Six Months

3 continents 14 countries 36 cities 20 flights 10 long distance trains 9 cross country buses 21 airports 1 backpack (2 rolling cases) 187 days 780 arguments 10 000 cocktails 3 friends 6 months

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A Constant State of Repose — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-29 10:28 — 0 comment(s)

Santorini, the land of doing absolutely nothing.

Whenever I think of the Greek Islands, apart from envisioning gay men writhing around on various Mykonos dance floors, and Australian Topdeckers singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat through alcohol and coconut oil consumption, I see those little white houses attached precariously to cliff faces, looking out over endless stretches of beach and the flat, sparkling Mediterranean Sea. Something like this: http://www.4321.co.il/greeceweddings/wedding-in-santorini.jpg

And so, when faced with the tough decision of what Greek island we would most like to visit, I based my vote almost entirely on those little white houses. It was My Greece, just like Granada was My Spain - I had to go to these places in my mind's eye, if for no other reason than to settle it with myself that they exist and are as beautiful as they are in travel magazines and my head.

We were staying in Perissa Beach, which is situated at the Southeastern part of the island. It is a black beach, thus the sand is mostly made of lava, and it stretches for nearly 7km, dotted with straw umbrellas and watched over by the massive Mesa Vouno, the site of ancient Thira. Our first introduction to this beach was when we passed out on the sunloungers at about 9am on the day we arrived. But first, let me take you back to Santorini Airport, 7am ...

We actually flew in closer to 6.30am, but had erroneously informed our shuttle bus it was 7.30. Cut to us waiting outside the airport, sitting on our bags, pale faced and desperate to close our eyes anywhere that wasn't the stone floor of Athens Airport. At 7.30am, Roberto roared into the carpark, manning the mini van like it was some sort of Aston Martin-esque vehicle, not a white 1994 mini van often seen at Catholic school events. He leapt out, threw our bags into the boot and then, in stilted English, proclaimed 'I be back. I need,' and he wielded his index finger in our face for emphasis, 'ONE coffee. Ok?'

Ok. We fell asleep sitting up in the back of the van.

And then we feel asleep on the sunloungers whilst waiting for our room to be ready.

And thus we were welcomed to Santorini. Wild driving, patent need for coffee (just one)and lying in the sun. A succinct summation of the lifestlye, if ever there was one. And, to be honest, nothing much changed. Wild driving continued on quad bikes (not ours, we appropriated them from our English friends) the patent need for coffee is a constant state for me, regardless of the city, and lying in the sun was only ever not happening if we were lying in bed, or lounging on our favourite couch at our favourite bar. In fact, I would hazard a guess I spent most of the week in some sort of reclining position, moving only to shove food in my face. And when I say shove food in my face, I mean consume some of the most delicious food in the world because, in my mind, Greek and Italian food are in a constant tussle for superiority in the food stakes. Greece also excels in the canned food department. Dolmades, giant beans, okra ... even moussaka (but I didn't go that far ... tempted as I was). Not to mention the non canned goods Greece also excels in (Leni and Jojo feel free to correct my spelling), fetta, loukumi, spanikopita (sold at the 24 hour bakery which was singlehandedly run by an octogenerian woman who, hair in a severe bun, permanently be-aproned, ran every store on the bloody island) halva, baklava, eggplant, taramasalata, tzatziki etc etc. Yes, this entire blog could very easily become about food.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the beach (and me lying on it, having cocktails brought to me from the Beach Bar) from which we only moved to go to Dorian's pub for sweet red wine and then onto Fusion for cheap cocktails, where we befriended the owner and unofficially became spruikers for this fledgling bar. And when I say spruikers, I mean the main part of our job required sitting on the same couch every night and drinking until the early hours of the morning. So good were we at enticing people to this bar (and when I say enticing, I mean sitting and drinking) that a job was offered for next summer. Come and live in Santorini, there is a room above the bar for you, and we will pay you to stand outside and smile at people. And all drinks are free. Mum and Dad, if I disappear around next July, you know where to find me.

Fusion turned out to be a hotbed of social activity that week. It also introduced us to a vast and varied cast of colourful characters who border on fictional. There was Mark who we met one night sitting on the wall of someone's house. He not once dismounted his scooter, even when needing to minimalise the metre distance between us to shake hands ... he, instead, scooted over. The metre. On his scooter. There was Harry who genuinely did not speak one word of English, so opted for an eternally benevolent expression regardless of the conversation subject matter. The perpetually shirtless DJ who mistakenly invited me into his box to 'spin some records' ... an offer I, regretfully, didn't end up taking him up on. There was the owner, Allison, whose life is what Under The Tuscan Sun esque novels are made of; fed up with her dreary London life, one way ticket to Greece, meets Albanian lover in Athens (aforementioned DJ), opens bar in Santorini. It was also at Fusion that we encountered the dubious company of two Norweigans who consequently and indeed simultaneously, fell in love with Satie. She won them over with her sparkling wit and ability to conceal her repulsion at them smearing tobacco over their gums every fifteen minutes. Now, there are times when removing oneself from cloying conversations is nearly impossible. And, to her credit, Satie really did pull out all stops. However, it came to be that the most viable option was to simply find a new conversation circle to enter elsewhere in the bar, seeing as ours was proving impossible to enjoy and impossible to exit. Our knights in shining armour came in the form of an English family - Dad, his best mate Big Phil, and the three sons. The Norweigans joined in, leaving only when Krister literally couldn't see anymore. To this day, Satie shudders when her phone beeps, lest it should herald a lovelorn text from one of her two Scandinavian lovers.

And so Santorini passed on a Summer breeze, a haze of cocktails, black sand and sweet red wine. By day we lay sprawled on the beach sun loungers, by night we reclined on Fusion's loungers. Little bronzed children kicked the soccer ball in the street our balcony looked over, Roberto coaching his own little 3 year old bambino with the vigour reserved only for Europeans (Greeks no less) and football. Our hair became wild with saltwater and our skin got darker and darker until we blended in with the sand.

It was a little slice of heaven as Europe's autumn closed in on our Mediterranean Summer.

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Airports. Soul Suckers. — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-14 17:48 — 0 comment(s)

The highs and the lows of ... Airports

Over the course of the past 5 or so months, we have become intimate with many airports ... I think the number is something nearing 20 with 3 more countries to get in and out of before we get home. Take Frankfurt airport, for example; three times we have strolled those hallowed halls, without ever actually having been into the city itself. No mean feat. Copenhagen; we have whiled away many hours on two separate occasions, with a third impending. And Athens airport. Ahhh Athens airport. We have flown into it from Rome, out of it to Santorini, back into it from Santorini and back out of it into Vienna. We have slept in it, shopped in it, become delirious with fatigue and hunger in it, marvelled at the diversity of things to do within it, grown resentful of it for not having enough to do in it, accusatory of its security levels (let it be known cans of dolmades are not even CHECKED to be sure they are indeed dolmades)- ultimately, a deep and complex relationship has been forged, through the highs (discovery of shopping haven) and lows (horror at McDonalds inexplicably closing at 2am).

