My travel writing site has moved to a new and permanent address – from now on I’ll be posting all my travel stories at bybelindajane.com
This year I’ll be travelling all over South America, possibly with a look at Central America and a few short stops in North America as well. If you want to receive emails when I post new stories from this trip, please sign up for updates on the new site
My travel writing site has moved to a new address – from now on I’ll be posting all my travel stories at bybelindajane.com
If you want to receive emails when I post each new story, please sign up for updates on the new site!
Click here to see photos from Cuba. The page will open in another window and you will need to enter ‘caribbean’ if asked for a password. Enjoy!
Despite warnings and horror stories about Mexico, I loved it. Granted I was only there overnight, but what I saw I liked. I’ve come to believe a city’s airport says much about the city itself, and Mexico City airport was impressive. Not on a grand scale, but based on cleanliness, warmth, character, speed of processing and clarity of available information. I had clear instructions from the hostel about how to get there, and was on the lookout for a particular taxi company. I was a little concerned about the whole scenario, given my lack of Spanish and the so-called corrupt taxi drivers, yet I had nothing to fear. Buying my ticket for the taxi at a booth, I paid the fare based on my destination address. Once I had that sorted, I waited at the designated area for the taxi while a little guy in an oversized work vest radioed to see what number taxi was approaching and wrote it on my ticket. Signage in the taxi tells you to note the taxi number in case of lost property, and that had already been done for me. No money changes hands with the taxi driver, and unlike what I expected, the driver did not try to coerce me into going to a different area.
We drove through the streets of Mexico at about 1am local time, in the still warm air, and saw people gathered around the little outside eateries, laughing and talking, while music played from various stereos. The atmosphere was inviting, and I wished I wasn’t so tired and had more time to explore the area. Without a GPS to guide him, my shirt and tie taxi driver eventually found my hostel and graciously held up my backpack for me to put on. Unlike Africa, where people help you only in order to obtain a few dollars, I didn’t feel the driver was after any money, so I gave him what I think was one American dollar note. ‘Mucho gracias Seniorita’ was his reply, along with a slight bow. He waited outside the taxi until the hostel door opened, then waved as he drove away. I felt a bit stingy giving him only one dollar, however I had very little change amongst all the $20 notes from the ATM. When I later learned that the average Mexican wage is equivalent to $6.50 per day, I didn’t feel so bad.
The hostel was another delight. A traditional Mexican house run by a mother and son team, who were both still waiting up for me. I was warmly welcomed, and sat down for a chat. Thankfully Alberto spoke English, and was able to translate between his mother and me. I could understand more Spanish than I could speak, and again, made a promise to learn the language before my next visit. Time was creeping on, and I knew I should attempt to get some sleep before my next flight. I was shown to my room, which consisted of a double bed, a chair and a table. It was on the rooftop level, and I could hear cheerful music wafting up from the bar next door. I crawled into bed at 2am local time, and lay there wide awake for another hour and a half.
I walked back to the airport in the morning and everyone setting up their stalls was friendly and said hello – or rather, Hola! I wandered around the airport looking lost, because I couldn’t find the Aeromexico desks anywhere. Signs pointed to the International Departures, and I was getting frustrated trying to find where I had to check in. As the time ticked away, I had a sudden flash of realisation – I was in the wrong terminal! I needed Terminal 2, and like Sydney airport, that was a good five minutes away. Damn it, I was annoyed it took me so long to realise what was wrong, and now I risked being late to check in.
Arriving at the correct Terminal, I felt like a ping pong ball, being directed from desk to desk in order to self check in, change USD to Mexican Pesos to buy my Cuban visa, and finally to the bag drop area. I’d avoided having to change any money thus far, however I could only buy the Cuban visa in Pesos – so within 36 hours of leaving home I already had different two currencies in my purse. The visa would have cost me $110 if I got it in AU, and therefore I was okay with the extra currency because it meant I only paid USD $21 for the same visa.
The Aeromexico flight was good and I’d happily fly with them again. For a three and a half hour flight I didn’t expect much, if any, food, yet I got a whole lunch box with a croissant ‘sandwich’, chocolate, chips, nuts and a drink. As usual, I ate the consumable items, and kept the packaged ones for snacks (or meals) later on. All the announcements were in Spanish and then English, as were the in-flight magazines.
The flight was unremarkable, other than the guy sitting behind me. A loud and unexcused burp got my attention early on, after which followed a succession of snorts, snuffling and kicking my chair. The guy sitting next to me was similarly unimpressed with the untamed noises and turned around to glare at the offender. From his expression I guessed correctly that the guy behind us was travelling with his carer, and was therefore somewhat excused for his rude behaviours. I could ignore the noises, however I was wary of the few times I sensed his head and arm at the side of my chair in what I can only assume was an effort to say hi…
Old classic cars, cigars, rum and sunshine! More to come when I have a better internet connection 🙂
My bum is sore. Any which way I sit and it’s not long before I’m moving again, trying to find a small spot that hasn’t been squished to the bone over the last 24 hours. I don’t mind flying, but I’m certainly not a fan of long haul flights. I’m waiting at LA airport for my third and final flight today, and currently feel like I’m sitting on an iceblock that is the lino floor of LAX. Positions are coveted, everyone vying for the elusive power points. I got here early enough to secure one almost close enough to the carpeted area, but not quite. I’m sitting half on the base of a board showing the allowed dimensions of cabin baggage, and it’s not quite long enough – like a step that your foot hangs over. That’s the current state of my bum.
Rewind 26 hours and I was sitting in a comfy chair eating bacon and eggs for breakfast, because, I was told, “It’s the last decent bacon you’ll eat for the next month – American’s don’t know what real bacon is!” I believe that too! Renee kindly drove me to the airport and I initially thought I was at the wrong check in counters for there was no one else checking in. Apparently I’d just beaten the rush, and had boarding passes all the way through to Mexico within ten minutes. Wandering leisurely through Duty Free I sampled the tasty Hendrick’s Gin, and used up the remaining credit on my phone with goodbye phone calls.
I’ve not flown with United before, and I can see why they’re at the lower end of the gradings for reputable airlines. My flight to Sydney was an ALL male crew, who were more interested in each other than the passengers. Rarely did they smile, and handing out pretzels and drinks seemed like they were giving away their own lunches. We landed in Sydney, simply to exit the plane and immediately line up to board the next plane. Thankfully there was a vacant seat next to me, although it was still a damn long flight with more surly hosts/esses. The fasten seat belt sign was turned on more than necessary, and I think it was just an effort on the airline’s part to get everyone back in their seats so the staff could sleep!
Speaking of the staff on that plane, I’ve never seen such a variety of air hostesses. Honestly, one hostess was a mature woman with naturally white hair! The planes were old school too – we had communal TV screens and no choice of movie. Fascinating in a way, considering I remember my flight to Japan in 1994 and that was the norm. On that flight I got moved to Business Class and each seat had a screen and we thought that was such a luxury! My fastidiousness came out again when we got served the meal on the way to LA (the food on UA was nothing to rave about either, it was probably the worse plane food I’ve been served, and I usually love those little food trays) – I naturally tidy up my tray after eating, condensing all my rubbish to occupy the most minimal space. Even rubbish can be neat and tidy, with everything in it’s place 🙂 We did get served an Australian made orange juice that I want to find at home – it’s called Just Delicious Orange Juice, and it certainly lives up to it’s name.
For those who like stats, I took note of the following from the screen:
Travelled 1997kms (it looked like we’d only just left the AU coast)
Altitude 9456m
10,170kms to go
1205k/hr ground speed
-31 degrees C outside
Despite pre warning about the poor condition and organisation of LAX, I was truly underwhelmed when I arrived. There was one guy organising the hundreds of people in the Customs hall and there wasn’t even marked lanes to organise everyone! I found a power point and decided to charge my phone while I waited for everyone to sort themselves out. I wasn’t worried about the hour and a half it took to get to the desk, because I had seven hours to kill before my next flight. I eventually joined the end of the queue, and nervously approached the large black guy at the desk. I say nervously because the USA had, four years prior, denied me entry and I didn’t know if that would have any repercussions on my current attempt to visit Han. There is no valid reason why I was denied entry last time, I believe the woman was just having a bad day, however I’d taken bank statements along with me just in case the Customs people wanted proof I wasn’t going to stay in their bloody country any longer than necessary.
I answered his questions about where I was going, and with whom (seriously, does it look like I’m standing with a group of people right now?!) and pressed my fingers dutifully against the smeared fingerprinting glass when requested. I took my sunnies off for a mug shot, and watched with hope as his big black hand stretched towards the entry stamp. Come on, come on, let me in.. Pick it up and stamp the damn papers! Yes! I’m in! Woo hoo! Han, they let me in! Surely I’ll get in again after Jamaica!!! In my internal celebration, I didn’t immediately realise he’d only stamped my Customs form, and not my passport. Half way down the exit lane I had a slight panic – what if this was some trick to catch me out? Given the American embargo against Cuba, and with Mexico, Cuba and Jamaica on my itinerary, I did not want to be set up. Oh no. Back to the desk I marched – feeling a little more confident now that I’d been given one nod – and enquired if he should have also stamped my passport. He replied in a voice uncharacteristic for his size, and put that golden entry stamp amongst the others in my collection. Now, to high tail it out of there, collect my bag and get the hell out of the airport before they changed their minds. Phew.
The lack of signage in and around LAX is atrocious, and tourist information is far and few between. I spoke to an older gentleman manning the only visible information desk, and decided to kill a few hours at the Hilton hotel. Courtesy of a free shuttle bus, a hotel so large they don’t know who is staying and who is intruding, and fast free wifi, I charged my laptop and phone, looked up accommodation in Cayman Islands, and cushioned my weary arse on a comfy couch for a few hours.
Heading back to the airport a few hours later, I began my third UA flight. I knew the lack of sleep was starting to get to me (I’d had only snippets in the last 25 hours) because I stood in line to check in when I already had that boarding pass from Melbourne.. Traveller’s Brain I like to call it, the effects of which are similar to Baby Brain, and can cause you to do silly things you normally wouldn’t.
The third UA flight was more entertaining than the previous two, with more Mexican Nationals on board and a lack of care to where people sat. There was an older guy in my seat, which I didn’t mind too much because it meant I got the window seat instead, and the announcements were all in Spanish and also in English. It reminded me of European flights, where they have Spanish and English announcements. Wishing I’d done more practise on my Spanish, I remembered how much I love that language and made a promise to be able to speak more of it next time I’m in South and Latin America. The aircon was up way too high and I was freezing, but I managed to get an hour or so of neck breaking sleep.
My head was hurting from sleep deprivation while I tried to decipher the cryptic questions on the Mexican Customs and Immigration forms. It was 11.30pm local time, which equates to 2.30pm Melbourne time, and my Traveller’s Brain had really kicked in. I understood then why the travel agent had warned against doing the Melb – LA – Mexico all in one leg, but it was lack of time between finishing work and starting the tour that necessitated it this time. Lesson learned.
The Customs hall in MEX at least had clearly marked lanes for Nationals and Foreigners, and enough officials working to move everyone through relatively quickly. It was also a carpeted area, which is more than I can say for most Customs arrival halls! One poor woman had two crying kids with her, and was towards the rear of the line just behind me. I spoke to three young women in the next lane over, closer to the desks, if they’d let the woman and kids jump ahead of them. They agreed, so I opened the barrier and ushered her through. No one else seemed to mine either, yet no one made a move to help her. I thought it was the least I could do. Thankfully, another passenger near to where the woman now was did the same again for her, and pushed her to the front of the queue. She cleared Customs in just a few minutes and I was so busy watching her gratefully wave thanks I almost missed the slight opening of the barrier to usher us to a new desk that just opened.
Traveller’s Brain kicked in again when I saw passengers wheeling luggage with tags on it and panicked for a few seconds that I’d missed the baggage conveyor belt and left my backpack behind.. Oh no, how do I retreat and collect my bag? Feeling slightly embarrassed when I remembered the long walk along the corridor and lack of baggage carousels on route to the Customs hall, I was grateful to be called to the desk to obtain my Mexican entry stamp.
Edinburgh and St Andrews
One major draw card of Edinburgh for me was the Military Tattoo held every year in August. I’d managed to get tickets as a belated birthday present for me and Lyns, and we spent the day wandering around the city before the show. We went to a few free comedy shows (similar to the Comedy Festival in Melbourne) and one Lyns picked was absolutely awful. The guy was horribly pathetic and I wanted to leave, but she wouldn’t because we were sitting in the front row. The guy was really, really bad, and I was tired, and with the warmth of the venue I fell asleep. Woke up at the end of his show when everyone was clapping – clapping I believe because it was over. The Tattoo was great, a lot of Scottish music and bagpipes, but also a light show on the side of the Edinburgh Castle, music, comedy, dance and fireworks to top it all off. Except for the rain that threatened the show all night it was pretty good.
I learnt about the Suffragettes while I was in Scotland. Suffragettes was a term for the move for women to be allowed to vote. Founded in 1897 by Millicent Fawcett, “suffrage” literally means means the right to vote and the movement started with that wish. Beginning as a series of peaceful protests, Fawcett’s most powerful arguments were that since women had to pay taxes like men did, they should have the same rights as men, and that wealthy mistresses of large manors and estates employed gardeners, workmen and labourers who could vote, but the women themselves could not vote, regardless of their wealth. Eventually the movement turned to violence, burning down churches, vandalism, interrupting Parliament and political meetings, refused to pay taxes, fire bombed Politicians houses and golf courses.
The Suffragettes were happy to go to prison, where they would go on hunger strikes and refuse to eat. The government was concerned that they might die in prison thus giving the movement martyrs. Prison governors were ordered to force feed the Suffragettes but this caused a public outcry as force feeding was traditionally used to feed lunatics as opposed to what were mostly educated women. In June 1913 one Suffragette, Emily Davison, was killed when she threw herself under the King’s horse at a Derby. The movement was interrupted by WW1, but in 1918 the Representation of the People Act gave women of property over the age of 30 the right to vote – not all women, but it was a major start. (Info from http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/suffragettes.htm).
I was hugely interested in this movement, and concluded I certainly would have been a Suffragette myself had I been around in those days. Can you imagine me NOT saying or doing anything in regards to women’s rights?! I think not.
We visited Anstruther, a little village reputed to have the best fish and chips in Scotland. I’d been taken to a few of these ‘best’ fish and chip shops in the UK, and I’m sorry to tell you, but we have better fish and chips in Australia. As I found with a lot of food throughout the whole of Europe, we have as good or better food than most countries over there. In fact, Australia is pretty good on all fronts, and I was beginning to miss home.
So, we got to the fish and chip shop, and I’d already clued on by now that most of everything sold in these shops is deep fried, but I thought I’d surely find something that was not soaked and cooked in oil. Boy, was I wrong. I ordered fish cakes, thinking they’d only be cooked on the grill. WRONG – they were also deep fried. I watched the cooks and when I saw what looked like fish cakes heading for the deep fryer I asked if I was correct. Well, surprise, surprise, yes they were also deep fried. “Is anything in this shop NOT fried?” I enquired, only to be looked at like I had two heads and answered with a resounding “No”. I cancelled my order and went without. I kid you not, the Scots fry everything. Fish and chips, pizza, kebabs, Mars bars, white pudding, black pudding – absolutely everything. I was disgusted and seriously craving some healthy food.
We went to a Rugby game and saw Scotland play Italy. I can’t even remember the game except it was the warmest and sunniest day in Scotland and that was the most exciting part of the whole day.. A visit to the pub afterwards was interesting, packed with loud Scots (Scotland must of won now I think about it) drinking and reliving the game, play for play. I must say I was grateful for the relatively quiet train ride home – after yet another visit to a Fish and Chip (aka Deep Fry) shop. On the train home I smelt cigarette smoke and looked down the aisle to see a guy puffing away in the middle of the carriage. I got up to speak to him and a slight look of concern passed over Lynsey’s face. She knows how much I hate the smell of cigarettes, and I think she may have been worried about the outcome of our encounter. I hate the stink and was furious that this guy thought nothing of inflicting his vile smelling fumes on the rest of us on the train. I figured no one else would have the balls to say anything, so I was going to. He obviously knew he shouldn’t be smoking because as I approached he asked as much and I told him what I thought whilst he stubbed the cigarette out.
I was treated to a lovely roast lunch with cheesecake for dessert at Lynsey’s mum and dad’s place two days before I flew home. Her parents are really nice, and I got to meet her much talked about dog – Beck, who, I’ll admit, is a nice dog. I spent half a day in St Andrews, mostly to give myself and Lyns a break from each other, and to collect a golf ball for a friend at home who is an avid fan of the (I think boring) game. I managed to find two nice brandy glasses I bought for myself in St Andrews, to compliment the yummy brandy I’d bought in Wales.
Matlock, England and Dundee, Scotland
I had exactly 24 hours with my relatives, whom I’d never met before, and it was a busy day. I was driven around the local area, and given a commentary on my relatives (we’re talking about five generations ago mind you) and where they’d been born, grew up, lived and died. It was interesting observing the family dynamics of these cousins of my Grandpa’s, the three of whom were in their 60s and 70s.
I was given the royal treatment, including large meals and a feather mattress and pillow to sleep on. I got through the meal by sampling only a little of everything, yet the bed was another matter. It was a nice gesture, however it was the most uncomfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on. Even worse than a water bed. You sunk into it and it didn’t move easily, so I felt trapped. Add to that the fact I’m allergic to feather bedding, and I was in for a long night. I ended up swapping the pillow for a cushion just so I didn’t have to explain my potential swollen red eyes in the morning.
My Grandpa had visited these same relatives 60 years ago on his European trip, and they were all keen on the idea that he might return again soon. I’ve been encouraging him to go back for some years now, and now he’s beaten his previous fear of flying it just may well be a possibility.
I spent six and a half hours on a bus from Manchester to Edinburgh to stay with my Scottish friend Lynsey for the last leg of my three months travelling. Lyns and I met in Far North Queensland in 2004, and she has been back to Australia and to New Zealand with me since, so it was about time I went to visit her homeland.
The UK is quite small, yet I’d certainly spent a fair amount of time on buses to get around. I guess I’d just fly if I was back home, yet I didn’t consider it in England and Scotland since everyone said it was so small. Yes, it’s smaller than AU, but consider flying if you’re heading there yourself.
I arrived in Edinburgh at 7.30am and then had to get on a train for an hour to meet Lyns in Dundee. I was tired and cranky from the lack of sleep on the overnight bus, and wasn’t looking forward to another train trip. Thankfully Lyns had alerted me to a sale on train tickets weeks before and I’d grabbed one – saving me pounds in the process. I was continually astounded at the ridiculous cost of public transport in the UK, it was a huge rip off.
Lyns met me at Dundee and we yabbered away for a few hours before heading out to explore some local areas. One woman in an art gallery tried to set me up with her son who was currently in AU – and although I love the Scottish accent I’d rather meet someone first before committing to marry them!
I met Lynsey’s boyfriend Craig, and was introduced to Haggis for dinner. Believe it or not, haggis is actually quite tasty. I didn’t look at the ingredients until after I’d eaten, and it’s basically a whole pig minced up and mixed with barley and some spices. Yum! We headed off on a whiskey distillery tour the following day, with both Craig and I fans of the stuff. I discovered that in Scotland it’s not called Scotch, only whiskey, and it must be drunk on the rocks (only with ice in the glass) and never mixed with coke like we so often do at home.
London, Bristol, Bath and Cardiff
Leaving the beautiful weather in Madrid I flew into Gatwick airport and got a train to see my friend Ruki in East Dulwich. Her boyfriend introduced me to darts – the board of which I’ve seen in a few garages over the years, but in England they are often in pubs and many people have them in their houses I was told. I quite enjoyed it once the rules and various games and scoring were explained, and decided I might get myself a dart board when I get home.
I did the usual touristy things in London, walked along the Thames (it was raining and grey that day); saw St Paul’s Cathedral (just another church by that stage of my travels) and Leicester Square (booths offering discount theatre tickets); browsed through Camden Markets (got a cool handmade jumper from Nepal); walked up Oxford Street (way too many people for my liking) and through Hyde Park (big green space..); saw Buckingham Palace (that was kinda cool – to see where The Royal Wedding cars had travelled and The Kiss had taken place); saw Big Ben (not really that big or impressive) and Westminster Abbey (from the outside only); walked through Soho (more shops); went to the Portobello Road Markets (great selection of different foods on offer and had a waffle but it wasn’t as good as in Belgium); and saw the Tower Bridge (pretty bridge).
All in all London didn’t impress me all that much. I’m glad I saw ‘the sights’, but I won’t be rushing back in a hurry. I was pleased to catch up with Ruki, but London was so expensive, had stupid locations of barriers at train stations and if you entered the wrong one and needed to exit and re-enter within minutes it charged you the price of another train ride (I’m hoping Melbourne’s MYKI doesn’t follow the rules of London’s Oyster Card system..) and was too crowded and busy. Their tube system (underground trains) were easy to understand after having travelled on similar systems in Barcelona, Madrid and Berlin, but those trains were small, claustrophobic and way too hot.
I left London the day after the riots started, when everyone just thought it was a once off night of madness, and caught a bus to the west of England, to Bristol, to visit my friend Jo.
Transport in general is super expensive in the UK, with bus and train fares rising the later you book them. I find that system stupid and unfair, but to save some money I’d booked all my bus trips weeks in advance – locking me into dates and times I couldn’t later vary. I like the fact Australia has set prices for buses and trains and it doesn’t matter when you buy them the price stays the same. Exactly how it should be.
Jo took me all over Bristol, and we visited a number of her favourite pubs and bars. I experienced my first Yorkshire Pudding, which was a nice cupcake shaped, dough based, soft bread type of item, and learnt the true meaning of a CHAV – someone similar to the Australian dole bludger I guess. It stands for Council Housing and Vulgar, and many people were often referred by this title. We discovered Bristol had individually painted gorilla statues dotted around the city, similar to the Asian Elephants in Copenhagen, and Jo photographed each one we came across.
I bought a jumper for £5 that was made for 14-15 year olds yet fit me perfectly, and a pair of jeans from a charity shop (same as our Op Shops) for another £5. Considering the Australian dollar was about $1.60 to the British Pound, I wasn’t keen to spend too much and had to keep reminding myself to add 50% and some to the prices advertised. I tried the PIMMS alcoholic drink, which was about as close as I could get (even though it was still quite different) to a Lemon, Lime and Bitters in the whole of Europe.
There were a few police cars around one night and I mentioned it to Jo but she shrugged it off as normal. Little did we know the riots had continued and had moved to Bristol – hence the extra police on the streets. I felt a bit like the riots were following me across the country, and more than one friend jokingly asked if I’d started them!
Jo and I went to Weston-super-Mare to try the local fish and chips, and I was aghast that they only sold oily battered deep fried fish. I asked for a piece to be grilled or crumbed and was abruptly told that wasn’t an option. Wow. I soon learnt that you can buy almost anything deep fried in the UK, including Mars Bars (which I know we have in AU but I’ve never tried), pizza’s and skewers of meat. Ugh. No thanks.
