Euramble - A Trip of Sorts

figures

2009-09-14T09:51:00.004+10:00

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

2009-09-14T06:24:00.001+10:00

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

2009-09-11T05:18:00.005+10:00

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

2009-09-11T04:36:00.001+10:00

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?”

2009-09-09T02:53:00.003+10:00

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

2009-09-04T19:31:00.003+10:00

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"

2009-08-29T08:28:00.003+10:00

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

2009-08-28T04:12:00.002+10:00

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

2009-08-20T04:40:00.002+10:00

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

2009-08-17T21:00:00.001+10:00

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

2009-08-17T20:42:00.002+10:00

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

2009-08-12T13:06:00.000+10:00

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

2009-08-12T13:00:00.004+10:00

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

2009-08-08T08:28:00.005+10:00

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

2009-08-08T07:09:00.005+10:00

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...

2009-08-02T21:50:00.001+10:00

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

2009-08-01T18:16:00.005+10:00

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

2009-07-31T10:09:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-30T00:07:00.001+10:00

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...

2009-07-23T23:49:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-23T22:48:00.002+10:00

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

2009-07-22T03:07:00.005+10:00

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

2009-07-16T18:51:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-14T08:36:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-07T18:08:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-07T17:33:00.002+10:00

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

2009-07-02T20:29:00.003+10:00

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

2009-07-02T18:46:00.003+10:00

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...

that's gotta smart

2009-06-30T08:28:00.003+10:00

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

2009-06-22T00:32:00.004+10:00

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...

2009-06-17T21:13:00.001+10:00

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

2009-06-17T03:05:00.003+10:00

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.

2009-06-15T19:50:00.003+10:00

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

2009-06-10T00:15:00.004+10:00

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?

2009-06-09T23:32:00.003+10:00

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

2009-06-08T19:51:00.001+10:00

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

2009-06-05T06:13:00.005+10:00

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

2009-06-05T04:52:00.004+10:00

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

southward bound

2009-06-01T06:55:00.004+10:00

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.

2009 the European year of Renovations

2009-05-31T08:14:00.003+10:00

Apparently some of you were having trouble with my new images, I had it linked to the UK & Ireland album rather than the gallery as a whole. Apologies, fixed now however. Also there is one more album in there that may seem odd.

Dave and I have been encountering an abnormally large number of icons and monument under renovation. Even if they aren't an icon or monument they are a major feature in the landscape. Because of this I made a joke way back in London that 2009 was the 'European year of Renovations'.

Oh how I wish I hadn't. Fate may be fickle but her sister Irony is just plane mean.

The joke stopped being funny long ago when we noticed that a trend was forming. A large church in Bruges, the Law Courts in Brussels, a large statue out the front of Versailles as well as a host of lesser land marks. Most recently (and possibly the one I most bitterly resent) I can be quoted saying "if Charles Bridge is under reno i think i might cry a little."

If this were a letter there would be artful little tear stains right here.

picturesque

2009-05-30T00:13:00.003+10:00

Just a note that I have up updated my gallery and it now has a somewhat more decent spread! It includes Bruges, Brussels, Amsterdamn, Copenhagen and Stockholm.

it scores a thirteen out of twenty

2009-05-29T23:35:00.002+10:00

Copenhagen was an average city in my opinion. It was pretty but not stunning, large but not big and above all it was cool but not fun. I will admit, after a seventeen hour train ride that is delayed due to engine failure for two hours, one is always going to be underwhelmed but Copenhagen just didn't seem like it was trying.

Sweden on the other hand was a vastly different story. I bailed on my Danish experience that was as bland as their cheeses a day early and went to stay with Edward Browne, a friend from my old EC days. He showed me the sites of a pretty little university town in southern Sweden called Lund while we caught up on five missed years. This was all rounded off by a Mexican dinner with his friends and a movie called 'The Thing' (a dreadful 80's B-grade horror. I want those two hours of my life refunded.) The next day I was bound for my Cousins place in Örbyhus (Orbi-hoos), about an hour north of Stockholm. Matt showed me the sites of rural Sweden which was a fantastic change from all the cites I have been staying in. I was also immersed in the culinary culture of Sweden by means of a Kabab Pizza called 'Spezcial Viking' (pretty much a pizza base fashioned to resemble a boat... kinda, then filled with kabab goods) and a glass of Coco-Cola that had a distinct cinnamon character on the palate and a slight menthol bouquet. The match was fantastic but the beverage only scores a thirteen out of twenty due to lack of complexity and potential bottle development. After this Matt suggested I sample some of the Baltic sea and warily I obliged but was surprised to find it predominately fresh! When you think about it there is a perfectly good reason for that. Look at a map. Having sampled the coasts brackish fare we headed home.

It was good to think of somewhere as home, even if it was only for a couple of days.

With an initially heavy heart I headed down to Stockholm for a couple of days and checked out what the city had to offer. Compared to Copenhagen this place was a veritable orgy of entertainment. I went and saw a four hundred year old ship, the Royal Armory and Crown Jewels then stumbled into a multinational food market and finished the evening with two Canadians taking me out for a good time and failing, then two Germans taking me out and succeeding admirably. The next day I had breakfast with my old boss at a Stockholm cafe, lunch at about thirty five thousand feet and dinner with two friends in Paris.

I'm feeling very Global.

Angry the German

2009-05-29T02:22:00.005+10:00

It has been quite some time since i have posted anything but in my defense there has been a lack of internet over the past two weeks. This will be he first in a short series of installments.

Leaving Amsterdam seemed straightforward enough on paper, I catch an over night train to Copenhagen that would take the best part of 14 hours and deposit me in the heart of Copenhagen. I left my companions for this intrepid solo leg of the journey an hour earlier than required, just to make sure i got off on the right foot and thank god for that because this is where the fun started. I get to the station and cast around for the nearest ticket information desk to present myself to and find one without any trouble. When I finally get to the head off the cue I am told that my booking number is not sufficient and that I have to print everything off. Now at this point I can only assume that the gentleman behind the counter with the thick German accent, was having a very bad day indeed because when I inquired as the where I can print off my email he fired back an angry "how should i know". A bit disillusioned with my transport company I look around the station a little bit desperately for an internet cafe with printing facilities. I don't find a cafe but what i do happen to find is an ice cream shop with printing and over 36 flavours. The nice young girl behind the counter with the happy dutch accent says I need to sample the wares in order to be able to use the net and print and so I proceed to gleefully tuck into my 'Chunky Monkey' while scouring my inbox.

