Rio de Janeiro - When my baby smiles at me we miss the plane

To this day I'm not sure how we missed the flight. Our schedule seemed reasonable, we left at the right time and there was no traffic in Madrid that day. Our morning started with some croissants and a last chat with Tonya the canadian, then Kristy, Michelle and I caught a cab out to the airport. We bid Kristy goodbye as she went back to London, then we got in line to check in. Once we got to the head of the line, the chick said we were in the wrong place, and directed us to a gate that literally didnt exist (this became a common theme). we found another chick who told us to line up at this other huge check-in desk, and with a bit of begging we got to the head of the queue. Unfortunately, by the time we'd gone through all of this, we were 10 minutes past the check in deadline and they couldnt help us. This was at around 10am I think, and after some initial distress we managed to re-group and make a plan.

First we went to the Iberia ticket counter for a re-schedule. The only option they could give us was the same flight, but on Wednesday, meaning Michelle would miss the majority of the conference. Next, we managed to wrestle the public phones into submission and I called Dad, who then called the 24hr support number for our travel agent. The only option they could come up with was a 6:30pm flight leaving that night on British Airways. The catch was that it was $3000. Each. Then Michelle clued onto the idea that we might be able to fly to Sao Paulo and get some kind of connection to Rio. If theres one way to cheer Michelle up, its giving her something to plan. She skipped back from the ticket office 20 minutes later with a big smile and some re-scheduled tickets and after a couple of manditory hiccups at check-in we were booked for Sao Paulo at midnight.

We still had to book a flight from Sao Paulo to Rio, so I asked an airport guide where the Internet cafes were. He directed me to a photocopier. With a healthy dislike of Madrid airport building within me, I finally caught on that we could use Michelles laptop and pay through the nose for some wireless access. By now it was getting to the point where no matter what we tried, it wouldnt work. Every Rio travel option we could find fell through in some way. Either we couldnt book that early, or our credit cards wouldnt work, or the site was totally useless. Michelle even managed to get her card briefly suspended for suspicious activity. We'd been at it for about 6 hours by this point and it had become a bit of a joke. We gave up and spent the next 5 or so hours stalking the airport, looking for food or something to spend the last of our Euro coinage on when most of the shops were closed. Finally we got on the plane, and strapped in for a 10 hour flight to the same destination the airline had crashed at a few weeks prior. Michelle slept like an old man, but unfortunately I stayed awake the whole time and had to sit through Spiderman 3 (what the hell was that, seriously).

The plane landed at 5am on a foggy Sao Paulo morning, to the relieved applause of everyone. I'm not sure if the pilot would feel complimented or insulted. I was extremely tense as we went to the ticket office to organise the connection to Rio. I couldnt help thinking "Whats going to go wrong now?". Everytime the girl behind the counter would pause and read her screen or ask her co-worker something, I'd close my eyes and wait to hear that my passport was actually a fake, or we'd have to connect via Norway, or I was somehow doomed to live in airports forever. But amazingly, it all worked the way it should. I think the tickets were $150 US dollars or so (roughly $150 AU dollars I believe) and after checking our bags in we hit up McDonalds for some celebratory nuggets.

This was when I started to notice what I'd been warned about in South America. Michelle and her big shiny blonde curls were stopping traffic everywhere. I'm pretty sure she was the only natural blonde in the building, and she was also about 2 feet taller than everyone else. As we sat waiting to board the 10am flight to Rio, there was a group of Brasilian looking dudes who were just constantly staring, regardless of my superman eye lasers from the next seat. Just as I was considering buying her a bhurka, our flight was called and an hour later we were in Rio.

I'm really not sure how to sum up Rio. All the people I've dealth with have been really polite and smiley and all that, but everyone else just seems suspect. Its not necessarily because they're acting suspiciously or anything, but when you see security guards posted everywhere and huge fences guarding even the most generic facilities you cant help but think everyone is out to get you. The first thing you see as the bus takes you from the airport is slums. Slums as far as the eye can see, carpeting the cities outskirts with their own unique architecture which I'd call "jaunty rooves and broken glass". I felt like I was watching Man On Fire again, but then again everything feels strange and alien when you've been in transit for the last 35 odd hours.

We managed to find the Hotel and check-in, which were the last two things I could think of that might go wrong and I'd never felt so happy. We're located a few blocks back from one of the main tourist beaches called Copacabana. We're a couple of blocks away from where Michelle catches the bus to the conference, so every morning we run a gauntlet of homeless people and at nights she gets the Hotel taxi to drop her back here. For the first few days we were huge sissys and never ventured too far from home base. Fortunately there is an excellent pizza place just across the road, you just have to sit far enough back from the street so that people cant hassle you for cash or food. I'm probably over-dramatising it a bit though, if you stayed here long enough and got to know some locals it wouldnt be that bad at all, and if you're still paranoid, some Hotels offer a service where they send a local out to hang around you. Oh, and old people can hire young people to walk them around the streets.

After a few days of being homebodies we finally decided to get out and do some touristy stuff. We adopted Steph from Bath, whom Michelle met at the conference, and caught a cab out to the Sugarloaf. First things first though, noone here can drive. You can tell just by looking at any cars dashboard, everything is worn and beaten up but the indicator stalk is in mint condition. I could tell our taxi driver had an aversion to straight lines, as he would sit in his lane (barely) and wiggle the steering wheel left to right constantly like an infant in one of those rides in shopping centers. Anyway, it was late afternoon by the time we got on the first cable-car, so the haze was in full blinding effect. It was a nice little ride, so I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story: (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7)

I've spent most of today buying Havianas and eating McDonalds, so I think I'll take a walk down to the beach and hopefully soak up enough Brasilian summer to see me through to the Australian one.

Contiki - The Mornings After the Nights Before

In the weeks leading up to the beginning of my travels, I didnt think about Contiki too much. I was happy about Mainz, anxious about Busabout, excited about London and downright terrified of Brazil, but the simple idea of two weeks on a bus around the mediterranian coast with a bunch of other long-haired young people didnt raise any red flags. The whole affair therefore got relegated to the "play it by ear" pile, and it wasnt until I'd dropped my gear at the Cascina Palace Hotel in Rome that I took my brain off autopilot and started to wonder what was in store for me. For starters, there was an intense fire raging in the bushland across the road.

Fortunately, everything else in Rome is wrought from concrete and graffiti, so the blaze did nothing other than fill the foyer with a smokey haze. With Michelle still a few hours away, I set off with her old drinking buddy Kristy on the Contiki walking tour of the city. Thats the first difference I noticed between Contiki and Busabout actually, your day and night is planned out for you - You buy the ticket, you take the ride. At this stage of the journey my batteries were running a bit low, so I felt some kind of guilty relief that it wasnt down to me to decide how much fun I'd have.

Rome looked just the way I expected it to look, based on grade 9 Ancient History, a book about Pompeii Id read earlier that week and Michelles photos from her last visit. It didnt feel scary or dirty, but I think thats more to do with me getting over my gypsie paranoia than the town being a eutopian paradise. I was absolutely digging the free flowing fountains with drinkable water on every corner, still being fed by the same Aqueduct that Caesar had plugged into his foot-spa. I also saw a tiny gypsie guy with a giant sack of desiger handbags being chased through the streets by the Establishment, which was hilarious.

I had my first completely authentic italian pizza that night and it was pretty ordinary. Coupled with the infuriatingly relaxed Michael Barnes style table service and I'd say my dinner fell somewhere below average. At 11pm I got back to my room and was greeted by a tired looking Michelle, who had been travelling since 8am that morning. I'm sure she will explain how she managed to take 15 hours to get from Frankfurt to Rome on her blog (its just like one of those comedy of errors Bus stories she has that go on forever and involve a lot of timetables and running).

The next morning our group was assembled bright and early for another trip into the heart of the city. This is probably the best time to introduce The Group. There are 10 boys, 3 of which are single, in a group of 43. Do the maths on that one. We have a reasonable contingent of Aussies, and for the first time the majority of them are from Brisbane. The rest are American/Canadian plus two Brits, two Sith Ifrikens a Cypriot. We caught a local bus plus the Metro into the central tourist district and saw everything that had a column in a 15k radius. I was glad Mr Collins took our Ancient History class to see Gladiator all those years ago, because it really did help me appreciate the Colloseum in person (plus every conversation started with "So, did you see the movie about this?").