After Weston-super-Mare we went to Bath. Bath reminded me of Salamanca in Spain, with the similar old style and same golden sandy coloured buildings. It was very pretty, but you even had to pay £1 to walk through the main gardens/park, which I declined to do. We went to the fancy Royal Crescent Hotel and being a tightarse I opted for a glass of water (which still cost me £1.25) rather than a glass of wine at £8.50 – about $13). I was starting to feel the effects of too many days of drinking and needed a break. I’d drunk more in the week I’d been in the UK than I had for the whole rest of my time in Europe and my skin nor my stomach were enjoying it.
We headed to Cardiff for two days, and I bought myself a Welsh flag patch – the second last one I’d collect on this trip. I loved the Welsh flag, it had a white and green horizontal stripe with a red dragon in the centre to symbolise bravery and victory. The city of Cardiff was quite small, but was interesting and lively. The language was quite different also, with lots of double letters in their words. All signs and buildings had the Welsh and English versions and it was interesting to compare the two. I learnt that Welsh does not have a letter ‘V’, for an ‘F’ is pronounced V unless it is a double ‘FF’ in which case it is pronounced F, as in Cardiff. I bought some delicious Apple and Blackcurrant Brandy from a small market stall – after sampling each whiskey, brandy and liqueur he was selling.
I’ve been eating less on this holiday than I do at home and feel much better for it. I prefer kids sized meals or entrees when I’m eating out, and have been conscious of how much I consume. I think most people eat far too much and I am happy to eat the little that I need, it’s just a matter of convincing others that I am satisfied rather than starving! My first task of this would be while visiting some relatives in central England, near Derbyshire. Knowing they would likely be putting on a big spread as a ‘Welcome’ gesture, I was hoping to find a balance between not eating too much and not offending them by doing so..
Denmark
Flying again with AirBerlin, I arrived in Copenhagen on the 23rd of July. The airport itself was dark and dingy, with a navy blue theme and low ceilings, and feeling a little overwhelmed having to navigate yet another new language, new currency and information signs for public transport, (I’d been in nine countries, heard eight languages and dealt with three different currencies in eight weeks), I wondered how this city that I’d always wanted to visit would measure up. I found the luggage collection area, and as I waited for my backpack I got the train ticket I’d been advised by my couch surfing hosts to buy. It asked for a total of 140 Danish Kroner, and I nearly died – until I worked out the conversion rate and realised the ticket was the equivalent of $AU24. I thought it was still expensive however would last me the three days I was in the city. Their notes were of such a seemingly large value, however their 50 Kroner note was about $AU4.50. The coins had holes in the centre of them which reminded me of the Japanese Yen.
It was bucketing down with rain in Copenhagen, which meant I was now entering my third week of rain over four countries. I talked with a guy from New Zealand while I waited for my hosts to arrive at the train station and take me to their house, which happened to be a boat! I struck it lucky with this family, for they were lovely people and wonderful hosts. I met Tomas and Christine, and their boys Villads, Skjold and Storm and was immediately welcomed into their home. I had a small room to myself and a key to the communal bathroom on a boat a few doors down.
Even though it continued to rain, I was determined to see the city I’d wanted to visit for so long. I don’t know why I felt a special urge to see Denmark, I just had – and long before Mary became the Princess. I headed out for a few hours, bought my customary purchase in each country – a patch of their flag, and saw a statue of Hans Christian Anderson and saw a number of brightly painted Asian Elephant statues around the city. The Elephants were decorated by different artists and placed in various locations for a number of weeks for the public to see. It was good incentive to walk around the city and find all the Elephants, before they were to be auctioned off and the money donated to a fund to help save the Asian Elephants. I became obsessed about photographing as many of them as I could find.
The next day Christina loaned me a pair of wet weather pants, a rain jacket and umbrella, and her 10 year old son’s gumboots that fitted me perfectly. I was kitted out for a day of sightseeing in the rain. I laughed when considering the Danish summer is like a Melbourne winter, and ensured I got photographs of myself decked out in my borrowed gear. Even though it rained constantly all day I enjoyed myself because I stayed dry. I saw girls walking around in little shorts and skirts and fancy gumboots – which made me shiver with cold – yet I guess it was much warmer than their winter weather. I am so glad I came in summer for I don’t know that I’d have enough clothes to keep me warm in winter in Denmark or any of the northern European countries for that matter..
The Little Mermaide statue is a main attraction in Copenhagen and of course I went to see her. I had been warned that she was little, and she was. Life sized at best. I took the customary picture, then took a picture of all the tourists milling around her – one who was nearly washed into the ocean when she slipped on a rock trying to get close to the Little Mermaid. It was a difficult day to get colourful pictures, with the sky a bleak grey and me wearing all black wet weather gear, however I managed to find a nice spot with a red building and green lawn in the Kastellet. I put the camera on self timer as I was sick of asking other people to take pictures of me and stuffing them up. How hard is it to take a nice picture of someone people? If you’re not confident then just say so, and I’ll ask someone else – or better yet, do it myself!
I saw the Tivoli, ate a traditional Danish hotdog with pickles and fried onion pieces as a crunchy topping, and had their well reputed home made icecream. I sat in a beautiful Marble dome church and dozed in the quiet for half an hour, which also gave me time to warm up from the cold outside, and made my way to Amalienborg – the Queen’s Residence. The guards were doing their walk back and forth to stretch their legs thing, and I amused myself wondering how heavy those black furry hats really are.
Standing next to the residences, trying to shield myself from the wind tunnel in the street while I read my map I heard a sharp ‘Oi!’ and looking at the guard saw him indicating I had to move away from the wall. What did I do? I didn’t even touch the bloody royal building and anyone could clearly see I was struggling to read my map flapping about in the windy cold summer gale, geez. Maybe they were on extra high alert after the recent bombing in Norway, but he didn’t have to be so rude. I wondered if he got his knickers in a knot because I’d been staring at his geeky looking hat for so long and felt the need to assert himself.. Who knows?!
Nyhaven was next, with the canals and boats and pretty coloured houses lining the streets, before I got to the main shopping strip of Stroget and found the tourist shops to buy my flag patch for Denmark. I then headed back to Vesterbro and the houseboat for another home cooked dinner with the family.
On my last day in Copenhagen the family took me on a personal tour of the city via the waterways, on their speed boat. The youngest son Storm, who was three years old, got to sit on his dad’s knee and ‘steer’ the boat. I found it hilarious to watch him pull his beanie over his eyes in an effort to shield them from the wind and continue to hold firmly to the steering wheel as if he could see where he was steering us towards. We went to Christiania, an area that draws many tourists because marijuana and all by products are freely sold without intervention from the police. A whole community has grown from what was originally a few squatters in disused army barracks.
It wasn’t as unruly as I expected, with little stalls set up to sell the drug and signs everywhere stating ‘No Photos Allowed’. There was a small supermarket and a few workshops where people sold the goods they made. A few people wandered around obviously affected by the stuff, but I only saw one guy drinking alcohol as well. My favourite place was a little stand where you could leave and take items of clothing for free. Like an Op Shop only everything was for free. I got myself a nice woollen jumper for the UK, and a skirt and singlet top. Bonus! It was a happy ending to my time in Denmark.
Photos from Copenhagen can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Leaving the beautiful weather in Madrid I flew into Gatwick airport and got a train to see my friend Ruki in East Dulwich. Her boyfriend introduced me to darts – the board of which I’ve seen in a few garages over the years, but in England they are often in pubs and many people have them in their houses I was told. I quite enjoyed it once the rules and various games and scoring were explained, and decided I might get myself a dart board when I get home.
I did the usual touristy things in London, walked along the Thames (it was raining and grey that day); saw St Paul’s Cathedral (just another church by that stage of my travels) and Leicester Square (booths offering discount theatre tickets); browsed through Camden Markets (got a cool handmade jumper from Nepal); walked up Oxford Street (way too many people for my liking) and through Hyde Park (big green space..); saw Buckingham Palace (that was kinda cool – to see where The Royal Wedding cars had travelled and The Kiss had taken place); saw Big Ben (not really that big or impressive) and Westminster Abbey (from the outside only); walked through Soho (more shops); went to the Portobello Road Markets (great selection of different foods on offer and had a waffle but it wasn’t as good as in Belgium); and saw the Tower Bridge (pretty bridge).
All in all London didn’t impress me all that much. I’m glad I saw ‘the sights’, but I won’t be rushing back in a hurry. I was pleased to catch up with Ruki, but London was so expensive, had stupid locations of barriers at train stations and if you entered the wrong one and needed to exit and re-enter within minutes it charged you the price of another train ride (I’m hoping Melbourne’s MYKI doesn’t follow the rules of London’s Oyster Card system..) and was too crowded and busy. Their tube system (underground trains) were easy to understand after having travelled on similar systems in Barcelona, Madrid and Berlin, but those trains were small, claustrophobic and way too hot.
I left London the day after the riots started, when everyone just thought it was a once off night of madness, and caught a bus to the west of England, to Bristol, to visit my friend Jo.
Transport in general is super expensive in the UK, with bus and train fares rising the later you book them. I find that system stupid and unfair, but to save some money I’d booked all my bus trips weeks in advance – locking me into dates and times I couldn’t later vary. I like the fact Australia has set prices for buses and trains and it doesn’t matter when you buy them the price stays the same. Exactly how it should be.
Jo took me all over Bristol, and we visited a number of her favourite pubs and bars. I experienced my first Yorkshire Pudding, which was a nice cupcake shaped, dough based, soft bread type of item, and learnt the true meaning of a CHAV – someone similar to the Australian dole bludger I guess. It stands for Council Housing and Vulgar, and many people were often referred by this title. We discovered Bristol had individually painted gorilla statues dotted around the city, similar to the Asian Elephants in Copenhagen, and Jo photographed each one we came across.
I bought a jumper for £5 that was made for 14-15 year olds yet fit me perfectly, and a pair of jeans from a charity shop (same as our Op Shops) for another £5. Considering the Australian dollar was about $1.60 to the British Pound, I wasn’t keen to spend too much and had to keep reminding myself to add 50% and some to the prices advertised. I tried the PIMMS alcoholic drink, which was about as close as I could get (even though it was still quite different) to a Lemon, Lime and Bitters in the whole of Europe.
There were a few police cars around one night and I mentioned it to Jo but she shrugged it off as normal. Little did we know the riots had continued and had moved to Bristol – hence the extra police on the streets. I felt a bit like the riots were following me across the country, and more than one friend jokingly asked if I’d started them!
Jo and I went to Weston-super-Mare to try the local fish and chips, and I was aghast that they only sold oily battered deep fried fish. I asked for a piece to be grilled or crumbed and was abruptly told that wasn’t an option. Wow. I soon learnt that you can buy almost anything deep fried in the UK, including Mars Bars (which I know we have in AU but I’ve never tried), pizza’s and skewers of meat. Ugh. No thanks.
After Weston-super-Mare we went to Bath. Bath reminded me of Salamanca in Spain, with the similar old style and same golden sandy coloured buildings. It was very pretty, but you even had to pay £1 to walk through the main gardens/park, which I declined to do. We went to the fancy Royal Crescent Hotel and being a tightarse I opted for a glass of water (which still cost me £1.25) rather than a glass of wine at £8.50 – about $13). I was starting to feel the effects of too many days of drinking and needed a break. I’d drunk more in the week I’d been in the UK than I had for the whole rest of my time in Europe and my skin nor my stomach were enjoying it.
We headed to Cardiff for two days, and I bought myself a Welsh flag patch – the second last one I’d collect on this trip. I loved the Welsh flag, it had a white and green horizontal stripe with a red dragon in the centre to symbolise bravery and victory. The city of Cardiff was quite small, but was interesting and lively. The language was quite different also, with lots of double letters in their words. All signs and buildings had the Welsh and English versions and it was interesting to compare the two. I learnt that Welsh does not have a letter ‘V’, for an ‘F’ is pronounced V unless it is a double ‘FF’ in which case it is pronounced F, as in Cardiff. I bought some delicious Apple and Blackcurrant Brandy from a small market stall – after sampling each whiskey, brandy and liqueur he was selling.
I’ve been eating less on this holiday than I do at home and feel much better for it. I prefer kids sized meals or entrees when I’m eating out, and have been conscious of how much I consume. I think most people eat far too much and I am happy to eat the little that I need, it’s just a matter of convincing others that I am satisfied rather than starving! My first task of this would be while visiting some relatives in central England, near Derbyshire. Knowing they would likely be putting on a big spread as a ‘Welcome’ gesture, I was hoping to find a balance between not eating too much and not offending them by doing so..
I had someone looking out for me on the train to Brussels. Whether it was luck or karma, my ticket didn’t get checked for the first few stops. There were many people getting on and off which helped increase my confidence of making it out of Amsterdam, and with each passing station I was that little bit closer to Brussels and a friend. I had met Pieter in Coimbra, Portugal, about one month earlier. He lived in Brussels and had been on his way to Seville in Spain for a Flamenco course when we met and he had invited me to stay at his house when I got to Brussels. We had arranged to meet on Thursday 28th July, although I had emailed him the night I was in Amsterdam and outlined my plan to get to Brussels a day early. Not having received confirmation from him I risked it anyway, and had my fingers crossed for the whole train journey, hoping he would be there to meet me.
As the train approached the Netherlands/Belgium border the official looking guards got on to inspect tickets. Not being a good liar I had been rehearsing my ‘innocent mistake’ story about the ticket date, and hoped I’d be able to pull it off. Worst case scenario was that I’d be put off the train, however I knew there were only two stops in Belgium and figured it wouldn’t cost too much for a city train ticket if I was throw off. Unfortunately all the others in the same train compartment spoke English, so if I did have to explain my ticket they’d all be hearing it. I handed up my ticket after the others and the conductor barely glanced at it before stamping it and handing it back! I could have laughed aloud I was so happy, but thought better of it and smiled inwardly instead. Phew! I’d made it. I was in Belgium and feeling so much happier from that fact alone.
Alongside the train lines in Brussels is the red light district. I didn’t realise that until the train passed shop windows with scantily clad girls prancing and preening amongst themselves, with guys hanging around the outside of the windows, literally as if they were shopping for new merchandise. I did laugh at the sight of it all, and relaxed a little. Once I got to Brussels train station I had a nervous fifteen minute wait to see if Pieter would turn up. Thankfully he did and I nearly cried from happiness when I saw him – a more welcome sight could not have been had at that moment!
Pieter showed me the house he shared with four others, gave me a key, and headed back to work. I put on a load of washing, had a much needed shower and wandered around the city centre until I met up with Pieter after work. I saw the Grand Palace, Mannekin Pis and the Bourse Stairs. Pieter showed me around some more of the city before we headed to his friend’s house for a dinner party. I met his house mates at dinner, and everyone seemed really nice and friendly. What a change from Amsterdam! Although the nine other people at dinner all spoke French, and a little English, I could understand a lot of what was said just with hand and facial gestures, and picking up the odd word or two. It was a great night and I slept soundly at the end of it.
The trams in Brussels have the exact same ticketing system as we do in Melbourne, so it was easy enough to figure out, although Pieter had been kind enough to give me a ticket to use for my three days there. I wandered around the city and got a little lost even with a map. That is unusual for me, and I blame it on the fact that the street names are in French and English or one or the other, yet the map didn’t always have both names listed. I therefore ended up in an area known as Louisa, which was a nice place but way off from where I wanted to be and I consequently did not find the market I was looking for.
I did however come across a beggar sitting outside a supermarket. I had seen many people begging for money on my travels through Europe, and I don’t usually give money to them, yet this guy was different. He sat there quietly and didn’t have any signs or sob stories about numerous ‘bambinos’ to feed, nor a mangy looking dog at his feet, and he smiled at everyone who went past. I watched him for a while and a few people stopped to drop some coins in his cup. I wanted to talk to him but he didn’t speak English, and I don’t speak any French, so all I managed to understand was his name – Christie. I told him I liked his smile and gave him my loose change. He left an impression on me, and I was reminded that no matter what your circumstances may be, you can always afford to smile at people – and hopefully they’ll manage a smile back.
I discovered two great loves that day – Belgium waffles and the area of Mont Des Arts Kunstberg. The waffles are divine. I could live off them they are that good. The true waffles shouldn’t be cooked solid throughout, the inside should be soft and fluffy and almost gooey in places, but not quite. It would be an art to get them just right, and I appreciated all the effort that went into making it. I had a plain one to start my experience with, and small bunches of sugar crystals in the mix made it a delightfully magical experience without being too sweet. Oh how I hope I can get waffles like this back at home.
While I lusted after the thought of another waffle I stood watching a flautist busking on the steps of the Mont Des Arts Kunstberg. The area was a little pocket of paradise in the middle of the city, filled with trees and green lawns, flower beds and neat hedges and fountains. My combined love of greenery and water was neatly laid out for the public to enjoy. I could have sat there for hours and just soaked up the atmosphere, it was my Garden of Eden in Brussels.
On my last day in Belgium I visited Gent, an old city half an hour north-west of Brussels. It was a pretty city, built along a river, with beautiful old buildings. huge churches and an old castle in the centre of the town. I was told it was just as nice as the touristy city of Brugge, minus the crowds, and it was worth the visit. I had a fruit flavoured beer that night, a Hoegaarden Rosee, which was quite nice. The best bit was that no one looked at me funny or was insulted when I ordered it – unlike in Germany when guys acted like I’d decided to drink my own urine. I asked the guys if they minded ordering fruit beers at the bar and they said they didn’t, everyone just knew they were for the girls. I took a picture of a bar with all the tap beers available for I’d never seen so many – there were at least 30 different choices of beer available in one bar alone!
I left Brussels early the next morning to fly back to Madrid for a few days, visiting some friends I’d met last time and to spend a day in the walled medieval city of Toledo before I got to London on the 3rd of August. Then began my three weeks visiting friends throughout the UK.
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Photos from Brussels and Gent can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
I reluctantly left my wonderful host family in Copenhagen and flew to Amsterdam on Tuesday the 26th of July. I say reluctantly because I was sad to leave the friendly and hospitable family I’d stayed with on the houseboat, and I had a bad feeling about the host organised for Amsterdam. Upon arriving at Schiphol Airport in The Netherlands I found a train bound for the city centre and made my way to meet this next host. When asking any customer service agent for directions or advice I had the feeling they just wanted to palm you off as soon as possible, and would simply point you in any direction to get rid of you. With the main train station undergoing repairs and works this happened a few times too many, and I was getting thoroughly annoyed and ready to yell at someone.
I eventually found the designated meeting place and within minutes was approached by the Couch Surfing host, as if he’d been waiting there for me – which I actually think he had. To cut a long story short, I knew very soon that it wasn’t going to work, and my gut feelings were correct. In hindsight I should have said so then and there and found alternative accommodation, however, I didn’t. I traipsed after him through the streets of Amsterdam while he gave me a running commentary of the city – which was basically an extended list of all the benefits and locations to indulge those benefits of living in Amsterdam. I did feel the need to clarify whether he smoked in his apartment, and his reply was ‘When in Amsterdam, do as the Amsterdamers do’. Oh boy.
After a long walk to get to his apartment (in actuality it was a student shipping container village, with rows of containers stacked one on top of the other), with me lugging my backpack the whole way, he was unable to pinpoint his location on the map, nor tell me the name of the street he lived on. I was trying to find out exactly where I was so I could find out how long it would take me to get back into the city to escape. I made the most of his wifi when I got there and looked up hostels. I had every intention of leaving that night, however, every hostel that was available had terrible ratings. I read reviews of hostels being full of smoke, mice or bed bugs. Argh!
I already had a ticket booked for a train to Brussels in two days time, and decided I’d see if I could change it for a train the next day to get me out of that place. I found my way back into the city, and was told a resounding ‘No’, I could not change my ticket as I’d bought it on a sale and it was not transferable or refundable. Despondent and wanting to cry I headed for the Anne Frank Museum, which was my sole reason for visiting Amsterdam. Everywhere I walked in the city my nostrils were filled with the unmistakable stench of marijuana smoke. In the train station, standing at the traffic lights, walking down the streets and lanes – it was everywhere. I expected it to be in the ‘coffee shops’ but didn’t expect it to be as prevalent as it was. I was gagging and the only place I found that didn’t smell of dope was in McDonalds. I sat there for a while, using their wifi to check out other train tickets and decide what to do.
If I wanted to go to Brussels the following day I would have to buy another ticket and prices were up to €50 – I wasn’t willing to spend that much on another ticket when I already had one I’d purchased on sale for only €14. It was pay the extra for the train or pay the equivalent or more on a semi-decent hotel room. For what? Why should I stay two days when I wanted to leave now? I trudged to the Anne Frank Museum while I self debated my limited options of escape. Waiting in line for 50 minutes to get into the Museum gave me time to decide. I would stay the night in the CS host’s shipping container and leave the following morning. I’d get on the train I’d booked for in two days time, and just feign ignorance regarding the date if I was questioned. I figured it would get me on the way anyhow, and if I got thrown off the train I’d work out what to do then.
Possibly because of my mood and general feeling towards Amsterdam, or possibly because I was shunted along with everyone else in the Museum, I didn’t get much out of the visit. I read faster than most people, and got frustrated when people laboured over the information boards and made me duck and weave around them to read. I didn’t like that you were all in single file as you moved through the specific areas in the house, nor that their were single boards with small print information so people stood close and blocked the view of others. I have always been interested in the story of Anne Frank and her family, but felt the museum didn’t offer anything more of value that I didn’t already know.
Back at the CS host’s place he cooked dinner (burgers) and I was a little paranoid that he was going to include something extra in the ingredients, but thankfully he didn’t. I refused his repeated offer of a drink or two, and stated that I was tired and would prefer to just go to bed rather than ‘party’ all night. He eventually left me alone to ‘visit some friends’ and when he returned at 7 in the morning I was awake and announced I was leaving that day. He asked if I was going because he’d ‘left me alone all night’, to which I stifled a laugh and said I’d seen everything I came to Amsterdam for and was moving on. He just didn’t seem to get the true idea of CS, and I didn’t feel it was my responsibility to educate him when I guessed he wouldn’t retain the information anyway. I hastily made my retreat to the train station with a few hours to spare.
Amsterdam was all round a well and truly disappointing city.
Flying again with AirBerlin, I arrived in Copenhagen on the 23rd of July. The airport itself was dark and dingy, with a navy blue theme and low ceilings, and feeling a little overwhelmed having to navigate yet another new language, new currency and information signs for public transport, (I’d been in nine countries, heard eight languages and dealt with three different currencies in eight weeks), I wondered how this city that I’d always wanted to visit would measure up. I found the luggage collection area, and as I waited for my backpack I got the train ticket I’d been advised by my couch surfing hosts to buy. It asked for a total of 140 Danish Kroner, and I nearly died – until I worked out the conversion rate and realised the ticket was the equivalent of $AU24. I thought it was still expensive however would last me the three days I was in the city. Their notes were of such a seemingly large value, however their 50 Kroner note was about $AU4.50. The coins had holes in the centre of them which reminded me of the Japanese Yen.
