The Kara Trail

tzars and vodka

2011-08-22T21:41:00.000+08:00

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

2011-08-18T17:28:00.000+08:00

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

2011-08-12T04:07:00.000+08:00

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

2011-08-11T20:47:00.000+08:00

// 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!

2011-08-10T16:26:00.003+08:00

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

2011-08-08T10:30:00.000+08:00

//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...

2011-08-08T04:16:00.002+08:00

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

2011-07-24T12:04:00.004+08:00

//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

2011-06-08T16:26:00.000+08:00

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.

da qui, la traccia punta in tutti i sensi

2009-02-12T14:23:00.005+09:00

// from here, the trail leads in all directions

"I want to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every‑day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbours, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me."
‑ Henry David Thoreau

A wise woman once told me that to wander is a good choice. My instincts agreed, so for the first time I set out on an adventure with no clear goal, not knowing what I hoped to learn.

When one wanders the world, one discovers not the world, but oneself. The act of peeling back the layers of the places I've seen and the people I've met has made me more calm, more tolerant, kinder and happier and more pliant. I worry less and I contemplate rather than think. I am more brave, less wary but more aware, harder to irritate, less materialistic (but I still like stuff), more of a dreamer but better tethered to the foundation of reality. I have far less direction but am far more certain of the path I am treading.

In my time away I've missed four things; the silent majesty of my land, the nurturing fellowship of my people, and the deep myriad colours of a life lived among them. Also, my washing machine.

Over the coming years I know that I will leave these things behind time and again, to travel further and further into the many worlds that make up Earth. I want to see the Amazon, Russia and especially Siberia, maybe India, Bolivia, Peru, return to see more of Morocco. I'll wander through China and Japan and tiny countries whose name nobody knows. I'll meet strange people and speak in strange tongues and try strange fruit. I'll unearth more and more of the world's ancient mysteries to compare their different hues, never forgetting that they are all made of the same dust. I will gradually perfect the art of travelling, but I will always come back.

Travel is an incredible thing; it answers questions buried so deeply within you that you never thought to ask them. Since I was young, I have looked to the horizon wondering where life's greatest adventures lie. After wandering the earth for all this time I finally have the answer;

life's greatest adventures are found at home.

cold sake from a jar

2009-02-03T16:18:00.004+09:00

Tokyo lived up to very few expectations. It wasn't a huge culture shock, there weren't crazy little cosplay girls dressed up in the streets, there wasn't a crazily busy atmosphere, but there were some surprises.

The first impression of Tokyo is the opposite to what one expects. On arrival I was immediately struck by a few things; the subway system is huge and expensive, the food is of extremely high quality and the city is strangely quiet for a place so populated.

Tokyo is one of the most densely populated places in the world. It boasts a famous intersection through which three million travel each day and a subway station that sees so many commuters that conductors have to push people into the trains like rugby players. Yet the place is so quiet that it's eerie at first. Horns are not honked unless in absolute necessity. People talk quietly or not at all. The Japanese are sweet and helpful and terribly polite of course. They look shocked, confused and slightly terrified when someone crosses the road without waiting for the little green walking man. Being surrounded by so many tiny little polite people made me feel like a big galumphing elephant.

I spent my time in Tokyo wandering through each suburb, marvelling at how distinct they all were. Harajuku is where the cosplayers hang out - young people who dress up with a lot of face paint and crazy clothes. The locals complained about them so there are very few these days but for a few years they were a major tourist attraction. Teenage girls shop in Harajuku's streets, surrounded by cute little animals and pink stuff and street signs that look like bags of lollies.

Roppongi is for the nightlife, the high class shopping and the sushi. (There are parts of Tokyo where sushi cannot be found.) Shibuya and Shinjuku are busy, neon lit, full of shopping centres for more young girls and streets full of cars that all behave themselves. Asakusa is the old Tokyo, harking back to the Edo period, old temples and shrines, traditional restaurants, streets that lack skyscrapers and radiate an aura of calm. Tokyo's fake food street is also here - the city is famous for its fake food which acts as a menu in most restaurants. In fact, fake food chefs complete a two year diploma before they are allowed to sculpt these perfect renditions of a restaurant's meals.

The Craig boys (Jason and Jonathan) joined me for the last two days of my stay and together we explored the delights of cold sake from a jar, eel gizzards, plum pancakes, the tuna auction at Tokyo's fish markets, the Soy Bean Festival to celebrate the end of winter and, most importantly, the necessity of wearing a surgical type mask over one's mouth in the interest of fitting in.

Tokyo is a place that cannot be discovered by a white face in a short time. Stories abound of locals taking foreign friends on strange tours of underground sex clubs, secret and ancient restaurants, deep into the culture of Tokyo that can be glimpsed at every corner but never focussed on for long. Like the rest of Japan, there is a feeling of strange magic surging under all the polite bows and quiet feet.

inauguration blues

2009-01-20T16:45:00.002+09:00

"New York is a blue state, nobody here was responsible for inflicting that man on the world."

The inauguration of Obama was a big deal, obviously. People braved temperatures well below zero to watch it live, there were car pools and buses and even limos available for hire from NYC to DC, party style with cocktails and music to pass the time. I decided that wandering down to one of the local venues that was screening it would be good enough for me, so at 11:30 I followed the crowd past Ground Zero toward Trinity Church, clouds of frozen breath sailing behind us all but a feeling of exuberance in spite of the cold.

The Church was full long before I got there but a group of people nearby welcomed me into their fold and together we went to an underground pub which had tv screens and - more importantly - beer. In typical New Yorker fashion they were friendly, asked me a ton of questions about my trip (one girl wanted to know if I was on my walkabout - nice job Baz Luhrmann) and they took it in turns leaning over to explain to me who various political players were and why their involvement in the ceremony was or wasn't a controversial choice.

Obama stuffed up the swearing in a little. The guy that gave him his lines added a few too many in there at once, most likely on purpose as they are apparently not on the same side of politics. Nobody minded, everybody loves him enough that there was a bit of a laugh and then it was forgotten. At the official announcement of the 44th president the room and indeed the country erupted into cheers.

"America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship... let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

As expected, Obama's speech was superb.

"On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."

It's funny, there is a lot of fear in the US and especially New York about terrorism. Bush's supporters have all said that he saved the US from further terrorist attacks. But walking down the streets in Harlem or Brooklyn or Chelsea or even Manhattan, it wasn't the terrorists I was afraid of, it was the locals. No matter how black their president is, how much strength their economy manages to regain, or how many times they 'say something' when they 'see something', the people of America need to realise that the greatest threat to the US comes from her own population. The election of this president seems a great step in the right direction, but I hope he isn't expected to do it all on his own.

I kept my thoughts to myself and after the speech was over, I left my inauguration buddies and went to a nearby discount store to buy clothes of green and gold for Australia Day. God may bless America, but I thank God I was born in Australia.

temple m

2009-01-20T14:27:00.004+09:00

Every now and then something happens on the road that you haven't sought out but are glad to find. Our night at Temple M was one such event.

Couch surfing tends to make travel more social. At one of their events I met an Aussie girl who was living in New York and who invited me to a violin recital at a place called "Temple M" in Harlem. New Yorkers will tell you that Harlem is where the scary black people live. Considering I'd spent an hour the previous evening in a Harlem laundromat, listening to these allegedly scary black people have one of the most intelligent and respectful racism discussions I'd ever heard (while various lads took it in turns talking to me about Australia, the book I was reading and helping me operate the washing machines), I figured I was safer with the scary black people than with the overly suspicious, nervous twitchy white people. With two friends from the hostel in tow, I wandered through the dark, gloomy, smelly streets of Harlem, arriving finally at the mysterious Temple M. It didn't look like the jazz club we were expecting, it looked more like someone's home and when we pressed the single 'm' on the doorbell, we realised that's exactly what it was.

The professor from Back to the Future answered the door. Honestly, the same hair and everything, except this was the French version. He told us that we'd missed the recital but there were still some people inside and we were welcome to join them if we'd let them share our wine. In we went.

Temple M is the dream of the Back to the Future guy. He moved to New York many years ago and bought a huge, freezing, rundown apartment on a dodgy street in Harlem. Being somewhat of an aesthetic, he collected a group of friends and together they restored the place into a beautiful, open, warmly decorated mecca of peace. Antique floor rugs, a large area for the various performances and classes that take place there, books upon books, stunning French furniture and beautiful floorboards - the place was imposing yet welcoming and incredibly comfortable. We felt instantly relaxed in the company of our welcoming and happy new friends.

We stayed long past midnight, dancing around the living room waving colourful flags designed for that purpose, laughing at the Mr Bean style dancing of one of our new friends, drinking and commenting on the terrible Californian wine, talking about whatever we felt like and swapping phrases in our respective languages. By the time we left, we were breathless, laughing, delighted at what we'd discovered in such an ugly part of the city and chatting to each other about what this or that person had said. It was a beautiful night with interesting people and a prime example of what people love about New York - the anythingcanhappen-ness of a city so full of people and grit and life.

dumpster diving in the big apple

2009-01-19T16:25:00.003+09:00

Those of you who are into reading left wing literature or offbeat magazines will have heard of the Freegans by now. They are a group that started (I think) in New York and can now be found across the globe, in any city that leaves its commercial rubbish on the streets for collection.

I had read about the Freegans some time ago, so when my couchsurfing host Kate invited me to a Freegan tour on a freezing Monday night, I accepted with enthusiasm. The tour began at a Vegetarian Cafe, from where we scoured the streets for cafes, supermarkets and - the Holy Grail of Freeganism - bakeries. In the early evening, each of these places discards the day's out of date produce (in the case of bakeries the products are usually fresh from that morning). In the interim between the trash going out and the rubbish trucks collecting it, the bags are left on the streets and with the weather several degrees below zero, it was perfectly refrigerated.

We started at a supermarket and put all the food out as a display to show how much we found. There were tomatoes, limes, several punnets of gourmet hummus, tubs of yoghurt, bread rolls, bunches of herbs and even a beautiful collection of tulips and some pink carnations. In ten minutes of rummaging through the bags we had enough food to feed all twelve of us for several days.

The next few shops yielded similar results until finally we arrived at the bakery. Chocolate and blueberry muffins, bagels, rolls, apple turnovers and meat bondas were added to my shopping bag.

By this time, we were frozen. My fingers and toes were throbbing with what I was certain must be the onset of frostbite, but I had in my possession enough gourmet food to last me for the entire ten days I was to spend in New York.

The only mild irritation was the inevitable hippy speech. Apparently by going through rubbish for free food we are able to 'remove ourselves from the system of oppression'. Yes, feeding the world is all one giant system of oppression. As they say in Team America - "there are these corporations, and they're all corporation-ey". The consumers who refuse to buy limes because they have a spot on them have nothing to do with it. The only way I managed to wrest control of my tongue enough to keep it quiet was by reminding myself that it would soon be tasting the delights of free food - free not only in the monetary sense but also in the freedom from oppression sense. How wonderful.

www.freegan.info - worth a look

diamonds on the emerald isle

2009-01-10T21:52:00.002+09:00

You've heard certain stereotypes about Ireland and the Irish. The Irish hospitality, old guys in pubs with white beards, rolling green hills, fantastic landscapes, small fishing towns and wooly Aran jumpers. With chatty pub owners, shop staff calling my hostel for me when I was locked out, and happy, comical voices everywhere, the stereotypes seem to be holding true.

My first three days on the isle have been spent driving around with my two new friends Miki and Beatrice. Miki is my mini, a free upgrade courtesy of the guy at Thrifty. Miki is bright red, has six gears and a lot of grunt. In spite of Beatrice's best efforts to take us along Ireland's boggiest roads, Miki hasn't failed to get me home safely. Beatrice is my GPS navigator, I've named her after the woman who guides Dante through Paradiso. She has no sense of humour, a tendency to sound disparaging and likes to take us on some very unusual routes, exasperatedly announcing "recalculating" every time I pass her 'turn off' having decided that a thirty centimetre wide country road isn't the best way to get to a major city. She even suggested that I drive off a cliff into the ocean from where I would allegedly be able to see the Cliffs of Moher ‑ poor Miki had to reverse half a kilometre along a boggy country road when I got suspicious and checked my final destination. Still, Beatrice gets us there in the end and has treated me to some truly beautiful roads that I would never have attempted if I'd been relying on a map.