With the guided tour over, we found ourselves outside the Vatican. I felt tired, sweaty and blasphemous, so I was content to float through the complex on the river of tourists that follow the "This way to Sistine Chapel" signs without paying too much attention to what was around me. The Sistine Chapel was about as impressive as the pizza I'd had the night before, we even passed a group of backpackers further down the hall who were asking a security guard if theyd passed it yet. Back onto the streets of Rome, I caught a cab with some other guys on the tour to check out the Colloseum from the inside. Then, with aching feet and what may have been the early signs of heat stroke, I trekked back to the Hotel to prepare for the night out.

Our handsome tour guide Yannick (the saving grace for the 33 girls) suggested we meet at a bar for a big group drink-up. Unfortunately noone on the tour figured out where that particular bar was, but fortunately we all got lost in roughly the same place so we started the party there. I had a Long Island Ice Tea at the bar on the river, two more at a sports bar in town, and one more at a club near that, so I was well and truly off tap. This was Contiki after all, you can afford to get ripped and hand over EU15 of your girlfriends money to a gypsie vendor for a dodgy plastic megaphone (with record/playback) because there will always be people around to notice you've gone missing.

I dont recall getting home, and I dont recall answering the phone from bed the next morning when the tour guide called to ask why we weren't on the bus. Turns out Michelles phone ran out of batteries in the early morning, so the alarm she set didnt go off and we were 45 minutes late. The flurry of packing and running was one big painful blur, and unfortunately I had to sacrifice my new megaphone to save space. Luckily for us, our tour guide believed in never leaving anyone behind, probably because I hadnt paid him for the extras I'd booked in for yet.

Everyone else on the bus was nursing a wicked hangover as well, and I still felt pretty rough when we reached our day stop in a little Tuscan town whose name escapes me. I bought a 1.5l bottle of water and spent the next couple of hours sitting very still in a little secluded courtyard with some stray cats and a guy playing some acoustic guitar.

We hit Florence that afternoon and checked into a rough looking but extremely welcome Hotel on the towns outskirts. A nap would have been excellent, but as I was quickly learning, sleep is the realm of the bus and not the Hotel. we had a dinner booked that evening at some Italian restaurant, and after a really average spaghetti meal the bus dropped us at another bar. I wasnt in the mood for even a snifter of alcohol, but fortunately the live band was more than enough entertainment.

I say band, but really it was one guy. A bald guy in a grey shirt with a completely expressionless face and a candy-apple red electric guitar. He had a kareoke machine and a synthesiser, and together with his terribly off-key lyrics (which he had to read from the kareoke screen), he concocted a pretty good representation of some top 40 tracks. The fun part was that where most songs would enter the bridge, he'd unleash an utterly face-melting guitar solo for about a minute straight. That seemed to be the only part he took any pleasure in, its like he told the boss he'd play for free if he could do his own solos.

Anyway we all had a bit of a dance and headed back to the Hotel at about midnight, with instructions to be up again at 7 for the bus ride back into town. We spent the day doing another walking tour of the city, then some more random wandering and shopping. There isnt a whole lot to say about Florence, its just another picturesque Italian town filled with the same souvenir t-shirts and fake Gucci luggage as you see everywhere else.

I was a little bored with the tourist side of things at this point, there was too much rushing around to really take anything in other than the location of the nearest McDonalds or ATM. Fortunately the night life was still excellent. Michelle borrowed Kristys hair straightener that afternoon and gave both of our manes some attention. By the time she was finished the only thing about me that was curved was my apparent sexual orientation. So with my epic hair equipped and a few hastily concocted vodkas under my belt I headed out with the group to a beutiful restaurant in the hills around Florence. The whole place was shut down for our group, with free cocktails on arrival followed by a host of weird yet tasty entrees. Our entertainment for the evening was another nerdy white guy with a synthesiser, only this time he was armed with a piano and sounded like Meatloaf would if english was his third language. The main course was brought out in style, with dimmed lighting, sparklers and a stirling rendition of the Star Wars theme by our now borderline psychotic pianist. There on the plate was a very significant portion of pig. A delicious pig. Alongside it we got glasses of wine that at first I thought was whiskey, then our tour guide brought out a mean little yellow bottle of some liquor brewed by monks. The alcohol rating was 90%, and it tasted exactly the way disinfectant smells. I was lucky enough to spill some on my chin, so I wont have to shave there for a while.

With my mouth still burning, we left the restaurant for a really excellent club that I remember only as a building full of mirrors and some pumping music. I danced like it was friday night at The Family 6 years ago and had the best night out I've had in ages. I had switched from Long Islands back to good old Vodka, so I woke up the next morning with next to no hangover and was bright eyed and bushy tailed for our trip to La Spezia.

The bus ride to La Spezia was quite uneventful, we were there in a couple of hours (after stopping by in Pisa for the obligatory tourist photos. La Spezia wasnt our actual destination for the day, it was just where we'd be staying the night. We got off the bus and got straight on a train which started heading down the Italian coastline. It wasnt until I caught my first glimpse of the vast blue ocean that I realised why we were in Italy. The beautiful coastlines and crystal clear water had never entered my imagination until that moment and I suddenly remembered that I was having a holiday on the mediterranian coast and that was a good thing. We carried on for a few more kilometers of beautiful scenery before we got to Cinque Terre.

I believe Cinque Terre is italian for "No Fat Chicks". It is a tiny little beach town, little more than a train station and some gift shops, set against the most beautiful coastline Ive ever seen. The beach is made of rocks and umbrellas, and there is about 3 feet of shallow water before you drop off into the deep blue. Everyone is absolutely beautiful, even the old ladies looked like they could cook a pretty mean lasagne. A lot of the beautiful people were also naked.

As the whole beach experience had caught my by surprise, I was still wearing my Nikes and looking like a total square. I bought a pair of 3 euro sandals outside the train station and joined Kristy, Michelle and Dani in a little waterfront cafe that was rapidly becoming a Contiki hangover ward. I had possibly the best pizza of my entire trip and then, in a blatant disregard for personal safety, went swimming straight away.

For all that Cinque Terre is beautiful, the beach is hard work. First, there is no sand, only smooth rocks and pebbles that have been baking in the sun all day. You have to gingerly pick your way around the mass of umbrellas and towels and naked chicks while little kids run past you with the hardened feet of a sherpa. Then you jump in and sink because you havent been swimming in years and there are swells coming in and you cant touch the bottom. Then you try and get out and fall over a whole lot because you cant get a decent foothold in the pebbles and the waves are knocking you over, all while trying to look cool in front of Italys finest. That said, it was a welcome respite from the mediterranian heat and the salt sculpted my hair into an epic fro. We headed back to La Spezia that afternoon, then the following morning we set off for Nice.

Nice was basically the Gold Coast to Cinque Terre's Sunshine Coast. It was a little bigger, a little ritzier, a little cheesier, but still had the same beautiful beaches and equally beautiful people. It was also in France, which ruined my July resolution to avoid the french. The bus ride from La Spezia was pretty painful so we resolved to do very little that afternoon. The evenings drinking excursion started off at a very authentic Irish pub, manned entirely by Australians. The vibe was good and the drinks were a reasonable price, unfortunately the smoking ban hasnt really caught on in France so we were coughing up lungs left right and center. At halftime we relocated to an extremely cool and edgy and hip nightclub called "Liqwid" (its edgyness was clearly evident in the deliberate misspelling of the name). Unfortunately the club SUCKED in capitals, with a 10 euro covercharge, some highschool kid manning the bar trying to serve 50+ people, ridiculous drink prices and a pretty crummy dancefloor. The vibe died slowly over the next hour or so, even when our tour manager bought us shots that tasted like Colgate.

The next morning the girls and I had a McDonalds breakfast hangover special, which will go down in history as the worst McDonalds experience ever for reasons that cant be reproduced in print. We considered a jaunt down to Cannes for a swim, just to say we'd jaunted somewhere, but by the time we got to the train station it was 1pm and it would have been a waste of time travelling that far. Instead we cabbed it back to the perfectly good Nice beach and swam for a few hours, then tanned.

That night we went on an excursion to Monaco for another booked dinner, and a visit to the casino. Being that I'm $20 up on the Treasury Casino here, and didnt want to risk losing my perfect record in a foreign land, I just hung around the carpark with some of the others and watched the cashed up Italians in their gridlocked sportscars (for the record, Ferarris sound absolutely gutless at idle). The rest of the group only had an hour to spend in the casino (long enough to lose EU200 apparently) before the bus took us back to Nice for the last time.