It was bucketing down with rain in Copenhagen, which meant I was now entering my third week of rain over four countries. I talked with a guy from New Zealand while I waited for my hosts to arrive at the train station and take me to their house, which happened to be a boat! I struck it lucky with this family, for they were lovely people and wonderful hosts. I met Tomas and Christine, and their boys Villads, Skjold and Storm and was immediately welcomed into their home. I had a small room to myself and a key to the communal bathroom on a boat a few doors down.
Even though it continued to rain, I was determined to see the city I’d wanted to visit for so long. I don’t know why I felt a special urge to see Denmark, I just had – and long before Mary became the Princess. I headed out for a few hours, bought my customary purchase in each country – a patch of their flag, and saw a statue of Hans Christian Anderson and saw a number of brightly painted Asian Elephant statues around the city. The Elephants were decorated by different artists and placed in various locations for a number of weeks for the public to see. It was good incentive to walk around the city and find all the Elephants, before they were to be auctioned off and the money donated to a fund to help save the Asian Elephants. I became obsessed about photographing as many of them as I could find.
The next day Christina loaned me a pair of wet weather pants, a rain jacket and umbrella, and her 10 year old son’s gumboots that fitted me perfectly. I was kitted out for a day of sightseeing in the rain. I laughed when considering the Danish summer is like a Melbourne winter, and ensured I got photographs of myself decked out in my borrowed gear. Even though it rained constantly all day I enjoyed myself because I stayed dry. I saw girls walking around in little shorts and skirts and fancy gumboots – which made me shiver with cold – yet I guess it was much warmer than their winter weather. I am so glad I came in summer for I don’t know that I’d have enough clothes to keep me warm in winter in Denmark or any of the northern European countries for that matter..
The Little Mermaide statue is a main attraction in Copenhagen and of course I went to see her. I had been warned that she was little, and she was. Life sized at best. I took the customary picture, then took a picture of all the tourists milling around her – one who was nearly washed into the ocean when she slipped on a rock trying to get close to the Little Mermaid. It was a difficult day to get colourful pictures, with the sky a bleak grey and me wearing all black wet weather gear, however I managed to find a nice spot with a red building and green lawn in the Kastellet. I put the camera on self timer as I was sick of asking other people to take pictures of me and stuffing them up. How hard is it to take a nice picture of someone people? If you’re not confident then just say so, and I’ll ask someone else – or better yet, do it myself!
I saw the Tivoli, ate a traditional Danish hotdog with pickles and fried onion pieces as a crunchy topping, and had their well reputed home made icecream. I sat in a beautiful Marble dome church and dozed in the quiet for half an hour, which also gave me time to warm up from the cold outside, and made my way to Amalienborg – the Queen’s Residence. The guards were doing their walk back and forth to stretch their legs thing, and I amused myself wondering how heavy those black furry hats really are.
Standing next to the residences, trying to shield myself from the wind tunnel in the street while I read my map I heard a sharp ‘Oi!’ and looking at the guard saw him indicating I had to move away from the wall. What did I do? I didn’t even touch the bloody royal building and anyone could clearly see I was struggling to read my map flapping about in the windy cold summer gale, geez. Maybe they were on extra high alert after the recent bombing in Norway, but he didn’t have to be so rude. I wondered if he got his knickers in a knot because I’d been staring at his geeky looking hat for so long and felt the need to assert himself.. Who knows?!
Nyhaven was next, with the canals and boats and pretty coloured houses lining the streets, before I got to the main shopping strip of Stroget and found the tourist shops to buy my flag patch for Denmark. I then headed back to Vesterbro and the houseboat for another home cooked dinner with the family.
On my last day in Copenhagen the family took me on a personal tour of the city via the waterways, on their speed boat. The youngest son Storm, who was three years old, got to sit on his dad’s knee and ‘steer’ the boat. I found it hilarious to watch him pull his beanie over his eyes in an effort to shield them from the wind and continue to hold firmly to the steering wheel as if he could see where he was steering us towards. We went to Christiania, an area that draws many tourists because marijuana and all by products are freely sold without intervention from the police. A whole community has grown from what was originally a few squatters in disused army barracks.
It wasn’t as unruly as I expected, with little stalls set up to sell the drug and signs everywhere stating ‘No Photos Allowed’. There was a small supermarket and a few workshops where people sold the goods they made. A few people wandered around obviously affected by the stuff, but I only saw one guy drinking alcohol as well. My favourite place was a little stand where you could leave and take items of clothing for free. Like an Op Shop only everything was for free. I got myself a nice woollen jumper for the UK, and a skirt and singlet top. Bonus! It was a happy ending to my time in Denmark.
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Photos from Copenhagen can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Photos from Berlin and Sachsenhausen can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Flying again with AirBerlin, I arrived in Copenhagen on the 23rd of July. The airport itself was dark and dingy, with a navy blue theme and low ceilings, and feeling a little overwhelmed having to navigate yet another new language, new currency and information signs for public transport, (I’d been in nine countries, heard eight languages and dealt with three different currencies in eight weeks), I wondered how this city that I’d always wanted to visit would measure up. I found the luggage collection area, and as I waited for my backpack I got the train ticket I’d been advised by my couch surfing hosts to buy. It asked for a total of 140 Danish Kroner, and I nearly died – until I worked out the conversion rate and realised the ticket was the equivalent of $AU24. I thought it was still expensive however would last me the three days I was in the city. Their notes were of such a seemingly large value, however their 50 Kroner note was about $AU4.50. The coins had holes in the centre of them which reminded me of the Japanese Yen.
It was bucketing down with rain in Copenhagen, which meant I was now entering my third week of rain over four countries. I talked with a guy from New Zealand while I waited for my hosts to arrive at the train station and take me to their house, which happened to be a boat! I struck it lucky with this family, for they were lovely people and wonderful hosts. I met Tomas and Christine, and their boys Villads, Skjold and Storm and was immediately welcomed into their home. I had a small room to myself and a key to the communal bathroom on a boat a few doors down.
Even though it continued to rain, I was determined to see the city I’d wanted to visit for so long. I don’t know why I felt a special urge to see Denmark, I just had – and long before Mary became the Princess. I headed out for a few hours, bought my customary purchase in each country – a patch of their flag, and saw a statue of Hans Christian Anderson and saw a number of brightly painted Asian Elephant statues around the city. The Elephants were decorated by different artists and placed in various locations for a number of weeks for the public to see. It was good incentive to walk around the city and find all the Elephants, before they were to be auctioned off and the money donated to a fund to help save the Asian Elephants. I became obsessed about photographing as many of them as I could find.
The next day Christina loaned me a pair of wet weather pants, a rain jacket and umbrella, and her 10 year old son’s gumboots that fitted me perfectly. I was kitted out for a day of sightseeing in the rain. I laughed when considering the Danish summer is like a Melbourne winter, and ensured I got photographs of myself decked out in my borrowed gear. Even though it rained constantly all day I enjoyed myself because I stayed dry. I saw girls walking around in little shorts and skirts and fancy gumboots – which made me shiver with cold – yet I guess it was much warmer than their winter weather. I am so glad I came in summer for I don’t know that I’d have enough clothes to keep me warm in winter in Denmark or any of the northern European countries for that matter..
The Little Mermaide statue is a main attraction in Copenhagen and of course I went to see her. I had been warned that she was little, and she was. Life sized at best. I took the customary picture, then took a picture of all the tourists milling around her – one who was nearly washed into the ocean when she slipped on a rock trying to get close to the Little Mermaid. It was a difficult day to get colourful pictures, with the sky a bleak grey and me wearing all black wet weather gear, however I managed to find a nice spot with a red building and green lawn in the Kastellet. I put the camera on self timer as I was sick of asking other people to take pictures of me and stuffing them up. How hard is it to take a nice picture of someone people? If you’re not confident then just say so, and I’ll ask someone else – or better yet, do it myself!
I saw the Tivoli, ate a traditional Danish hotdog with pickles and fried onion pieces as a crunchy topping, and had their well reputed home made icecream. I sat in a beautiful Marble dome church and dozed in the quiet for half an hour, which also gave me time to warm up from the cold outside, and made my way to Amalienborg – the Queen’s Residence. The guards were doing their walk back and forth to stretch their legs thing, and I amused myself wondering how heavy those black furry hats really are.
Standing next to the residences, trying to shield myself from the wind tunnel in the street while I read my map I heard a sharp ‘Oi!’ and looking at the guard saw him indicating I had to move away from the wall. What did I do? I didn’t even touch the bloody royal building and anyone could clearly see I was struggling to read my map flapping about in the windy cold summer gale, geez. Maybe they were on extra high alert after the recent bombing in Norway, but he didn’t have to be so rude. I wondered if he got his knickers in a knot because I’d been staring at his geeky looking hat for so long and felt the need to assert himself.. Who knows?!
Nyhaven was next, with the canals and boats and pretty coloured houses lining the streets, before I got to the main shopping strip of Stroget and found the tourist shops to buy my flag patch for Denmark. I then headed back to Vesterbro and the houseboat for another home cooked dinner with the family.
On my last day in Copenhagen the family took me on a personal tour of the city via the waterways, on their speed boat. The youngest son Storm, who was three years old, got to sit on his dad’s knee and ‘steer’ the boat. I found it hilarious to watch him pull his beanie over his eyes in an effort to shield them from the wind and continue to hold firmly to the steering wheel as if he could see where he was steering us towards. We went to Christiania, an area that draws many tourists because marijuana and all by products are freely sold without intervention from the police. A whole community has grown from what was originally a few squatters in disused army barracks.
It wasn’t as unruly as I expected, with little stalls set up to sell the drug and signs everywhere stating ‘No Photos Allowed’. There was a small supermarket and a few workshops where people sold the goods they made. A few people wandered around obviously affected by the stuff, but I only saw one guy drinking alcohol as well. My favourite place was a little stand where you could leave and take items of clothing for free. Like an Op Shop only everything was for free. I got myself a nice woollen jumper for the UK, and a skirt and singlet top. Bonus! It was a happy ending to my time in Denmark.
I flew from Salzburg to Berlin, and was pleased to be offered free newspapers and magazines on AirBerlin – and although I don’t read German it was the first time on any of my flights I’d been offered free daily reading material. AirBerlin also give you free chocolate hearts as you leave the plane – another tick for the airline.
The weather in Berlin was raining, cold and windy for pretty much the whole four days I was there. I wasn’t too worried though, and still went to visit the remaining sections of the Berlin Wall, the Jewish Memorial and the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp.
I noticed the green traffic light man as I walked around Berlin, and was struck by the little thing. He didn’t move as they did in Spain, with the count down timer (they walked and then run as the timer counted down the time left to cross the road), however this little man was wearing a cap, was a vivid green colour and was positioned as if he had a purpose and was going somewhere. Later on I saw him replicated in all the tourist shops, and wondered about his significance. I asked one shop owner, and she simply said ‘it’s just art’, which didn’t satisfy me one bit. I managed to find a mug with the words ‘keep on walking’ on it, and I took it to be a motivational symbol. I then discovered a postcard with an inscription in German, and returned with it to my hosts’ house and asked for a translation. My host in Berlin was a friend of a friend of my German friend Markus in Sydney. Tobias had kindly agreed to host me without knowing anything about me and I was very grateful. He lived with a friend Mirkoand my four days in Berlin were interesting and informative, thanks to those two highly intellectual guys.
Apparently the little green man I so liked was only in East Berlin. They were different in West Berlin and after the Berlin Wall came down in 1989 the lights in the East were meant to be changed to match those in the West. However, everyone protested, saying that they should remain as they were as a lasting reminder, and future preventative measure, of the division the city had endured for nearly 30 years, and so they stayed. I didn’t get to West Berlin, but you can now tell which half of the city you’re in based on those little green men.
My hosts took me out for pizza, and we shared the biggest pizza I’ve ever seen in my life. It was almost one meter square, and easily fed the three of us. The place we went to specialised in huge pizzas, and that was all they served. The owner/chef would not negotiate with toppings, you chose one and couldn’t do half-half, and it came as a whole pizza and we cut it how we liked.
Another thing I noticed that was particular to Berlin were the decorations in their trains. Initially you don’t notice it, yet on closer inspection I realised the walls and windows were covered in miniature replica silhouettes of the most famous and popular buildings in Berlin. The Brandenburger Tor was there, as was the TV tower and the Reichstag, among other churches and museums. It was a pretty cool way of subliminally advertising the city and decorating the trains at the same time.
I went to the Nordbahnhof train station, which during the time of the Berlin Wall had been a ‘ghost station’. The Wall divided the city above ground, however some underground train stations still connected the two city halves. Three lines travelled beneath the old city centre of East Berlin on their way from one section of West Berlin to another. The trains did not stop at the stations located in East Berlin and the passengers from West Berlin came to regard them as ‘ghost stations’. They were guarded by policemen and soldiers, were not used as station stops and provided no access to the eastern section of the city. Numerous barriers were erected in them to prevent the tunnels being used as an escape routes. Above ground these unused stations disappeared from the East Berlin cityscape, with brick walls blocking off the entrances and the removal of all signs, effectively erasing the existence of the stations from the public mind. (Information courtesy of information boards at the Nordbahnhof station).
There is a fantastic information centre about the Berlin Wall, which was not just a wall but included a barbed wire fence, a guard post, an anti-vehicle barricade and a screen to block view and prevent escapes from East Berlin. The information centre is near the remaining sections of the wall, along the Bernauer Strass (Street), and a very interesting memorial has been constructed around those remaining sections. A photo board depicts the faces of each person who died as a result of the Wall, and the ‘Wall Walk’ culminates at the Documentation Centre. There is a tower that you can climb to see into another memorial which is boarded on one side by a remaining section of the actual wall and a replica wall on the other side that people can peer through to see what ‘no man’s land’ would have looked like.
I walked to the Brandenburger Tor to see the arch that is so often replicated in pictures depicting the Wall, and passed the Holocaust Monument on the way. The Holocaust Monument is a large area with 2711 concrete blocks which create a field of stelae in memory of the murdered Jews of Europe. I went back to the Holocaust Monument two days later to look through the information centre, and was so glad I did for it was the best Memorial I’ve been to in a long time, possibly ever. It was divided into six main areas, and each had a theme and was purposeful in the information displayed. I thought it was extremely well designed and the concrete stelae blocks above were continued in the building below, creating a connection between the two areas.
The Room of Names in the information centre was particularly striking, because I instantly felt as if I was in a morgue. The air temperature was colder than the other rooms, the lighting was dim, and the concrete blocks simulating coffins lay on the ground with blue lights emanating a glow from underneath. Names of victims of the Holocaust were projected one at a time on the walls, with a short biography of the person read aloud. The Room of Families was another one I thought was especially well done. It was dedicated to 15 families who were victims, yet the interesting thing was these families had some photographs and documentation that survived the Holocaust and the war. Each of the descending stelae depicted a family photograph if they had one, any documents they had regarding family member’s imprisonment and or death and gave a list of the individuals who survived and those who died. It provided a more personalised account of the war and gave faces and names to some of the victims.
Checkpoint Charlie was next on my list of places to see, and I tried a traditional currywurst along the way. It was basically a large hotdog that was smothered in tomato sauce with a sprinkling of curry powder on top. Not all that flash really. The replica building of Checkpoint Charlie was good to see, however I was not going to pay €12.90 to get into the museum. I bought some green traffic light man souvenirs at the shop opposite, and discovered I can fit into kids t-shirts and save myself a few €‘s in the process.
I went to the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, and traipsed around the site in the pouring rain all day. The Sachsenhausen camp site had not been maintained as much as the one in Dachau, although almost every building you went into was a mini museum of differing aspects of the Camp and WW2 in general. There was a stack of personal documents and items from previous prisoners, including clothes, ID and pictures. I walked around the roll-call area; the shoe-testing track – where prisoners were made to march and run endlessly around to test the material for the soles of army boots; the barracks and prison; station Z and the execution trench; the infirmary and the mass graves for the victims.
I learnt that three months after the end of the war and the liberation of Europe, the Soviet Secret Services used Sachsenhausen from 1945 to 1950 to hold around 60,000 prisoners, of whom about 12,000 died from hunger and disease. There was so much information it became overload, and I left at the end of the day soaking wet and nursing a headache.
My time in Germany came to an end, and I had learnt a lot more about events from 1933 to 1989, during my short time in the country. Although the weather in Berlin wasn’t ideal, I liked the city, enjoyed the cheap food and postage rates, and loved their museums even though I didn’t get to them all. Berlin is highly recommended if you want an educational holiday.
Glad to be moving on from Munich, I boarded a train for Salzburg and ate my breakfast bratwurst on the journey. I’ve found that on trains where seats are not allocated it is easiest to find the disabled seating or the seats nearest the door as no one tends to want to sit there and consequently there is usually room for my bag as well – without having to lug it onto the overhead racks.
Salzburg seemed so clean, was pretty and it smelled fresh. Considering we were 400m above sea level that was not surprising, however it was a refreshing change from the standard city smells of Munich. The air was crisp and cool and there were little streams of water everywhere. All the water I saw, including the river, the Zentrum, was an icy blue-green colour, giving a pure and pristine allure. The city was set along the river and was famous for Mozart and The Sound of Music, it was a big draw card for tourists. The blue skies contrasted nicely with the green trees and cool waterways, and the buildings and churches were well preserved.
I found my way to the bus station, and then my hostel. It was south of the city centre, but was one of the few places with availability that was not ridiculously priced and would accept a booking for just one night. Walking from the bus stop to the hostel I could see the mountains in the distance and I couldn’t help but think of the scenes in The Sound of Music, with the snow capped mountain backdrops.
I walked around the city centre with a young 18 year old American girl from the hostel, Kelly. She was travelling by herself for a few weeks and in need of some company. We sampled the local speciality ‘Mozart Balls’ – chocolate balls with a pistachio flavoured fudge centre, and I laughed at the t-shirts, stickers and badges in the tourist shops that looked like a yellow Australian road sign complete with picture and stated ‘No Kangaroos in Austria’. I asked a woman if people seriously got the two countries mixed up, and she said that yes, when they travelled and told people they were from Austria, often the response was ‘Oh, with the kangaroos!’, to which they then had to state ‘No, Austria, not Australia’. I considered this extremely funny, that the good old kangaroo had such a worldwide renown, and enough to cause the Austrians to fill their tourist shops with paraphernalia declaring their annoyance.
I visited several of the ‘famous’ sites, took a picture of the large Mozart statue in the square named after him, and of his tombstone in the cemetery where he is apparently buried. I strolled through the Mirabell Gardens, made famous in The Sound of Music, and saw the Sift Nonnberg, the Abbey from the same movie. In regards to the movie, barely any of the locals have seen it, and if they have they don’t like it, referring to is as ‘that movie all the tourists like’, which I found amusing.
I had couch surfing organised for Salzburg, and eventually found my way to my host’s place. I seemed to have forgotten my pre-planning skills and was becoming more reliant on maps provided at bus and train stops. Upon reaching the required bus stop I found there was no map, so trudged up the hill to the nearest petrol station to ask for directions. One station attendant didn’t speak English, and the other said she’d never heard of the street I was asking about. Luckily I found a map on the wall and located where I wanted to go, which ironically was the same distance from the bus stop only in the opposite direction.
My host, Erik, was a really nice guy, as were his house mates. Everyone spoke German and English, so I had an easy time communicating, and I was made to feel immediately welcome in their home. I was introduced to their chooks and pet pig, although I was told the intention is to eventually eat him, so I am not sure how long he’ll retain the ‘pet’ status for. Erik was interested in environmental sustainability and had been working on a project to reduce the number of cars in Salzburg city and on the roads in general. He had some great ideas and showed me the project website www.fairkehr.net which had photographs of the recent public weekend event they held in May this year.
I met his friend Michael, and enjoyed an evening of home cooked food, a few drinks and good company. The following day Erik took me to see Lake Fuschl, at my request to see the most beautiful lake nearby, and it was stunning. The water was brilliantly clear, sparkling blue or emerald green depending on the depth, and I was reminded of the large lakes in New Zealand with similar colours, and I was in my element. Give me a body of water to admire and explore and I will be satisfied for hours on end. We decided to walk around the entire lake, a journey of which the sign indicated three to three and a half hours, yet we did it in about two hours. I was determined that my shorter stature not hinder Erik’s longer stride, and I’m pleased to say he had to keep up with me for a while 🙂
Erik had a meeting to attend after we visited the lake, so I rode his spare bicycle (of which he’d kindly lowered the seat for me so I could reach the pedals) back to his house. I was confident I could find my way and if not the worse case scenario was I rode back to the bus station and took a bus as I had the day before. Luckily I only made one wrong turn and was home well before his meeting finished. He later apologised for not confirming if I knew the way and said he’d been so impressed I’d found his house originally that he didn’t think to ask if I needed directions for the bicycle track. I was touched by his concern and found him to be a very likeable guy overall.
Salzburg, Erik and Austria in general are now on my list of places I want to visit again. I figure Austria is close enough to Eastern Europe to be included on a further trip and I intend to do just that.
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Photos of Salzburg can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
The Dachau concentration camp memorial site is the actual site of the Concentration Camp, a place to hold the first political prisoners of Hitler’s reign from 1933 until the end of WW2, during which it also held Jewish people and others persecuted under his rule. It was not called an extermination camp, however many people were gassed to death there.
The weather on the day matched the mood of the place, overcast and cloudy. Greeting you at the entrance gate were the words ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ (work makes you free), and upon entering the gate was a large open area, the former parade ground. From the parade ground was a museum, former barracks that had been reconstructed, and a monument that stated: ‘May the example of those who were exterminated here between 1933 – 1945 because they resisted Nazism help to unite the living for the defence of peace and freedom and in respect for their fellow men.’
The colours of all the triangles each prisoner had been made to wear, dependent on the category of ‘crime’ they had supposedly committed, were visible in another monument, along with the yellow star that all Jews were forced to display on their clothing.
Red triangles = political prisoners;
Green = professional criminals/convicts;
Blue = foreign forced labourers/emigrants;
Pink = homosexuals;
Purple = bible students/Jehovah’s Witnesses;
Black = ‘asocial’/work shy (inc mentally ill, alcoholics, vagrants, prostitutes, drug addicts, lesbians);
Brown = Roma/gypsies; and
An uninverted red triangle = an enemy POW/spy.
Only two barracks had been reconstructed, and showed the bunk beds in tiers of three, with no space between each person’s sleeping compartment – only a small wooden plank separated each ‘bed’. Although made for only 50 prisoners, each barrack often housed at least three or four times that many, with three people sleeping in each wooden shelf filled with the straw mattresses they called beds.
Listening to the audio guide as I walked slowly around the site was a chilling sensation. Hearing voices of people who had been imprisoned there, and recollections from others who had been part of the liberation of the camp brought a living reminder to the place where so many had died. A lump formed in my throat and silent tears escaped from beneath my sunglasses as I heard these voices, and I cried for those who suffered so severely at the hands of their fellow humans.