I return to Angry the German and present him the requested paperwork and a grin. Neither work it seemed because he then tells me in his own delightful fashion "this train does not exist." Restraining a number of tart replies I press the matter to find out how it is possible to purchase a ticket for a train that doesn't exist and his only response is to try and sell me a ticket for a train that is leaving at the exact same time to the same destination. This time, I do not restrain the sarcasm and we are sliding towards an altercation when his superior intercedes. As it turns out, it is my train, I do own a ticket, I didn't need to print it and Angry the German is in fact a twat. Medical fact. I leave the transit lounge looking like a cat thats been into the cream, followed by the sound of Angry coping a Dutch lashing.

I go back to the ice cream shop for some 'Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz'...because I deserve it.

we're on a boat...

2009-05-26T08:46:00.003+10:00

Post-Brussels, we arrived in the original city of sin, the scandalous capital of the Netherlands, where they dare not to obsess over moral integrity and dispense with good old conservative values. Well, at least in a few neighborhoods. Amsterdam was amazingly diverse, and as far as I'm concerned, the most interesting bits were a few streets removed from the red lit windows and suspicious smelling smoke. If you can dodge the bikes (and there are MANY of these silent, fast-moving death machines) you can find some picturesque canals, worse-for-wear old houses with high-design interiors, and tiny markets dotted all around.

That said, one cannot visit this city without taking a walk around the Red Light District. Our first venture in this area was in search of Chinese food, of all things. On arrival to our hostel (which I will shortly address) we were given a map and shown a number of important locations in the city. These were all helpfully circled, though not labeled. Thus we were unprepared for the 'food' area to be an offshoot of the 'sex and drugs' area. Possibly not the height of urban planning, unless it's a move of unprecedented consideration. All the sex and drugs might cause one to become peckish, after all.

Now, the hostel. It must be said... the hostel was a boat. The prospect was incredibly exciting, especially given the lyrical genius of the Lonely Island Planet fresh in our minds (apologies to all those to whom this obscure reference makes absolutely no sense. To everyone else... we were on a boat!! The reality was not nearly so exciting as the prospect had been, but it was still a pretty good place to stay. The fact that it was a boat somehow completely excused the fact that the room was like two shoe boxes stacked one atop the other, and having breakfast on a boat felt strangely more relaxing than any other breakfast we'd had up to this point. We attribute much of this to the presence of the ships parrot (well,budgie) who chirped quietly all through the meal.

For one of our days in Amsterdam, I decided to live like a local, and hire a bike. The hunted had become the hunter, as I mounted my silent instrument of doom and prepared to clean up some of my ex-kin, the hapless pedestrians. I ended up using the bike to ride well out of the city centre, on a trip to visit some buildings that you'd no doubt find dreadfully uninteresting to read about. To look at, they were quite fantastic, but I'll gloss over the detail, and move on to my ride back. The ride out had been such a pleasant experience, with the wind at my back I just cruised along effortlessly. Why would anybody ever WALK, I thought, when riding was so blissfully easy and efficient? Well, I found out why, and it's all about wind resistance. On the way back into the city, all that lovely wind which I'd barely noticed was propelling me along was now turned against me, and this was very evident. I'd describe it as trying to jog through treacle, and at many points it seemed more sensible to jump off and push than to try and pedal into this ridiculous gale. If I hadn't been alone, I'd have whinged something shocking, but I was alone, and thus I've caught up on missed whinging here.

forgive me, brussels

2009-05-26T08:10:00.002+10:00

The capital of the European Union, built on top of a river so vile-smelling that they paved it over, and home to a tiny statue that perpetually urinates. This is the dischordant mess that is Brussels. The locals 'take pride' in the city's ugliness. I would hazard a guess that it's the sort of pride one takes in unfortunate adversity. Like the time I fell off my bike and tore up all the skin on my legs. For a bit I felt like an idiot, but soon I channeled my suffering into a pride that I'd now call 'Brussellian'.

I will be honest with you, I wasn't that impressed by Brussels. No matter how dapper the weeing statue looked in the tiny clothes the locals dress him in, I couldn't really find it in my heart to admire the place. There was lots of nice ornate...stuff...in the main square, but honestly I was more impressed by the enormous Tintin comic panel that was on display there, probably bigger than a couple of tennis courts. The city had none of the charm of a smaller town, nor did it impress as other large cities had. It was not particularly old, nor was it really very modern. Apologies to any patriotic residents of the Belgian capital. All I can say is... hey, you can always go to Bruges.

My thinly veiled animosity towards Brussels may have something to do with the fact that it claimed a number of my belongings, including a power adapter and a very nifty travel clothesline. Leaving hotel rooms in a hurry is never a good idea. The fact that James also inadvertently abandoned his adapter in the very same room meant that at our next stop, we'd be without the electronic luxury we'd come to take for granted. We were running on dwindling batteries.

I shouldn't be so harsh on this city, after all we only spent two nights there, and a vast amount of time was spent not on sightseeing or appreciating the city, but on lugging backpacks between accommodation, an activity which James will tell you makes me exceptionally prone to bouts of crankiness. Though I will tell you, completely objectively, if you ever find yourself in Brussels, in a park looking up an extraordinary vista towards a church, don't go any closer. It won't bite or anything, but unless you relish disappointment, you'll admire this one from a distance.

So again, apologies to the good people of Brussels. To the rest of you, I'll confide that really, I wish I'd stayed in Bruges.

(in) Bruges

2009-05-26T08:04:00.001+10:00

Some of you will know of the film 'In Bruges', and it was to Bruges we travelled from London. This marked the continuation of a trend in our itinerary, with destinations informed not by a guidebook, but instead by some other media. York and Lancaster (for the latter we visited Windermere, which is near enough) were online pseudonyms of ours, and thus made it onto our list of places we must visit. I apologise profusely to James for any negative impact such a revelation has on his street-cred (for the record, he's York). Bruges was a place that we may indeed have discovered in a guidebook, but instead were exposed via film. Declared to be the 'best preserved medieval village in Belgium', it makes a gorgeous film set. Now, if you've not seen the film, I'd highly recommend it. It's no family flick, and has its share of all the bad things that make a film climb the ratings ladders, but it's a clever bit of work and is worth it if only for the scenery. You'll get to see the best bits of Bruges... without the tourists. Which of course, we were, joining the rest of the horde. Bruges is a very busy little place, and mostly due to the masses who come to marvel at this picturesque town.

