London, I love you, but you’re bringing me down

Bipolar disorder is a condition in which people go back and forth between periods of a very good or irritable mood and depression. The “mood swings” between mania and depression can be very quick.

- A.D.A.M Medical Encyclopedia

You could very well be forgiven for assuming I suffer from the abovementioned disorder after reading this blog post, mainly because it contrasts so starkly with the one that precedes it. But that’s what London’s all about, isn’t it? Ups and downs. (A point I also made in my last post.) But at the moment, I’m really feeling like I want to step off this rollercoaster. It’s not so fun anymore.

I started this post a week or so ago, writing a rather light-hearted account of my amazing one-month trip that I just returned  from, through Eastern Europe (which I fell in love with) and across to the sunny climes of Portugal and Spain (finishing my trip on the glorious 35-degree high of Seville). Prague, Cesky Krumlov, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Sofia, Istanbul, Gallipoli, Çanakkale, Ayvalik, Selcuk, Barcelona, San Sebastian, Madrid, Porto, Lisbon, Lagos and Seville. Four weeks, seven countries, 18 cities and towns, countless buses, trains, ferries, a couple of planes, some trams, a couple of random car trips and what felt like a continuous flow of beer, food and good times.

I started to write about my intense month spent on the road, and how the operation didn’t come without its losses. I lost a pair of jeans (in Prague), a singlet (in Budapest), 25,000 florints ($100AUD – stolen in a nightclub in Budapest), a pair of shoes (Belgrade), a Venus razor (Budapest), a fake leather jacket (on a train in Bulgaria), £30 phone credit (at the Turkish border), a bankcard (eaten by an ATM in Istanbul), a cardigan (left in a bar in San Sebastian) an umbrella (I think it was San Sebastian) and countless brain cells (scattered throughout Europe).

I am probably one of the only travellers who managed to come back to London after a month with a lighter backpack than when I left. But despite these losses and excesses, I still returned from this trip a richer person. What I gained from this trip was worth more than any material items I lost – awesome new friends and fond memories, and a much deeper knowledge, respect and understanding of the amazing world I live in.

As much as this litany of disasters and losses was the source of much exasperation, it was also mild enough that my cousin Kate and I, and whoever else came into contact with me during my dramas, could smile and laugh as if they were comedic moments from a TV show (like Idiot Abroad), usually followed with a sympathetic sigh of “Oh Beth.” These trials and tribulations were annoying, but they were manageable.

But some losses are not so funny. Like the one I suffered just a weekend ago.

I know the junkie who crawled through the window of my North London bedroom, crept down my stairs while my housemate was sleeping, entered my kitchen and in one swift action snatched away the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose – my prized Macbook Pro – didn’t give a damn about the fact that he was also stealing my memories, words, the one portal I had to connect with my friends and family in Australia, my jobseeking lifeline, my source of musical pleasure and my friend in winter. I know the money he got from selling it on the street probably went straight into his arm – three years of memories, work, music, photographs – my whole life basically, gone in the blink of an eye. All for a fix. I know he probably doesn’t care that I worked really hard for that Mac and paid a lot of money for it, and had taken real good care of it too. No, I suppose that doesn’t matter to him at all. I wonder at what point do human beings become such empty shells, void of compassion.

A Macbook is just a material thing, but it’s times like this I realize how reliant we become on these machines and the opportunities they provide. I realize that we are a dangerously digital generation – with one wipe of a virus, or swipe of a thief – we can lose so, so much.  Can you remember the last time you got a photo professionally printed? Or the last time you bought the hard copy of a CD or even a film? Imagine if some kind of global virus ripped through every computer on earth – what devastation it would cause.

I feel like I am grieving right now. On top of this, I am bitter. When I walk down my local main street, I eye each slightly-dodgy-looking character with distrust and disdain. ‘Did you steal my laptop?’ my mind, irrationally and silently, demands, accusatory and bitter.  I  don’t trust anyone. I don’t feel safe in my own house. I don’t even want to open my window, even when I’m actually in my room. I hate being like this – I like to think the most of people. I guess that’s what got me into this trouble in the first place.

Right now, I’m facing another ruthless London winter, with no solid job prospects and dwindling savings (and of course, no laptop) – a scary scenario, considering I am living in one of the world’s most expensive cities, which also happens to be in the clutches of a recession. Then my mind wanders to Australia, where my family and friends, who I miss terribly, are preparing for summer – which will bring with it a myriad of milestones, weddings, festivals and parties. So … what am I waiting for?

It’s funny how things change-  for so long now I haven’t felt ready to go home. Not at all – I even thought April next year, which is when my visa expires, would be too soon. I think what I love so much about being here is the feeling of being connected – of being part of the exciting, dynamic conglomerate that is Europe. Of being out on my own. It’s exciting and it keeps me on my toes. But it’s funny how just hearing my brother’s or my mother’s voice on the phone can instil such an urge to jump on the next plane home. And suddenly,the more I think about it, the more the idea of returning to Australia becomes more and more attractive and exciting. To be in Melbourne again, feel the sunshine, reconnect with my old friends, enjoy endless laughs with my amazing family, to go to an AFL match (and see Collingwood win!), to pitch a tent on Meredith soil, to feel the soft beach sand between my toes, to breathe the fresh country air on my parents’ property, to see how big my cousins’ children have become … oh, and to tap into the gold mine that is the Australian economy. And the prospect of returning to journalism – my love!

I haven’t given up on London yet – I’m going to see how the next couple of months pan out, and when the time is right, I’ll make my decision. But it looks like a Return to Oz could be happening sooner than you think.

2011
09/07
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Pouring beers one day, shaping Britain’s young minds the next

Oh, how life changes. That’s the thought that ran through my mind as I read this blog entry that I wrote nine long months ago, back when I was a brand new Londonite, back when I very bravely and perhaps too hastily took one of the most challenging and stressful jobs of my life. Fast-forward to now, May 2011, and I am still in the same job, but everything else has changed so dramatically. For nostalgia’s sake, I’m going to publish this entry I penned right back in September 2010. Enjoy:

I have only been in London permanently for about three months now and I feel like I have lived three different lives already.

I flew in from Berlin in early August with an unhappy bank account, exhausted body, a backpack of clothes resembling rags, and a bruised heart (aaw). This was my third visit to London, but this time I wasn’t going anywhere. I found myself back at the “Goodge Street Ghetto”, where I quickly slipped into a student life of hedonism, 4am bedtimes and minumum-wage jobs while at the same time keeping some strange characters as friends.

Goodge Street Ghetto is a poky little room I shared with three others (yes, not one, not two, but THREE)  in the bustling heart of Central London, looking over what has probably become one of my favourite streets in this city, a stone’s throw from Soho and the chaos of Oxford Street. For a while I felt like I was trapped in some kind of bad indie movie; I could write a whole script about the going-ons there over my five-or-more-week tenancy. I picked up a £6-an-hour job pulling beers at a bar a few doors down, run by a likeable half Scot/half Aussie named Wayne who pronounced Coke as “cork” and spent more time telling me about his shingles and impending trip to Turkey than he did about the job I was about to walk into during my “interview” (that I turned up two hours late for, another sordid story). I liked working there; I met some cool people (although some of the regulars depressed me – they literally lived at the pub) and having to wear a T-shirt reading ‘Ask me for a date’ (a Christmas booking promotion) led to some interesting dating proposals (mostly from geriatrics). One night when my sister Megan visited me we ended up drinking several ciders shouted to us by a couple of vibrant and lively Nigerians; one of which was dressed like he was starring in The Matrix and knew P-Diddy (he even called him – or so it seemed, his personal assistant – while in our company: “I want to talk to Peee”).