But, before we could get to Athens airport, in all its glory, we had to get out of Rome. And before we could get out of Rome, we had to kill 4 hours in our campsite (check out being at 10, airport shuttle bus booked for 2pm). In fact, the entire period of time that was getting ourselves out of one ancient city into another, was defined by elongated periods of Time. Five Legs to be exact.

The Five Legs
1) Campsite Wait. 10am-2pm. Hungover. Desperate for a burger. None in sight.
2) Rome Airport Wait. 2.15pm-8pm. Hangover continues. Only pizza in sight, no burger. Burger preferable to pizza. Will hold out.
3) Rome-Athens Flight. 8pm-11pm. No comment. Flight was blur.
4)Athens Airport Wait. 11.30pm-6am. Airport littered with prone bodies of slumbering backpackers, many in sleeping bags. Alternate between inexplicable positivity 'this is going SO quickly' and maniacal patrolling of corridors for something to do.
5) Athens-Santorini flight. 6.30am-7am.

And, upon arrival, a 6th leg was added.

6) Wait For Room To Be Vacated & Cleaned So We Can Check In. 7am-11am.

Some journal entries of that part of my life that is now a pain filled blur:

5.46pm, Rome Airport ... the wait continues. Never found hamburger, was forced to plunder Lowest Point of Hangover without requisite hangover food. Am now much more chipper, not so delirious, but would STILL sell firstborn for a cheeseburger. And a vanilla latte. 1 sugar. Ahhh Americanisation.

11.50pm - Athens Airport - leg 3 of torture extravaganza is over. now, simply have 4-5 hours to kill in terminal before can check into Santorini flight. Passing time singing rousing renditions of Save Tonight and River Deep, Mountain High.

2.18am - Ahhh Athens Airport, how so very intimate we are.

4.35am - Things To Do Whilst Waiting in An Airport
* give yourself a migraine in the perfume department of duty free
* rationalise buying a bottle of pear vodka, then decide against due to all too fresh memory of hangover
* sleep on floor - try not to feel homeless/dirty, instead pass it off as homeless chic/resourceful
* stand dolefully at McDonalds entrance knowing you technically cannot buy a big mac because you are about to lie on the beach for a week in new swimmers, the pants of which are inexplicably and embarrassingly tiny.

3.15pm - Santorini - Princess Hostel - how is this day still continuing? Surely it is Friday, not still Wednesday the 22nd. Surely I am no longer human, instead bizarre alien beamed from one time zone to the other with no concept of rhythms usually considered inherent to being human.

I have to go and make myself a strong cup of tea before I tackle the blissful reward that was Santorini. The Five Leg Torture Extravaganza still gets me, even today.

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Dolce Vita — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-04-06 20:45 — 0 comment(s)

Italy part 2

En route to Florence's main bus station, we were, as was becoming customary, fined again. What was particularly annoying about this fine was, moments before the straw-haired transit officer approached us, when Satie had asked whether or not we should validate our tickets, I had said confidently (pinned to my seat by my 30kg of luggage)'don't worry about it, we will just fall over lurching to the front of the bus, we only have one more stop anyway.' Yep. One stop too many in the world of super keen ticket checkers whose version of being kind is splitting the fine between the three of us, as opposed to fining us all individually. So kind. Thank you.

In bitter moods, we then proceeded to trawl the station four times in some sort of farce movie sequence, no one providing any sort of definitive directions as to where the bus station actually was - Italy is wonderful in many, many respects ... food, wine, leering men ... it's just that directions is not one of these. Helpful customer service is another. We found our Siena bound bus with 5 minutes to spare, Dee had a tussle with the ticket seller (the roots of which are still inexplicable) and we boarded ... and slowly departed civilisation.

Siena itself is, after the big cities of Italy, wonderfully quiet and quaint and probably sick of people writing books about being beneath its sun. Half an hour south of Siena lies Tocchi, the four house town we were staying in which boasts a greater geese population than it does human. It is, however, one of the most beautiful places in the world and had I been beneath its rays for longer than a week (and with my laptop) I can guarantee I would have bashed out a similarly saccharine novella.

Our farmhouse stood atop rolling olive green acreage at the end of a long, narrow and very dusty road (which we walked a total of two times and complained of the heat every inch of the way). We had a pet horse (Mari Lou) a dog (Mose) some chickens and 2 ducks to call our own, and feed the scraps of our attempted Tuscan cooking to. Our first introduction to the region's food came from a bona fide Tuscan, Costanza whose parents owned the place we were staying in, and she fuelled us onto incredible culinary feats, as outlined in various journal entries ...

Saturday, 11th August: Hurrah! Am chef, Italian chef, with natural hold on tastes and flavours. Have just cooked delicious scrambled eggs.

Sunday, 12th August: Domestic goddess streak continues - just prepared fresh bruschetta mix for tonight's dinner. Perhaps should do recipe book.

Ultimately, we became recluses. Rotund recluses at that. Our days were spent eating and reading in the baking sun (then running inside from swarms of bees that I assume thought my hair was a beehive) and our nights whiled away beneath the setting Tuscan sun, red wine in hand (cheap and delicious in the land of plenty). Our anti social tendencies were revealed when we did venture into the city, once for a grocery shop and once for Palio, and this dislike of crowds and humanity in general was probably not the best state of mind to be in considering our next stop was Rome.

Rome was, accordingly, a shock to the system. Gone was our charmed existence, in its place was a campsite, crowds, and Indian men shoving roses in your face then demanding fiscal compensation. However, nothing beats the thrill of a new city and so our hermit shells had to be shaken off (if nothing else, I needed to be as small as possible to wedge myself into my bunk which was nailed precariously to the cabin wall and resembled a bizarre nest-bed more than it did an actual place of slumber) and our inner tourists embraced. I fear that if I wax lyrical about Rome I will do it a major disservice because Rome, like Paris, has to be seen to be believed. You cannot read about Rome (unless you are reading someone with far greater literary skill than me) and get everything it is about. I could tell you that the massive Pantheon rises out of the middle of nowhere, nonchalantly heralded only by Rameses' obelisk. That we came ambling out of an alley shoving gelato in our faces, and there it was, this extraordinary relic of one of the greatest civilisations to ever exist. I could tell you the sight of the Colosseum nearly brought me to my (nerdily shaking) knees, that the Roman Forum that precedes it, and Constantine's Arch that neighbours it, exist alongside modernity as if it is the most natural thing in the world. The Trevi Fountain, you could stare at for hours and never tire of it and the Spanish Steps are the best place to sit with thousands of other foreigners and attempt to comprehend it all. But I cannot possibly do any of it justice. It is a city you just have to see.

We channelled our inner demure ladies when we visited the Vatican City, no one likes to stick out, particularly when God is watching. And needn't have bothered (or at least tried so hard ... I wore the equivalent of a body suit and a sign on my head saying 'non revealing clothing' even though it was about 35 degrees). Short shorts, skirts, midriffs, plunging necklines - everything one's Nana would rather die than see you in - were out in force and turned away with equal force.

