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

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

Eerie Eastern Europeans & Dashing Danes — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-30 10:35 — 0 comment(s)

Want to feel inferior? Go to Denmark

Of all the places we have been to on this trip, Prague has probably been the one to elicit the 'oh my gosh, you'll LOVE it there' response with the greatest frequency. It is, as far as cities go, the It City (or one of them ... anyone read how Sydney has been voted the number 1 city by the Conde Nast Traveller magazine?). The two words that cropped up time and time again, were 'cheap' (music to the budget travellers ears) and 'beautiful' and so the expectation bar was set rather high.

When I wrote earlier of certain themes of the trip, like late night welcomes and freak weather, I neglected to mention a third, rather significant one - The Staying in a Ghetto Theme. As our cab cheerfully sailed out of the city and continued on, showing no signs of stopping at any point, it seemed we had done it again. Later, as a homeless alcoholic pressed me up against the freezer in the miniscule grocery store behind our apartment, regaling with me tales of his alleged stint in Australia and calling me baby every second word, it became patently clear that we had.

Ghetto aside, our apartment was brilliant, and a welcome respite from hostels. There is nothing quite like having your own space to return to at the end of the day, and a bathroom not occupied by 30 other grubby backpackers, or a kitchen not vulnerable to the sticky fingers of sangria thieves. We even had cable which, admittedly, was all in czech with the exception of MTV Austria - but the tentacles of American MTV reach far and wide, and so the whole world can be privy to such gems as Date My Mom. Including English deprived Australians in Prague.

Of course, Prague is beautiful. Cobbled streets lined with tiny stores, winding their way to St Christopher's bridge, quaint cafes in the historic city centre, watched over by the astronomical clock, ... the city is a postcard, no matter what angle you look at it. And then there is Prague Castle where the guards will laugh if you try hard enough and are not averse to self takes (see photo album). Prague turned on its lone sunny day for our visit to the castle - Autumn was eveywhere, in the clear sky, in the leaves we tried to catch from the balcony and in the colours of the garden overlooking the city.

The constant refrain of how cheap Prague is, finally came to fruition when we went out for some traditional Czech cuisine to farewell Gee. And when I say traditional, I mean within the realms of good tatse - no roasted pig's knee was consumed. For AUD$20 each, we all had an American sized main meal, 3 bottles of wine between us and an assortment of czech spirits that were, in a word, our unravelling. As we filed out of the restaurant, throats burnt from various vile concoctions the waiter (in a perturbingly knowing fashion) saw fit to serve us, said waiter had the temerity (granted we were inexplicably shaking his hand at this point and promising to return) to say we 'didn't drink like Czech people'. Perhaps that could be because we still have our throat linings, whereas Czech babies have their's stripped at birth.

As a sidenote, Eastern Europeans have revealed themselves to be the strangest race of people encountered so far. There is something intrinsically eerie about them all (ok, ok, since watching Hostel I am completely bias) however the homeless man in the grocery store only preceeded other, more bizarre encounters. One more notable one occurred when we were walking towards the old square, on a bitingly chilly day, arms wrapped around ourselves, heads down against the rain. Suddenly, a dapperly dressed gentleman, perhaps in his early 50s, was upon me, bundling me up in his coat and ferrying me to the shelter of a nearby cafe before I even had time to draw breath. Like the homeless man before him, his term of endearment choice was 'baby' and so I found myself being addressed in feverishly intimate tones, 'isn't it cold baby, or are you cold baby? Would you like a massage?' Satie, my walking companion at the time, did not bat an eyelash. Merely drifted away so as to give enough distance to suggest no prior knowledge of who I was. She watched on, with the same perverted interest as everyone else, as I wrestled free from his binding coat and politely declined the massage offer.

We farewelled Gee, in an emotional display, the next evening. She boarded a rickety train at our local station (without a doubt a location for a Hostel scene)and sailed out of view, Frankfurt bound. We were not to know that hours later we would fly into Frankfurt in an unplanned detour and be strolling the halls of Frankfurt airport simultaneously. So close, yet so far away.