Each day in Ireland has become steadily more beautiful. On the first day I drove along the Dingle peninsula and then crossed through Connor Pass, arriving at the Ring of Kerry. Dingle is Europe's westernmost town and it's a charming place on the bank of the Shannon River. From Dingle, the drive towards Connor Pass was life‑threateningly beautiful. The water on my right was so smooth that the reflection of the clouds made me wonder if the world had turned upside down. The shapes of hills chasing each other across the horizon unfolded in endless, perfect pale blue and Miki steadfastly held to the road while I haphazadly twisted the steering wheel around the river's curves. The Connor Pass followed, a zigzagging road through mountains that brought me out at the start (or end) of the Ring of Kerry.

I only did half of the Ring; frankly I got bored. It was over populated, over developed and over rated, so somewhere around Valentia Island I turned back and made my way home through the rain. My expectations had been low so it wasn't a disappointment, the rest of the day was so full of verdant beauty that I didn't feel let down.

I could go on to describe the impressive limestone of The Burren, melted into the shape of a cowpat over green hills shimmering in the sun, or the this‑reminds‑me‑of‑Victoria angles of the Cliffs of Moher, or the spiralling heights of the Connor Pass, or last night's frost as thick as snow that lasted all throughout the day and lined the roads like a pathway of tiny diamonds; but you'll either get jealous or bored. Each day has brought amazing sights and my only complaint is that the Irish don't build verges on their roads so it's rare that I can stop to enjoy the view properly. They're pretty matter‑of‑fact about the beauty they live amongst, as I suppose many of us are in Australia.

I've seen some amazing places on the trip, but Ireland is the only country I've visited that strikes wonder across my gaze the way Australia does. It glows with an undeniable radiance ‑ it's no wonder her people can't even complain about the cold without sounding cheerful.

ireland taster

2009-01-10T01:17:00.004+09:00

Ireland is bad for internet connections, so while I have a lovely gushing post about how beautiful it all is sitting on my phone, I can't get any wifi to upload it.

However, I have just spent 5 days driving around County Clare and have seen some of the most beautiful and unique landscapes ever. God knows how I managed not to run off the road. My camera card is full of photos of pretty mountains and lakes and stone age monuments, most of which aren't that interesting (landscapes are so hard to photograph) but some of which will end upon my wall at home.

Home - I'm really looking forward to getting there and to seeing you all again. If I didn't have such awesome cities as New York and Tokyo ahead of me I'd be feeling pretty impatient for February, but there's plenty of excitement yet to come.

Anyway, am doing well, arrived safely in Cork and am heading up to Dublin, Wicklow, Waterford and places like that.

Proper post to come whenever the Irish invent wifi.

my millinery course and what really drove the hatters mad

2008-12-19T23:12:00.003+09:00

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.

just a number in a production line

2008-12-13T23:07:00.001+09:00

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.

wann das weg langweilig ist

2008-12-12T04:23:00.003+09:00

// 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.

couches und wein in Wien

2008-12-09T04:02:00.002+09:00

// 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.

one bin man, five prayer ladies, many dogs, a stern girl on a bridge and a bearded banjo player who misses his steak

2008-12-06T03:53:00.001+09:00

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.

acesta este meu journal in romania

2008-12-05T03:58:00.001+09:00

// 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.

budapest

2008-11-25T05:20:00.003+09:00

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...

snowy steamy heaven

2008-11-25T05:18:00.001+09:00

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.

oswiecim/auschwitz

2008-11-15T05:41:00.004+09:00

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.

pierogis in poland

2008-11-14T05:40:00.003+09:00

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.

cod tow ahsh‑ease k'ellneh‑say eezhdeakoo

2008-11-06T03:57:00.001+09:00

//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.

e's ass'mo koo a koo t'arps

2008-11-05T03:55:00.002+09:00

// 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.

cool runnings

2008-11-03T03:49:00.001+09:00

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.

es uz has kah brud jak mens

2008-11-03T03:48:00.001+09:00

// 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.

eesti

2008-10-31T23:22:00.002+09:00

//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.

kiek in der kok

2008-10-29T23:21:00.002+09:00

//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.

bloemen en coffeeshops

2008-10-02T22:17:00.002+08:00

// 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.

københavn

2008-09-28T17:35:00.001+08:00

// 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.

anføres af christiania

2008-09-26T17:27:00.001+08:00

// 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!

bonjourolahellowhereyoufrom?

2008-09-13T15:25:00.002+08:00

// 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.

la prima imprezione

2008-09-11T15:25:00.001+08:00

// 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.

assino con banjo

2008-09-09T15:25:00.001+08:00

//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.

la tomatina

2008-09-02T04:38:00.001+08:00

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.

neve nell' estate

2008-08-31T05:54:00.004+08:00

// 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

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.

the amusing

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.

the good and the guide‑bookey

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.

the conclusion
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.

sporca citta

2008-08-30T22:39:00.003+08:00

// dirty city

They all say Milano is dirty but I didn't notice any unusual levels of dirt. The sights are conveniently close together. Starting in the centre, you visit the huge Duomo. Its pale white stone blinds tourists in the sunlight, its interiors are refreshingly understated ‑ partly because most of the decoration is so far above your head that you can't see it properly. There are gargoyles, biblical figures, animals and decorations carved high on each pillar. Stained glass windows send shards of coloured light bouncing off each other, but the size, grey walls and sombre mood of the place leave a feeling of doom. Not the kind of place I'd like to go to worship.

The outside is far more interesting. For some strange reason there were empty bottles of water arranged in a blue, white and green path just outside the entrance. As usual there were men with little bits of string trying to get the tourists to hold something long enough to be pressured into buying it. I had a panino from a streetside café and a Chinese guy spoke to me in German because he thought I was from Austria, not Australia. His friend laughed at him and said "stupido!". It's not the first time someone has confused Australia with Austria. Perhaps it's my German‑in‑Italian accent that throws them.

I lingered in the main square for a while, trying to awake my travel weary senses so they could tell me how wonderful and exciting this yet‑another‑church was, before I gave up and headed for the Galleria.

The Galleria is one of Milano's famous landmarks. Once a crossroads, it was covered by a glass dome and now resembles the Queen Victoria Arcade of Melbourne, with ritzier stores and a giant McDonald's re-branded to match the surroundings. I took a couple of photos, skipped through and found the world famous La Scala Theatre at the other end.

Ok, I have been travelling for a long time now, and I'm somewhat harder to impress these days, but to me La Scala more closely resembles the Brisbane Hotel pre‑renovation than an internationally renowned theatre. The Maj on Hay St is much more interesting. In fact it was only the signs outside that alerted me to the building's location.

Trying not to look too disgusted, I went on into the Quadriletto d'Oro - Golden Quarter - Milan's famous fashion district. The most famous district of the world's most fashionable city, totally on the cutting edge. Giant careers have been made here, the biggest, best and most beautiful brands in the world line the streets. People wander the streets toting bags upon bags of the latest clothes. Famous models turn their coke-powdered noses up at the mere mortals who dare invade their territory. The criss-crossing streets echo with the squeals of delighted bargain hunters who consider anything designed by Tom Ford a bargain if it costs less than a grand. at least, that's how I imagine it is every month of the year except August. Yep, even Milan shuts down for Ferragosto. I shrugged, having had a vague expectation that I'd find Milan in this state.

Most of my photos of Milan are photos of shop windows and graffiti.

photos

2008-08-21T21:41:00.002+08:00

Am having issues with my flickr account therefore can't upload as many photos as I'd like. I'm sure they'll sort it out soon, so in the meantime you'll have to be patient.

There are a few more CVA photos but still more to come. Eventually.

Bolzano/Bozen

2008-08-21T21:04:00.004+08:00

After fleeing the farmer, I went on to Bolzano to hook up with a guy I know: Ötzi (more on him later) Bolzano is in the far far north of Italy and German is the first language, followed by Italian and a fairly good knowledge of English. With my three languages around me I thought I'd be in my element but I actually had a lot of problems deciding which language to use! People would speak to me in German, I'd respond in Italian and they'd notice my accent and swap to English while I realised my mistake and switched to German. Ordering a meal was a big adventure.

German and Austrian tourists zip around on bikes and their language grates in contrast to the lyrical Italian words. A portico lined street is flanked on one side by German shops and on the other by Italian shops. Pizzerias sell pizza topped with würst while birrerias (breweries) sell pasta cooked in beer. Every street has two names and the buildings are a strange mixture of German facades decorated with brightly coloured Italian frescoes. It's a very pretty town and very rich. Fortunately the shops were all closed for Ferragosto which probably saved me a lot of money. Window shopping sufficed as I made my way past stunning window displays toward the Museum of Archaeology where Ötzi was awaiting me.

I first encountered Ötzi while reading my guidebook in a cafe. Ötzi is no looker. He's past the prime of his life, only 5 feet tall, has leathery wrinkly skin, sunken eyes and a large gap between his front teeth. Still, you have to forgive him these shortcomings when you consider that he has been dead for three and a half thousand years.

Ötzi was murdered after a fight with a mysterious stranger and his corpse was left to rot, however nature took over and in 1991 his body was found frozen in a block of ice by two hikers. He is now resting in a giant temperature controlled room in the Archaeology Museum of Bolzano, with a window through which tourists come to stare at him. His body provides many clues about how people lived in his time. His skin bears strange marks that the scientists suspect are the earliest known form of acupuncture. His last meal, recent ailments, clothing and tools have been studied and are now on display in an entire floor of the museum, it's a very interesting exhibit and I spent a lot of time there.

Ötzi's settlement is long gone, but there is a castle that may be the last remaining ruins of the very same settlement that he belonged to years before the castle was even built. It's one of many such castles nestled in the hills surrounding Bolzano. Snaking around the ruins are endless rows of vines, climbing in ever‑diminishing circles. The effect is dramatic in the evening when the sunset adorns the vines with golden light, but in the daytime the effect is somewhat marred by the many power lines that bring electricity to the ancient town.

I wandered along the river to a castle with two names; Runkelstein in German and Runcalo in Italian. Its walls bear mediaeval frescoes which depict the tales of King Arthur, Tristan and Isolde and various other tales. They are the oldest surviving mediaeval frescoes in the world.
Back in town, I noted the presence of much anti‑Nazi graffiti scrawled in Italian, German and English. I passed through the main square to the Duomo, which is a mixture of various architectural styles that surprisingly complement each other quite well. I'm more than a little jaded now when it comes to churches, but this one had a pretty spire.

Bolzano was an interesting little town and would have also been very expensive if the shops were open. I wandered, window shopped and then left after a couple of days, headed for Milano.

Future updates will probably have to wait until Spain, as it's August and everything in Italy is closed, including internet places. I found one today by luck but don't expect to find another.

I'm making my way through the northern part of Italy, visiting Milan and then heading for Pisa where I catch my flight to Spain. No, it's not with Spainair so it won't crash!

Til next time!

la fattoria

2008-08-21T21:03:00.003+08:00

// the farm

Well, the farm thing turned out to be a complete disaster. The usual deal with WWOOF is that you work a maximum of 6 hours in exchange for a bed and food. Some places are different but those places make it clear prior to arrival. I'd actually originally been destined for one such farm but they wrote to tell me that they had changed their methods and I chose not to go there, instead opting for another farm in the Dolomites.

The place I chose was beautiful, nestled in the mountains, surrounded by pine forests and green hills, pretty church spires and little villages lining the nearby hillside with lights twinkling prettily; all of which I glimpsed from the windows of the kitchen and laundry while I worked 10‑14 hour days without a break except to eat the food cooked by another overworked "wwoofer".

It was interesting at least to see the workings (ahem, "workings") of an Italian farm. There were 40 goats which were milked for cheese, 13 puppies which were for sale and three dogs which were for the cats to chase. Each morning a temporary electric fence was set up on a grassy area to form a yard for the goats, which were herded in an unusual way: you run away from them and they chase you into the enclosure. Think they could teach our sheep a thing or two! The dogs didn't seem to do much (like their master) the farm actually ran out of food for the dogs while I was there, something that has never happened on our farm in 30 years but was apparently normal there because they were so isolated (nearest town: 15 minutes drive).

