figures

Tonight is my last sleep in Europe, I hardly think forty thousand feet above Germany counts. If I manage to sleep that is. I am pretty happy to be going home though, six months is a long time to be a gypsy traipsing around Europe. As a round off, I thought some facts, figures and impressions about this trip might be interesting.

This trip has carried me a total distance of approximately 53,340 kilometres as the crow flies from Melbourne to Melbourne. In terms of actual distance travelled I am looking at something more in the range of 57,000 with all the walking around cities, the twists and turns in roads and train tracks... it adds up. This grand adventure has taken place over 165 days and had me sleeping in 44 cities across 17 countries, not to mention the various day trips and what not. I have also attempted to say “hello” and “thank you” in 15 languages (including Berber and Flemish). Note: “hello” in Czech is “Ajoy”, pronounce A-hoy...like a pirate...

In this time I think I have been mistaken for 7 nationalities other than Australian and had a local beer in every country other than Morocco. I know, I have failed, but it was Ramadan and that feather in my cap really wasn’t worth 12 to 18 months. I had added 57 facebook friends, lost 2 towels and 6 individual socks (only 2 of those were a pair and only 3 of those were my doing). I have travelled by bike, ferry, plane (13 flights in total I think with 5 carriers), car, train, taxi, bus, foot, row boat, tram, chair lift, cable car, camel, repelling, swimming (from island to boat to different island) and piggy-back. I guess roller-coasters aren’t a mode of transport since it’s from point A to point A, but I went on 10 different coasters an average of 3 times each. Also, my $16 pair of Dunlop Vollys have seen twice as much action than my fancy Merrell travel shoes and lasted about as well as Dave’s $120 Hally Hansen walking shoes. Which is to say poorly. I think I have managed a load of washing every 12.69 days (I can only count 13 loads for the entire trip) and not eaten a proper steak since leaving home.

I have been a busy boy as you can see and I really have enjoyed it all, regretting very little. It’s easy to see in retrospect places that you maybe shouldn’t have gone, but I have learnt than no amount of reading helps and the experience one person has will likely conflict dramatically with that of the next you meet, you just need to weigh all your options, stick with what you think is a reliable source and just make the best of it. Hopefully I can find somewhere else in life to apply some of this life experiences.

When asked “do you think it has been worth it?” I will no doubt respond with something obtuse and evasive like... “In what way do you mean?” Money wise? No, I don’t think so... it’s hard to justify spending this much and no doubt it could have been more sensibly spent on a house deposit, new cars or something else just as boring. Experience? Hell yes it’s been worth it. When else would I have this sort of opportunity to see so many places and meet so many people with such freedom and ease? But it’s all apples and oranges because you can’t put a monetary value on the sights, friends and experience, and really, that’s a good portion of what this trip was about.

I have met scores of people from dozens of countries in these six short months, and as my parents have always been fond of telling me. It’s who you know. See, I listen. So when I'm broke and unemployed, living off a shoe string budget (a skill I have picked up travelling) and can look back on all the money I spent over here as an investment in my future. That will make me feel much better. I’m sure it will...

R & R

Portugal marked the final new destination of the trip for me and also the last opportunity for me to unwind before getting back to the monotonous reality that is life. And I must say, Portugal was a great choice for this. We arrived in Lisbon (or Lisboa depending on where you read) to stay at the most highly rated hostel on all of Hostel World. That really set the tone for the four nights in town, we lay around, played cards, messed around on the computers and ate as many Portuguese Custard Tarts as was safe.

There was one brief attempt at sightseeing. Out of the city there is a world heritage listed castle and wild-life reserve called Sintra. Steve and Klaus decided they would like to go and see it and I figured I should go along and have a look. Steve was the expedition leader for the day and charted a course for one of the underground stations just to the south of us. Upon arriving we found out that the trip was as straight forward as we had hoped involving a couple of changes. Klaus and I shared a look that spoke volumes. “Can we really be bothered?” We went along thought and went the two stops for our first change. We get off, go above ground as instructed only to discover... our thirty minute journey thus far has bought a three minute walk from our hostel. Fail. Klaus and I mutiny and instead we go for a short walk, ending up at a coffee shop for some tarts and a morning brew.

But that was Lisbon, and Porto wasn’t really any different. Just as comfortable, just as relaxing, and slightly sunnier.

That is Chefchaouen

For me Fes was a complete write off because I was amazingly sick for 48 hours. Never have my insides felt so knotted and distressed. So instead I shall pick up the tale on the second of September, the day we left for Chefchaouen. This is a medium sized town about three or so hours north of Fes in the Rif Mountains. Chosen mode of transport? Taxi. A large late ninety’s Mercedes saloon, seats four passengers under normal circumstances but when your local guide insists that you can sit two in the front passenger seat, you don’t argue. So here we were, cruising along the Moroccan highway, five sweaty passengers and one sweaty, silent driver at a cool 130km (road surface permitting) towards what is apparently known as the hashish capital of Morocco. None of us even smoke let alone do drugs. What is the point then you may ask?

Chefchaouen sprawls in a small basin at the foot of some moderately impressive mountains. Back in the day the Spaniard held sway here and for some reason started the tradition of painting their houses in a blue wash. This tradition has been carried at gun point. If you don’t comply you will get fined, if you attempt to get inventive and try a shade of yellow you will get heavily fined. Try it again and you may find yourself behind bars. Needless to say nearly everyone complies.

Our guide, Wajih had everything planned out for our two or so days in Chef. The night we got there we were treated to a Hammam, kind of like a Turkish bath where you lie on a tiled floor, get rinsed, rubbed down, brutalised with a loofer and finally massaged and rinsed once more. This was quite an experience and a good one to have after the aforementioned taxi ride. This kicked off at about 11pm after the ladies had finished and we finally got to bed at about 1:30.

Note: our bed in this particular hostel consisted of the thinnest mattress crafted by man, wrapped in a heavy blanket with an extra blanket for comfort in the cool mountain air. On the roof. It’s selling point is that it costs a mere six Aussie dollars.