I was living a nocturnal existence, was the most broke I’d ever been, I felt like I had reverted back about 10 years and I was slaving away at a minimum-wage job emptying ashtrays and being propositioned by vile drunk men. I would get madly excited about a £3 tip (that’s half an hour’s work!) and they didn’t come around that often, either (I now tip, without fail, every time I go to a restaurant or bar). It was rather surreal … for a few weeks I felt like Barbara Ehrenreich from Nickel and Dimed (exacerbated by the fact I completely faked my CV to get the job, as I kept getting rejected for being ‘overqualified’). I felt like I was leading this weird, dreamlike existence, trapped in this weird limbo land away from adult responsibilities.

Then things suddenly changed. Out of the blue I got offered a full-time teaching job. Since I had arrived in London, I had had no shortage of calls from teaching agencies offering me the world, but there was only one that I actually had the time to meet and sign up with. Now it just happened that this one agency, a small, newish firm in London that I expected to get little work through, received a last-minute job opening at a London school when one of their teachers pulled the plug on her position a week before classes were due to start. It also just happened that I, who had registered with the agency only days prior, had exactly the same teaching qualifications as her (English and Media Studies). The agency called me and I arranged to go to the interview; not feeling ready for such a role but also feeling the pressure of a dangerously empty bank account.

I found out I got the job two days before classes started. Here I was, someone who had never taught full-time nor taught English or Media before, with no knowledge of the UK school system, with about £20 in my bank account and still living out of a backpack, thrown in like a piece of fresh meat to a pack of lions (or cubs, I suppose). I knew it would be hard, but I don’t think I realized how much I had actually taken on until I actually sat at my desk and realized I had 10 classes to take care of and that I didn’t even know what GCSE stood for. I am teaching every year level but year 9. About half of my classes I teach full-time, the other half I “share” with other teachers. Of course, just to make everything that wee bit more difficult, the Media and English departments are on opposite sides of the school so I spend most of my time running frantically from the east side of the school to the west. At least I’m getting exercise.

I’m the only Aussie teacher at the school so I’m a bit of a novelty. The students ask me about spiders and snakes and why I moved here. Some of them seem to think elephants, giraffes and pandas are native animals in Australia. My year 11s are convinced I am Jennifer Carpenter. My purple Doc Martens seem to be a bigger hit than my lesson plans, though. And of course the thing they deem the most outrageous about my country is the fact that people wear ugg boots as slippers. OMG! 

I could write a whole book about my experiences in the UK school system but I won’t. Mostly because I can’t be bothered and there is simply too much to say. I’ve had no life for weeks; I am constantly tired; and every lesson is another struggle; so on, so forth. I have so many “How did I get here?” moments, similar to what I felt in Goodge Street Ghetto at regular moments, but so different. I wake up at 6.30am (even when I get seven hours sleep I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck – another side effect of teaching, apparently), catch the tube every morning to Zone 5; I approach the school building, contemplative, filled with both courage and dread; like a soldier going to battle, but I don’t know who I’m actually fighting for.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: teaching really is one of the hardest jobs in the world. Particularly when you’re starting out. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t for a second undervalue the things that surgeons, nurses, politicians, scientists, pilots, soldiers and CEOs do out there, but there is no other middle-earning job in the world that deals with such a constant multitude of challenges, every hour and every day. Challenges that you’re never, ever prepared for as hard as you try, and that you can’t leave at work, as hard as you try. Challenges that push you emotionally, intellectually and psychologically. And at the end of the day you have hundreds of young minds relying on you to guide and nurture them through some of the most important years of their life, and do you ever feel like you’re on top of it? Never.

Having had this experience, I don’t for a second take for granted the perpetual struggle my teachers faced when trying to get themselves, and me through the education system unscathed; and there is rarely a moment that I don’t think about the sheer hell I put some of them through.  In the same way that for the first time I took my place at the other side of the bar, I have seen this industry through a completely different set of eyes, and it’s been a humbling exercise.

Where to go from here? I’m not sure. But right now I’m not feeling like I’m getting much time to smell the roses; though there isn’t anything that rosy about catching a crowded Tube home at 5pm in complete darkness. I think my heart knows where I belong though, and I have  a feeling it’s not in the classroom.

My relationship with London is something else I have to think about too. I feel like it’s verging on love-hate at the moment. I love the endless possibilities it provides. I love its randomness. I love its multiculturism. I love the fact that every person you meet has their own interesting story about how they ended up here. I love that every borough has a distinct personality, each one as different as the next. I love its architecture; a mesmerising mix of the old and the new. I love the way you can get from one end of the tube line to the other in a couple of hours or less. I love its nightlife; every night’s a new adventure. I love its pub culture. I love the Brits’ cheeky rudeness and sarcastic bitterness. I still love catching the tube (when it’s not on strike). I love that you’re never, ever stranded, even at 4am; there’s always a bus or a train to get you home. I even love the chavs. I love the eclectic mix of people I share a house with.

But conversely, I hate its inflated prices. I hate its tube strikes. I hate the bleak feeling I get when I look out the window at 4pm and it’s depressingly dark. I hate the endless grey dampness of winter. I hate the way everyone on public transport and the streets looks like they want to murder someone. I hate the ‘rat race’ mentality. I hate that it costs an arm and a leg to rent a room the size of a cupboard. I hate it how the hot and cold taps are always separate. I hate it how everyone wants something out of you; every man is an island in this city.

Things only really got worse from there. The snowstorms in December weren’t all that fun (it was kind of a novelty at first, but after a few days of trying to balance on slippery ice without falling on your arse on your way to the bus stop every morning, the novelty kinda wears off). I was supposed to spend Christmas with one of my closest friends who at the last minute decided to extend her trip in Africa. As bad as it sounds, I was looking forward to a Christmas abroad, away from the fuss of family obligations, but surprisingly I found myself craving exactly what I had tried to run away from. And then replicating it, but with a UK surrogate family instead of my real one. It’s true, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Talking to my family on Skype on Christmas morning was one of the most amazing parts of my day and lifted my day in a way I never expected.

December was a dark time but after that things improved dramatically. In February I took a ski holiday to the French Alps. It was amazing – three days of superb conditions at Avoriaz and Les Gets. Travelled by bus with a very interesting and diverse group of people and stayed in a charming little chalet in Morzine. It was good times. I will never forget sitting on the lift, on a beautiful clear day, ascending to the very top of the slopes (if you looked hard, you could see Switzerland) as the snowy peaks of the Alps towered imposingly on either side of me, and I knew without a doubt that there wasn’t a single place in the world I’d rather be. In March, the days started getting longer, work was getting easier and I was starting to find my niche in this crazy city. It’s amazing how a few extra hours of daylight can completely change your outlook.

So, to now. A few weeks ago, I spent a week in Spain and a week in the Netherlands. It was probably the best on-a-whim two-week trip I’ve ever taken. I sunned myself in Valencia, I fell in love with Barcelona, I finished Spain on a beautiful high in sleepy Girona, and in the meantime met a cast of amazing people, some of which I hope I will remain friends with for a long time yet. I arrived at Eindhoven airport to beautiful warm, blinding sunlight. I stayed with Jan and Ine and felt right at home. I saw my brother again. I caught up with an old friend Wieger and cycled 50km around the Utrecht area and took a sailboat (for free). I did a random road trip to Belgium with my brother. I experienced a Dutch music festival (Paaspop). I came back to London with a suntan, a smile and a swag of amazing memories. And a beautiful reminder that this is what living abroad is all about.

