New Bliss Adventure Holliday

The Evelyn Hotel, Fitzroy

2011-09-29T10:40:00.000+02:00

I have started writing online for Weekendnotes. Please find attached the link to my first review online with them about one of my favourite drinking spots in Brunswick Street - The Evelyn Hotel. Don't be shy, leave a comment and let me know what you think. Hopefully, there will be much more to come very soon. Thanks for reading!

http://www.weekendnotes.com/the-evelyn-hotel/

A Class Apart

2010-11-06T01:02:00.002+01:00

This article was published in the July issue of The Bulletin (Brussels' expat mag - www.xpats.com)

Who says you can’t find stylish and environmentally-friendly accommodation in Brussels? Katy Holliday checks into the city’s first eco aparthotel and enjoys some home comforts with a clear conscience.

The heavy door glides open. A marbled entrance hallway is etched with symbolic imagery of lions and bravery in battle. I step into a tiny elevator that’s barely large enough for more than three people. It opens up into the penthouse suite at Housestories, an aparthotel with just five rooms, created by Belgian business duo Isabel Verstraete and Alexandre Pijcke. Isabel is Flemish. Alexandre is from Wallopnia. The pair have known each other for over 20 years. They both have a background as freelance communication consultants and so branding comes naturally to them. I wander around the spacious Art Deco penthouse. It measures 175 square metres.

From the large bay windows I can see a lush and leafy canopy of trees in the nearby Parc Duden; the trendy Bar du Matin is also close by. But inside the view is even better. Light wood panelling stretches and curves around the walls except for in the oversized bathroom. The sheer size of it reminds me of a bathhouse, with opulent marbled walls, a deep ceramic tub and a sauna.

Here I am on the border of the communes of Forest and Saint-Gilles, immersed in luxury. This must be bad, right? Possibly. But I take some comfort from the fact that the Art Deco building, designed in 1932 by architect Albert Callewaert, has been ecologically restored to the highest standards. Some time ago, Isabel and Alexandre decided to embark on a business venture together. They just needed the right idea. “In 2005,” explains Isabel, “I travelled around the world with my then two-year-old. I discovered for the first time the concept of aparthotels and realised that it was a great way of discovering a city, especially with children, as you are not stuck in a small, cramped hotel room.

“I called Alexandre from Thailand and told him that I finally had an idea for our business venture. He replied, ‘Come back to Belgium and we will discuss it.’ Then we began to do research into the market.” The entire building is listed and protected by the Commission Royale des Monuments et Sites (CRMS) because of its original Art Deco interior and façade. This raised problems for the team when they set about renovating the building ecologically. The project took a year longer to complete than first expected. “The whole team behind the renovation put a lot of effort into using the newest ecological technologies available,” says Isabel. “In terms of insulation, we used the best to ensure there is no loss of energy from the building. The house keeps its natural heat and the temperature inside remains the same all year round.”

Other technologies include solar panelling (combined with a green electricity supplier), double glazing, a rainwater tank in the garden for flushing the toilets and a nine-metre-long Canadian well that uses the geothermal energy of the soil it is laid in to both cool and heat the air entering the building. “For cleaning we only use eco-friendly products and we ask our guests to make a big effort when it comes to recycling,” Isabel continues.

Alexandre tells me that there has been a 90 percent reduction in heating consumption since the technologies were put in place and that 70 percent of the total water consumption on the property is provided by the rainwater tanks. Housestories is currently one of the most ecologically-advanced houses in the Brussels Region and has been awarded the prestigious Bâtiment Exemplaire (Outstanding Building) award.

“Green renovation is still quite a new idea to Brussels,” says Isabel. “Most of the other aparthotels in Brussels are investment projects carried out by multinational groups. It’s not within their objectives to take the time and invest the money that are necessary to create an ecologically-friendly environment or add a personal touch.”

The personal touch is something that sets Housestories apart. It comes from the combination of original Art Deco features with modern, stylish appliances. A record player with a collection of old vinyl creates a retro touch. There are other personal details too – antique ink bottles on the desk, old brandy bottles, and various quirky-shaped lamps, pots and vases in earthy terracotta colours. But it’s not all old. You also get modern, stylish appliances like an iPod docking station, Smeg kitchen appliances and a Philips flat screen television. It’s the complete package.

Isabel spent a year searching antiques stores and flea markets to collect the right furnishings for all five apartments. “When decorating,” she tells me, “I decided to work with vintage furniture, because it also has that eco aspect since it is reused,” she explains. “I wanted to create a place or apartment that I would want to live in myself. If I want to live there then surely others would too.” It is possible for business travellers to stay a minimum of four nights, but her target group is longterm guests. The concept seems to be working. “I think when people go abroad they want a better experience. I know I would prefer to stay somewhere that I can feel at home.”

Housestories is a brand and Isabel and Alexandre are now keen to expand on their concept. Alexandre informs me of plans to build two more apartments in the complex, complete with parking, and eventually they
would like to find another house in Brussels to renovate ecologically. “We are only looking for special houses that have a story, houses with a soul. Tasteless and boring are for us out of the question,” Isabel concludes.

As I settle into the penthouse apartment for a spell, I can understand what she means.

Housestories,
107 Avenue Besme, Brussels.
www.housestories.be 

Five things to do near Housestories:

• With its large terrace and
buzzy atmosphere, Bar
du Matin is a favourite
with local trendies.
Refreshing jugs of cocktails
loaded up with lime and
mint are served along with a
small selection of food. Wi-fi
is available. DJs regularly
amp up the nights and
although it can get wild, the
party usually ends by 2am.
172 Chaussée
d’Alsemberg, Forest.

• Fungi fans and wine lovers enjoy Café
des Spores. The restaurant specialises in
Spanish wines, and its mouth-watering
dinner menu teems with delicious
mushroom varieties. The chef cooks
from behind the bar, infusing the room
with gorgeous aromas. 103 Chaussée
d’Alsemberg, Saint-Gilles.

• Escape the noise and stress of the city and
go for a stroll in Parc Duden. This is one
of the prettiest parks in Brussels, offering
gorgeous views of the city from its hilly
heights. You can watch the occasional
football match or spot a bright green
parakeet in the pine trees.

• For more Art Deco architecture, head to
the Church of St Augustine, or Altitude
100, a summit of Brussels. Built in 1936,
the church is one of three religious Art
Deco buildings remaining in the city. Place
de l’Altitude Cent, Forest.

• The Wiels brewery has in recent
years had a bit of major makeover
and re-launched itself as a centre for
contemporary art. It holds lots of
fascinating exhibitions and events, and has
a brilliant café which serves quiche to die
for. 354 Avenue Van Volxem,
Forest.

Sunday Fireside Chat - HintON Health - ep1

2010-09-27T17:21:00.000+02:00

Eco Tourism in the High Fens of Belgium

2010-09-07T02:24:00.000+02:00

*This article was published in WAB magazine's Summer issue. You can see the PDF at http://www.scribd.com/doc/36997706/022-023-tourismfagnes

The Ardennes is an oasis. The region undisputedly has
the most breathtaking landscape in all of Belgium;
a network of lush rivers and streams, gorges and
verdant hills mounted by the trees that bulge at the
banks of the train tracks. It makes a nice change from the endless
farmland that blankets the rest of the country.

Where exactly is this water coming from? As I head towards
the small German-speaking town of Eupen on a train from
Brussels, I feel like I’m following the water. More creeks spring
forth. It’s a face of Belgium I hadn’t seen before.

I’m off to hike through the Hautes Fagnes (High Fens) nature
reserve. It is one of the largest wildlife sanctuaries in Belgium:
4,500 hectares of forest, heath, peat bogs and other wetlands.
The region also hosts part of the nation’s water supply, with
mineral springs, brooks and streams trickling over the years
through rich, mineral soil and eventually joining some of Belgium’s
biggest rivers.

After refuelling at one of Eupen’s many pavement cafés,
I catch a ride into the reserve. I am dropped off at the
Signal de Botrange, the highest point in all of Belgium
at a whopping 694 metres. Because of its altitude,
it’s generally where the first snow falls come
winter, and it’s my departure point today. The
Belgian Government even had a six-metre tower
built for people to climb and reach exactly 700
metres above sea level.

There is parking, a café and friendly information
desk. Just a few steps further on, the Nature Centre provides
guided tours or a place to leave your bags. The reserve is
lined with duckboards that make for easy walking and help to
protect the vegetation. Signposts are plentiful too. I cross the
highway and disappear into nature, breathing more easily as I
leave thoughts of the city behind.

I gaze out across a sprawling plateau. At this time of year it’s
flourishing and green. It is easy to imagine how the other seasons
treat the wetlands: the stark, austere colours of autumn
when the tussocks are dried out and golden; or in winter, when
the moors are dampened with snow, a blanket of quiet for
cross-country skiers keen to explore; or in spring when tufts of
cotton bloom and daffodils come alive.

The sound of grasshoppers ratcheting follows me around the
boardwalk, a constant companion. Sparse remains of cotton
and hare’s-tail dot the landscape. In the woods, I hear what I
imagine to be a woodpecker, though I see no sign of him.

The delicate eco-system of the Fagnes is supported by an
extremely wet climate and low-permeability subsoil. It rains,
on average, 170 days per year, with 76 snow days. When
there is too much water, the sponge-like earth is flooded and
the water swells to the surface, forming active peat bogs and
attracting an array of spectacular fauna.

As I continue, I see lizards sunning on the duckboards next
to ginger butterflies. Meadow pipits sing out as they dive and
drop in flight, and bumblebees are hard at work. I find bilberries,
and an abundance of tormentil.

It’s interesting to consider the influence of humans over
nature, when originally this land was home to woods alone.
The impact of man and his agricultural activities
has created a new eco-system; one that now needs
much protection and attention to keep the
peat bogs alive.