Day two saw us lounging around a pool at the base of a small set of rapids in the Moroccan wilderness being served tagine and melon by our guide and his friends. It was a little awkward because of Ramadan. They cooked all this lovely food but couldn’t eat it, instead they hovered to make sure everything was just right. We finished up late in the afternoon and enjoyed a spectacular taxi ride back to town with the sun low in the sky, illuminating the pink and red cliffs, Celine Dion – The Power of Love blaring on the cheap speakers.

The final day we climbed a mountain and got offered copious volumes of hashish and marijuana by wild drug dealers. This is a phenomenon that I believe may be exclusive to Morocco. A gathering of men called a ‘Troupe’ (in homage to their relative, the Chimpanzee and a nod to French, a large portion of the local dialect ) linger in the trees off the side of the path then trickle down to passing travellers and peddle their wares. One inquisitive little fellow insisted on gathering us fallen branches so we could cook our lunch and then followed up the mountain. Jane Goodall, where are you when we need you? Once we got to the top, company in tow, we commanded a magnificent view of the town, valley and surrounding mountains. It also gave a good perspective on just how blue and white all the houses were. We trekked back into town, begging off both wild and domesticated dealers for our final night in this interesting little town.

The only other thing I need to mention that doesn’t fall into this chronology is ‘The Rocker’, latest member to the Menagerie of Travelling Strange. Every night we were privileged enough to endure a French version of Iggy Pop play some decent guitar and ruin it utterly by wailing his poorly written lyrics. One song contained the word ‘yeah’ 14 times. In a row. But other than that and his penchant for lycra bike shorts he was generally inoffensive.

That is Chefchaouen.

Fez

The tale of Marrakech, as James tells it, ends on a high note. Yet this isn't the whole story. Perhaps it was one of our dinners in the square, or perhaps a sip from the wrong bottle of water, but something disagreed with my longtime traveling companion, turning the seven hour train ride to Fez into something of a hellish journey for James. I've never seen the color drain quite so completely from a human being. When he wasn't curled in the corner of our compartment, he was stretched out in the corridor, confusing the locals as they squeezed past and stepped over him.

This left a void in our compartment, and as the stations and hours passed, it got to a point where we could no longer in good conscience keep the seat free. It certainly didn't seem that James would make any sudden comeback. Thus his seat went to a young man in a lavender shirt, who's name, we would discover, was Mohammed.

This chance meeting was to change the entire experience of Morocco for us. After some conversation, we were invited to dinner with Mohammed and his friends. With some skepticism, we took up this offer, and were massively rewarded. In the heart of the Medina, we were presented with a splendid dinner in a colorfully tiled room, along with seven or eight Moroccans around our age, and one New Zealander. Stacey, the girlfriend of Isham (one of the Moroccan lads) , became our link to the city of Fes. The two of them were incredibly hospitable, and offered to show us around the city the next day.

I cannot stress enough the value of such an offer. Navigating a Moroccan medina is an utter nightmare, with twisting streets, no signage, hundreds of people and twice that number of dead ends. Without guidance, you will never find anything... including your way home. Where we'd likely have spent the day blindly searching for a tourist office, instead we were shown to several mosques, a fantastic view out over the city, a carpet cooperative, a weaver's showroom, the city tanneries and the dyer's headquarters. And at night, we again were treated to an authentic home cooked meal, and a game of soccer in a nearby parking lot.

This was the sort of experience that you set out to capture when you leave home on a trip. The holy grail of travel. I really can't convey how fantastic it was to get this glimpse into real life in Fes, with people our age. We were visitors, but engaged visitors, not just spectators.

I've spent almost 180 days away from home, and if it was all just leading up to these few days in Fes, it's entirely worth it.

“What are you looking for?”

We were immersed in Moroccan culture swiftly after landing. Our host in Marrakech was Khamal, a Berber in his late twenties who had a touching amount of concern for his guests well being. He showed us everything we needed to know about Marrakech in a 1 hour power session then followed this up with “Berber Whiskey”, a sweet mint tea that is served everywhere in Morocco. This was all very civilised and tame and we crashed out early.

The next day we went and got to know Marrakech properly.

This place is just charged with energy that wears you down. It’s hot (though not oppressively), busy, touristy and the Souks (markets) are just a different world. Come nightfall, everything doubles with the obvious exception of the temperature. The reason for this was Ramadan. Unbeknownst to us, our trip landed squarely in the first week of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. From sun rise to sun set no food or drink of any kind may be imbibed and no pleasures such cigarettes or the fairer sex may be indulged. But when the sun goes down... it’s a different world. The main square in Marrakech is fairly empty during the day, just a few orange juice vendors hawking their wares. After evening prayer though this square fills up with locals and tourists alike as people pack into the temporary eating stands to get pretty much anything from soups to whole lambs on a spit. It was a feast for all the senses with the smell of roasting meat, the guys spruiking their stands and the lights strung everywhere being defused in the haze from the fires.

The markets district was several blocks all undercover that you quickly get lost in. Any sort of handy craft you wanted was available if you knew where to look. If you didn’t know where to look anyone nearby would try and sell you something from their shop, or their neighbours shop, or their friends shop just the street over. You walk through the winding streets with a constant cacophony of offers, declarations and questions. “What you looking for?”, “you want something?”, “where you from?”, “How much you want to pay”, “I have best shirts!”. You really just tune it out after 5 minutes. But not always... I remember one exchange I had in the food stalls after I had eater. A gentleman wearing a filthy white apron and a Lakers cap at a jaunty angle shouted out to me and this was the exchange.

“You’re a yank!”
“No I’m not!”
“Ah! Aussie! Down-Under mate!”
“I hate Down-Under!”
“Pavlova!”
“Lamington!”

This was all done from about twenty paces and I never stopped walking. I'm pretty sure I won.