The next day we set out for (and arrived at) Avignon. Unfortunately our Contiki tour had the annoying habit of dropping us off for sightseeing before dropping us off at the Hotel. So a bunch of sweaty, irritable and sore people pile out of a bus into a very pretty town and spend the whole time lying around and eating everything in sight. This is why I cant give you all much of a description of these places, other than the comparitive quality and price of their local margherita pizzas and diet cokes. There isnt much to add about the Hotel experience either, other than that I ate a lot of free breadrolls and shared a table with a girl named Toulla, who reminded me of the character on Fat Pizza of the same name so I laughed a lot.

The following morning we set off for Barcelona. We had reached the final four days of our tour and I was ready to spend them with the good people of Spain. Unfortunately, not only was Barcelona not technically part of Spain, but 99% of the people we came across were even ruder than the french. It probably didnt help that it was hot as hell and the frantic pace of the tour was starting to take its toll. Cabin Fever had been setting in as various groups cliqued up and people were getting irritable at each other. To combat this, Michelle and I decided to take another night off from organised activities and crashed early (11pm or thereabouts).

We picked the right time for it too, because the hotel in Barcelona was the nicest of all our accomodation. The room was like the interior of a giant Aston Martin, or a rich mans stationary set. In fact everything in Barcelona was nice, because very little of it pre-dates the Olympics. The trams and shiny and new, the buildings are crazy and modern, even the homeless people were sleeping on brightly coloured cardboard. The following day Michelle and I did a Fat Tyre bike tour, which was fun as always. We got a brief history of Catalunya and a few hours riding through sunny and deserted city streets, as the whole place was in the grip of a public holiday. We went to the beach for lunch and I washed down my pizza with sangria.

That evening we had a flaminco show/dinner booked for the group. The show was excellent, but the food was a little too gourmet for my taste. I put away a record 7 breadrolls, thanks in part to the constant supply coming from the gluten-intolerant chick sitting across from me. The plan for the rest of the night was to go with the group to a massive street party in Old Town. As we were doing things european style, we didnt leave the hotel until about 11pm, and for some reason we chose a 90 minute Metro ride over a 15 minute taxi trip. By the time we got there everyone had lost whatever buzz theyd left the hotel with, and found themselves overdressed and jammed into a scrum of sweaty revellers and packed out bars. Kristy, Dani, Michelle and I quickly decided to write off the evening (and in fact Barcelona altogether) and save our partying for the last two nights in Madrid. I also bid farewell to my brown Cotton On polo, which has featuring in neary evening nightclub photo of my whole tour. It had gone ratty as hell and was reeking from the cigarette smoke in Florence still. May it rest (and possibly be laundered) in peace in the ritziest closet its ever seen.

Being that Madrid is 8 hours away from Barcelona in the middle of nowhere, I camped out in the carpark that morning to reserve the only seats on the bus that give me decent legroom. With my bags in place, my feet up and some breadrolls Michelle salvaged from the free breakfast, I was all set for the last haul. Our "morning song" played for the last time and we set off across the spanish desert. Thanks to the wonderful EU driving laws, we were never on the bus for more than 2 hours, so the drive wasnt actually that painful. At the halfway point we stopped at a little town which featured a cathedral that the ancient spanish must have converted from an airline hangar. After a few oohs and aahs we continued on to our final destination.

Madrid was and is a cool place to be. Its big, its clean and the Spanish seemed a lot nicer than the Catalunyans. Everyone was amped up and ready for a couple of huge nights on the town. Michelle and I splashed out on a 12 euro bottle of Smirnoff and a few hours later we were at a trendy little cocktail bar drinking mojitos. The spanish make cocktails the same way as the germans, 50% liquor, 40% ice, 5% mixer and 5% straws. Each drink weighed in at 9 euros or thereabouts, but I only needed 4. Well actually I only needed 3, the fourth one sealed my fate for the evening and Michelle had to take me home. I passed up on that mornings excursion to the Valley of the Fallen (along with 90% of the other guys) and slept in till noon. I went for a quick stroll through central Madrid, then bought the kind of shirt you would only wear in a foreign land in preparation for the last night out.

Kristy and Dani gathered in our room after our final group dinner for a few warm-ups, and we converted the last of the smirnoff into the biggest and baddest roadie ever constructed. The destination for the evening was a superclub called Captial. It was 7 stories tall and manned by large guys with large suits and large frowns. The passport check was like security clearance at Baghdad airport, with big burly men staring you down from all corners, one exorbitant entry fee later I was in.

The club didnt really kick off until about 2am. We spent the quieter hours on the top level, it was this massive open air terrace with lounge chairs and lounge music. The drinks system worked with tickets you bought from little vending machines around the bar. You push the button marked "Combinados", then put in a 10 euro note. Then it asks you for more money, so you put in some more and it spits out a barcoded voucher for one spirit + mixer. You give the voucher to the smoking hot chick behind the bar, and she pours you whatever retarded combination of liquids you can make her understand in spanish, then you sit down and try to wipe that "I've just paid AU$20 for a drink" look off your face.

I headed down to the hip-hop level at around 2:30, as I had a date with some hispanic girls who wanted some dance lessons and photo ops (seriously). Seeing that the floor was packed out, I continued down to the main floor on level one and got into some techno. You could really see where all your drink money was going to, as at any given moment the air would be filled with bubbles or confetti or streamers until you couldnt see the floor. At the peak of every dance track these 4 huge air ducts would blast the floor with smoke, completely blinding and deafening you within seconds and sending all the crap on the floor flying into the air again. You seriously needed to have your wits about you, it was like dancing on the high seas during a maelstrom or something. Anyway it was the second of the two really good nights out during the tour, and we headed home around 5. What was left of that day we spent sleeping, eating our own special hangover cureall meals and visiting an art gallery.

How was Contiki? Contiki was fun I guess, but not as fun as Busabout. The joy I felt about not having to plan my travels was quickly replaced by irritation at the schedule I was on. Plus travelling with the same people day in, day out was breeding a whole pile of highschool-esque drama that was really lame to see. Fortunately Michelle is the best room-mate ever and I was free to kick back and watch from the sidelines.

Right at this moment Im on Michelles laptop in Madrid Airport. Our flight doesnt leave until midnight, and weve spent at least 6 hours in the meantime trying to confirm and pay for tickets that will get us from Sao Paulo to Rio. The Internet is a failure.

brief update

Missed our flight to Rio by 10 minutes, crushed.


Michelle is currently booking a flight to Sao Paulo for midnight tonight, then a flight from there to Rio at 9:30pm the following evening.

You cant stop us, our parents are loaded.

Epic contiki update coming when you least expect it

Ireland - Diary of a Craicfiend

Its 2pm on a Thursday in London and I'm curled up on a couch with a laptop, trying to think how I'm going to sum up the last 5 days on the Emerald Isle. I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never be able to fully explain how it feels to learn so much, so quickly, about a place I knew so little about. Ideally I would set up some grand question in my opening sentence, then answer it with a revelation in the closing paragraph, but I don't have the finesse for that so I'll just charge through from beginning to end and show a lot of pictures.



Being on an early flight out of Heathrow, Liz, Dan and I diligently set our alarms for 4am on Saturday morning. Unfortunately my mobile phone was still in sync with the trains in Frankfurt, so at 3am we were all up and stumbling about the house wondering why we felt so tired. Four hours and a full breakfast later, we were in Dublin.

I have to be honest about Dublin, it didnt amaze me. I've been to untidy cities, small cities and boring cities, but this was the first time I'd been to a city that encompassed all three. The people were nice, however, and the essentials (pizza and beer) were relatively cheap. As with France, I was keeping an eye out for something extremely Irish that would sum up the people I was dealing with. No sooner had we walked into McDonalds I found it in the form of a 16 year old girl wearing a name badge that said "Magda". This was repeated later in the trip when we were served at Pizza Hut by a young girl named "Deardrie". Theres something extremely Irish about kids with multi-coloured hair and designer sunglasses bearing the same names that their great-grandparents had.

After a quick bite, we dropped our bags off at the Hostel and wandered through town. Pretty soon we found ourselves at the Temple Bar district, which is basically the authentic Irish pub experience boiled down and mass produced for tourists. We literally saw 5 hens night parties in the same evening. We went to the largest and most inviting looking bar we could find, aptly named the "Temple Bar" and ordered a few pints of Guinness. I was confident that after my earlier successes with beer, I could put down a Guinness like it was a strawberry milkshake, but after my first sip I realised this would not be the case. I managed to take about an inch off the top before surrendering the drink to Dan, who chugged it down like a Man's Man while wrestling a bear and building a shed with his free hand.