While the goats were feeding, their stalls were cleaned out each day and some were selected to be milked. To make cheese, the milk is heated to 60 degrees, then allowed to cool, then rennet is put into it to curdle it before it's heated again to about 90 degrees. Then the top of it is scraped off and the rest is moulded into cheese. The cheese is left in the cellar where it shrinks as the liquid drains from it and it develops a crust that smells like very old toenail clippings.

That was the extent of the farm life experience. The rest of the time was spent cleaning plates, cleaning rooms and cooking for the guests. The place was organised so badly that even with 2 owners and 5 helpers, the dishes, cheese, goats and cooking took 10‑14 hours each day. Ridiculous. The food was all cooked by another wwoofer (when she arrived there hadn't been anything for her to eat!) and we weren't allowed to drink, rest or have anything resembling fun. We did organise a secret party in the teepee they had out the back which was fun until the owner turned up and had the gall to ask for a glass of our wine! I pretended to be asleep until he finally left and everyone laughed when I suddenly sprang into life the minute he disappeared through the doorway.

I was fortunate in that there were three other Italians wwoofing at the farm along with a French girl fluent in Italian and we all got along well. The Italian couple had their own car and on Friday we all decided we'd had enough so we told them we were leaving, had a big argument (try arguing in a foreign language, very frustrating) and took off first thing the next morning. It's a shame because the place was really lovely, but in my opinion 10 hours of work in exchange for 2 plates of pasta and a bed is not an 'exchange' at all. The "farmer" (who got up at 9am every day) was a very unreasonable and disorganised man incapable of understanding why we weren't happy, even though we had explained to him twice during the week that the deal was not what we'd agreed to, nor what anyone in their right mind would agree to. He said that he always has problems with Australians and I said that's because we aren't easily intimidated and we aren't used to being ripped off. Ha.

This is nothing against wwoof of course, most of the experiences I've heard of have been good, in this case it was just bad communication and bad organisation (I say this with a wry smile ‑ bad organisation in Italy? What a shock!)

Anyway, enough of that. It was an interesting experience, I learnt to make cheese (I prefer cheddar though) and once I'd decided to do the Italian thing and go on strike I spent a nice afternoon in a beautiful room watching the rain and being comfortable. I didn't get to see anything of the mountains but I have seen a lot of mountains now anyway. I spoke only Italian the entire week and learnt a lot of new words and phrases. The other wwoofers were very good to me and took me all the way to Venice on Saturday, from where I caught my train to Bolzano. The trip must go on!

conservazione not conversazione

2008-08-21T20:56:00.004+08:00

//conservation, not conversation

My two week CVA working holiday comprised seven Aussies, two Italians (plus 20 or so drop‑ins), several rude stereotype‑enforcing French people, three languages, lots of pasta, innumberable weeds, some very blunt tools and a fair amount of questionable concrete mix.

Our tour took us from Carignano, near Torino, to the Mercantour Mountains in France before ending in Monte Carlo, where we enjoyed our last two days together eatng, drinking, and avoiding the casino.

We were assigned a search and destroy mission for week one in Carignano; search for the three or four actual plants in two parks and destroy everything else. We pulled, hacked, snapped and swore at weeds, unearthing a beautiful little castle in one park and a whole lot of white moths in the other. We met a lot of locals and while we had the impression that they thought we were completely barmy travelling all the way from Australia to do their weeding, they were kind to us. We were treated to a tour through Carignano (which has a spectacular fan‑shaped church), as well as various other towns, along with home‑cooked pasta, bocce games and mint tastings (nearby Pancalieri produces world famous mint). In Carignano we were shown a big, heavy stone and our tour guide told us with great relish that people who hadn't paid their debts were once dropped onto this stone, bottom first, from a height of about 5 metres. These days, locals who are deeply in debt tell their friends that they have "andato a culo" ‑ literally "gone on my ass".

Speaking of the locals, there were some truly unforgettable figures in Carignano and one of them was Gino, a tiny old man with a very cheeky smile and a taste for vino. He is a member of an RSL‑type club across the street from our accommodation, which is in fact more to do with wearing funny hats and playing Bocce than it is to do with anything else. Another notable was Loris, who materiaised every now and then to make mountains of pasta for us or to leave a container of hand‑picked wild blackberries on our kitchen table. He spoke to us only in Italian and laughed at everything. His pasta was the saviour of our BBQ to which half the town was invited while we were naively cooking for 20. I caught a few of the Italians conversing about the incredibly odd watermelon salad (watermelon with ONION!?!?) and noted that Loris' pasta was a very popular dish with the Italians, who are loathe to try anything that seems even slightly unusual. (Explains a lot about the country.) All in all, the Italians took good care of the weird Aussies who wandered the streets in work clothes and floppy green hats.

On a Monday morning we departed Italy for France. Our first day was free so we wandered through a nearby valley, where I developed a strange obsession with taking close up photos of flowers and insects. From Tuesday to Friday we worked very hard, some of us building an entrance to an old mine which will be opened to tourists while others jigsaw‑puzzled their way through creating a stone path masterpiece. We were ensconced in dorms on top of the world, at the bottom of a valley (up and down works differently in the mountains). We carted wooden planks, shook our heads in confusion at the French leader's idea of a concrete mix, stole a few moments to look for silver near the mine and collected a lot of rocks, putting them into the wall from where they were promptly pulled by our merciless Italian leader Stefano because they didn't fit properly. I will never again take for granted the beauty of a rock wall; it's harder work than you can possibly guess. We had a couple of interesting altercations with the French leader who seemed not to understand the difference between volunteers and slaves (I marched to his house one evening and lectured him while he sat on the stairs in his underpants, pretty funny really.) In the end though they came through for us and we were given excellent hiking advice, some very good picnics and even a few polite words. The French are perhaps more ignorant than rude... perhaps.

I enjoyed myself in both places far more than I expected to. I have learned to wield a whetstone, mix concrete, build rock walls (and learned that they invented bricks for a reason); I can now expertly hack at weeds with a scythe, paint the Italian way (add some paint to your water) and best of all, I have discovered a real love of hiking and, apparently, photographing flowers and insects. Two new hobbies!

However, the aspect of the trip that I enjoyed the most was meeting the inspiring, interesting people I worked with. Every one of them taught me something about how to make a success of life, the men were refreshing evidence that men with grace, tact and intelligence do in fact exist while the women were blueprints for the sort of person I hope to become. I definitely recommend a trip with CVA, whether in Australia or overseas. It was interesting, fulfilling and enjoyable.

all's well

2008-08-14T21:16:00.002+08:00

no net access at the farm, am at a nearby hotel but it's an hours walk away so you wont be hearing from me again until the 23rd

al'ls well

ciao a dop (til later)
K

numero nuovo

2008-07-27T17:00:00.004+08:00

// new number

I'm heading into France until the 7th, when I will return to Italy. While in France my number will be +423 663 310703

If you call this number, you are calling Liechtenstein, so be wary of your phone bill.

All is well, having a great time here, blog posts in progress on my phone ready to be added eventually.

Oh, there's no internet access at the next place so I'll disappear until about the 9th of August.

xx

ferrero rocher

2008-07-24T21:16:00.005+08:00

Did you know they come from Torino? As do Nutella, Tic Tacs and Vermouth, while the world's highest quality mint is grown in nearby Pancalfieri. Torino is also the 2008 Design Capital of the world and was the capital city of Italy in the early days of unification.

With the river Po cutting through her centre like a winding blue ribbon, Torino is stunning. Art sculptures mix with ancient palaces and huge paved squares lined with decorative white buildings, with a wide open sky and a refreshing feeling of space. For once, the churches aren't the main attraction touted by locals. Because the city's expansion was planned and therefore designed, the streets follow a sensible pattern, drawing the visitor into the centre of town along the wide and welcoming porticoed walkways of Via Roma. There are fountains, large piazzas and expansive public gardens. (One of the items on the ever increasing list of claims to fame is that Torino is Italy's greenest city.)

Visitors are made extremely welcome in this town. There is a Torino card which you can buy for your chosen period of days, from 1 to 7. The card grants you free access to all of the public transport in the city and every single museum in the whole region of Piedmont. There are no limits and it only costs 20 euros for 3 days. Needless to say, I had saved up my museum visitation urges for coming here. My feet still ache when I think of it, but I spent three consecutive days covering just about every type of museum there is.

I wandered through the Palazzo Valentino and its riverside gardens, a typewriter museum (boring but I didn't know what it was until I was through the door), an automobile museum where I was the only woman with lots of car freak men, the Mole Antonella and the giant cinema museum inside (cinema was invented in Torino), the Egyption Museum (biggest one outside of Egypt, with real unwrapped mummies, tombs that were dismantled and reconstructed inside the museum, and many other amazing artefacts).

There was a photography exhibition at the Gallery of Modern Art, Eataly (local food and wine), a trip on a 1930s tram uphill to the Basilica Superga with an amazing view of Torino and a tour in Italian of various tombs of past Italian kings. I held my breath walking within centimetres of ancient paintings and other pieces in the Palazzo Madama. There were textiles, baroque and renaissance paintings including Antonello da Messina's "Portrait of a Man", Anguissola's "Chess Game" and even works by Caravaggio. (Incidentally the town I'm in now has paintings by Molineri, just sitting there in one of the churches.) I also had a personal guided tour in Italian of the many rooms of the Decorative Arts Museum, a palace furnished in the style of the height of Torinese decadance. Winding down, I dropped into an exhibition of Japanese Terracotta warriors (incidentally "terra cotta" translates to "earth cooked") and a few other smaller exhibitions. Feeling puffed? After those three days I spent a whole day in the park reading a book.

I really enjoyed my time in Torino, it was the perfect mix of socialising, museum hopping, wandering, eating and relaxing. Unfortunately the open, clean, modern feel of the city will be left mostly to your imagination; I took very few photos. Torino's beauty is in her history, her modern flourishes, her willingness to embrace visitors, and the soft, contented hum of the crowds wandering through her piazzas.

still kicking

2008-07-23T14:27:00.002+08:00

Just a quick one to say that everything is going well with the volunteer thing, with Conservation Volunteers Australia. No time to write properly just now, but Iàm loving being around some Aussies again and just doing some work instead of visiting billions of museums. It all gets a bit overwhelming so this is nice.

OK, better dash; we are off to clean a garden that we know wonàt be planted by anyone after we leave, but we're hoping we might be wrong.

Check in properly later, hope you're all well.

Love Kara

ho fatto rafting

2008-07-14T20:44:00.002+08:00

// I went rafting

It just occurred to me that when you read this, you will read "hoe fatto" when it's actually "o fut‑to". Italian sounds better than it looks.

Anyway, Aosta was my adventure sport week. I crammed a balloon ride, a hike and a white water rafting adventure into just under a week, and boy are my muscles stiff and sore now!

The rafting adventure was a lot of fun, not least because I was the only girl, surrounded by a group of 12 Italian men in body clinging wetsuits, plus two muscle‑bound rafting guides and a very cute Albanian driver. A feast for the eyes indeed.

The afternoon started off with a half hour explanation of the various commands. I understood most of it, certainly enough that when one of the guys said "o paura, era troppo serioso" which means "I'm scared, it's all too serious" I laughed and agreed with him.

The boys argued in Italian about who got to ride in the raft with the "ragazza" ‑ the girl ‑ until one of the guides sorted it out by choosing people based on relative weights. The winning team taunted the all boy group. Incidentally, the other group fell out of the raft three times while we didn't lose a single person!

Apparently women are better at rafting because what we lack in strength we make up for in willingness to obey commands (important in the rapids) and a better sense of rhythm and ability at teamwork.

Having mastered the commands of "Avanti! Indietro! Tenersi! and SUL FONDO!" (respectively "forwards", "backwards", "hold on" and "GET DOWN") we spent about 2 hours in the water. It was SO much fun! My arms and sides and legs are still aching 2 days later but it was worth it. We zipped along in the rapids and raced the other boat, laughing at them every time they fell out. We passed a bunch of kids on hydrospeeds (little boogie board things) and the guide remarked that they must be French, because Italian parents would sooner die than send their kids into the rapids on little boards.