This unplanned detour to Frankfurt airport was all part of the most ridiculous of Travel Days to occur thus far. More ridiculous than Seattle-New York via Vegas, arriving at 3am. Nearly on par with Rome-Santorini via Athens, arriving at 6.30am (although nowhere near as torturous). But, it was only a matter of time before we ran into some form of airport trouble, it had all been going far too smoothly with our tickets. Upon arrival at Prague airport (lovely, and in our top 5 favourite airports) at 1.30pm, for our scheduled 3pm flight, we found said flight to be missing from the departures board. Futher investigation revealed it to be, inexplicably, cancelled. And so we were put on a 5.30pm flight to Frankfurt. Hello four hours to kill. At 6.30pm, we landed in Frankfurt airport for the third time to find our flight to Copenhagen had been delayed. Douse self in Sarah Jessica Parker's new fragrance to pass the time. 8pm, board plane to Copenhagen, which proceeds to taxi for half an hour, before we finally take off and land in Copenhagen at 10pm. Three countries in one day. No, make three countries in 4.5 hours.

We arrived at our hostel in Copenhagen at 11.30 to find Satie's booking (separate to ours due to her earlier departure) had been cancelled. Half an hour later, some other poor, late soul's bed was cancelled, and Satie was checked into a dorm of 9. Eight of them were 19 year old male backpackers. The floor was sticky and a bucket sat by one of the bunks, in preparation. Satie partied by proxy that night.

The next morning the papers bore news of Scandinavian Airlines having to ground a whole fleet of the planes we were scheduled to catch from Prague to Copenhagen, following a crash landing where a propeller had sliced through the plane taking out 3 rows of seats. And presumably the people sitting in them.

It has to be said, Denmark is the over achiever of countries. They are beautiful. Eternally happy. Enjoy a high standard of living (and inflict the consequences of this wealth on the not so wealthy tourists) are environmentally conscious, incredibly polite, so well dressed as to induce inferiority complexes in the non Danish mortals and prance around in aforementioned good fashion, pushing prams containing insanely beautiful children. I am even going to go so far as to say Denmark is one giant science experiment that has been successfully kept under wraps and Copenhagen will soon, in a sudden and peaceful movement, take over the world. We found ourselves longing for Germany where at least they were open about their attempts at racial engineering.

We farewelled Satie in Copenhagen, another loss to our troops, leaving just Dee and I. Our final full day was spent in Tivoli Gardens where we momentarily lost each other and it seemed Satie would be farewelling herself from Copenhagen, and our last supper was pizza and red wine. We may have been in Copenhagen, but our taste buds were in Italy. We put Satie and her backpack on the 9.33am bus the following morning. The Trio had been broken. It was time for Dee and I to continue on alone.

And when I say alone, I mean with our German family, who we set out to reunite with the following day. Once again, we found ourselves in Copenhagen airport, killing time by running around frantically changing flight schedules following the snap decision to extend our 3 week stint in Münster to a month. This may have had something to do with our bags being 6 kg over the limit and us not having to pay for this if we were spending a month in Germany ... that, and where better to spend a month than in beautiful Münster?

Again, our flight was delayed, thank God Copenhagen airport is, fittingly, superb (number 1 on the list of faves) with endless food and shopping options. If we had any kroner, which we didn't, except for the 15 we had received selling our souls on the street (non Danish souls do not sell as well as pure Danish souls). In Berlin it was delayed again and, finally, delirious and ready to jump off the next plane we had to get on, we arrived in Münster.

All was right in the world again.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

A Cold Shock — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-30 10:33 — 0 comment(s)

From 45 to 12 degrees ... rain, rain, more rain and Freud

And so we were back in the land of the comfortingly strapping Germanic people. Large of face, gutteral of tongue, sturdy of jeans and boot, it felt good to be back amongst them all. Once again, processed meat was a food group and people looked at thongs like they were dirty, and the people wearing them, equally so.

Vienna managed to successfully incoporate two major themes of the trip - late night welcomes, and freak weather. We met Satie at JFK at 3am, ushered Amber into our hostel in New York at 2.30am, and so it was only fitting that we found Miss Gee Ross at the train station at midnight, asking a conductor how to get to our hostel. Said conductor backed away at the sight of Dee, Satie and myself running towards Gee, our shrieks falling only on the ears of the shady characters who populate Vienna's main station at midnight. We inexplicably robbed Münster of its Summer in June, took the rain to Paris, the winds to Santorini and then the freak cold snap to Vienna (which followed us all the way to Münster where, hitherto, the sun had been shining). And when I say freak cold snap, I mean 12 degree days and icy rain storms. We flew out of 40 degree Athens and, upon our arrival in Athens, the temperature dropped and the heavens opened. No weather channel could explain it, but we knew. It was the simple fact of our presence.