A road ran through the centre of the camp, with tall poplar trees lining either side. The barracks were divided by this road and in their place are now large pebbled areas with numbered cement blocks indicating the old barrack numbers. At the end of the road are the religious memorials, including the Jewish Memorial.
At the very end of the camp, and off to one side, is the crematorium – which is also the site where many of the prisoners in Dachau were gassed to death. They were told to undress in preparation for a ‘shower’, and the gas chambers were even made to look like showers with fake shower sprouts to mislead the victims and prevent them from refusing to enter the room. During a period of 15 to 20 minutes up to 150 people at a time could be suffocated to death with prussic acid poison gas (Zyklon B). Towards the end of the crematorium building sat the ovens – the machines used to dispose of the many people who were gassed to death. Some prisoners were hanged to death, and this would occur directly in front of the burning ovens.
Leaving the crematorium you walked through a dark and misty area, full of damp shrubbery and fern covered trees. The crunching gravel underfoot was the only noise to break the stifling silence, and stone tablets noting the atrocities committed loomed large in the eerie cover of darkness. The pistol range for execution and the blood ditch were clearly marked, as were the graves of many thousands unknown.
As I retreated silently to the exit the skies finally burst open and the rain bucketed down. Not having an umbrella I got soaked through, yet it was cleansing, as if washing away the shadows of inhumanity I’d been immersed in for the past few hours.
Never Again the memorial sign reminded me as I departed, Never Again.
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Photos of Dachau can be seen here. Enter ‘ europe’ if asked for a password.
Photos from Switzerland and Munich can been seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Photos from Paris can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Not having any luck with couch surfing (CS) hosts in Munich I found a hostel that was super cheap. They basically rented out floor space and yoga mats under a large marquee and charged only €7.50 per night. That I could afford for four nights. I was tired, even though I’d had a very lazy day on my last day in Zurich, and was in my fourth new country in two weeks. I walked along Marienplatz, the main shopping strip and tourist centre of Munich, and saw some of their iconic buildings. The city itself wasn’t all too impressive, lots of shops and that seemed about it. Nothing really grabbed me in Munich, which was ok considering I was primarily there to visit Dachau, the Concentration Camp memorial sight close to Munich (details of which will follow in a further post).
I did find one clothing shop I liked, Orsay, and the stores were only located in Eastern Europe, so I bought a few items on sale and got €3 off one jacket because a button was missing – which I was able to sew on again in a few minutes. I had one CS host reply and say I could stay for the next three nights, to which I said I would. Ori worked a job where he flew urgently required items of all descriptions to other countries, most often at short notice. He got back late one night and didn’t think he’d be flying anywhere for a few days, so I left the Tent Hostel and found my way to the train station he suggested we meet. His place was a tiny studio apartment and I wasn’t sure we’d both fit in there for three days.
Since Munich doesn’t have any ocean for people to surf in they surf sections of the rivers that are known to have a constant ‘wave’ from the structure of the river bed (or human made canal). I witnessed this surfing on a walk through the English Gardens, and it made me laugh because most people I know at home wouldn’t have the patience to wait for one person at a time on the wave. In the gardens I also saw a brass band playing, and did a double take when I saw the shape of Australia on their banner, and on closer inspection found it was the Victorian State Youth Brass Band on the European tour for 2011. Funny the things you see when travelling. There was also a competition promotion in a pharmacy window, to win a trip to Australia, and the window was filled with Aussie flags, kangaroos, koalas and cactus trees all hanging upside down from the ceiling.
Visiting the Hofbrauhaus I was reminded of our version of the large beer hall in Melbourne, and of many good nights with my friend Ash every time he returned home from his work overseas. I managed to drink a small glass of beer with lemonade in it, which I know is not true beer but it was the best I could do at Ori’s insistence that I had to have a beer in Germany. I understand the country is known for it’s big beers, but even so I’m not keen on the stuff in any form. I did like the cheap price of fruit in Munich though, I bought a banana and half a kilo of cherries and it only cost €1.87. I also tried their bratwurst and was surprised to learn they are more like hot dogs than sausages – that is if I ordered the correct thing.
I had seen enough of Munich after two days, and should have left early for Salzburg, but I was still not used to changing plans so frequently and felt I should stay the three days I’d originally nominated to the CS host.
I left for Zurich on the 8th of July, on my overpriced train ticket that cost €111. That same ticket, on the same afternoon that I booked it, had increased to €180. That is insane. It was the best option I had, however, because I just missed a place on the overnight bus (€70), and flight prices were ridiculous (€500). I don’t like this system of train tickets increasing in price the later that you book them, and the prices were outrageous to begin with.
I wanted some fruit for brekky, so walked into a supermarket to get some. The doors were open, though it seemed fairly quiet, and I was shocked to soon be told by the guy unpacking the pellets that the supermarkets did not open until 9am – on a weekday! What do you mean 9am? This wasn’t a country town the last time I looked – what do people do in the mornings before work if you need something from the supermarket? Just wait? Geez, I can understand it for small shops or on a weekend, but it’s a supermarket for heaven’s sake, and it’s a weekday, not even a usual sleep in day. Grumph.
Arriving in Switzerland I was greeted with yet another language, and more signs that I couldn’t read. After a day or two I was able to make out the basics in each new country, yet I’d also forget I had to do it every time I got off a plane or long distance train and I’d only been in Paris for three days so it felt too soon to have to do it all again. Feeling a little overwhelmed, and lost, I studied the information board to get my bearings. Turning around I laughed, for straight ahead of me was a restaurant called ‘Mister Wong – Asian Cooking’. Now that was something I could read.
The number of people who smoke in Europe is crazy, I’ve been shocked in each country to see so many people smoking cigarettes – and then just throwing the butts on the ground. Everywhere. The Australian couple I met in Paris commented ‘Haven’t they been told in Europe that smoking is bad for your health?’, and I would have to say the answer is no. So, thus far I’d seen people smoking in the streets, at cafes, and on train platforms at small stations, however Zurich was a huge station and was enclosed in the main area. The meeting point I’d been given was ‘indoors’ by any definition of the word, and everyone who stood there had a lit cigarette hanging from their mouth. The cloud of smoke was so dense I couldn’t bear to stand near them because I couldn’t breathe.
My couch surfing host happened to be amongst them, and greeted me amidst a puff of smoke as he said hello. I used the standard cheek-to-cheek greeting that had been commonly used in other countries, only to be chastised for stopping at two cheek-to-cheek touches. Apparently in Switzerland it’s three. Sorry. I can kind of understand the two, it’s like you’re greeting the whole them by touching each of your cheeks to each of theirs, but three? Which side are you meant to start on and doesn’t the other side then feel left out? I got the impression my host wasn’t the kind of person to find these questions amusing.
The main reason I went to Zurich was to visit the Rhine Falls, Europe’s largest waterfalls. They are 150m wide and 23m high and the average flow in summer is 600m3 of water per second. I know the are by on means the biggest falls I’ve ever seen, however they were Europe’s so I was determined to go. My host, Beat, had lived in Zurich all his life and never been so he suggested he might come with me. The problem was, I wanted to go the next day, on Saturday, and he preferred to go on Sunday because the weather would be better. I realised the forecast wasn’t great, however I also know that if you don’t go today because of something, then you’re just as likely to find an excuse not to go the next day, or the next. I was going, bad weather or good. Then he announced that the shops were closed in Zurich on a Sunday, and he had a family dinner to attend on the Saturday night. Therefore, I would have to do my ‘tourist’ shopping for the Switzerland flag patch on Saturday morning, meaning we wouldn’t get to the falls until at least midday, and he could only stay until late afternoon to be back in time for his dinner.
Anyone who knows me will know I don’t like to be hurried because of someone else’s plans encroaching on mine, especially when it comes to spending time at a waterfall (or any body of water for that matter). I was not happy. I said I’ll be spending all day at the falls, and if he wanted to come that was fine, but I’d return to Zurich later than he did. Luckily I had a key to get in the house so that wasn’t an issue. The falls were great, I loved them and had a very enjoyable day. The noise of cascading water is so relaxing, and it centres me if I’m ‘out of balance’. There is a large rock in the centre of the falls, that you can take a boat to and climb up on. The roar of water is a magnificent, a soothing sound that drowns out the person next to you. I could listen to that all day, and actually fell asleep in the grassy area near the falls for an hour that very afternoon.
Zurich itself was a pretty little town, although it is Switzerland’s largest city. With a total population of seven and a half million people it’s a small country – roughly equal to the populations of Melbourne and Sydney combined. The city centre is built along both sides of a lake, as are many of Switzerland’s cities, and the water is reputably clean enough to drink as you swim. It took me just over an hour to walk the entire city, so it wasn’t big, and I was left gaping at the price of things. The exchange rate between the Swiss franc (CHF) and the euro was 1.3 CHF to 1 euro, which meant the CHF was approximately equal to one Australian dollar. I saw t-shirts on sale for between 30 to 60 to 100 CHF, and shorts and skirts on sale for 70 to 150 CHF. They may have been some fancy shops for the Swiss, but couldn’t believe they were the sale prices. Supermarket items were no better, with an increase of about 20% – 50%, of what we pay in AU, and when prices looked the same I checked the volume or grams and found they were about half the standard size.
I went to visit friends of my grandpa’s from when he’d travelled to Europe in 1949/1950. They were most welcoming, and showed me around some areas of Switzerland (St Gallen and surrounds) that I wouldn’t have seen otherwise. They couldn’t do enough for me, and it wasn’t a problem until meal times when I was given large meals, with an entree and dessert. After travelling on the cheap for six weeks my stomach wasn’t used to so much food in 24 hours and it was difficult to explain why I couldn’t eat it, not that I didn’t want to.
Switzerland is a pretty country, although very small. It was a funny idea to contemplate, because Malta is a physically smaller country, with less inhabitants, yet the cities in Malta felt bigger and more lively than those in Switzerland. I was astonished to find out that women in rural areas in Switzerland have only had the right to vote in local elections since the late 1980s – yes, that is only in the last 25 years or so. They’ve been able to vote in national elections since the mid 60s or so, yet not in local elections until the late 80s. For a country that is so financially superior to many others, and is pro-euthanasia, and maintaining independence from the EU, they seemed to be backwards in some other areas, mostly relating to women. I also heard that the cause of many divorces is because of ‘women’s new independence’, an idea which nearly caused me to choke on my food.
Some people have questioned my choice to stay in a city for only two or three days, but I can get a good feel for a place in that time and know if I like it and if I want to stay longer or return another time. Zurich I don’t. I stayed one day too long and was bored. One extra day up my sleeve meant I could do some laundry and catch up on my diary and these posts, however I was eager to get to Munich and see a new city. I’m sure some other areas of Switzerland would have been nice to see, but the high cost of transportation meant that was not viable for me at this stage.
I decided to visit a different area of Paris on my last day, one that the French girls in Rome had told me about – Montmartre, or the 18th District. I’d also avoided the districts they’d said were bad, namely the 19th and 20th, on the North-East if you’re looking at a map of Paris, and had happily chosen a CS host in the 15th District, a nice area by all accounts. Montmartre was an alternative area that included the Moulin Rouge, along with an assortment of ‘Supermarche Erotique’ sex shops and ‘Spectacle International’ strip clubs. I watched a man park his car by actually bumping into the pole in front, and the car behind, his allocated space while attempting to manoeuvre his vehicle into position, and was not surprised when I saw the condition of the remainder of his car.
Off the main streets, Montmartre was an arty district, with artworks for sale in shops and at street stalls, some with artists completing works as you watched. There were restaurants, patisseries, biscuiteries and delices, selling ice-cream and sweets, and cafes with rows of perfectly lined up tables and chairs. Many had chairs that faced only towards the street, so rather than people passing by watching those eating, the tables were turned so to speak, and those that ate did the watching. The tourist shops all contained magnets of baguettes, and there was a clown entertaining kids (and scaring Japanese girls) in the street.
Passing the Sacré-Cœur church I was approached by one of the numerous black guys selling nick nacks and the like. This one had thread to make a bracelet and I’d seen them at work before. They make the string bracelet on your wrist then demand money for it. I wasn’t interested and said so. He kept following me even though I ignored him, then he reached out and grabbed my wrist. I couldn’t believe he’d actually grabbed me, so I turned around and growled “NO!” and jerked my arm free. I walked away shaking my head – the nerve of these people shocks me.
Back onto the main street and amongst the sex shops and strip clubs you could feel the atmosphere change. This was not the pretty, upmarket Paris I’d recently been introduced to, this was a dirtier, downbeat, sleazy area. Almost as proof, the streets were littered with papers and small amounts of rubbish, there were guys who openly stared and whistled as you walked past, and long term drunks on street corners muttered incomprehensibly to themselves. The population demographics were visibly altering as I walked toward the Gare du Nord train station, in this area were younger, darker skinned Africans and the shops changed to suit the population. The fashions displayed in the windows were in brighter colours, often with gaudy designs and fabrics. There were many more African hair styling salons, and even a poster advertising a civil wedding celebrant. The area didn’t feel as friendly, nor the streets as safe.
I hurried to the train station and there witnessed my first incident of international domestic violence. A woman was standing with a pram containing a baby of just a few months old. She was quite pretty, of mixed race, about my height and was nicely dressed. She was being yelled at by a tall dark guy, presumably her boyfriend and father of the baby. Although I could not understand what he said, I, along with everyone who was in the nearby vicinity, understand the meaning of what he said, and he was not happy. She said something to him and he suddenly lunged at her, grabbed her around the throat and pushed her violently against the advertisement board she stood near. She cried out and began whimpering, tears streaking her face, and the baby started crying. I was pleased to see four men standing nearby move to help her, but the boyfriend let her go and she waved the help away. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered by this stage, and the boyfriend grabbed her arm and shoved her and the pram ahead of him while continuing his tirade of abuse as they left the station.
Everyone shook their heads, and the men who went to help her were being consoled and/or held back by their friends, and I thought, sadly, there isn’t much point going to help her. She has obviously been with him for at least twelve months already, if not more, and I dare say this is not the first time he has abused her. What saddened me the most was that she stays with him. I understand there are great psychological games played within domestic violence relationships, and once you choose to stay after one incident it becomes even harder to leave later on. However, I don’t understand why we, as a supposedly civilised Western society, are still raising women with such low self esteem. How can we call ourselves ‘civilised’ when so many women think so lowly of themselves that they opt to stay with men who abuse them? How can we expect the children of those relationships to grow up and perform roles that are any different in their own lives? Why is more money, time and effort not put into raising children’s self esteem and ideals so that girls don’t enter into abusive relationships and boys don’t feel the need to abuse others in the first place? How and why do we let each successive generation down so badly and when will it stop?
Rattled by what I saw, and with the questions above running through my head, I got a train to Bastille to see the monument that is made particularly important on each July 14th – Bastille Day, the National Day for France. An announcement in French was heard on the train, and I only understood what had been said once the train passed by the station I wanted without stopping. Not minding the extra walk to clear my head, I dodged intermittent rain drops on the way to the monument. By the time I arrived dark clouds had gathered and made the gold statue on top of the monument stand out even more. Rain started to fall more heavily then, and I made my way to Ile St-Louis to find an ice-cream shop some French girls in Rome had recommended I try. I managed to find the shop, and it did look fancy, however I was still full from having eaten a large slice of fruit crumble earlier in the day, so didn’t taste the reputedly fantastic ice-cream.
I walked past the famous Notre-Dame, and came across a bridge where couples place a lock with their names and date on it, attached to the fence and railing of the bridge. It was the same concept as I saw in Florence in Italy, however the number of locks here covered the entire length of the bridge. There was a bride and groom having their pictures taken with the locks in the background and, with the incident from the train station still fresh in my memory, I wondered what people do with their locks if that relationship ends… Do they remove the lock or simply cross out that name and inscribe the next partner’s name below? Interesting concept, although not one I’d voice to a newly married couple!
The lines to go up the Eiffel Tower were still long, so I wrote some postcards while standing in line underneath. I met a couple from Newcastle in NSW and we talked whilst waiting the hour in line on the ground, then another 45 minutes on the first level to get the lift to the top. From various comments they made I don’t think they were concerned about money at all, and they kindly bought me a glass of champagne when we finally reached the top of the tower – one glass cost €10 so I certainly wasn’t going to buy it myself! The views were nice, and it was just as the sun was setting (10pm) that I got to the top, so I saw the city lights come on, just like Sydney appears from the top of the bridge. I was just back on the ground at 11pm when the lights on the Tower start to sparkle, and I was once again impressed, and decided the Tower had more of an impact when looking at it from the ground up than from at the top.
Photos from Coimbra and Porto can be seen here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Arriving in Paris on the 5th of July I had to readjust to ‘normal’ prices of things again. Spain and Portugal had been so cheap that everything looked far too expensive in Paris, although I admit it wasn’t nearly as pricey as I expected. The bus from the airport to the main train station cost nearly $9, and then I had to buy a train ticket. I got to the house of my couch surfing host, Remy, at about 9pm at night, and after the usual introductions we walked the five minutes from his house to see the Eiffel Tower. Wow. I love all things that sparkle, (yes, that’s the feminine side in me), and the Eiffel Tower was stunning. Lit up like a huge kind of Christmas tree, it was even more impressive in person than in photos. We timed our arrival just right too, because every hour, on the hour, until about 1am the light twinkle for ten minutes or so. I was in awe, and felt every bit the happy, impressed, excited tourist that I was. I can’t believe that people live so close to this tower, and can see it everyday. That still amazes me. Remy pointed out that we have the Opera House, but I countered saying it doesn’t sparkle like the tower, nor does it seem comparable in size or beauty. Maybe that’s just how you feel about your own countries sights, I don’t know. Admittedly, the tower wasn’t as jaw-dropping during the day without the lights on, however it was still a memorable sight.
Having heard all the stories about people in Paris being rude and unfriendly if you don’t speak French, I was curious to test the truthfulness of this in the morning. I went first to a nearby market, and was delighted to find every French person I spoke to either spoke English or tried to. I saw a dress I liked and was looking at them trying to figure out what size I’d be – a three, four or five… The stall holder approached and spoke to me in French. After establishing that I only spoke English, he asked where from – England or America? “Neither”, I said, “I’m from Australia”. “Ahh, Australia”, he crooned, “Sydney?” I laughed as I told him I was from Melbourne and he looked a little disappointed that he hadn’t guessed correctly. He turned on his sales pitch, and in English pronounced “Beautiful dress for beautiful girl” and beamed widely.
I was going to buy the dress anyway, for €5 it was a bargain, but I let him do his thing. He decided to choose the size for me, and after looking at a few labels he started to frantically sift through the remaining dresses while loudly repeating “Oh my god, oh my god”. I figured he didn’t have one in my size, and was correct, for he emphatically stated “Stay here” while he ran off to find another dress somewhere else. I waited, feigning interest in the other clothes available, until he triumphantly returned with a size three dress. I tried it on over the clothes I was wearing, and he announced it was perfect. Not having a mirror was a slight hassle, as I couldn’t tell if it was perfect, so he ran off again and returned soon after with a mirror borrowed from another stall. The dress did look good – as much as I could tell with my other clothes underneath – so, still laughing, I paid him the €5 and asked for a photo with him to remember my very funny introduction to people in Paris. I bought another dress, a t-shirt and a pair of shoes at the market for a total of €16 – so I no longer believe that Paris is completely expensive!
I returned to the Eiffel Tower, only to find the lines to buy tickets to get to the top of the tower snaking endlessly out of sight. I wasn’t going to waste half my day standing underneath the tower waiting in line, so continued on my exploration. There were huge buildings everywhere, and I even saw a woman walking three huge dogs – I have no idea what sort of dogs they were, but they stood as tall as her waist. Paris therefore seemed to epitomise all things large.
Walking along Avenue des Champs-Élysées I saw all the boutique shops that Paris is known for, including Givenchy, Bvlgari, Armani, Louis Vuitton, Hugo Boss and even recognised the Crazy Horse Bar/Theatre. There were jets flying in formation above the Avenue, practising for their National Day, Bastille Day, on the 14th of July. Along with the huge buildings – apartment blocks, museums, shops and monuments – there was a lot of gold everywhere. I imagine it was gold leaf, however it really stood out and made you pay attention. There were gold statues atop of towers, gold domes on buildings, gold decorations on fountains and even gold features on the lamp posts at the entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries.
That park/garden was particularly nice with heaps of chairs and seats amongst the gardens and lawns, that overlooked the statues and large ponds with water features. At the end of the large gardens was the Musée du Louvre (Louvre Museum), which I didn’t visit but heard you could wait in line for up to three hours just to get in. I crossed over the Seine River and walked to the Musée d’Orsay (Orsay Museum) but arrived just as it was closing. After six hours I was nearing the end of my self guided walking tour of Paris, and just had another hour or so to walk back to the house where I was staying. I stopped at a tourist shop along the way, and was chatted up by the male store attendant, so tried my luck and got €5 off my total purchases.
I stuck my head in a few pastry shops, and was impressed with what I saw. Large slabs of all kinds of chocolate, cheese and fruit cakes and slices were on display, along with mouth watering tarts, eclairs and fruit flans all neatly laid out to entice those passing by. When purchased, the item was individually wrapped and presented to the customer as one would a gift, to be treasured and consumed with uttermost care and contentment. Prices were reasonable, and I’m just lucky I wasn’t hungry or I could have easily filled up on all kinds of sugary goodness.
Close to my destination I came across the UNESCO building, and forgetting my tired and aching legs I was impressed to discover a picture from country imaginable lining the fence surrounding the building. The picture for Australia was of the Great Barrier Reef, or as written in French ‘La Granda Barriѐre, Australie’. If I wasn’t so tired I’d have circled the whole block to see every photo, but my legs wouldn’t permit it. I saw the first lot of overflowing rubbish bins in Paris that night, amusingly on Avenue de Suffren, although there was a bright multi-coloured plastic sheet amongst the rubbish so it didn’t look as miserly as it could have.
That night I was treated to a work dinner of my CS host, at a fancy French restaurant with a glass of wine to accompany each of the seven courses. The colleagues of my host included a Spanish woman, Miriam, as well as (all men) an American, a Belgian, an English, a German and another French. They all spoke English, although with the various accents it reminded me of living in the jail house in Bondi when I worked on the Harbour Bridge in Sydney. It was a good night with excellent food and wine, however I was well and truly ready for bed by the time dinner finished at 1am.
My host got free phone calls to Australian land lines as part of his phone and internet plan, so I utilised this and called my mum, my grandparents and one friend who I knew had land lines. It was nice to speak to them without having to think about the cost of the call, and the welcome reception when they discovered who was calling is always a nice feeling.
I wanted to visit Porto in Portugal for two reasons – firstly, Port wine is made there, and secondly, it is close to France and the flight to Paris was too cheap to refuse. I left the Coimbra hostel with Pieter and Marty and we headed to the train station to go our separate ways. The boys were heading south, and I was going north to Porto, keen to try their Port Wine. Given that the train tickets and timetables were difficult to figure out, I wasn’t sure exactly when I was due to arrive in Porto, so at every stop the train made I’d frantically scour the platform looking for the station name. Luckily Porto was major stop, and although we arrived earlier than I figured we would, I managed to get off at the correct location.