Our last night in Rome involved some Australians who, when not shrieking out 'who wants a Vaginamite sandwich tomorrow morning' and loudly proclaiming how arrogant Americans are and how loved Australians are in comparison (the irony was astounding) were pleasant company. We did, however, take our leave when she of the Vaginamite began hooting about how much French people love Australians (a love I was not privy to) and then demanded to know if those who didn't want Vaginamite tomorrow would prefer Penis Butter. Yessss. Vaginamite and Penis Butter. Can. You. Fathom.

And so it came to be that the next morning, hungover as it seems to be the custom on Travel Days, we began the trip from hell to get to Santorini. It would be 20 hours, 3 airports, and a large amount of time getting intimate with Athens airport later, that we would touch down on the sunny shores of Santorini. For now, the Dolce Vita was over.

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It's a Beautiful Life — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-03-15 11:44 — 0 comment(s)

Italy Part 1

Do not go to Milan.

Actually, let me rephrase. By all means, go to Milan if
1) you are a fashion model - then please, strut these uninspiring streets in all your grasshopper glory
2) if you are simultaneously a fashion obsessist and made of money (in which case you JUST might be a fashion model anyway). Shoppers Dee and I may be, made of money we certainly are not.
3) you are using Milan as a stopover, your gateway into one of the most beautiful, exciting and exhilarating countries in the world

We flew into Milan from Malaga, Spain, a cheap flight that would get us out of Spain and into Italy. It was a full day of travel before we checked into our Milan 'hotel' at midnight. A bus from Granada to Malaga station, a bus from Malaga station to Malaga airport, a plane from Malaga to Milan and then a bus from Milan airport to Milan city (oh, how familiar I am with the Spanish and Italian bus system now. When in doubt, there will always be a bus.) From the centre of Milan, we caught an extortionate cab to our hotel. Which leads me to my next point.

If you are ever in Milan (going against my advice, because I know none of you are fashion models, and I question to what extent made of money applies) do not stay in Adellci Hotel. Do not be fooled by the word 'hotel' tacked onto its name. It may be the cheapest thing on hostel world.com, because, in Milan, it costs to breathe (unless you are a fashion model, I would imagine it is free then, and probably comes with a complimentary hit of coke) but do not be sucked in by its soothingly cheap price tag. In fact, do not be sucked in by the word hotel. It is not a hotel, it is a horror movie set masquerading as a hotel. It may have a few sheets of foolscap paper scattered across the school desk which moonlights as reception on the odd occasion customers actually check in, but this is simply a guise of professionalism. It would have been ok, if our door actually locked properly. I could have even overlooked the fact that the toilet across the hall didn't sport the, I would have thought, necessary appendage, of a door. The one next door to our room did though, because Satie locked herself into it ... she could be heard to wail, as we jostled to get her free, 'this is how I die, isn't it.'

Do, however, go to Venice. If you do anything in your lifetime, make it Venice (or Florence, or Rome, or Siena ... or, really, just Italy). Venice is beautiful. Venice is picturesque, photogenic, ridiculously charming and hopelessly romantic. It banished the horrors of Milan, and practically whipped out a picture book of What Italy Should Look Like and flipped through the glossy pages saying 'prego prego prego'. It is the only city thus far, thats central station has been situated in a pretty part of the city. In Venice's case, you step out, and fall head over heels with a literal postcard image. It takes about 30 seconds to progress from infatuation to full blown love affair. Then a tourist steps on your foot, or sneezes in your face, and a man hassles you to buy a fake prada bag ... and, as it always does in these touristy cities, reality prevails for the moment.

We were staying in Australia ... I mean, a campsite (it's ok, not in a tent, I couldn't pitch a tent if my life depended on it, nor do I have any interest in it) which was (as all campsites through Europe are) a drop off point for everyone's favourite brand of traveller, the Contiki/Topdeck breed. Needless to say, our nights were spent lying in our bunkbeds listening to Aussie C words pick fights with other Aussie C words. I mean, really, can we not think of another word? Is vagina the best we can do? Surely, if our generation continues travelling, in five years we will cease to be known affectionately as Aussies (we will cease to be known affectionately at all) instead, simply as the C word. Not because we are them (well, most of the time) but because it is the only word we seem to spout with any sort frequency. That and 'fuck'. And occasionally 'mate'. Long gone are the simple days of g'day and kangaroos, we now have far more sinister things defining us, and they include derogative references to the female anatomy. Makes. Me. So. Proud.

But I digress. The backdrop to this Australia vocal and verbal ablution, was the delightful Venice. We spent our days eating head-sized pizzas (always go to the back streets for the cheaper and more authentic food) sipping lattes at checkered cloth covered tables, from chipped mugs with cows on them and stalking gondola men for the perfect action shot. All you need to do in Venice is walk, the city does the rest for you, purely by existing. And if you can find a tiny cafe, in one of the narrow back streets, untainted by the massive tourism market that seems to drive this city in the summer, then you can get a pretty cheap (and delicious) coffee and watch the world go by. And get leered at by Italian men. Whatever.

Bologna was next, a train trip (and a fine, who knew you had to validate your ticket after buying it) and a rather long cab ride, and we were at our hotel (smugly booked as one of the cheapest accommodations on hosteworld.com) in the Bologna countryside. Bologna was to be our campsite reprieve, we fashioned it as a hotel retreat, so as to make our campsite stints in Venice, Florence and Rome seem more bearable. At first, it seemed, we had fallen for the Horror Movie Set Moonlighting as a Hotel ruse once more ... then fellow patrons trickled in, the lights went on in reception and we exhaled. The novelty of having our own bathroom, and a buffet breakfast every morning was enough to buoy our campsite and train-fine dampened spirits, as was the fact that Bologna is just lovely. It is the sweetest little university town (since the 1200s or something insane like that) with endless bars, trattorias, cafes and fresh fruit stalls lining the cobbled, arcaded streets. It is worthwhile making time for this little town, even if only for a couple of days - particularly as a stopover in between the hectic Big Cities (Lonely Planet Cities). You feel less like a tourist and more like a local, and if nothing else, the spaghetti bolognaise sauce is superb.

From Bologna, we caught the bus to Florence, yet another campsite, and yet more Aussies. This time, however, we were mercifully more thoroughly dispersed throughout throngs of bronzed European backpackers and skimpily clad Poms who go nuts at the sight of the sun. Again, I will wax lyrical on yet another Italian city. Florence is; artistic, scenic, grand in its old age and rich with art history. It is also bloated with tourists and so, as in Rome, you are hard pressed to find a bona fide Florence-ian, and more likely to engage in any sort of interaction with an American than you are an Italian. That aside, it is wonderful. And again, the perfect city to find a tucked-away cafe, and get out of the throngs of sweating tourists. That being said, a whole lot of sweaty shoulders were rubbed in the queue waiting for David, which is located in an art museum that literally makes no pretences as to why it exists - for David. About 4 paintings hang on the wall in the first room, to the left is a bizarre room of busts and sculptures and then, standing there, framed by an arch and godly light filtering through, is the man himself.
And he is breathtaking.