Exploring the High Fens:
• Look out for Baraque-Michel, a family hostel built in the early 19th century as a shelter
for weary or lost travellers. There is also the inn at Mont-Rigi, founded in 1862, which was
originally on Prussian turf. The two buildings also acted as customs posts.
• Marked crosses and stones were used as reference points in the early days to signify
land borders; many of these markers remain.
• Rent a bike and spend a day exploring the region at your own pace, weaving along a
multitude of signposted cycle tracks.
• Test your eyes and patience bird-watching – you might catch a glimpse

Gettin Past the Grand Place

2010-06-17T12:31:00.000+02:00

Been to the Grand Place? Seen the little boy peeing in one of his outrageous and ridiculous costumes? Gorged on waffles spilling over with fruits and chocolate and whipped cream? Such debauchery!

With more time in Brussels to uncover the ruinous cobble-stones, why don't we take a wee little exploration into the communes that surround the centre and discover some dining and drinking gems that even the locals frequent.

Ixelles is an excellent place to start - it's bustling with student life and is an expat hub too. Take a stroll around the ponds, eat the best frites in Brussels (arguably Frit Flagey), watch life go by in the main square and then settle in for some scrumptious dining and beer tasting.

Flagey Square:

On Saturday mornings Flagey Square hosts a small but lively market where you can find tasty deli treats like olives and sundried tomatoes, spices, Turkish sweets and other specialities.

The first floor of the tall radio building across the street from Flagey Square is the well-known Cafe Belga. This spacious, bright room is a favourite for students after a coffee and light snack or an afternoon beer, and watch out because the terrace fills quickly on a warm evening. http://www.cafebelga.be/

Delecta was once a grocery store in the 1950’s. Now, this cafe is one of the trendiest places in Brussels in spite of its original decor. It also serves up some top quality nosh. Try the delicious Portuguese sweets on display or a heavenly tartine for lunch. At night you can order tapas from the blackboard menu and the staff will recommend a decent bottle of vino. Rue Lannoy 2, 1050 Ixelles

Mamma Roma now has three locations. It’s a small pizzeria not two minutes from the Square where you can purchase pizza by the slice and weight. Indulgent toppings are the name of the game here and the token favourite is potato with truffles. Add your own chilli flakes and olive oil to taste while eating at one of the wooden bars - if you are lucky enough to get a seat that is. 5, Chaussée de Vleurgat

For nights filled with Jazz and a place to chat with friends over sublime cocktails and antipasti head to Bar du Marché. It’s simple and stylish black and white decor may fool you by day, but don’t miss the long happy hours on Friday and Saturday nights where this small little bar spills into the street. http://www.bardumarche.be/

Le Murmure is tucked away only a few doors down from BDM. It is an artsy dive-bar with paper sketches tacked to the walls and an interesting set of “chandeliers” made out of copper-pipes. Often-times, there are art exhibitions and concerts, but usually you will find a bubbly place to talk amongst friends. It’s a favourite with the art students from across the road.

For a decent cup of coffee head to the Natural Caffe to sip on an Illy espresso or cappuccino with silky steamed milk. The large glass windows are framed with plenty of stools and provide fantastic people-watching opportunities. Alternatively, you can chit-chat with friends over a pot of mint tea at a large table in the middle of the room. Close by is The Coffee Club with its bright and cosy terrace in the back to escape from the noise and fumes of a busy main street. http://www.naturalcaffe.com/

Ixelles Cimetière:

The stomping ground of ULB students has some fantastic “haunts” to whittle the night away at any of the numerous cafes, bar and restaurants.

Waff is a bar with the energy of a nightclub. Late at night there will be table-top dancing, many a cocktails been drinkin’ and a lot of fun to be had. The decor is understated, modern and simple and there is also the obligatory foosball (baby-foot) table for the competitive sportsmen. Also there is a wicked terrace upstairs for the summer months. A couple doors down is Urban Cafe which has really cheap and long happy hours, DJ sets through the week and the occasional exhibition or concert. http://www.waff.be/

Once you haul open the large, heavy door and enter L’Atelier (The Workshop) the choice is yours in over 200 beers listed on the blackboard above the bar. At most times this bar is smoky, popular, crowded and noisy. That is not a deterrent. Join in as students chant their frat songs loudly and proudly, guzzle down gallons of leffe and converse freely and openly about anything and everything. There are also board games and cards available if that’s what gets you revved up for a big night on the turps. Rue des Chevaliers 4

Le Tavernier has a fantastic garden terrace in the front to relax and chill in good weather. Inside, there is a jovial student atmosphere, lounge space, long wooden tables to pile into with your friends and chat over jugs of cocktails or beers. The staff is friendly and laid-back. Watch out for the grungy uni-sex toilets! http://www.le-tavernier.be/

Discovering the past in Spiennes - Neolithic Flint Mines

2010-06-02T00:56:00.006+02:00

http://www.scribd.com/doc/32473492/026-029-Spiennes-Plus - for full PDF file of Article

(Clippings from my full article published in Ackroyd Publications' WAB magazine)

It’s Sunday afternoon and I have just jumped off the bus to Spiennes. I walk through the sleepy village looking out for the occasional, confusing signpost to point me in the right direction. The only human activity I see is a man walking his dog. Crossing a bridge over the small stream of the River Trouille I find simple farm land set in quaint, peaceful countryside. Bright yellow wildflowers dot the meadows where fat cows laze and horses graze.

Upon walking up a quiet one-lane road there is no sign or welcoming board at my destination. In fact, I feel quite lost. All I can see is a few parked cars in front of a derelict portable toilet (the extent of the WC facilities) and an abandoned shed erected from sheets of corrugated iron overgrown with weeds and shrubbery in a state of neglect.

I’m at the Neolithic flint mines of Spiennes, a UNESCO world heritage listed site that dates back 6,000 years. The site’s tourism is as primitive as the mines themselves. Fortunately, Jean-Louis Dubois (Vice-President of the Société de Recherche Préhistorique en Hainaut – SRPH ) had sent me all the information I needed to get to the site.

Walking onwards, I hear a few murmurs and laughter through the bushes and follow the sounds to the entrance of the site – a shabby fence once again overgrown. People wearing safety harnesses are grouped underneath the roof of a small makeshift shack of corrugated iron. A wooden shelf on the back wall acts as the museum display, with a modest collection of Neolithic tools consisting of a polished stone axe, core blades, antler picks and a few hand-drawn diagrams.

It’s the very opposite of the flashy tourism package you might expect from a World Heritage Site. The entrance to the mine shaft looks like a well. A ladder protrudes from within. Visitors in single file are hooked up by the harness to a lengthy rope and then descend the long, rusty ladder eight metres into the dark pit.

Jean-Pierre Joris greets me in French. He has been at the mines since 1953 and began the first excavations and tours on the site. He is also the president of the SRPH. He summons Michel Woodbury, a photographer-cum-archaeologist employed by the Walloon region for more than 10 years, to begin the English tour with me.

Reaching the bottom of the abyss, I’m in complete darkness while my eyes adjust. Light from the shaft entrance casts down and bounces off the white chalk walls. Michel explains that this is how the Neolithic miners worked, relying on the reflective capabilities of the chalk. Fire would have used up their precious oxygen.

Michel reconstructs life in Neolithic times, when whole oak forests were removed with their polished stone axes to practise agricultural activities. These technologies that took millennia to cross from the Middle East into Europe substantially increased the standards of living. Despite the wealth in trade and culture, times were still hard and the shafts were sometimes used as graves. A skeleton of a young girl and her newborn baby was found, and suggests the pair did not make it through the birth.

Michel turns the artificial lights on, revealing an incredibly complex network of horizontal galleries and shafts. He explains that the mines are an “engineering genius” and were over-exploited for 2,000 years. The miners excavated the flint stone with red-deer antlers for picks (sharp and durable) and recycled the waste chalk by stabilising the foundation beneath them with it. It created beautiful archways and pillars that, Michel muses, they never saw.

http://minesdespiennes.org/en.html

A Taste of Northern California

2010-03-21T17:35:00.152+01:00

A warm winter’s day in Northern California is not to be wasted. My roommate's, Colleen and Scott, and I head to wine country to visit exquisite Sonoma County and Napa Valley. We are going to spend the day sippin’ on the good stuff.

First stop is the picturesque vineyard of Gloria Ferrer in Sonoma. We have a champagne breakfast. Seated on a sun-drenched patio, surrounded by bright daffodils, we overlook twisted rows of vines stark from the winter. They remind me of corn-rows. The bubbles are delicate and roasted almonds are a tasty side-treat. This girl doesn't do things in half measures.

Even in winter, the region is inexplicably beautiful. The hills and dales roll and rollick, the vineyards are ablaze with wild mustard, and quiet country lanes are lined with olive groves. There is an abundance of production and a multitude of festivals on throughout the year.

Our second stop on route is Artesa. Via art installations, architecture and a tier of fountains Artesa becomes a contradictory flavour positioned against the usual Napa fare of “rustic” wineries. Atop a winding driveway Artesa presents itself impressively with sweeping panoramas of the valley. A large tripod at the foot of a staircase is decorated with panes of reflective glass mirroring the environment – one pane exhibits the ground surface, and another the trees and hills as the backdrop. Upstairs we see that the winery has been built into the hill with a large glass viewing window protruding outwards (reminds me of the Louvre). Inside are charming modern paintings and statues.

The service is lacking in enthusiasm and the wines are merely passable, but to be fair we sampled only a few vintages. Outside a lengthy veranda provides a moment of repose to enjoy stunning views and mull over our favourite drop - the tempranillo. Artesa’s “roots” are Spanish, setting it apart from the majority of surrounding vineyards where Zinfandel holds the crown. Exiting through the interior staircase the huge cellar displays an enormous amount of stacked barrels suggesting a large level of production and distribution.