Espaná

Overdue as it is, I can’t let Spain fall by the wayside. It’s hard to sum up the experiences I had in the country of Bull fights, sultry dances and magnificent weather. For me it was on some form of mental pedestal in terms of culture, landscape and atmosphere, and in many respects it rose to the occasion yet I can’t really think of any time that it exceeded. The first stop on the Spanish leg of the trip was San Sebastian, former fishing/fort town, turned tourist Mecca of the north Spanish coast. We caught a train down from Bordeaux and arrived, slightly lost in this lovely little town. Armed with Klaus’ iPhone however we struck off and scored some free wifi that quickly set our feet on the right path. Our Hostel was one San Fermina, right in the heart of San Sebastien’s old town. The street we were on was pretty and reasonably busy during the day, but come night the place was an absolute riot. Literally dozens of Tapas bars were clustered along its surprisingly short length, all of them spilling merry-makers out on to the street to perch on high stools around little tables or to just find a nearby step to sit and talk on. A common practice was as wander from bar to bar, getting just one or two items and a beer before striking out into the balmy, light filled jovial evening once again to brave the press. This was the vibe that San Sebastian radiated during the night and kept thinly veiled during the day. Our last night was somewhat less tasteful however and resulted in four seedy gentlemen dashing for a 7:30am bus at what can only be described as a shuffle.

Next stop, Barcelona!

Feeling somewhat better that afternoon we arrived in Spain’s second largest and reputedly most exciting city, eventually rolling into our hostel mid afternoon. To be honest my first impression of Barcelona was one of indifference. It was warm, large, kind of pretty but not really Spanish. We headed out on the town a couple of nights, not overly Spanish. Most of the people we were around, not overly Spanish (read Australian). Most of the food we ate, not overly Spanish. Now I know I can’t blame a lot of this on Barcelona, but it was a lot harder to find some Spanish culture here than I was expecting. And certainly not for a reasonable price. Stephen and I went to the food markets just of La Rambla and guess what. Not overly Spanish. Also, our coffee that day was served by a forty year old Chinese man who spoke passable English, but judging by some exchanges with other customers, dismal Spanish. One thing that did feel Spanish across the board however was the weather. All day, every day was blue skies and mid thirties. Having said all this, I was a little dishearten by Barcelona. I was expecting this multicultural, over toured mess, but it’s a little heart breaking to have the romance stolen so brutally.

"La Tomatina"

Alternative title: "How I waited five hours for a black eye."

So here we are, headed to Spain. It's the height of summer (at least, it feels that way) and we've been asked again and again... "You're going to be in Spain right about the time of the tomato-festival... are you going?" We were unsure, the traveller's demon of cost vs. budget made it look like we'd be unable to participate. Indeed, for two members of our group, it was simply not an option. But two of us looked into our wallets and decided that we could spare a little more cash for an absolutely unique experience.

And thus we found ourselves on a train, headed to Valencia.

La Tomatina is just one of the hundreds of festivals that occur all around Spain. We've been told that there's a festival for every day of the year, that every village has their day of celebration. It just happens that the town of Bunol celebrates in a rather unique way. The origins of the festival

are a little unclear, with any number of urban legends claiming to be the true meaning for the day. Yet the reasons have clearly been lost in the sheer frivolity of the event:

Let's all get together in the streets, and hurl tomatoes at one another.

Indeed, La Tomatina is just one massive food fight, and this seems to draw an absurd number of foreigners to the town. Once you have a certain number of people throwing food, the very scale of the event attracts more people. This self-perpetuating phenomenon brings thousands apon thousands of people to the town, all intent on hurling some fruit (to be technical). And of course, most of them are Australian.

What is it about our national character that causes the youth of Australia to flock to a food fight in Spain? I can't explain it, but we make up the vast majority of the crowd. And this is some crowd. Upwards of 50,000 people come to the town, who's base population is something around nine thousand. The result is an absolute invasion.

The procedure for taking part in this event is very simple. There's no fee, the only costs involved are the train fare to get you to Bunol, which is just loose change. You get up nice and early, and catch the regional train to the town, along with thousands of other excited young people, mostly clad in white. Why white? Alas, there's no cultural motivation. White simply shows up tomato splatter more effectively. My companion for the trip, Klaus, took this to absolute extremes, purchasing a white suit and Panama hat, making him possibly the best dressed food fighter that has ever graced Bunol.

We got to the town, and joined the horde of participants, and waited for signal to begin. Having started our journey at 6am, the kickoff was not until 11, so we had five ours of transit and waiting before the first tomato was hurled. As soon as this happened... I can't really use words to describe it. Pictures are vital. I shall simply explain the environment: Thousands of excited people packed into narrow streets, eager to throw things at one another. A cannon fires, and then they drive trucks laden with tomatos through the crowd. It sounds crazy, and that's because it is utterly crazy.

Oh, and why the alternative title? About seven minutes into the fight I caught a tomato... with my face. All I can say was that it was unexpectedly painful, but that it ensures I will never forget my La Tomatina experience.

continental shift

Update: Well what do you know, the interwebs HAS made it to Morocco. I never should have doubted

Shortly we will be departing for the exotic lands of North Africa, where the air is blisteringly hot during the day and carries sweet spicy fragrances in the cool evenings. I'm mainly just dropping a line to let you know that we may be slightly difficult to reach over the next week or so and not to panic over the continued blog drought.

So if you will all excuse me... I have a plane to catch.

loving it

Read this as an answer to David’s post, or perhaps a compliment, I'm still deciding what I'm thinking and feeling as I write. Pretty much I love travel, I love all these places I see and I love all the people I get to meet. Even the shoddy locations like Modena and Hamburg have something to offer. It drives home a fundamental lesson of life. There will always be ups and downs. You have to face it, not every experience you have can be the best, and that’s just fine with me.

Having said this though, I am sick of living in a 65 litre bag. It really does get trying after a while. As David said, you really start to despise your wardrobe. Personally I see my backpack as the root of all my woes. Indeed, all of mankind’s misery. I even named him. Spite. Forever getting heavier, hiding socks from me and catching this one particular grey shirt of mine in his zips. And I mean proper stuck... it’s a two man job to extract the damn thing.

Six months is ambitious for this sort of undertaking. Logistically it is both too long and nowhere near enough time. I think we didn’t realise this until we got over here and saw how much we were missing in lots of place and how many places we have been told are fantastic but had to bypass for fiscal or time constraints. Conversely there have been weeks just wasted in a couple of locations. So here I am, over four months in and I wouldn’t be upset to discover I had miss booked my ticket for two weeks hence, just enough time to hit up my last three countries. I have to collect the set you understand...