I am determined to see how easy or difficult we make it for travellers in Melbourne to get hold of a city map and directions of where to go next. Some cities here are great, yet some are atrocious, and when you arrive in a new place the last thing you want to struggle with is finding how to get to your accommodation. Luckily this station had an information office of sorts, and the lady gave me a map and told me my current ticket was still valid to use on the local train to get to the city centre.
Feeling like some exercise, I decided to walk to the hostel. The directions on my map took me through the main square in Porto, with some huge old buildings, and along the way I saw many spires. Porto for me was characterised by the numerous churches and spires that were everywhere I went. I eventually reached the street in which the hostel was located, although it was at the other end of 400 houses. Thankfully the street was downhill, which I slowly walked, only to find a notice on the door of the hostel advising me that check in was to be conducted at #213 – halfway back up the bloody hill! What choice did I have except to retrace my steps and check in. Then it was back down the hill, up four flights of stairs and I could finally put my backpack down. I have no idea why I bought such a big backpack all those years ago when I was travelling up the East Coast of Australia, however it is too big for me now. I could easily do with one that is 10L smaller and still take everything I need. If anyone is in the market for a 75L backpack still in good condition, and well travelled, let me know.
Eager to do some Port Wine tastings, I took the tourist trail down to the river and arrived at the Ponte Luis Bridge by lunch time the next day. Of the information booklets I’d collected, I had marked the wineries that conducted ‘free’ tastings, and headed for those. Well ‘free’ doesn’t actually mean free in these cases. Sure, it is free to enter the winery and sit down, but they will charge you €2 per tasting – yes, that is about $2.70 per wine you want to try. Forget it, I’m not paying the equivalent of a bottle just to try five different ones. Although I’d already sat down and talked to the staff I thanked them, said I wasn’t going to pay for each tasting, and got up and left. Onto the next one. I couldn’t find it. There were signs pointing in the general direction, yet the main gate was closed and I didn’t see any ‘tourist’ entrance welcoming me and my euros. The next one I came across had tours on offer (in English because I was the only one in there) for €2.50 and you got to taste two port wines after the tour. I paid for it and was joined by a Canadian couple and two other girls from Australia.
Although the tour was mildly interesting, all we wanted were the tastings, and I think the guide knew this so he went through the motions until we reached the ‘sit down and enjoy the two free tastings – that we’ve chosen for you – before you buy an overpriced bottle’ room. I must say, I was unimpressed. The guide told us they add brandy to their port wines, and I could taste it. I don’t know if we do the same in Australia, but surely not. Why do you need to add brandy to what is already a good product? I got to try their white port, which was particularly brandy like, and their standard port which was not as good as some I’ve had at home. Disappointing.
I decided to try one more winery, and this one was actually free. Free to enter, and free to taste one port wine – of their choice. While waiting for the free tour – so I could try the second free port – I saw a guy sitting on his own so went to talk to him. Markus was from Sweden, and was in Porto for a work conference – he worked for Ikea. He’d arrived a day earlier than his workmates, so he could see a bit of Porto and try their port wines. We paid to taste their ‘pink’ port, which was the best tasting by far, and interestingly it was served over ice. We exchanged email addresses in the chance of meeting up when I get to Copenhagen in two weeks, as he if often in Copenhagen for work. Ikea are big in Europe, nearly all the hostels I’ve stayed in are stocked full of Ikea furniture, bedding and towels, and most of the Couch Surfing homes I’ve stayed in also have Ikea labels around the place.
I was keen to fly to Paris the next day and went to bed early to try and get a decent sleep after the previous night of a noisy, full hostel with people arriving at all hours of the night.
Coimbra, pronounced ‘Qwimbra’, is about half way between Lisbon and Porto in Portugal, and I arrived by bus in 30 degree heat. Using my digital photo of Google Maps, I headed south from the bus terminal towards the address of my couch surfing host and found a post office on the way. I wanted to send off another parcel of presents to lighten my backpack, and figured Portugal would be the cheapest country to send it from, before I reached France and Switzerland. The post office I came across was the most similar to Australian post offices that I’d seen, they had books and other goods for sale, along with boxes and parcels to send goods in. I took a number, like at the deli at home, and enjoyed my wait in the air conditioning. The lady at the counter was most helpful and friendly, probably because of her desire to visit Australia which she wistfully stated after discovering where I was from. I squeezed 1.960kg into the box, and was happy with the €14 it cost (including the box) to send it to Scotland to collect before returning home.
With a two kilogram lighter backpack I was happier to trudge the distance through the hilly city to the address on my sticky-note. Upon arriving however, I was shocked to discover my couch surfing host lived in a ‘Republica House’ – a well known student house, known for all the wrong reasons. It was a multi-story town house of sorts, with four levels and six bedrooms tangled in with two bathrooms, a kitchen and living room. Apparently they’d had a birthday party there the night before, which they were blaming for the mess that was everywhere, and also for the bleary eyed looks everyone had. I was introduced to everyone I met as ‘the couch surfer’ and I counted about fifteen people as we moved through the rooms. Climbing the rickety narrow stairs I was glad to reach the top floor, only to have to force my mouth closed when I glanced in the ‘kitchen’ – if one could call it that. The long table was piled high with food encrusted plates and bowls, pots and pans that needed a good scrubbing and numerous bottles that previously held a alcohol of any variety you could think of. Graffiti covered the walls, and I don’t believe the floor had ever been cleaned in any way, shape or form. I shuddered to think what animals called that kitchen their home, and was beginning to think I’d mis-read the host’s profile on the website.
Onto the lounge room, and the deluge of empty bottles continued, amongst a few bowls with scissors, and overflowing ash trays. There was an assortment of chairs and couches crammed amongst broken furniture, overflowing bookshelves, ornaments, street signs, bongs, guitars, lamps and lampshades, heaters and fans, sleeping bags, assorted works of art and items of clothing. In the centre of the room was a mattress covered in a layer of dog hair, with the perpetrator resting on the said mattress, his head between his hind legs feverishly licking his balls. Hesitating a guess and asked where I was meant to sleep that night and was answered with a wave of the hand and a tired ‘On that mattress I guess’. Yes, that mattress the dog was sitting on was what he pointed to. Really? You’ve accepted my request to stay at your house while I see your city and the best you can come up with is a dirty mattress dumped in the middle of your overcrowded lounge room in your filthy house? Ay yay yay.
While contemplating if I was just being overly sensitive, and having come from the lovely host house of Andre and Pedro in Lisbon, I tried to decide what to do. I met a nice girl from Denmark, Julie, who was also staying there that night, and she spoke English so I confided my dislike of the place to her and she offered me the bed she’d been allocated to sleep in that night and she’d sleep on the couch. I agreed to this because by this stage there were about eight people in the lounge room and all except for me and Julie were smoking. In the house, in the room I was in. I was going to die if I slept there that night. Julie showed me the room I could sleep in, but first we had to wake up someone else who had decided to sleep there in the meantime. Ahhh, I didn’t know these people, and even though they were nice in allowing us to ‘stay’ they made no effort to make that stay comfortable or homley…
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that night. I spent the next hour deciding if I preferred to sleep in the (almost clean) armchair in the room, or in the bed on sheets I’m sure hadn’t been changed in a long time. I opted for the bed while gritting my teeth and shuddering at the thought of what exactly I was sleeping on. I then had to decide what to wear – I didn’t want to wear my pjs because they’d get ‘contaminated’ and have to be put back in my bag with my other clothes, yet there was no way I was not going to wear clothes in that bed. Ewww. Best not to think about the finer details I tried to tell myself, and just keep my skin clean – I can worry about my clothes later. I was also not sure that I’d be alone all night so I slept with one eye open as the saying goes.
Julie and I left in the morning, and she went to the train station to head further south, while I checked into a hostel I’d found. The hostel had clean sheets and a bed that was allocated to me, so it felt like heaven! I had a shower and washed away the grime of the night before.
As things would have it, I met two nice guys at the hostel, Pieter from Brussels and Marty from Ireland. Pieter and I got along so well he invited me to stay at his house when I get to Brussels in a few weeks, and I eagerly took him up on the offer. It’s nice to meet up with people you’ve met earlier in your travels, and especially sane, intelligent and interesting ones. Pieter spoke Spanish, along with Dutch and a little bit of German and French, and was on his way to Sevilla in Spain to attend a Flamenco course. Once again I was envious of the multiple languages he spoke and was excited he was heading back to Spain. Interestingly his sister is living in Spain with her Australian boyfriend – talk about a small world.
I had a lazy day the following day and booked flights back to Madrid (and Madrid to London) at the end of July. I hadn’t yet booked my transport from Brussels to London and managed to find an extra four days to re-visit Madrid and the guy I’d met there just the week before. I was keen to get back to Spain and figured I might as well seeing as I was so close anyway, and I’d be able to get my Spanish-English dictionary a little earlier than waiting until I returned home.
Photos from Lisbon are available to see here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
My flight from Madrid to Lisbon was went fast and smoothly, except for a ‘training run’ landing – I was sitting next to a guy who obviously didn’t like flying and the landing only served to enhance his dislike! He was pretending to read the in flight magazine yet I could see his knuckles turn white while he gritted his teeth as we came towards and bounced around on the runway. I’m so glad it doesn’t faze me.
I was met at the Lisboa Airport by one of my couch surfing hosts, Andre. He had very kindly agreed to meet me and save me from dealing with public transport, for which I was extremely grateful! We went to a lookout quite near their house, and I got some great, albeit windy, views of Lisbon, including a huge bridge that looks just like the one in San Francisco. I tried the local beer called ‘Super Bock’, and found it was quiet nice, and we discussed all things Portuguese and Australian. I tried to get my tongue around the local phrases – I find Portuguese more difficult than Spanish, and reading Portuguese – forget it. They have all these little lines and squiggles above the letters (accents), that change the sound of the word completely. I could guess many Spanish words by how they were written, but not so in Portuguese. I think I eventually got the Portuguese phrase ‘Hello, my name is Belinda’ down quite well, but it took some practise!
Two things I noticed immediately about Lisbon – they have tonnes of mosaics everywhere, even covering the exterior of the houses, and they sell loaves of bread in the supermarket that have the crusts cut off. Not just the end crusts, but the four sides of each slice of bread! I thought this was hilarious, so had to take a photo, and I’m sure everyone in the supermarket thought I’d lost my mind, taking photos of bread. However, I’d never seen this before and was quite amused. What do they do with the crusts I wonder?
Andre and I picked my other host, Pedro, up from work, and he proceeded to cook a delicious fish dish for dinner – one of his specialities I heard. Most of you would know of my love for food, yet lack of desire for cooking, so I was in ‘Lisboa Heaven’ to have dinner cooked for me! These two guys were great, so funny and intelligent and they could both speak English really well so I had an easy time conversing with them.
I went to a local market the next day, and discovered just how many hills Lisbon has. Geez, one gets a workout just walking to and from work I bet! I have no idea how some girls tottered around in high heels on the cobble stone/ hilly roads and footpaths, but they did. Forget that, I’ll stick to my flat sandals thanks. I noticed that some doorways to houses were so small – Andre told me the Portuguese are not a tall race, yet these doors were really short – that some men had to duck to get in and out of their own homes! You could find almost anything at the market, and I even saw two police officers buying some goods.
Some areas of Portugal could have done with a good clean, mostly the buildings, and you could sense a slight difference in the development when compared to Spain. However, the two countries were on par with the cost of things, items in the supermarket and trains etc. I saw decorations in the street that remained from a recent festival, and it gave a nice community feel to the city. I found my way to the centre of the city, and the associated tourist shops, and managed to get myself a cheap (€2.50) country flag patch. I made my way back to the boy’s house as Andre was going to show me the ‘must see’ nearby town of Sintra in the afternoon.
I was a little perturbed by the number and frequency of men who were looking at me and staring/leering as I walked past. Comments were made and even though I couldn’t understand the words, I got the gist of it by their expressions. I’d not had this much attention an any other city and I wondered if I was wearing something wrong or too revealing – it was the same type of skirt / singlet combination I’d been wearing for the past month, and I didn’t understand why only now it was causing any issues. Unfortunately women everywhere have to put up with men and their leering, but for some reason it really rattled me in Lisbon, and I found my confidence was taking a battering. Andre assured me I wasn’t wearing anything wrong, and we concluded it was just ‘dirty Portuguese men’ (although I’ll point out that not everyone was like that, only a select few) and was most likely because I was walking around on my own, rather than with someone.
I nearly died when I saw the price of fuel, it was €1.569/L, which equals about $AU2/L!
Sintra was a tiny but very pretty little town, and I found many items made from cork. I’d never seen cork used to make things before, and it was everywhere there. Postcards, bags, bracelets, watch bands, lighter covers, you name it and it’s probably made from cork in Portugal. I was interested in getting a cork item, yet they were well above what I thought was an acceptable price so I settled instead for a beautiful bag with traditional Portuguese pictures and meanings hand woven into the fabric. The shop lady carefully explained to me in her limited English the meanings of the pictures and for only €12 I figured it was a bargain!
We tried some traditional Portuguese tarts, which were very good, and apparently the Portuguese pastries are craved by those who travel outside their country – with the belief that no one makes pastries as good as they do! I will stick my neck out and say that in Australia you can get tarts and pastries that are very similar, but I think that’s because of our multi-cultural influence. In fact I think we have excellent food choices in Australia, for the same reasons, and apart from the Spanish tapas, I’d not come across any food in Europe that I couldn’t think of a similar item we have available at home. I laughed when I saw boomerangs for sale in the tourist shops, with ‘traditional’ dot paintings on them, and watched in amazement while workmen fixed a footpath by hand, with the little cobble stones in keeping with the surrounding paths.
After another special home made dinner by Pedro we headed out for a few drinks. Drinking on the streets is ok in Portugal, and people often buy a drink from one bar and socialise outside while heading to the next bar – with a drink in one hand and cigarette in the other. I was asking around to see if any bars had – or knew of – Angostura Bitters to make the drink ‘lemon, lime and bitters’, or as I like it LLB and Gin! One bartender had heard of it but didn’t have it in his current bar, so I settled for a scotch instead.
I went to the beach in Cascais for my last day in Lisbon, and met up with a guy from the couch surfing website who was keen to visit Australia. We talked about all things Australian, and compared our two countries. The financial crisis that Portugal is in, and the knowledge that their country will likely follow in the footsteps of Greece was explained to me, and I found it difficult to fathom living in a country knowing it can not support you. The foreseeable future for all Portuguese people is gloomy and even those in Government jobs are not guaranteed of keeping their jobs. I heard later on that the Government will be taking a large percentage of everyone’s Christmas bonuses this year, and there will be many other financial cutbacks and losses.
The standard wage for a good job in Portugal is €1000 – €1200 per month, which is equal in Australian dollars to $1300 – $1600 per month. People live off this amount. Yes the cost of living is less than ours, but remember this amount is also for full time work in a good job, which can take years to get to. Initially many people start earning €800 per month, or $AU1050. Those not working full time or earning the highest rate live off less. And the Government is going to eliminate those jobs and/or take some of what you earn. These figures are applicable to police officers in Portugal as well as other Government and private sector employees.
As is the case for most places I visit, I didn’t have enough time to see everything, and would have liked to visit Belem, St George’s Castle and have a better look around the city – however, these places are on my list for next time. I said a sad farewell to Andre and Pedro and headed for the next stop on my list – the University city of Coimbra.
Photos from Madrid are available to see here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
I got the train to Madrid on Friday 24th June, and was met by my couch surfing host, Mario. We went to a bar he knew to have some lunch, tapas and beer. This was beer with lemon however, and was almost like soft drink (I later realised some bars do put lemonade in the beer, others actually put lemon juice). At this bar people throw their serviettes on the floor rather than put them in the rubbish bin and it was normal practice. I was told the bar we were in was pretty clean, and that later on we’d visit a bar where you get a free plate of fried chicken wings with any beer you order, and not only the napkins get thrown on the floor, but so do the wing bones! No way! Sure enough, at the other bar people threw their serviettes and wing bones on the floor. I snapped a quick photo, for I’ve never seen this done before and was having trouble believing it was happening in front of me. I was encouraged to throw some bones on the floor, and I struggled to do so. I aimed at the cigarette bin and was booed when my wing bones landed in there. So I gritted my teeth and threw the next lot on the floor amid cheers from those around me. I honestly didn’t get any satisfaction from it, and couldn’t understand how this was accepted behaviour, but apparently it is.
For my first full day in Madrid I followed what has become my ‘normal’ routine, although this time I already had a map of Madrid that I’d found at the hostel in Salamanca. I got the train into the city and walked around all the major attractions and sights. I saw the Royal Palace, the Royal Theatre, Plaza Mayor (which was very similar to the one in Salamanca), Puerta Del Sol (the central point of the city) and a number of other plazas and big buildings. I loved all the fountains in Madrid, and was especially enthralled by the Neptune and Cibeles fountains. They were each in the middle of a large intersection and I had to risk life and limb to get close enough for a decent photo – although I was not the only tourist darting across the traffic to do so.
The Prado Museum was free after 6pm so I wandered around there for a few hours, and although there were some nice paintings and sculptures, museums don’t really ‘do’ much for me. I say this because there was a lady in the Prado who, while staring transfixed before a large painting, was quivering and whispering repeatedly to herself “This is why I came, this is why I came”. I’d call her a ‘museum’ buff 🙂 Later that night Mario was going to a music concert with a friend of his, and I took the opportunity to go along as well. What I didn’t realise was that it was a Rock Concert, in Spanish, and all those in attendance were there to remember their youth – which was likely when I was a baby…
I entertained myself by listening to the music, some of which sounded familiar but I had no idea if the words were the same, but mostly I watched the crowd. Women were squeezed into clothes that may have fit them 20 years ago, tottering on high heeled wedge shoes, while men clutched a beer in one hand and slapped their thigh with the other. There was a lot of leg jiggling going on, and not the dirty kind. The main ‘dance’ move, if you can call it that, was keeping one leg firmly planted on the ground while lifting the heel of the other foot up and down in time to the beat. This leg was usually the one also being slapped by it’s owner in enthusiasm for the song. As people drank more the ‘fists pumping the air’ move became more regular, with slurred Spanish words shouted at the band. I can only guess they were words of encouragement and support for it remained a fairly tame crowd otherwise.
On my last day in Madrid I’d arranged to meet up with two girls – one was the French girl, Anais, I’d met in Salamanca, and the other was an American girl, Deborah, who’d contacted me via the couch surfing (CS) website in Granada yet we’d not co-ordinated our cities until Madrid. When Deborah and I met up she claimed she’d emailed me because I was one of only a few girls on the CS site (it’s true, there are mostly guys on there), and I was an Aussie, and every Aussie she’d ever met previously had been good value. Well I like to think I kept up the good Australian reputation, as we had a number of laughs and an enjoyable afternoon in general, whiling away time in the sun. Deborah was one of the few American’s I’ve met who admit their country has many flaws, and she was keen to get out and see how other countries surpassed her own in various ways. She was in Madrid to learn Spanish as well, and I wished I was looking for an apartment with her… She was funny and we shared some travel stories that only those who’ve experienced similar would appreciate.
While we waited at Plaza Mayor for Anais, I took Deborah to the restaurant I’d been past the day before where I’d noticed a really good looking waiter working. I’d been taking a photo of the pictures of tapas on the restaurant wall when I heard him ask if he could take the picture with me next to the tapas pictures. I agreed, and noticed how good looking he was. He then started speaking a lot of Spanish of which I didn’t understand, but took to mean he wanted me to sit and eat at his restaurant, which my budget didn’t allow for. I said I’d already eaten (which I had), and left to find the information centre. While at the info centre, and needing a toilet, I decided to take a chance and return to his restaurant to use the loo and also get a photo of him. Ruben his name was, and he kindly obliged with my toilet and photo requests.
I figured I’d see if he was working again and go back with Deborah in the hope of talking to him a little more. I was in luck. He was working, he recognised me and he seemed excited to see me again – all in all it was a very nice reception. Deborah agreed he was good looking, and keen, so I decided to give him my number and arranged to meet when he finished work at midnight. We met up with Anais for the afternoon, and spent the time comparing and contrasting France, America and Australia, and discussing the pros and cons of living in each country. Anais spoke French (obviously), English and Spanish, and was doing a degree in Anthropology. She was one smart chick, and stunningly beautiful as well. I now have contacts in many more countries and new places to visit on my wish list!
I flew to Lisbon, Portugal the following day after meeting Ruben when he finished work. I was glad I met him, and spent the next few days trying to figure out how I was going to get back to see him again on this trip as he seemed worth the effort..
Photos from Granada, Sevilla and Salamanca are available to see here. Enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
The bus was exactly on time, and I arrived in Salamanca – or at least the town I hoped was Salamanca – at a quarter to three in the morning. Luckily it was warm enough to be walking the streets, and they were well lit up so I felt safe doing so. Without the tourist information centres opening for another few hours I had to use my photo of google maps and the maps at bus stops to find the hostel. It was a few kms from the bus terminal, but I managed to use what I had to get there ok. I fell in love with the city in these early hours, and imagined I was walking home from a late night studying and felt right at home. There were some other people out and about, and I guessed that Wednesday night might be ‘uni’ night at the pubs. Even though those out were obviously drunk, I felt comfortable wandering around at that time of morning and looked forward to seeing the city in the daylight to see if had the same ‘romantic’ allure it produced at night.
I checked into the hostel at 4am, and the guy on reception kindly gave me a bed to sleep in for the remaining few hours even though I’d only paid for a bed for the following night. Whether that was because I spent a few minutes finding out his name was Gabrielle and he was from Venezuela and had lived in Spain for the last few years and he didn’t speak much English, or because I was a single female traveller or simply because he took pity on me arriving at that hour, I’m not sure, but it was a very nice gesture all the same. I slept until mid morning and woke up to find a large curly haired man snoring with his mouth open in the adjacent bunk. Eww, not what I want to see first thing when I wake up. Thanks mate. I usually choose the top bunk in hostels because it gives you a little more privacy, but I didn’t have a choice this time.
Heading out to explore, I walked up their main street and was struck by the uniformity of the buildings. Everything was old, but clean and built of similar golden sand coloured blocks. The place was also impeccably clean, and there were healthy green trees and landscaped areas throughout the city to contrast with the golden buildings and blue skies. I found everyone to be really nice, and the shopkeepers – probably used to so many students – were patient with my limited Spanish and tried to help me out by speaking English. There were cheap shops – being a University city one would expect that – and although the fashions were not really my kind the places with sales on were crammed full of girls with arm loads of bargains.
Plaza Mayor was a huge square, constructed of the same golden coloured buildings to form an open meeting place that got crowded as lunch time dragged on. There were shops at the perimeters, underneath the edge of the buildings inside the square, and although I’m not sure what business the buildings contained I guessed it was something Governmental because of the five flags on display on the main building.