In town we stop at Jessup winery. The vineyard is located further afield and not open to general public without membership. The tasting room is stylish with art-covered walls and exposed beams. Seated on stools around a barrel-table we are provided with a platter of cheese, pistachios and buttons of dark chocolate to accompany our wines. We start with a buttery smooth chardonnay paired with creamy brie. We move along to ripe reds - a fabulous zinfandel free from tannins and "Manny’s Blend" fashioned in the style of a burgundy. Through a taste comparison of a 2004 and 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon our sommelier Kim demonstrates the differences between the vintages. She explains that "2006 was a hotter year with less rain" which means the roots were "stressed" creating a fantastic, bold result. Kim says this is aided by the fact that "Jessup does not use irrigation". She lets us test the Table For Four - a Bordeaux styled wine which is very drinkable and juicy before we finish with a luscious Cabernet Sauvignon port paired with dark chocolate.

We pit-stop at a recommended bakery Bouchon and Colleen and I share the mushroom dip sandwich. We sit on the benches outside and devour our lunch.

Our final vineyard for the day is Goosecross. A modest and simple site tucked away in peaceful Yountville. It has a smaller production - the wines are only available through the winery or online and sold in select restaurants. We file into a small, basic tasting room. Barrels are shelved at the back and a small bar in front. Wine-induced, I banter with our man Jose as he pours glasses high. Crackers and chocolates are provided for a nibble. Behind him glass cabinets stand filled with chocolate covered bottles. Its unpretentious and relaxed environment is a nice ending to the experience.

The afternoon dims and we head back to the lights of the city. We choose a Mexican bar and restaurant, Tommy’s, to end the day and start the night with their famous selection of tequilas and share a pitcher of delicious Margarita. Lets taste the night away too!

Conquering Fear on the Mountains of Lake Tahoe

2010-02-20T07:37:00.065+01:00

Lake Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in North America situated on the border of California and Nevada. Surrounded by mountains it is a major tourist hub because of all the outdoor activities. We are staying in a warm, large two storey house on “Dollar Hill” (Yes, right off “Dollar Road” and no, I’m not even kidding!), equipped with numerous bedrooms, a deck with a gorgeous view of the lake set on a snow covered hill, and a hot-tub on said deck! There's a pool table, two lovely fireplaces cranking, and loads of junk-food and booze to fuel our karaoke-inspired moments.

It's damp and we wake to fresh snow only for it to turn to slush and rain. The weather conditions aren’t conducive to the slopes, but some of us want to make the most of the day. We opt for a trail-hike through the mountains above Emerald Bay.

We park at the Eagle Fall Trailhead and choose the hike to Eagle Lake. I've never trekked through snow before and I'm not sure what to expect.

The trail starts with steep snow-covered steps that meet with a high bridge crossing Eagle Falls. Looking back down the canyon we are rewarded with a generous vista of Emerald Bay and watch as the rapids cascade over the rocks and continue rolling and plunging in a violent push to reach Lake Tahoe.

Snow clouds the visibility of any definite trail. Our tracks are the first of the day. On flatter ground we plunge thigh deep into the snow. Ascending around narrow ridges it is slippery and I find my shoes are worn like bald-tyres. Dan lends me one of his ice cleats – a stretchy snow chain to fit around my shoe. It triples my confidence.

The woods are peaceful and picture-book perfect. The snow acts like a blanket of quiet. Lake Eagle, set below North Maggie’s Peak, is almost entirely frozen over except where it pools and trickles off to join with the rapids. I attempt to make my first snow-man ever before we head back. It's slippery and in places we slide down on our bottoms - half for fun and half from fear.

The next day brings perfect snow conditions for snowboarding. We choose North Star from one of the many ski-resorts in Tahoe. I book a beginners snow-boarding class for that afternoon (skiing is so out-dated!). The lesson price includes lift pass, boot and board hire.

After reaching base by gondola we find numerous lifts for different courses. There is also the standard bar and eatery and a sea of snowboards and skis mounted on the surrounding racks. With time to kill Dan suggests I give the beginners slope a whirl. We catch the lift and he signals for us to jump down onto the board. This is not my finest moment.

It takes me an hour to get down the beginners slope (a course that would take three minutes to walk). Like a baby learning to walk the routine is painful, embarrassing and exhausting. But for three seconds I feel the wind in my hair and sail like a champion before the inevitable "downfall".

I trudge over to the red flags that signal beginner’s class. Kyle, my instructor, is understanding and dedicates time to each of us. Sweating like a beast the physical test runs me through the gauntlet of difficult emotions. Not wanting to be thwarted in the face of adversity I persevere stubbornly. However, I would not have made it through without Kyle’s calm manner, patience and soothing blue eyes. Instead, I leave with optimism in my heart because I learned finally my “edging” (which means I can turn corners!).

Tahoe is an adventurist’s wonderland, but essentially for the city folk it is a getaway to nature. Crisp air fresh with snow and the smell of pines permeates. The grand lake is tranquil and eases stress. People come here to unwind and forget work. I used to be a friend only to the sea, but now I have discovered the joy of the mountains.

In the Haight: San Francisco's Hip Movement!

2010-01-21T02:00:00.022+01:00

Despite the rumours, San Francisco is easily navigable to tour. Each district comes with its own unique culture, history and vibe to experience. From The Castro to the Marina and back to Chinatown there is a colourful list of neighbourhoods mixed with raw energy and eclecticism.

I’m making my way on foot to The Haight. The commonly known cross streets of Haight-Ashbury (or “hashbury” as dubbed by Hunter S. Thompson) are famous for being the founding place of the flower-power hippie movement of the 1960’s. This was due basically to cheaper rents. In 1967 the “Summer of Love” was the catalyst of the movement with an influx of people from all social backgrounds in excess of 100 000 moving to the area, creating a hippie revolution. Sharing became an aspect of everyday life with communal living, sharing of resources (whatever they may be), a free clinic and of course, free love.

Puffing my way from Lower Haight to Upper Haight I pass the usual array of cafes and restaurants. Lower Haight is not as developed as Haight-Ashbury, but it has an equally, yet only smaller, eclectic mix of merchandise. It creates a prequel of charm leading up to the main attraction. The record stores are tiny and cramped, but with big personality.

I step into Rookie Ricardo’s Records and see the owner and his friend at the back of the room casually chatting. There are retro orange plastic records hanging like mobiles and orange plastic coverings over the lights. African dancing murals are painted on the wall. For a small shop they have made use of space well to produce a decent selection of old soul music and rock with a few turntable listening stations.

The next shop reeks of reefer. There are a couple of T-shirt racks and in the back in a small room there appears to be a team of people producing music. Everything here has that alternative, underground, rough and dirty feel. This is perhaps due to its past – “stemming” from the movement of the 60’s, which originated or “flowered” in the Haight!

My appetite for Russian Literature is whet at the aptly named anarchist bookstore, 'Bound Together'. Shelves of old hardbacks and mainly Dover publications (an American publisher that reprints books that are no longer issued by their original publishers) are stacked together in this second-hand store. There’s a musty smell, but the vibe is buzzing with plenty of young folk stopping in to find a good read. I leave with six or seven new titles for my “to-do” list. Unfortunately, I can contain myself better in a clothes store than a book store, and clothes are usually lighter in the backpack!

Walking through the Haight it is easy to forget you are in a neighbourhood where people actually live (some with homes, some living on the street). Looking up there are reminders in the architecture. All the buildings and apartments are renovated Victorians and Edwardians, colourful and iconic of San Francisco.

I walk past a costume shop, and laugh to myself because many of the people in this area have their real life costumes on and they are often scarier! People-watching has never been more of a revelation. I see one lady has taken to her face with a black marker, drawing big racoon-like circles around her eyes and black clown lips. We can thank Reagan for this.

I find a routine of tattoo parlours and psychedelic head shops. Creative shop-front designs evoke a sample-taste of what you may find inside. Street art and graffiti is a viable product in Haight. ‘Soul Patch’ offers henna, tattoos and piercing and has a painting of a skull sitting on a lotus flower to allure customers. Insightful murals decorate the street, making the walk more enjoyable.

Vintage goes with Haight like cheese goes with wine. There are an abundance of stores to get lost in like ‘La Rosa’ and ‘Held Over’. I meet with Cecily Ann, somewhat a veteran of the Haight scene of the sixties. Fashion model-come-vintage entrepreneur, Cecily’s store, ‘Decades of Fashion’ has apparel dating back over a century showcasing an expansive collection of vintage cowboy boots, classic ladies hats, and Edwardian attire. Cecily informs me of the up and coming Edwardian Ball where her shop will have a stall and without doubt will be where many of the costumes hail from. ‘Decades of Fashion’ is kind of like the Museum of Vintage - you can write off the experience as “educational” or it can be a shopper’s heaven with a plethora of exciting new wardrobing opportunities!

At the end of the road, just before you hit the Golden Gate Park, you will come across a famous record store, ‘Amoeba’, with its vast collection of records, DVD’s and more. Amoeba is a fame of its own, regularly hosting both international and national bands, playing in store.

Across the road is San Francisco’s first ever metal only record store, ‘Shaxul’, which offers a niche market for those head banging “dirty vinyl pushers”.

My mother shared some memories from her youth with me, when young girls and boys would pass out flowers to pedestrians. This no longer exists. However, each unique shop, pub, cafe and specialty store in the Haight has its story. As gentrification makes its way into the district plenty of the power of the sixties remains intact here, a little piece of hippiedom remains, like the scent of ganga in the air, the glimpse of a Seargent Pepper’s T-shirt, and the disconnected eyes and murmurings of the lost souls wandering the street searching for something they gave up a long time ago...

Day Tripping to Tijuana for Tequila Taste-Testing (I'm Tongue-Tied)...

2009-12-23T08:06:00.002+01:00

When I would speak of travelling her native country, my mother always used to say to me, “Go to San Diego, but DON’T go to Tijuana”. Ignoring all parental advice, once in San Diego, I saw no other option than to cross this notorious border despite the U.S Department of State’s travel alert and mother dearest.

Border towns in general have bad reputations for people smuggling, and kidnappings, but Tijuana is ranked highly amongst the worst. However, on this day the colour and vibrancy of Mexico are calling to me.