Bruge is showing the signs of a town being overwhelmed by tourism, yet still manages to utterly captivate. Walking into the town was a rollercoaster of appreciation, starting with the definite trough of crossing a busy dual-carriageway, amidst the cranes (mechanical, not avian) developing the station precinct. Beyond this, however, one has to walk through a cobbled laneway, seemingly unaltered for centuries. Looking along this stretch of road, a cathedral rises up above the rooftops. At this point one feels very guilty for doubting Bruges. Until of course a bend is rounded, revealing a main strip of the latest fashion outlets, complete with a portable carousel sporting an acrylic menagerie, and a fairground waffle stand. Once more, that hypocritical disgruntlement crosses my mind. Bloody tourists, ruin everything.

Now, Bruge is almost entirely cobbled. This is our first experience with proper cobbled streets. Of course, here and there in every city we've visited, there have been bits and pieces, particularly in the old areas. However, Bruges in its entirety falls into the category of 'old', and thus it's difficult to find a smooth bit of pavement. At this point, I make the grand claim that walking on cobbles is 'good for you'. I make this statement with the ironclad case that 'I've seen it on TV.' That I certainly had, in an infomercial-esque situation where some clever soul was selling strips of molded rubber flooring, replicating the inconsistency of a cobbled road. Walking on such a surface would cause the whole foot to be exercised, not like the foolishly smooth pavement to which we are accustomed. It took about 30 minutes for James to denounce me as an idiot of the highest order for believing and repeating such nonsense, and for me to curse infomercials for their lies. Indeed, our feet had been exercised, in there entirety, perhaps a little too thoroughly.

Bruges boasts not only wonderful sights, but wonderful scents. Ninety percent of the time, the air is filled with the delicious aroma of chocolate and waffles. It is hard to feel anything but blissful, walking through ancient streets, smelling waffles. The payoff for such indulgence is that the remaining 10 percent of the time, you'll catch the unfortunate whiff of sewerage, drifting up from somewhere below the streets. In the event of such an encounter the best course of action was to calmly cease breathing, and power-walk until more oxygen was required. With any luck, you'll get a lungful of choc-waffle air. Then again, you might not. Keep walking!

apologies most sincere

2009-05-26T08:00:00.001+10:00

It has been brought to my attention that my blogging efforts have slipped somewhat, and that certain elements of the readership are, as my sources put it, 'disgruntled'. This simply will not do, and given my current fortunate circumstances, I have the time and means to make amends. The following posts will give an insight into our adventures since we departed London.

photographs

2009-05-17T19:41:00.003+10:00

I have added my own photo gallery as well now. It contains photos from across the UK and Ireland. There may be some double ups with Mr. Young's pictures, but let me assure you his attempted plagiarism hasn't caused any lasting damage to our friendship. I'll continue to keep updating pictures periodically, probably in bundles of countries because its easier for me. Also, this is only a small fraction of the actual number of pictures I have so there will be heaps of stuff that I miss.

interlude

2009-05-08T08:44:00.003+10:00

In stark contrast to Dave's experience back in London, I was basking in comparative luxury. As I lay on my crisp fresh linen, sipping sparking mineral water I felt a little bad for Dave. The poor guy was going to hostel with what can only be discribed as a less than sterling reputaion. Knowing however that Dave wouldn't want me to fret over his circumstance, I swiftly crushed these rogue thoughts.

He's the noble sort you understand.

Having set my mind at ease, I lay back and put some Coldplay on my wall mounted entertainment system. Then lacking anything better to do I fiddled with my espresso machine and retired to the bathroom for a relaxing shower. Then I discovered the jets. Five small, high
pressure jets of water that rinse you off, similar to what the government employs in quarantine facilities. To say they caught me unawares would be an understatement.

The next morning having recovered from my shower malfunction and having deftly appropriating some choice toiletries, I ambled down to meet Dave at the foot of my building. Feeling refreshed in body and mind I felt ready to follow in the footsteps of Charlemange and
conquer the European continent.

generating

2009-05-04T04:20:00.001+10:00

As we fleetingly pass through London again, bound for Belgium, events dictate that we're going separate ways for tonight's accommodation. Left to my own devices, I've selected 'The Generator', chosen for its price and proximity to our departure station. Having found the place, I'm greeted with a hostel which can only be described as... behemoth. This is the hostel business in full flight, catering to large numbers of young people. It has that scent to it. Of late nights and excess, of spilt this and that. Virtually everything is slightly...stained, with the exception thankfully being my bed linen, which looks quite sterile. A word so often associated with coldness and hospitals, sterile is something I'm quite happy with when it comes to my linens. The scent changes as you get deeper into the building. It smells like cleaning. Cleaning that has not quite managed to get that unmistakable scent of urine from the carpet. That's backpacking for you.

The place is decorated in accordance with its name, the result being an excessive amount of exposed cable ducting, stenciled industrial writing on dorm room doors, and a lot of wire mesh. They also subscribe to the 'colorful' school of hostel painting, which I'm coming to loathe. Call me a snob, but dark blue and yellow paint, in alternating bands, accented with black and red couches, makes this common room feel just a little bit kindergarten. The yellow fluorescents are the icing on the cake.

You'll recall my musings on the YHA style of accommodation, with its stern severity. In Scotland, the hostel was veritably decorated with tiny stickers and signs, instructing on the use of almost every item. 'Switch off!' (the lights) 'Recycle!' (the 18 different bins in the dining room), 'Save Water' 'Turn the knob to position 2 until the red light comes on, then flick the two switches and pull the lever. The green light will come on. Wait 2 minutes. Turn the dial back to 1. Now you can use the stove!'

You get the picture.

I think you can tell a lot about a hostel's clientèle from the signs it chooses to employ. Here, they choose to instruct guests in this manner: 'DO NOT climb out of the window into the courtyard'

Need I say more?

photographic update

2009-05-01T07:39:00.005+10:00

Nothing major or exciting to report in this update, just a matter of keeping up with the blog and sorting out something I've been working to get up and running for a while now: Pictures! It has become apparent that we cannot include more than 1 image per post, in any easy fashion, so I've set up a Gallery that contains some of the photos that we've taken. This link will be to my select photos, and hopefully James will get something happening too.

