that's gotta smart

For those of you living in blissful ignorance, last week Dave and I nipped off to Paris for a mid week get away. Yes, Dave and I required a get away from Germany. Is that so wrong? I mean Germany is nice enough. We saw the sun a couple of times. I'm pretty sure we had a good night night out. The hostel was middle of the road and the food was adequate. I mean all in all it wasn't bad. Then again it wasn't great.

But Paris! Ah Paris... This is a city that captures my heart for no other reason than it's a pleasure to just exist there.

Paris has a rhythm, a heart beat, a palpable and pervasive culture that I am yet to encounter in any any other city. I love it. Sauntering down to the boulangerie, ordering my “Duex croissant et café noisette,” then ambling my way home. It's a life-style I am keen pursue, but that's for another time. Now I wish to share a moment of weakness with you all. A quick review of “how it should be done” may be required to have this make sense. We broke from our Parisian tradition once and only once in this visit. It shames me to admit this, but Dave and I went to see Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, the magnificent structure you see pictured above. Having said that it is by far and away one of the most beautiful churches I have seen to date and I don't regret a minute of it.

The main realisation to come from this interlude is that Berlin, and Germany as a whole seem to lack this cultural identity. The view from your bus or hostel window is no different from untold others encountered on this ramble. Personally however, I pitty the Germans because the French thus far are kicking their collective arse. That's gotta smart.

green thumb

Our hostel has a balcony.

Actually, that may be an exaggeration of sorts. It would be more correct to say, 'our hostel has a trafficable roof, covered in large pebbles, which the management lets you sit out on. You have to climb out the windows to get to it'.

Anyway, it's sunny out, and as I enjoy my lunch, I'm watching something strange take place out on the 'balcony'. There's a young fellow out there, probably of an age with myself, or thereabouts - another hostel guest. A classy chap, attired in true traveler style. Bare chested, he's ambling about in naught else but his boxer shorts, thongs, peaked cap and a large pair of sunnies. You know, those big plastic ones with thick white frames. He's got his tunes going, a pair of oversize headphones completing his afternoon 'look'. So what, you ask?

He's gardening, I reply.

Now when you see a fellow like this gardening, you're bound to jump to a few conclusions. The horticultural endeavors of the shirtless youth, to be fair, do tend to be somewhat questionable. In this case, he's crouched next to a faux-terracota flowerpot, the rectangular variety, which sits out on the very edge of the roof deck. If you look in the title photo, you might even catch a glimpse of it. My first thought is “I don't even want to KNOW what's in that pot.” But that's not entirely true, is it? We all want to know, even if only to have a story to tell about it. Everybody likes to have a good story to tell.

He's taking good care of his little garden. Ever so slowly he removes weeds, one by one, clearing out the soil. What's interesting is that instead of simply disposing of them, he gently replants each tuft of green, settling it down upright amongst the pebbles. Not just placing – definitely planting. The hardy little things just might survive in this field of stones; there's a lot of other weeds that seem to be doing well among them. Though maybe they're also the work of this atypical gardener.

Finished with his work, he waters his green progeny from his drink bottle, and stands up. Hands on his head, he surveys his domain. Satisfied, he departs.

In frightful letdown, it does seem that this chap's botanical exploits are legitimate – my reconnaissance reveals nothing but some herbs, of the seasoning variety. A bit of parsley, a couple of fledgling lettuces. The hostel herb garden, perhaps? This guy was a guest, not management. Who can say what motivated him to so carefully tend this garden? In any case, with a little love and a little water, someone could be enjoying a nice salad in not too long. Especially if those little tomato plants would hurry up and fruit...

Ich bin ein...

In a radical break from tradition, I'm going to write about a city while I'm still actually in it. This does mean that Kracow basically gets skipped over, but in all honesty, I don't think it's a great loss for any of us. Not to say that Kracow wasn't a lovely city, just that nothing blogworthy really occurred there. It would be to my shame if this site became little more than a list of our activities – surely it needs to be a little more colorful than that to keep the interest of such a discerning readership as yourselves? Thus, I fast forward to our arrival in Berlin...