I’ve met Breno, a Brazilian guy, at the USA Hostel, and he accompanies me on this day trip. We take a short fifteen minute tram ride from downtown San Diego, to the last stop – Tijuana Border Crossing.

We walk, with many others, across the border and into Mexico. This is more than easy to do, and there are no check points whatsoever. The walk feels exciting, like some great, big adventure with the prospect of facing danger - we’ve been warned of the violence and troubles of Tijuana, shoot-outs and gangs. I’m just coming for the Tequila and quesadillas man! And that’s exactly what we do.

We see the long curving line of the border, the fence that protects against illegal immigrants jumping across to the great and mighty United States of America. Breno and I attempt to take photos from the top of the ramp; a massive Mexican flag sails in the midst of the crowded sprawl of the city. Special police units yell at us from below, “No photos”! I guess they really take their border protection seriously. I don’t know what they thought our pictures would reveal – a hole in the wall?

We catch a five dollar taxi into town (although you can walk) and spend the day browsing markets, inquiring about and tasting local street vendor fare, and wandering the streets ambling in and out of different churches, shops and districts.

Pretty “school girls” with smudged lipstick sell themselves on the streets of the red light district. There are so many, it makes my heart hurt. I know I’m not seeing the worse, and I feel so innocent and naive. We look, but we try not to stare.

The pavement is often cracked and buildings are in ill-repair, but for the moment I am glad not to be in America. It’s a different taste of reality. Breno and I go in search of lunch – what shall we have? Mexican of course! A horse is a horse!

We end up in the tourist headquarters – the Avenida Revolucion, deciding to play it safe. We have fajitas and burritos and wash them down with Mexican beers, while musicians amble over and offer to play a tune. I happily oblige to pay a few dollars, and the first song is festive as one of the old men plays his accordion and sings, and the other fellow strings along. The second song he offers to play is “La Cucaracha”. It must be popular with most tourists, but he doesn’t really seem to know the lyrics or the tune.

Later, we wander through markets and various streets, getting lost and fighting over directions. For a world traveller, I still am often confused! In the cool of afternoon we seek out a dark and grimy bar for Gringo’s, and start our tequila taste-testing.

The tequila really is better in Mexico. Perhaps it is because of the old lady behind the bar who doesn’t speak a word of English, but selects the finest samples for us, offering me cigarettes while sitting back in her chair behind the bar and watching soap operas. A young guy who works on the door begins conversations with Breno and I. Breno speaks enough Spanish (Portuguese being his mother-tongue) to get by, and translates for me. The boy is telling him about how the people-smuggling works in Mexico. Apparently, it costs over 2000 U.S Dollars to get across the border, with the aid of “professionals”, and you only have to pay if it is successful (well, that’s nice isn’t it!). He tells us about various ways this is done, and how many people save for a long time to afford the fee and when they get to the U.S.A they are so poor they become homeless. For others, there are opportunities to be had, work the Americans do not want to do.

I ask the boy a question, and he begins to answer me. The old lady jumps out of her chair and starts yelling at him fiercely. Breno interjects to defend the boy, and I am lost in translation. Breno tells me the lady thinks that I am with him, and that the boy is trying to flirt with me in front of my “boyfriend”. We attempt to explain to her that it is okay, but she sends the boy away, and settles back into her television programs. We drink some more tequila – the Mexican way: First you pour salt over a thick wedge of lime, then you suck from the lime and sip a small part of the tequila, and then you taste the lime again. It is a slower process, and you can savour and enjoy the quality of the gold stuff. My chosen favourite is “Don Julio” and before we leave Tijuana I purchase a bottle from the supermarket.

We catch a taxi back to the border. Our driver tells us that he used to live in America, but he returned to Tijuana, because life is better here now, and he can make more money. Apparently, this is typical of the times – just as the Polish left England for home after the GFC!

Getting back into the U.S is not as easy as leaving (who would have thought?). There are passport checks, baggage scans and a much longer queue to get in. For me, a day in Tijuana is worth the tram fare. I’m sorry Mother Dearest.

Strolling Santa Monica and Venice Beach (Los Angeles)

2009-12-16T09:29:00.003+01:00

Think over 300 days of sunshine a year, boulevards lined with palm trees and busty blonde women driving sleek convertibles with tiny dogs sitting in the passenger side wearing sunglasses, and ‘where’ comes to mind? The ‘City of Angels’ – I’m in Los Angeles, of course!

Getting off the plane I knew I had arrived. From the moment I saw that lady and her doggy in the car, and again when I saw a flock of paparazzi chasing a waifish woman into a parking lot, and finally when a limousine turned the corner with personalised plates revealing “Mr Lush”. Everybody is somebody in L.A, and they’re not too proud to admit it.

An urban concrete jungle, L.A in reality is one giant playground offering spectacles and events for any taste with Disneyland and Hollywood (same-same?), Rodeo Drive, the Sunset Strip, Beverly Hills and Universal Studios to name a few. Combine this with epic rock bands, grungy whiskey bars, and delicious Mexican food, L.A presents itself as a montage of colour and grime, cultures and sub cultures, and the archetypal rat race. Where do I sign up?

Luckily, I checked off most the tourist hotspots on my list when I was here last. I take a shuttle bus to Santa Monica and opt to go for the beach atmosphere and great shopping. I’m a block away from the glitzy shopping district of the ‘Third Street Promenade’. After a deep, comatose sleep to knock back my jet-lag, I wake up to another beautiful Los Angeles day – not even a spot of smog in sight! I walk a block (I love how American’s use “blocks”) to Ocean Avenue and walk towards the famous Santa Monica Pier, which has just celebrated its centennial.

I cross the bridge that leads straight down to the pier. To the right, a large blue and yellow striped tent has been put up for the ‘Cirque du Soleil’, and along the platform I see circus performers twirling purple and orange parasols and oversized vanity fans as they hand out brochures to onlookers. Santa Monica’s leisure pier is equipped with an amusement park called ‘Pacific Park’, a carousel, a trapeze school (why not?), an aquarium, arcade, shops, pubs and restaurants. I see caricature artists at their stalls, food vendors selling fresh fruit cups and churros (a Spanish doughnut), and one man engages a group of tourists with his colourful Macaw parrots, blue and green. Relaxed anglers try to get a bite.

A stroll along Santa Monica Beach transports me onto the set of ‘Baywatch’. I can almost see Mitch and CC running past me, waving. Towards Venice Beach the wide path is shared with people rollerblading, cycling and skate-boarding. On the suspiciously broad stretches of sand there are volleyball nets and gymnasium equipment, while surfers carry their boards out to catch a wave. I stop for a fresh juice at one of the beach cafes and people-watch for a while, an entertaining way to soak up the L.A lifestyle, as the American people show off their outgoing personalities.

In Venice Beach I stumble right into the commotion of the markets. Hippies of all ages, sizes and kinds are selling their wares. Again, the people-watching is extraordinary and I get caught up in a lengthy conversation, about Lemmy from ‘Motorhead’ (due bragging rights if you have spotted him around) with a local character. To my amusement, I see Botox clinics squeezed in next to ‘Medical Marijuana Evaluation’ centres. The people of L.A know how to get what they need...just a day on the coast!

Venice Beach is really funky. It has a street culture touch emphasised by graffiti art, surf shops and numerous tattoo and piercing spots. Not to mention the infamous basketball courts (where many-a NBA star has been scouted), prison-looking tennis courts and ‘Muscle Beach' (an outdoors body-building complex). Venice Beach pushes the concept of a “public space” to the max. A whole day can be spent simply exploring this stretch.

I make a quiet exit from the scene to find a little bohemian street I heard about. Literally, referred to as “the Street”, Abbot Kinney Boulevard is named after Venice’s founder, a tobacco giant who dug miles of canals just to drain the marshes for residential areas and built Venice from ground up. This creative district has been the stamping ground for artsy types since the Beat Generation made its explosion in the 50’s and 60’s, and on “the Street” I’m reminded why: modest art galleries and antique stores neighbour each other and boutiques theme designer-meets-vintage. I find a charming cafe, fittingly called ‘Abbot’s Habit’, which has great coffee and a selection of mouth-watering sandwiches and bagels. But more interestingly perhaps are the people the coffee shop attracts – low-key, informal, off beat. In fact, a replica of what Venice represents.

Choose a day, a location and an attraction and you can lose yourself for hours in Los Angeles, and when you wake you’re in the thick of a giant, colourful playground, watching as the merry-goes-round in “La La Land”.

Fiji Adventure Travel Holiday - Island Hopping the Yasawas on Fiji time!

2009-11-28T01:05:00.009+01:00

After freezing in New Zealand it’s time for me to thaw out, and where else would be more desirable for a lazy vacation by the sea than the temperate climate of Fiji with its lulling tides, sandy stretches of isolated beach and soothing scents of coconut oil and dewy rainforest?

Alternatively, I find myself thrown into the mayhem of mainland Nadi, and it takes me right back to my travels through India, with a large population of Indians thriving in the business and retail sectors. The streets are dusty and consumed with traffic and touting taxi drivers rip you off with overpriced fares. As a local lady advised me, “you tell them to put the metre on”. It’s better to walk away and wait for an honest man, or a desperate one, than succumb to their tricks.

I escape the hubbub of Nadi and catch the big yellow catamaran, the ‘Yasawa Flyer’, I’m ready to island hop the Yasawa group. A seven day ‘Bula Combo Pass’ includes my ferries, accommodation and meals for many of the resorts, and the overnight stays are easy to book with reception on board the boat.