Dave's Europe '09 Gallery

We've just returned to Manchester after a couple of fantastic days up in the Lakes District, staying in Windermere. The highlight of the trip was a day of mountain biking in the forest and countryside on the far bank of the lake. The scenery was like something out of a storybook, and in my opinion, has provided the best day of the trip so far. There's a few shots of the place in the gallery, so I hope you'll enjoy checking that out!

Just keep in mind that the photos may not necessarily be in chronological order! And I should probably note that a fair few of them are stolen from James' photo stock - as the man with the fancier camera, I've let him do a lot of the photography, but I see no reason not to reap the benefits of his hard work.

boys, there's been a problem....

2009-04-25T19:11:00.002+10:00

We're still in Ireland, but yesterday we took the train back to Dublin, which we'd only passed through going to Galway. It was by no means a short walk to the hostel, though we found it with none of the usual fuss. We arrived at the front door, and stood waiting for a few minutes while a couple of guys argued loudly in French... one inside the doorway, the other outside. It was clearly a heated exchange, and when we finally squeezed inside, the sound of it filled the foyer.

A familiar accent greeted us from behind the reception desk - Aussies, they're everywhere. Another Melbourne chap as well, and we're told there's a group from Tullamarine here too. With one eye on the computer and the other fixed on the doorway altercation, our countryman behind the desk looks up our booking, frowning as he does so. Is it just because of the ruckus happening in his foyer? Or is there a problem? He looks up at us and pulls out some papers, and in that wonderfully familiar accent he says "Boys, there's been a bit of a problem,your booking got stuffed up, we're overbooked..."

"So we're putting you in the private suite." Suite, indeed.

So instead of a 16 bed dorm, we have a room to ourselves, not that its overly large. But big enough for a set of bunks, a tv and cabinet, and our bags, so who's complaining? Apparently there's an Irishman here who knows we've stumbled on such fortune, and has designs on making a bargain with us for the room, though he will find that I, at least, will not be easily budged.

An argument of our own transpired later in the evening, grave in its subject matter. James made the statement that 'it rains all the time here'. I disagreed, and he supported his statement with "It's true, apparently it rains 20% of the time here." I was still not convinced that this came even close to warrant the lofty description of "All the time" when it would technically fall well short of even "Half the time". James' counterargument is that such gross exaggeration is widely accepted as reasonable, but I still felt that it didn't make it right. With neither side conceding anything, I fear that this difference of opinion could tear our fragile travelling union apart.

That said, it is raining outside. There may be a white flag waved yet.

once upon a midnight dreary

2009-04-25T06:33:00.001+10:00

It is five to ten by the time we pull into Galway station. The night is damp and haunted by a chilling wind that only the Atlantic knows how to produce. The mercury can't be above six. Stepping off the train into the insipid light of the platform, we are greeted by a bleak and uninviting car park, crowded with taxis clamoring for our business. Trying to get our bearings we strike out into the night, moving between islands of light. At the first cross road we chance upon Eyre Square, the first recognisable point of reference and seek shelter while we orientate ourselves. After a false start (curse the lack of street signage) we spy a landmark name that jogs the memory. We drift toward it like moths to a lamp, only to be disheartened by the yet another featureless street. Spurred on by the rains steady but insistent tattoo we are pressed to continue. Through the haze we make out a word in Celtic script, and approach a battered orange door scarred by years of weary travelers pounding its boards seeking refuge. Finally we know relief. Claddagh. Home for now.

getting high in scotland

2009-04-20T04:48:00.001+10:00

We have been lucky enough to take a trip through the highlands. We splashed out and booked ourselves into a tour that would take us all the way up to Loch Ness, that most famous body of water in Scotland's north. The morning of our departure was bitterly cold and windy, and the wait for the tour office staff to arrive and open the place for the day was just a bit uncomfortable. Once we were on the bus though, things got a little more pleasant. Our driver and tour guide, an enthusiastic Scotsman called Kenny, immediately launched into educating us on the history of Edinburgh, as we drove somewhat manically out of the city centre through 'the West End'. It was impossible not to be taken in by his high energy spiel, and let's face it, the Scottish accent is an absolute gift. People just want to listen to it. Throughout the course of the day, Kenny poured out fact after fact about history, geography, folk tales, and general advice on touring Scotland. He described the one day tour as a 'film trailer' of the country – we'd be getting just glimpses of the beautiful land. He genially instructed us to return, with our loved ones and lots of money to prop up the Scottish economy at some point in the future, and see all these things properly.

The scenery was mind blowing, and we were blessed with sunny weather for the trip. The mountain range that is home to the country's highest peak, Ben Nevis, ('The Venomous One', on account of its deadly nature) according to Kenny is only visible for a scant handful of days during the year, and is typically shrouded in clouds. We were out on one of 4 or 5 days of the year that you can stand and see the entire range against blue sky – which felt like quite a privilege. By the time we reached famous Loch Ness, it had greyed over, and the wind across the Loch made for quite a choppy boat ride across it (only I partook, James choosing instead to indulge in a fireside pint in town – I think we both enjoyed ourselves). I regret to announce that there were no monster sightings.

The trip back was no less scenic, the afternoon and evening proving sunny again, and we stopped off to have a look across a Loch towards the estate that 'Monarch of the Glen' viewers would know as “Glenbogle” Kenny's banter, as he had promised, tapered off towards the end of the day, giving some of us the chance to rest a bit. Despite the lack of physical activity, something about the fast pace of the tour and listening attentively did leave us quite exhausted. I could talk endlessly of how fantastic the day was, but words would fall short, and even photos couldn't really capture it. This was a day that affirms the notion that you really need to see some things with your own eyes to truly appreciate them.

a room with a view...

2009-04-20T04:39:00.002+10:00

Salutations, from the fine city of Edinburgh. Just shy of two weeks abroad, and we have arrived in fair Scotland, and the city put on its best frock to greet us. We stepped out of the station into decidedly chilly atmosphere with a palpable dampness, and took in as much of the view as was possible before the scenery faded into the fog – which was all of 100m in any given direction. What we could see, we are not ashamed to admit, both awed and terrified us. It takes very little imagination to strip away the modern veneer of this city and see a medieval town underneath. Everything is imposing, and the effect is doubled when the top of every building fades out of view into the fog. The black stone streets hints at diabolical slipperiness, and you really know that a place sees a bit of moisture when the buildings are stained green. Our residence lay ahead of us up winding one-way street sloping up, away from the New town and into the Old.

