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...

stranded

Picture this. An Italian villa high on the hill sides overlooking a small fishing village all in shades of ochre and peach. The villa has a terrace that’s surrounded with a vine covered in masses of intense purple flowers and shaded by several fig trees just beginning to fruit. A zephyr blows in from the Mediterranean sea, cooling the evening to a pleasant 25 degrees as we lounge, drinking our wine and beer.

As you can imagine, we were ropeable to learn that we were to be stranded in this place. Damn the flaky Italian rail system. Damn them.

So instead of the prescribed 3 nights spent in the delightful little town of Riomaggiore, the first (or last depending on where you start) village of the Cinque Terre, we had to endure one night extra. All jokes aside though, it was by far and away the most beautiful place I have been to on the ramble thus far. The main reason to go to the Cinque Terre is the trail that connects these five (cinque) villages (terre = lands). It’s a path, sometimes only a goat trail that passes through train stations, terraced vineyards, olive groves, small alleys and cliff top outcrops. We did this on the first full day there and I loved every minute of it.

After knocking the walk over there isn’t a whole lot left to do in the Italian Riviera. We swam, we drank some local wine, went out for dinner... I believe we went for a night swim at some point. Most of our remaining days were spent at Monterosso, the largest of the five towns, swimming and sunbaking.

I couldn’t think of a better place for the Italians to be moody.

better than neutral

For not really having any reason to go to Bern other than to get Stephen out of Germany for security reason, it turned out to be a pretty neat little city. I mean any city that has a bear-pit is an instant winner in my books. Bern is one of those fantastic modern European cities that skilfully manage to blend its 17th century architecture with McDonalds and Prada. We only spent two nights there but it was a good place to catch up with our two new wanders.

So let me give you the highlights of Bern.

As mentioned before, this sleepy little city is the proud owner of a real, live bear pit. Well, I may be taking liberties with the word ‘live’, as far as we understand the bears died out several years ago. They are trying to breed some new ones, but to me this begs the question “how do you breed bears from nothing”? Right next door to this pseudo bear-pit was a restaurant that we just took to calling the “Jubi Pub” since Jubi-Bier was their own beer brewed on site. It was fantastic, possibly my favourite part of the city. They also did a mean Absinth, a handy way to blow those remaining franks floating around in your pocket. This brings me to my next point, Swiss money is magnificent. The notes are huge and they could shame a Pro Hart painting while the coins look like something coveted by a pirate! And finally, not so much the icing on the cake, more so the little figurines you get on a wedding cake... the picture above. A tiny bear with a massive rifle. Now that’s a proper statue... do I detect some passive aggression here Switzerland?

stakeout

Brendan and I rolled into Frankfurt on the 11:44 ICE from Braunschweig. Waiting for us at the main entrance was David Young, one of our team who had been in place for a couple of days, sussing the joint out. He led us to our hotel on a little side street, passing a variety of miscreants and unsavouries on the way. Our first hurdle was that the room had only been booked for two people, to throw off suspicion, so we had to smuggle Brendan in without raising any questions. This wouldn’t be a problem for men of our experience. We dropped our bags and went exploring, it’s good to know your way around town.

Check in was at 13:00, but we lingered in the fresh air knowing that our movements for the rest of the evening would be restricted. David and I entered first with our packs and I payed for the room and after dumping our gear and a brief moment of respite I went back down stair and around the corner to collect Brendan. We did a lap of the block to waste some time then casually walked back in. There was a tense moment when the desk clerk stopped us and asked which room we were in but we easily charmed our way past him and up to the fourths floor.

We set up our gear and got settled for a long night.

The atmosphere in the room was stifling. If we had a barometer it would have read storm. Around 17:00 Brendan was on watch at the window while David and I got some much needed shut eye when suddenly a commotion started. Before we knew it a man was out cold on the sidewalk, blood slowly gathering beneath his head. The ambulance arrived in due course and things settled down, but the tone had been set and we were on edge now.

As night settled the nocturnal creatures made their presence felt. The music began to pump out of the clubs, the ladies who had been loitering in the street all day drifted away and the whole street took on a pink and blue neon glow. Deciding we needed something to eat, David and I stepped out for some fresh air, leaving Brendan on watch. We found a kebab joint and ordered one for Brendan as well, when wandered back.