We were starting to feel the effects of our early start, so we went back to the Hostel for a kip. We also discovered a new game that would see us through any of the dull moments ahead. Dan's happy meal from earlier in the day came with a deck of cards for some stupid McDonalds wild animal card game. After realising just how crap the game was, we starting frisbeeing the cards at one another. After 15 minutes we started getting dangerously good, so in the interest of safety we went out for dinner, then turned in for the night.

The next day we went to the Guinness Factory, which was brilliantly laid out, full of fascinating information and did absolutely nothing to improve my opinion of Guinness. Even after pouring my own pint and enjoying a 360 view of Dublin in the Gravity Bar, it still tasted like some bizarre combination of every flavour I don't enjoy.

Our batteries started to go a bit flat on the bus back to town, possibly because we were all realising that there was nothing more to see in Dublin, and possibly because we were up most of last night throwing cards and watching Clear and Present Danger. Liz and Dan were on their first holiday for a long time and it felt terrible that the wind was leaving the sails so early. Fortunately the burgers we had at the Hard Rock cafe were 90% sugar, so we all perked up and made a plan to do some retail therapy and watch the Simpsons Movie that night.

We hit every shoe store we could find on the main drag. Liz proved that a real marketing agent never clocks off and managed to talk me into a heavily reduced pair of Vans that I really don't need at all. The Simpsons Movie was excellent, even from the very very very front row. We had popcorn for dinner and hit the hay early, ready to catch the tour bus that would take us to northern Ireland the next morning.

The tour was what really made the trip excellent for me. Owing to the fact that we were heading north, the majority of the places we saw and stories we heard were focused on The Troubles, the overall description for the 30 odd years of violence surrounding Northern Irelands quest for independence. Our tour guide Paula (seen here in the middle with glasses) was absolutely excellent. Not only did she know pretty much all there was to know about the history of Ireland, but she managed to deliver it in a way that didnt immediately send me to sleep. We heard ancient celtic myths, simple summaries of years of social and political unrest, got the address of every bar worth going to, learnt Irish songs and were also taught exactly how to talk like someone from Cork. As I mentioned earlier, I learned more about Ireland in three days than I learned about Europe in general in 3 weeks. Liz said the place was starting to feel like a second home by the end of it and I agree.

Anyway, our first stop was a very pretty irish castle which, in true Hollywood style, was used for a scene in Braveheart. We were happy to be out of Dublin, so we danced a jig. A little further up the road we visited some ancient celtic tombs, which were at the top of a very large hill. If you ever want to feel stupid, go tramping around the Irish countryside in a pair of brand new Vans and snow white, shin high socks. You spend the whole time scanning the ground for sheep crap, mud and the kind of rocks that would shear your pretty new shoes in half. The tombs were rather cool, they were designed so that during the winter solstice the sunlight entering the door would be narrowed to a beam of light that illuminates a series of important looking symbols on the wall. I choose to believe this was an early form of disco ball.

Our first stop-over was the town of Derry. Had I entered Derry on a Busabout tour, my description would have been "cute town, bit heavy on the flags". However with the background on the Troubles we got while on the bus, it all felt very different. We dropped off our bags at the Hostel and half an hour later were standing on what used to be one of the most dangerous streets in the world, the site of Bloody Sunday. Huge murals had been painted on the buildings in the surrounding area, and as the town was pretty quiet at the busiest of times, it all felt very eerie. The was the same background feeling of tension that I felt in Berlin, only magnified a hundred thousand times due to how recent the Troubles were. Flags still fly over Republican and Loyalist neighbourhoods, and politically charged graffiti is more common than an advertising billboard. We arrived on the same day that the British troops were finally moving out, some 38 years (I think) after they first arrived.

As with Dublin though, it was the people that made the place shine, even if you did have to be slightly careful about what you said. Most of the tour wound up at the bar Paula recommended to us and we gingerly began our pursuit of the Craic. We got chatting to a group of irish guys who were very friendly and completely impossible to understand. I was reminded of the story Paula was telling us about her growing up in the south of Ireland and hearing about a "situation" in northern Ireland on the news. Everyone knew there was a situation, but noone knew what it was because "situation" was the only word they could pick out of the northern irish accent. The man on TV would apparently say "dei-de-dei-de-dei-de-situation-dei-de-dei-de" and that was all you knew. These guys were more like "dei-de-dei-de-dei-de-football dei-de-dei-de-guinness-dei-de".

Their accents became a lot clearer, however, when I accidently announced to the obviously Catholic bunch that I was having a great time here in Belfast. Suddenly it was "What?! Fookin Belfast mann? Fookin Derry man fookin not fookin Belfast is shite man Derry man". For the rest of the night my name was Belfast Man, but they all took it quite well. So well, in fact, that I even got away with correcting myself by saying I was actually having a great time in Londonderry, the Protestant name for Derry thats still contested to this day. I escaped with some boo's and a lighter sparked at me.

Towards the end of the evening someone produced a box of matches, so I issued the challenge I once heard from Dr Cook about taking a match out of the box and lighting it using only one hand. After wrestling with it for a beer and a half I finally figured it out and proceeded to set my pants on fire briefly. This became the cue to wrap up the evening and head back to the Hostel, but not before all the irish guys made it clear that they were only messing about with the Belfast jokes and wished me the best of luck in my travels.

The next day we were offered the chance to take a swim in the North Atlantic Ocean. While I dont consider myself a connoisseur of oceans in that I have to try every one, it did seem like exactly the kind of stupid activity that I would remember my trip for. Dan was up for it too, so along with a some other guys from the bus we stripped down in the middle of the carpark (using ninja towel techniques to preserve dignity) and charged in.

This is how swimming in the Atlantic works: The water is cold to the point of being searingly hot. You run in fine, but once it has seized up your calf and thigh muscles, you fall face forward into it and your heart stops. Then, guided by some primal survival instinct, you get to your feet yelling "MRUUHHURH" then lurch back to the beach. Suddenly the brisk Irish wind is like a big fur coat and you start feeling like you can go in again, so you do and you regret it. Somewhere out there, your character is being built.

From there it was on to the Giants Causeway, a massive area of hexagonal shaped columns formed by cooling magma. Actually, forget that description I just tried to give you, look at these: 1, 2, 3. The whole place is basically the same as a giant real-life game of Q-Bert, so after a lot of climbing, sitting and a nice little picnic we continued on to a rope bridge.

The bridge was sweet, but I was picturing something longer and more rickety, possibly flanked by angry pygmies like in that Indiana Jones movie. After we'd had our fill of natural wonder, the bus continued on and we arrived in Belfast.

Realising it was our last night of the tour we knew it was about time for a Big One, so we stocked up on Pizza Hut and headed to our recommended local. I have developed a love of Carslberg, because it tastes like nothing at all and I'm pretty sure I can get it back home. With a few of those under my belt I decided to try some Bushmills, which is brewed just north of Belfast (and mentioned in a NOFX song). It was, for want of a better word, delicious. Especially with coke. The craic was excellent, all the people on the tour knew each other by this point so we had a lot of fun.

In a continuation of my brand new trend of making an ass of myself in front of the irish, I managed to pull another collar tugging move at this pub too. One of the girls went to the bar to get a bunch of Jager bombs. What we got back was 10 glasses of Jager shots, without the accompanying Red Bull. I pulled up a bar chick and said that we had the Jager but we didnt have the bombs. She didnt hear me, so I found myself in a bar in Belfast yelling "WE NEED BOMBS" across the room. Fortunately by then most of the locals had cleared out.

The night finished up around 2am and we were all rather trashed. Any hangover we may have had, however, was blown away within seconds of starting the Black Cab tour at 9 the next morning. The tour is run by the cab drivers from the Trouble era (come to think of it, pretty much everyone in Belfast is from the Trouble era), some Catholic, some Protestant. They take you around their respective halves of the city, into areas that you either wouldnt know about or couldn't get to otherwise. The sense of tension here was even stronger than in Derry, especially in the area aroound Shankill Road, which saw the worst of the violence. There is still a wall running between the two neighbourhoods around the Shankill and Bombay street area, and the houses nearby are still protected by cages against petrol bombs and rocks.

Confronting as the geography was, it was nothing compared to the drivers themselves. They were all lucky to survive the Troubles at all, as taxi drivers were an easy target for snipers because their cars were identified by plates indicating what neighbourhood they were from. Their stories about life during the Troubles, and indeed the life many people were still leading today, pretty much silenced everyone in the group except the stupid american guy who kept asking ridiculous questions like why they never held a community basketball tournament to bring the two sides together.