Before I continue, I would like to admit that we HAD been warned. Our first stay in the Astor Hyde Park was fantastic. It was to our dismay that we were informed, by a reputable source, that we had chanced upon a gem of a place, and that we were unlikely to find such splendid accommodation elsewhere. It seemed that we had spoiled ourselves inadvertently. This was confirmed when we reached York, where the YHA (Youth Hostel Association, I presume) provided us with an experience that felt just a little more economical, stripped down, and simple. It had a feel to it that was just a little bit school-camp. At the Astor you did your dishes because it was the responsible thing, and made life for your fellow intrepid travelers easier. At YHA York, you did them because there was the inescapable feeling that if you didn't, just around a corner lurked an imposing matron, ready to deny you dessert and send you to bed early. Yet the place was clean, even the cupboard-esque windowless showers.

And so now we arrive at Edinburgh Backpackers. Not our first choice in accommodation. But we'd gotten a little behind and hadn't reserved early enough. After finding the place, we entered reception and our hopes rose a little, it looked just a little bit modern, a bit art-deco, and felt like a lively place. Let it be a warning to all ye: reception areas can be designed to lie. Money changed hands, and we waited to be shown to our room, presumably upstairs. We presumed wrong. The receptionist informed us that we'd be staying in their other building. (Small alarm bells start a-ringing.) We are escorted out the front door, and down an alleyway (or 'close' as they call them all here). Just down some stairs is a wooden door, which we are ushered through. Immediately inside this door are two more doors. The receptionist leaves us here with a key and a code, and returns to her post. We fumble around inside the ridiculously cramped entryway, the whole process complicated by another group of travelers trying to exit through the same space. After the confusion has died down, we proceed through another door (unlocked with the code) and travel up a hallway, which smells a bit like a damp bathroom. There are no windows. A few more stairs, and another door. Some stairs back down, and another door, with 'Dorm 9' emblazoned upon it. We have arrived. It isn't pretty.

It's hardly hell on earth. But it is just a bit like how I imagine youth detention would be. Blue, blue, blue and IKEA silver, all under fluorescent lighting, does not make for a welcoming décor. There is one window in this room, and it makes us laugh (on the outside, at least). Its purpose is questionable. Maybe once it opened, but no longer. Maybe once it looked out onto the glory of the outside world, but again, no longer. It now offers a scenic vista of concrete, brick a closed fire-exit. If you get right up the window you can look down a tunnel, and see daylight coming through a wire grate at the end. Beyond the great is the outside world...consisting mostly of trash. It is, without a doubt, the most depressing window ever.

Although we aren't yet so hardened to the rough backpacking life to just shrug and get on with things, we're also too fresh to the whole experience to be truly upset by this. More seasoned individuals than us will most certainly scoff at our 'hardship', but please, leave us to our fancies. We may yet see worse.

traveling strange

2009-04-20T04:28:00.002+10:00

As I sit on a train headed Scotland way, we seem to be rolling on into a thick fog, which is ominous, if only slightly. The countryside out the window is picturesque, green fields with bare trees dotted throughout. The view is complete with black faced, white fleeced sheep. We leave behind us York, a town refreshingly different from the grand bustle of London. Busy without seeming crowded, the strange blend of medieval buildings and modern life in York was strangely comforting. It was a town that seemed to go to sleep in the eve, unlike the aforementioned capital. Apparently there are ghost tours after dark, but for us, when the sun set, it seemed perfectly natural to climb into our bunks and call it a night.

The last few days have been surprisingly devoid of drama. At the Astor Hyde Park, our brilliant hostel in London, a worrisome pair of encounters with what I shall term 'the traveling strange' seemed to foreshadow a trend of eccentric, bizarre and disturbing characters we would encounter for the entirety of our journey. First there was Mr Worsley (discussed in a previous post... you'd know him as Steven) and almost immediately after his departure, 'the man in the coat', who's name we never learned. The man in the coat was a whole different kind of strange, with none of the questionable charisma or storytelling drive of Steven. In fact, where you could hardly stop Steven talking, this strange fellow seemed to be generally at a loss for words, unless he was asking a set of seemingly imprinted questions, such as “You are here for what, study? Holiday? Work?” For the first moments of conversation, this young man's French accent and quick but fluent speech could almost convince you that you were dealing with a traveler, who despite the strange fashion of a white buttoned up shirt under a ratty businessman's black coat and a penchant for standing silently on the fringes of conversation, was otherwise generally normal. This illusion would be shattered however, when after a few brief exchanges (the usual sort of icebreakers and introductions) he would clam up abruptly, an embarrassed grin covering his face as he ceased to make eye contact. He would appear to be on the verge of speaking, but never managed more than 'Ok', or inaudible mumbles. If he did again speak, it would only be to utter one of the same questions he'd asked you not two minutes previous. The difficult thing was disengaging from this non-conversation without appearing completely callous. It was a relief for everyone when this fellow departed the hostel the next day, not the least of which the hostel staff, who'd had to move every other occupant of his dorm to alternative accommodation, upon their insistence that they didn't feel at all safe being alone in the room with him. Apparently here, he found words aplenty, but not for others, as he chattered away to himself. Circulating throughout the hostels were veiled rumors that his behavior within the dorm had been even more disgraceful and unsettling for other guests, though this cannot be confirmed.

In any case, although he seemed particularly interested in abortive conversation with yours truly, the blessing was that we were not among his roommates. I did, however, plead a pressing errand to avoid a second conversation with him (one had been more than enough) and promptly dashed out the hostel door. This was somewhat an awkward position to find myself in, as I'd intended not to be going out into the brisk London morning, but to while away the hours before lunch in the hostel kitchen, warm and comfortable. So without a jumper, in a short sleeved shirt, I wandered for some time through foggy streets. With church bells in the air, it was amazingly atmospheric, though the cold somewhat ruined any true appreciation of it. When shivering set in, I risked return to the hostel. Fortunately man-in-coat was nowhere to be found - not that I put any real effort into looking, outside of a cautious survey of each hallway before entering. The rest of the morning was spent safe in our own dorm room, doing a bit of a pre-pack of our bags. It might be relevant to note here that this was the day prior to our almost-disastrous train episode, which James has previously informed you of. One can only conclude that this pre-pack was a bit of a waste of time. Though perhaps without it we'd have lost precious seconds – as it was, it was only seconds of difference between making it to the train-bus, and missing it.