It’s fantastic having all this knowledge and experience now about how to plan a trip, how much money you should budget, how much time and so on. But that specific information on Backpacking in Europe isn’t much use to me anymore because I don’t think I’ll be doing this trip again. Instead I’ll have to learn a whole new set of information for whatever destination I'm headed because lets faces it, there isn’t anywhere else on earth like Europe.

And I guess that brings me to the final point. There really isn’t any place where I can see so much art, history, culture, landscape or diversity of people as I can in Europe. I am mentally tired, ready to go home, I want my bed and solitude, I have a bag that is evil incarnate... but I'm loving it.

Paris, Take 3

And so we're back in Paris. Well, half of us are back, the other half are here for the first time. It says something about the city that personally, I've been keen to come back not just once, but twice.

So here I am, four and a half months away from home, and I must say, it's taxing. On a paper, six months doesn't seem such a long time. You look at your itinerary, and wonder how on earth you'll see all you want to, you fear that three days here, a week there, it just won't be enough. And in many ways it isn't enough, and there is so much more you want to see. But at the same time, there's only so much you can absorb, and all the while the desire to come back home grows.

I can only speak for myself, of course. I've met people for whom travel is a lifestyle, people who see 'home' as a docking port between expeditions, somewhere that can only be tolerated for a few weeks at a time. I might even be traveling with some such people. But if I've discovered anything, it's that I'm not built for that.

There's something incredibly wearying about being on the move, all the time. I've come to dread the days where we pack up our bags and shift towns. There's always the excitement of what the next destination will offer, but there's an awful routine to it as well.

I've left a trail of my belongings scattered across Europe. Thankfully most of it has been deliberate. As early as the second week, I was discarding bits and pieces that were weighing me down. The process has continued, yet of course my load seems heavier than ever. As predicted in one of my first posts, I've come to utterly resent the wardrobe that I brought along with me. It's impossible not to, when you've been stuck wearing the same pair of shorts for months, when the weather doesn't permit you to mix it up by putting on your only pair of pants.

How dare I complain though? I'm on the trip of a lifetime, blissfully unhindered by work or any other such responsibilities. I must be seeing half the countries in Europe. There are probably people who would sell their souls for such an opportunity. Yet the grass is always greener, isn't it? Day to day, I'm having a fantastic time. Yet in the scheme of things, I can't wait to come home. To friends and family. To my own bedroom, where the only person allowed to snore is me. To a shower that I don't need to wear thongs in.

it's what you make of it

And so we're back in France, this time with a larger travel party. The first stop for the majority of us was the city of Lyon, which came highly recommended. As our train pulled in, the sky was that interesting shade of purple that precedes a storm. Of course, we had a substantial walk ahead of us to our accommodation, and of course, the rain came down.

No matter what someone else's experience of a place is, you can often arrive to find that it's drab, lifeless, an altogether unattractive place. I won't say this was our experience of Lyon, though we certainly didn't feel any magic as we shuffled our way through the rain to our 'budget hotel', in a district riddled with kebab shops and stores specialising in cheap bollywood-inspired fashion.

Yet in the days to come, Lyon would remind us of a vital point: travel is entirely what you make of it. When we actually ventured forth from our hotel room, crossed the river, and hunted out a restraunt to have lunch, we discovered a side to the city that we might never have, had we simply taken our first impression of the city and withdrawn from it.

Of course the best made plans often fall in a colossal heap, as they did with our lunch: we arrived in the restaurant district about twenty minutes after every restaurant stopped serving lunch. At two o'clock! What nonsense, there are places back home still serving breakfast at this hour! In any case, we were directed to one of the few places which might still feed us, 100 metres up the road. After a few more additional hundred metres, we found it, and enjoyed an enormous luncheon. Incapable of going far, we dragged ourselves to a nearby park and reclined on the grass, as Lyon opened up around us.

The weather had a lot to do with it, we were blessed with glorious sunshine. And we'd stumbled on quite a location. As the afternoon wore on, the park and paved plaza attracted all manner of youth with wheeled devices - bikes, skateboards, unicycles... the sort of riff-raff that often get such a bad rap for their disrespect of civic property.

Yet there was no sign of vandalism here. There was one statue with a sloping base that they often did ride up and down, yet it seemed to be enduring without any sign of wear. All in all it was quite a spectacle. Groups of people came and went, and Klaus went and got taught the fundamentals of doing backflips. Later, we'd walk home along the river, where it seemed the entire city had flocked to enjoy the afternoon.

We might not have seen this side of the city, and that would have been a real shame. So we'll have to remember that it's really up to us to seek out the good bits wherever we go.

Big (possibly gay) Al

In a dizzying contrast to Branco, Allan is a man of slight stature, reserved nature and a taste for the finer things in life. He is of an undeterminable age, German by birth but grew up in England and now works back in the fatherland. In his spare time he is a wine snob and this is how I met him. On the first night here in Strasbourg, Allan and I shared lodgings , and since I seemed to be his only company he decided to talk at me for a while until I was actually forced to engage. Now on this trip we have met a few odd balls, and Allan here was setting himself up to be a real doosey, but after a few false starts I managed to steer him in the direction of his purpose in the area. This is when I discovered he was a wine buff.

For those who don’t know me that well, I too dabble in the world of wine so this suddenly got my attention. He was telling me all about the soils in this particular area and how it differs greatly from the hill side vinyards and I had done my reading so I was able to hold my own in this conversation. All of a sudden I was invited for lunch with Allan to a winstub in town. Apparently one of the best in the region. On the end of my positive experience at the last local establishment I was keen for a second go and this time I would have a translator rather than my usual practice of likening French and German words to the closest sounding English then hoping for the best. After this Allan proclaimed that he had to “pretty” himself before bed. Maybe his grasp of English isn’t so comprehensive. Then the sound of “Dancing Queen” came softly from the shower. Maybe his tastes weren’t so impeccable.