I marvelled at the Conch Shell Palace, the New Cathedral, Puente (Bridge) Romano, and of course, their University. The oldest University in Europe is in Bologna, Italy, and Salamanca, Spain houses the second oldest. Above the main doors to their University are many sculptures and carvings, and amongst it all is a single frog. There were two theories I heard with regards to finding the frog. If you found the frog by yourself, without any assistance, one theory said you were guaranteed to get married, the other said you were bound to pass all future exams. Therefore, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find the frog or not…! Regardless, you could spend hours looking for the frog, and since every tour group passed the doors and had the frog pointed out to them it was easy to cheat – if you wanted to. I didn’t, yet made the mistake of visiting the tourist shops on the way to the University, and there are postcards showing where the frog can be found. Even though I’d seen this postcard, finding the frog still wasn’t easy, so I was happy when I finally did locate it.
The city was built along a river, which no doubt contributed to the greenery around, and it gave Salamanca a feeling of being healthy and alive. I bought myself a Salamanca University t-shirt as inspiration to learn Spanish and with the hope of one day coming back to this city to do so. They speak the purest Spanish, Castilian, in Salamanca, which is why so many international students come here. I even looked at the Real Estate Agent’s windows and noted the prices of apartments for sale – if I deciphered correctly, the price range was about €50,000 – €90,000 and quite reasonable I thought!
In the hostel there were 10 bunks per room, meaning a possible 20 people could sleep in the room at once. It was a cheap hostel, and a great place to meet other people. One English guy was in Salamanca to learn Spanish, although he wasn’t taking lessons and figured he’d learn by living there; one very pretty French girl had been studying Spanish in Madrid for six months with Erasmus (the European University Exchange Program I had heard many people were participating in and of which I was quite jealous!) and was in Salamanca for a few days break; another few one-nighters I didn’t get to speak to; the curly headed Italian in the bed next to me who was working late nights and trying to get a permanent job in Spain – he seemed very proud of his hairy muscular chest and walked around the room with just his jeans on; and an older guy in his 60s who was in between two cruises around the world and who walked through to the bathroom in his underwear with his belly hanging out and was unfortunately an Australian.
I say unfortunately because no matter whether you like it or not you’re an ambassador for your country when you travel, and he was not giving anyone a good impression of Australia. I understand everyone gets old, but there is a time when you must stop staying in hostels. Some hostels have age limits, and I can see why. I think it’s a little more necessary for guys than girls, although I’ve never seen an older woman in a hostel dorm room – only blokes still seem to want to do that. I can guess why, and I’m a little grossed out by it even though I’m probably ten years older than the girls they’re looking at. I appreciate you’ve got to get to the loo, but put some shorts on at least. No one wants to see your skinny white legs and little jocks covering an even smaller appendage. It wasn’t made any better by the fact his hair was white with yellow ends and stuck up every which way possible, nor the fact he had a story for and about every situation possible. That night he announced that ‘lights go out at 12am, because I need to sleep’, which was met with a rolling of eyes en masse, and I bit my tongue from stating the obvious. Generally people in dorm rooms are considerate of others, but having someone declare a rule such as he did only creates tension and unease. Grow up and pay for a private room or stay in a hotel next time I say.
Apart from him the hostel was great! I hung my towel up lengthways underneath the mattress above me to give me some privacy from the Italian, and had a good night’s sleep. In the morning I got the French girl’s contact details and we arranged to meet in Madrid over the weekend.
I arrived in Sevilla by train, and the trains in Spain are luxury. Air-conditioned and comfy seats, I didn’t realise just how hot it was in the city I was heading to. My good friend Manolo in Sydney had organised with his friend Javi in Sevilla to have me stay at his house for a few nights. I’d been in touch with Javi and his flatmate Victor, and the plans were for Javi to pick me up from the train station, on his bike. I wasn’t sure how my backpack and me were going to fit on Javi’s bike, but I agreed and thought we’d sort it out when I arrived. Well I didn’t have to wait long to realise it was a motorbike I was getting a lift on, not a bicycle!
I’d never ridden a motorbike in a skirt and sandals, nor with a large backpack, but in Sevilla I did. Thankfully Javi had brought me a helmet to wear, and I trusted his driving, however I had some self talk going on about how I was going to be ok and get there safely with all my skin and bones intact, and I did. Nor was it the last time I was pillion passenger in a skirt and sandals, but each time I arrived safely, thanks to Javi. Often when you travel you put yourself outside your comfort zone, and this was one of those times for me. Unless you’ve ridden motorbikes, or been a nurse and seen accident survivors, you may not understand my hesitation. However, I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked my lucky stars after every trip allowed myself to enjoy the remaining adrenaline.
The day I got to Sevilla was the hottest day they’d had on record this summer. It was like walking into a brick wall as I exited the air-conditioned train station, and the wind while on the bike was like fire whipping at my arms and legs. We went directly to Javi’s house for siesta. It was impossible even consider leaving the house before 8pm because it was still so hot, and we eventually went out for dinner at 9.30pm. I met Victor and we had many different sorts of tapas for dinner. I learnt that tapas basically means ‘little meal’ and can essentially be a smaller version of anything they have on the menu. It wasn’t restricted to the tapas I’d seen in the hostels that you received free when you ordered a beer, that of a piece of a toasted french stick topped with various items. The tapas Javi and Victor ordered were delicious, and too numerous to count. Food here in Spain is so cheap, as is alcohol, and we pay far too much in Australia. Dinner finished at about 1am, and it remained warm all night, dropping to only about 28 degrees overnight.
In the morning Victor dropped me in the city on his way to work, and I spent the day exploring the sights of Sevilla. I wandered through Parque Maria Louisa, a very nice large green space which led me to Plaza de Espana. I was mesmerised by this place. Walking up to it I saw a waterfall sprouting in the centre, with a large semi-circular building behind it. The sun was glaring and made details from a distance difficult, however it also added to the allure. This place was magnificent, and I loved it immediately. There was a moat circling the inside of the semi-circular building, and wide open spaces for people to gather and children to play. The small bridges crossing the moat led to a regal looking building and a horse and cart trotted right past me, cementing the feeling of returning to an era of the past. As I got closer to the building, I saw there were numerous mosaics along the wall, and each one depicted a city in Spain. The sections dedicated to each city contained a map of the city location in Spain, a depiction of the traditional history of the city, and what I think was the city’s coat of arms – and all of this was made from mosaics. I was greatly impressed at the work and effort that had gone into this place and took photos of all the cities I’d been to and planned to visit.
From Plaza de Espana I wandered through the old city, meandering via the tiny streets of Santa Cruz and via the huge Cathedral. I visited the information centre and was kindly given a map by the lady who spoke English and she happily answered all my questions about Sevilla. It was a nice change from the information places in Italy, and confirmed my love of this country even more 🙂 I met Javi back at the house for lunch, which we had at the University cafeteria nearby. Uni students = cheap food and I was happy to be part of it.
Siesta that afternoon included tennis game after tennis game. Javi loved his tennis so he watch the games while I sorted out some photos. Dinner was late in the evening again, for it hadn’t cooled down much. I’d managed to get a picture of a sign showing the temperature at 38 degrees at lunch time, and Javi assured me I’d get one saying 40 degrees if I was out a little later the next day. We went to an area known as Triana, where I was told the citizens didn’t say they lived in Sevilla, they lived in Triana – and it reminded me of the division I’d heard of between Paris and the rest of France. We had a beer before meeting Victor at another place, after another skirt and sandals bike ride, and I’d found beer in Spain to be quite nice, not like we have at home – although I reminded myself I’d not tried beer at home for a long time and it was possible that my taste buds had changed and not the beer.
Dinner included more tapas, I let the boys order as I didn’t know the names of what I’d had and I liked everything they ordered anyway. I enjoyed this style of eating – it suits my usual style of having a little bit of numerous things and calling it a meal. I could get used to this lifestyle without a doubt, and the more time I spent in Spain the more I wanted to learn Spanish and even considered the possibility of living in Spain. I’d just have to remember to sleep during siesta so I didn’t get too run down.
It was in Sevilla that I noticed a reoccurring feeling I’d had in Barcelona. The fact that most people I met in Spain spoke a minimum of two languages, Spanish (and sometimes also Catalan), and English, and often another language, made me feel a little odd. I’m still searching for the correct word to describe exactly what it is, however I felt bad for not being required to speak another language to get by in my own country. Although English is universal, the fact I didn’t speak any other language made me feel inferior in a way. It’s almost as if my ‘superiority’ of being born into a native English speaking country caused my ‘inferiority’ when in a country whose inhabitants must learn their own language plus English to prosper in their own country. I was determined to learn Spanish now and was disappointed that I’d not done so before this holiday.
The following day I did a tour of the Bull Fighting arena and museum and learnt how they kill the bulls during these ‘fights’. Having no prior knowledge of this ‘game’, I’m now not sure I ever want to attend a ‘fight’. The Matador’s who ‘fight’ the bull are in the ring first, using a pink cape they tease the bull, assess his nature, and basically provide a performance. After ten minutes the Matador leaves the ring, and in comes one guy who has five minutes to shove a long spear into the bull’s neck and disable him, then the next guy has another five minutes to stick two daggers into the bull six times, then the Matador returns and has five minutes to slice the bull’s throat, and this time he uses the red cape we all know of. I think this is the sequence, correct me if I’ve gotten it wrong, but you get the idea.
Over the course of one night, there are six ‘fights’ and therefore six bulls are killed every Sunday night from April until October in Sevilla. I was told they eat the meat, and I hope so because otherwise that’s a lot of animals wasted for nothing. I heard a lot more people in Spain are starting to turn away from this old tradition, and it is becoming less and less popular. I found the whole idea cruel and a little sickening. The more interesting side for me was the training of the Matador’s, and hearing about some of the best ones. They are usually trained from the age of 14, and by 18 it is known if they are going to be ‘good’ or not. Their career lasts for about 20 years, if they don’t get killed by the bull first. The best Matador’s in Sevilla and Madrid can earn up to €150,000 per night – about $AU200,000, for 30 minutes work a night. One Matador had his first fight at the age of nine years old, and would draw in huge audiences every time he ‘performed’, until he was killed by a bull at the age of 24. When a bull kills a Matador, the bull is then killed, as is the mother bull – as retribution for producing a killer bull I guess. Doesn’t seem fair really.. Another ‘star’ Matador was in the ring for 40 years, before he committed suicide when he was in his 60s. Made me wonder if killing all those bulls over the years played on his mind too much..
I saw a few more sights, then headed back to Javi and Victor’s place. I got the bus as it was 3pm and way too hot to exert myself any more. I photographed a sign declaring the temperature was 41 degrees before I got on the bus, and as I got nearer to my destination the signs indicated the temperature was increasing, to 43 and then 44. I was happy with my photo of 44 degrees, and headed inside to wait out the afternoon heat. I’d bought an overnight bus ticket to Salamanca for €47, as the train ticket to Madrid was going to cost €80 and I wasn’t prepared to pay that much for a train. Javi very kindly offered to drive me to the bus station on the motorbike again, in between sets of tennis, and once more I was wearing a skirt and sandals, and carrying my backpack. He did very well to balance the bike with me and the backpack behind him, although I figured my bag just made me about equal to the weight of another guy on the back! I boarded the bus at 8pm for an expected arrival in Salamanca at 2.45am the next morning..
I flew to Granada, in the south of Spain, to see the ‘other’ half of the country, and to visit the renowned Alhambra. Given that I was up until 1am on my last night in Barcelona, and I had to catch a bus at 5am for a 7am flight, I decided there was no point in sleeping for only three hours and stayed up all night, intending to sleep when I got to my accommodation. I’d booked a bed in a small town called Quentar, 13km out of Granada, and had directions of which bus I needed to catch to get there. One would think a flight and bus trip would be simple enough, but not so. The bus from Granada airport to the city centre broke down when we were only half way. The driver announced something in Spanish, and I asked the girl next to me what he said. Luckily she could speak some English and told me we were waiting for another bus which would be about 20 minutes away.
After half an hour of waiting, the bus arrived, our bags were transferred across and we continued into Granada. Chatting to the girl next to me, I heard that Australian has been a dream destination for her since she was a kid (it was not the first time I’d heard this), but it was so far away and so expensive. I began to think that our ‘remote’ location back home may contribute to the allure it holds for so many people. Of course I talk it up, telling them all the good places to visit if they should ever get there, and help to keep their dream alive. I like to see their eyes sparkle and their smile deepen as they envision their visit and know that I’ve helped make their day a little brighter.
Getting off the bus I was confronted by gypsy women, holding sprigs of rosemary. I waved them away, keen to get to my bag from underneath the bus when an older one grabbed my wrist with no intention of letting go. I wasn’t in the mood, so shouted ‘No!’ and shook my arm free. Geez, talk about pushy. It was later explained to me that these women offered to ‘read’ your palm, and then demanded money. Well they weren’t getting any from me, that’s for sure.
It was hot in Granada, and I was keen to lay down for a sleep, however I’d just missed the local bus to Quentar and the next wasn’t for an hour. I decided to stay put at the stop and wait. Thankfully the hour passed quickly and I got on the bus that arrived, only to be told that this bus wasn’t running, and I had to wait for the next one due to leave in another hour. Oh boy. Being hot and tired my patience was running thin, but what could I do except wait? I wasn’t going to trudge the 13kms with my backpack in that heat. Imagine my disbelief as I watched the stationary bus for an hour, only to find the original driver return, board the bus and wave me on board. Hmph. Must be the bus driver’s lunch time or something. By now I’d been awake for almost 30 hours and looking forward to bed.
The cottage in Quentar was great, and I know a few of you who would have loved it. It was carved out of the mountainside, and so was cool and quaint, and I had it all to myself. Along with bedrooms there was a kitchen and courtyard, bathroom and lounge room, and a tv and radio with their local station in English. I laughed to realise it was just like any commercial radio station back home, playing all the same songs with a few old rock songs thrown in. Using their wifi, I didn’t sleep and instead spent the afternoon inside away from the heat and on the net. In hindsight that was a bad move, as I’m still trying to catch up on sleep a good two weeks later on. However, at the time it was what I did. It was still warm at 8pm at night, and I began to understand why siesta is so important, because you simply can’t go out in the afternoon heat without whithering away!
Night time came, and so did a knock on my door. Visitors? Me? Hmm. It turned out to be a young guy who was also travelling and staying in the same village. He asked if I wanted to eat dinner with him, but I’d already eaten (I’m still not used to eating dinner at 10 or 11pm at night like they do here), so I agreed to walk through the village and chat with him instead. Ohad was from Israel, who had spent his gap year (between the army – compulsory service – and university) working in England and holidaying for the last few weeks in Spain. He spoke English perfectly and I was happy to talk to him and hear about his county and life at home. I eventually had to go to bed when I started feeling like a zombie and struggled to keep my eyes open.
The next day Ohad and I wandered around Granada and I found the town to be similar to Quentar, with tiny houses tucked away in impossibly small areas. Yet it was the attention to detail that struck me – the carvings in their doors, the patterned tiles and mosaic footpaths – all had been crafted by hand and were delicately constructed in what I imagine were the most arduous circumstances. The steep and narrow streets were barely wide enough for a very small car, let alone building equipment. The streets were so steep in fact, that when I saw a cleaner using a broom to sweep the street, I laughed when I realised the broom head was on a sharp angle to make his job easier. I saw a man fixing part of his balcony, with his ladder precariously balanced on the steep incline of the road. His only form of safety was his friend who stood against the ladder to prevent him and his tools tumbling down the hill. Whitewashed houses, in rows and rows up the steep mountains, against the perfectly clear blue sky was my overall impression of Granada and Quentar.
I had obtained a ticket to the Alhambra, and the much talked about Palaces. I’d bought a ticket only two days before, and not knowing exactly what I should see I opted for the full experience at €14. For anyone interested in going, you can buy a ticket on the day you wish to attend, for only €7, and that lets you into all areas except the Palaces – which were not that flash after all. Basically everything you can see in the Palaces is seen throughout the rest of the Alhambra and I’m not sure why people think the Palaces are so great. You have to attend the Palaces at your designated time, with up to 400 other people, and everyone shuffles through like a human cargo train to see the mosaic tiles and carvings, but honestly, it isn’t worth the extra €7.
What I did love in the Alhambra were the gardens (accessible with the €7 ticket). They were well thought out, and offered a welcome respite from the searing heat. There were various forms of water fountains to see, which I love, and plenty of taps to fill up your waterbottle as well. The greenery was striking against the tan and white buidings and the mercilessly blue sky, and I could have spent all my time in the gardens alone. My second favourite place in the Alhambra was the top of the lookout where I could see the distant snow capped mountains. These mountains were in such contrast to the shimmering heat that surrounded everything in Granada it was almost unthinkable that these extreme temperatures could co-exist in such close proximity.
Photos from Barcelona are up. Click here to see them and enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
Photos from Venice are now up, click here to see them and enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password
Pictures from Rome, Pisa and Florence can be seen here. Enter the word ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
The next day I went to Montserrat, an hour away from Barcelona by train, up in the mountains, to hear the boys choir sing. They were amazing. I’m not particularly musically minded, however even I could tell they were really good, and the church was so full of people keen to hear this choir there was barely any standing room left. The train to the mountain was a regular train, then you had two options to ascend to the Monastery. I took the ‘dangling basket from a rope’ (Aeri de Montserrat) option as the views were reputedly better, and it was worth it, although I felt sorry for the man whose wife had convinced him this option was better becaues he was clearly not enjoying the ride. The other option was a funicular train, which went up the steep mountain tracks and was even shaped at such an angle so as to look like it wouldn’t fall off the mountain. Crazy stuff!
In the afternoon I made my way to Parc Guell, the famous park designed by Gaudi. It was large with many interesting monuments to see, and paths to wander along, and I saw some mind boggling sights. One woman in ‘shorts’ so short they didn’t include much more than a waistband; an ‘entertainer’ wearing leopard skin leggings, a leather vest with tassels and sunglasses made of two guitars playing guitar and singing old American rock songs in English with a heavy Spanish accent. There was also a guy playing an instrument I’d never heard or seen before, a Santouri. He was Iranian, and had been playing since he was seven years old. I was mesmerised by his music and ended up buying one of his cds. The instrument was played similar to a xylophone, and sat flat on the table, yet it looked more like a guitar with strings stretched across the top – 18 sets of four strings in a set.
From Parc Guell I walked to the La Sagrada Familia Basilica. I’d been told I had to go inside the basilica, and that my entrance fee would assist in finishing the building, which has already been going on for nearly 130 years. I arrived at 6pm and figured a quick look inside was ok for my student rate of €10. I’m extremely glad I bought that ticket, although quick look it wasn’t. I was expecting the usual dark interior with gold, marble and crystal of most basilica’s I’d seen, and wasn’t too excited. As I entered I got slapped in the face by the huge light filled interior, with white columns reaching 45 meters to the central nave are surrounded by bright colourful stained glass windows. The space inside is incredible and took my breath away. The church consists of 4500 square meters where 8000 people can worship. This is one place you must visit if you come to Barcelona. I watched a 20 minute film on the ongoing construction of the building, and that showed me just how much effort and detail is in every section of the church. There are three facades, of Passion, Glory and the Nativity, and on the central door, which is made of bronze and stands five meters high, the entire text of Our Father is inscribed in Catalan along with the prayer ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ in fifty languages. The artistic elements and attention to detail in this building is purely stunning.
The metro system in Barcelona was one I admired. At first glance of a map of all the train stations and lines it looks quite confusing, however the different coloured lines were easy to follow once you knew which station you wanted to get to. I had a ten trip ticket, and was happy to discover that if you take a bus and a train within one hour of each other, both trips are counted as only one on your ten pass ticket. Bonus! I also never waited more than three minutes for a train, and the information board on each platform would count down the minutes and seconds until the next train arrived. Once on board the train, there was a panel above each door showing the stations and a blinking red light indicated which station was coming up next. This was a great system for people who don’t know the city, and saves the scramble at each stop trying to find where you are and if you should jump off or stay on the train. I felt very comfortable in Barcelona and was a little reluctant to leave.
I loved the idea of Spain even before I’d left home, and from the moment I arrived at Barcelona airport I have been justified in that excitement. The airport was clean, spacious, beautiful and welcoming. I even loved the toilets – the doors were a bright red colour, and the scent in the air was of strawberries, just like the car air freshener I used to buy. You could easily be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere other than the toilets!
I navigated the airport shuttle bus and the metro system easily, and made my way to the designated location to meet my couch surfing host. Murat was wonderful. He had a busy day but stopped long enough to explain the public transport ticketing system and gave me a map and some directions to get around. His house was like a hotel it was so nice! He spoke English really well, as well as Spanish, Turkish and German, so once again it was good to have a local I could ask all my Barcelona related questions, and hear about their political and social economic situation – some of the things that make a country a country I think.
The weather was brilliant, low 30s when I arrived and was still warm and light at 9pm. I walked to the beach and was amazed at the number of people still out and about, eating and drinking and enjoying themselves. I now know why so many people love Barcelona, for I did immediately. I was surprised to find I appreciated the trees in the city. I hadn’t registered the lack of them in Italy and now that I was surrounded by them I discovered how much I’d missed them. I think trees and greenery make a city seem more alive, giving a certain kind of life and breath to a place. I felt that Barcelona was similar to Melbourne in a way, it was calm and relaxed and content. The moon was already in the sky, although it was still light enough to see quite well, and around 10pm it got a little darker and the sky turned a royal blue colour. I was astounded, I’ve never seen the sky that colour before. I took some pictures of it yet they are so rich in colour they almost look fake.
The next day I wandered around Barcelona on foot, using the map Murat had provided and obtaining another Hop-On, Hop-Off bus map. I saw the people camping out in Placa Catalunya, with their signs of protest that have been featured on the news lately. I walked down La Rambla, and saw all the illegal markets with men standing at the ready to leave if the police showed up. They had assortments of fake brand name handbags and sunglasses, all laid out in neat rows on sheets. Attached to each corner of the sheet were four lengths of rope, the ends of which were held by the seller, ready to raise his arm and envelop his goods within the sheet while he made his getaway. There were also legal shops along the street, many selling tourist gimmicks, some food places, and even a pet shop!
I found the Mercat La Boqueria, a well known market that had fruit and vegetable stalls, meat and fish and egg sellers, along with a variety of sweets and chocolate stalls. There were a few places where people sat at the perimeter of a ‘shop’, eating food that had been freshly cooked while they waited, and a few gypsies asking for coins. Most of these gypsies seemed to be women, often with signs about how many children they had. A woman in the market was heavily pregnant and I wondered how many other children she had to feed as well.