It was a restless night and I kept starting away with shouts and music drifting up from the street below, but it passed by uneventfully. Our last task was to make a clean escape. David and I again went first to check out and complete the ever present paperwork then waited around the corner for Brendan. His strategy was to put head phones in, crank it up and head out the open door to freedom. The addict right outside the door seemed to know what was going on and grinned as he passed by, all the while preparing his syringe.

just waiting for a train

It has been far too long since I have posted, this is largely due to a dark few days spent in the city of Frankfurt.

Frankfurt seems an underwhelming place to mark the halfway point of such a grand trip. I can't really find a whole lot to appreciate about a city where the main train station seems to forcefully spit you out into the red-light district. As if by giving you the worst possible first impression of the city, it can only possibly get better from there. Perhaps this is a necessary maneuver, as the remainder of Frankfurt is composed of banks, and I'm told, an airport. Indeed, when I informed a resident of Wolfenbuttel (a town we had the pleasure of recently visiting) that I would be going to Frankfurt, he screwed up his nose in disgust and in delightfully accented English, asked 'but why, is nothing but airport!' Of course, it is the airport that draws us to the city, to greet our reinforcements. As soon as they're here, we can get the hell out on our way to Switzerland.

My arrival in Frankfurt was by train, and I was alone. James remained with a friend of ours (Crispy!) in the north, whilst I moved on ahead to meet my dear cousin Alison. On my arrival, we tried the only two advertised hostels in Frankfurt, both of which were inexplicably booked out. I had missed the last bed by moments. Thus, I'm directed to the Last Resort Hostel. Not its trading name, but most definitely a fitting one. This is the hostel that you get sent to when there's absolutely nothing else in town. The best that can be said about it by the counter staff at the second hostel is 'Once you get inside, it's not so bad...it's just that the entrance is shared with a sex shop'. Classy.

Some words in the English language fall into disuse, particularly when you're living in a nice city. When you get to Frankfurt, some of these words are granted something of a revival. In particular, the word 'Junkie' was destined to fall into consistent use whilst in this fine town. The junkies were everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean that they were all outside of my hostel. They congregated in front of a derelict building, fighting, swaying, flailing or lying comatose in the gutter. They're like abnormally social zombies. Needless to say I spend as little time on the streets as possible.

At night the place comes to life, and by that I mean they turn on enough red lights to make Frankfurt visible from the moon, a rose colored speck of iniquity. As I walk home from an evening spent in Alison's hostel common room, I'm accosted by a series of aggressive promoters, who strut outside the (numerous) strip clubs on my street. One goes so far as to literally attempt to drag me inside, it takes at least fifteen refusals and a good deal of physical resistance to convince him that I am indeed not interested in his seedy establishment.

All in all, I was thoroughly relieved when James and Crispy arrived, and we headed to new accommodations. We were to stay a night at the Elbe Hotel (not a hostel!) which would most definitely be an enormous improvement. Filled with optimism, I approach our new lodgings, only to see that there's something in the gutter, right outside the front door. It's a junkie. With a blissful expression on his sleeping face, he rolls so that his legs disappear under a parked car, and his arms, bloody and punctured, splay out on the sidewalk.

It's going to be another long day in Frankfurt.

missing in europe

A new chapter is about to begin in the meandering saga that is Euramble. As of Sunday evening, David and I shall be joined by one mister Stephen Richards and our German to Slang translator, Klaus Jones. The more astute of you may detect subtle changes in the tone of material that gets posted on this site as these two individuals (and they are two VERY individual people) begin to influence our young and impressionable minds. Please understand that a drop in quality and the resulting blame lies squarely on their shoulder and their shoulders alone. Naturally, this would be upsetting for some of you and rash action may ensue. It would pain me to see harm come to these two bright young men, but I can understand and accept that retribution is required.

Conversely, if what I write begins to flirt with coherent entertainment we may all revel in the knowledge that the innate talent which has lain dormant for so long is finally beginning to bloom. Full credit, glory and accolades go to me in this case. Because I deserve it.

So, armed with two fresh sources of mischief and two well honed instruments of chaos, the plan is to head south for the summer into Italy and Croatia. Beautiful landscapes, some of the world’s finest food and drink, beaches and weather that would make a Queenslander weep all rounded out with some of the best company a man can ask for… I hope you didn’t ever want to see us again…

mapage

I think I have finished off the map for now. It's sort of hard to keep a track of it because our plans change with the wind but for now it is accurate. Notice the distinct costal trend to the green markers...