Since then, it’s been nothing but royal weddings, sunshine, beer, laughs, good friends and good times. I also recently turned 29, and I’m surprisingly cool with that. I’m ready to face the full brunt of my fast-approaching 30s. I feel like I truly love my London life at the moment, and it’s been a long road getting here, but all worth it. And as much as I miss Australia, and as much as I feel at the end of the day it’s my true home, I am completely and utterly addicted to this city. I’m not sure anything has matched that extreme high I get when I’m walking down the street, the sun is shining, life is leaping and flowing and buzzing around me, and I get this amazing, rushing feeling: ‘I’m in London, and I love it.’

In Australia, it’s a more spread out, even happiness, that’s balanced, but rather stagnant, throughout the year. In London, it’s in concentrated spurts. The lows are depressingly low, the highs are dizzyingly high. But I love those extremes, goddammit. They make me feel more alive than ever, and I wouldn’t give them up for the world right now.

2011
05/26
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Greece Lightning

Greece was everything I imagined it would be and more: sunshine, dazzling white buildings, soft sand, the bluest, stillest ocean and not a worry in the world.

Oh, except for our boat. My friend Fleur and I had booked an eight-day sailing trip of the Greek Islands through the tour company Traveltalk. We would be on a boat of 30 people, which would cruise around the Cyclades, with breakfast, lunch and accommodation provided. The price was so unbelievably cheap, that we were left wondering what the catch was. Well, the catch was a pretty big one. Our boat was pretty much a useless piece of crap.

Well it floats, I guess that's something.

Things were off to a shaky start on day one. Fleur and I had spent the night on Mykonos, which was where the tour left from. We’d stayed at Paradise Beach, which is pretty much the Miami of the Greek Islands. The beach is covered in deckchairs and umbrellas and dotted with bars that pump techno music all day and night and aren’t shy about their female employees showing a bit of buttcheek. The beach won’t get full until 2pm, when everyone’s slept off their hangovers (you wouldn’t bother setting foot in Mykonos’s most famous bar, Cavo, until 2am, and it closes at 9am). And expect to see lots of Speedos. Actually, feel lucky if they’re even wearing Speedos. Nudity – and I’m not talking the enjoyable kind here – is pretty much the norm about these parts. Our accommodation was literally a white box – one that grew very hot in the 39-degree heat. Oven hot.

Our inviting box

After vacating our box the next morning, we headed to the port to board our boat. We met our tour guide Alex, a silver-haired half-Greek man with stunning blue eyes whose sexuality became a hot topic for the whole trip. I think it’s pretty obvious he was gay, as much as he tried to tell us otherwise. We also met our 30 fellow seafarers – all but about three were Aussies, and about 95 per cent of those were living in the UK. Fleur and I had already earned a reputation for being the tardy two after heading out for lunch and returning to the boat rather late to find everyone already eating lunch, which we didn’t realise was going to be served. The tour was supposed to leave at 2.30pm but for whatever reason we ended up sitting on the boat’s sundeck, staring at Mykonos port for about three hours, not moving. At one stage we saw the captain leave the boat. Apparently he forgot to do some paperwork or something to give us permission to leave Mykonos. Didn’t really give us much faith in our captain. Then it took about four or five hours to get to our first stop, the island of Naxos, and we got there very late and very tired and hungry.

Our experience of Naxos the next day was very rushed, which was a shame, because it was simply stunning. With its white buildings, blue shutters and doors, colourful flowers and pebbled streets, Naxos was postcard-perfect and exactly what you would expect of Greece. We explored the town, then jumped on a bus to a beach around the corner that was just gorgeous with umbrellas, crystal clear waters, and gorgeous views. We were rather enamoured with Naxos, but that afternoon we were out of there (with the boat leaving about two or three hours late once again, of course).

Naxos

Leaving Naxos, the weather forecast was looking rather grim (windy) so our itinerary was altered slightly. We were supposed to go to Heraklia, a very small island, for a day but as there was a chance the conditions could leave us stranded there for a day or two, so we went to Paros instead, where there was plenty more to do. But then we got stuck on Paros for three nights. Which was really too much.

The first night on Paros we enjoyed a seafood feast, followed by a night out drinking ‘hand grenades’ (a glass of Red Bull, topped by a shot of Jagermeister propped above a shot of White Sambuca. When you remove the sambuca, the Jagermeister plonks into the Red Bull). Poor Fleur was bedridden the next day (was it the seafood? Not sure) with some kind of nasty bug so I went out and hired a scooter all on my own. I went to the hire place, handed over my Australian licence and the guy asked me, “Are you experienced?” And I replied, “Sure, I rode one of these in Malaysia.” He appeared reassured by this revelation. Then I jumped on the scooter, and revving it much harder than I should’ve, I zoomed off. I thought I was doing OK until I realised there were cars heading towards me – on my side of the road. I was driving on the left side of the road instead of the right.

I quickly readjusted and pulled into a service station to fill up. As I was doing this, a scooter with two people on it pulled up beside me. It was the scooter hire man – he had followed me. He appeared very distressed. “You must give the scooter back,” he said in his broken English. “You will die,” he said and babbled something about being Australian and not having insurance. “No,” I said adamantly. “I was just getting the hang of it, I promise. I’ll be OK.” He still shook his head. He was really concerned and kept telling me not to ride. But I was stubborn. People were staring at us squabbling.

“Here, I’ll do you a deal,” I said. “You follow me out of the service station and back to town. If after that, you still think I shouldn’t ride, I’ll give you the scooter back.” He agreed, hesitantly. I did a perfect job of getting back to town and the man pulled up beside me. He looked relieved and happy. “You will be OK,” he said. “Just go slow.” And off I went.

I met up with two others from the boat, Ben and Lizzie, and we scootered off to a nice secluded beach and went for a dip; then we ended up down some back roads and I rode the scooter on really rocky pebbles and sand, which was quite precarious really. Then I had a bit of an explore around Paros on my own. The scooter hire people seemed relieved and surprised when I showed up alive to return the bike a few hours later.

The boat got stuck at Paros for three days because of water conditions, much to the chagrin of everyone aboard. We’d already had problems such as power blackouts and water not working while on the boat. Every day there was a new broken promise that we would be leaving. It was incredibly annoying because there was so much more of Greece to see and Paros was the least interesting island of the lot. We didn’t want our time on the more exciting islands of Ios or Santorini cut short. But in the end we just had to learn to breathe and enjoy the paradise we had found ourselves stuck on.

Finally, we left Paros on the morning of day four of our trip. But it was one LONG trip to get to Ios. The boat also had no water and no power. No one could shower. No one could FLUSH THEIR TOILETS. The boat smelt like arse. Our “air-conditioned” rooms were like furnaces (and had been since the trip started). And this was after a big night. The boat was rocking like all hell. You could barely walk from one to the other without getting thrown around. It was ridiculous. We got to Ios late in the afternoon, dirty, smelly, hungry and wanting to be as far away from that damn boat as possible.

So Fleur and I jumped on a quadbike and decided to scoot off to the other side of Ios – away from the main town (party party party). It was quite a long drive to get there and a ride-on lawnmower would’ve had more power than our quadbike (we stopped it halfway up the hill, then it wouldn’t take off again because it was too steep. So we had to let it roll backwards all the way to the bottom of the hill and try again, much to the amusement of a small herd of goats sitting watching).

