stranded

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

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

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

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

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

better than neutral

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

So let me give you the highlights of Bern.

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

stakeout

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

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

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

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

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

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

just waiting for a train

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

missing in europe

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

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

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

mapage

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

that's gotta smart

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

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

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

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