It's been a long day on the train, more or less ten hours in transit. An uneventful trip really, except for the part towards the end where the German ticket inspectors reduced a girl in a nearby seat to tears, with some kind of dressing-down. Uncomprehending as I am of the language, I cannot state any details, other than inferring that whatever card or ticket she had was somehow unfit for travel, and the inspectors were – in their own stony way – filled with wrath. It appeared that a substantial sum of cash was required to convince them to take their wrath elsewhere. It would seem that nationality is a secondary factor; ticket inspectors are of their own ugly breed wherever they may hark from.

Apologies to any decent ticket inspectors out there who I just slandered with sweeping generalisation. You have to admit though – the most of you are thorough bastards.

Anyhow, I digress. Now in Berlin, we make our way out to the hostel. Having read reviews of the place, I'd been informed that it was in a neighborhood that other travelers had described as 'shady', 'dodgy', and 'seedy'. As it was, it simply turned out to be Turkish. Not exactly a ritzy neighborhood, but hardly the dangerous slum implied in the reviews. We've noticed that the traveling youth of today seem to be a fairly sensitive lot, complaining about everything from the number of bathrooms on their floor, to the number of coat-hooks in their bedroom. One critical fellow even observed in his feedback that the light fittings seemed poorly attached to the roof. To these people, we would have but one suggestion: Go to Edinburgh Backpackers. You'll have enough review material to start a periodical.

It seems we arrived on an interesting night – in a nearby square, a street festival of sorts was taking place. Something to do with the anniversary of a protest against police treatment of the homeless, the festival seemed to draw together all manner of street performers. Magicians, jugglers, dancers, they were all out in force. Some were clearly fancy enough to have their own stage, others just grabbed a bit of grass in the park and strutted their stuff. Among the more sensational acts was a fellow who could inflate a surgical glove. With his nostrils. Whilst it was stretched over his head, like a translucent white rooster comb. There was a drum & digeridoo outfit called Wild Marmalade (actually an Aussie group!) who drew quite a crowd in the park. Some of the dancing they inspired was truly... original. The most mind boggling act, however, we found a little way down the street. Two enterprising performers had conspired to create a scene that very nearly defies comprehension, let alone description. They were dressed in a kind of eighties-idea-of-the-future style, all shiny and segmented, with rather incredible headgear, that was part robot, part skeleton, part chicken. One of them played an insane kind of experimental techno music, a one man band of sorts, darting from one console to another creating all kind of electronic mayhem. His female counterpart occupied herself by cooking along to the music. To add to the oddity of the act, her stove was elevated well above practical height, so that she had to climb a ladder in order to deposit ingredients in the pot. The entire spectacle took place in front of a blurry projection of what appeared to be a time lapse of chickens.

No doubt, we've arrived in Berlin.

maps

New by popular demand! Maps! or rather Map, singular. You can browse around and check out where we have been and were we are headed. Or at least you will be able to when I am done. I'm aware it is on the small side but I was constrained some what by aesthetics, there is however a link to the larger version beneath. Any more suggestions that people have are welcome!

1884 o. m. o.

Lets get a few things out of the way shall we? Yes, the hostel we were staying at was called 'The Ginger Monkey'. No, the choice to stay here had nothing to do with my own unique physical characteristics. I'm glad we got this all cleared up. The reason we stayed at this particular hostel was that it came highly recommended from an upstanding member of Prague's backpacking elite. I cant remember his name, and I'm not entirely certain he remained upstanding as the night wore on, but something in that brief conversation fired our imaginations.

The Ginger Monkey was in a town called Zdiar, population 1400 (only double what it was in 1774 wouldn't you know) in the High Tatras region of northern Slovakia. The Tatras were in fact the mountains that we could see from the front deck, and an impressive set of mountains they were. There is something immensely satisfying about looking out from your seat on the deck, across a road and seeing snow capped peaks rearing from the surrounding hills like rocky islands amongst the grassy surf. Seeing the look of wonder in our eyes, Jimbo the Ginger Monkey's proprietor casually informed us that there is a trail up to the saddle between the two nearest peaks. So after getting settled in on our first day and having a casual wander around the nearby forest we ready ourselves for a more serious day of mountaineering to come.