In conclusion, as we power onwards, through a foggy green we haven't seen in Australia for a more than a decade, I am filled with trepidation. Was it simply a feature of London, these odd vagabonds? Or was the quaint country-ness of York simply a reprieve, and shall Edinburgh yield even more of these traveling strange?

Only time shall tell.

"How are the buses upstairs?!"

2009-04-15T00:49:00.003+10:00

Yesterday morning Dave and I needed to catch a bus from London to York. In our defence it should be mentioned that the night before was a big one for some and a long one for others. This is the tale of our misadventure.

The morning started at 6:55 with Dave slapping me awake after noting that my phone's alarm was rousing everyone in the room but me, as I curled protectively around it. After stumbling out of my bed and into some pants I start to pack, with Dave 5 steps ahead of me, knowing that time is of the essence. This is completed quickly enough and we head for the kitchen.

The night before when we got home around 1am, we had started a roast in preparation for this days lunch. Don't ask. It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. We bundled our drumsticks, spuds and carrots into snap locks then stuffed them in our days packs. By now we are possibly just a touch behind schedule but not noticeably. As Dave finishes filling his water bottle and heads for the door he spies me, gleefully toasting en mass and buttering my booty. A look of confusion is chased from his face by chagrin.

We are now officially running late, not irreparably however.

We set off at a brisk walk to Gloucester Road station, about a 12 min journey. 3 bits of toast fall by the wayside but we make it without losing any more time. However, due to my travel card being short on funds I am forced to attempt to top it up. The two pound coin I produced however wasn't good enough for the machine it seemed and I was forced to surrender a fiver. This minor debacle in turn caused us to miss the immediate train, fear not however. This is London, we got one not 3 minutes later.

If we had been aware of what was to transpire we may have been much more concerned about the time at this point. (Dave would like it to be noted that he was, in fact, rather worried at this time, watching the stations roll by all too slowly.)

We arrive at 'Kings Cross/Saint Pancras' station in short order and head for clear skies above and to where we suspect the buses are. How wrong we were. No buses in site but within the terminal complex we see what appears to be an information kiosk. After an impatient wait behind a woman hell-bent on plumbing the depths of the assistant's knowledge on local eateries, we are told that we are at 'Kings Cross' when we need to be at 'Saint Pancras' to get MegaBus (who knew that they are in fact different stations? All the literature talks of them as one.) We break into a shuffling run and head off down the directed passage, and I nearly clean up a chap in a suit in the process. Still not really clear on where we are or where we are going, I accost a passing member of the station staff and he informs me in a thick French accent “MegaBoos. All the whay to ze end and left” all the while making air hostess-esq hand gestures.

Now running in earnest (packs and all) we hit the end of the terminal and break left, into the frigid London morning. What greeted us here was devastating. A large bus-bay, totally devoid of buses. Not one.
The emotions playing across Dave's face tell the story best. The concerned excitement of not knowing if we would get there on time (but having our destination in our reach), melted away leaving nothing but confusion, frustration and utter dismay in its wake.

By now we were further behind schedule than Eric Moussanbani (http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympics2000/swimming/931508.stm) was behind the world record in his 2000 Olympics heat.

But wait! Another information kiosk, the little beacons of hope in our morning of despair. We are informed that MegaBus is leaving from just up the nearby escalator.

We bolt. Dave asks with wonder (and perhaps some disbelief), “How are the buses upstairs?!”

Greeting us at the top is a train platform, 4 ticket inspectors, and a MegaBus booth...and once again, not a single bus. Dave presents the fellow in the booth with a scrap of paper with out booking details hastily scrawled on it and we are given in return two orange tickets with a barely legible 'M/B' scribbled on the back, then pointed to the inspectors not 6 steps away. Upon presenting the tickets to one woman, she looks at us as if we are a little mad, and states: “These are not tickets.” We look back to the MegaBus booth, expecting to see the man scampering off, wheeling his scam-booth with him. At our protests that these are indeed tickets, given to us not a moment ago, a senior ticket inspector (oh what a title to posses) steps in and takes over the investigation. He is not interested in our handwritten tickets, but on seeing the afformentioned scrawled booking number, he directs us to the train on the right. I'm pretty sure as he ushered us on board, he could read our faces crying “But this is not a bus!?” We deposited our bags and find a seat still confused. Only then did realisation dawn on us (Dave more so than myself) that it was a train to the Midlands, THEN a bus from there. Someone had forgot to tell us this however. Not one of the four people we asked thought to mention that our MegaBus was a train.

Retrospectively, I quite enjoyed the whole debacle. Though if you were to question Dave, you'd probably get a less enthusiastic response. As I type, we are packing our bags, at Dave's direction. Our train to Edinburgh leaves in just 28 hours. I fear that he'll have us camping on the platform.

J. out

"...and then I smashed it on the floor!"

2009-04-10T19:45:00.003+10:00

For the last two nights, we have been visited by the Spirit of Travel, personified. His name was Steven, his accent was Californian, and he was full of stories and wine. He wore a train driver's hat, and a large brown jacket over a blue fleece. He wore pants also, but those I did not observe, for I was distracted by his feet, socks inside surf-sandals. He also sported a bright orange silk scarf around his neck, and a moustache. He was an older gentleman, and was in contravention of the hostel's age limit, yet nonetheless was being allowed to stay. Thankfully, not in our rooms.

In any case, he ambushed us in the lounge and regaled us with stories of his life of travel, and quizzed us philosophically about what we wanted to get out of our trip. He told fantastic stories of people, places, arrests and deportations. He gave us extensive advice on where to travel, and what we were to do. I was to sketch, and James was to write. The conversation spanned hours before we could escape. All the while he continued to drink his bottle of Jacob's Creek, and take periodic smoking breaks. If I were to recite the detail you would be amazed, but much of it flees my mind. Here is a small sample into our experience: “You gotta know what you want from it all. Do you want to find the truth? Inspiration? Or fantastic blondes?” *pauses to nod and stare meaningfully at his audience* “For me it's all about primary colors, you know?”

We didn't know. But we nodded nonetheless.