The next day I was roused at 8 am by Allan and his immaculately trimmed goatee for breakfast. I begged off and he said he would come and get me for lunch around 12. I wandered around until I found coffee and cake, then went back and read, waiting for my guide. At 11:58 Allan minced into the room and told me he had made reservations. We hurried on down to the winstub and tucked into a 4 course meal, each with a wine picked out for me. This was all topped off with Allan insisting on getting the bill. I offered, my parents raised me well enough for that. I offered quiet firmly but in the end the impoverished traveller in me won out and I bowed to Allan’s will. Then Allan suggested we go to the library as he had heard that there was a hot air balloon exhibition on. Not really thinking that it was to my tastes I once again begged off but he insisted that we do dinner at another winstub. As we parted ways I reflected on how eager my guide seemed for my company. How well dressed and neat he was. How he held his hands. Wait, was he plucking his eyebrow last night?

Did I just go on a date?

I had forgotten, I couldn’t come to dinner Allan. I'm sick tonight.

When worlds collide

Strasbourg was a spur of the moment choice for me. My main criteria was proximity to Paris, cost of travel. And oh, wouldn’t you know. It just happens to be the capitol of Alsace, one of my favourite wine regions.

The journey to Strasbourg was painless really. It may have taken four hours but there was only one change, I was in a spacious carriage and I had a power point for the lap top. I'm a weak excuse for a traveller I know... So as I said, the main attraction of Strasbourg was its proximity to the Alsatian wine region and the train ride took me its entire length. Seeing as I had time to kill and an open ended ticket I decided to get off at Colmar and poke around. The only notable thing was my introduction to the winstub. Pretty much it’s a pub that sells good wine and fantastic local food. How could this be a bad way to spend a day?

All this food and wine is pretty unique to the region. Everything here seems to be an even blend between French and German and although I may have alluded to this being a potential abomination in my last post, I think it has come off pretty darn well. The food is mostly freshwater fish with potatoes and herbs. The wine is predominately Gwertstraminer and Pinot Blanc and the houses are Parisian terraces sharing walls with Germanic lath and plaster construction.

Now I may be wrong, but all this sharing of culture could be to do with the valley changing hand four times in less than one hundred years...

grass

I have developed somewhat of a reputation among certain circles as being a connoisseur of grass. I'm not talking the hallucinogenic herbs common in Amsterdam. No, I'm talking good old fashion turf. I can spot a good patch a mile off and have been known to base my day around finding such places. I may have mentioned something to that effect in how it should be done.

It all started some time shortly after discovering that Australia didn’t have a monopoly on sunlight. With the solid white roof throughout the UK I was in fact beginning to wonder. I think it may have been in Copenhagen of all places where this fetish took root (capitol pun!) with a German law student going by the name of Wolf and a girl I can barely recall. We had all gotten off the same 17 hour train, proceeded to get some beer and sleep in sunny park for 5 hours. Then I checked my bags in. And slept in bed for a couple. Some of the most pristine, dare I say virginal grass I have yet encountered is almost certainly in the High Tatras mountains (pictured above). Untouched by blade, this is truly natural grass, wholesome, clean and strewn with wild flowers. There was a good nap there too (notice the manish imprint i left behind). Germany was another good place for grass I decided. And not that horrendous Cooch grass we get in Australia. No I'm talking lush, proper lawn grass. I distinctly remember Crispy and David giving me hell all throughout Frankfurt... but guess which two people ended up lying in a expansive park with the master himself? That’s right... and if Crispy only knew what I got up to while he was at work...

But alas, the grass in Italy made me weep. Naught but dusty patches with rough brown patches. And Croatia, oh Croatia... I'm not sure that grass has even made it across the Agean Sea yet, so as you can imagine, these past few weeks have been trying to say the least. Once I thought I was in with a chance when I found a cosy little piazza in Rome but Stephen and I were moved along rather sharply by 'the Law'.

I'm looking forward to this trip to Lyon however... I hear they have some marvellous lawns in the Rhône-Alpes region.

high seas and deep gorges

Leaving Split was a rough experience by anyone’s measure. I had a ferry to Ancona that left at 22:00, to make matters worse I am a scrooge at heart and I opted for the deck seat ticket. As far as I can tell, I don’t actually have a seat, instead I just bivouac where ever I see fit and settle in for the night. So with 11 hours of ferry ride ahead, no bed in site and flying solo once more, I did the only thing an entrepreneuring young man could. I unplugged the pay-per-use massage chair, plugged in the laptop and watched movies until I was beyond exhaustion then just passed out. The grey fingers of dawn found me curled up, contorting my body around the various apparatus embedding in the chair that when in use must be more comfortable. I unfurled in body only as I drifted in a zombie like state for the bar. A coffee and 3 hours of sleep would have to see me through the day to Modena.

There isn’t an awful lot to say about Modena. Its old looking, apparently deserted and capitol of the Italian car industry heartland. We went to the Ferrari factory, we got locked out of the hostel for 5 hours a day, there was some ok wine and pizza. But it didn’t matter, Interlaken was next.

For me the attraction to Interlaken was the impressive array of outdoor and adventure activities it boasts and needless to say I was not disappointed. Day one saw us complete a decent 8 hour day trip at 22:00 after Klaus and I shared a stein at 4500ft and a horrendous salami and cheese pizza pocket at 1000ft.

Day two was an 8 hour canyoning trip through one of the many Swiss gorges. After collecting our wet gear and a pre-named helmet (mine was FOOL) we were guided deftly by our South African experts as we slid, repelled and jumped our way through 3 solid hours of cliffs and rapids. One of the most memorable moments has got to be getting lowered over the edge of a waterfall and 50ft to the pool below while being showered by the surprisingly temperate river. Others include somersaulting from cliffs and jumping across a fall so you land just so on a cliff face parallel, enabling you to plummet into the pool below and avoid a “preetty nawsty ledge. That would just be pain, yeah?” I can safely say that I will be sacrificing a good many meals to afford that excursion, but I do so gladly!

this boat was real...

If one doesn't count the previous post that I've just, for want of a better word, posted... it has been far too long since I've updated you on our travels. There is, as always, a good reason for this. We've been at sea, you see.

From my last post, you may have gotten the impression that I wasn't a fan of nautical transport. In that particular case, it was in fact a rather negative experience. However, the last eight days have given me a somewhat different perspective of boating, and I must say that this new perspective is in contrast, wholly positive.