When we returned to the boat, we were dismayed to discover there was still no water and no power. Oh yeah, and there was smoke coming from the boat. Luckily for us (me, Fleur, Ben and Lizzie), pretty much as soon as we stepped on the boat, the water started operating again, so we all got showers, unlike everyone else who just counted themselves lucky they’d stocked up on Wet Ones before boarding. However, the generator was broken and we were informed that we would all be vacating the boat the next day and getting on ferries to Santorini – our last stop before heading back. As we were leaving the boat for our big night out, a local man pulled up and asked us if our boat was on fire. Then the police quickly followed. We told them to talk to the captain. Whatever went down, it wasn’t good, because during the night Alex got called to an “emergency” and appeared very distressed afterwards. My guess is that they police said the boat was unseaworthy and wasn’t going anywhere.

So we hit the town. And oh, did we hit the town. Went to many nightclubs with very cheap drinks, including the ridiculous Slammer Bar, where you had to wear a helmet to drink your shot, and afterwards you are hammered over the head with a crate, hammer, baseball bat – basically anything they had lying around. Such a weird gimmick.

In another small-world moment, I was hanging at a bit of a crazy bar called Flames, when I bumped into a good friend from Merimbula, and more recently, London – Rose. I saw her heading into the club and recognised her straight away only to discover that in the only way you can be on Ios, she was rather inebriated. She mumbled something about wanting to pash someone and wandered off. She said later that she was so drunk that she thought it was completely normal that she had seen me on this random Greek Island. I bumped into her again, along with her sister Claire, poolside during Swedish Midsummer celebrations the next day (the BIGGEST day of the year on Ios … more about that later).

So it was a big night on Ios. One that resulted in me attempting to drink seven shots in record time only to fall short by two minutes. If you beat the bar’s record, you got your shots free. Unfortunately I had to pay, but I got a T-shirt. We ended up wandering back to the boat at 7 or 8am, just in time for breakfast.

There was no time for sleep the next day either, as we headed straight to Farout Club for Swedish Midsummer celebrations. I caught a quick kip on a giant cushion in the beating sun before sitting poolside while watching the hoardes of young beautiful people enter the club, running and screaming, rotten drunk, and proceeding to dance (or gyrate, dry-root, whatever you want to call it) to some very repetitive dance music. I have never seen so much naked flesh and making out in the pool in my life. We watched with amusement until we had to head back to our defunct boat and leave Ios. We were sad to leave, but also exhausted.

The pool was so peaceful, until ....

Santorini was my favourite. Luckily for us, the travel company had put us up in a pretty damn nice hotel for two nights – including one extra night than the tour was supposed to go for. Fleur and I hired quadbikes and explored the whole island. Breathtaking landscapes, Red Beach, black sand, volcanoes, sunshine, historic villages, absolutely amazing sunsets, the biggest squid I’ve ever seen on a plate … it was sublime. A great way to end our trip. All our qualms about the defunct boat and the hours of hell we’d endured on it were quickly forgotten.

Santorini

We also went to see the famous sunset at Oia, but of course, not without a glitch. We had just left Fira after eating the best moussaka ever made and we were on our way north to Oia when our quadbike completely zonked out. On a busy road. I tried to start it over and over to no avail but luckily for us, we had conked out right outside a scooter hire place. A topless Albanian man came out, flexed his muscle and straight away diagnosed a dead sparkplug, and fixed it for us for free, meaning we would make it in time for the sunset.

Our Albanian hero. I'm saving this one for the calendar

The sunset didn’t disappoint but I can’t say it was the BEST one I’ve ever seen (I think South-East Asia wins out in that category), and if there wasn’t 500 million other people jostling for a position it might’ve been that little more magical.

Our last night we spent on Mykonos. Fleur and I and three of our fellow boaties Dan, Aaron and Scotty (who we’d coined ‘The Three Stooges) negotiated a nice house for the lot of us in Mykonos town … we crammed into this woman’s tiny little hatchback (half my body was literally out the window) and got this nice little pad to ourselves for a night. Think the woman was a little uneasy about it but we were good tenants. Watched the World Cup and ate ourselves stupid (just for something different) and finished our Greek adventure with a bang (though Mykonos is stupid expensive and my least favourite of the islands).

Then it was back to Athens. I hadn’t thought that much of Athens on my first visit … it was sweltering at 39 degrees and was rather dirty and noisy and not that friendly. On our second visit, it was not quite as hot, but just as crazy … ended up sleeping on the hostel floor because there were no beds. And when I say sleep, I mean for an hour tops. Fleur and I had decided to drink too much ouzo and beer and had even at one stage ended up crammed into a car with a bunch of others to travel to a lookout (which was stunning, I must admit) to see the lights of Athens twinkling below us and before I knew it, it was almost time to get up and make the long-haul taxi journey to the airport to get my 8am flight to London which I wasn’t even sure would be leaving due to a transport strike in Greece (what a surprise!). Luckily I got on that plane, and was out like a light for the whole flight back to London.

Efharisto Greece, I had a blast.

2010
10/01
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Macedonia: how I found myself off the beaten, and on the very bumpy track

Geographically, Croatia and Greece really aren’t that far apart. So surely getting from one of country to the other is relatively easy, right? Wrong. Whether you go by air, bus, train or ferry, there is no direct, straightforward, cheap or time-saving way to get to either destination.

I had studied all the potential ways to get from one to the other (this site was a massive help) and had been preparing for what I considered the least stressful and most suitable route: a ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari, Italy (eight hours) and then another ferry from Bari to Paras, Greece, then a bus to Athens. 8 hours by ferry from Dubrovnik + 12 hours waiting at Bari +16 hours by ferry to Greece + ? hours by bus to Athens = lots and lots of hours and euros and patience. Now a few days before my planned voyage I swear it was fate that every time I tried to book my spot on the ferry (I’m talking a step away from getting my credit card transaction approved) the internet would fail. Because not long after this I stumbled over a very useful bus route, that would take me “directly” from Dubrovnik to Skopje, Macedonia (north of Greece). From there I could train it to Thessaloniki, Greece, then catch a bus to Athens. All these services run regularly. It all looked straightforward. My travelling itinerary to Greece was complete.

I know I haven’t covered Dubrovnik in this blog yet – the gorgeous city we finished our Croatia trip at – and yes it is worth detailing, but it is so touristy and well-travelled these days and my blogging time is running thin, so I’ll skim over it: we scaled the city walls (worth doing, and worth paying for), wandered around Old Town, did plenty of swimming, took a ferry to Lokrum for a good part of the day (also worth doing), watched World Cup games at the local Irish bar and even saw a gelato man scoop some ice-cream from the tub, flip it into the air, only for it to land perfectly in the cone. We were impressed, and then we saw all the ice-cream on the ceiling.

Ah, Dubrovnik.

When I left Dubrovnik it was a stunning day and I felt depressed about leaving, but knowing I had an eight-day sailing tour in Greece in front of me, I couldn’t feel down for long. I said goodbye to my little sister Megan and I felt a bit sad but I left her in good hands, so it was OK.

The ticket for the bus was about 30 euros. As the crow flies, Dubrovnik and Skopje are not particularly far apart but it was going to take me more than 12 hours to get from one place to another, due to the mountainous terrain and countless border crossings. My busdriver spoke little English and was a gruff, unfriendly man who seemed unwilling to help me as I had no idea where I was supposed to change buses because I kept hearing differing reports. Luckily there was a fellow Aussie on the bus with some foreign language skills who was able to help me out somewhat.