Nearly as breath taking as the freak rainstorm that hit Florence, the worst in 20 years, as we were skipping through the city. And yes, we were skipping, fuelled along by caffeine, in our calico frocks, perhaps yelling bonjourno to cafe owners who, in their spare time, stand on the steps of their store fronts and talk to passersby. At first, it was a rumble of thunder, then the clouds closed in and boom. Lightening, thunder, gale force winds (of course, Dee and I were perambulating along the bridge at that point, and yes we stopped to take a photo. Ever wonder what kind of people get photos of natural disasters? Why they are standing in the midst of a freak storm photographing flying houses? That's Dee and I. Anything for a good photo.)Aaaanyway, we ran for cover (stopping to photograph and entire row of scooters that had toppled in a domino-esque fashion) only to find most archways occupied by shivering tourists and, by this point we were so wet anyway we saw it only fit to continue. The walk to our campsite involved a narrow set of incredibly steep stairs (the hilltop view comes at a price) which, as we approached them we noted, had turned into a veritable waterfall. When we reached the top, the cafe housing smugly dry Italians (the men are such girls, one actually screamed when he got wet) laughed in our (bedraggled) faces, and so we had no option but to continue to the campsite, rather than endure the humiliation any longer. And so we got back to the campsite, having crossed uprooted trees and waded through flooding gutters, to discover our cabin flooded. The window was open. Dee's bed was soaked through. Satie's bag had puddles in it. Our floor was a wave of mud.

For a couple of nights, it was a not so beautiful life.

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Finding My Spain — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-03-08 12:55 — 0 comment(s)

Valencia, Madrid and finally, Granada ...

It was in Valencia that we were reunited with our German bruder, Christian, and finally ate paella. The European Crew (minus Tommy) was reformed and the cuisine trifecta was complete, Sangria, Tapas and Paella. Hunting down the perfect dish, however, was not without its difficulties. In fact, if you ever need someone to quickly and effectively weed out the worst service and the worst food a city has to offer, please call Leni, Christian, Satie, Dee and myself. We did it in Berlin with the Cheese Platter from Hell and we did it again in Valencia. Desperation for water and air conditioning will drive sane, rational people into any establishment.

Although Valencia's beaches are offset by a stunning industrial backdrop, and the water is an unnerving brown, we spent most of our time in Valencia on the beach, straying into the city only at night (to hunt down the shit food/service double whammy we are so adept at) and on the second last day. Smaller, cleaner and quainter than Barcelona, Valencia seems less preoccupied with getting a stylish name for itself and much happier to sip caipirinhas in sundrenched courtyards. And if that's what you gotta do, then that's what you gotta do.

On Dee and my 3 month travel anniversary, the Trio bade farewell to Christian and Leni, and hopped on yet another 4 hour bus to Madrid. Not before the world proved yet again how tiny it is, and I ran into a Kiwi friend I met in America six years ago on a school 'Young Leader's Conference', on Valencia station. Any moment now, my brother's contiki tour will appear at one of our budget accommodations, I am waiting for it.

We arrived in Madrid hot and tired and desperately excited to see the nation's capital. This excitement would soon morph into a bitterness borne of theft and inappropriate bodily excretions. Our hostel was bangsmack in the middle of the city, on a prostitute lined street, a stone's throw away from the gay party district and right next to McDonalds. Ideally situated. We checked in with Mr Personality 2007 who sported a dye job from hell and rivalled only our cab driver in the arsehole stakes. Granted it was Satie's penchant for writing her Rs as Zs that got us lost in the first place, but we're still paying you mister, no need to scowl so hard your face folds in on itself.

Madrid is infections, there is no denying that. In parts, it is pretty, though nowhere near as effortlessly as other major cities, but there exists an undercurrent of energy you can't quite put your finger on, nor a name to. If you ever find yourself in Madrid, hungry and impoverished (the universal state of budget travellers) go straight to El Tigre, a bar that serves free tapas with every drink. And if you stay long enough and they start to close around you (around 2am) then you don't even have to buy a drink for the platters of chorizzo and cheese baguettes to arrive. Just, whatever do you, don't look at the floor.

Things began to unravel on our 3rd day, and it is here I depart from my narrative and read straight from my journal (which was penned in a tipsy state and thus I may have to notate at times ..)

I have to record this evening whilst it is still fresh in my (admittedly mojito addled) memory. Allow me to hark back to when man defecated in street. Actually, no must hark further back to the two hours Dee and I spent prostitute watching, as depressing as it was fascinating. Actually, no must hark back to when women raised skirt and urinted into grate, on public, much populated street. Defecation occurred en route to meeting Jeff and Mario. Man was ejected from tapas bar with great force – camel suit
pants then unzipped with feverish sense of panic and alacrity. Squatted, defecated. Dee and I in shock. Turned to see if anyone else saw it, woman passing by belched in my face. Continued to plaza to meet Jeff and Mario, but plaza full of agressive lesbians who kept trying to take chair reserved for Jeff. 80 year old woman in sunglasses took to busking area with interpretative dance from hell with small boom box and wizened husband as props. Fight broke out between two men moments later, scuffling sounds sounding over disco music. Engaged in some bizarre limb locking wrestle, rolling in gutter. Distracted momentarily, when fat man in white suit liberated phone from my possession and strolled away.

NB: Dee and I ran off like a shot to try and catch Fatso (who vapourised, probably on a waiting scooter) and so Mario got up to join the chase, still holding his sangria, then the waitress started chasing Mario yelling about him not paying. Mario threw euros at the table and continued running, sangria still in hand.

And so it was with a somewhat bitter taste in our mouths that we departed Prostitute Lane and Hell's Hostel for Granada. Madrid's parting kiss, or slap in the face, came in the form of abuse from a homeless man as we alighted our cab at Madrid's autobus station. Or perhaps it came in the form of the ticket seller who was too busy flirting with her disturbingly baby faced colleague to sell us our tickets to Granada. She did, however, pause long enough in batting her eyelashes, to inform us the next 3 hourly busses were full.

Hello bus station caffeteria, our old friend.

The bus ride to Granada was hellish, not least because it was four hours long and was each hour passed, the temperature rose to a balmy 41 degrees, peaking, of course, when the bus driver decided to take a break in the middle of nowhere. What made it even more painful was two girls in front of Dee who passed the time engaging in bizarre faux lesbian antics for, I can only assume, because no one else enjoyed it, the viewing pleasure of the lone male of the trio.