Leaving one member of our party on the shore (not out of any cruelty on our behalf, it was his own considered decision to remain landlocked) we set foot on the rocking deck of what would be our home for the next seven nights, the Novi Dan. This fine seagoing vessel would carry us on a one-way cruise from Dubrovnik to Split, the second largest city in Croatia. We would sail (and I use the term with an unashamed level of poetic license – there was no canvas to be seen) up the Dalmatian coast, stopping in at towns and islands along the way. Our boat carried about 25 people, plus the crew of 5. Of the 25 passengers, only two were unfortunate enough to be of a nationality other than Australian. The 23 of us compared states, cities and towns, and the engines fired up to carry us up the coast.

Our crew were quite a bunch of characters. There was the Captain, who remained fairly aloof for the duration of the trip. There was Jaques (or however one spells his name in Croatian) the bartender and waiter, who was by far the most friendly with the unruly mob who had invaded his boat. Then there was the first mate, who went by the name 'The General'. Why the General, we asked?

The answer: Because he was a General. In the war. Just over a decade ago.

In light of this slightly worrying bit of information, we all made mental notes: Don't, under any circumstances, upset the General. Indeed, for the duration of the trip, whenever the General caught us with non-boat-issue water bottles we would scurry in fear. It was an absurd rule, we were not allowed ANY liquids other than those they sold to us, even H2O. But when it came down to it, on the boat, the General's word was law.

I shan't give a day by day account, for most days were fairly similar, and can be easily summarised. A typical day, at least for myself, would consist of waking up to the gentle rocking of the boat as we powered up the coast. Most distance was covered in the mornings. I'm told by the lighter sleepers that they fired up the engines around 7 am most days. Around mid morning, the engines would be cut, and you'd hear the anchor being dropped. This was the signal for one of the daily highlights – the 'swim stop'. The boat would stop just off the shore, where the water was still so deep that none of us stood any chance of touching the bottom, even with the most ambitious dive. This allowed us to leap off the deck (or roof) of the boat into the water, a fantastic way to properly wake up for the day. The water off the Dalmatian coast is the clearest that I've ever seen, and for the most part incredibly warm. After a good paddle about, we'd all clamber back on board, and await the ringing of the lunch bell. After lunch, the boat would move again, bringing us to the day's port. We stopped at some amazing little towns, and almost without fail had an enjoyable night. If one was inclined to party, the option was there. For those more keen on relaxation, this too was completely achievable... at least until the party-ers returned home.

By the end of the trip, we'd become quite a close knit group. Although there was another boatload, traveling along with us, for the most part we kept to the company of our own vessel, and came out of it each with a whole lot of new friends. As we pulled into Split on the final day, there was a palpable sense of regret. Our last swim stop had passed. Our last voyage was over, we had arrived at our final port.

In our minds, the journey was over – yet the final evening held a lot more for us that none of us expected. That, however, is a story for another time.

a night on the water

Our first real encounter with the Italian siesta came not in Cinque Terra, Florence or Rome, but in Bari, a coastal town which essentially is built around the ferry trade (or so it would seem). After avoiding this relaxed custom for over two weeks, we arrived by train, to find a strangely quiet town awaiting us. With only fast food stores and gelati vendors still apparently awake, we had the good part of the afternoon to kill, waiting for the Italians to wake up.

After camping out in the Port office for several hours, somebody finally deigned to re-open the ticket desk, and we were able to secure our passage out of Bari, bound for Dubrovnik, Croatia. Ticket in hand, we had only a trifling five hour wait for the ferry to depart. At least now, Bari was showing some signs of life, and after an exhaustive search of the town, we found what was apparently the sole supermarket in the region to secure provisions for our journey.

After a traditional backpacker's dinner of preserved meats, cheese and bread (eaten in the unlikely setting of a ticket office lobby), we cleared passport control and were allowed to walk the substantial distance to the ferry itself. As we boarded, there was a quiet but intense struggle to find a seat that might also double as a bed for evening. We thought that we'd been lucky, as we claimed a large leather couch in the darker 'bar' area, which did not look like it would be used for any kind of festive purposes on this particular evening. With everything seemingly taken care of, we relaxed and waited another couple of hours for the boat to start chugging its way across to Croatia.

It was to be one of the most mind-numbingly boring nights of our trip. Our chosen position turned out to be less than ideal, at the mercy of the most incredible air-conditioning that we've experienced over in Europe. It conditioned the air, and subsequently us, all night long. It has been some time since I've worn a jumper, but that night I was forced to pull out the polar-fleece that had been languishing in the bottom of my backpack.

It would be a lie to say that nobody managed to get any sleep, though those who did were for the most part chemically assisted. The remainder of us endured a restless night, soothed only by the chugging of the motors, and the enthusiastic banter of one small group who seemed to be enjoying the voyage... all night long.

Lest this post become yet another 'whinge blog', I must say that it was quite spectacular to see the sun coming up over the sea, revealing the Croatian coastline, wreathed in morning fog. As we entered the harbor of Dubrovnik, the morning light was just hitting the red roofs, giving us a spectacularly picturesque first impression of the town.

As we departed the boat and received the obligatory passport stamps, we were accosted by an army of eager locals, all of whom were eager to sell us accommodation. Though initially skeptical of these offers, the fact of the matter is that we had nothing arranged, and after some shrewd bargaining on Klaus' behalf, we secured a small apartment for just what we would have paid, had we gone to a standard hostel (which, our information indicated, may well already have been booked out). For this bargain price, we would get beds (some sharing involved), a kitchenette, air conditioning (an absolute blessing) and a view to die for out over Dubrovnik.

Thus ends the tale of our voyage. Having dropped our packs and taken off our shoes, we proceeded to make use of our new lodgings.

For the next two days, we'd do little more than sleep.

home away from home

I'm not sure if it has been mentioned in this forum or not, but by far and away, the greatest number of travellers you meet are Australian. It is pretty safe to say that in every city, town or village I have stayed in there has been an Australian within cooee. No doubt David will summon forth a circumstance using his seemingly female recollection for these details that will undermine my entire statement, but there aren’t many. A man’s allowed to take some small liberties with the truth for the sake of entertainment.