I walked via the Santa Maria del Mar church, where the ocean had once met the city, and walked past a number of Gaudi buildings, the famous artist/architect of the area. At the Cathedral there was a bride to be walking amongst the crowd, and some tourists stopped to take photos. I heard one young American girl proclaim she’d love to get married in Spain, then state that the bride’s dress was ‘beautiful’ – well we must have been looking at different dresses because what I saw was not my idea of beautiful – it was a frilly, puffy, layered skirt that looked like a teapot cover. The woman herself was pretty, but the dress was not. Each to their own though. I met my second Barcelona couch surfing host that night, and Virginia was lovely. She had cooked me a Spanish Omelette for dinner, and it was really good. She spoke Spanish, Catalan, French and English, and although she said her English was not good, I found her very easy to understand. All these people speaking a number of other languages left me feeling a little inadequate, and I wished I’d taken that Spanish course I’d thought of doing. I’d love to return to Spain learn Spanish, I think that will have to be added to my ‘must do’ list.
On all the information boards around the city there were three languages – one was English and the other two were similar when I compared them word for word. I figured one was Spanish, and I later learned the second was Catalan. Staying with hosts in a city means you can learn a lot more than you would otherwise and from Murat and Virginia I heard about the division between the Catalan people (from Barcelona and surrounding areas) and the Spanish people (the rest of Spain), and this division included the Catalan language – similar to Spanish but different enough that people had to learn it and differences could be heard when you knew enough what to listen for.
I had intended to look around Bologna before heading to Venice, however it was pouring rain that day and I didn’t feel like lugging my backpack around while dodging puddles and getting drenched. It almost became routine that it rained for one day in each place I stayed in Italy.. I decided to go straight to Venice and was glad I did. I met up with my couch surfing host, Dario. He owns a Gelateria and I was most interested in this concept, and being new to gelato/gelati (one is singular and the other plural but I’m not sure I can remember which is which..) I was intrigued. The samples I’d had thus far in Italy were pretty good, and amazingly tasted exactly – or pretty close at the very least – to the flavour it was meant to be. This was, I later discovered, because it was made from a heap of chopped fruit, sugar and a few other ingredients to make it malleable enough to serve. Yum yum!
Dario was kind enough to show me the buses from his place into Venice, and took me for a brief walking tour of this enchanting city. I loved it! There are no cars once you get past the bus area, and the canals and bridges are so picturesque – I had to control how many photos I took so it was a reasonable number to go through afterwards. Venice was amazing. So different to the other Italian cities I’d visited, and was a welcome change. Everyone walked everywhere or took the traghetto (public water boats to cross the main canal for €0.50 per person) or the ferry boats (€16 for 12 hours to use as often as you want) if they couldn’t afford a gondola trip – which would set you back about €80-€100.
I met Dario’s flatmates, and was introduced to Venice at night, and to the local popular drink of Spritz – a concoction of wine and Campari or Aperol and sparkling mineral water with an olive on a stick to stir it all around. It was then I realised just how much we pay for alcohol in Australia. It’s crazy how cheap it is in Europe – and I can understand now why so many young people can afford to drink their way around Europe.. It was really nice to have some friendly faces to meet, and be shown some local spots and be told more about the city than you will ever find in a guide book.
The next day I headed into Venice early and wandered around the streets and got lost even with a map. I discovered you asked at the police station for maps if the info desks didn’t have any, so there’s another handy tip for those wondering where and how to get orientated in a new city in Italy – try the cop shop! I didn’t even manage to cover a good section of Venice, even though I walked for about 10 hours. It’s amazing how many streets and public spaces and tiny bridges there are to navigate. Many times I saw a couple musing over a map while trying to find their way back to where they started, or to find a new location to visit. If you waited in the same place long enough you would sometimes see the same couple reappear a short while later and still not know where they were!
There was the annual regatta in Venice that day, which meant I couldn’t take any of the ferries because they weren’t running until the evening to return the locals home, yet there were heaps of photo opportunities and so many gondola’s winding their way through the canals. I heard some Gondoliers singing, but most just talked (shouted) to the nearest other Gondolier while they raked in the cash. I saw one group of Japanese tourists in a gondola and the mother was so excited, clapping along to the singing of her Gondolier, I was concerned she might fall in the canal she was so taken with the experience. I don’t know how people can think it’s romantic because for every gondola I saw there were numerous people on the bridges and sides of the canals taking pictures and watching those in the boats and it didn’t seem to be particularly romantic or private..
I heard that a Gondolier can make up to €200,000 per year, (about AU$250,000) and that is only working for six months a year for a few hours a day. The guide who said this also said that until last year there had only been male Gondoliers, but the ‘President’ of the Gondolier Society/Association didn’t have a son, so he had to change the rules to let his daughter take over. Apparently there are only two places in Venice that make the actual gondolas, and it is a ‘secret’ trade as such. The gondola is made for the particular weight and size of the owner, although these then get ‘leased’ out to other Gondoliers to use, while the ‘Master/Owner’ counts his cash at home. I was intrigued by the shape and meaning in the various aspects of these boats.
They are not symmetrical, they curve around to the left, sort of like a banana laying on its side. This is because the operator only uses one paddle on the right side of the vessel and this curve assists in his control. The silver fin at the front represents the fish shape of Venice, and the seven prongs on this fin represent the seven districts of Venice. I couldn’t find an answer to why some Gondoliers wore navy blue striped shirts while others had red stripes, but they were interesting to watch nevertheless. I particularly liked when there was a ‘gondola traffic jam’ and I saw about seven gondolas all approaching the same section of canal between two bridges at once. There was much shouting and pushing off walls with their feet and holding onto the underside of the bridges to slow the boats down. These gondolas can be manoeuvred forwards and backwards, and can turn the sharpest corners imaginable. A collision was avoided and I was suitably impressed – although not enough to pay for the ride myself.
I had won an Italian walking tour with Intrepid before I’d left for Europe, so I chose a tour that included a few drinks and snacks along the way, and figured that was my dinner sorted for that night! I hadn’t expected to be fed much at all, but the third place we stopped included a good serving of lasagne, which of course would be rude not to finish it all off, so I did just that. I met a nice couple from Geneva, Switzerland on the tour, and they convinced me I should also visit their city on my trip, which I think I’ll do. I’ll shuffle things around and see what I can organise.
On my last day in Venice it was cloudy and overcast, and it rained as well. Italy was determined I not forget it was winter back in AU just yet.. I took the ferries to Murano to see the glass blowers at work, and then to Burano, where all the houses are painted bright colours. Apparently this dates back to when the island was a major fishing base and the colours helped the fishermen identify their own house when they returned in heavy fog. I was not expecting the brilliance of the colours, yet I saw reds, blues, greens, yellows, oranges and purples. The island was small enough to cover within a short time, and I did just this. I will aim to have the remained of my Italy photos up soon so you can see what I mean by these colours.
I wanted to send a parcel home before I flew to Spain, to reduce my carrying load and also to protect the presents I’d bought. Well, lesson learnt – and for anyone considering this in future, take note – DO NOT MAIL ITEMS FROM ITALY. It will cost you a fortune, and apparently there is a high chance it will not arrive safely anyway. Dario came to the post office with me, as I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t get ripped off if I tried to negotiate it myself. Well the lady weighed it and after much negotiation in Italian that I didn’t understand, I was told that the 2.03kg package was going to cost me €50. My face dropped and obviously said it all, because I certainly wasn’t going to pay that for two kgs. Holy moly. That is roughly $65. That’s insane! I was told I could open the parcel and remove 30g worth of goods, but I was running precariously close to time to arrive at the airport and couldn’t honestly be bothered. Dario managed to negotiate the price to €29, which I still thought was outrageous, however it was slightly better and would get if off my hands. I bought two more stamps, at the official price of €2 each (so those who get postcards with Italian stamps should consider yourself lucky – I only sent five of them because they were so expensive), and the total came to €38 – somewhere another tax had been added on that even Dario couldn’t explain. I am still amazed that they can charge those prices and get away with it, but this is my warning to anyone travelling in future – send your parcels once you leave Italy. As an aside note, I’ve since discovered that stamps from Spain to AU are only €0.80 which is much more reasonable, so I’ve posted some from Spain.
Overall I loved the northern cities of Italy that I visited, and would certainly go back there again and see those cities I didn’t have a chance to visit this time, although I think I’d avoid Rome next time. Or if I did it would be for a day and that would be tops. It was very nice to get into this couch surfing to meet people from the local area rather than just fellow tourists (thanks again Dario!), and I had my fingers crossed for nice weather and new stories to post from Spain. Stay tuned..
After the disappointment of Naples and Rome I was glad to be heading to Pisa and the Leaning Tower. I’ve always wanted to see this tower, and now my chance had come and it did not disappoint. The Leaning Tower was my first real ‘wow’ moment for Italy, and didn’t even see it coming so to say. I was following my photocopied map and suddenly looked up and there it was, in the background behind residential flats and houses. Just like that – amongst people’s homes and it is such a cool, unique building that attracts visitors from all over the world, yet some lucky ones see it every day when hanging out the washing.
I decided to pay the €15 to climb it and was so glad I did. You could actually feel the lean of the tower as you climbed the steps circling the inside. I hadn’t thought it would be so obvious, but it certainly was. One minute you were at equi-distance between the walls and with a few more steps you suddenly found yourself closer to the outer wall and as you went higher it became necessary to physically put your left hand on the wall as you climbed, to keep your balance. It was amazing and I highly recommend doing the climb if you get the chance.
We were allowed to go outside at a point half way up (as the previous group descended), and again at the top we were allowed to circle the exterior and take photos. This is where you were visually affected by the lean. On the high side all was good, then as you walked around to the lower side you suddenly saw a bit more ground than previously and gravity meant you automatically leant towards the rickety looking railing meant to keep you ‘safe’. I wasn’t too bothered, but you could see the ones who were. They were either creeping along with their back pressed against the tower, not daring go near the railing, or some were practically sliding along on their bums so as not to have to stand up. It was difficult to get pictures from the top to show the lean, so I got some great ones from the ground instead. The weather had been cloudy and overcast when I left Rome but had cleared to a brilliant blue sky with a few clouds upon my arrival in Pisa. I took it as a sign of good things to come.
The next day I headed to Florence, for a few hours stop over before Bologna. I loved Florence. It was basically along the river, with grand buildings and architecture to admire, and had trees which gave it a living quality that I’d missed in Rome. I found it extremely difficult to get maps of any kind in Italy, and if the information centres actually existed and happened to have a map they wanted to charge you €2 for it. They seriously tried to squeeze every last dollar out of the tourists, and I didn’t like it. I discovered the Hop-On, Hop-Off buses in every city, and I would ask for a map of the bus routes under the guise of studying it before I bought a ticket. Considering the ticket for each city was between € 18 and € 22, I certainly wasn’t going to get on the bus. However, the maps they had indicated all the major landmarks and icons that the buses stopped at and which roads they took to get there. So, I followed the routes on foot. Not all of the route mind you, just the sections I was interested in. The maps didn’t name every street, but you got the general gist of where to go and how to get there. This method continues to work for me in every city that has the Hop-On, Hop-Off buses and has saved me a few € ‘s in the process!
I saw all the major ‘must see’s’ in Florence, and was a little overwhelmed with the nunber of tourists around, however I soon discovered they were from a cruise ship that docked in Florence for the day and there were not usually quite so many people around at the beginning of June. I met some lovely people from Wales, who told me of a nice coffee shop to visit when I get there and who also took a photo of me on my camera. This is an ongoing issue when you travel alone, getting photos of yourself. Often you resort to the self portrait style, other times you have to ask someone else to take it. Being particular about photography I often do not like the photos other people take, so I now set up the camera to how I want it, including zooming it and sometimes even taking a photo of the area I want them to get and point to where I will stand when they take the photo. Sometimes they get it right, other times I say thanks and delete the photo they took because it’s crap and repeat the process with someone else a bit later on 🙂
I had intended to get a certain train from Florence to Bologna, the cheaper one, but when I wanted to book the ticket it was sold out. Not happy! This meant that instead of paying about $10 for a seat on a train (ok, so it was a bit slower, but who cares, I was still going to get there in the end!), I had to pay just over $30 for standing room only on a faster train – either that or pay for a night’s accommodation in Florence. Geez, the Italian rail system, Trenitalia, can be great and can be equally as frustrating. I discovered how to find the cheap tickets online, but you obviously should book them online to get the discount. I bought the (way too expensive ticket) for the 40 minute trip, and ended up talking to a nice Italian lawyer, who ended up helping me with directions once we arrived in Bologna.
The hostel in Bologna was out of the city centre, so made another (what felt like epic) journey to get there and was ready for bed by the time I arrived. To my pleasant surprise, the staff at this hostel were Italian yet they spoke English really well! That was all I needed to perk up again, this was the first time I had Italian people who I could ask actual questions of, about their country, the transport etc etc. I think my check in was the longest on record, about an hour all up. I asked them all the questions about Italy that thus far I’d just guessed the answers to. I found out about the divide between the North and South of Italy; why the rubbish is such an issue in Naples (more involved with the politics and the ‘Mafia’ than just people not caring); the difficulties in getting a job and possible reasons why those in customer service are still ‘serving’ when they clearly don’t want to be; and why tourists are ripped off so much. They confirmed for me that there is a general attitude in Italy that every last euro should be coerced from the tourists as much as possible (or words to that effect!) This was the first of a few occasions I heard this from an Italian, so I wasn’t imagining it, we were being purposely ripped off at every opportunity.
I wanted to send some postcards home, yet the post office closed at 12noon, so asking at the ‘Tabacci’ shops I was told one stamp was going to cost me 2euro. No way! That is extortion – equal to about $2.50 back home. Come on, it cost €0.67 per stamp to send postcards from Malta, so they can’t cost €2 per stamp in Italy. Other places I asked said €1.60 which I still wasn’t going to pay, but just proved my point that ROME = Rip Off Merchant Extraordinaires! I wanted to go to the post office to ask, but twice when I went there the line was out the door and I didn’t feel like wasting half a day waiting.
The food was another issue. Advertised prices were often only for take away, as soon as you sat down you were charged more for using the table, plus a ‘service’ fee. Food that didn’t have a price on it was often weighed and you paid per weight, which of course wasn’t explained. If it was, I’d have asked for half as much because I didn’t eat it all anyway. I just took what they served and figured it was a set price, but alas, it was not. A serving of eggplant lasagne plus two pieces of zucchini cooked with tomato and cheese on top cost me €8.90. Everyone raves about the pizza in Naples but I have to say, I was unimpressed. Luckily I found one small shop in Rome where the guy made the pizza in front of you, and it only cost €5, however the Capriccosa pizza I ordered came out with a few slices of mushroom, three whole olives, tomato and oregano and an egg in the middle. It was fresh and tasted good, but seemed to be a rare find as most of the food I’ve seen that is reasonably priced is drenched in olive oil.
The sights in Rome were nice, although a little underwhelming. Mike and I wandered around and saw a fair bit, as Rome is pretty small so you can basically walk everywhere. I think the Colosseum was more impressive from the outside than from the inside, and I got some great pictures of it on a clear sunny day. I am amazed that people live in this city where there are so many old monuments and such history, since Australia has so little. The main road that leads to the Colosseum would be a route for many people to and from work I’m sure, yet I guess if you lived there you wouldn’t notice it after a while.
The Trevi fountain had a hundred or so people surrounding it even at 8pm so I didn’t stay long, and the lines for the Vatican were ridiculous so I didn’t go in there either. I did go into a number of other Churches and Basilica’s, and one free museum I found, along with the Roman Forum and Archaeological site adjacent to the Colosseum. I walked to most of the Piazza’s (public squares) in Rome, photographed most of their Obelisk’s (tall structures usually in the middle of a Piazza and obstructing your view of the building behind), and saw the Pantheon. My favourite place in Rome was Piazza Navona because I arrived to find a musical ensemble playing lively songs; I didn’t get hassled to buy anything although there were numerous stalls selling artwork throughout the Piazza; and the fountain there was nicer than the Trevi fountain! It was the first place in Rome I really enjoyed, and for anyone going to Rome I’d say that has to be a first stop. Restaurants were setting up and I imagine it would be a nice spot for dinner too, although I was a bit early for that. The other place I heard was nice but didn’t get to visit was Trastevere.
I was glad to be leaving Naples and heading to Rome, and managed to buy myself a ticket from the self service machines, rather than waiting in line for hours to be served by staff who didn’t seem to ever be in a rush or care if you missed your train. Even these tickets had to be validated, which seemed idiotic as it was for a particular train at a particular time and platform, however I complied. I double checked with a girl reading the departures board that I was on the correct platform and headed for the right train. Barely any of the instructions were in English, so I wanted to be sure.
I had the cheapest of unallocated seating, yet when I got on the train there was no one to ask for directions to the correct carriage, nor did I see seat numbers, so I simply sat in the nearest seat to where I got on. As it turned out it was an excellent choice, as a guy had sat across the aisle just before me and he spoke English! We talked the whole way to Rome, and I discovered Mike was a Hawaiian born pilot currently living in Dubai. He’d travelled a lot and was interested in photography so we had plenty to talk about.
Upon arriving in Rome I was pleasantly surprised to hear a lot more English spoken than in Naples, however the customer service was, if at all possible, worse in Rome. We headed to the information desk to get maps, the first essential any traveller obtains when in a new city. We waited in line (there seem to be lines for everything in Italy) and after a few minutes of watching the two women at the desk chat between themselves while the line grew longer my patience wore thin. Leaning over the desk I asked if they simply had any maps available and thankfully one woman got up and retrieved a stack from a cupboard. She handed me one and turned on her heel and walked off again. Uh, hello – we actually want two – is that so difficult?! Mike then asked for one as well and she simply ignored him. To the point we decided it was deliberate and finally another traveller offered us their map instead.
I found this attitude prevalent in Rome. Everywhere you went you had to wait in line, which I could understand as there were so many tourists even at the start of summer, but the customer service people seemed inclined to provide no service whatsoever. They were rude, abrupt, unfriendly and lacked manners. I may expect that at the end of their summer, but the city is a major tourist attraction, so if you don’t like the job you have then get one where you are not expected to provide customer service. Every English speaking tourist I met had had similar experiences, and all agreed that as a tourist draw card, Rome was a disappointment.
I went to another tourist info centre for further information, or at least get brochures of the city’s highlights and bus/train info, and was given none of it. I was told you could buy public transport maps and timetables for €2.50 (Euro), which I was not going to do. I asked for directions to the Catacombs and the woman stabbed her finger at the map and said the bus number I had to get. I wanted clarification on how long the bus was, how much it cost etc, (all the usual things a tourist place gets asked I’m sure) and she just told me to ask the bus driver – well I discovered the bus driver didn’t speak English. I managed to get to the Catacombs with a tonne of guess work, pointing at maps and signs and a lot of waiting around. Buses in Italy rarely arrive on time, if at all, and you often can’t buy tickets on the bus and have to pre-purchase them at ‘Tabacci’ shops. None of this was explained to me at the info place, I learned it by myself or from other tourists.
One morning the wifi in the hostel wasn’t working, so at 8am I pushed the buzzer for the receptionist, and she opened the little window bleary eyed and barked ‘What?’ I asked if there was problem with the internet as it wasn’t working, and she said ‘No internet’ and slammed the window shut. Geez Louise, it was 8am and I’m paying to stay here woman! Is it too much to ask for even a polite rebuff? Another time I was in a supermarket trying to decipher the packaging of the items I wanted, when an older Italian man walked past me to get a bottle of wine. I was still standing there when he returned, and although there was plenty of room for him to get past me, as he did so he raised his elbow sharply and knocked a packet out of my hand. I was stunned, and looked at an Italian woman nearby who simply raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. I walked out of the shop and decided the only nice people in Rome were the tourists.
On Sunday I went on a tour to Pompei and Mt Vesuvius, and both were really good. We had a fantastic guide who knew answers to every question we asked and he knew and explained the Latin and Greek symbols, words and mythology. He gave us so much more information than we expected and it was really informative, and a nice change to be with people who spoke English as there were four Americans and two Londoners on the tour with me. We learnt that Pizza originated in Pompei, because people didn’t have time to sit down for lunch so the restaurants would sell their lunch on an edible ‘plate’ – just like a pizza as we know it today. With the lack of schooling in those days people did not have numbered streets, your house location was simply known by the face of the god/goddess carved into the water trough nearest your house.
Brothels were an important part of everyday life, to keep the violence and aggression levels low to minimal, and the word SPA as we know it comes from Latin words meaning ‘Health by water’ – which is how the people of Pompei would spend their afternoons after working all morning. There were phallic symbols all throughout the buildings, some carved into stone like graffiti, others were built onto walls and footpaths. This was to invite the gods of fertility to bless their families, because the infant mortality rate was so high they wanted to produce many children to ensure their family flourished. The gladiators were not so by choice, however they were slaves and criminals whose punishment was to fight for others entertainment. If they won a bout they earnt money, and winning enough times meant they also had a chance at gaining their freedom.
We climbed Mt Vesuvius, or at least the last 600m anyway. My Grandpa had climbed it in 1949, only five years after it last erupted, and I was keen to do the same. The crater is huge, although not having any comparison I’m not sure if it large in terms of other volcanoes. I glimpsed a few wisps of smoke from the centre, however I was a bit surprised to see grass growing in the crater. It makes sense when I think about it, because it has been 67 years since the last eruption and the crater is comprised of dirt, rocks and vegetation, however it was something I guess I just hadn’t considered. There is now a railing around the edge, which wasn’t there when my Grandpa was there, and there are a few stalls selling postcards and gimmicks as you climb up. We were told we could take some rocks from the crater, so I got a few little ones of different colours since I’m betting there will come a day when you’re not allowed to take anything from the site.
An encounter as we headed up the mountain left us all in stitches from laughing so much. Our mini bus driver was stuck behind a large tour bus and at one sharp corner we came across another large tour bus heading down hill. Drivers in Italy seem to announce their arrival at intersections by tooting the horn, and in this case it was an early and appropriate warning system as the road was barely wide enough for one bus, let alone two. Our driver and the tour bus reversed their vehicles, while the other tour bus navigated the corner, and we were perched precariously on the very edge of the road while we waited for the outcome. Suddenly our driver darted onto the other side of the road and drove parallel to the bus ahead of us and towards the oncoming bus. As we squeezed between the two vehicles with only about an inch free on either side, the downhill tour bus driver shouted something in Italian, to which our guide replied, also in Italian. Once we’d succeeded in passing we left them to work it out and continued up the mountain, while our guide explained in English what had been said. Apparently the oncoming bus driver had yelled ‘Why were you behind the other bus?’ to which our guide replied ‘Why was your mother behind the stove?’ We thought it was hilarious because it was a stupid question that deserved an equal reply, and the guide had succeeded in delivering just that.
I woke up to beautiful weather on the Saturday, and walked around Naples for the whole day. The markets were interesting, and I was intrigued by the open air food stalls. One seafood shop was below an apartment and they washing hanging directly over the fish which I imagine would leave the clothes smelling particularly bad. I saw a wedding procession through the narrow crowded streets, with guests walking ahead of the fancy cars that announced their arrival with horns tooting, before the bride arrived at the church to the song ‘Here comes the bride’ blaring from loudspeakers. I saw a car with an open boot full of large ferns in pot plants spilling out of the rear of the vehicle, and scooters galore with most often two or three people astride the little seat. Sometimes they wore helmets, sometimes they didn’t. Those that did often had a phone shoved halfway into the side of the helmet to talk as they rode, while others simply held the phone to their ear. Sometimes there were groups of three friends on the scooter, laughing and talking as they rode, while other times it was mum and two kids – one standing in front and the other clasped on behind. To cross the street in Naples you just have to walk out and keep walking – and it took me a while to remember they drive on the opposite side of the road to Australians, so the childhood rule about looking both ways before you cross the street became particularly important! The drivers zoom around you and your chances of not getting hit are better when you allow them to navigate their course, rather than you trying to navigate around them.