And so our sightseeing was hampered somewhat. It was freezing, we had bags full of linen and summer dresses, and it was raining nonstop. The Imperial Palace is beautiful, but not when your face is about to snap off. Thus we found ourselves in the most favoured store of the Australian traveller (because we don't have it back home, despite the fact we severely need it,) H&M, perusing the sale racks and buying such necessities as beanies, scarves, enclosed shoes and gloves. Admittedly my cream knit gloves have not been worn yet and were probably overkill. However, when I do wear them, they will look fantastic.

Rugged up, we attempted to assault the cultural hotspots of Vienna, only to seek refuge in Starbucks at around the same time everyday because, at around the same time everyday, the rain would start as soon as we set foot outside our hostel. And, as much as we would persevere through the biting drops, as soon as the familiar green sign came into sight, we would run in, and then glare bitterly at the suave Europeans to whom rain is but a blip on the fashion radar. They, no matter the weather, remain chic in knee high boots and tailored trenches. Life is unjust.

I would like to entirely blame the weather, however it cannot be denied our own laziness played a small part, for the fact that our night life consisted of the hostel bar and a deck of Greek playing cards. And yes there is a difference between a normal deck and a Greek deck given the Greek penchant for sexual deviancy and alternate orientations. Aaaanyway. Of course, the WomBar was full of Australians, Germans, Poms and Americans, served rancid red wine for 2 euros and the barstaff, inexplicably, wore hawaiian shirts and spoke with some sort of ghetto twang. Our evenings were whiled away playing Arsehole, and teaching it to various nationalities, whilst watching CNN's seemingly endless coverage on the passing of Pavarotti and the imminent arrival of the Pope. One blight on this blissful schedule was the thieving of our sangria from the hostel's communal fridge. I mean, really, who does that? And worse, it was done under our very noses, most probably as we shuffled the offensive deck 2 metres away. Photographic evidence was taken and word disseminated throughout the hostel, to no avail. The sangria was never recovered.

In the name of psychology, did get to two important sites, the Sisi Museum and the Freud Musuem. Sisi first, to warm us up - this extraordinary woman had an eating disorder and depression (both undiagnosed, but us shrewd psych students discerned it with ease) lost a son to suicide and then, just to top it off, was assassinated in Switzerland by a knife through the breast. Sisi's dresses, preserved in glass cases, revealed the thinnest woman of Nicole Ritchie proportions, with placards beneath photos reading, on alternate occasions, 'Sisi displayed concern for retaining her extremely trim figure' and 'but Sisi did love her food, she often bought large amounts of pastries from the bakery.' It doesn't take a scientist to see an unhealthy relationship with food happening with a woman who wrote incredibly dark poetry in an effort to express her all encompassing unhappiness (depression). It was three smug girls who sat in the old offices of Freud, nodding sagely at each other, soaking up the pervasive atmosphere of world changing knowledge.

A visit to Vienna isn't complete without seeing the Naschmarkt. And when I say seeing, I do mean eating yourself into a coma. Olives, nuts, stuffed peppers, cheeses, baklava, dried fruits, lollies - every conceivable type of treat is sold by this long line of fresh food stalls and, every conceivable type of treat is able to be sampled ... so the belly ache you walk away with will most likely not be a result something you actually purchased, instead a result of over exuberant sampling. Well, it was in my case anyway.

Vienna is absolutely beautiful, the people are lovely and, when it isn't raining, the Imperial Palace gardens are extraordinary. The WomBar isn't half bad either and there is an english cinema if you run out of things to do. Which you shouldn't. But if a movie happens to open (Hairspray) when you are in Vienna, keep it in mind.

We left our hostel at 5.45am on Sunday, after frantic packing, bound for Prague. Vienna farewelled us with a telling off by a cafe owner at the airport, a telling-off being a farewell custom we long ago resigned ourselves to.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

A Week in the Cradle — by Liv Hambrett — posted on 2008-05-21 10:53 — 0 comment(s)

Getting our geek on in Athens

'Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.'
John Milton.