I wont give you a step by step account of our journey, instead I shall start with our reaching the snow line. I was in the lead at this point and upon spying the first dirty patch of snow, I scamper like a champion for it. In one fluid motion I stoop to collect a double hand full of icy ammunition. While turning I craft an amateur snowball, pausing briefly to take aim (and giving Dave time to wail his betrayal) I unleash. Alas, the shot was wide by mere inches and sailed past his left elbow. This set the tone for the rest of our ascent as it was punctuated by periodic skirmishes and cease fires as we waded though knee deep snow striving for the summit. Forty minutes of slowly forging our way up the bowl formed between the mountains but we finally made it to the base of a serious drift the signified the summit. Once again in the lead and excited as a puppy at the prospect of getting there first, I dashed up a semi-stable section of snow and gazed reverently across the vista. Dave, somewhat less caring about footing went right up the middle of the drift, filling is shoes with snow in the process.

The events at the top were pretty uninteresting really. We saw some rare goats, listened to some good music and I may or may not have nearly fallen to my death. In a moment of what can only be called 'flawed inspiration' we decided the best way down was by the seat of our pants. Shortly after the first attempt we decided a more practical approach might be required. All in all we had a fantastic and entirely unexpected day in the snow of our northern Slovakian summer.

transit

6:03 pm : We arrive in Prague, after a 3 hour bus journey. A short metro ride later, and we are absolutely no closer to being where we want to be: Slovakia. We settle for a more modest goal: the central train station. Got any idea how to say 'central station' in Czech? Us neither.

6:50 pm : After some guesswork, several fruitless interrogations of bewildered metro staff, and a bit of backtracking, we find ourselves inside what does appear to be the central station. This is where the REAL trains come and go. We queue to book for a ticket, and wait as a heated but very slow argument plays out in front of us. In desperation we change lines, only to see rapid progress in our former location. We finally get to the window, buy a ticket. Would we like a reservation with that? Yes please! You cannot get reservations here. Pardon?

8:40 pm : Having located the right platform, we walk the entire length of the train to find some kind of staff member. We were cryptically informed that we could only get reservations ON the train, not before. This makes zero sense, but we put it down to bizarre European customs. The friendly guy informs us that if we'd like the luxury of a couchette (a kind of bunk bed) we'll have to pay extra. I'm all for this – an 11 hour night trip sitting up does not appeal to me at all. We pay our money and are shown to our cabin. Scarcely have we made ourselves comfortable when there's a knock on the door – he's put us in the wrong cabin, if we stay in this one we'll end up in the wrong town. We move to the next carriage, where a far grumpier fellow shows us to our new accommodation. The only thing about a bunk room is that there's simply not room to sit up – so we lie down and watch the Czech Republic begin to slide away.

12:34 am : I am awakened by a particularly rough rattling of the cabin, only to find that it's as humid as an indoor swimming pool. There are two choices: deal with it, or open the window and deal with the resulting noise. Neither is particularly appealing.

6:30 am : This time I awaken to the sound of a sharp knock on the door. I try to open it, and fail. Several attempts all result in the same inability to open the door. The knocking continues, before the door is roughly shoved open by Grumpy. With a scowl, he informs us that we're to get off in 20 minutes. We thank him, and he grunts as he hands over our receipts. As James peers out our cabin window, I pull aside the curtain in the carriage passageway. In an excited spluttering, I call him over – he's looking out the wrong window. On my side, snow capped mountains spring up out of the otherwise dead-flat landscape. The sun is just coming up, and we're in Poprad, Slovakia.

7:25 am : A bus arrives to carry us away from Poprad, which in these early hours is populated by an incredibly diverse lot of people. The station itself feels like an 80's sci-fi spaceport set. On the bus, we strike out towards the mountains. Zdiar, here we come.