After two hours, drifting down the river through mountains, past castles, farmland and stunning scenery, we finally landed and limped our way back to the car.

The rafting lasted longer than it was supposed to, so I ended up missing the last bus home. Luckily the driver (who's name was Spartak) lived in the town I was staying in so he offered to take me home. He dropped me at my hotel and invited me to join him, his brother and the brother's girlfriend for dinner, so I met them later on and I had a really yummy spaghetti and a few drinks before being dropped back to my hotel. I'd also made friends with the girl on the balloon ride, so I congratulated myself at making four friends in four days, and all Italian speakers! Spartak spoke some English but not a great deal, and his brother and the girlfriend spoke no English at all, which forced me to practise my Italian. It was quite fun to hold a conversation in Italian after so many weeks of only talking to waiters and shop assistants.

That was my last day in Aosta, so the next morning it was a painful walk to the train station and a ride back to Torino. I slept on the train (with my handbag tied to me) and dreamt about sailing along white rapids.

prendo il pene arrabbiata

2008-07-12T00:20:00.001+08:00

//i would like an angry penis please

The waitress handled it well. She blinked at me for a moment before recovering and asking in Italian if I realised that it was a spicy dish. I nodded and said I did, stifling a giggle as a I realised that my accent obviously hadn't been quite right.

In Italian, "penne arrabbiata" is a spicy pasta dish, while "pene arrabbiata" is an angry penis, which I'd just ordered in good, but not quite good enough, Italian. The difference is subtle but significant.

dove sono tutte le penne?

2008-07-11T00:18:00.002+08:00

// where are all the pens?

I am typing this next to a little fountain, the water tripping over the edge of the rocks and stumbling along the path cut for it down the grassy hill. There are shady trees, birds, flowers and secret pathways and above it all, Monte Bianco is the dancing Salome, with the clouds as her seven veils.

Monte Bianco (or Mont Blanc in French) taunts the surrounding peaks with her pale majesty. All through the four seasons, she is dressed resplendently in snow while the other mountains don shades of green and brown for the warmer months. The little town of Courmayeur (where I am today) rests at her feet and caters for the hiking and skiing desires of Europe's very rich. In summer, hikers are everywhere. One imagines they will give way to the skiers in a few months time. The shops here are Cartier, Armani and Mikimoto getting cosy with Timberland and small hiking boutiques. There are many familiar brands and many others I've never heard of, but I have not seen a single Mont Blanc pen.

By now, I have admired Monte Bianco from almost every angle possible in Italy. This morning I saw her from the Valle d'Aosta, casually drifting along at 870 metres above ground in a hot air balloon. I was booked in with others but the rest of the group pulled out, so it ended up being a private flight just for me! I felt very bourgeouis. I was collected from my hotel at 6am by Margot, a friendly girl the same age as me, and she took me to her grandfather, the balloon pilot. I helped them fill the balloon by holding the base wide so that a big fan could blow air inside it. After about 15 minutes they turned on the gas and the balloon began to float.

The first minute or so left me light-headed, it's a strange sensation to float so high, so suddenly. I stared at the ground beneath us as it became further and further away and turned my face to the wind.

The three of us sailed through the valley, dropping and ascending depending on which wind we wanted to catch. Nestled in a tiny basket in the middle of the sky, we watched the sunrise over the mountain peaks. Margot pointed out different places to me, the local prison which she is sure must be empty because there is no crime here ‑ if someone tries to rob you, you just threaten to tell his mother ‑ her apartment, the dairy fields and the cows. She told me that the cow is the symbol of the valley of Aosta and that ever year in September there is a "cow battle festival" when they dress up the cows and bring them into the town to do battle... Not too sure what kind of battle it is but it sounds like fun.

After we landed (with a bump) Margot took me to a bar she used to work at and we had breakfast together, which ended up being free! Then she gave me her email address and told me to write to her when I am back in Turin because she works there. So, in the middle of the clouds I made a new friend.

Now, after a lunch of prodotti tipici (of course) I am going to wander Courmayeur some more and then head back to Aosta. Tonight there is a jazz party in the main square so I'll sneak some wine and a cup and check it out. Tomorrow, rafting and then back to Torino on Sunday.

It hasn't been a cheap trip to Aosta, but it's been worth every centissimo.

sto camminando oggi

2008-07-10T00:14:00.002+08:00

// today I'm wandering

Aosta is so far north that there are streets called "rue via" ‑ 'street' in French and 'street' in Italian. The people here are fluent in both but Italian is still the official language. I'm very close to St Bernard's Pass and Monte Bianco, (or Mont Blanc); from my hotel room I can see the glaciers of the Gran Paradiso National Park.

Aosta was once the favoured departure point for Roman expeditions (pillages) to the north, and the town has an excellently preserved Roman wall running an almost complete circumference of the 'centro storico' ‑ historical centre. There are little shops and plenty of 'prodotti tipici' ‑ local products ‑ lots of gelaterias and pizzerias and a beautiful big square in the centre of town. The mountains are visible from almost every street corner and the vibe is a relaxed holiday mood, with hikers and backpackers everywhere. Very few English‑speaking tourists however, most are French.

This morning I jumped on a bus to Cogne and was reminded of Slovenia as I experienced once again the spine chilling fear of trusting one's life to a stranger who drives buses around cliffs like he's the main star of Speed. It's a long way down...

Famous for winter skiing and summer hiking, Cogne is a town balancing between many cultures. Those buildings that are not decidedly German in appearance sport French facades while the streets all have Italian names. A tiny town, there are almost as many hotels as houses and the Valletta, Cissettaz and Patri glaciers dominate the landscape.

I took the funivia/funicular/cabinovia/chairlift thingy (pick a language) up to the start of trail 17, which my Let's Go guide (highly recommended by the way) told me was a good trail for views of the aforementioned Gran Paradiso National Park and her glaciers. I nearly died in the first five minutes but there were two fat Germans on my tail and I couldn't let Australia down, so I struggled onward. I never knew I liked hiking but aparently I do. I found myself grinning as I checked out the grand views and the tiny flowers along the way, spent ages deciphering the Italian signs to learn about some bird/tree/whatever, pushed myself to get up the next hill without pausing. The view became more spectacular with every (exhaustingly steep) twenty metre climb.

Finally, I reached the peak of the trail where I took about a thousand photos of my chin and the top of my head before finally getting my whole face in the frame, and then I headed downhill. A large hare cut across my path, would have made a good meal but unfortunately there is no kitchen in my hotel, pity. I also saw some deer come bounding up the hill ‑ they took one look at me and then turned tail and fled. I wished I were so light-footed.

Meandering down a path that is a skiing trail in winter, I smugly passed puffing tourists toting walking sticks. Back onto the funicular, down to the town where I got lost trying to find the main street (plenty of signs saying "private property" but none saying "the town is this way") and I found my way to the river where I had a picnic lunch.

Now I am sitting in a little bar back in Aosta, fighting a giant wasp for the right to drink my beer and trying to ignore a very loud yappy dog and the very loud smooches of its owner who seems to think that rewarding the dog with kisses will make it shut up... hmm. If my grandmother was here she'd sort it out.

valle d' aosta

2008-07-08T23:12:00.006+08:00

// Valley of Aosta

I'm in Aosta now and in spite of a little confusion with my accommodation (language mix up leading me to believe that I could rent a tent or caravan when, in fact, I couldn't, meaning instead I had to trek the 1.5km back down the hill into town and find a hotel, all sorted now) it's a wonderful place and I'm in love with it. Considering I also fell in love with Torino in the space of about ten minutes yesterday, I might have to curb my romantic impulses a bit.

I can see snow capped mountains from my room!

The internet place is a little far from my hotel so I am just here to say hi and let you know where I am. I'll be back in Torino on Sunday night.

Hotel here: Hotel Mancuso Ph + 0165 34 526
Hotel in Torino (from Sunday until the 20th): Open011 Ph + 011 25 05 35

ciao 4 now
xx

uno di tanti

2008-07-07T00:07:00.003+08:00

//one of many

There are some things that even the least observant person will notice after only a few days in Italy. The first thing that becomes apparrent is that all the cities in Italy share the same major street names, mostly relating to the unification of Italy. The second is that the Leaning Tower of Pisa is anything but unique. Almost every town has a building somewhere that leans dangerously; the only difference is that Pisa's started doing it during construction.

I'm in Pisa today but am confined to the train station. I have a couple of hours here until my next train but today there is a train and bus strike (scopiero) which apparently affects not only (most of) the trains, but also the baggage deposit lockers. In Italy, even the machines want in on the sciopero. So, rather than carry my luggage on the hour long round‑trip from the station to a tower that I've already seen (and wasn't that impressed by), I'm sitting here in Maccas, listening to music and typing this.

I'm on the way to Torino from Florence. One night in Torino and then a week in Aosta where I hope to get in a bit of adventure sport (nothing too dangerous mum, just white water rafting). My frist trip to Florence in 2002 left me cold, but this time around I had a lot more fun. I met up with Maaike and two of her friends, so we spend a night drunkenly wandering the streets of Florence, giving directions to tourists and visiting all the major sights in the moonlight. Pretty cool having the Duomo to ourselves at the middle of the night at around 1am and enjoyed having the Duomo to ourselves, and we failed in our attempt to find a bar, instead we drank on the streets which, thankfully, is perfectly legal here.

In spite of enjoying myself, there isnt much to say about Florence. There were some cool shops and a funky bar slash library, and I had the best lasagne of my life there. Oh, and Maaike and I had a picnic on the bridge overlooking the Ponte Vecchio. Yeah.

la pietra di Lecce

2008-06-30T20:51:00.003+08:00

// The stone of Lecce
Near Lecce, there are quarries for stone that has the curious quality of being soft when taken from the ground, before gradually hardening in the heat. This made it perfect for carving the town's many facades and, combined with its location near the coast, this has secured Lecce's popularity with Italian tourists. Foreigners are rare here, even in July.

In this city of pale stone, the heat waves settle into the ground by day and wend their way over your feet, around your calves, seducitvely warming you well into the night. When the sun shines, a cool breeze chases the heat through the many piazzas and along the blazing white streets. The sun strives to burn you even in the shade, bouncing off the facades of the buildings that line every piazza.

Leccese architecture is frothy, overstated glory in the name of decadent decoration. One architect in particular is responsible for most of the exaggerated 'flair', his name was Zingalo but they called him 'Lo Zingarello' ‑ the gypsy ‑ for he tended to wander between various projects. Zingarello's facades and interiors are a lesson in exuberance. Showing a clear disdain for moderation, he sculpted the faces of cherubs spouting from the petals of flowers that adorn the forehead of other cherubs. Horses, foxes, men twist and twirl around each other with such hedonistic abandon that one wonders whether this church was built to house the cult of Bacchus, not Jesus. It's so overdone it's almost sinful.

Not to be confused with Lucca in the north, Lecce is in Puglia in Italy's south. Her inhabitants are friendly, her tourists are mostly Italian, her food is cheap and her beauty is like an aged Italian woman who wears too much lipstick.

And now that it's 6pm, my siesta is over and it's time to venture back out into the gentle caress of Lecce's lurking heat waves.

questo ho imparato

2008-06-30T20:49:00.002+08:00

// this, I have learned

If you can't fix it with duct tape; you can fix it with Betadine.
If you want an Italian guy to come onto you, learn Italian and speak it with a cute accent, stumbling over your 'r's when you say 'tre'.
Apparently I look German, Russian, Czech and/or Swedish, but definitely not Australian. It's the pale skin that throws them.
I speak Italian with a German accent.
If you want a waiter to stop being an asshole, ask him/her how to say something in their native language; suddenly they see you as an intelligent, thoughful, cultured person instead of a tourist.
The best travel clothing in the world is made of New Zealand wool by Icebreaker.
The best walking shoes in the world come from Singapore and cost about 7 dollars.
The ugliest jewellery in the world is in Italy.
People will line up for two hours at the Hard Rock cafe, rather than order a pasta dish at the good Italian restaurant next door.
The French are not that rude.
The English and the Italians are.
You don't need a guide book to tell you how to get there, you need it to help you decide where to go.
Even if you end up buying cat food instead of tuna, supermakets are pretty much the same anywhere and therefore are a great cure for homesickness.
Siestas rule.
All the beaches in Europe are pretty shit. Even if you think you have found a nice one, you will change your mind when the fifth plastic bag floats gaily past you and the umbrella man charges you 8 euro for some shade.
Ozzie Osborne has brought a new song out, and he really shouldn't have.

che cazzo

2008-06-29T20:50:00.001+08:00

// what the f...