'Athens is gross and really dirty, you only need to go there for 2 days.'
Every seasoned backpacker we encountered on our travels, who has been to Athens for 2 days.

The thing is, we had a week to spend in Athens. And to everyone else, this seemed an inordinate amount of time to spend in a city that's 'only thing going for it is the acropolis.' And the other thing is, I loved Athens. I loved everything about it. The weather (searingly hot) the food (fresh, cheap and delicious) the shopping (markets, boutiques) and the fact that overlooking the entire city, visible from where you might be having your morning coffee, is the world's preeminent symbol of antiquity, The (astounding, beautiful, jaw droppingly incredible) Acropolis.

We were staying in Hostel Zeus. Yep. Hostel Zeus. Perhaps the most spartan of all hostels thus far (and that was completely unintentional ancient history reference,I promise)Hostel Zeus provided its guests with a mattress cover, and the option of a terrace bar ... that was boarded up in 1986. So, all in all, extremely pleasant. We were, for the first night, alone in our 4 bedroom dorm. And then, the next morning, as I dropped my towel and went about putting together a suitably cool and floaty Athenian outfit, our fourth dorm mate walked in. Satie flung herself at the door, he reversed out apologising profusely and I clothed myself. A few days later, I would walk in on Forrest having an intimate moment with himself and the visual stimulation provided by his laptop. I feel like Forrest and I got to know each other on an intensely personal level, despite the fact he was gay, 40 and we slept in opposite bunks.

Athens has long dominated my education landscape - from year 12 Ancient History when we were forced to watch videos of a woman in white linen super imposed against all the big monuments, saying 'dis is deee A-crop-o-lissss' all the way through uni where professors in sandals and billowing haiwaiian shirts waxed lyrical about all things Greek and Roman. And so when our Ancient Ruins Day dawned, I felt the nerd blood begin to pump. It was a suffocatingly hot day and there is little respite offered by any of the monuments, except thimbles of lemonade for 6 euros outside the Acropolis. Which, by the time you have walked up there, is a bloody enticing offer because any bottled water you may have brought with you will undoubtedly have boiled en route and your are about to start licking the ground for some sort of moisture. Not that the ground would have any moisture.

Anyway.

Ancient Ruins Day was the culmination of hours spent with my nose in Thucydides and listening to my uni tutors get so excited about Pericles they literally foamed at the mouth. It was a day that I promised myself would happen all those years ago, in ancient history class with Leni when the now infamous phrase of 'disss is deee A-CROP-O-LISSS' was first uttered. That day, one I will never forget, I stood atop the Areopagus and surveyed a shimmering Athens, walked through the propylaea and sashayed around the Acropolis, stood in front of the Parthenon and stared, did it again with the Erechtheion, sat in the audience of Dionysus' theatre, and, as the sun set, took a turn about the Ancient Agora. I had conquered Rome and now, finally, Athens.

(It must also be noted that Athens boasts the most incredible Starbucks. In the world. A testament to the Athenian architectural eminence, it is three levels of Starbucks heaven.)

We farewelled Athens with a payment dispute with the oily haired youth who manned the desk at Zeus. His parting words were 'I was going to give discount on air conditioning. Not now.' The discount comprised of 2 euros, and clearly out concern that we had booked the hostel under one amount per night yet were being charged for an entirely different amount altogether, was grounds to negate an act of such generosity.

And so Greece was over. My list of Ancient Ruins had been ticked, my list of Foods to Eat had been ticked three times over, and I had finally tracked down what all cool Mediterranean girls were wearing that Summer, Aladdin pants. It was time to move on. Time for the tans to fade, for Satie to get her wish for cold weather and time to trade dolmades and moussaka for cake and chocolate. That night, after a brief interlude with one of life's constants, Athens Airport, we were in Vienna. It was 13 degrees and raining. There was not a dolmade nor a cocktail in sight.

Our Mediterranean Summer was over.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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 ...

| (0)

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: outdated

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: misleading or not useful

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: average

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: good

You can't vote

please try after log in

click to vote: great

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.