My first stop is at Coral View Beach Resort on Tavewa Island. A group of us are shipped from the ferry onto a dinghy, and then we trudge through the shallow water, greeted individually by each staff member with big smiles and handshakes. Coral View has a pile of activities on hand, including great snorkelling, lagoon trips, sunset walks and volleyball in the afternoons. The front beach is nothing spectacular and I mosey down a little village track to an alluring stretch of sand. At night we have a buffet dinner and are entertained by welcome dances, song and games. We participate too and the gardener chooses me to be his dance companion. How can I refuse? Except he is not the cliché of a sexy, muscle-ripped man – he is the gardener who has been pruning the bushes since the beginning of time! At least he is wise to the rules of the game and I end up winning a beer.

In Long Beach Resort on Matacawalevu Island I am surprised by the solitude. There are only seven guests, but the beach is a fantastic long crescent of white sand and translucent water. A guided walk through the village reveals the islands industriousness. Coconut oil is produced to sell to the mainland, cassava plantations are abundant (one per family), and they host one of the biggest schools in the Yasawas. Most of the original houses are thatched bures, but now timber and brick is implemented to stand the cyclone season.

At White Sandy, deck chairs occupy the beach and in the shade hammocks invite relaxation. The local boys prepare a ‘lovo’ (traditional underground barbeque) for dinner and the end result is a subtle smoked flavour. The “bula boys” perform their traditional dances, resembling the ‘haka’ with stamping feet and guttural, rhythmic shouting. They are extremely fit and I hear rumours of their popularity with the visiting ladies. In the morning we make bangles out of coconuts and watch on as a stealthy lad scales a coconut tree with bare hands and feet, to roundup bunches of coconuts. He shows off by crawling down face first like a lizard and adds some acrobatics to the show. It makes the English guys nervous; they laugh it off pretending they can contend.

My favourite resort is the pretty Waya Lailai, where we partake in a kava drinking ceremony. Kava is made from the root of a pepper plant, it tastes like muddy water, but the ritual of the ceremony is engaging. One of the girls tells me that the chief of the village recently passed away. The village held a kava drinking ceremony that lasted ten days.

The snorkelling and scuba diving here isn’t as spectacular as in Koh Tao, Thailand where I got my PADI, but the whitetip reef sharks waiting for me at the bottom of the big deep blue are pretty heart-starting! Joe started the dive shop ten years ago and the sharks seem familiar with him, waiting to be fed fresh fish. They know Joe is boss as he pulls on their fins and smacks them with the metal rod. Joe points out giant clams and almost pushes me under a coral cave to check out a sheepish lion fish. The scuba gear is a bit old and it was hard to find a wetsuit to fit, so near the end of the dive I am covered with goose bumps and ready to surface. Also, make sure to check your oxygen level is correct before your dive; Joe had to top ours up before departure.

I splurge on an extra night on South Sea Island. The island has much better food and free water sports like sea-kayaking. I prefer to relax and walk around the entire island – it takes five minutes. In the evening there is crab racing, and plenty to drink. These small islands, like Beachcomber, are popular with party goers.

In the Yasawa’s, don’t expect shops and boutiques, roads (instead you will find long winding paths slashed back and worn down for local use from village to village), cars or hot water (unless you shell out on the luxury resorts). The only noise on the islands is of the local people working, well known Bob Marley tunes drifting through the air, and the occasional beat of the drum to signal meal times or organised activities. On the islands you feel how remote you are and removed from technology there is a reminder of a quieter life, a less hectic approach to the world, a different pace – its Fiji time! And with that a group of smiling, singing Fijians welcome you with a roar of “Bula Everybody!” “Bula!”

A Road Trip Through the South Island (NZ)

2009-11-05T01:52:00.009+01:00

It’s pouring down rain. I’m with some lads I met in Queenstown and we are in Franz Josef wishing for the skies to clear up so we can climb the Glacier. The weather won’t cooperate. We pile into the car deciding to tough it out. After all, if I held my breath waiting for sunny days I would never see or do anything in New Zealand!
We reach a massive dried up river bed of grey stones and rocks. The glacier rises across the valley. It appears close, but takes a long time to trek. We pass waterfalls running off from the cliffs. At the foot we clamber up a steep incline and see the stunning mountains assembled before us, with the glacier the centrepiece.

Red tape runs around the base of the mountain, serves as a warning. There are workers chipping away with ice-picks at the glacier to make new staircases for the tours. We are making our own tour and without equipment we mostly scramble around the outskirts of the glacier over loose rocks that slip under our feet. Turning back the reward is an extraordinary sweeping vista of the canyon below. Eventually, as the tour groups are leaving we see a guide watching and waiting for us. I think our fun has come to an end, and he tells us later that we were walking dangerously close to a potential rock slide. Oops!
In the evening we head to the Blue Ice bar and watch the boxing, enjoying two-for-one house spirits after presenting our hostel key. It’s a very small town, but the whiskey helps!

The next day we drive through Arthurs Pass towards Christchurch. Snow sweeps past the car, horizontally. The enchanting and bold terrain is unique to New Zealand and we often remark on settings reminiscent of the ‘Lord of the Rings’.
Our road trip continues, after dropping ‘Curly Bob’ (as the Irish lads have dubbed Sean) at the airport, we cruise north past the sleepy seaside town of Kaikoura – famous for whale watching and home to vast seal colonies - further up to Nelson , a vibrant, fresh little city with plenty of class, before stopping in Motueka for the night. Our destination is the National Parks of the Able Tasman, our final wonder (or wander) before catching the ferry to Wellington.
After a blissful sleep I wake next morning with excitement and ready to jump out of a plane, literally. A shuttle bus picks me up and takes me to the Sky Dive centre. After getting the gear on and a quick debrief I’m ready.
The ride up has been the longest twenty minutes of my life, and I am all too aware that it will be over in less than five. A short English lad, Chris, is strapped to my back (I hope). I wanted a seven foot Serbian with massive guns and brooding good looks to protect me (think Mills and Boon), but you can’t always get what you want. Instead, I’m a foot taller than my man, and impressively I am not as scared as I am pretending. Chris has been trying to keep my mind clear by playing twenty questions. He reminds me of a dentist. But I want my fear. Isn’t it part of the process?
The door slides back alarmingly, too quickly. I expect a force of wind to suction me out of this light, rickety plane and send me twirling through the cloudless, blue sky plummeting towards my death. It is eerily still and not as cold as you would think at 13 000 feet, probably due to all the adrenaline coursing my blood lines.
The dive knocks the breath out of me. I can feel everything rushing past – all this air, and my stupid collar is slapping my cheeks and it really stings. I’m going fast, like 200 kilometres. Chris taps my arms, signalling me to bring them up in front of me like I’m flying. It’s indescribable, I’m Superwoman! All of a sudden, I’m lurched upwards as he pulls the shoot, it’s jolting but then I just laugh and scream with joy and I know I am alive. Everything becomes deadly silent, and after about ten seconds Chris asks, “Are you alright?”

Spinning the big, red canopy around I’m shown the North Island, which is visible on this clear day, and turning again the mountain ranges to the west and the Able Tasman are in view. The Motueka River snakes across the land meeting with the sea. It’s really peaceful, and actually feels a bit tame after the intensity of the dive. As we sail down to land I lift my legs up high in the air and we slide through the grass on our butts. Ecstatically, I feel like doing it again, like some ride at the show you can’t get enough of. I hug Chris and thank him for not killing me.
The boys are waiting. I am so high and feel like bouncing off the walls, they seem flat by comparison. I’ve already had the aerial view, but we drive to the Able Tasman and spend a glorious afternoon exploring the hills and beaches of this truly exotic paradise. Someone wise told me that when you go to New Zealand don’t expect big cities and night life, it’s all about the scenery.

Sea Kayaking the Milford Sound

2009-11-02T06:48:00.008+01:00

It’s early and I am the only person awake at the Lakefront Backpackers in Te Anou. I’m making sandwiches and rushing around packing things I might need for my trip to the Milford Sound. Mental Note: Don’t forget the camera!
Outside it is cold and the lake is still and quiet, not yet awake. A small van pulls over and a kiwi guy jumps out and introduces himself to me as “Will”. He is my tour guide for the day from ‘Fiordland Sea Kayak’ and that is exactly what we will be doing.
The journey into Milford is mountainous through national parkland and the landscape is dramatic and rugged. We stop at a lookout for hot chocolate and biscuits that Will has brought along. I see for the first time the pesky but pretty parrots - Kea birds – known to peck the rubber out of a car window frame and scavenge for crumbs like seagulls.
Along the way we see the aftermath of snow avalanches that occur when too much snow has piled up on the mountains, and their path is one of pure destruction. We see where the road has been cleared in front of the Homer tunnel. It looks like a snow cave, and it is the only access into the Milford. Work on the tunnel began in 1935 and Will tells us that it started with just five men, picks in hand, and one wheelbarrow. Three were killed by avalanches. Sometimes for months on end they went without sunlight. Now that’s hard yakka! The project stopped during the war and then wasn’t finished until 1954.
We pull up at the basin of the sound and Will begins to unload the van. Before we are on the water we have to get dressed in layers and layers of protective clothing. First there are the very attractive thermals, then a rubber vest, a polar fleece jumper, a bright orange rain proof poncho and a strange contraption that looks like an oversized tennis skirt (a spray skirt) used to seal us into the kayak. And of course on top of that is a well coordinated, fashionably purple life jacket. We stand around our kayaks feeling completely ridiculous as Will gives us a briefing on how to paddle and so forth.
Most of the other people doing this sea-kayaking tour are on their honeymoon. I’m paired up with a guy called Paul who is training to be a tour guide. Chuck Norris comes to mind, and he and I are quick to start bantering and bickering as though we have met before. The sky is cloudless and as we paddle out we are joined by a family of dolphins. They glide underneath our kayaks and show off by spinning and leaping through the air. They swim so close to us that they tip onto their sides as they pass so they can peer up at us with one eye, and then empty their blowholes. It’s incredible! And Will agrees that this is quite a rare experience, possibly due to the amazing weather we are having. Oftentimes it is raining, which we are assured is very magical, but I am happier with the dolphins playing and warm sun on my face.
We are directed over to a large waterfall pouring out from one of the cliff faces. The watery mist cools our faces as we paddle ferociously up some small rapids to get as close as possible to the Bowen Falls. Actually, I don’t have to paddle hard at all. Paul (or Chuck) has announced that he likes to be “a very physical person”, so he doesn’t mind as I lazily sit back and take photographs. I think we make a good team, and I know that tomorrow my shoulders won’t be sore!
We discover, after tasting the slightly salty water, that the Milford is not actually a sound but a fiord. Further along the mossy banks we spot a young fur seal yawning sleepily after being disturbed by our loud cries. He poses for awhile, stretching and sighing before clambering down the rocks and slipping into the cool, dark waters.
The seal disappears as the dolphins reappear to host us down towards a rocky beach where we have a glorious view of the ‘Mitre Peak’, the tallest sea cliff in the world at 1692 metres about the sound. It gets its name from its appearance, similar to that of the mitre headwear of Christian bishops. We stop for lunch
sitting on uncomfortable rocks and sipping cups of hot tea while we take in the breathtaking vista. My sandwiches go down a treat after all my hard work.
After lunch there is more kayaking, and Will fills our heads with information about the region, and some of the Maori legends. He points out two prominent mountains called “The Elephant” and “The Lion” and with a little imagination we are supposed to see the forms of the animals. It takes awhile, but everyone eventually begins to see the shapes, everyone but me! The Milford is also used for Cray-fishing. The local fishermen make a mint off the tons of crayfish they catch in one season and sell to the Chinese. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are made very quickly in this industry, from heavy pots that are lying right beneath us – a gold mine.
We arrive back on shore late afternoon and pack the gear up, before heading back to Te Anou. Will gives us all cinema tickets to see a locally made documentary about the history of the fiordlands. I really appreciated the small and thoughtful gestures we received during the tour. It was really personal. I get back to the hostel and drink a little whisky with a friend and sit on the balcony in the freezing cold to watch as the sun melts away over the lake. The weather is changing back. It only lasted a day at the Milford, and it was magic. I can clearly see why Rudyard Kipling described it as the eighth wonder of the world. But now it’s time to get back to reality (as much as possible in this fantasy land they call New Zealand) and tomorrow I must hitch back to Queenstown to find out what’s been going on at the backpackers while I’ve been gone.