The reason the bread in Italy tastes like crap is that there was once a shortage of salt, so they made bread without salt. Then, when salt became readily available again, they just kept making bread the same way, saltless and tasteless. This may be an insight into why Italy is such a 'casino' (a mess) ‑ they don't bother changing things for the better, as though it doesn't occur to them that making an improvement might be...well... an improvement.

sono ancora qui

2008-06-28T15:52:00.003+08:00

// i'm still here

I'm in Rome, my last day. Tomorrow I hit up Lecce and then a little town called Matera. Then north to go white water rafting and a balloon ride in the Alps. Annndd...yeah, that's about it.

Have written things for this blog but they are on my phone and I forgot the cable to transfer it across, so you'll have to wait to hear about the rubbish heaps in Naples. the views in Capri, the friendly people in Montepulciano and the heat in Rome.

Missing you all and hope you are all well and happy and still remember me!

mi piace roma

2008-06-26T20:43:00.002+08:00

// I like Rome
Fontana Trevi, Piazza Spagna, Vittorio Emmanuele, Piazza del Popolo, Santa Maria Maggiore, Pantheon, Piazza Navona, Quattro Fontane, Colosseo; Rome is monument after piazza after monument. Everyone I've met here has been here for a whirlwind three days, seeing the sights and running around in the heat, rushing from one must‑see to the next. It's an insult to the city, in fact it's an insult to any city but especially to Rome.

My favourite hours here have been spent wandering the streets at night (don't worry mum there are always people staying in the hostel who come with me). The Trastevere quarter is especially charming at night, with bars and shops lining the Fiume Tevere (the river that runs through Rome) and a little island where you can sit on cushions, sip a spritz and marvel at the beauty of Italian men. Sadly it's only the old ones who ask me out, upon my polite refusal each of them has said "well, I am Roman, it is in my blood to try. Buona sera, bella."

In a city as ancient as Rome there are of course many idiosyncrasies and it's these that I have been seeking out. I've been rewarded with many little discoveries, such as the coolest shoe shop in the known universe tucked away in Trastevere. I've also come across 17 of the 666 known Madonna and Child mini ‑ sculptures (there would be a word for them but I don't know it) adorning the street corners throughout Rome. I was delighted to stumble across a pyramid a little south of the centre on my way to a whole suburb made up of thousands of ancient broken pots. There's even a Necromancer's Magic Doorway just near my hostel. The inscriptions lining it are the remnants of the notes written by a necromancer who fled mysteriously sometime before the 9th century. A marquis had been funding his research, and after the experts of the time were unable to translate the Latin inscriptions, the marquis had them carved into a doorway in the hopes that someday a passerby might be able to translate them. Indeed, they were eventually translated, but not until 1963, several centuries too late.

The Cappucin Monks are an old favourite that I returned to; monks who celebrated death as merely the portal to the next life, and used each other's bones to decorate their chapels. You come face to face with Death as he should be; grinning at you from between a pelvis, finger bones and femoras making up his scythe and scales. He reminds you that "what you are now, we once were and what we are now, you will be".

Un piccolo giro ‑ a quick trip ‑ around the ruins of Rome leads one to marvel at how the seat of ancient civilisation has evolved to become the centre of such a chaotic nation. Nevertheless, Rome is everything it should be and more, and even though I didn't bother to throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain, I know I'll be back.

napoli crapoli

2008-06-18T20:41:00.002+08:00

"The city of Naples is resplendent with her crystal clear waters, the Isle of Capri winking from across the bay, the sparkling..." I lower the little pocket guide book I'm reading and stare dubiously across the Piazza, past the by now infamous piles of rubbish and across to the brown waters of the bay, crowded with people and cruise ships. Due to a mixture of problems involving the government and the Camorra (the local mafia) Naples has been steadily drowning in rubbish since 2004. The problem escalated recently and the EU stepped in, but the city is still overrun with waste which the citizens have been known to burn on the streets. Naples is chaos, crime, grime, and a few (ugly) monuments here and there.

If you wrench your mindset around to that of a wide‑eyed, excited, open minded traveller, who doesn't hail from one of the world's cleanest cities, you can detect an undercurrent of excitement beating steadily beneath the dirty, smelly, winding streets. One night I met up with Stu (college Stu for those in the know) and we watched Italy beat France in the soccer, with terrifyingly loud fireworks going off a few metres away every time Italy scored a goal. One firework in particular was reminiscent of WWII, but all it did was make noise ‑ no pretty lights! It's almost as though Naples takes for granted that its beauty has been touted for centuries (the guide books quote Goethe, Napoleon and the likes ‑ anybody who visited more than 50 years ago) and feels it's done its job; pretty is so passè.

However ugly the city may be, it charmed me in a strange, I'll probably never bother to return but I'm glad I came, sort of way. After all, Napoli brought us pizza, it's the gateway to Pompei, Erculano and various other sites of archaeological importance, it has some of the best museums in the world and the traffic is crazy enough that it's a tourist attraction in itself (best seen from the safety of your hotel balcony). Cars whizz in behind ambulances to get a free ride through the traffic, motorcycles zip along the footpaths, horns beep at each constantly, the modern music of an ancient town.

Food, ruins, friendly waiters and fireworks aside, the city left me underwhelmed. Arriving in the wide, clean(er), marble streets of Rome after three days fruitlessly searching for anything beautiful in Naples was a true relief.

forse non sono normale

2008-06-09T16:52:00.003+08:00

// maybe i'm not normal

Am I a failure at culture for comparing the Cinque Terre to Dunsborough, and thinking that the waters at Dunsborough are a little cleaner, the beaches nicer, and the tourists refreshingly less ignorant?

In truth, it really is beautiful here, not to mention miraculous that it exists at all. Dry stone walls, hundreds of years old, scale the steep hillsides, supporting wild flowers, vineyards, and houses. Considering how much effort it takes just to walk along the established pathways, it's incredible to think that somebody once built all of it. The walls have been calculated to be at least equal to the length of the great wall of China.Even today the hills are so steep and the paths so narrow that people carry their groceries up by hand, with the occasional assistance of a sort of train style elevator contraption that runs up to a certain point.

For mum and I, the main beauty of the hills and the towns clinging to them lies in the way they show people's defiance in the face of the impossible. Just to get to our room from the street it's 41 steps! Of course, far from being a mere triumph of engineering, the terraced rails are pretty too, especially covered as they were today with wild flowers. Mum was annoyed to see so many flowers growing wild that refuse to take root in her garden at home.

We also had a little excitement on our first day. After finding a room and settling in, we went for a wander with some wine and olives and sat on the pier, watching tourists walk past with their walking stick/ski pole things (honestly, if you need those on the bloody jetty I really don't think you should tackle the trail tomorrow). We were treated to a spectacle when a bunch of cops suddenly appeared to greet a boat with Danny Devito on it! Ok, so it wasn't Danny, it was actually the minister of work according to a nearby Italian guy, but he was certainly short enough to be Danny. He thanked everyone profusely and he and his standard issue token blonde girlfriend posed for a few pasted smile photos before wandering off to do whatever, and returning half an hour later. The locals got a kick out of it and made jokes about short men,

It's a lovely place with plenty of people to watch and some really pretty places to see. Still, if you've been to Dunsborough, don't expect the tiny black beaches, overpriced souvenirs and the pale blue ocean to impress you all that much.

Of the five lands we are in Vernazza, which we think is the most picturesque, the perfect place for a picturesque meal on the beach, freezing our butts off and telling ourselves that we are more cultured because of it. At least we don't have hiking poles.

i canali e i muscoli

2008-06-06T16:51:00.004+08:00

// the canals and the muscles

After two days of treating our taste buds to the flavours of Bologna, we moved on to Venice.
Venice wears its fame with a humble grace. The canals, the tiny streets, the masses and masses of tourists, the bronze and delightfully muscled arms of the gondoliers; the town is quietly charming.

As we rambled across the little bridges, following the signs that point in every direction to St Mark's square, I tried to pretend to mum that the place I was casually drawing her towards wasn't really anything that great. When we got to the square, she said something like wow and I was satisfied. The last time I was here, the town flooded in the afternoon (a daily occurrence at certain times of the year) so it was a far more crowded square that the one I had experienced before.

Saint Mark's square is the main feature of Venice, big and full of people and pigeons and cafes, and adorned with a duomo that stops you in your tracks. At one end of the square, sits the giant church like a jewel, a trail of people lining up for the privilege of peering inside. The building is supported by pillars of marble in different colours and patterns from purple to green. Paintings of various scenes stare down at you from the ceiling above and every tiny space on the rooftop is proudly occupied by a gargoyle or a statue or a carving, as though a swarm of little magical creatures stormed the church and each claimed their own little spot hundreds of years ago.

You walk around in awe, hoping a pigeon doesn't drop something distasteful into your open mouth, and you take a billion photos that will never do it justice, before you turn to be met with the sight of the clock tower, the sea, the people, the white stone, the overwhelming beauty and madness, and you think 'jesus, I need a drink' so you head for the nearest bar.

Venice is one of the few places in the world that can't be ruined by an over-abundance of tourists. The prices are high but you're ON a high (what exactly is in those canals anyway?) so you pay them without grumbling. You wander around, looking at the masks, glass, lace and leather for which Venice and her surrounds are famous, and you try to get lost. Everyone says it's easy to get lost but the town is only about three metres square and every steet leads to the Grand Canal so really, it's pretty hard to lose your way, but you do stumble across some pretty special things in the process.

(Side note: we ducked into a museum containing dresses and other items made by a single woman, from paper. Impossible to believe, her skill and patience were incredible. One of the best exhibitions I have ever seen.)

The whole place is indescribably impressive so I'll leave it at that.

lockdown!

2008-06-04T16:50:00.001+08:00

My last night in Bologna, I was a little sad to be leaving the city and my friends there. After spending the day showing mum the sights of "my" city, I was in the hotel room throwing on the least stinky clothes I could find, ready to have dinner with Zoe before we headed out for drinks.

A few hours later, we left the cool (cheap) little place on a cool (slightly dodgy) little street and made the trek across the city, past the works of our favourite local graf artist, past the admiring glances of Italian men, around the dog turds and towards the bar that we both pretended we were 'so over', but had to admit we'd had some fun in. We were met on the street by a girl handing out 'two for one' drink cards which we happily pocketed before we headed inside. A smiling bundle of joy, our friend Ari (who featured in the drunken Friday adventures of week two) found us and brought us to the table where other friends awaited.

The night was a mixture of Italian and English, with some French and German on the side. We drank, we talked, we laughed at our (er..my) Italian mistakes, we drank some more. The drinks were cheap, the bartender friendly, and the company interesting. I got into some sort of debate with an American guy, which ended when we realised we both agreed, at which point we went on to the far more important topic of whether we should drink a spritz or a beer next. Finally, 2am and it was time for the bar to shut down.

Not quite tearful goodbyes, but sad nonetheless. Hugs and best wishes, write to me and all the rest, suddenly I realised Ari was still in the bar and it was about to close. I dashed inside to grab her for a hug, and suddenly the garage style doors slammed down. "Looks like you're staying a little longer" someone murmered, "have a beer, on the house". Friendly barman turned kidnapper, but when he's footing the bill who's complaining! I turned to check that Zoe was still there and we settled in for the night, beers in hand, our own private party of twelve.

4am and I was worried that mum would be worried (she was) so I announced that I was leaving. End of party, everyone suddenly realised it was late and they had school the next day, or they were tired, or maybe the owner had run out of beer. More goodbyes in hushed 'don't wake the neighbours' tones, a few last minute snaps, and a walk along memory lane to the tailor's street, a grumpy doorman and a relieved mother. 2 hours of sleep, packing in a hurry, onto the train to Venice.