We left Belfast a little later that morning and after a couple of stops at some more ruins and pubs we were back in Dublin. As a testament to life in the 21st century, all the good feelings and joy of 5 days in Ireland was wiped out in 33 minutes of waiting to collect our bags at Heathrow. We got back to Finchley Road at about midnight and slept like old people.

So that was Ireland - fascinating, inebriating and brief. As I said, I really cant sum it up, other than to say that you should go. By the way, not all the pictures I upload make it to this blog, so if you'd like to see some more, go here.

Its now 10am Friday and I'm going to the zoo.

London - What the hell is this, some kind of tube?

Well here I am in London. I havent really done anything of a touristy nature yet, so there isnt much I can tell you about, but I'm quite comfortable in my new home with Dan and Liz.



Here we are, looking all brother and sisterly.

It was with a heavy heart yesterday that I left Michelle to wrap up her affairs in Mainz alone. I'm pretty sure she was thrilled, as I was one less thing in her apartment to be walked around or climbed over.

I've had longer cab rides than my flight from Frankfurt to Heathrow. Dan was on hand to meet me and guide me through a maze of public transport to my new home on Broadhurst Park road. The first cool thing I found with London is that everyone has their own tube station to devote themselves to like a street gang. I've been here less than 48 hours, but already I'd lay down my life for the Finchley Road massive.

I've got a double mattress set up at the foot of Dan and Liz's bed (like a dog) and its probably the most comfortable sleeping setup I've had so far. There is Wifi all through the house and laptops lying all about the place. I've hit up the supermarket stocked myself up with butter, full cream milk, bread and peanut butter, so thats taken care for the first 2 meals of every day Im here.

Today Liz took me out to Central London to go shopping for a waterproof jacket for when we hit Ireland. Found ourselves a bargain little number in H&M, then we went shoe shopping.

I was distinctly reminded of going to Hogs Breath and having a Hickory Smoked Steak (medium well) waved in front of me with a side of garlic bread. You get that raw, choking desire and your teeth try and jump out of your face to annihilate whats in front of you. The shoe stores here are just the same. Every colour, flavour and esoteric limited edition style of tennis shoe dances in front of you like candy laced with laces.

I didnt want to spend a lot of money here because the pound is so expensive, but there is something so arresting about a pair of Vans with "The Great Wave Off Kanagawa" by Hokusai printed across it. Oh well, money is printed to be spent.

Ireland will be awesome. It was the last thing on my mind when I came here, but I'm catching the travel enthusiam bug from Liz and Dan because for them this will be the first holiday in a while. We leave on Saturday the 28th and get back on Wednesday the 1st, just in time to meet Kristy coming back from Scotland.

Photo Bonanza

I've had some time to relax here in my second home of Mainz, so I've uploaded some pictures for you all. Its far from the complete collection, just a brief picture recap of the Busabout experience.

PHOTOS REMOVED DUE TO CRAZY LOADING

Anyway I think that will do you for now.

I left Munich dreadfully hungover, but still managed to get out and see the Mercedes Benz museum when I arrived in Stuttgart. At around 4:30pm I was ready to catch my train back to Mainz but it didnt show up. No explanation given, just an announcement in German over the PA that said the train wasnt going to arrive, ever. Thanks Deutsch-Bahn, why expect to get on a train when I only paid a measly 33 euro for the ticket? By 5:30 I managed to find one that passed through Mainz so off I went.

Michelle and I are taking it rather easy. We played some AFL, Gridiron and Soccer today with some guys from the lab, then did a 5 DVD's for 10 euro movie deal at the local video joint.

Ive been loving the return to normal food and slightly reduced rate of beers-per-minute. Hopefully I'll fully recouperate by the time I hit London on tuesday.

Munich - End of the line

Ok we'll start with the bad news first.

My camera, which I'd recently lost, recovered and vowed to protect like my first born child, was dropped in the Hostel bar. Im not sure who dropped it, as it was being passed around, but at some stage it hit the floor.

It is damaged. After a detailed investigation I've concluded that the aperture shutters have shattered and are now floating around inside the lens itself, occasionally blocking the view. The camera still takes photos, but in bright lighting (when the aperture shutters would be out) the picture has a grainy kind of static over it. It still records video perfectly.

I've found a couple of camera repair shops in London, so I'll get a couple of quotes next week and see what can be done. Its a bit of a shame, but I've had a lot of fun here too.

The day we arrived was also the last night of the tour for a couple of my good Busabout mates, so we all decided to take full advantage of the happy hour(s) in their honour. From 6 - 8 we drank all sorts of things in the Hostel bar. Then, with a shine well and truly on, we went to a beer garden.

Now I thought I knew what a Beer Garden was based on my experiences in Australia. The "Beer Garden" of every pub I've seen has been a paved area with a couple of tables and some potted plants. Basically the only thing that distinguished it as a beer garden was the lack of a DJ.

Well the Beer Garden we went to in Munich was the real deal. In fact it was less of a Beer Garden than it was a Beer Forest. It was a massive area (easily the size of the Botanic Gardens in Brisbane) and totally packed with tables. The tree canopy formed a complete unbroken ceiling of the place, and it was totally full of people.



We found oursleves a table and a very german looking lady took our complicated order of "Beeeeeerrrrrrrrr!!!!". She returned with 7 massive glass steins full of the stuff, the table must have bowed a few inches as she put them down.

We would have been there for a couple of hours at least, very loud and very drunk. Eventually we noticed the odd flash of lightning through the canopy and somehow came to the logical conclusion that we should leave.

As we got out onto the street, Emma from Sydney started laughing and reached into her handbag, producing (with a Houdini-like flourish) one of the massive steins we'd been drinking from. Myself and 3 of the other boys looked at each other, briefly searched out consciences, then immediately decided we had to go back for the ultimate souvenier.

We didnt really have a plan, other than to use all the cunning and guile we could muster to somehow smuggle out glasses of our own. The fact that we were utterly legless was immaterial.

We all piled on a massive bench near the entrance that had a few empty glasses on either end of it. Matty and James were on one side, with me and Luke way down on the other end. We announced loudly to each other how glad we were to be back in our seats after a brief leg streching excursion outside. The only person who took any notice was an old guy on the next table, who regarded us with the weary gaze that comes from being the only person around drinking beer for the taste.

After sitting at our empty glasses for a few minutes, we simultaneously had the idea that we should go to the mens room and take the glasses with us, as sort of a diversionary tactic. So off we went, trying in vain to hold them under our shirts or behind our backs without looking like complete idiots.

We entered the unrinals to plot our next move (like most men), but suddenly we were faced with 20 serious looking guys staring over shoulders at us with eyebrows raised. We froze. Noone had thought it out this far, in fact noone had thought it out at all. I lost my nerve, wheeled around and ran headlong out the front gate and down the street, stein waving around madly. I could tell by the yelling and laughter behind me that the other guys had followed suit.

By about the third block we were out of breath. We put the glasses back under our shirts and walked back to the hostel, taking a route that somehow passed every local police station in the area. I gave myself a few minutes to feel guilty back in my dorm, then stashed the glass and went back to the bar for the second happy hour of the evening.

At the crack of 10 that morning I was out of bed and into the streets of Munich. I went to the city park, which is twice the size of New Yorks central park and full of nude sunbathers (100% of whom were old men). I went to the Wave riding area as Id seen it on a backpacking show before I left. Its a section of the parks artificial river that has a rockwall across the bottom, which combined with the pretty fierce current creates a never-ending wave not unlike that ride at DreamWorld. There was a lineup of 5 people on each side, all wetsuited and surfboarded up, taking turns to put on a demo for the crowd of onlookers.

Once I'd found my way out of the park again, I did a bit of a wander through town then met up with Emma and Vijay back at the hostel bar. We took an evening walk, burnt up some photos and drank milkshakes, then turned in for the night.

Today Vijay and I teamed up once more to visit the BMW museum, which was closed. Fortunately they had a little tent setup next door with some of the more popular exhibits on show. Then we made it to the massive Deutches Museum. Apparently if you spent one minute at every exhibit, you would be there for 33 days. We knocked it over in 3 hours.

Its happy hour again at the Hostel, so I'll probably head back and tie a few more on before I have to bid farewell to the Busabout experience. I havent thought of a clever or meaningful way to sum it all up, other than to say its been a blast. Every single breakfast has involved a croissant, and every single dinner bar 2 has involved pizza. If I did this any longer I'd have scurvy, and that how you know you're really living.

Salzburg - Sun,and lots of it

Just a brief update this time, as I've only been in Salzburg for a day or so.