I went to the information centre hoping to get some basic info on where to go and what to do, but all that was offered was a city map and ‘Hop on, hop off’ bus timetable. The map was marked with little icons for sights to see, so I made my way around those. I did visit the Museo Cappella Sansevero, which contains the ‘Veiled Christ’ marble statue. It was interesting from an artistic point of view, as it was quite realistic looking and did make you want to touch the ‘veil’ to see if it was really made from marble. I got the local bus to Mergellina, a little south west of the centre of Naples and along the water, and pursued a halting conversation with a lady who sighed and looked wistful when I said I was from Australia. She gave me a ticket for the bus because I hadn’t found where to buy them on the street, and she told me it was from the ‘Tabacci’ shops. These ‘Tabacci’ shops are kind of like milk bars back home, as they sell a variety of everything, including cigarettes.
I made my way along the waterfront to the Castel dell’Ovo, a castle on land that jutted out into the sea, upon which was built a small marina. Taking photos with yourself in them becomes a skill when you travel alone, and can often be a good way to meet people. A couple from Northern Italy saw me doing this and offered to take my picture, to which I gladly agreed – if only to speak English for a little while. They were really nice and in Naples for the first time themselves. Anytime I heard a snippet of English I’d be drawn to the person/people because it was the only time I got to talk to someone who spoke the same language. Even the hostel I was staying in seemed deserted, so I spent most of the day talking to myself for company 🙂
I tried to say the basics of hello, thank you and goodbye in Italian, but even then I got stared at and look upon as if I was not worthy of their time. I found the people in Naples to be rude, aggressive and not at all welcoming. Granted I was there on a weekend and the weather was poor, however I was taken aback at the hostile feel of the city. I was warned by two women and an elderly man I asked directions from to watch my bag from thieves and pickpockets, ‘Attenzione, attenzione’, while pointing to my bag, and I figured for locals to warn me the situation must be pretty bad. People are trying to sell you stuff everywhere you go – fake name brand handbags, sunglasses, scarves, umbrellas and even socks. I had one guy follow me up the street for about two minutes insisting I look at the socks he was selling, even after I said no a number of times and kept walking. The hassling reminded me of the markets in Africa, and I’m sure they are similar to those in many other countries, but seriously, I’m certainly not going to buy something because you pressure me into it.
Arriving in Naples I was repulsed by the amount of rubbish piled in the streets. I’m not talking a few random plastic bags, this was stinking, steaming piles of garbage – broken bottles, food scraps, cardboard boxes, nappies, plastic bags and more. It was absolutely disgusting. There was also graffiti everywhere! It was pouring with rain when I arrived, and no one other than a few fellow tourists spoke English. Even the receptionist at the hostel I stayed in didn’t speak English. I had breakfast included in my stay, and although he gave me the card to get brekky at a nearby restaurant, he did not understand when I asked what time it was served. ‘No Englise’ was a common term I got used to hearing in Naples. I ended up drawing pictures of three analogue clock faces showing times of 7, 8 and 9 and he pointed to the clock that said 8 – at least that was easy enough to sort out. Brekky turned out to be just a croissant and glass of juice, so you were right Natalina – just one ‘lousy’ croissant as you put it!
I realised I’d been spoilt in Malta without knowing it, because everyone spoke English and were friendly, so it was a bit of a shock to arrive in Naples and be confronted with the opposite. I had read that you must validate your public transport tickets in Italy, for the train police will target tourists and issue a large fine if you haven’t. What I didn’t realise at the time was the ticket I had obtained on the bus from the airport I could have also used on the trains to the hostel. However, wanting to do the right thing, I entered the main train station and asked around where to buy a ticket as there were no self service machines I could see. ‘No Englise, No Englise’ were the replies I got, so I chose the most expensive looking shop I could find and thankfully the sales girl was able to understand and speak English well enough to point me in the direction of the Newsagent where I had to buy the ticket.
Having obtained the ticket I made my way to the platform she had indicated was the one I needed (having the address written on a bit of paper was handy), then realised it wasn’t validated. Trudging up the flight of stairs again, I managed to locate the validating machines and get my ticket stamped. These machines were not well signed, nor did they look particularly important, so I can see why so many tourists overlook them. Back to the platform I went, and arrived as the train I needed was leaving. I waited 40 minutes for the next one, and managed to follow a few American kids as they headed ito the same station as me. Plodding along the street towards the hostel, I was drenched by the rain and any person I asked for directions simply muttered ‘No Englise’ and walked off.
Eventually I found the alley where the hostel was located, and, in the dark just managed to make out the hostel name amongst a list of next to buzzers on the wall. The guy answered in Italian and when I heard the door click I pushed and it opened into a central courtyard/car park. Having no further directions to follow, I wandered around a bit until I found the hostel entrance, and lugged my now wet and heavy backpack up three flights of stairs. From leaving the hostel in Malta to arriving at the one in Naples was a total duration of ten hours, and I was tired, soaked and wanted a good night’s sleep. Thankfully I was the only person in my room, and it had an air conditioner, wifi and a spotlessly clean bathroom which was nice, although the toilet seat wasn’t secure and if you sat on it any way other than dead centre it slid violently to one side and felt as if you’d end up on the floor!
My flight from Malta to Naples went via Rome, and the first leg was pleasant, being seated next to a Maltese lady who was a Social Worker and had spent time working in Blacktown, NSW. We talked about all things social work related, and she was keen to learn more about the Lead Tenant house I live in, while I was educated on the rising domestic violence and homelessness situation in Malta. I had free wifi in the airport in Rome (why is it that Melbourne Airport charges for the use of their wifi and no other airport seems to?), yet my flight from Rome to Naples was eyebrow raising to say the least.
The plane was half empty, yet I had a window seat next to two large African women. Their clothes were bright and colourful and their hair piled on their head. I was about to compliment the one next to me on her hair, until she turned away from me and I realised with a shock it was a wig! Upon closer inspection I could see her natural black hair poking out from underneath, and I turned to look out the window to hide my smile. Suddenly I felt a sharp stab in my thigh and when I turned towards her she had a painted fingernail jabbed into my leg. Without another word she then pointed to the in-flight magazine with the word ‘Valencia’ on it and asked ‘Spain?’ I agreed that Valencia was in Spain and she returned to the conversation with her friend. A little puzzled and massaging the area of my leg where she had poked me, I returned to watching the goings on on the tarmac. The men in the rows ahead of me continued to talk loudly in Italian while the weary looking hostess gave the safety demonstration, and I felt sorry for her having to put up with their rudeness. One of my pet hates is people who don’t remove their sunglasses when talking to you indoors, and these guys continued to wear their mirror lenses the whole flight. Luckily they only talked across the aisle between themselves.
As the plane was moving to the runway I realised with horror that the woman next to me was talking on her mobile phone! I looked at her friend who just smiled, and I was shocked that she continued to talk, albeit in hushed tones, for the next few minutes. I don’t think mobile phones can interfere with actual aircraft controls or we’d surely have them confiscated on boarding, however I was stunned at her audacity. Come on lady, there are blanket rules for a reason and it doesn’t take much for you to respect them when necessary. Far out! Thankfully she put the phone away when the plane gathered speed, but I was still shaking my head at her attitude.
Entertaining myself by watching Rome get smaller below us, suddenly her arm snaked across my view and she shut the window blind just ahead of me. What the?! No pardon me, excuse me, do you mind or could you please – just reach out and encroach upon my space a little more why don’t you. I was fuming, however we were seated above the wing and admittedly that window was blindingly bright, so I left the blind down and continued to look out the one slightly behind me. I was in no mood to argue with these two large women who had me boxed into the window seat, nor did I want to deal with a tired and possibly cranky air hostess., but still, a little courtesy would go a long way.
With now only clouds to see I got my netbook out to type and turned it slightly so she couldn’t read what I wrote. Next I know she’s gouging around in her nostril picking her nose. Boy oh boy, the sooner I get off this flight the better. As we were coming to land in Naples she repeated the procedure with the blind, opening it this time and I kept my eyes firmly glued to the window I claimed as mine, effectively blocking her view. Thankfully she wasn’t able to manoeuvre herself well enough to stick her head into my window and I sat looking out the window until we landed.
Interestingly, the stairs we descended were actually the underside of the aircraft tail, and I was intrigued, having never seen stairs that formed a part of the aircraft before. I boarded the waiting shuttle bus at the opposite end to where the women sat, and little did I know that that flight was going to be fairly indicative of my time in Naples and Rome..
I ran out of time to do everything I would have liked in Malta, for such a small country it has many more places to visit and things to see than I imagined. A great tourism website for the country is the official ‘Tourism Malta’ site, which has heaps of information on where to go and what to see.
I left the hostel three hours before my flight, thinking that would be heaps of time to get to the airport. What I hadn’t counted on however, was that there would be many other people heading for the same flight and therefore the buses to the airport would be full. Thankfully I only have my main backpack and a small carry on bag, however, with the Maltese buses as they are you don’t have much room for luggage. Luckily a backpack is easier to sit on your lap than a suitcase.
The buses were passing my stop one by one without stopping – they were so full the drivers didn’t even stop. I ended up walking two stops backwards from my destination in an effort to reach a stop without many other people and hope the driver would stop for just a few of us. I eventually got on a bus to Valletta and then got the airport bus (#8) just as the engine began to rev for departure. I arrived at the airport ten minutes before check in closed, phew! The ride to the airport was another entertaining journey, with traffic jams and road works galore. The bus was packed and thankfully I was committed until the last stop, for watching others getting off earlier it seemed to be a feat of courage and strength to make their way down the aisle and onto solid ground.
There was a near altercation between our bus and a truck, with both large vehicles vying for space in the merging traffic. The truck driver turned his side mirror in at the last minute to avoid it getting smashed and all the passengers on the bus added insult to injury by contributing their own expletives to the tense atmosphere. Further on we came upon a street that was closed to traffic for road works. The bus driver had obviously decided enough was enough and was determined to enter the road regardless of the barriers. A heated argument with the workman ensued, with contributions from the passengers shouted through the open windows. It was chaos, and everyone was quickly losing their temper in the hot and crowded conditions. Eventually the workman gave in and opened the barriers so we could pass through and a roaring cheer erupted from the bus. Victory had been achieved and everyone laughed and clapped with glee at the workman’s expense. The rest of the ride was fast and bumpy with smiles all around – and many thanks that we arrived just in time.
The buses in Malta deserve a special post all of their own. These ancient relics will no longer be in service from July 3rd 2011, so I feel privileged to have experienced them. Depending on which information sheet you look at, there are between 90 and 102 bus routes across Malta, which is effectively the same size as the city of Sydney (and some may argue has similar traffic problems as Sydney!). The island is divided into zone A (most central), B and C (to the furtherest edges of the island), with most lines covering zone A and most only operating in and out of Valletta. The cost of a ticket in zone A is 47c (euro cents, so about 60c AU) for one ride to almost any route over the island, although I’ve noticed that when you give the driver 50c you don’t get any change – which I didn’t mind too much as the 1c and 2c pieces were tiny and fiddly.
Now these buses are so old they are almost comical, and I loved them! They are bright orange and only have one door to get on and off. The driver still issues tickets and handles the money, and sometimes the door is located two seats behind the driver, so there is a human traffic jam with people getting off and others trying to get on and pay. I was amused by how many people would fit in the isle, which was not much wider than an average size person. If you didn’t know where your stop was, I found it was easier to sit up the front or you had to push and shove and squeeze your way past everyone in the isle to get out, and in the process you risked the driver taking off before you reached the door.
The door – if there was one in fact – was never closed, so you could leap on or off at any stage and I laughed at the idea of buses like this back home. The driver simply slowed down a little and people often hopped off as the bus was still moving. It did make it easier, and marginally faster, for the bus didn’t have to gear up again to get going. Mind you, it seemed the buses only operated in second gear. They took off in second, drove at second, and slowed down in second to allow people to alight! The noise was amazingly loud, since all the available windows were open and the space for the door let in even the engine noise.
It was the small things I found amusing and took photos of, which I’m sure some people thought I was crazy for being interested in. The system to notify the driver you wanted to get off was similar to our trams, you either had a button to push, or a cord to tug on, or some people simply stood at the entrance and told the driver they wanted him to stop/slow down. What I found most interesting was the location of the buttons to push, as they were on the ceiling of the bus at infrequent locations. The cord style was usually hooked up to a large replica bicycle bell and made the same noise as a bicycle bell! Some of the buses had a seat that was perpendicular to the rest of the seats, and aligned with the front left side of the bus with those passengers facing the side of the driver and had to negotiate their toes being trodden and mind their eyes for careless elbows of people pushing to pay for a ticket and squeeze themselves into the isle.
The seats were not made for overweight people, and although there were some larger people on the bus, everyone still squeezed two to a seat and often some additional luggage or groceries. Some bus drivers charged people extra for luggage, some didn’t. Some were cheerful enough, some were downright miserable and not forthcoming when asked for directions. I had one grunt at me when I asked for a ticket to a destination I was unsure of the location or pronunciation, and when he continued to hold out his hand I guessed I hadn’t paid him enough so added 10c to the pile. He threw the money in the tray and gave me a ticket worth only 47c anyway!
One bus had a suspicious looking floor that I was uncertain would hold up with the weight of everyone on board, and another had a full bucket of water underneath a seat. I noticed that one when it splashed onto my foot when the driver braked suddenly – which was a regular occurrence. The funniest experience I had on these buses was on the way to Mdina. A middle aged local woman got on the bus and when she sat down she made the sign of the cross on her head and chest. This caught my attention, and I didn’t have to wait long to find out why she was praying… It had started to rain (yes, apparently it does now rain in June in Malta) and the roads were obviously slippery. Not something that usually concerns bus passengers I’m sure. This bus however must have had tyres that were as bald as a baby’s bum because the bus began to slide all over the road. The driver wasn’t going all that fast either, but corners became rally corners, with the rear end of the bus sliding out as soon as the brakes were applied. Even stopping at the next stop became a sliding halt rather than a graceful stop. I couldn’t stop myself grinning at the shock and uncertainty on the faces of the other tourists on the bus and enjoyed myself immensely.
Click here to view my photos of Malta. The page will open in another window, and enter ‘europe’ if asked for a password.
I spent two and a half days visiting relatives of my Grandparents. Everyone was really nice and welcoming, and excited to have me visit. I was fed everywhere I went although my Pop is still the best Maltese cook I know. Coming from a country without a true ‘national dish’ yet with plenty of variety in food, I was surprised at the ordinariness of food in Malta. I saw only a few places offering rabbit dishes, and I did love the Qassatat (correct spelling this time), however most of the rest of the food was exactly what you’d get at home. It was suggested I try the Ftira, which I did, however it was just toasted Turkish bread with sandwich fillings.
My body was still on Melbourne time for the first two days, so I was exhausted at 8pm (4am AU) and was in bed at 9pm both nights. The weather was beautiful, about 25 degrees and sunny each day, until Thursday when it rained. The receptionist at the hostel said she’d never seen rain in June in ‘all her life’, and I was just glad I had packed jeans, closed toe shoes and a light rain jacket. Until The Rainy Day, my tan was reappearing quite nicely, with what will become permanently tanned sandal strap marks on my feet I’m sure.
I managed to see only a few sights in Malta once I’d visited all the relatives, and there are many more places I’d like to have been. I did get to the capital Valletta, and spent a few hours walking around. Initially it reminded me of a show/fair – the city is enclosed by walls, with one entry/exit. They are renovating the entrance so it was not as impressive as I imagine it has the potential to be, and there was a sea of people descending on the place at once, which added to the carnival atmosphere. It took me a while to get my head around the fact that people actually worked there, and in the areas closer to the sea, people lived. I can’t imagine having so many tourists traipse around my house all day, every day. In Valletta I went to the lookout at the Upper Barrakka Gardens, where you could see the Grand Harbour, and Grand it is. I managed to get someone to take a photo of me to prove I was there, although these photos are rare when you travel by yourself. Next I visited St John’s Co-Cathedral. Impressive from the outside, and magnificent from the inside. Jaw dropping in fact. I spent a few hours wandering around and they gave you personal handsets in a language of your choice to listen to recorded messages and information about the various aspects of the Cathedral. There was no flash photography allowed, however I managed to get a few really good shots by changing the ISO on my camera. Gold leaf and ceiling paintings dominated the building and it instantly became my favourite place in Malta.
Next I walked to the very tip of Valletta to see the Police Academy at Fort St. Elmo. There is a monument there I wanted to see of my Pop’s Uncle who was killed on the spot when the first bomb was dropped on Malta in WW2. Unfortunately, the Academy was being renovated and turned into a tourist attraction and I was told I would be able to see the monument in one year’s time. The police officer I spoke to did know of it, and said that my Great Uncle was one of six killed from that bomb. He did offer to sneak me in to see it on Sunday, however I wouldn’t be in Malta then.
The following day I went to Mdina which was the old capital of Malta. It was a very quiet place, as I had visited Dingli Cliffs first and by the time I got to Mdina most of the crowds had disappeared. It had also started raining so I had the place almost to myself. Again, people actually live here, which is something I’m still amazed by. I saw family names near the doorbells on many doors, and yet we were free to wander and take photos. Dingli Cliffs were disappointing, however I had to remind myself that it was the highest point on the island so it was of some significance. For comparison purposes, the height of the cliffs are equal to the height of the Sydney Harbour Bridge from the Harbour.
Following Mdina I met up with my Pop’s cousin again, and she took me to Mosta. We went to the Mosta Dome and I experienced my second jaw dropping moment as soon as we walked inside. Exquisite comes to mind, with all the paintings, gold leaf, decorated ceilings and an imposing pulpit that had a flight of stairs to reach the top. We saw the replica bomb of one that had fallen through the dome ceiling on April 9, 1942. Luckily for the 300 people inside the bomb didn’t explode and no one was hurt.
I managed to submit my final essay for Uni on Thursday when it rained for most of the day, and although I didn’t want to ‘waste’ a day inside, I had to get it done. Now I can properly relax and slip into holiday mode. I didn’t get to Gozo, Malta’s second largest island, nor did I get to explore many other places, however there is always next time!
I arrived in Malta on Sunday afternoon (10pm Melbourne time) and got a lift to my hostel courtesy of the lady I sat next to on the plane from Dubai to Malta. She lives in Sydney and was staying in Malta for two months with her extended family and they were a huge welcoming party for her at the airport. One of her nephews was instructed to give me a lift to which he kindly obliged.
The hostel I’m staying at is very nice, clean and friendly, and they have lots of international students staying here who come to Malta to learn English. I had no idea that so many students would choose Malta to learn English. Apparently it is known in (by those who know) that Maltese teachers teach better English than the English themselves! I love the accent and pronunciation that all Maltese have, when they speak it is a very pleasant, well rounded sounding English.
My room-mate is a girl from Kazakhstan, who speaks very little English – she arrived a few days before me and is a student at the NSTS English school. I asked her to write down ‘Hello’ (Privet), ‘Good morning’ (Dobroe utro), ‘Good evening’ (Dobroi nochi), ‘Goodbye’ (Do svidaniya) and ‘Thank you’ (Spasibo) in Russian so we can at least communicate that much. Over the three days I’ve been here she is a little more eager to try some English and followed me down to breakfast this morning – so I think she may be extremely shy as well. The brekky at the hostel is good – I had a choice of cereal, breads, cheese, meat and jam and little mini freshly baked croissants.
I spent the afternoon and evening walking around Sliema and was amazed at the crazy drivers – I’ve since heard that if you can drive in Malta you can drive anywhere in the world, including Italy! I am bound to think that is true too. The streets are tiny narrow spaces, and drivers fly through intersections at amazing speed and dart into the smallest space between traffic. Blind corners are also approached with the same reckless abandon and a few times I’ve flinched thinking they might hit something yet more often than not they squeeze through unscathed. I’ve become used to the constant screech of tyres and have only heard one actual collision thus far, which I find quite surprising. All being said, I take extra care when crossing the street now.
The parking situation is quite interesting also. Cars are parked any which way, in the direction of the traffic or opposite, it doesn’t seem to matter. And the space between parked cars is, on average, only about two inches I’ve noticed. It is impressive once you get over the initial shock. Streets here usually have a line of cars down one side and moving traffic on the other half of the street. If the street is one way all is good, yet if it is a two way street there is mostly a game of ‘chicken’ going on to see who gets through first! Luckily the cars here are all small ones, for large ones would simply not fit down most of the streets.
I’ve been tooted and had comments shouted at me from passing cars, thankfully I don’t understand Maltese, yet I get the gist of their comments from the leering faces out the windows. Not everyone is like that of course, most people I’ve stopped to ask directions or information from have been most friendly and helpful. There was an older Maltese lady who sat on a bench next to me in a public square who started complaining about some young boys who were kicking a ball around and she obviously thought they shouldn’t be. I nodded along with her tirade, for even though she was speaking in Maltese I got the gist of what she meant. She obviously took my nodding to mean I agreed with her complaints for she really got worked up and out came a torrent of words I could not keep up with. I had to wait for her to take a breath before I managed to say ‘English’ and she changed tack immediately. The change was remarkable, not only the language changed but so did her demeanour and I then was subject to a much calmer grumble or two about her dislike for the ball game. Although I agreed the boys should be careful, I thought it was nice that young kids were actually outside running around getting some exercise. Thankfully she changed the conversation to a more pleasant topic, and we chatted generally about where I was from ‘Ohh, Australia’, and why I was here. She did recommend something to eat from the kiosk at the square, and I took her advice and found myself an ‘assartart’ (although I’m not sure of the spelling). It is like a quiche, except you have a choice of ricotta, spinach or peas for the filling, wrapped in a pastry case that was pinched together at the top. And along with being so delicious, it cost me only Є1.10.
I’m in Dubai and although I’ve only seen the Transit area that is huge enough – although not as opulent as I imagined – that might be for the arrivals and departures. I slept 7 hours of the 14 hour flight here and have another 7 hour flight with a re-fueling stop in Larnaca (Cyprus) to go.
I am trying to avoid the ‘smoking rooms’ (really just designated areas) here in the transit lounge as the smell is everywhere and permeates everything – and you know how much I love the smell of cigarettes… I can also hear someone praying/wailing right now – tis an interesting environment for an airport!
Fingers crossed for another good flight with nice fellow passengers. I sat next to a couple from NZ on the way here, which was appreciated considering I could have copped one of the four babies on board or the couple who were both over six foot tall!
Boarding has commenced so bring on the sunshine I say 🙂
Bel's Travels 