If you're ever in Bologna, hit up the Lime Bar on Via Zamboni, you might just be in for one of the cooler nights of your life.

living free

2008-05-29T16:48:00.004+08:00

Morcheeba sings about 'living free' and the words waft through the trees from the dj booth on the shore. White pebbles glint in the sun and little kids squeal as they paddle in the water, it's 'freddissima'; very very cold. Mountains loom across the lake in different shades of blue, rolling clouds obscuring their peaks. Listening to the many Italian voices undulating around me, I realise that for the first time, I'm the only foreigner in a group of Italians. (I'm picking up a lot of useful slang.)

I'm lying on the grass at Lago del Borgo. Germans and Dutch holiday here a lot, as well as Italians of course. There's a good wind here for 5 months of the year so it's packed with windsurfers. Today there's a competition so plenty of guys are walking around looking like they think they're hot (admittedly, a lot of them are). There's a notable absence of alcohol here, as always in Italy there are just a few beers here and there, for an Aussie it's pretty weird.

Gio and his friends are great, always friendly, often stopping to check that I understand at least a bit of what's being said and often assuring me that I am 'bravissima' - very clever. Yesterday we ate dinner at the top of a hill, overlooking the lake and the mountains with the lights of the town glittering below us. The drive back was a gentle spiral around the water, down the hills into the town with the oncoming headlights of maniac Italians dodging around us. Today has been a day of relaxing, listening to surprisingly good music, watching my friends struggle to control their sails in the wind, talking bits of Italian and teaching a few English words on request, lying under a sun that is pleasantly warm, opening my eyes every now and then to take in the bella vista.

Not a bad way to spend a weekend.

wwoof

2008-05-28T18:54:00.004+08:00

WOOF stands for 'willing workers on organic farms' and it's a worldwide organisation. Travellers, or oter interested parties can join wwoof and in exchange for food and board, you work on the farm and in the kitchen, doing whatever needs to be done for usually around 5 hours a day, 5-6 days a week. I'm going to be working on a farm in Veneto (the region where Venice is, in the north) in August.

They have goats which they milk to make cheese, they have an agriturismo (farm stay), they teach yoga and are affiliated with a company that organises mountain bike riding, skiing etc. It looks quite interesting. I'm sure it will be hard work but at least it will give my wallet a break and also give me the opportunity to speak Italian.

The website is http://www.lacortedeglielfi.it/ but it's all in Italian. You can look at the pictures though!

In early September I'm heading to Arezzo for a jousting festival, and then I'll be going up through various countries, namely Hungary, Estonia, Finland, Sweden, Norway (not necessarily in that order)and some others for about a month, maybe longer. We will see is my bank account still loves me at that point...

gio

2008-05-28T03:15:00.001+08:00

Giordano (nickname Gio) has been our self appointed tour guide during our stay in Bologna. We met him through Yohann who goes to school with us. Several times now, Gio has organised something special and taken us along for the ride. The first weekend he drove us to the beach at Ravenna and last weekend he took us to a nearby river nestled in a valley, the scenery on the way there was stunning.

Driving with Gio is always terribly entertaining. Gio is your typical Italian, but better, funnier and without a trace of arrogance. He drives like a maniac for the first ten minutes until he notices someone flinch when he squeezes his car through a gap at least 50% too narrow. Then he laughs and says "Ahh I have stranieri in my car, I will drive properly" and he slows down. Occasionally he breaks into a very slow, relaxed, amusing diatribe on the 'Vecchi Bolognesi" ‑ the old people of Bologna. "Ahhh, questi vecchi Bolognesi, dico ohhh prego maaaa lui solo guarda, ahhh non mi ucchide! Si, si, e domenica, bah!" These old Bolognesi, I say "by all means, cross the road" and they just look at me and think "oohhhh don't kill me!" Yeah yeah, ok it's Sunday, bah!" His style of speaking is almost as though he forgets you're there, he just mumbles away to himself, calmly swearing and then laughing when he realises we are all in stitches listening to him. Quite the experience.

This coming weekend he is taking me to a lake near Verona, with one of his mates. They're into windsurfing and Gio tells me that he likes to teach, so it looks like I might be in for some free lessons. I'll tell you all about it next week!

spezzata cuore

2008-05-28T03:13:00.003+08:00

// broken heart

This is my final week in Bologna (for now) and already I am starting to miss the city! I feel as though I am still discovering the characteristics that make Bologna unique and it seems a shame to leave so soon.

It's been interesting to watch my impressions of the city change and rearrange; when I first arrived, I found myself in a large, open, empty piazza which is ugly and bare. Since then, the city has revealed herself to me layer upon layer. I've discovered that behind my favourite portico lies the most beautiful church I've ever been in, that the whole city smells of dog poo and dog pee, that there are no trees and there is no grass except around the edges of the centre. I've chosen my favourite gelateria, my favourite street, my favourite door knockers, my favourite pizza, my favourite coffee shop. I've become a regular at four different bars and made friends with three different shop keepers and two waiters. But soon, I have to leave it all behind. I will be missing the jazz festival, the summer festival, the wine festival. It was really surprising to settle so quickly into a new place and a new life, and now I have to uproot myself from it, not for the last time.

I have decided while living here is that I want to travel slowly, taste places properly. Where other people might stay for a day, I will stay for two or three. I'll choose places to remain for a week or two, to peel back the layers the way I have in Bologna. The upside of this is that I'll save money; the downside is that I won't see so many places, but I would prefer to know fewer places better. Hopefully I won't grow to love them all the way I do Bologna, because it will break my heart!

Everybody warns you about the Italian men, but nobody mentions that you will find cities so charming that even the smell of dog pee will give you a feeling of nostalgia.

per fiore/profume

2008-05-23T21:44:00.002+08:00

Bologna is a good city to study Italian in, because the lack of tourists means that the locals still find 'stranieri' interesting and, more importantly, amusing. They make a lot of effort to talk to us, repeating things slowly when necessary and acting as though they are our personal Italian tutors. From people on the bus who make sure that we are able to understand their (apparently not private) conversation, to shop keepers who tell us what we need to pay in English and then repeat the amount slowly in Italian, everybody helps us with our Italian.

Today I bought a basil plant from my local grocery man. An old lady nearby smiled at me, pointed at the plant and said (I thought) "per fiore" which would mean "for the flower?". I replied "no, per mangiare" (to eat) and she laughed, and said, more slowly, "no, proFIUME" (perfume) which meant, basically "can I smell your basil plant". Totally random, but I laughed and said "si, certo". Laughing back at me, she smelt the basil with great relish, then winked at me and tottered away muttering in amusement "per mangiare, ha ha ha!".

These somewhat embarrassing moments are becoming more common because I am speaking more Italian as my confidence grows (and is subsequently shot to pieces!) but they're fun. I like that I make someone laugh at least once a day!

san rita

2008-05-22T21:12:00.005+08:00

Today is Saint Rita's Day, la festa della San Rita.

Saint Rita worked miracles, especially for the blind. The people pray to her by buying roses and holding them while they ask her for whatever miracle they desire. Today, Piazza Verde in Via Zamboni is full of flower markets and everywhere people are carrying bunches of roses. We visited a nearby church to discover a crowd of people lighting candles and waving their roses around in front of the saint, it was very festive!

Today, after five days of constant drizzle, there is sun. Perhaps San Rita has worked another miracle...

pezzi d' Italia

2008-05-22T21:11:00.003+08:00

//pieces of Italy

Easily my favourite thing about Italy is the aperitivi. Each evening around five, the bars all serve aperitivi, like tapas, for free for as long as you drink alcohol.

As a warm up to dinner (or maybe to tide your stomach over until 9pm when people eat here), you can linger over your 3 euro glass of wine for at least two large plates of food.

It's worth noting that they aren't just any old tapas; they are the kind of things you expect to be served at somebody's wedding. Walking down the street is mouth watering, Each bar has its own style, some are classy, some do salads, some do proscuito with cheeses, others do little mini sandwiches and still others serve pieces of fruit and tiny sandwiches.

Every country has something to offer the world; Italy gave us pizza, but sadly it's keeping the aperitivi to itself.

....

Swimming pools in Italy are not worth the visit. when I asked Giordano for advice on which pool to visit he said "there's one that's 50 metres long but it's only open during the week". Umm, it's NOTEWORTHY that a pool is 50 metres long? At home it's the other way around, we take 50 metres for granted.

Never mind, we went to a 25 metre pool instead, and it was DIRTY. Remember, I am not some prissy little rich girl, I worked in a mine site and consequently I have showered in tiny cubicles that smell of urine and sweat, so when I say a place is dirty, it means something. Maybe to combat all the grunge, they had the chlorine turned up to the max, it practically burned my skin and my eyes nearly fried right in their sockets.

Maybe I would cut the place some slack, but the entry fee for a swim was around ten Australian dollars. For that price, I expect the services of a personal lifeguard, thanks very much.

Just don't swim in northern Italy, head south or visit in winter. No joke.

...

Italians don't make much use of supermarkets, it's far cheaper to buy each item you need at the relevant shop. For meat, the salumeria, for cheese it's the formaggeria, for fish it's the pescheria, for pizza it's the pizzeria and for bread it's the pasticceria. This sounds time consuming and frustrating and at first, it is. However, there's an upside: you make friends with your chosen shopkeepers and suddenly shopping is no longer a chore, but an enjoyable social occasion.

The shop next door to our house is run by a couple of shy Indian guys who speak Italian only marginally better than we do. They sell us our daily (ahem I mean... weekly) bottle of wine. The guy around the corner owns a little grocery shop and he speaks excellent English. He always expresses surprise that I am here because Australia is "troppo lontano" very far away. Everywhere, they greet us with a patient smile and speak to us slowly, repeating and explaining things when we look confused.

In Italy, it's obligatory to make friends with your local shopkeepers. The guy that runs your local bar (bar being coffee shop as well as pub), the guys in the little shop next door, the dude at your closest net cafe, the salumeria, formaggeria, paticceria, pizzeria. The first few times you visit, you are usually ignored, until suddenly you walk in and are met with a wide smile, a 'ciao bella' and, sooner or later, you are greeted by name. It's the best way to get good service and it makes the time consuming affair of shopping in Italy more bearable and even fun. (Living there might not be so fun but for tourists it's fine.)

...

Bologna is a good city to study Italian in, because the lack of tourists means that the locals still find 'stranieri' interesting and, more importantly, amusing. They make a lot of effort to talk to us, repeating things slowly when necessary and acting as though they are our personal Italian tutors. From people on the bus who make sure that we are able to understand their (apparently not private) conversation, to shop keepers who tell us what we need to pay in English and then repeat the amount slowly in Italian, everybody helps us with our Italian.

People always shyly speak English when it gets too confusing, but more and more often I am managing to leave shops without revealing my ignorance of the language.

...

Everybody always talks about how dangerous it is to drive in Italy, and while it is indeed a little hair raising at times, it has nothing on WALKING in Italy!

Every day Maaike and I take our lives gingerly in our hands and cross a particularly scary street on the way to school. At one particular point, the footpath is only about ten centimetres wide, and for some reason the buses and cars all seem to wait until we get to that point before roaring past. If there's a puddle, even better! The rear vision mirrors of the bus seem to miss our ears by only a few centimetres.

At the strisce pedonale (pedestrian stripes, zebra crossings) the cars beep you if you take too long, even when the little walking man is green. Be quick, be wary, and above all appear to be confident!

...

They have one and two cent pieces in Italy. God, I hate those little copper bastards.
...

idioms ecc

2008-05-20T21:57:00.005+08:00

// ecc is Italian for etc

I thought I'd note on here a couple of idioms. They're cute and fun.

1) There's a saying in Italian : e una barba

It's a way of describing something that's boring, such as a book, a subject at school, a film etc. It means "it's a beard" and the idea of it is that it's so boring and takes so long to finish, that you grow a beard while trying to get through it.

Similarly, una barbone is "a bearded one", and it's their word for hobo.

Both seem appropriate, no?