8:30 am : Dumped in Zdiar, we follow our directions to the hostel. We can't find it. We wander the streets until an old Slovakian lady deduces from our backpacks that we're headed for the only hostel in town, and points us in the right direction. Thank heavens for friendly old Slovakian ladies. We're at the Ginger Monkey Hostel.

Cesky what?

In defence of Cesky Krumlov, it was a refreshing escape from the cityscapes of Europe. Stunning to look at, the town straddles a sweeping S-bend in a river, surrounded by forested hills. One couldn't really ask for a more picturesque lump of civilization. It's a tourist town, no doubt; the restaurants rival the locals in number. The buses roll up during the day, unloading the camera toting horde, but come the evening they're all on their way, presumably to rest before capturing the next beautiful place in hard pixels. Watching them come and go, it's a relief to know that we've got just a little more time under our belts.

My mostly empty sketchbook has been burning a hole in my backpack, so giving in, I take it out to the panoramic terrace that looks out over the village with a spectacular view of the castle. In about half an hour, I have enough pencil scratchings on the paper to thoroughly shame myself, as a misshapen greylead version of the tower takes form. As the morning sun rises higher, the tourists start to arrive, great packs of them. It would seem I've chosen an inopportune place to conduct my self-conscious sketching. Despite my best efforts to back myself into an unassailable corner, I am no match for the elderly Chinese. Clearly the bizarre activity of a scruffy western youth proved too intriguing for at least one lady, who came right up to peer – not over my shoulder, but over the front of the book. With a smile, she returned to the pack. You're welcome.

It only takes fifteen minutes to walk completely out of town, and find yourself surrounded by fields of waist high grass and wildflowers. A little further and you can find a hilltop monastery, all shut up and dark, but surrounded by picturesque forest, with an incredible view out over the valley and town. In true Eastern European style, there is always a powerline in sight. Somehow here it seems a perfectly acceptable feature of the landscape. Apparently there can also be bears here. Bears! For normal people, this news would be received as a warning. For young Australians, it's more of a prospect. Few things could hold as much fascination for us as seeing an actual bear. No doubt that it is more appealing as an idea than as a reality, but during our walks, our senses were all on alert for any sign of ursine activity. For all the wrong reasons.

In the end, the only bears we saw were in the moat of the castle. Yes, you heard me. A moat of bears. Where everyone else was messing around surrounding their castle with water, the Bohemians were getting busy, filling theirs with bear. That might not be historically accurate. It may actually be the case that the disused moats have more recently been converted into zoo exhibits. But who can pass up the fantastic imagery of a medieval fortress, surrounded by a seething pit of fur, muscle and teeth?

In the town of a hundred eateries, self catering wasn't a necessity. Even for us backpacking types, a meal out is well within budget. I shan't bore you with the entire list of consumption, but it would be remiss of me to not mention the meal we treated ourselves to on our second night in Cesky. The name of the place I cannot remember, but its reputation was built on a single foodstuff: meat. With an open fire and 'traditionally' dressed waiting staff, this was a carnivore's delight. You must understand that meat has been somewhat neglected in our diets, especially the red sort. Unable to decide on any one animal, we chose a platter, a veritable menagerie that arrived on a large wooden tray. The salad: purely decorative. It was a feast worthy of kings.

This concludes my summary of Cesky Krumlov, after that it was back on a bus to Prague, if only for a couple of hours. Some fellow Aussies have recommended a hostel in the High Tatras, Slovakia, and throwing our plans to the wind, we're headed into the mountains to check it out.

postcards in the stone

I am noticing a shift in my perspective on travel the more I do and see. Now fear not, this isn't my way broaching the topic of wanting to come home or expressing some deep concern over my choice of travel companion. Couldn't be further from the truth. No, what I have noticed is that the more cities you see the more they look alike. Now it stands to reason that a lot of these cities feel similar. Large swathes started as Roman settlements, many fell under the rule of various Saxon or Frankish 'Holy Empires' and they have all kept pretty well apace of each other in terms of architectural and technological advances. But I think the nail in the coffin was tourism. When people start talking perfect English to you in Bruges or you walk into a McDonalds in Prague and can order a McFlurry that tastes the same as in Australia, a place really starts to lose its sense of individuality.