Queenstown, My Fareweather Friend!

2009-10-14T01:02:00.008+02:00

I pull into Queenstown late in the afternoon and drive straight into town in search of backpacker’s accommodation. I’m getting used to driving the campervan, but navigating through the small and busy streets in Queenstown’s centre is tricky – let’s not get started on reverse parallel parking! Fortunately, I park up on a hill and when I jump out of the van I find a small and cosy looking hostel directly on the corner. I take it as a welcome sign, and it also means I don’t have to cart my luggage far. I head to the reception of ‘Bungi Backpackers’ and after a quick check-in I go to drop the campervan off at the airport. I rented this camper cheap, through a rental relocation site online. It was only five dollars per day because I was returning the vehicle to its original rental place.
The previous night I stopped at Lake Tekapo and slept in the campervan, parked between large pine trees on the sandy bank. I cuddled up with blankets and a cup of tea as snow gently drifted down over the silt-blue lake. I took Route 8 towards Queenstown. It is recommended as an extraordinarily scenic drive. The lone highway intertwines through frosty mountains. Undulating hills are blanketed with golden tussock grass that bows in the wind, and small clusters of bright yellow and red shrubs flourish in the tough soil. This is Lindis Pass. Further on, the countryside alters and I cross wide, stony rivers and pleasant streams run in unison with the road curving through green pastures.

After I drop off the van at the airport, I walk more than six kilometres along the waterfront of Lake Wakitipu. A great glacial lake, it is third largest in New Zealand and mountain cliffs rise triumphantly from the southern embankment. In the distance, Queenstown’s famous snow-teamed peaks, ‘The Remarkables’ loom. By the time I arrive back at the hostel I am exhausted and hungry. I try the soup they give us for dinner. It is watery looking vegetable soup and the only taste is of chilli powder, and you have to get in quick otherwise all the potato and carrots disappear and you are left with murky barley water. It is a good conversation starter. In the lounge room I quickly make friends with James an English backpacker, Sean an Irish-Lebanese from Belgium, and from Florida the strongly confederate Beau. We all end up at the regular backpacker haunts – Winnies and World Bar – indulging in two-for-one drink offers and dancing to pretty bad music, the kind of clubs that repeat the same songs over and over. A few more people from the hostel join us. There are all types of
people in Queenstown - the hub of adventure activities for extreme adrenaline seekers and international travellers. We finish the night off at the compulsory pit-stop ‘Fergburger’. They boast the biggest burgers I have ever seen, with names like the “swineburger” or the “bun laden”, saddled with every kind of filling and generous portions of chips and aioli. It’s a pretty good deal, and after gorging ourselves on late night snacks, huddled outside under the warmth of heaters and listening to them play “The Prodigy” and various drum and bass (better music than the clubs), we climb up the hill to our hostel and “crash out”.
The next morning is a slow start, but its James’s birthday so we celebrate with a bit of adventure, choosing jet-boating. The shuttle bus takes us down into the ‘Shotover River Canyons’. We get suited up with rain coats and life jackets before boarding the ‘Big Red’ jet boat. The ride is for half an hour, and our driver takes us speeding through the canyon, with narrow escapes past the rock face. The emerald green rapids are shallow, but these particular boats have a perfectly flat bottom and apparently only need ten centimetres of water in order to skim the surface. Our man is cheeky and thrashes the engine down-stream, keeping us excited with plenty of full 360 degree spins, while we hold on tight. I’m in the back row, which is a good place to be as I watch the people in the front get sprayed with water, shivering already as the icy wind whips across our faces too.
For dinner, a small group of us from the hostel head to Church Lane to a pub called, ‘Ducks Deluxe’, and have dinner seated on tall stools at the bar tables. The food is good quality, with a selection of steaks, fresh fish dishes, warm salads and appetisers. I try an alcoholic ginger beer, which has a warming effect, much like the venue. By the time we finish our meals, a local band strikes up and they are amazing with experimental sounds, it seems a little prog-rock and I like it. The fire place is roaring and the atmosphere is jovial.
In Queenstown adventure and hedonism is the way of life. Time is spent skiing and snowboarding on the mountains, or extreme activities are available like bungy jumping, canyon swings and white-water rafting to name only a few. Ironically, my dorm room is called the skydiving room, and this is exactly what I choose to do. I booked with N Zone Sky Diving and am taken by bus past the airport to a small centre for skydiving. This day is bleak with plenty of cloud cover and I am told we can’t jump from 12 000 feet as I had wanted, but can only get to 10 000. After finally summoning the courage to embrace my fears of falling and of heights I don’t mind because I’m pumped up with excitement. We have our gear on and are watching the team before us land when we are sadly told that the weather is too bad and the dive is cancelled. It’s disappointing, but I can do this later on my trip. For now, I am in Queenstown and I can do anything I want (except what I really wanted), the only problem is to make the choice – hiking, hang-gliding or the luge? It’s a hard life but I suppose somebody has to do it!

Couchsurfing in Christchurch

2009-10-14T00:36:00.007+02:00

I’m searching the arrivals lounge at Christchurch airport, looking for the third row of seats. Yep, there they are, now the tricky part is figuring out which person is Evan. I have only seen one picture of him, and who knows if it was up-to-date. I’m meant to be staying with him at his place in St. Albans. I met him a few weeks ago online. Am I crazy? No, I’m CouchSurfing! And I’m slightly nervous because it’s my first time. In brief, couchsurfing.com is an online networking organisation for travellers and people-loving-people. You simply create a profile, get verified (for security reasons) and start searching locations for people and couches. You may only meet as a travel companion or for coffee if that is what you desire or you might crash on their couch. Alternatively, if not travelling you might put your couch up for grabs. Coincidentally, today Evan has arrived from Wellington and landed at the same time as me, which fortunately means I have a ride to his place too! So far so good, eh?

Evan’s street leads straight into the centre of town and the distance is manageable on foot. His large and rather oddly shaped house - two stories resembling a small cube on the bottom with a rectangular prism stacked on top – is found as most early-twenty-something boys homes often are: messy, dirty dishes, not vacuumed, and plenty of empty pizza boxes stacked as kindling for the fireplace he says he doesn’t use anymore! However, there are three couches so I can’t complain. After an early night’s sleep on the comfiest choice I wake reasonably refreshed and ready to take on the city.

I decide to visit the sites by walking the entire tramline circuit. Why spend money on what Evan damns as the “tourist trap”, when my legs can take me everywhere I need to go for free? I start on New Regent Street, a colourful promenade of pastel Spanish mission style facades nestled together above cafes, jewellers and various boutiques. The word “kitsch” comes to mind, yet despite borderline tacky tourism it works. I stop for a quick lunch and coffee at ‘Stir’, a popular alfresco cafe, and enjoy a perfect cappuccino while admiring the architecture and watching the tram rattling by occasionally.

Along the tracks, I discover the Christchurch Cathedral and Cathedral Square, equipped with a tram restaurant and a selection of cart food vendors - for that special kind of dining experience. Crossing the River Avon - a common occurrence as she weaves her way delicately through this small city centre - I observe groups of teenagers and families spending time leisurely on her green banks having picnics together or lying back in the sweet grass to contemplate the weather or whatever. On Worcester Street (all English names for this most English city) I find the Arts Centre – a series of Victorian Gothic Revival buildings hosting an array of exhibitions, crafts, theatres and cafes. Exploring this hub I find all sorts of exquisite and old-fashioned English elements and the grounds are immaculate. I feel across the world from Australia, not simply across the sea. Chef’s bustle through the courtyards carrying pints of cream or fancy cakes, and students read on the benches beneath the trees, while friends mingle and converse over a bottle of red on the wine bar terrace. At the end of the block I arrive at the Grand Hall where recitals and lectures once took place when the grounds were still used as the University of Canterbury. Passing through the exit gates, I cross the road to visit the Botanic Gardens of Hagley Park, making a detour first to the Canterbury Museum which neighbours the gardens. The first exhibition brings alive the extinct Moa bird, and moving along I work my way through the history of New Zealand’s Maori and Victorian culture and heritage. There is also a special interactive exhibition on entitled ‘Body in Action’ where I test my brain, lungs and muscles (perfect results) and marvel at a bunch of scales that tell me the weight of my skeleton, organs and body fat. It’s just what I have always wanted to know.