2) costa un occhio della testa

In English we say it costs an arm and a leg, in Italian it's "it costs an eye from the head". I like that the translation from Italian to English rhymes with our own saying, and I like how evocative it is.

3) In bocca al lupo. Crepi il lupo!

Much the same way that we say "break a leg" to wish someone good luck, the Italians say "in the mouth of the wolf". How you respond is important - you must say crepi il lupo. The literal translation is "may the wolf die" but a more accurate translation is "to hell with the wolf". If you say thank you, you will spoil your good luck!

racconti nuovi

2008-05-19T21:09:00.004+08:00

// new stories

I've been writing bits and pieces on my phone over the last few days in an attempt to get something on here, so that you know I'm still alive! The next few posts are the results. (There are also some new photos on flickr.)

Quick update on the Questura, I visited between the hours of 9 and 1 as directed. A lady there told me I had to return in two days, at EIGHT to collect a number. I did so, received a number, waited 4 hours and finally went in, to have my fingerprints taken (this had already been done at the other Questura, but hey, it's Italy) and now, finally, after advising the policeman on the cheapest domestic flights in Australia (he's going to visit a friend there soon) I am done! The other policeman there is married to a woman from, of all places, Mount Isa!!

So, finito! Finalmente!

la citta e la sculoa

2008-05-19T20:56:00.003+08:00

// the city and the school

Bologna
When I arrived in Bologna the city was filled with fairy dust. All through the air floated white cotton flowers from the nearby fields, I almost expected to see Tinkerbell flitting past. In the sun, the flowers glittered and every now and then one would find its way into my hair. It lent a very surreal air to an already surreal arrival.

Bologna is one of those cities that's easy to gloss over as a tourist, but also incredibly easy to fall in love with as a resident. Maaike (my flatmate) and I both felt at home here after only a few days!

The city is famous for a few things and has many nicknames to show it. Bologna La Grassa, La Rossa, La Dotta, La Toured. Meaning, the fat (most Italians apparently admit that the food in Bologna is the best), the red (Bologna leans a long way to the left and is the communist centre of Italy, also there are 'pace' - peace - flags everywhere), the Learned (the oldest university in the world is here) and the Tower'ed (once the rich families of Bologna showed off to each other by building towers taller than everyone else's ‑ now there are only two left and they both lean.)

There are also many porticoes in Bologna, built above the streets when the students over-filled the city and more accommodation was needed. Some are plain while others are decorated beautifully and it's possible to traverse the whole city under the 42km of porticoes. 666 of them trail up a steep hill to the Church of San Luca which presides over the city, nestled in green parklands. It's quite incredible once you know your way around, each street takes on its own personality but all the way along you feel protected and welcome.

Via Zamboni is the uiversity street and it's where the action is. Every night there's a random street party and the place is littered with students and empty bottles, which are cleaned up every morning by the street cleaner. Piazza Maggiore is the main square and it's where the whole city goes to hang. There's an old market street with the best cheese, salami, fish and sweets in Bologna. Sadly it's just around the corner from our house.

Our street is 'molto rumorosamente'‑very loud. It's Via Mascarella and is littered with bars, and excellent gelateria, and various restaurants. Yep, if you remember me when I was thin, let go of that image pronto!

The people of Bologna are everything I hoped they would be. Punks all over the place, emos, rockers (Italian rockers though which to be honest are kind of funny), lots of 'bikies' with scary looking dogs and hilariously cute little vespas. Hells Angels they are not. I saw a guy do a wheelie on his Vespa the other day and had to stifle a laugh, it just isn't the same! There are gays and lesbians all around the place, strange looking old dudes, crazy men who live in boxes and show each other all their stuff. Like 'this is my shoe, I found it over there'. And EVERYWHERE there are rose sellers. The place is open, welcoming, happy in that serious way that Italians have (smile but make sure there's nothing in your teeth).

Our walk to school each morning takes in the sights and smells of an incredibly ancient city with an incredibly young heart. On Via Mascarella, we walk past the daily 'pazzo' (crazy man), skip around a couple of Italian boys who leer at us, and check out the timetable at the cinema on the corner. We take a right, walk past our favourite little restaurant 'Osteria dell'Orsa' where we always have wonderful, simple, tasty meals. There's a high wall with gardens and we pass them, and then come into a wide pedestrian‑only street with ancient grey cobble stones and bars lining it on one side. With Yohann, I had a flaming strawberry shot kind of thing at one of them ‑ hard to describe but it involves alcohol, sugar, strawberries and fire.

Around the corner we come into the always‑hectic via Zamboni. People line the street, drinking coffee in the mornings or alcohol at night. As we walk under the porticoes of the Opera School we pass speakers that blare opera music at us, it feels like being in a movie with your own soundtrack. Passing an International bookshop, a gelateria, and the famous Due Torri (two towers) we swallow our fear and dash across the blind corner that we have seen buses and bikes speed around, and occasionally crash in! We speed up to make it past the weird section where the footpath and the street are the same thing and then with relief, we are on the street that takes us to school. We press the button, the door opens, we walk up a very large, very wide, very ancient white staircase and past many beautiful pieces of furniture to our classroom.

The only thing I miss in Bologna is trees‑it's a city of buildings, porticoes and bricks. Very little greenery, only two parks at the edge of the city walls, and a large park overlooking the city which is about a 30 minute bus ride away.

The city is beautiful, I wish I could bring you all here to see it!

Cultura Italiana
This is the name of my school. It's close to the main square, in a huge building owned by one of Bologna's most pretigious families.

Italian is fun to learn, which is lucky, because for an english speaker it's also bloody hard! Many words are similar but the verbs come with about twenty thousand variations each, depending on whether it's you, me, them, us, rformal or informal and THEN whether it's the past, the present, how many people are involved, oh the list goes on. Constructing a simple sentence takes a lot of effort and time! However, I'm able to understand most of what is said, at least enough to get an idea of what's happening. I can communicate with shop keepers realtively easily and find my way around without too much hassle. I'm really enjoying the lessons and both of our teachers are great.

In the morning, we have a grammar lesson from 9‑11, then at 11.20 our very expressive, very Sicillian teacher comes to give us our 'practical' speaking lesson. We make up bizarre stories about photos of people, talk about our weekends and so on. I don't think I will make much progress in four weeks, but maybe after I've been in Italy for a few months I'll return to the school and do some more lessons. It's really a fantastic experience, so well organised and so much fun.

I love the way a new language slowly opens itself to you, revealing secrets and little familiarities, until suddenly it feels strange to think that one you didn't understand a word of it. My English is suffering though, because I am the only native English speaker here, and because the more Italian I speak, the more I start to speak English as though it's a direct translation from Italian. It won't be long before I am asking Maaike "Did you have seen the my shoes red?"

I find it really interesting to notice how speaking an unfamiliar language changes one's personality. We have all commented to each other that we feel somehow restrained. It's impossible to be funny, often it's hard to elaborate on a story. We frequently find ourselves responding with enthusiasm to someone's story and saying "Si! Si! Quando io...er....ahhh... um...si." Often your responses stop at "yeah I agree". On Mercoledi Italiano - Italian Wednesdays - when Maaike and I try to communicate only in Italian, we both reach the end of the day feeling like we are someone less ourself, a little restricted and relieved to switch back to a more familiar language.

I also use my hands a lot more, to describe whatever word I am trying to find. We are all fast becoming very good actors!

I'm writing all these new posts at the same time so it's hard to conclude them neatly. Scusate! (Excuse me).

i miei amici

2008-05-19T20:51:00.005+08:00

// my friends

These are the people you'll see in the photos on my flickr site.

Maaike is my flatmate. She is Dutch and together we share an apartment in central Bologna, only a few minutes walk away from all the important stuff. She is 28, has a great sense of humour and is always happy and laughing so we have a great time. Luckily, we get along extremely well and share a lot of the same habits, taste in music, interests and food cravings. Yay!

Bettina is a swiss girl who unfortunately went home yesterday, but in only two weeks she has already become a good friend. She has stunning long black hair and beautiful skin, and speaks good Italian so was good for us to hang around with!

Yohann is a French bookseller who has been coming to Italy for years and who speaks excellent Italian. He and his flatmate Giordano (an Italian from Rome who works for the government, the poor darling) keep us entertained. Yohann organises most of our nights out with the group and Giordano woos the women with his big smile, constant laughter and really kind nature. Both really lovely guys and a lot of fun.

You'll pick Giordano by his Italian skin and wide smile, and Yohann is the one who always has a funny expression on his face and usually one eye closed.

Zoe is another swiss girl who speaks fantastic English, Italian and French so she often ends up being the translator in our many 'what's the word for this' conversations. She has cool curly hair and is always smiling.

Andreas, like Giordano, is another clown. He is also Swiss. He bought this holiday for his girlfriend Lucia, because she loves Italian. Very romantic!

So, that's the core crew. There are others you will probably also see but I'll comment on the photos so you know who they are.

abbiamo fatto qualcosa

2008-05-19T20:50:00.002+08:00

// we've done things

In spite of my lack of news, I have actually been doing stuff! I won't even try to fill you in on all of it, but instead I thought I'd scribble a few snapshots of some of the experiences I've had since arriving in Bologna.

Rimini aint no Rotto
Before school begins, a trip to Rimini. Feeling a little lonely at this point, not many social types in the dodgy little hostel I'm in. Rimini is what we all pray Rottnest will never become. Beaches so covered with games, playgrounds, chairs, volleyball courts that there is barely any space for the people. The tiny town is virtually ignored by the tourists, the beaches like a goiter on it´s side attract all the people. Lifeless, strangled by too many tourists and not enough culture. Still, not a bad day, interesting to see the place. Best thing about Rimini; an ice‑cream served inside a little pineapple.

Too much whiskey.
A Thursday, meeting some people for pizza. Yohann, Maaike, Bettina, Zoe, Andreas, Lucia. Afterwards nobody wants to go out but Yohann and I so we wander to Via Zamboni, the Northbridge of Bologna. Yohann's flatmate Giordano meets us there and we down a few beers before running into some Swiss girls who are off to the 'shot shot bar' for 1euro shots. We arrange to meet them at another bar and when they arrive the sweet shy girls have become hilarious crazy entertainers.

We all head off to an underground (literally) bar/club that plays half decent rock. I order a scotch, which in Australia would be a few millilitres in the bottom of a glass, but in Italy I discover it's half a (plastic) glass of really decent whiskey. So, from this point forward how much more detail are you expecting exactly...? There was dancing, lots of photos, fairly certain there was some vodka and red bull. Yohann kindly walked me home, we're pretty sure we traversed most of the city in the process given that our map‑reading skills were somewhat non‑existent. The next day I learned that one of the Swiss girls stumbled her way home on her own and has a big semi‑circle injury on her forehead to show for it. Quite a fun evening, like being 18 again.

Scaling the due torri.
Bologna was once full of towers, evidence of the social rivalry of various powerful and rich families. Quite literally a measuring contest; my tower is bigger than your tower. Today, there are only a few left and of those, two are famous. The whole town plan converges on these towers, five main streets span out from them.

So, I climbed the towers the other day, in spite of the fact that you're not supposed to scale the tower until you have graduated ‑ bad luck or something. I figure I graduated from TAFE so that counts, I'll be safe. There are a LOT of steps, not sure how many but it's definitely well into the hundreds. The wooden steps were pericoloso (seriously I have just forgotten the word for dangerous... Perilous?) because they were so thin, old, worn smooth by centuries of feet traversing up and down. There was a lot of puffing from all quarters and many grazies and pregos to the people who stood aside for others to pass.

At the top I was met with the Bologna I have grown to love through photos and postcards. A stunning view over the city, now-familiar buildings, my school, the main Piazza, across to San Luca church on top of the hill. I lingered for a while before heading back down, back past the puffing tourists (I am fitter than I thought!) and around, around, around the little tower.

Lucca
Seriously, if you're single and wish you weren't, don't visit me in Italy. It's the worst country in the world for a not happily single person to be. As I write this (on the little keyboard I bought for my phone, v technological, me), I'm sitting on the city walls of Lucca, where I am surrounded by no less than seven kissing couples! People kiss everywhere in this place. I flashed a smile of approval at a couple of kids who ran up here with little fireworks and set them off near people who were getting a bit too hot. Ok, so I'm bitter, but it was pretty funny to see them jump!