Split however seems to be some sort of lodestone for us though. Nobody is really sure why they are here, nobody seems to know what to do and nobody really knows why there are so many tourists, but we seem to drift in on the tide. It’s a sort of transit lounge for the eastern Mediterranean and Baltic states.

Right now as I am sitting in the common room typing away, Hostel Situs contains nine guests. Of this nine, eight are Australian. Of this eight six are from Melbourne. It feels nothing like a hostel. Four of us are sitting here watching cricket on a laptop, another one is cooking “snags” in the kitchen for us. The other one is giving hell to a Kiwi as they play Fight Night on the Playstation 3. The word sanga has re-emerged with unseemly haste into all our vocabularies. All in all I am quiet enjoying having my countrymen and women around me at the moment. It’s a good way to relax and take a break from travel and language barriers

This ancient roman fortress has had its “yeah, not bad” walls stormed and the Eureka flag flies proudly at its “kinda OK” towers. The smell of hamburgers waft across the battlefield as we crush Karlovačko “tins” beneath our thonged tread.
I mean it’s nice and all, but we didn’t really even want the place...

Branco

Brash, boisterous, boastful... these are all words I could be using for a witty alliteration but instead I choose bizarre. This single word wraps Bizarre Branco into a neat little package.

Banco is the name of my host here in Hvar, a really nice guy but a little over the top. The hostel, and I use that term loosly, is the middle level of the house he and his wife live in. It’s very neat, clean and comfortable but Branco himself is the main event. I first encountered him in town when he picked me up from the tourist office in his small red wagon. He came screeching to a halt just inches from where I was sitting in the gutter and said “I know you! You are James! But you don’t know me, I am Branco!” this was followed up by “you weren’t waiting long were you? I sped to get here, nearly killed a boy but I think he will be fine.” I never followed that up but I can only assume that he was joking. I hope. So now that you have a taste for his unique character I’ll round it out with a description. Our hero is a heavy set Croatian fellow in his late fifties, snow white crew-cut, that unnatural brown/orange tan and the smallest pair of shorts that you ever did see.

During my 3 minute whirlwind tour of town from the passenger seat in which he neatly managed to insult the Japanese, Italians, Americans, Greeks and Australians in a total of two sentences’ (we got our very own sentence) he jerked us to a halt out the front of his house. I was left to inspect the place while he parked the car and did so diligently. It’s a pretty standard house for the street, 3 stories, white washed and a terracotta tiled roof. When Branco returned to find me talking to his wife, he halted outside of her vision and waited for her to depart, he then whispered loud to me “am I in trouble?” After I reassured and coaxed him down the steps I was clapped on the shoulder by his meaty hand and the words “now we need to speak” rumbled forth. I felt like I was about to be lectured by my father... no not my father, a girlfriend’s father. My apprehension was unwarranted however as the only ominous rule was no visitors. We don’t like visitors.

So this was my first day under Branco’s terracotta roof and I am expecting things to only get funnier as time goes on. I hang on his every word for small pearls of wisdom and insight that will inadvertently brighten my already glaring Croatian days.

Branco’s Words of Wisdom
“Look at him, damn Italian’s and their stupid beards.”
“You take this road to the left. I mean you can go right if you want, it is lovely, but the house is to the left.”
“I am barbequing for the Swedish girls. They are so nice, like my daughters. Want me to set you up?”
“I love to belly dance. Give me some drums and pivo and you be careful, I will be on the table!”
“you can head out to Hula-Hula tonight. The girls there... oh the girls”
“This Australian girl and Kiwi guy... I don’t know what happened to them. Probably ended up under a tree... you understand what I mean by this?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t all there you know? Hit on the head in the beginning or something.”
“I’m going to meet my dentist for drinks. You are in charge here”

when in...

Rome is a city that one can't help but have high expectations for. Whether good or bad, you're bound to have heard some hype. So whilst you aren't sure exactly what to expect, you're certainly expecting something quite confronting. The image I had of Rome was a busting, chaotic place, the air full of honking car horns and loud Italian chatter. What romantic imaginings I might have had about the historical beauty of the city had been somewhat compromised by the experiences that travel has so far delivered – finding city after city struggling to keep up with the times, to the detriment of its historical character.

Despite this, I was surprised at what I found in Rome. We didn't see the surface until we emerged from our underground station, and walked up Via Urbana, searching for our hostel. It was immediately different from our time in Florence, and strangely, in the sense that it was a lot calmer. Florence had bustle, here, we were among the only people on the street, save for an old man in a deck chair who looked on, seemingly bemused by these four people foolish enough to be lugging backpacks up the street in the height of the afternoon sun. Though the place had a crazy messiness to it, and the layout of streets were a spidery sprawl, it felt altogether too placid to be the Rome that people talked about.

Over the next four days, we would see a whole lot more of Rome, that if anything brought our opinion of the city back into line with some of those expectations. We were encouraged to see a lot of the city by an interesting policy of our hostel: a midday lockout, from 11am til 5pm, where we were expected to vacate the hostel to facilitate an easier cleaning by staffmembers. This seemed absurd in the Roman summertime, where those hours were when you most wanted to be safe inside from the afternoon sun. Instead, we were doomed to be out and about in it, often killing the hours waiting until we could return to our refuge.

Plenty of time was spent seeing the sights, and by sights, we mean anything on the map that had a picture, indicating a worthwhile sight. We've definitely done more walking in Rome than we have anywhere else, it's a big city without the luxury of a comprehensive public transport network. It's not too big to walk, but it's large enough that you'll feel it in your feet after a days wander. Over four days, we saw the big sights: the Vatican, Colosseum, the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain. We also see a number of slightly less hyped places, including the Plazza delia Repubblica, the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, and the Santa Maria delgi Angeli. We see San Carlo Quatro Fontane, and then the Pallazo delle Espozioni, in a misguided attempt to find the Spanish Steps. These we find a little later in our wandering; in our defence the picture on the map was neither well drawn nor well labeled!