When we got to the Croatian border, a passport official jumped on the bus and collected all our passports. She then left the bus. Then the bus drove off! Me and the Aussie guy looked at each other, confused and a little concerned, and he went to ask the driver what was going on, but he was ordered to sit down and not worry about it. All was well when we got to the Montenegran border and our passports were returned to us, with two fresh stamps inside. All in all it took well over 30 minutes and ended with two people getting the wrong passport. Not the best system I’ve encountered.

I managed to work out where I changed buses, which was at Herceg Novi in Montenegro. Now Montenegro is an absolutely stunning place, but the people were incredibly unfriendly: well, the waitresses, tourist information staff, toilet cleaner and busdriver I met during my very brief stay at the bus station certainly were. But the scenery was just amazing – one minute we were passing through some of the most gorgeous mountainous coastal landscapes I’ve seen, the next minute we were ferrying across the fjord at Kotor, and the next we were closed in by walls of mountains, rising up imposingly in the dark. Montenegro is most certainly one of Europe’s best-kept secrets.

Now I was tired, very hungry, and had no cash so I went to try out my bankcard in the ATM at one of our many stops. The ATM rejected my card. I then remembered that I hadn’t notified my bank that I would be travelling to this part of the world, and therefore my card wouldn’t work (remember that fraud prevention thing I told you about?). I started to freak out a little. I was starving, tired, on this bus at night, with no English-speaking people, to a city I knew nothing about, with no money. I wondered why these things always seem to happen when I start travelling alone.

Anyway there was a guy who had just hopped on the bus who could sense my distress and was peering at me intently; but I couldn’t work out if he was a Westerner or just an over-friendly local. I soon found out: at the next pit stop, he said to me as I stepped off the bus, “You OK, Aussie?” in his thick American accent. To my embarrassment (I was tired, alright?) the tears started as I explained to him my predicament. I’d already been through hell trying to get through to my bank in Italy, I really didn’t want to go through that again.

Patrick, from Seattle, offered me soothing words, and food, and made me feel better, and we chatted for hours on the incredibly bumpy ride to Skopje. The rest of the trip was spent trying to sleep and getting woken up at every border crossing, and it felt like there was one every five minutes. At one stage I was in a deep sleep and the Kosovo passport officer had to shake me quite violently to stir me from slumber. I awoke to find his stony face peering at me and it took me a few minutes for me to work out exactly where I was. Then I was fast asleep when he returned again with my stamped passport. One bus ride = six stamps in my passport. Gotta love eastern Europe.

Got to Skopje at about 4.30am. To my surprise, I managed to get some cash out, but as I knew very little about Macedonian currency (denar) I think I drew out the equivalent of $30. We then got offered a room and a cab ride by some guy on the street. I think we got ripped off, but what the hell, it’s not like there were a million options presenting themselves to us. The hotel was really cheap and dirty and really hot (it was 39 degrees!) and full of some really creepy characters who didn’t speak English, like a man in a dirty singlet that smelt bad and an old woman with six inches of make-up and too much cleavage, but I did get an air-conditioned room to myself for 15 euros so I shouldn’t complain, though the bathroom was pretty festy and I didn’t feel much like washing myself in it.

Spent the day looking around Skopje. It wasn’t a bad city, though I did get bored of it pretty quick. I was so proud of myself being such an intrepid traveller and going off the beaten track, but I soon realised that there was a reason it was off the beaten track. Nonetheless I enjoyed the city’s food, cheap beer – cheap everything in fact, markets, old buildings, earthquake history and I heard the call of prayer for the first time since Malaysia, which gave me a nice nostalgic feeling.

Skopje. Never heard of it? Either had I

Still, tired, lonely and sweaty, I was really keen to get out of there. I got a cab to the train station so I could get a train to Greece. Oh, but guess what? There was a glitch. (Sensing a pattern here?). I was politely informed that since the Greek train drivers were on strike, the train to Thessaloniki would dump me at the border with Greece (there is nothing there, AND it is miles from where I needed to be). I was shattered. Not only did this mean an extra night in this sweltering hole of a city, it also meant that I would be pushing it to get to Athens in time to make my sailing trip.

I was incredibly lucky that I came across two other backpackers who were in the same predicament: a Dutch girl and French girl, students who were maybe a few years younger than me. They had managed to line up a lift with two Macedonian women who could drop us off in Thessaloniki. We crammed all our luggage into their tiny little hatchback and for 12 euros in petrol each, were given a rather entertaining car ride with the two women blasting their Macedonian dance music, singing and dancing loudly, chain smoking and, as the Macedonians do, stopping at a fountain of “holy water” that is supposed to bring you blessings (there were about 15 cars parked here). Our driver drove quite erratically and even missed a turn-off at some point and had to go backtrack kilometres, but we weren’t going to complain. Then we had a bit of a disagreement, as the deal had been that they would drop us off at the bus station, but they wanted to dump us at some service station in some unknown part of town. They got angry and yelled (I’m sure there was some Macedonian swear words) but they agreed to drop us off in the city centre and/or the bus station. I faced two decisions: go with the Dutchie and the Frenchie to their hotel and have a decent dinner (I was starving) and book a room, then head to Athens with them tomorrow, or go to the bus station (it was about 11pm or midnight at this stage) and hope there was a bus to take me to Athens.

Would thee like some holy water?

I chose the bus. I figured I’d save money on accommodation (my funds were running low) and of course, I like to do things the hard way. Thank God there was one last bus to Athens, and I only just managed to get on it. I had almost panicked when I tried to withdraw cash to pay for the ticket and it rejected my card, but then I discovered if I chose an amount under 100 euros it worked. I had no idea what I was going to do when I rocked up to Athens at 5.30am, but I guessed I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

2010
08/05
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Croatia part 2: Waterfalls and fearless sea adventures

Travertine. Apparently this is the reason Plitvice National Park has so many waterfalls. But I’m no scientist and I don’t want to bore you with jargon, so in a nutshell: Plitvice has LOTS of waterfalls. LOTS and LOTS of waterfalls. By the end of your journey around it, your reaction changes from that of excitement and wonder to nonchalance: “Oh, another waterfall.” But it is overwhelmingly beautiful, nonetheless.

But it has to be the most beautiful place on earth. Never anywhere have I seen water that clear, or of that colour (in some areas, a very deep, opaque aqua), among such beautiful surrounds. In a way, visiting it on such a beautiful sunny day is a form of torture, because the park is just so amazingly beautiful and the water so, so inviting, but you can’t even touch it. Nonetheless, if the lack of human contact is what keeps it so pristine, I’m happy to forgo that pleasure.

Plitvice: just another day in paradise

We took a bus from Zadar and got dropped off at the national park entrance with no accommodation booked and not sure where to go. We went to tourist info which arranged for us to stay in this charming little lodge, with a sloped roof, run by a sweet-natured German couple. We were two kilometres from the national park entrance but we didn’t mind the walk (though it did get a bit tedious after doing it four times in a day). One of these walks was performed in a bid to check out the free concert that the locals had been spruiking. Some nice Croatian boys bought us beers and we laughed at the lip-syncing acts that hit the stage: a band that looked old enough to be our dads with an out-of-time drummer and scruffy guitarist; a piano accordion player who played his own mish-mash of hits to a backbeat with a goofy grin on his face; some attractive but clearly untalented pop starlets and boys who mimed their way through a series of forgettable pop tunes … it was all rather entertaining. We walked back to our place (two kilometres, again) in complete darkness except for the odd set of headlights passing us by.

