30 approaches. Groom pops into town to buy some shoes! Groom's mother goes to her make‑up appointment. We wait, hats on, cravattes tied, dresses flowing and the taxi arrives. To the church!

Scary vicar with Vicar of Dibley's accent. Ceremony, blushing bride barely holding in joyful tears. Blushing groom flanked by his best men. Beautiful bridesmaids in yellow gold with golden yellow hair stand and smile. Vows are made and a kiss is stolen ‑ the priest who openly speaks of the "joyful initmacy of sexcsualle union" does not tell the groom he can kiss his bride. He does anyway and we laugh. We're allowed to clap. Photos are snapped as the third generation of Fewtrell women marries in her childhood church.

Kisses, confetti, shaken hands, congratulations, photos, taxis, offers of a ride; I am taken by a family with two hilarious young (tall) men ‑ one asks where in South Africa am I from!

Scene from a movie as the marquee comes into view; beautiful gardens, lush lawn, old house, Buck's Fizz is thrust into my hand. (Champagne with orange ‑ who knew it had a name!)

Drinks, food, faces are pulled at the disposable camera. Bubble blowers adorn the tables and bubbles adorn the air. Eating, laughing, speeches and happy tears. The bar opens. Whiskey. The photographer "ices a bro"*. A party trick becomes a competition. (The chief bridesmaid wins.) Photos, drinks, the first dance and I'm asked to join the second groomsman. we try the shim sham and are ridiculed by too‑British guests. Drinks, photos, dancing ‑ terrible, hilarious dancing. Photos, drinks, dancing, drinks, shots, too many photos, too many drinks, dancing, shoes off, drinks....midnight. A circle forms, the new Mr and Mrs farewell their guests. Taxis, home, bed, sleep.
(Snoring.)
My friend's wedding was beautiful, happy, sweet and fun; just like the woman he married.