It was after midnight when we finally made our escape, as he descended into further incoherence, with the odd bout of Bollywood dancing. To be fair, the Pussycat Dolls on the large flatscreen were encouraging him.

The next day we laughed and reminisced about such a bizarre encounter, and with relief relegated him to an amusing travel memory. Alas, we were beset the next eve, when he tracked us down in a different location. It seemed he had not yet departed for Paris. This night, he was less wobbly to begin with, but whilst rolling a suspicious looking cigarette and sipping on a Stella, over the night he did descend to an almost incoherent state. He had met a friend of his, a fashion photographer, whom he had told us of the night prior. He had (apparently) visited this friend and his friend's father, and cooked them both dinner. After an incredibly detailed recounting of the dinner – which sounded both complex and delicious – he told us of the dessert.

I quote: “So for dessert, I took this very, very expensive block of pure, organic chocolate out of the freezer, and I threw it down and SMASHED it on the floor, unwrapped it and served the pieces with (insert fancy liquor here, for I cannot remember the specifics).” The 'smashing' was accompanied with enthusiastic mime, and shall no doubt be parodied at length throughout this trip. During the course of conversation, we discovered our globetrotting friend had worked for Boy George, and had met George Michael (whom he informed us was, in fact, gay) as well as Prince, entourage and all. He lamented that although he had tried to take a gift to Boy George in prison, the new management had not recognised his name, and thus he was not allowed to deliver the gift.

The evening pretty much concluded with an invitation being issued to us, to his birthday celebrations. It was to be held as an e-birthday this year, given his travelling. We were to get on facebook, and post a picture of each of us dressed in yellow, which was the theme color for the year. Apparently he had, for 30 years, been celebrating his birthday by dancing around a Maypole, at a color themed party. There was some discomfort when eccentricity crossed into creepiness, as he suggested that perhaps the female members of the party could, if they liked, wear a yellow bikini, and that would be fine as a yellow costume. After this, we took our leave, one by one, and we can confirm that Steven has indeed departed for Paris.

So thankyou Steven, for your advice, your Philosophy, and the abundant mirth that recounting our time with you will bring us as we journey.

Motherland

2009-04-08T22:31:00.003+10:00

As random as it sounds, England does feel like a homeland of sorts. I'm not sure why but i can identify with London as a city as well as the people. one thing that i have noticed is that London seems slightly slower paced than Melbourne. I'm not entirely sure that is accurate, but in my limited time here I'm certainly getting that feeling.

There is some very serious and fundamental differences however between Melbourne and London. For me the major differences stem from the history of the cities. Melbourne is only about 200 years old thus its history is fairly contemporary. London however has been an established settlement for nigh on 2 millenia and that just imparts something into the fabric of the city as well as a mentality on the population i think. i love the fact the there are Classical buildings build in the 17th century not 60m from Ultra-Modern city information kiosks. Small winding cobblestone lanes with an Aston Martin DBS parked to the side. Then there are the dozens of museums and galleries containing works and treasures spanning tens of thousands of years and from every culture and civilisation on earth. it really is a city that has everything. except good coffee...

In about 5 days or so we are leaving for the midlands then on up to Scotland. also, I'm miffed because i tried to post form my mobile while we were at the Bangkok airport, but i was foiled by... im not sure what exactly. but the email post didn't go through. woe is me.

London-town

2009-04-08T05:09:00.003+10:00

It's been a few days since last posting, there's been an establishment period and a bit of jetlag to overcome. But here we are, for the time being a trio, James, Alison and myself. We touched down on the morning of the 5th, London time. The flight was not the most pleasant experience on my life, I think my legs are just a little too long for their seating space. And movies are only so entertaining when one isn't allowed to move. Though I shall not dwell on discomfort, for as of now, we've had 3 days of exploring London. I shan't run through everything we've done, suffice to say we've seen some pretty fine museums, a variety of streetscapes, parks and buildings, and today a fairly fantastic market. London is refeshingly brisk, even chilly some mornings, but the weather couldn't have been better. The sun doesnt pack as much punch as back home, but so far we haven't seen much of the famous English overcast sky.

We're based in a hostel just off Hyde Park, which is situated in QUITE a posh area. The streets are lined with tall white terrace houses, and our own building is quite ornate from the street. James and myself are unlucky enough to be on the 4th floor, which entails a suprising number of steps. This means we have to be very economical about trips to the room. It's simply not worth forgetting your camera or wallet. Once you're down, you're down for the day.

I could speak at length of all the intricacies of the last 3 days, but really all I should be saying is that it's a very promising start to the trip. Hopefully before long I can put up a link to some photos, should you be interested!

For now, Dave out.

and we're off...

2009-04-04T11:08:00.002+11:00

Good friends, the morning has arrive, the bags are packed. We are taking off in just a few hours. Wish us luck, stay safe yourselves, and I look forward to seeing you all again in 6 months time.

so close

2009-03-25T22:17:00.008+11:00

Yet so far it seems. With less than 10 days till launch I still cant help but feel like its never going to get here. On the flip side I also feel entirely unprepared and delightfully unphased but it all. I guess I'll get excited at some point, perhaps around take off? its a strange sort of disconnection, maybe I'm just having difficulty reconciling the fact that it is happening.

The only interesting item of news I have to report is that I acquired myself a shiny new Canon IXUS980IS (below). There shall be many pictures for people to judge and then criticise my choice over. I will politely ignore those people.

Expect the next post to be the night before, and in some way related to my packing escapades.

Germans stole my passport...

2009-02-24T10:30:00.003+11:00

As a follow up to James’ post, I now have also braved the German Consulate, and returned relatively intact. It is worth noting that there is officially no good way to get to the damned place. Forewarned by the peak hour traffic conditions James had faced, I thought I’d be clever and take the train. On a map, it doesn’t look too far away from South Yarra station…. right?

It was a comedy of errors. I planned to catch a train that gave me plenty of time. I missed that one, though this was a blessing in disguise, for in my preparatory haste, I’d failed to pack several vital pieces of information I’d need for my application. After getting hold of everything I needed, I'd missed another train. Technically, I could still get there on time - the trains I'd missed would have delivered me early, now I'd just be cutting it fine. Yet my hopes were dashed - clearly I haven’t been watching the news in the last month; all it takes is a warm breeze and Connex just gives up for the day. Flinders Street was awash with the chorus of 'Train not taking passengers'. By the time I got to South Yarra I was already running rather late, and that isn't counting the dash from the station to the consulate. What I learned: Metlink maps can make things look deceptively close together.