Granada is my Spain. I finally found it. Prior to actually arriving in Spain, if you had said to me, paint a picture of Spain with words, as you see it, I would have described Granada. After the frenetic pace (and public ablution penchant) of Madrid, Granada was the perfect antidote. White stucco houses, narrow alley ways under an umbrella of blue sky, stone water bubblers and geranium filled balconies. We spent our first day in the tea house area, which is a narrow and steep little street where tapas houses jostle with Middle Eastern restaurants and tiny but deep stalls selling the fruits of the combined Spain and Islamic influences that makes Granada so unique.

And then, of course, there is the Alhambra, which we chose to visit on a 45 degree day. Actually, rephrase, which we chose to walk to on a 45 degree day.
The Alhambra is, scorching heat, profuse sweating and lack of a water bottle over the size of 80ml aside, exquisite. The palace is a beautiful homage to Islamic art and architecture, but with a Spanish flavour. We went to the neighbouring fortress and looked down over a sunburnt Granada, cradled by the huge, dry mountains. The gardens were beautiful, at once green, luscious, neat and charming and, rather thrillingly, I have found my new house. The Summer House. It is my dream house, realised. Stark white walls, square courtyards with orange trees and ceramic ponds, so much space and sunlight, a literal Mediterranean paradise

And then it was a bus again, to Malaga, where we caught another bus to the airport, where we caught a plane to Milan and out of Spain.

For now, adios Espana, bonjourno Italy.

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First Pair of Knockers Out ... Spotted! — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-26 10:12 — 0 comment(s)

So said a spotty, pallid, English youth as he bounded around a city beach in Barcelona, beside himself with joy.

On the plane from Paris to Barcelona, I closed my eyes and imagined Spain. The sun, sangria, sundresses, brown skin and bare feet. Sweating profusely in my I-Have-To-Wear-5kg-Of-Clothing-So-My-Luggage-Meets-Restrictions outfit, I envisioned the beach and me on it, and endless mojitos. I had to. There was no air conditioning and I was desperate.

Barcelona was our first Spanish city and, according to the Lonely Planet, the most un-Spanish of them all. A heady fusion of old and new, with a lean towards the new and chic, Barcelona bustles as much as it siestas, it parties as much as it sunbathes, sprawled in the scorching summer sun. Our neighbourhood, Gracia, was a charming riot of boutiques, lolly stores, Middle Eastern restaurants and tapas bars, all jammed together on narrow tree lined streets overlooked by flower pot filled balconies. It was small enough for us to become local, and perfectly positioned for a relatively short stroll into the city.

It really is impossible to spend any time in Spain and not become completely and utterly relaxed about life. Sangria becomes your breakfast juice, but that's ok because you don't wake up before midday anyway (the magic hour. Drinking before midday is just sad.) And you don't wake up before midday because you don't go to sleep until late, because around about 4pm you have a siesta anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Everything closes down, you have nowhere to go but back to sleep, whether it be in bed, on a sunlounger on your balcony (until you are informed it is inappropriate in Spain to sunbathe on balconies) or on the beach. And if you are on the beach, it is so bloody hot and the walk there has resulted in being so parched, it makes absolute sense to have a refreshing glass of sangria, particularly when supermarkets sell it in handily packaged juice-like plastic bottles.

The beaches, whilst definitely the best antidote to the blistering Summer sun, are city beaches so they are certainly not the most beautiful going around, especially to beach snob Australians. And they are not for the non-nudist-embracing either, as most women tend to eschew the other half of their bathing suits. You can easily separate the Spanish men from the prudish Anglos, if not by their skin tone, then by the simple fact that the Anglos are the ones who actually blink an eyelash ... and/or peel off their clothes to reveal pallid limbs and skip to the water yelling gleefully the now immortal line, 'first pair of knockers out ... spotted!'

Much to Leni's (who we were reunited with after her Paris jaunt ended a few days after ours') disappointment, we didn't eat any Spanish cuisine (save for tapas designed for the western palate in the form of mini hamburgers) but instead frequented a Middle Eastern restaurant, Equinox, where our loyalty won us star treatment and special post dinner treats, invita la casa (I really hope that means 'on the house'). We did sink to an all time culinary low, however, with the decision to patronise an all you can eat for 9.95 salad bar. The four of us transformed into frenzied, plate piling animals who, despite the buffet being completely and uninspiringly limp, pressed on in a ghastly and mortifying display. At some point, the haze of beast-like desperation suddenly cleared, revealing us, with embarrassing clarity, for what we had become. The saddest of the dining world ... all you can eat, Homer Simpson style, scrooges.

To get the full idea of what Barcelona is really about, you simply have to ramble. Whether that be purely along Las Ramblas, past the brilliant shopping, street performers and artists, sidewalk cafes and paella restaurants, all the way down to the port with its imposing Christoper Columbus statue – or through the winding backstreets where can find the best (and often the cheapest) tapas bars, gelato stores and the lesser known boutiques where the annoyingly attractive Spanish girls find their annoyingly chic outfits. Due to the unveiling of a new Frugality plan, unveiled mid-Barcelona, that involved shunning public transport, the four of us did a lot of walking. Including the daily 12km round trip walk to the beach, done in suffocating heat, most often with towels draped over our burning forms, as our spindly legs (made spindly by excessive walking) zigzagged this way and that. If frugality wasn't enough to drive the Spindle Leg Walking Plan, the appearance of the aforementioned annoyingly attractive Spanish girls and their bambi legs was. Whoever said Spanish culture appreciates 'real women' obviously overlooked the period in which the country jumped on the spindle bandwagon and bred out things like thighs and hips. We were ten times more 'real' than any Spanish women I saw and I blame the tapas entirely.

As tradition has come to dictate, our final night in Barcelona was a large one and, due to the benefits of Equinox loyalties, a cheap one at that. Like Pied Pipers, we skipped down the main drag of Gracia, gathering Equinox staff, Antoine the crazy tapas man and anyone else who wanted to join five sunburnt and delirious Australians (the 5th being a new European Jaunting co-star, the perenially glamorous Jeff-Originally-From-Sydney-Now-Works-In-London) in Sangria and Spanglish.I awoke the next morning, two hours after we went to bed, unable to walk due to a rolled foot, which rolled in a spectacularly uncoordinated manouevre whilst gadding about gathering people. Hungover and hobbling (me), we made it to Barcelona station only to miss our train. Not because we were late (miraculously we were early) but because we were in Spain. No Need To Hurry is the country's motto. Thus it was four sorry girls who boarded a very warm bus for four hours, with only an empty lolly bag between them ... in case of emergencies ...

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A Tumultuous Love Affair — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-19 22:08 — 0 comment(s)

Falling in love with the city of love was the hardest part.

Where do you possibly begin with a city that has been immortalised (rather successfully) in film, literature and music for about as long as it has been in existence? Do you start with the snooty Parisians who, high on living surrounded by such impossible beauty, rarely deign to mix with Non Parisians, especially if they don't speak French (or are German ... lest we forget Victory over Paris in Berlin's Parisiaplatz). Or do we, continuing along the vein of petty, trivial things, in order to get them out of the way, comment on the weather which made sightseeing (read: skipping along the River Seine in a striped babydoll dress sipping a Cafe au Lait) a needlessly tiresome process. But lets not blame Paris for that, let's blame the human propensity for screwing up the environment. And so now the two things that dampened our days in the City of Love & Baguettes are dealt with, I can proceed on a much higher note.