We rose early for our day at the national park. We paid our $20 entry (which also covered all transport inside the park) and took a shuttle bus up high to the top of the lakes. Then we walked our way down, past countless waterfalls and the most crystal-clear water I have ever seen. We saw frogs, fish and butterflies – it was like an endless nature wonderland. Paradise. After five hours of bussing, boating, trekking and photographing, we made our way to the bus station to get the 3.45pm bus to Split. Everything was going to plan: we had our accommodation in Split booked, we got to the bus station in plenty of time … and then our bus didn’t come. Or in fact, it did come, it just didn’t stop. Yes in Croatia, you don’t miss the bus, the bus misses YOU. We were left stranded at the station for another two hours, until the next bus arrived, which wasn’t even going to Split. It was going to Zadar, and then we would have to change over and go on to Split. Added about three to four hours onto our trip, not to mention the extra expense. We were not happy campers!

Exhausted, we got to Split at about 11pm. Our hostel, run by Aussies and booked full, was small, hot and packed with 20-somethings, who all must’ve been doing the Sail Croatia tour, because there was a mass exodus the next morning. We decided we wanted to make tracks as well and booked two nights on Hvar Island, with plans to look around Split and catch the 3pm ferry to the island.

But of course, there was a spanner. When we got to the ticket booth to buy our ferry ticket (which was only about $5, bargain) the lady told us the ferry was booked out. We were gutted. Then we came across a man, standing nearby, who had two tickets to sell, for cost price because two of his hotel guests who he’d bought them for hadn’t shown up. It was a blessing. Our spirits lifted and we grabbed our bags so we could ferry it out of there (Split was nice, but it was just too hot and too chaotic).

But then something else happened. Just as we were about to board the ferry, Megan whipped out the two tickets, and the wind came along and blew one right out of her hand. I watched in horror and yelled out as the ticket floated in the wind towards the ocean, and Megan ran after it, weighed down by her 20-kilogram backpack. She made a few futile grabs at it with her hands and feet until she skidded, fell over and grazed her knees, and made one last grab at the ticket as it landed in the water and drifted away, in front of about two boatloads of people staring and laughing. “That’s our ticket!!” I yelled to the man who was letting people onto the ferry. He followed my finger to the soggy wad of paper drifting away to sea and said “OK, no problem,” and still let us on with only one ticket. Phew!

At Hvar town, we stayed at Villa Skansi, which turned out to be an awesome place to stay. At the villa we met up with Geoff, who we’d met in Split, and his new Aussie friend, Toby. We ended up forming a foursome and travelling with them for a few days. A few drinks on the balcony, then it was off to watch the US v England World Cup game at the local sports bar. Turned out to be a rather boring match. Had a night out on the town and laughed at all the atrociously drunk Sail Croatia kids. Bed at 4am.

The next day we were all feeling rather shabby, but two guys at our hostel had the bold idea of hiring a boat and going cruising around the islands and invited us along. We all thought it was a great idea, and the hostel owner was crazy enough to give us his boat for the day, for the equivalent of $60AUD. Yes, give his boat to seven backpackers who had no boat-driving experience to speak of, let alone a licence. There were seven of us: Megan and I, two Irish girls, an Aussie guy, the American and the Brit, crammed into this little tinnie boat. “You ever driven one of these before?” we asked our American “captain”. “No,” he replied, as he proceeded to bump into two other boats before we’d even left the harbour. We could see the anxiety written across the face of the hostel owner from land; his expression reading “What have I done?”

Fearless seafarers

Nonetheless, we set off, seven of us on a boat, with no idea where we were going, into the open sea, with no life jackets, the choppy water rising and falling beneath us. “It feels like the start of a horror movie,” said Megs. But we cruised along, and found an island that looked completely deserted until we turned into a little cove, which had bars, restaurants, pebbled beaches, deckchairs and of course, naked people. Then we realised we had no idea how to moor the boat, but we managed to park it and throw down the anchor and found a nice place to swim (while keeping out a keen eye for sea urchins – two of the guys on our boat had already fallen victim to the prickly creatures days earlier and were limping about on sore, injured feet). A few hours of swimming in the refreshing water, lunch at the local cafe and some sunbathing later, we set off home, with the sun hovering low over the water, which was perfectly smooth for the boat ride home.

I’d like to say that a win over Germany in the Australia’s debut 2010 World Cup match topped off an epic and awesome day, but alas, this was not so. Oh well … you can’t have everything, can you?

2010
08/04
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Croatia part 1: Where the sun meets the sea organ

After hearing everyone rave on about it, I expected Croatia to be beautiful. But it’s really one of those places you have to see for yourself. Pale-coloured cliffs dropping into the deep blue Adriatic Sea, dotted with ornate buildings of white and terracotta. Pebbled beaches, stunning ocean vistas, a gentle breeze, crystal clear water, breathtaking waterfalls, lush forests, craggy islands and a feeling that all is right in the world. Sometimes I had to pinch myself just to make sure everything was real. 

Our first stop was Pula, in the Istria area of Croatia, in the north. Most people seem to bypass this area for the more popular stretch of the Dalmatian Coast between Split and Dubrovnik, but I’m really glad we got to see it. It was much more relaxed than the other parts of Croatia and our hostel owner Gordana was so warm and hospitable, she came something of a mother to us over the three days we were there (“I’m going to miss you,” she said wistfully as we left).  I thought three days was too long (we were waiting for the next ferry to Zadar, and the ferries are quite irregular) but the owner was so lovely, the guests were such good value and life was so easy, it really wasn’t a problem. 

The first day was spent just about completely lazing about on the beach (it’s a hard life). Beaches in Croatia basically consists of large white pebbles, refreshing still blue water (a little too refreshing on this particular day, admittedly), umbrellas and deckchairs you have to pay for the right to sit on (though we did get away with about four or five hours on them without paying, until getting kicked off). Completely different to what you will get in Australia. Oh yeah, and thanks to the absence of a hole in the ozone layer, the sun here doesn’t really burn you, it just adds this nice brown hue. If I could take the European sun back to Australia, I would.

Scenery at Pula, complete with random man grabbing his crotch

Another day of beach lazing later we were pleasantly surprised to find two Canadians we’d met at our hostel in Venice had checked in. Together we did a day trip to Rovinj, a gorgeous little seaside town about a 40-minute drive north of Pula. After a delicious feast of seafood we were given a rather entertaining water taxi ride by our new friend Sergio, to a nearby island. The shore of Rovinj is dotted with quaint little islands and this one seemed to be ruled by seagulls (and not like the ones you see in Australia – these ones were HUGE). We walked around the island looking for a place to swim, and decided to bypass the area where an old man, completely naked, lay sprawled out on the rocks, everything laid bare in the sun. After we finally claimed a spot on the rocks and jumped into the water, I was quite startled at one point to find a black figure moving below me in the water, brushing against my feet. Of course I screamed, and it turned out it was just a scuba diver, but he was a little close for comfort. Then later on he got back into his boat and stripped off naked and proceeded to try and start his boat while giving us an eyeful at the same time. Thanks for the spoiling the view. Not long after he was replaced by a boat of two naked people fishing. We were actually starting to feel out of place with our clothes on.

Way to spoil the view, eh?

Had the most amazing ice-creams ever, explored Rovinj’s shopping strip (that town has some seriously funky shops) then headed back to Pula.

Next stop was Zadar, a university town of narrow pebbled lanes and streets, with some beautiful old buildings, once again by the ocean. It didn’t quite have the relaxed vibe of Pula – there was a lot more going on due to the vast student population – but it was a great town. The highlight was the sea organ – a series of large marble steps that play music by way of tubes located underneath. It was pretty magical to sit on the foreshore and hear these deep, random, rumbling harmonic sounds ring across the ocean. The architect behind the sea organ was also responsible for the nearby Greeting To The Sun installation, a circle of glass plates which turn on an impressive show of lights underneath Zadar’s breathtaking sunset. How can you not love Croatia?