I must say, given that I was 40 minutes late for my appointment, they were remarkably polite, and despite a waiting room full of people I was called within moments of my arrival. They took my forms. They took my passport.

If all goes well they’ll give it back to me soon.

P.S : I found this in our travel insurance fine print, under incidents that they ‘do not cover at all’:

‘A loss caused by, arising directly or indirectly from or in any way connected with the use, existence or escape of nuclear weapons material, or ionising radiation from, or contamination by, radioactivity from any nuclear fuel, or nuclear waste from the combustion of nuclear fuel.’

In short, we aren’t covered for nuclear war.

asking permission

2009-02-18T18:47:00.005+11:00

next hurdle: CLEARED!

On Tuesday I journeyed my way to the German Consulate in Melbourne (South Yarra).
9:15am meeting meant a 7:30 get up and 7:45 departure. It was brutal. This was compounded by: a) peak hour traffic and b) trying to park somewhere. Three security gates, one frisking and a mistranslation later I arrived inside the consulate with not a moment to spare.

Or so I thought.

I am silently ushered to a small room off to one side and it is indicated that I should wait my turn here. I figure there are only 2 other guys in the room, how long could it take? What I didn't anticipate was the Russian lecturer in Bio-Chemistry, living in Australia on some obscure visa and trying to secure himself a visa to Germany for a conference of some description. That, coupled with his tenuous grasp of English resulted in a 25 min paper-work translation fest ultimatly resulting in the Consulate representative (Corine) agreeing to let his secretary fax everything else that was needed.

I am up to the plate and it is a breeze, 5 min and I'm out, I come back with cash 15 min later then out the door again. 1 passport and $120 lighter.

Another hurdle indeed cleared!

lists

2009-02-12T23:06:00.006+11:00

Planning has hit an unprecedented high for Dave and myself. We have actually nailed down the itinerary for the first 2 and a half months of the trip. This impromptu planning session took place on Monday, and with the aid of an A1 print, some coloured pencils and much debate, we have managed a city by city journey that takes us from London to Stuttgart. The trip thus far in a nutshell: UK, Ireland, Belgium, Netherlands, Denmark, Sweden, Czech Republic, Austria, Croatia and then Germany.

Interesting additions to the trip:
• Side Trip to Croatia, the “new Italy” of Europe, also the ex-armpit of the Soviet Union!
• A sojourn into Northern Africa, namely Morocco, home of couscous, belly dancers and Casablanca!

Next on the list to plan is:
• Detailed trip plans Germany and Morocco
• Foundations for Italy, France and Spain
• Continued work on the Scavenger list
• Purchasing of a camera
• Organisiation of various connecting flights
• Purchasing of extra insurance
• Purchasing of train tickets
• Possible... this list is distressingly long...

Anyway, things are happening, the wheels are turning and time is ticking.

progress

2009-02-12T10:38:00.002+11:00

A premature celebration perhaps, for the real thing is still in the post. Confirmation however was conveyed via email in forceful capitals: YOUR PASSPORT IS COMPLETED. I guess this means I passed through all the requisite background checks, and I hope this also means I won’t have the same trouble as my uncle going through airports. There must be a Dennis Young out there who’s done some naughty, naughty things; his name seems to cause a lot of strange delays.

So now I’m (almost) licensed to travel, there are only a couple more hurdles before being set to go. Firstly, getting permission from the Germans to stay in their country on a working holiday visa – meetings are set up for the next couple of weeks. Then we just need to get some transportation arranged for whilst we’re over there – Eurail, Britrail, and possibly the odd flight. Throw in a final dose of travel insurance for a detour through Morocco and we’re ready to take wing.

we needed your help.

2009-02-03T14:12:00.005+11:00

Edit: Despite a shout out to the interwebs, there was no assistance to be had for us travellers. It was folly perhaps, to ask the masses for input at a time when there clearly were no masses. Thus this post shall remain as a testament to our over-enthusiasm.

Really, the only reason I'm not deleting it is because the picture makes the blog look more wholesome.

let the rambling commence

2009-02-03T12:21:00.003+11:00

And so it begins. Many years in the dreaming , and very few hours in the planning. I think it is fair to say that I am ready for this trip, but not at all prepared.

For me, the major thing lacking in life up until now is the scope for real adventure and exploration. When you are young, everything is new and foreign, but as you hit your teens you fast realise that it'vs all been done, and all you have to do is jump on the net to get a feel for almost anything in the world. And in the case of Dave and I, not only has everything been done, its been done to a standard far beyond what Dave or myself are capable of.

So rather than just following in someone else’s footsteps, or just going to all the “must see” sights in Europe, we have opted for a much more open ended journey. We know what countries we are going to (kind of), how long we are spending there (roughly) and the major things we want to look at or experience (some of them anyway), but on a whole we can plan as we go (totally wing it). The one thing that Dave and I do have prepared, is our own unique style. A level of unnecessary complexity that we add purely for the sake of our own entertainment.

With this in mine, I would like to announce the Scavenger Ramble! A list of beers to be imbibed, foods to be consumed, as well as the usual (and unusual) sights to behold. Any and all input is welcome! Just bear in mind that suggestions may be noted, and ignored if found wanting.

and so it begins...

2009-01-30T11:11:00.001+11:00

From the year 1660 onwards, it was the done thing for young men of wealth and class to set off on a 'Grand Tour', indulging in an extensive trip that would see them traverse Europe in pursuit of art, culture and an understanding of classical antiquity.

In 2009, the Grand Tour has undergone a gruesome metamorphosis into a cliche of Australian youth: the Europe Trip. Accepting this grim risk to our individuality, we'll head off to the other side of the world. We won't have the servants to carry our luggage, nor the access to fine clothes, fine dining and genteel company. We'll be living out of backpacks and socialising with the rest of the travelling riff-raff. That said, we'll try to bring as much class to the table as is possible to muster, when one has been wearing the same 3 shirts for months running (washed regularly, it goes without saying).

With 2 months left before takeoff, there's still much to be organised. Personally, I'm still procrastinating on acquiring a passport. As a group we're without any definitive permission to stay in the region long enough to make our return flight in September (booked and set in stone). And our third travel compadre is still being overly vague as to his attendance at all. A shambles, you say? I see only limitless potential for organisational improvement.