We arrived in Paris a little worse for wear, the reasons for which have been previously documented. No one likes a hangover and a flight. As we stood in the cab rank, a shouldering a total of 30kg of luggage each (except for Satie who went with the backpack option and so weighs in at a mere 18kg) watching large gleaming Mercedes ferrying weary travellers away and thinking how God really skimped on Sydney in the cab department, a decrepit vehicle that sold well in 1987 came to a halt in front of us. No gleaming Mercedes for the grubby Australians. Some time was spent gesticulating wildly to our cab driver, in order to make our address in Paris known - not because we don't speak French, but because we don't speak Mandarin.

Our residence, off Boulevard Voltaire, in the charming district of Nation (Nass-e-on, Mum, my French pronunciation has come a long way) was on the second floor of a quaint apartment block that belongs in Hollywood's library of French cliches. As did the street on which it was situated. Riddled with similar cute apartment blocks, one covered in ivy and sporting a courtyard perfect for breakfasting on pain au chocolat in, mornings saw the windows flung open and the residences enjoying the balmy weather on their little wrought iron balconies.

Our first official day in Paris (not counting the one in which we ate a kebab and fell asleep at 8pm) it rained. Our sightseeing enthusiasm undeterred, we donned berets and Chanel couture (a girl can dream) and set out for the Eiffel Tower. It is nearby this stunning monument that I embarrassed myself beyond belief. It has happened before and it will happen again - I like to blame my weak ankles and gammy knees. I fell over. Face planted. I absolutely, face first, ass in the air, hair in a puddle, fell over.

Once more, a direct entry from my journal ...

Later ... in cafe drinking $9 cup of hot chocolate. Had to soothe soul and ego following disastrous and mortifying trip. As in fall. Stack. FACE PLANT. Waitress = rude & french.

On a quaint French street ... running through the rain in a carefree manner, wind in my hair, bag clasped to my chest, calling out to Dee and Satie in gay tones. Left ankle gives way, twinging as it cruelly bows out. Buckling from full weight of chinese-bloated body, left knee folds it in, leading to bizarre moment of surfing, arms outstretched, down puddle riddled alley. Eventually fall onto belly, seal style, and continue to surf the puddles for a good two metres, gliding to a halt, facedown in particularly large puddle. Am now drenched, there is a hole in my leggings, a scrape on both my knees and my right elbow.

Strangely, the day then became magical. The rain eased enough to be able to walk through it, and so we made the Arc di Triomphe our next port of call. Why not knock over all the Lonely Planet hotspots in one day. Drenched. And bleeding. From the knees and the ego. We reached Champs Elysee as the rain stopped for good, the sun began to set, and Paris suddenly decided to smile. As did a strange man who kissed me after his friend photographed us together beneath the Champs Elysee sign with his mobile phone. As we walked down Champs Elysee, it was decided that although the day had surfed dizzying heights (sitting beneath the Arc di Triomphe as the sun set) and plundered crushing lows (facedown in a puddle being stepped over by chic Parisians and their Chanel wearing dogs) it was the kind of introduction to a city you never forget.

Rain (and a mini hailstorm) forced us to take cover in romantic archways and Edith Piaf soundtracked cafes the following day. A simple half hour walk down Rue Faubourg, past Bastille and onto Notre Dame, became an extreme sport. However, as it often is with extreme sport, the work was worth it. Notre Dame is exquisite. And although it is somewhat ironic to have to watch one's bag and shield it from pickpockets in God's house (pickpockets are mad for sinning under His nose) it was an architectural and spiritual highlight. We continued on, down the River Seine, to the Musee D'Orsay. A simple flick through the Lonely Planet would have revealed to us what we discovered after a half hour walk, that the D'Orsay was closed ... but combatting blustering winds scudding off the river was well worth the walk. The sun came out that day ... at 9pm.

And to the Catacombs, for an education in the macabre. This 2km stretch of quarry is the home of the skeletal remains of over 7 million Parisians, displayed in, as the guide at the beginning puts it, in a 'decorative manner'. I'm not going to lie to you, it is bizarre. Particularly when the father of an especially heinous father-son duo produces a blue light, holds it underneath the nasal cavity of a skull and encourages his son to take a photo. I mean, really. And, watching various tourists embrace skull photography with great enthusiasm, I was left to wonder, what is the appropriate pose for you, a skull, and a pile of artfully arranged femurs? Do you smile? Are you really that happy to be surrounded by the remains of 7 million people who died in horrendous circumstances? Do you look sombre, so as to befit the occasion? Because, when flipping through your travel album twenty years later, do you really want to see you posing dourly next to a leering skull? Surely not. We elected to skip this photographic dilemma and instead, watched in horror, as people went about making their own rules that at times, as aforementioned, involved props.

Take two with the D'Orsay failed to see us actually enter the building. To the uninitiated eye, it would appear we were casing the museum for a potential break in. This time it was open, but the queue was two hours long and the museum closed in two hours. Tip - for the big stuff in Paris, pre buy tickets. Or cry. We walked home, along the River Seine having walked over 7 million graves, a million spokes piercing the stormy sky.

Third time was a charm with the D'Orsay, which was as confusing as it was wonderful. I got lost and ended up riding escalators for a good half hour admiring the lesser known sculptures they put near the bathroom, for lack of wanting to look like I was actually lost in a museum. Having learnt our lesson, we set out to pre buy tickets to the Louvre and got thoroughly lost. That being said, if you are going to get thoroughly lost anywhere, do it in the winding little laneways of Paris. There is no better place to be. Especially when you sit down to some lemon pie and a cafe au lait, only to have a passing, portly old gentleman pat an imaginary extended belly and point at you through the window. We didn't, however, learn our lesson enough. That evening we attempted to see Harry Potter only to find both french and original versions were sold out. So we pre bought our tickets for the following night, in perhaps the most exciting pre buy to date.

The Louvre and Harry Potter dawned on the same day. Venus de Milo blurred into Voldemort , Mona Lisa into Draco Malfoy. It was a very, very exciting day. I really don't need to say anything about the Louvre, because I really can't say anything that will do it justice. Yes Mona Lisa is tiny, yes I almost cried when I saw Venus de Milo and yes the Greek, Roman and Estruscan collection is heaven, endless rooms of heaven. A personal highlight for me, however, came in the form of an Australian tourist, straight from the Kel Night mould. He managed to situate himself in an empty archway (Venus' room was under construction, so there were plenty of these empty archways) and, adopting some god forsaken imitation pose, boomed to his fellow tourist group 'oi, it's Simon de Milo ...'

Simon de Milo.