Escaping into the gardens, I pass the brightly coloured ‘Peacock Fountain’ (named after John Peacock and not the birds signified) and the flower bed displays of daffodils and bluebells to follow the winding river, as it borders Hagley Park. Ducks chase each other, splashing and plunging into the shallow water to fish out food, while black swans are demure, and the occasional punters make their way gently downstream in long, flat wooden canoes, pushed along by their guide. There is a lot of life on the water, and on the bank couples seeking romance settle in between the wildflowers on a grassy knoll. It is peaceful and friendly and I find a spot to read a book and observe life around me.

Triumphantly I finish my tramline circuit, rewarding myself at the Belgian Beer Cafe. I walk home in the crisp, cool of evening wondering if Evan has cooked me dinner. It’s a fairly tame start to my “OS” adventure, but this city is relaxing, easily navigated, and a good place for beginnings.

Time Travelling with Ash Grunwald @ Bombay Rock

2009-07-04T06:02:00.013+02:00

We thought we were going to be so "rock" with our fashionably late entrance to last night's Ash Grunwald concert at Townsville's current music venue Bombay Rock. Doors opened at 7:30 pm. We arrived close to ten, when nothing appeared to be happening yet. I have to say, I really do like what they have done with the ex ‘Playpen’. The building was never put to proper use as just a nightclub with its undesirable location far away from the bustle of the Flinders Street night-life strip. The interior is the same as it was, albeit maybe with a new carpet and cleaner bathrooms, but the decision to use it as a venue for touring musicians mixes up a better flavour. Bombay Rock works as a small theatre for intimate shows and brings a fresh alternative to Townsville night life with its line-up of home-grown Australian talent. It's clean, smells fresh, the staff are fun with plenty of personality, the crowd are friendly too, and the drinks are at a reasonable price. The room is scattered with small groups of people - Townsville's trendy hipsters sporting dreadlocks and check shirts, and a wide variety of tattoos and piercings on exhibition. However, this event should have drawn a larger gathering, but how can you compete with the Full Moon Party on Magnetic Island on a Friday night Mr. Grunwald? You may bring the funk slash jazz n’ blues slash folk (feel free to add more to the list) with the voice of a black man from Mississippi in the 1920's, but all that can be said in your defence is the abbreviation "FMP" followed up by plenty of exclamation points - > !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We mingle by the bar anticipating the main act and hoping for some good support. Eventually a young boy comes on stage with an acoustic guitar tucked under his arm and introduces himself as Jason. Life’s number one lesson to be learned is not to have great expectations, and unfortunately the management at Bombay Rock did not listen to the demo tape first. Well, that’s how I imagined this debacle occured, because while Jason battled it out I was getting the impression that I was eaves-dropping, rather impolitely, on a teenage boy rehearsing in his bedroom and singing songs about his long-lost girlfriend. If a support act does not create atmosphere and warm the crowd up ready to dance and enjoy the main event it does not really achieve its purpose, and primarily this “genre” was out of touch with Ash Grunwald’s style. They were totally incompatible. The audience was taken from a teenage boy crying about losing the girl of his dreams to a smorgasbord of shoe-tapping and hip-swinging – moved directly from one end of the spectrum to the other!

I have to admit that I went to this Ash Grunwald concert primarily out of curiosity, and for the lust to see some quality live music (it has been too long), and for something different to do in Townsville on a Friday night. I previously was not too familiar with this musician, but I had that ‘crazy feeling’ it would all be worth the investigation. I did not recognise or know any of Ash Grunwald’s songs from his new album 'Fish Out of Water'. I could not sing along or claim to know the lyrics word-for-word. However, the audience doesn't need this familiarity in order to devour and delight in the music. As blue lighting washed the stage, Ash took his seat and perched centre-stage armed only with his guitar. Immediately, the crowd belonged to him, taken on a journey of energy,rock, roots and blues - comparable to John Butler live, Ash Grunwald is an artist with the ability to feed energy and positive vibes to the crowded sea of eager faces. The music seemed to enter through my heart and exit through my toes, translating the language of our human souls and the emotions we carry, and it seemed to echo the lives of many dead men housed in Ash’s fantastic, old black man’s voice.It was an extremely cathartic experience. How this voice came from him, with so much feeling and wisdom and depth was my only question. The small intimate crowd danced together and moved together, appreciating the gift of letting go and being absorbed into the music until finally floating away. At one point a few band mates came on stage to accompany Ash with bongos, drums and keyboard to mix it up a bit.

I would have to say that this investigation went very well really. I’m quite pleased. It was definitely worth the twenty-two bucks, and I will be waiting to see many more good things come from Bombay Rock. It is a breath of fresh-air to find a place in Townsville with a little atmosphere and the potential to host a more personal gathering than the Townsville Entertainment Centre. And for the record, I have definitely been converted as a fan of Ash Grunwald, who I thank kindly for bringing me an extra special night in Town to float away on air and to travel back through time.

Snow Falling on Soho for the Year of the Ox!

2009-02-03T01:12:00.011+01:00

Living and working in Soho definitely has its perks when free time can be spent playing in this adventurous playground of colourful characters and charming old-school bars. Sundays, for me, are a precious and fleeting day that I anticipate all week long. And what better way is there to spend this particular Sunday, than by celebrating the Chinese New Year festivities in Chinatown. Alda and I share a live-in pub job at the infamous Soho boozer the Berwick Street Blue Posts, and because we live a literal stone’s throw and skip-hop away we decide to brave the fiercely cold weather, despite the forecasts for snow! I was, not so secretly, praying for the mother of all snow days to shower down upon us anyway...

We walk through our neighbourhood to Chinatown, observing as the crowd thickens and finally engulfs us into a human wave, floating slowly past the entrances to all the restaurants with their names written in gold Chinese letters. Small stalls are set up in front of the shops, while their owners sell hot food for us to eat out of carton boxes and sticky sweets like dragon beard candy made right there on the spot with a full demonstration for those who wish to listen. Other stalls display lanterns and children’s toys of all kinds, and hoards of people congregate to watch the ritual of the dancing dragon, as the streets congest with bodies. Children sit happily atop their parent’s shoulders and one small boy proudly shows off his costume of Chinese attire.

We round a corner and come across a stage with Chinese school children performing synchronised dance routines. We stop nearby for lotus-seed pastries, a white bun with fleuro green paste - unfortunately not really my cup of tea, a bit too sickly sweet for my tastes. After purchasing some fortune cookies and checking out a few other market stands we make an escape from the world of China to the Mediterranean to rest up on strong coffees and some much needed lunch away from throng of people. Looking out the large glass windows onto Shaftsbury Avenue I notice snow begin to twirl down in rhythmic circles. It is very pretty, but quickly clears up and is replaced with sunlight beaming down to melt away the tiny sprinkles.

Alda and I missed the parade at Trafalgar Square, but manage to catch some great dances, drumming, and other shows happening. I decide to take a stroll alone down to the royal gates of the Buckingham Palace to enjoy the afternoon air as the day slips away into dusk. The sun is transforming the high gates into glowing bars of gold, as it streams through the royal strip. I meander down the grandiose avenue, becoming excited like a small child as snow starts to billow down. I could see it coming as the dark clouds rolled over from the west, and then a heavy dusting of snow covered the street, and the soft green hills turned a powdered white in the gardens surrounding the Queens estate. I love this walk, moreso for the natural scenery than the everpresent palace waiting at the end of the road.

I meet Alda at the Blue Posts on Rupert Street for some Sunday evening jazz, and we dance and listen to the resident band, ‘The Fallen Heroes’, playing their usual set to the usual crowd that gets up and boogies away, as usual! It's a really fun place and has that feeling of being transported back in time occasionally. We talk a little with the band outside while they smoke cigars and down pints of Guinness. I sip on a couple of halves of cider, before we depart to Leicester Square for the Chinese New Year fireworks!

The fireworks are lit in the garden square. Children have piled into the phone booths, edging the gates of the small park to watch. It is jam-packed on all four sides of the court. The Chinese are known for their aptitude when it comes to fireworks and we are not disappointed. I enjoy watching the reflection of all the colours splattering across the Odeon, and the final big bang echoes after in the silence. Smoke rises from the square like fog on an early morning.

We meet later with our Canadian friend Matt and take him with us to the ‘Cellar Door’ - an unusul jazz bar in Adlwyche that perhaps would be better named "Toilet Door". The gimmick is that this classy little, mirrored lounge once used to be a set of public toilets back in the day. The entrance is barely noticeable with its small sheltered roof covering the stairs that lead you down to a big heavy door. Inside it is warm and all smiles. The bar tenders are friendly, and make fabulous cocktails. All the seats are occupied (pardon the pun) and the venue is as tiny as you could imagine an underground public urinal to be. The Cellar Door boasts some fancy toilets of its own. When you are in the loo doing your business you can see through the door the people waiting outside, although fortunately they cannot see you. It still made me too nervous to go. I had stage-fright!

We arrive in time for the music to begin with Pete Saunders, who insists he is not the resident DJ as suggested in last week’s ‘Time Out’ review. He is clearly a jazz musician playing keyboard and vocals. He introduces the magician-cum-comedian for the night, who entertains us tirelessly, with the support of audience members, in the art of card tricks and illusions! Later in the night, a women (a lady in red) - Emmanuella - who has been standing near us most the time, gets up to sing a few songs. She and her pianist friend leave the Cellar Door with us, in search of some midnight madness.