Now I'm not entirely sure why I expected Prague to be any different, and I'm almost certain the four days of solid drizzle didn't help my opinion, but it was just another city of cobbled street and churches with a Palace on the hill. It seems like the standard formula. I had wanted it to be some magical place of East meets West (in a strictly European sense), the border town between the former Soviet Union and the Western world. Instead I got another cheap vendor hawking his trashy wares. I could buy a boomerang with scenes of Prague painted on it for Christs sake! This is indicative of the rest of Europe I have experienced to date, and likely a foreshadowing of what is to come. Oddly enough I'm getting the distinct feeling that any individuality I will be finding will actually stem from the youth of the city as they struggle to be none conformist. So far I have shied away from this because it seemed too much like home, but now I think it will be more memorable than just looking at postcard in the flesh... or stone as it were.

So to be honest I was a little glad to get out of Prague and head out into the country for a little while. We traveled south to a lovely town called Český Krumlov, nestled against a cliff on an S bend on the Vltava River. Sure, there may have had cobbled streets, and yes I think there was a church or two. Now that I recall it... I do believe the castle was on a hill overlooking town... Oh Jesus...

how it should be done

Let me paint you a picture. Tis a warm day late in spring, you wake up mid morning, throw on yesterdays shirt and find a fresh pair of shorts then amble your way down to the bakery for some fresh croissants and a bottle of orange juice. You retire to a nearby park and lie in the grass as you lick the last buttery crumbs from your fingers and enjoy the dappled sun on your face. What should you do with this day after such a perfect start? The Louvre you say? Perhaps the catacombs or Notre Dame? How could you overlook the Eiffel Tower, they have an exhibition of its design and construction at the national museum you know.

This is the plethora of choices that Dave and I were confronted with daily. On this particular magical day I just described (it is no mere fiction by the way) Dave and I chose to do... nothing. We lay in that park for forty minutes trying to summon the will to endure more high culture but we just couldn't. In the end I believe we may have had a look at Notre Dame from a safe distance or possibly did a lap of the Pompidou Centre, but really I think this attitude was the reason we had such a good time in Paris.

Some of you may be baffled or even outraged by this seeming waste of opportunity, but let me assure you, this is the best way to see Paris. The line for Notre Dame is long and it is gorgeous from the outside, the Eiffel Tower is best viewed at night in the park below, with friends and ice cream and the Louvre... well I have no idea, didn't even go near it. The one and only “high culture” attraction that we submitted ourselves to was Paris Disneyland. We shamelessly indulge our respective inner-children, yet temper this with the efficient resolve of the young men that we are. The result is a terrifying blend of exuberance and economy, hitting every ride as swiftly as possible, as often as possible, with minimum time squandered in line. Our mission was to wring every last drop of glee from this park, and we carried this out with military precision at a running skip.

I know you are sitting there thinking. How can we live with ourselves knowing that we have experienced the Disneyland Castle in more depth than some of culture's brightest stars? Simple my friends. Three magical words: We'll be back.

picturesque Mk II

Just another small update to let you know i have pictures for Prague, Cesky Krumlov and Paris up now.

southward bound

As you may have read in James' earlier posts, we've spent a little time apart. The sequence of events is as such: While he heads north to Copenhagen, I'm bound for Nice, to meet up with Mum & Dad, who are lucky enough to be traveling through southern France. My journey begins in the middle of the night, stepping out of St Christopher's in Amsterdam and heading for the train station. My flight is at 6:45 AM, and I'm without any accommodation tonight. The plan is to get to the airport, and then find somewhere to curl up and rest. It is to be an uneventful and altogether uncomfortable night. Amsterdam's airport proves devoid of niches in which to snooze, even the recliners in the transit lounge seem to be the wrong shape. Thus at 6:45, I board my flight not having slept a wink. This state continues until touchdown at Nice Airport, where I'm to wait until 2 to be picked up. By the time the parents arrive, I'm probably delirious with exhaustion, but very happy to see them.