I literally havent seen a cloud since my second day in Vienna. Its been nothing but the bluest of blue sky and epic 35 degree heat that sends all us backpacking folk running for the airconditioner. Unfortunately in Salzburg they dont really believe in air-conditioners, you're supposed to just sit by the river and sing about whatever the hills are alive with.

They make up for it, however, in the evening (which starts at about 9 and goes through until 11). The temperature is perfect, and you spend the rest of your day planted in a chair at the local cafè, catching the odd cool breeze and drinking a pint of Stiegl.

Yesterday I went to the Ice Caves. How ice caves existed in this weather was never fully explained to me. The tour we were on was a complete ripoff. We paid 30 odd euro for an hour long bus ride to and from the mountain region where the caves were. No free meal, no rest stops and no AIR-CONDITIONING. Half the bus was in from Saudi Arabia and all of the women had the full on ninja outfit happening, I'm damn surprised noone passed out.

Once the bus had climbed as far as it could, we had a 20 miunte walk up the side of a very steep mountain. We would then get a cable car even further up the mountain, where we could begin our second 20 minute walk even further still. We had to pay 15 euro for the cable car and the Ice Caves too of course, because they werent owned by the tour company. No, they were just charging us 30 euros for the bus ride.

Still, for all the ripping off, it was an awesome trip. The scenery simply defies description. Blue high above, green far below, and a mass of space in between. The Ice Caves themselves werent exactly pretty (there was no artificial lighting other than our lamps) but getting blasted by freezing 95km/h winds on the entrance was the perfect reward for all that climbing.

The only other gripe I had about the day was the other people on our tour. Particularly the 3 kids who complained loudly in toffee british accents about how cold it was, and would hop from foot to foot (which was loud and annoying as hell) to "keep warm" whenever the guides stopped us to talk. About the 5th time this happened, I made three very loud stamps on the floor right next to them then announced in a large voice how much warmer I felt. They stopped after this.

I decided to take the next day off entirely, and spent most of my time at this delightful 1 euro/hour internet cafe. Then in the evening I enjoyed a few beers with some Busabout mates and made plans for a massive night in Munich when we arrive.

So my little solo journey rapidly reaching its conclusion. Its sounding more and more like Contiki wont be nearly as fun, but London will be awesome.

Vienna - Pride Goeth Before the Party

I love Vienna. It has nothing to do with the fact that its clean, full of lovely Austrian people and speaks my favourite language. Its completely blown my Big City = No Fun theory out of the water. I sat down for a good 15 minutes trying to think why I loved this place so much when I hated Paris and Prague, and I think I´ve figured it out.

My arrival here has coincided with my graduation from Novice Traveller to Advanced Novice Traveller. Over the past weeks I´ve become a lot more comfortable with the lonely and often downright strange world of travelling alone. I now have a stack of mates to entertain me at various destinations. I can comfortably sleep in a dorm room where 5 people are snoring and 4 people are fornicationg. I can feed, clothe and bathe myself at will. Ever since my last night at Cesky Krumlov, relaxing on the pagoda, drinking free beer and chatting to my New Best Mates I´ve felt totally at ease with this backpacking thing.

Anyway heres how my stay went. I arrived at yet another perfectly located, beautifully decorated hostel and unpacked. Met up with Tom in the foyer and accompanied him and a bunch of new people to a local restaurant for some €5 Scnitzels.

It was there I met Gaylan, whom after a bit of tactical chit-chat I identified as a "car guy". We were both thrilled to vent all our pent-up car talk, giggling like schoolgirls and making ridiculous hand gestures as we embellished all our best stories on one another.

After dinner me, Tom and Gaylan caught the Metro into the city and went to the fairgrounds (which seem to run all year). We warmed up with a quick game of OutRun 2, then Gayland mentioned there was a go-kart track on site. I was absolutely psyched for some racing action since the last track day was a non-event, so I handed over my €5 and prepared to be the very first international S1 representative in a semi-serious event. Starting from the back, I caught Tom on turn 2, and ripped Gaylan under brakes on the final hairpin of the very first lap. I was totally charged. Afterwards I accompanied Tom on the Boomerang, my very first rollercoaster experience.

You couldnt wipe the smile off my face as I went to bed that night, it was a perfect day.

The next morning I was up early for the wine tasting tour through the viney region just outside of Vienna. We mountained biked through some beautiful scenery and drank what was apparently some very nice wine. And some liquers too. There was also a climb to some Castle ruins that will go down in history as one of the most agonising things I´ve ever done.

I arrived back at the Hostel to find my camera was missing. I was so very sure I´d left it on the Bus for the wine tour, so I gave them a call and left a message, then searched my room about 5 times.

The next morning, reasonably confident the camera would be found, I checked with reception to see if I had a call back. I had, the camera wasnt there. Shit. I asked them to double check, and I searched my room some more. I had started in this city with such confidence in my ability to travel without the usual comedy of errors that follows me in most of my endeavours, surely Pride had not given way to the dreaded Fall..

I spent the day travelling around town with Marty and Alex, the NZ couple I had met earlier in Cesky Krumlov. I felt like a total downer though, I couldnt get my mind off losing 800 plus photos and a brand new camera. I called the tour guide again, and he told me he still hadnt found it. I started trying to rationalise the loss, thinking about how it wasnt that big a deal and the memories are more important etc.

Anyway around 2 that afternoon a SMS came through from the tour guide. They´d found it, exactly where I told them to look. The guide had actually found it that morning, but forgot to drop it off at reception. Fantastic, best feeling on earth.

It was an absolute beautiful day by the way. Perfect blue sky, 33 odd degrees, and a camera full of memories safe in a bus full of drunk backpackers. To celebrate (actually, just for a laugh), we made our way down whatever river runs through Vienna to a section of reclaimed beach not unlike the infamous Kodak beach in Southbank. It was there we grabbed some deckchairs, found a shady spot, and spent the afternoon drinking absurdly priced Mojitos under the azure sky. Absolute perfect holiday moment, I´ve never felt more relaxed with my eyes open before.

The tour guide dropped the camera off at the Hostel around 8pm. I,d been drinking for a few hours by then. I pitched in a few euros to the grocery bill of the NZ couple and they shared a delicious pasta dinner with me. We had salami instead of chicken which was a bit special, and I ate my first ever mushrooms. I am truly a renaissance man now.

So now Im putting the finishing touches on this Long Island Iced Tea and reflecting on truly awesome it is to be young and handsome and on holiday.

Onward to Salyburg.

Cesky Krumlov - Beer is cheaper than Water

This entry is very difficult to type, as my hands are numb and I have grown massive animal-like fingernails.

Cesky Krumlov is a very very very small medievil town encircled by a very very very cold river south of Prague. It is about a 10 minute walk from one side to the other and jam packed with gift shops. Just how I like it.

We arrived yesterday in miserable rain, but moods improved when we got to the hostel, which is a totally cool hayloft kinda setup run by a bunch of crazy people.

I spent the afternoon exploring town. Actually it was more like 20 minutes than an afternoon, so for the rest of th day I just wandered around aimlessly with a few more people from the tour and had myself a $5 Cordon Bleu at one of the millions of cosy local pubs.

Today I checked out the two biggest tourist attractions. Actually thats not true, the whole town is the attraction, these were just the two places you can go, the Old Castle and the Old Church.

The castle was cool because I managed to dodge the entry fee for the tower climb (I was down to my last 300kc and I'm not changing anymore cos I'll leave tomorrow), so I did that and took all the touristy photos.

Then I went to the old church. Of all the churches I've been to, this was definately one of them. It was also free. Awesome.

Anyway the weather was cold (as we'd come to expect in a European summer) and the rain was intermittant, but the only other activity the town had to offer was rafting down the river. I had just shaken off the remnants of the cold that hit me in Prague, and I was very cosy in my bed, but something told me that I had to do it (that something was a girl named Emma in the bunk across the room). Besides, I could visit churches and climb tall things in Brisbane, I was long overdue for a unique experience.

So I donned my boardies along with the 2 other people stupid enough to sign up and we got a lift up the river and out of town with our inflatable dingy/kayak.

Noone really knew what they were doing, so I remembered everything Dad had taught me about canoeing (ie; the j-stroke) and explained it all like I was an old sea dog. Somehow I had a beer in my hand as well.

The trip was really cool, and we managed to get the only 2 hour window that didnt have rain (and for a second there we actually had sunlight). Instead of rapids we hit the occasional weir, which had special chutes set up on the right where canoes could do sick jumps. Expect video footage of that later, I spilled my beer :(.