There we are, in the Louvre, everyone breathless and starry-eyed, bloated with culture, Asians peacing out madly - and the Australian coins himself Simon de Milo. Not quietly either, but in a loud, suburban twang, in a hall that needed no help with accoustics. I laughed, very hard.

For the record, Harry Potter was superb. Absolutely superb. And book number 7? Breathtaking.

Our last full day in Paris began as it did every morning, with severely sprained necks. Our beds rivalled concrete slabs for comfort. Leni arrived in the morning to continue her European Jaunt. From the word go, it was the most beautiful day in such a city, anyone could have asked for. If the first day was a faceplant in a puddle, the last was a bubble bath in champagne. Crepes and cafe au lait, from a tiny off the beaten track (until the Lonely Planet reviewed it) lined our stomachs for yet another dalliance with the dead. This time the skulls were safely ensconced in the rather beautiful Cimetare Pere which is the resting place of Moliere, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison among thousands and thousands of others. And let it be said, this time, we took pictures and we smiled. What else would Oscar Wilde have wanted?

Sacre Coeur was next, along with a brilliant, sundrenched view of the city in all its glory. And of course, the sun came out for our final 24 hours, so everyone was out lounging on the grass, listening to buskers sing Heal the World (no I did not make that up). And finally, we came full circle and spent the rest of our last evening at the Eiffel Tower. It was the day before Bastille Day, so the city was feeling festive, and by sunset the lawn in front of the tower was packed with picnicking Parisians (and drunken youths a la Milsons Point on NYE). Not to be outdone in the picnic stakes, we rustled up some Camembert, red wine (purchased from the very same cafe we had sought refuge in following the face plant) chocolate and Madeleines and had ourselves a bona fide French picnic, as the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower and the fairylights came on to scatter it with stars.

We left for Barcelona the next morning, having finally fallen in love with Paris.

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Cycling Legs, Mini Trips and Moving Out — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-16 16:01 — 0 comment(s)

If you can't cycle, you're not European. We flew the coop, missed our mutti terribly and took a few mini trips - Berlin was never the same.

Just two days after getting home from Munich, we left for Berlin. At 5am. Christian and Tommy, who were sharing the four hour drive (flight) down the autobahn, predicted traffic and so as the sun rose on Michaelweg, we were peeling out of it, packed tightly in the comfort of fine German vehicular machinary. After a Bathroom and Bad Coffee Stop, and four hours of some serious singing, we arrived in Berlin at 11am, found our hostel and then sought out the most important thing, a kebab. Christian's promise of Berlin having the best kebabs came good.

Leni met us at the hostel, on the same morning, for the first of what has become several European jaunts. Tradition dictates we christen a new city by eating immediately (done) drinking immediately and sussing out the city centre (read: shops) and so, I am embarrassed to say, we spent out first day in the history HOTSPOT that is Berlin, drinking Mojitos and window shopping at Ka De We. We attempted to make up for it the following day, by scheduling a full day of sightseeing, only to be completely waylaid by pouring rain and a gay pride parade, en route to our planned Museum binge. And so it came to be that instead of prancing around an art gallery, I was pranced around by super smooth gay men on leashes. We managed one museum on museum island that day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Berlin. I was happy as larry, however, because it had everything to do with Greek and Roman history.

A rather large night followed that saw all plans to leave the hostel nixed, and a group of Texans join us in the hostel bar for some raucus fun. So raucus, in fact, that Tommy managed to get shushed by security. He was later heard trumpeting 'I am the German spider man'.

As is becoming custom, our last day in the city was the best. The sun actually shone, so we didnt need to gad about in leftover ponchos from the World Cup with 'Deutschland' emblazoned across the back, and we, finally, did an activity that acknowledges Berlin for the historical HOTSPOT that it is. We did a walking tour that ended with a passionate monologue on the steps of the ault art museum from the guide and welling eyes from us. Berlin is like a foster child that has been passed from dysfunctional family to dysfunctional family, through one of the most volatile periods of history. And yet it retains its beauty and its strength as a city, and you really get a sense of that, walking past and through buildings that have been desecrated and rebuilt, some several times.

We did a bit of our own walking tour afterwards, led by Christian to whom Berlin is what New York is to me. I will not blame his impeccable guide skills on what happened next. The consumption of the worst food in the history of food consumption, most memorably a cheese platter ordered by Satie. Never has Brie resulted in such a stunning, enmasse gag reflex. Buoyed by a goblet of red wine, I may have shrieked 'this is the shit of Satan', as Satie slumped, wordlessly by her platter.

The day after our triumphant return from Berlin, Mama, Papa and Christian took us to a seasonal fair that is held on the lawns of a castle in Munster (as fairs often are). We foolishly downed chips and mayo and a crepe, before enthusiastically hopping on board one of Christian's 'favourite childhood rides' which involved frantic whipping about of capsules at a steadily increasing pace. Satie and I partnered up, narrowly avoided strapping ourselves into an actual capsule of vomit (the man found our horror at this near miss amusing) and then proceeded to yell such gems as 'ARE WE GATHERING PACE?´'I AM GOING TO VOMIT ... WELL IF YOU VOMIT, ANGLE YOUR HEAD THAT WAY SO THE BACKLASH DOESN'T GET ME ...' I didn't vomit, but I did pinch a nerve. How embarrassing. Am I eighty?

A few days after that we did a day trip to Koln (Cologne) and climbed all 500 (alleged, I am going to go out on a limb and say it was 1000) steps to the top of the Koln Cathedral. It was enthralling ... once we got to the top. Which involved snaking around panting poms who took inappropriately timed breathers when the winding steps were at their most narrow. This day trip marked our 15th city and 2 month trip anniversary. We cheersed to it with red wine in the plaza. We also cheersed to the news the boys' apartment was officially (or unofficially, depends on how much furniture makes living quarters official) ready and it was time to leave Michaelweg and our parents and strike out on our own.

Our final hours spent with Mama Rita were spent cycling around the town of Munster. Yes, cycling. There are more bikes than people in Munster, cars actually give way to cyclists on the road (instead of try and run them down, like me) and the majority of Munster's crime is tied up in bike thievery. So you can just imagine the three of us straddling giant hire bikes and taking off around the city, none of us having cycled since the age of 10; one loses their cycling legs after a while. Dee rear ended Rita within five minutes of taking off and Satie, in a stunning display of athletiscism, narrowly averted falling off her bike and into the river. By day´s end, so smug in our capabilities were we, that we cycled home to Michaelweg from Graelstrausse at 1am ... even after a celebratory Liquor 43 or two. If anything, we were celebrating getting Tommy's waterbed up the stairs, as much as we were the apartment being completed.

We officially moved in the following day, and, following our final dinner at Michaelweg, we hosted another round of celebratory drinks, on a larger scale than the previous evening. Leni jetted in for the weekend, we drank champagne, and it all culminated in a wildly interpretative dance to Atomic Kitten in the living room, newly minted as The Girls' Bedroom. It was a headachey foursome who made the trip to the Netherlands the following day, and it was a very calm Saturday night spent watching White Chicks and eating Doppelkeks.