Due to a bit of a bungle, the hostel that we had supposedly booked had no room for us, but the owner was so helpful and friendly and arranged us some alternative accommodation, and even drove us there. The lady who owned the apartment was lovely and led us to our cool, airy apartment with kitchenette and bathroom attached, and only steps away from the beach! In the end it was better value than a hostel.

After sunset, we went to see Sex and the City 2 at the local cinema (in English, with Croatian subtitles, thankfully). We were happy to discover that cinema tickets were only $5 in Croatia and snacks were normal prices and not ridiculously overpriced – win! The movie wasn’t that great; there were some real cringeworthy moments and some of the plot twists were dismal, but overall it was a fun and enjoyable film and that’s what really matters. That was my first experience going to the cinema in a foreign country and it was quite surreal: being swept up in a Hollywood movie for two hours then leaving the cinema trying to adjust back to reality but then realising your reality is in this strange foreign country.

We only spent one night in Zadar. We could’ve spent longer there, but there was so much to see in such little time, and both knew that the best of Croatia was yet to come.

2010
07/29
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Italy part 7: Being a menace in Venice

Trekking in the Italian Alps one day, cruising down the canals of Venice the next. Venice was everything I imagined it would be. A floating maze; romantic and fascinating, but brimming with tourists, and opportunists cashing in on the tourists. Expensive, chaotic, confusing and well … just plain weird.

Venice: how can you not love this city?

Our hostel’s website had warned us that getting lost was inevitable and advised us to get the waterbus, rather than try and find the hostel by foot. Nonetheless, we braved the walk without a map while following some dodgy directions from the hostel website and yes, we did take a few wrong turns but I think we did pretty well, although it did feel like heaven to shed our backpacks at the end. The backpackers was a big old building, formerly a museum, run by a bunch of overwhelmingly friendly young Americans. The guests were pretty much all American too (except for a handful of Canadians) and the staff were so cheery and chirpy that it felt like we were on some kind of morale-boosting boot camp for special kids.

But the 5 euro dinner they put on every night was good value. For that price we got pasta (you even get seconds), cake and Sangria. During dinner we listened to a group of Texans bang on about guns, and a couple of Canadian girls who were complaining about having travel burnout and missing their own rooms (“How long have you been travelling for?” Megan asked them. “A month,” they replied. We didn’t have the heart to tell them that Megan had been travelling for six months and would return home in a year and I was never planning to actually go home). That night we all went to a bar and surprisingly I bumped into a guy who I’d met a few weeks earlier at a hostel in London! Small world.

The next day we took the waterbus to San Marco and were awestruck by the beautiful buildings and the sheer number of tourists milling about. Enjoyed some gelati, shopped at the charming little stores that line Venice’s laneways, and then made our way to an awesome pizzeria offering something like 90 varieties of toppings. Megan attempted to get through a giant calzoni (pizza folded over with filling inside) that resembled a volcano (she only got halfway).

The stunning Piazza San Marco: a must-see in Venice

Calzoni ... about to erupt with cheesy goodness

We caught the waterbus again (I could sit on that thing all day, watching all the buildings and gondolas cruise on by on the sparkling water), walked around, got lost many times, were so stuffed with pizza we skipped dinner and a cheap bottle of red wine later we back at the pub again.

In bed at 4am. Up at 8am, to get our bus to Croatia. We considered a ferry, but the ferry was 73 euros, and the bus was 25. The ferry was faster and would’ve been a nicer trip, but for a third of a price we couldn’t say no to the bus. We felt a bit like Bonnie and Clyde, leaving Venice with a swag of unpaid debts. As this is a public blog I won’t go into detail at risk of incriminating ourselves but we left Venice with a few more euros than we should have, thanks to a few freebies we shouldn’t have really got. We were like fugitives – thank god we didn’t end up like the thugs we’d seen a day earlier, in handcuffs, being trotted from one of the major buildings into a police boat by a group of armed officers. Not sure what they’d done, but surprisingly they didn’t look to worried about it.

The bus trip was an entertaining one: we were crammed in with a bunch of elderly Croatians who all seemed to know the busdriver well, who was quite a strange fellow and didn’t speak much English. It was a long ride: for some reason Europeans seem to think a six-hour bus trip warrants three stopovers – two 20-minutes breaks and one of 40 minutes. During the middle stopover, the longest one, the busdriver walked us to the spot and told us (in Italian) that the bus would pick us up there at 2.30pm and all of us, being tourists, had no idea what was going on, so we walked around Trieste (near Italy’s border) in the beating sun and came back at 2.30pm to find the bus, which had been half-full before, completely full.  I’m still not sure why it took so long to get these extra passengers and why us six foreigners were the only ones marched off the bus, but anyway.

Got to Pula, in north Croatia,in the early evening feeling exhausted, and walked for what seemed like forever to find our hostel, which was this cute little place run by an adorable woman called Gordana, who sat us down and made us feel completely at home. This amazing woman ran this little hostel all on her own and seemed to thrive on talking to the young people and helping them out. We found out she used to be a judge in the States. It’s interesting the people you meet and their stories, and how they fall into the accommodation industry.

After a walk into town for a delicious dinner, we walked along the foreshore to watch the sun set over the Adriatic Ocean. The sky was an amazing deep turquoise blue, streaked with purple and pink – I have never seen a sky that colour before. Even though it was a Saturday night (isn’t every night a Saturday night when you’re travelling?), we were too tired to sample the Pula nightlife and to bed we went.

2010
07/24
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Italy part 6: Beer and gingerbread houses in Bolzano

Tired of cathedrals, buildings, cities, tourists and historic monuments, Megan and I decided it was time to get back to nature, so we headed north for some fresh alpine air in the Dolomites. Who could know that a two-hour train ride from Verona could take us into a completely different world.

Bolzano is this awkward city that can’t seem to grasp its own identity. It’s in Italy, but you wouldn’t know it. Its first language is German, and everywhere you go, words are translated into German, Italian and English. Even the town itself has two names: Bolzano (Italian) and Bozen (German). The buildings, the people and the landscape have a quintessential Austrian feel.

Hang on, which country are we in again?

Our hostel was big, new and depressingly empty, but after a walk around town we returned to our room to find we had an American roommate, Will. Will accompanied us on the cable car up to the mountain village of Oberbozen. From there we did a nice little walk to another town, through fields of yellow flowers, with the spectacular snow-capped Dolomites looming in the distance. I felt like I was in a Hansel and Gretel storybook, and was waiting to see a gingerbread house somewhere along the way, or if not that, a woman with long blond plaits yodelling on a hill, or maybe even Julie Andrews spinning across a field singing.

The next day a 40-minute bus ride took us through some stunning scenery to Siusi so that we could get a gondola up to the Alpe de Suisi – the largest Alpine pasture in Europe. The gondola was ridiculously overpriced (8 euros one way – ski season prices!) but we made our way up and walked around the Dolomites for about four or five hours. We were restricted on how far we could go because it was June and there was still snow sprinkled on the mountains (it had only completely stopped snowing about a month earlier, believe it or not).

The Dolomites

Being the Aussie I am, I wore shorts the whole trip but had to rug up with a jumper – I didn’t realise how cold I was until I noticed that I could barely move my fingers, my face was frozen and my legs were bright pink. After all, we were more than 2000 metres up.