Got back here, had a shower and watched a movie. A free keg has just been delivered to the Hostel from a brewery down the road, but I've had my stein for the week so I'll spend the rest of my time in Cesky Krumlov looking for fingernail clippers.

11am tomorrow we head off to Vienna.

Prague - Everyones a millionaire

Ok, picking up where we left off in Berlin, I met Michelle at around 11pm Friday night. She flew in to catch a European AFL game.

Being the dutiful boyfriend I am, I escorted her through the freezing German night to her hostel, which was about 300m from where Hitler killed himself. Thats another thing thats cool about Berlin, how they handle all that heritage. Theres beautiful memorials to all the crazy stuff that went down in that city or in the surrounding areas, but in select cases they chose to wipe it from the record because any memorial would seem like some kind of validation.

Prime example was Hitlers place of death. Its now a carpark. Not even a nice multilevel carpark with a security guard at the door, its a rough gravel yard with a couple of rusting VW Golfs lying around. Theres a little sign near the entrance saying that the remains of Hitlers bunker lies beneath, but if someone didnt point it out to you, you'd never notice.

The old Nazi Luftwaffe headquarter still stands, but its now the Taxation Office. So while the building is no less terrifying, they dont pay any more tribute to it than they need to.

Anyway, amatuer history lesson aside, I headed off for Prague the next morning. Had my passport checked for the first time since I'd entered Europe, then we stopped at a couple of old concerntration camps/hospitals to change some money and get food. I handed over 40 euros and came away with a couple of grand worth of Krona, then gave some chick 300k for a packet of hot chips and a coke.

Got to Prague at around 4pm. The hostel is AWESOME. Its huge, its clean, the staff have matching pink shirts, the rooms have their own showers and lockers right next to your bed, and next door there is a massive shed with a bar, restaurant and free Internet. Had a few brews with some guys then turned in for the night.

The next day was another bike tour. Prague is a lot more hilly than what I'd seen so far in Europe, but fortunately the bikes were all featherlight and had 100 odd gears. Rode around for a few hours and managed to get sunburnt. Yes, the sky finally turned blue and I could give my jeans a rest. Awesome.

Unfortunately the combo of sunburn and the long walk back to the apartment made me feel a bit strange, and somewhere between the closing credits of "Fight Club" and the middle of "Chasing Amy" I picked up a wicked cold. Spent the rest of the night drinking OJ and blowing my nose.

Today I have taken a break from Tourism and drinking altogether to try and recover. Ive seen very little of Prague, but Im not too fussed to be honest. Ive decided the cities I like the most are the ones with the least Gypsies, hence Paris and Amsterdam were pretty ordinary, and Belgium and Berlin were awesome. Cesky Krumlov is sounding great too.

Anyway I should track down some food, or at the very least some more OJ.

saturday night in east berlin

I love Berlin. I love everything about it that I have seen so far. Im pretty sure I love the stuff I havent seen yet too. I been humming the tune to Kreuzberg the whole time.

I left Amsterdam with a heavy heart. Not because I particularly missed Amsterdam, but because I left my beautiful, compact and absorbant micro-fibre towel at the Hostel. I have since replaced it, but the idea of my faithful towel lying abandoned in some dingy hallway in Holland breaks my heart.

I started perking up once the bus got onto the Autobahn. Unfortunately the highway now has a speedlimit, and I agree with Richard Hammond that a speedlimit on the Autobahn eliminates the purpose of having Germany. However rumour has it that if your car has German registration you can still do warp 9 without getting a ticket, and that was definately happening. The fastest cars I saw were all late model BMW Wagons. Anything that looked remotely sporty would ease along at a leisurely 130 or so, but these Wagons would go snapping by at something like 200. They looked awesome too, like Batmans hearse. I want one.

Anyway our Hostel was right next to the Berlin TV tower and Alexanderplatz. This is where I fell in love with Berlin. The (former) eastern half of the city has this really eerie vibe, like a ghost town. The massive promenade of Unter den Linden totally fills your field of view. There are no skyscrapers, few cars and its all very quiet. Ive never been an architecture/city planning buff, but I love the work of whoever set all that up (possibly Hitler).

My first purchase was a fluffy Russian hat, complete with ear flaps and Red Star badge. I've wanted one ever since I saw Matty Jones with his, and there was a certain irony about wearing it for photo ops in front of important buildings.

Took a bike tour the next day and got a better handle on the history of the place. The best part of the tour was the fact that the bike had oldschool brakes where you lock the pedals backwards to stop the rear wheel. Me and this Pommie dude went a bit mad in the park and had some slide competitions. We also got rained on. Again.

That night we did a pub-crawl. I think it would be wise to limit my intake of pub-crawls to once a lifetime, but they are an excellent way of meeting people. Katie came around again from wherever she was staying so I hung around with her, a kid called Tom and some Aussie guys who knew every quotable movie/music line that I did.

I think the first bar was a soviet bomb shelter or something. The rest was history. The drinks were cheap and there were free shots every hour. Unfortunately most of the free shots were Apple Schnapps, which tastes like all the bad parts of Tequila and Chartruese but isnt remotely as potent.

There were 5 bars in total (so the brochure tells me) and we'd stop in between for Jaegermeister. To save on plastic cups, the Jaeger was dished out directly into your mouth. Everyone got into a circle and took a kneel, and the guides walked around pouring it in. Classy.

Anyway, brilliant night, I think I took about 80 photos (S1 normanby style). Found myself safe in bed the next morning with all my valuables intact. Turns out most of the people I was partying with were staying in my room as well.

Spent today reading the history of the Berlin Wall at Checkpoint Charlie, as well as the Topography of Terror museum. Today is also the first time Ive been in shorts since about 3 days into my trip.

Michelle is arriving sometime tonight, so I'll probably get dinner with her, then its off to Prague. I will miss this place.

"Going to Amsterdam in the new year, top gear there"

The bus pulled up in Amsterdam at about noon on Sunday. Fresh from the good times in Belgium, I was ready to rock on in the party capital of Earth.

Unfortunately the Hostel I was staying at was once again based on the other side of town to the bus dropoff point. Fortunately, being on the other side of town in Amsterdam isnt a big deal. Everything is bikes, pedestrians and an orderly arrangement of canals and bridges (apparently it was Europes first "planned" city).

I got to my hostel in about half an hour, but not before a couple of homeless guys tried to rob me (I suspect). One caught me looking at a map, and offered to give directions. Keeping a hand on my wallet pocket, and making sure my bags were safely attached, I showed him the map and where I wanted to go.

He pointed out that I needed to be just across the street and up the road a bit more, and for the favour he asked for a couple of euro. Fair enough I thought, and grabbed my wallet. Once Id handed him the coin I saw out the corner I my eye his mate had pulled up out of nowhere on a bike and was eyeing my gear, maybe he expected me to drop my bags to get the cash out or something, but seeing they were staying on my back she gave me a smile and that was it.

Anyway I wandered about town in my usual style, and eventually ran into Katie and Tizz from Belgium. We all went together to meet one of Tizz's old uni mates then headed to a Coffee Shop. Tizz and her mate Allen got into some Space Cake, but being that I was alone in a strange town, and kinda tired from all the walking around, I didnt bother. Turns out 2 Space Cakes between them didnt have any effect anyway, so I saved myself a few bucks in the process.

From there we went to the Red Light District and gawped at the hooker booths along with everyone else. There were people of every age (even Mum, Dad and the kids) just staring at these half naked chicks standing in their little glass windows, and fair enough too, cos some of them were hot. The only weird part was when you share a joke about them with the stranger next to you, then he gets out his wallet and knocks on the glass.

A few novely condom shops later and we went to a bar. Just for a sit down relly, everyone was still feeling the effects of Bruges I think. I bade them goodbye at around midnight and headed back to the Hostel. My room was full of guys, half of whom snored, the other half reeked off weed. Oh I managed to have a shower without the aid of a towel in there somewhere too.

The next night was a bit of a Belgium repeat for me. I headed out early to meet my bike tour behind the Ricts Museum, but it turns out they dont run on mondays. After a hugely underwhelming (and expensive) visit to the Van Gogh museum and Madam Tssauds I was bored and alone, sitting in the foyer of the hostel surrounded by brochures telling me how fun Amsterdam is.

Michelle advised me to go to a tourist friendly bar and try to strike up conversation with some english speakers, and I figured if Id wasted 20 euros at a wax museum, I could at least invest some cash in my quest to become a beer drinker too.

I grabbed all the cash I had left on me (40 euros, down from 300 at the start of the trip) and headed to an "Aussie Pub". I could tell it was Australian by the way there was a giant plastic crocoile hanging from the ceiling. Just like the Normanby.