Our final days in Munster sped to a close far, far too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that we will most probably be returning some time in September to recapture the Graelstrausse magic. We spent our days eating pizza (might have had something to do with an attractive pizza maker, not so much the delicious ruccola pizza he made) and ice cream sundaes comprising of 60 scoops, drinking cheap Spanish red wine on the cluttered balcony (and spilling it all over said balcony ... Satie) reading law papers and trying to prep Lennart for his exams (which goes to show how dire his preparation was considering my help was the best option going) shopping, watching Boston Legal (apparently an effective study method for budding lawyers) inhaling the healthy combination of chips & mayo and doppelkeks and extending our three word German vocab to an impressive 15+.

And the final night suddenly rolled around. We had our Last Supper at a lovely restaurant nearby, then returned to Graelstrausse to disturb the neighbours for a couple of hours (and close the door in their face, politely, when they appear for the second time, be-robed and with arms folded). Eventually, we removed ourselves from the building and took ourselves off to the Tracks of Munster. Really. I have said it before, but this was the actual Tracks of Munster. The crew were all there - Tommy, Anke, Basti, Jacob, Nicole - and shots abounded, namely because tequila was the best thing to get with the free drink tab.

I cannot describe the pain of the following day. Our train left for Frankfurt at 6am. We rolled in through the door, bloated with the heady mix of kebabs, pizza and tequila, at 4.45am. I crawled into bed until 4.50am, when Satie whipped the covers off, demanding to know why I had gotten into bed with the alarm due to go off in ten minutes. Half an hour of frenzied packing ensued, what were emotional goodbyes were delivered with drunken nonchalance, and we set off for the station in outfits borne of being on the floor at the time, and not stuffed into suitcases.

And so we made it to Frankfurt and onto our plane to Paris in the exact manner in which we arrived in Frankfurt from New York. Hungover as all hell, grumpy, grubby and in desperate need of sleep. For me, Frankfurt will forever spell headache.

Things always go full circle.

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Becoming German — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-02-16 15:58 — 0 comment(s)

Eat hearty food, drink plenty of beer and don't mention the war.

Perhaps the best place to start is the flight to Germany. It was nearly as epic as our month long stay in, what my father calls, The Motherland. Epic, not in length (we are Australians, flying internationally is always a long haul) but in frequency of chaos and embarrassing moments. I will type now, directly, from my journal;

Disaster has struck - loose of limb and of tongue, our 3 seats have become a vessel of delirium and embarrassment. Began when flight attendant, identified as gay not only through occupation but through overt mincing down aisles, rolled over Satie´s foot with drink cart. Led to an unfair amount of laughter from me, but couldnt help it. Breakfast soon served and, in peeling back my yoghurt foil, it spurted out, volcano style, splattering over my face and clavicle. Similar occurence with sugar sachets for tea. In moment of jest, said carelessly to girls, 'next I will pour tea on my crotch...' Lo and behold, moments later, backhanded full cup of tea all over Dee and I, soaking the groin area of our travel pants. Once this was sufficiently mopped, turbulence struck and Dee, in a moment of Herculean bravery, hoisted the nearly empty tea cup into the air, to avoid similar type of spill ... only to spill remaining tea on my head. Pants are now drying stiff and blueberry yoghurt spots my new Gap hoodie. Forty minutes to go.

And so we touched down in Germany with as much style as we departed it.

We arrived in Frankfurt with no idea how to get to Munster, little German and a fiendish caffeine desire (me). We successfully navigated our way onto a train (bless the English speaking Europeans, who needs second languages these days) and after 4 hours of German countryside and wonderfully pushy fellow passengers, we touched down in Munster, the sweetest, prettiest, full-of-university-students city on earth.

We slipped effortlessly into the Munster lifestyle ... because, essentially, it was the one we left at home. We had a German mutti and papa who prepared us breakfast in the morning and massive, hearty German meals at night. A German bruder and thus his group of friends and thus, a ready made segue into the 'Munster nightlife' ... just one big university party really. And, because it doesnt get dark until about 10pm, no one really heads out until midnight, at the very earliest, which means one is leaving the hazy, student-packed venues, as the sun rises. We dug deep to revist our youth, the heady days of Tracks, and effortlessly made the transition from ´ageing crone´to ´bona fide partier.´

At some point, in Germany, time ceased to mean anything. When you eat breakfast at midday, sand doors and sing to Roxette in a gutted apartment till 9pm, when the sun finally comes out, then eat dinner as it sets at 10pm, and when you have already changed from Sydney time to West Coast time, to East Coast time, to Germany time in the space of 5 weeks, you get to a point where to have a body clock just doesnt do you any good anymore. It is still there, I've just taken the batteries out for a while.

Prior to moving into the DIY renovated apartment on Graelstrausse, with our adopted German bruders, we occupied the home of Rita and Bernd, on Michaelweg. Mama and Papa, who have previously only had one son for the past 22 years, suddenly had three daughters to contend with. I dont imagine there is much difference, except that once a week Satie cooked - and we did our own washing, albeit after struggling with the appliances somewhat and shorting the power circuit whilst using the grill to grill pizza.

In between waking late, watching Roland Garros, lending invaluable hands to apartment renovations (and lungs, Toni Braxton has nothing on us) trotting down the street for ice cream and lattes, and exhausting the city's department stores, we booked a few days in Munich. Let it be said, that I love Germany. But it was in Germany that I got over long train trips. The seven hour trip to Munich was dogged by delays, missed connections and overpowering toilet smells. And giant pumpernickel sandwiches, stuffed with sausage, being the only food available from the kiosk.

Munich, however, turned out to be well worth the trauma of the train trip. It was stunning. Romantic, ridiculously pretty. Flower box lined buildings, endless churches, cafes sprawled out onto cobblestone streets, busking quartets playing Vivaldi (no I am not making this up). We stepped outside our Simple Life comfort zone and stayed in a hostel, only to realise exactly why we have avoided them thus far. I dont travel halfway around the world to cohabit with Australians yelling the C word in my face every five minutes. Yes, I had to write the C word, my grandparents would have a heart attack if I didnt.

Following a hearty meal of grilled vegetables, I got food poisoning. Yessss, food poisoning. From vegetables. According to my all knowing American-med-student-dorm-mate who, when not putting anyone who thinks single beds are too small for two people to shame, does field work in third world countries, parasites commonly reside in root vegetables. And so the rest of Munich passed in a green, nauseus blur, and a brief, if not dramatic fainting spell on the train station ... which we had to run for because our tickets gave us the wrong platform. No I was not bitter. Just about to vomit on the next German who tried to push me out of my seat.

I am now, cunningly, going to end this blog and immediately begin another one, Germany Part 2, if you will. Only because this one is now too large for one sitting consumption, and I do not want any complaints from my loyal readers for overloading them.

So on the note of nausea and bitterness, I shall temporarily leave you. See you in Germany Part 2.

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