Southern France is a fantastically interesting place. As well as being spoiled rotten with accommodation, I'm now able to tag along to the many hillside villages around Grasse, something that can really only be achieved with a car. This kind of transport has been out of the question up until now. Dad drives the trusty little Renault through the nightmarishly tight bends of the region, and over a few days we visit a number of amazing hillside villages. Each is subtly different, some polished and presented like postcards, and others where you can hear life carrying on for the locals behind the picturesque walls as you walk through alleyways.

Now I could chatter on at length about these remarkable locations, but really what I want to talk about is the breakfast. Now, as a backpacker, breakfast is somewhat of a lottery. It is not unusual for a hostel to provide a breakfast to its guests, though usually this consists of toast, sometimes cereal too. If you're lucky there's tea and coffee, maybe even some ham and cheese. Who can really complain about such fare? Well, now I can, especially after the heaven I experienced each morning in Grasse. I'm normally not a morning person, but even I was not that hard to rouse, as the sun streamed in through the blinds and I knew what awaited me on the table outside. Fresh fruit salad, accompanied by what must be the words best yoghurt. I think they cut it with cream. Genius. After that was dealt with, a tray would appear. A tray fit for a king, bearing all manner of pastry and bread. Too much? Too rich? Too fattening? Definitely. Wonderfully.

After Grasse, we received amazing hospitality at a family home in Montpellier. A couple of years ago, Isabelle stayed with this family on a school exchange, and they were kind enough to invite the rest of us to stay while we were in the area. Thankfully most members of the household are quite accomplished English speakers, for our French left a whole lot to be desired. One would not need to observe David and Rodney Young for too long to discover just how monolingual we are. In any given situation, first we will desperately scan for the familiar. We will probably spend as long as we can muddling around procrastinating, as if the longer we hesitate, the more we will understand should conversation become unavoidable. At this point we're reduced to pointing, gesturing numbers, and even making sound effects in order to get our point across. Helen does slightly better, as a one-time French student, unhindered by Youngian indecisiveness.

In Montpellier, I play more soccer than I probably have at any other time in my life. The youngest member of the household, an insanely energetic 9 year old, takes immense delight in showing this Australian just how terrible soccer players from the southern hemisphere are. Despite his fierce urgings to hold nothing back as I take penalty shots, his mother makes it fairly clear that she doesn't want her son hurt. To be fair, he doesn't seem to have self preservation at the forefront of his mind, a trait no doubt common in 9 year olds. Thus, I tread the fine line between playing safely, and not letting on that I could indeed be kicking it harder. The little guy has no such caution – my mother looks on and only laughs as he does his best to annihilate me.

The departure from Montpellier was a rather hectic thing. After a fantastic day exploring the old Roman parts of Nimes, we returned to the house in order to pack up my things and put me on a train towards Paris. “Heaps of time,” I believe is the phrased used by Rodney. Indeed, we had heaps of time, which we spent unsuccessfully picking up my ticket, with a bit of creative driving, before getting stuck in traffic. Tension mounted as the train departure got ever closer. Despite my best efforts in packing, it still took some more time to be ready to leave. Still ticketless, I jumped aboard a tram headed to the station, now armed with information I hoped would make my ticket redemption possible. Again, reassurances from Rodney. Time to burn, time enough that I'd get hideously bored at the station, so much time I'd be able to eat dinner! In this case, Rodney was not correct. The tram took an inordinate amount of time to get to the station, leaving me with 12 whole minutes to collect a ticket, find my platform and board. This may seem like a long time, and indeed there is much that can be achieved in 12 minutes. However with the ticket machine steadfastly refusing my credit card, I had to resort to human help, which involved lining up. There is nothing worse than lining up under a deadline, and in this case upon reaching the head of the line, I was simply redirected to another line. My 12 minutes slipped through my grasp leaving me with about 30 seconds when my ticket was handed to me by the girl at the desk. “You'd better run,” she advised me in a bored monotone. I took her advice. The doors literally closed behind me as I leapt aboard. Paris, here I come.