Ive never been one for striking up conversation, my strategy to meet people is to sit around looking as cool as possible and attracting friends with sheer animal magnetism. So I pulled up a chair and the bar and ordered a Heineken which, to my surprise, arrived in a stein and cost me 12 euros.

I started work (penance?) on my beer and eventually got chatting to a couple of rowdy Irish girls named Melissa and Nieve. A few drinks later they invited me along to a bar across the street where they knew the bartender. We relocated to a nice little pub with pumping music, disco lighting, and absolutely no patrons other than ourselves.

The bartender (who kinda looked like Vinne Jones, and was nicknamed accordingly) let us play with the jukebox, and gave the occasional free shot or heavily discounted Jaeger bomb. After a while the place started to fill up, but I was well on my way by this point, so I thanked the girls for saving my evening and lurched home through the freezing Holland wind.

Back at the Hostel I got into my PJ's, then managed to lock my wallet (containing my locker and door key) inside my locker at about 1am. Went down to the lobby to get the reception dude and was met with a crowed of American girls, one of whom asked me if I was aware I wasnt wearing pants.

The next day (today) I did the bike tour Id attempted earlier. It was 3 hours of riding through torrential rain and freezing winds, wearing special bike ponchos that were useless at doing anything other than making you look stupid in front of the locals.

So my time in Amsterdam has been good. I didnt do all the things I expected to do when I was over here, but the reality of travelling alone is a lot different to the non-stop party I had pictured.

I'll write again from Berlin.

I say "Bruges" the way Michael Barnes says "Brugge"

Each second I spent on the bus to Belgium I felt increasingly joyous, because I was another hundred meters away from the ghettos of Clichy. By the time I got to Bruges I was over the moon.

I was back among my favourite Europeans, the Germans (well, close enough to Germans). I dropped off my gear at the trendy little Hostel and did a quick exploration of the town on foot, I covered the whole thing in a couple of hours.

At 7pm there was a free walking tour to some of the lesser known parts of Bruges, so I did that as well. The tour was really interesting, and not just because our guide sounded like the swedish chef from the muppets that said "bork bork bork".

We got back to the Hostel in time for Happy Hour, and thats when I realised I had a problem. All my wandering around so far had been done solo, so I hadnt gotten the chace to meet anyone. No friends means no drinking partner, and drinking alone is only one step above being homeless.

I was feeling a bit like Johnny No-Mates, so I retired early to my bunk in a room full of giggling Mexican chicks.

The next morning I went exploring again, this time armed with my lonely planet book. I checked out the Belfry tower, which is a huge tower in Markt square with a spiral staircase that is a lawsuit waiting to happen. For reference, take a step machine into your closet with 5 other people and do a workout.

I then browsed some market stalls, churches, shops etc, but eventually went back to the Hostel to get my head straight.

This business of having no buddies just wouldnt do, but fortunately I had an ace up my sleeve (apart from being charming). The bar wench told me earlier in the day that there was a free concert happening in a park towards the south end of town, so I got chatting with this kiwi chick Id spoken to the day before and asked if she was going. Turns out the concert was news to her, and she immediately rounded up everyone else at the bar (friend or otherwise) and told them we were all going.

Like sunshine breaking through this bleak European weather, I suddenly had a bunch of mates and a party to go to. Just for a bit of overkill, one of the mexican chicks started hitting on me. I think she was trying to be subtle but her rudimentay grasp of the English language gave her away.

I managed to talk my way out of a night out with her friends, while still sounding like I was a totally cool guy, then headed off with my new best mates. There was Kate the Kiwi, Tizz the Aussie, Pablo the Spaniard, and Matt and Brian from Wales (or somewhere like that).

We grabbed a bottle of el-cheapo vodka from the local then headed to the park around 10pm. There was some really cool reggae playing and heaps of people, so we pulled up a square of grass under some trees and got into it. It rained on us a couple of times, but it was a really really good night out.

My self confidence was back in full swing. No more of this getting dressed under my quilt and shaving in the mens room. I woke up this morning and gave my all female dorm a free and unscheduled visit to the Gun Show then headed into the town square one last time. In a lovely coincidence, there was a Ferrari meet going on, and the almighty Testarossa was in the majority.

So to summarize; Belgium was great. Really really great. My tour has begun again.

France - It Smells

The following are the 3 diary entries I have written about my time in France, typed up in an agonising one hour session in an internet cafè with a retarded French keyboard (please excuse typos for this reason). No photos Im afraid.

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Day 1: Welcome to the Ghetto

I really didnt like France when I first arrived [please excuse the tense]. I was nervous, hungry, loaded with baggage and had a long walk through a strange new town full of rough looking dudes ahead of me.

The bus dropped us off at a hostel about 2kms north of the Lourve, and about 500m from the Moulin Rouge and all the sex shops you could handle. Unfortunately I wasnt staying here, I was about 4ks north east in Clichy.

So with a bag on both back and front, a comically large map in hand and trying to look every direction at once, I set off for my Hostel. Fortunately the map was awesome, and once I got a handle on the scale of it; the town was pretty to navigate. I started to relax and take it all in. Apart from the fact that all the males had facial hair, cigarettes and acoustic guitars slung over their backs, I hadnt seen anything truly FRENCH yet.

That was until I crossed an intersection at Porte de Clichy. Some guy in an M5 cut off some other guy in a van. In the middle of traffic (french traffic, which is like regular traffic except without any trace of human cognitive thinking or sense of a common goal) a shouting match kicks off. The driver of the M5 jumps out (into another lane, to a wail of horns) and gives old mate a further earful, then spits through his window. You could tell by the velocity and nice even spray pattern that this guy wasnt new to spitting either. So arrogance and retarded driving, he was a baguette short of a postcard.

I finally arrived at the "Hostel Espenlaub" at around 9pm. It looks exactly like The Projects, and I'm quite sure its used as one. There are families all through it, with dirty screaming kids running through the halls at all hours. The only saving grace is, for 2 nights at least, I have a room to myself.

I cant find the shower so Ill skip that, and everything is closed so Ill skip dinner as well. So im dirty tired and starving, and really not having fun.

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Day 2: Power UP

Its amaxing what a good meal can do for you. After feeling down in the dumps about living in the Ghetto, and the prospect of learning a whole new transit system, and not having eaten in 20 odd hours, I left the Hostel this morning a sad, sad man. Oh, turns out the room wasnt all to myself last night. At 2am I woke to discover a giant German man standing over me, looking for somewhere to put his gear. So theres one for the therapy group...

Anyway turns out the French Metro isnt nearly as weird as the DeutchBahn, and about 15 minutes later I was on the other side of the City near the Eiffel tower. That was nice; but I was still ravenous so I looked around for so,e grub. That was when I discovered a cafe that served the most amaxing croissants in France (so far). I took a bite of the first one and went straight back for 2 more. Washed that down with a Diet Coke (for that fast burning artificial sweetner energy) and suddenly this town wasnt so bad after all.

As a new man I went to the Eiffel tower to meet the bike tour group. On the way I managed to convince a gypsie I spoke neither English, French or German. The bike tour was really really good, and I met so,e nice people. It was refreshing to talk to someone in English again.

The tour wrapped up at 3pm and I went back to the Eiffel tower for a climb. An hour of queing, a few rainclouds and 700 steps later I was at the top, toasty and warm in my S1 jacket while the fashionable young French people froxe in their softcore Benneton hoodies. The rain was blowing in sideways and the metal floor of the viewing deck was slick, which made it more of an extreme thrillride than a regular old lookout tower.

On a roll, I found my way over to the Champs Elysse, then caught the Metro back home by 8. Had a nice warm shower and hit the sack feeling much better than 24 hours before, regardless of the fact that my new roomate was a snoring French man who hadnt showered since birth.

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Day 3: Walk walk walk

Today was just a matter of seeing the things that interested me on the bike tour up close, and getting the usual tourist photos.

I went to the Lourve first, which was alright. The Mona Lisa didnt really blow my mind but there were a bunch of paintings in the next room that did.

Then I went to Notre Dame, mainly to sit down and get off my feet for a few minutes.

Then I went window shopping along the Champs Elysses and ate a few hundred more croissants.

This entry would be a lot more interesting with the aformentioned photos I think, but what can you do.

Anyway Ive enjoyed my time here, but Im happy to be leaving tomorrow (altho the prospect of getting back to the Busabout hostel by 8am from Clichy is a bit daunting). I think this city might just be a little too big for my liking, Hopefully Bruges will be alright.

Much love everybody.