Lucca is a pretty little town totally destroyed by the scourge of tourism. American accents and backpacks abound in this town, with people loudly complaining when it turns out that what they ordered was actually chicken and not fish. Today there were antique markets everywhere. I was a little bit in heaven and a little bit in hell, I love to look but I hate not being able to buy.

Lucca is surrounded by grassy city walls, high above the green plain surrounding the old town on one side, and the treeless streets on the other. Mountains are visible in all directions (like the couples) and there is a distant hum of traffic from the streets surrounding the old town.

There are churches here, San This and San That. I went into a couple of them but there were too many people wandering around with their cameras out, ignoring the 'vietato' (forbidden) signs indicating that photography is decidedly not cool. I learned one of two interesting things by following a tour group around but forgot everything an hour later, so I can't share it with you.

I'm unsure about Lucca, it was worth seeing and it was a pretty day, but the townspeople don't like tourists (don't blame them) so after a place like Bologna (few tourists, people are always happy to help) it felt unfriendly. The grass factor was definitely a bonus though, the Italian cities I've visited so far have all been treeless, so it was nice to be reminded on nature. Oh, and the train ride there was stunning.

Worth a visit but not a long stay.

Food
Can't come to Italy and not talk about food!

My favourite hangout in Bologna is a little restaurant called "Osteria dell'Orsa" and it's conveniently close to my house, and also cheap. They do an amazing pasta dish with asparagus. It has a casual air, lots of students, kind of like hanging out in someone's backyard.

Being as multicultural as we are at my school (there is only one other Australian, most people are Swiss or Japanese), we have had a few nights at each other's houses cooking our national foods. It's great for me because kangaroos and emus aren't exactly easy to find in the shops here, so I get away with just bringing the wine.

I've had a dinner cooked by a Japanese girl and a French boy; rabbit, cheese, spaghetti with rongoli (seafood) and strawberries with mascarpone. Another meal was cooked by Swiss and Japanese; various dishes that I can't spell or pronounce but all delicious.

In general, the food is of course fantastic and the prices are acceptable. But, you really have to love Italian food to visit Italy. You can't be vegetarian (well, you can try). In recent years more and more 'ristoranti etnici' - ethnic restaurants - have appeared, but the main fare is still pizza, pasta, ham and cheese. No complaints from me but we'll see how long it takes before I need to buy bigger pants! Honestly, I realise people go on for ages about Italian food but I think I've just about covered it. It's great, but not exactly varied. Why stray from perfection!

Giordano, paper plane hero.
In a future post you'll hear about the people here. One of them is Giordano, the flatmate of one of the guys at my school. He's Italian, from Rome, and hilarious, much like having your own personal clown in tow. Last weekend, he kindly drove a group of us to the beach at Ravenna.

Italian beaches when compared to Australian beaches are at best ok, at worst really really crap. Ravenna is not bad, you can't see through the water but the sand is ok. We staked our claim and lay in the sun (here the sun is just warm and cosy, not sizzling like at home), I swam for a bit, and then we had a paper plane competition when I started folding my table napkin at lunch. Giordano won and ran around in great excitement. We played volleyball (I sucked) and hung out for a while before traipsing through the beach party crowd (ala the Cott on a Sunday) and heading home, exhausted.

So far...
So far, I've met some really fun people, am managing to pick up some Italian, and have very few moments to myself. I've missed lots of things out, like our picnic at San Luca (a church above the city, you climb uphill under 666 porticoes to get there), our Monday meals with the school, the aperitivi (each evening Italian bars serve tapas for as long as you keep drinking) and my little fling with a french boy (over now but lots of fun). The decision to learn Italian for a month was definitely a good one!

questura adventura

2008-05-13T18:56:00.006+08:00

Adventures in the Questura (police station) in Italy...

To stay in Italy for longer than three months, I need a visa and a permit to stay (called a Permesso di Soggiorno). The visa was issued in Australia, not a problem.

But the PERMESSO! OH!

DAY ONE
On my first day in Italy, I went to the Questura to register. It has to be done within 8 working days so I figure I might as well get it out of the way. At the Questura, I line up behind the machine to get a number, and then I fill in a form that I mostly have to guess at. The form requests two passport photos which I don't have with me, so I leave to find a little photo machine. When I return, the Questura is closed.

DAY TWO
I arrive at the Questura, photos in hand, only to be told that I need to be at the OTHER Questura, which is about a 30 minute walk away, almost off my map. I arrive just in time to see the sign that says 'only open until 1pm' - it's around ten past. Hmmm.

DAY THREE
Primo Maggio, the First of May, national holiday. For my permesso, does this count as a working day I wonder?

DAY FOUR
Again I arrive at the Questura, this time at 7am. I wait an hour and a half with my little number in hand, and then an angry Italian guy comes flying out of the office shouting something about 'il sportello e chiuso, numeri zero alle venti dammi adesso'. This means that the machine that spat out my number is in fact closed, and I need to give him my number. This I do, and he disappears for a while before returning to yell at everyone for a bit. Then suddenly everyone gets in line and waits their turn to be personally yelled at. Eventually it comes to me and I put on my best 'scared little Aussie girl' face and say 'Non parlo Italiano, ma bisogno un Permesso di Soggiorno' - I don't speak Italian, but I need a permit to stay.

Suddenly, the terrifying yelling man becomes quiet, and asks me a few polite questions in English before giving me a new number. Apparently Aussies are special in Italy.

Three hours later, it's my turn to be served. He tells me that I need my passport and I hand it over. I also need 4 ID photos which I give him, as well as a photocopy of my passport and visa. I smugly hand him everything he needs, and when he tells me that I need to pay two taxes, I take the exact change required out of my purse.

"No, you don't pay these here; you must get this one from the tabbaccheria, and this one from the post office." These are, of course, back in town, 30 minutes away, and the place is closing in an hour. I smile, not surprised that there was something I missed, and I return to the city with my documents.

DAY FIVE
I attend the first day of school instead of hanging with the angry yelling man. After school, I line up for 45 minutes to fill in a weird little receipt for my tax payment at the post office. Then I buy the other stamp at a tabbaccheria. Sorted.

DAY SIX
Again, I go to school in the morning, because there is a sign saying that Permessos can be attended to on Thursday afternoons, and today is only Wednesday.

DAY SEVEN
After school, I go to the Questura and again line up behind about 50 people until I finally encounter the scary yelling man. He kindly tells me that the Questura is only open for COLLECTING the permit, not for HANDING IN the documents. I have to go back tomorrow. At this point I almost cry but laugh instead. At least I'm getting a lot of exercise.

DAY EIGHT
My alarm doens't wake me up. I awaken at about ten and freak out, thinking I will never get served today, and it's my 8th working day here! ARGH! So without breakfast I run to the Questura, missing school. Again there are about 50-70 people already waiting when I arrive but there is a new scary yelling man in a funky green t-shirt. I pull the same 'scared little Aussie chick' routine and he says something to me that I think means 'wait and I will get you a number'. So I wait, wait, wait. Finally scary yelling man number one sees me and says "Ahhhh, che!" which means "oh it's you!" He tells me to come inside and wait in line.

The people in front of me yell a lot about something to do with being married to an Italian, it involves old people who are sick, I listen for a while and try not to faint from hunger. Finally they are done and the guy says to me "Arrivo" - I'll be back in a sec.

20 minutes later he returns, and I hand him my hard earned documents. He asks me a few things, and then tells me to line up at the other queue for my fingerprints to be taken.

The other queue is headed up by scary yelling man in cool t-shirt, and about 15 minutes later I get to press my fingers onto the scanner thingy. He gives me a document and tells me that I have to return to Bologna in 3 months to collect my official permite (for now I just have a receipt). I already knew this so I smile, that's fine, yay!

But THEN he tells me that I need to go to the OTHER Questura in the centre, to do something or other with a piece of paper. It has to be a Tuesday or Thursday.

DAY TWELVE
The paper I was given says I can go to the Questura between the hours of 9am and 1pm, so I skip my second class and rock up around 11. The address is wrong, but I stop a sexy Italian cop and he gives me directions. When I arrive, a polite lady says "Dimmi" which basically means "Speak!". I show her my paper and she tells me that I needed to be there at 8am, because by 9am all the numbers are finished. I must now return on Thursday at 8am (again missing school) to collect a number, then hang around until 9 when it opens, then however many more hours until my number comes up.

So the saga continues.

On the bright side, it would have been disappointing if it was too easy. I am, after all, here to experience Italy.

(Let's not forget that this is a country where you do not buy stamps at the post office - instead you buy them at the tabbaccheria. Someone jokingly asked if you buy cigarettes in the post office. Ha, wouldn't surprise me!)

so busy!

2008-05-12T19:34:00.002+08:00

So many things going on. I keep trying to find time to write properly but as you have probably noticed I am failing miserably. Still, loving the school lessons, getting on really well with my flatmate, spending time with some really cool people and eating not too much pizza.

Anyway, still alive, having fun, hope everyone is well, and I will do my ABSOLUTE best to update you properly soon!

speedy update

2008-05-05T23:44:00.003+08:00

Yet another quick one as I'm about to head out to dinner with the other students.

Just wanted to say that my house is FANTASTIC, I am living with a Dutch girl called Maaike who is 28, we get along very well, she's very normal, has a good sense of humour and we seem to have the same goals and interests, AND a very similar level of Italian / she is better than me though.

Excuse the weird punctuation by the way, some Japanese student has been on the keyboard and changed it all around.

Umm, I have my own room with a balcony that I share with Maaike, we have a little kitchen with pots and pans, some condiments, all the things we need. The place was renovated only last week and still smells of paint, all the furniture is new as we are the first people in there since the renovation! We are also very central, close to the school and the main piazza.

Our classes are in the morning until about 12.40, then we make lunch at home and do our homework, and after that we either hang out in a local bar, of which there are plenty!, or we go on an excursion with the school. Tonight we are being taken around the city to find all the supermarkets, banks, etc, and then we are going to a pizzeria for dinner.

Next week another girl will move in with us, she is German. We also get a tv later this week AND we have a cleaning lady! It will be a great way to spend the month I think.

I will upload some photos of my room and the apartment as soon as I can get a wifi connection to work on my phone...

And soon I will write a proper post about Bologna.

Ciao!

free wifi in the piazza

2008-04-30T18:23:00.004+08:00

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!

flickr

2008-04-29T02:22:00.003+08:00

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!

old and new favourites

2008-04-28T16:43:00.006+08:00

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:

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 #

2008-04-28T02:43:00.003+08:00

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!

travel is not safe for earrings

2008-04-23T01:15:00.003+08:00

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.

not very helpful google

2008-04-22T01:10:00.003+08:00

I just googled 'millinery course in italy' and the top result was MY OWN BLOG.

Ha.

hanging with dead dudes in paris

2008-04-22T00:40:00.003+08:00

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.

songkran, miracle shoes & the soul destroying highlighters

2008-04-14T22:11:00.007+08:00

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.

singapore smoothies

2008-04-13T11:34:00.003+08:00

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.

saigon and the mystery of the street stamps

2008-04-11T08:26:00.002+08:00

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.

vietnam, and 10 kilos heavier

2008-04-11T08:01:00.003+08:00

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.

whoops

2008-04-11T07:57:00.003+08:00

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

vietnam

2008-04-07T22:36:00.002+08:00

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!

il piano

2008-03-21T12:30:00.003+09:00

The plan, Stan.

04 Apr - Perth to Vietnam
10 Apr - Vietnam to Singapore
13 Apr - Singapore to London
14 Apr - London - stay with Paul
15 Apr - Paris to see the Diamanda Galas concert
20 Apr - Back to London
29 Apr - Arrive Bologna
05-30 May - Italian lessons, living with other students in Bologna
30 May - ???

countdown

2008-03-21T12:25:00.000+09:00

Welcome to The Kara Trail. Whenever I get time (and have something interesting to say) I'll post news on here so you can see what I'm up to. I'll also post my interaries as they come together - if you click the "itineraries" tag on the menu on the right you will be able to see them.

So, keep in touch.

xxK