Our first brush with the law occurs in Rome. One of our party, whom shall not be named (other than to say it is not James, Stephen or myself) has a penchant for taking off his shirt, something that the Roman police seem to take issue with. Worse, this individual was a repeat offender, later on the same day being reprimanded again for this indecent exposure. Thankfully no charges were brought against our companion. He is disappointed to report that he now has to put in the extra effort to get rid of the 'singlet tan' that the enforced hours of shirtedness have left him with.

Our lodgings, in addition to the ridiculous lockout, were among the strangest we've had on this trip. The size of the hostel was suprising – a short hallway made up the bulk of the common space, with a number of dorm rooms opening from it. The hostel would have slept upwards of 50 people, yet seemed not nearly big enough to accommodate them unless they were all in their beds. At night, the hallway would be lit with a harsh blue light, and the 'evening manager' would arrive. His name was Fabio, and he was all kinds of strange. He wore a jaunty straw hat, the sides of his head were shaved down to almost nothing, and his eyes were full of madness. His role seemed to involve stirring up all manner of mayhem, before disappearing at midnight, and leaving the 'night manager' with the undesirable task of calming everyone down. Apparently we were not the only hostel in the building – the next floor up was also for accommodation. This floor, however, was run by nuns. It seemed somewhat symbolic. Up there, under the watchful eyes of the sisters, that hostel must have had a heavenly serenity. Down below, there we were, under the terrible influence of Fabio.

Rome proved exhausting – I don't think I could claim a single good night's sleep, and every morning called for an early start, lest the heat of the day catch up with you too soon. It's with a sense of relief that we depart for Bari. However quiet our street – Rome never seemed to stop moving.

Onwards to Florence

It was with some regret that we escaped Cinque Terra. It was really the most delightful place to be stranded. After days of lying in the sun, shouldering our packs seemed a little more onerous than before. Nevertheless, we were already a day behind schedule, we needed to get to Florence.

Now, it had been rather warm in Cinque Terra. We're talking about a country that doesn't seem to acknowledge the doona – and with good reason, even the thin linen sheet feels a bit much most nights. The heat of Florence was a whole lot more apparent. You could feel it radiating up from the pavement. Perhaps it was something to do with the subconscious awareness that there was no longer any gorgeous blue water close at hand.

Florence is the kind of city where you simply can't escape history. There seems to be very little that is new, and ever corner one turns reveals a church, a tower, a gatehouse. On our very first evening, a short stroll was quite abruptly brought to a halt by the most extravagant structure we've yet stumbled across, the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, Despite being a 'low' city, with nothing seeming to rise more than five or six stories, it's incredible how a cathedral can sneak up on you. From a distance you see the dome, but it's often without any warning that you will stumble on the building itself, up close and personal.

There is without a doubt too much to do in Florence. This difficulty is compounded by the oppressive afternoon heat, which renders even us seasoned Australians sluggish and unwilling to trek about town. Again, we lament the fact that there's no swimming to be had (not entirely correct, there is a pool in the basement of our hostel). The river is not inviting, a worrisome green. James saw an 'otter' swimming gleefully through the floating debris. This raised a sequence of pressing questions: Are there any otters in Italy? Are you sure it was an otter? Have you considered the possibility that it may have been a dog-sized rat?

Update: Yes, it was likely that this was a dog sized rat, actually a species of 'semi aquatic rodent' called Nutria. It also seems that there are other people on the internet who've had exactly the same question.

All of it's other charms aside, I must admit that my favorite part of Florence was the San Lorenzo Markets, and the Mercato Centrale. There's nothing truly authentic about these markets, it does feel a little staged and shamelessly touristy. That aside, roaming the packed streets full of little wooden stalls was an experience. Visually it's a treat, vibrant and colorful. The vendors chattered away to each other in Italian, no doubt laughing at the hapless tourists pouring out the contents of their moneybelts on belts, bags and jewelery. Browsing is difficult, let your gaze linger on an item for more than a fraction of a moment, and the vendor will have teleported to your side with said item (even if it had previously been hanging 8 feet above the ground) and is asking whether you want to pay with cash or card. In between the licensed stalls, bands of enterprising African gentlemen peddle designer watches, designer sunglasses and designer handbags. I would want for a moment to cast any aspersions on the authenticity of their goods. I'll simply make the observation that their cardboard stands could be packed up very quickly, and that they became incredibly mobile in the event that a policeman came a-wandering down the market alleys.

There's a strange sort of repetition in the markets. There must be ten or more stretches of road, packed with stalls on either side. Yet often two, three or four stalls in a row would be selling indistinguishable wares. Pick any store, you could probably find ten more just like it. Variety was not the name of the game (if this game had a name, it would be 'Sell The Tourists Some Leather'), it was definitely an exercise in quantity. An effective technique really. You could only walk for so long before feeling your resistance against impulse purchases waning. Eventually I caved in, and bought myself the most impressively purple satchel bag. The vendor was most approving, and told me that it was a very good color for me. I'm sure he says that to all his customers, but in this case, I'm inclined to think he's onto something.

random encounters

Who would have thought that Italy would be such an international hub for people from Eltham. First off we met a girl called Tegan in Cinque Terre. Tegan was a student studying Chemical engineering in Queensland but originally hailed from quiet old Eltham and attended Eltham East primary. Unfortunately for her, we were three years her senior and she was deprived of our company in these early, crucial years of development. I’m sure Queensland is lovely though.

The next connection requires a small amount of back story. In Riomaggiore we met some people from Melbourne who were studying in Prato, a small town about twenty minutes by train outside of Florence. Seeing as this was our next destination, these diligent students insisted we come out and visit so they could show us around. David and I being old hands at travel didn’t feel like we could handle any more culture and begged off while the two youngsters dove at the opportunity. While in Prato this particular eve, thoroughly engrossed in everything it had to offer, Klaus ran into a guy from high school, Mathew Olaris. This was the second encounter, but possibly not the strangest. I mean Prato is a university town after all... it’s possible.

The most bizarre encounter in my opinion was the chance meeting of Laura Baker, another Eltham College stalwart. What makes this odd was that we met her on the roof of our own hostel when she wasn’t even staying there. To think, out of all the places these people could be, what is the likelihood of it being Italy, of it being Prato, of it being the roof of our hostel on a balmy Florence evening. She even had the same drink as me...