2010
07/19
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Italy part 5: In fair Verona, where we lay our scene …

I expected Verona to be this kind of dreamy, romantic, tranquil city, but thanks to the Giro D’Italia (Italy’s version of the Tour De France, basically) it wasn’t any of the above. The main streets were all blocked off for cyclists, and there were people absolutely everywhere. Within minutes of arriving I had already lost a thong somewhere in the chaos. The information office had been closed so I had no map, and trying to navigate the crowds carrying 20kg and with only some pretty shoddy directions from the website to guide me, had been a nightmare, especially after 15 hours of train travel. Nonetheless I found the place. An English woman, who was staying at the guesthouse, let me in and the landlady was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t call her as I had no credit on my phone and people were checking out at the time, so I dumped my bags, helped myself to their keys, showered, got changed and went out to explore Verona.

Within minutes of leaving the guesthouse, a man had approached me. He repeatedly tried to grab my hand, put his arm around me (which I hastily threw off) and asked me to come with him and it took a few refusals to get rid of him. The next one was actually helpful in showing me where I could cross the road (harder than it sounds – there were very few passages top get through which were only opened at short intervals) but then kept asking me for my number and asking me to accompany him to some place the next day. I finally got rid of him but was left wondering: does every man in Verona think he is a Romeo?

I was so hungry, and a kebab shop away from the crowds was my only answer. For 5 euros, I got a soft drink and a kebab that was the size of my head which had pretty much everything you can imagine inside: even hot chips (why do Australian kebab shops not do this?). It was pretty awesome but I felt a lot heavier afterwards.

After some wandering around (as much as I could do without being trampled on), I noticed crowds of people heading into Verona’s famous Arena (a Roman amphitheatre that is amazingly well-preserved). So I followed, and inside they appeared to be holding the finishing ceremony of the Giro D’Italia. It was pretty cool to see the inside of the Arena, which is usually 6 euros entry, even if it was filled with people, noise, balloons and advertising.

The Arena, pretty in pink

Megan arrived from Chiusi at about 6pm and I picked her up from the train station and returned to the guesthouse. I let myself in, much to the surprise of the lady standing in the kitchen. “Are you the owner?” I asked her, and she said yes, then eyed me off and said, “You have a key?” and I explained to her what had happened and she was fine with it – she checked us in and chatted to us in her not-so-perfect English, and she was so warm and accommodating, and the place was so homely, that it was like staying with an aunt or grandparent.

The next day we  visited Juliet’s house. It doesn’t matter that Juliet was a fictional character, and that there is no proof that a Capulet family ever lived there – thousands of tourists flock there every day to see the supposed home of this mythical heroine. The house was owned by the Dal Cappello family for a long period, and the likeness to the Capulet name spawned the popular belief that Juliet once resided there. So here at this house we saw Juliet’s balcony (reportedly built in the 1930s!), where the lovers are said to have secretly met, and saw the thousands of love notes stuck to the wall. We watched in amusement as tourist after tourist posed with Juliet’s statue, placing their hand on her left breast (legend has it that this action will bring you new love). I have never seen so much boob groping in my life.

Love notes at Juliet's House

Then we crossed the canal and walked up above the Roman theatre, to get panoramic views of Verona, which was well worth the trek – it is a stunning city. I liked Verona – it was a classic, dreamy and romantic city (when it’s not teeming with crowds and cyclists) and it had a relaxed vibe that a lot of other Italian cities didn’t have.

Fair Verona

2010
07/19
CATEGORY
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Italy part 4: Ain’t no mountain high enough (except in Taormina)

What can I tell you about Taormina? Perched on a hill of the Monte Tauro, Taormina dominates two grand, sweeping bays below and on the southern side, the top of Mt Etna, often capped with snow, offering a dramatic and memorable view across almost 100 miles of Mediterranean sea.

When I arrived I was a bit too frazzled to appreciate this, though. I arrived by train. I waited half an hour for a bus, which took me up winding steep roads past breathtaking scenery to the idyllic town of Taormina, settled on rocky cliffs overlooking the seemingly endless ocean. What I hadn’t taken into account was that Giardini, where I had just come from, was a whole other town at the foot of the hill which was where my hostel was. So after making my journey all the way up the hill, the bus ticket vendor told me I had to go all the way back to where I came from. So I paid for another bus, went back down the winding road, got off at the station I was supposed to, but realised I still had no idea where the hostel was. I asked a man at the local hardware store, who spoke little English, if he knew where it was. He didn’t, but he let me use his internet and we located it on Google maps. “E in qui vicino!” he said, patting me on the shoulder in a consoling manner, clearly noticing I was in need of reassurance. I had been traipsing around this place with a 20kg backpack for well over an hour at this stage.

Giardini

The hostel was very large and very quiet. I was feeling rather stressed and isolated, but the staff were so friendly and accommodating I wasn’t down for long. I stayed up late chatting with the two hostel workers, a New York guy and a girl from North England while enjoying the views from their balcony, and I met Gianni, the hostel owner, who gave me a welcoming drink: Mandorla, a sweet wine unique to Sicily that tastes like cherry-flavoured sweets.

The next morning I was keen to see Mt Etna, but the man at the visitor’s centre did not seem to want to help me meet this goal. He rudely told me there were no tours today. “What time do the tours leave tomorrow?” I asked him. “You can read,” he shot back. Then he told me to call the number on the pamphlet, and I told him my phone was not working. He didn’t offer to call them for me. In the end, I looked at the cloudy skies, considered the price (steep – 77 euros) and the man’s blatant unhelpfulness, and I decided they could shove their volcano where the sun didn’t shine.

So I jumped on a bus to Taormina. A gorgeous town, but so full of tourists I could barely move. I took the bus further up to Castelmola, a gorgeous little town sitting precariously above Taormina, characterised by a friendly atmosphere and spectacular panaromas. From here an old man named Pancrazio escorted me halfway down the hill as I walked back to Taormina, on the way visiting his very short man friend working inside a tiny little vendor caravan. They gave me more Mandorla, and the short man gave me his very own wine red wine that he produced, which I didn’t really like, but of course sipped it, smiled and told him, “Buono!”

View of Taormina from Castelmola

I got the bus back from Taormina, and while boarding it I met up with a German girl I’d first met at a hostel in Palermo. Then to my surprise, on my return to the hostel I found Matt, who I’d met in Syracuse, and Amanda, who I’d met in Catania and then later saw again in Syracuse, had just checked into the hostel. Just another thing to love about Sicily.

That night Gianni threw a pasta party, and cooked up a delicious feast for about 12 backpackers. Over dinner I met an older, lovely couple from South Melbourne and a 26-year-old girl from South Yarra. That night we hit up the local Heineken Bar, but were disappointed to see the local discoteca was closed.

Pasta party!

The next day I did very little but laze around the beach while I waited to catch the night train to Rome. The plan was to meet up with my little sister once again in Verona, way up in northern Italy. When I arrived to the train station an old man there helped me use the ticket machine. When the ticket price came up on the screen, it was 20 more euros than claimed on the Trenitalia website, but I had little choice but to take the ticket as my train was waiting. Then I had to change at Messina station and wait for an hour. When I finally boarded my train to Rome, I realised why my ticket had been so expensive – I had a “comfort cabin” – a whole booth to myself, complete with foldout bed, pillow, blanket and water. I really didn’t need it, but on the plus side, I got a good night’s sleep. At times the train was very loud and I had to use earplugs, but for the most part I got quite a pleasant sleep and awakening to the sun rising over the crumbling landscape of outer Rome was quite surreal. However, my second visit to Rome was short-lived; I jumped on the next train to fair Verona – the home of Romeo and Juliet.

2010
07/05
CATEGORY
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