Outside the snow has been tumbling down. London has never (recently) been whiter. We walk for awhile and then scramble into a black cab, which slips and slides its way back to Soho. Roads have already been blocked so we venture further through the snow on foot to ‘Trisha’s’ on Frith Street - an inconspicuous, underground club Alda had acquainted herself with somehow. The entrance is a closed blue door to a private apartment building. After buzzing in we head downstairs to the basement and open the door to another classic Soho scene - plenty of gays, different assortments of hat-bearers, and gentlemen of all ages socialising in their natural environment. Imagine braces, walking sticks, top-hats and people so drunk they spit their words out in frothy sentences. Typical London conversations filled with anecdotes all landing in the perverse spectrum, like someone elses spittle flung on to your lips.

One such man remembered me from a rainy day in Soho many months passed, when he and a friend had ducked into my pub to escape. He was so miserable that day, down-trodden by the down-pour, and I remembered how I tried to cheer him up in conversation. He said he recalled this because it had changed his day completely. He was so intoxicated at Trishas, he seemed as out of sorts as the occasion I first met him. Matt and I danced stupidly (moreso on my part) and drank whiskies, and later we take a walk through the mounting snow in my "neighbourhood". I remember being dropped in the snow, dragged through the snow, and sleeping in the snow! It was so light and fluffy and cold!

At home very early in the morning I sleep peacefully and easily. I wake many hours later with a big smile on my face and I fling the bathroom window wide open expecting the snow to be just where I left it, only to find out that those damn snow-plough men had been through to destroy all my glory!!!!!! "I don't believe it" as grumpy Arthur Mildrew would say from ‘One Foot in the Grave’. But the forecast is on my side for at least another few days.

A Parisian Fairytale of Sights and Wanders!

2008-11-06T17:57:00.000+01:00

Friday October 24th, 2008

Autumn has settled in, and as the leaves change colour and begin to moult from the trees, I take a little journey into the heart of France. I have made my escape from London by Eurostar - a rough morning journey, departing at 5:25 am. The short train ride is gruelling, as I haven’t slept. Arguably, it is much better than travelling to and from airports, waiting in lounges and paying for overpriced coffees to keep me awake. My adventure is for ten days, with three passing by in pure bliss, as a first-timer in Paris.

Once in Paris my mood lifts and I free myself from my suitcase, leaving it in a locker at Gare du Nord station before stepping out onto the wide Parisian streets. The instant impact of my surroundings hits me intensely, as I discover this city is everything I romanticised it to be. Paris exudes an air of sophistication and grandeur; it is set apart immediately from any other city I have visited. It is remarkably and overwhelmingly Paris - not even France - just Paris. And as it has been said a million times before; it has a certain 'je ne sais quoi'...

Walking south towards the city centre and the Seine I find cute market streets lined with fromageries, boulangeries and charcutteries (a literal mouthful!). Every turn finds settings filled with quaint Parisian scenes, as 'fairytale' in real life as in a book. Gorgeous houses with pretty gardens hold mysterious courtyards visible from beyond oversized doorways and the occasional person rides past on a bicycle with a baguette bouncing along in the basket just as it should be. By lunch time I make my way past 'Les Opera' and the Lafayette shopping centre. My girly side takes over, and I lose control finding myself spending a few hours “spending”...We aren't going to talk figures (sizes or pounds, or pounds and pounds), but when in Paris... .

A Boutique owner I have been chatting with is on a lunch break. With good luck on my side I am offered a ride to Le Champs Elysee. No problems! Soon we are driving around the classic L'Arc DeTriumphe roundabout, glorious with its flags sailing through the arches. It is an exciting moment for me, as I remember back to those wasted French classes in high school - knowing back then that one day I would see these places for myself.

After wandering up and down the boulevard, gazing at expensive stores like Dior, Cartier and Louis Vuitton (a whole building respectfully dedicated), and stopping for coffee and sandwiches in a French cafe, I decide I cannot wait a moment longer, I must take a peek at the Eiffel Tower. I search out the top of Le Tour and follow the general direction, walking eagerly along avenues lined with trees and magnificent buildings rich in detail. I admire typical French families strolling with their prams, relaxed and happy in their big city, and I feel the characteristic atmosphere of Paris with its sidewalk cafes and brasseries stretching down onto the pavement with their long canopies.

Arriving at The Eiffel Tower from the opposite bank of the Seine, I cut through a small park that brings me to the bridge. Crossing over, I stop to inspect the different angles and perspectives of this massive, impending structure. Next to the Tour d’Eiffel are some lovely gardens with a bench by the pond where I catch my breath.

As the afternoon wanes and relaxes into evening I catch a train back to Gare Du Nord railway station to pick up my roller case, before heading to my friend’s apartment where we meet for dinner.

Yael chooses the popular Bastille area and we find an Indian restaurant. The food and dining is non-descript, but the restaurant hosts a great Shisha cafe at the front. The wait-staff has held a small table for us and we join plenty of students and young folk relaxing, puffing gently from the giant pipes and observing nightlife on the bustling Bastille pavements. We choose a pomme (apple) flavoured herbal variety. I strike up a conversation with three Greek boys and am amazed to find we share a friend in common, whom I am soon to visit in Belgium. Here is where I plug the colloquial line “the world really is a small place”. My first day in Paris, and I’m hooked!

Saturday October 25th, 2008

A Day in the Life of Paris.
No, it isn’t Ms. Hilton this time. It’s a sleepy Saturday morning and I am contentedly wrapped up in soft blankets in a Parisian apartment in Chatelet... And I’m not dreaming.

Yael wakes me early with croissants and jasmine tea – sign of a fabulous hostess! We eat hurriedly in her cosy little lounge-cum- bedroom in the first arrondissement (administrative district) of Paris. We catch the bus to the Eiffel Tower, passing the Louvre - which can wait on this day - because we are going to climb the famous tower, and meet later with friend and tour guide Sophie, in Montmartre.

The queue is very long for tickets to venture up the Tower, we must queue again to use the lifts, and queue to use the next set of lifts, and then queue twice more to get down. We walk from the first floor to the second - a dizzying up-hill battle - but conquering the Eiffel Tower gives us the determination. It is not the best day for the operation. From ground level we could scarcely see the top of the tower from a dense fog shrouding the view, and at the top Paris is gloomy and dismal, the weather not giving justice to the panorama.

We catch the metro to meet Sophie. While waiting in Pigalle I am amused by a man cooking corn-on-the-cob out of a shopping trolley, and trying to sell it to pedestrians – the ingenuity of the French! It doesn’t seem very hygienic and I do wonder who will actually pay money to eat this food. Sophie leads us straight on to the Moulin Rouge, passing the infamous sex shops of Pigalle. The Moulin Rouge isn't as impressive a structure as I had imagined it to be (thank you Hollywood, for all the delusions), but Yael and I happily play tourists. She is French, but new to Paris. Sophie has been in Paris for a few years and studies Art, some of her classes being held in a building at the Louvre. She is a fantastic tour guide, knowing the city extensively, and gives us information we would otherwise never know. Who ever really reads a guide book?

At the base of Montmartre(the artists headquarters, back in the day) we are welcomed into a fanfare of festival and fun, with hundreds of tourists bustling about, entertained by street musicians. A classical old carousel (that looks like it could be made out of candy) is immersed in all this excitement, and although it stands still it appears to move along with all the joy and life around it, wrapped up in pretty dreams and french music. Suddenly, the clouds part dramatically, the heavens split wide open and beams of sunlight shine down to present us with Le Sacre-Coeur! It stands before us demanding worship and attention with the byzantine-like roof. It seems to float on top of the green hill. Built on the highest point in Paris, steep steps lead us to the foot of the basilica. The afternoon has become warm and radiant, and I take my coat off to feel the sun pressing gently against my skin and enjoy the ambience.

Inside the 19th century cathedral Sophie explains that most of the mosaics and stained-glass windows have been replaced after bombs fell during the war, and the artwork has been redone by modern artists. Le Sacre-Coeur is also known to house the dead bodies of many famous people, and I am sure that as we walk through the quiet basilica I can hear the faint sound of a heart thumping.

Leaving the cathedral we meander through peaceful streets emerging in a friendly, busy spot in Montmartre - Place du Tertre. Filled with stalls and street artists, cafes, restaurants and piano bars, the small cobbled roads are nothing like the rest of Paris, but the architecture and vibe resembles something more like a small French village. We walk further down into less-chaotic streets. Reaching a square, Sophie points out an odd statue of a man that can walk through walls - he is halfway through the brick wall, arms reaching out. This figure is in honour of French writer Marcel Amye; the statue is a character from his short-story "Le Passe-Muraille", and in English translates: "The Walker-Through-Walls".

Montmartre is a charming area, and it is easy to see why many great artists chose to live and work here. It is worth the visit as there is much to see and do. However, my time is short in Paris. We head back towards the centre on the metro. Yael wants to take me to Laduree, for the highly recommended macaroons and pastries, and I just plain-well need coffee! We stop at St. Michaels to see the cathedral and head in the wrong direction from Laduree, instead taking a fortunate detour through Jardin du Luxembourg - a spacious public park, sharing the grounds of the Luxembourg Palace. Gorgeous statues and fountains stand in front of the palace and chairs are placed around for the public to sit and relax. As the sun takes its bow a fiery glow spreads through the park casting pretty reflections over the ponds. I could imagine spending a whole summer day here, with a French picnic, and possibly a French cutie too. He would roll the sleeves up on his sailor shirt – the one that only he can pull-off with fashionable finesse - explain to me quite seriously how my eyes are like the ponds shining with sunlight, and proceed to speak to me only in French. Which I clearly cannot understand, but instead swoon under the spell of his charms, good looks and hypnotising accent. Now, where was I?

We are on the way to Laduree, but we stop to watch an impressive modern dance street performance, you can see how hard these entertainers work to refine their skill. After salivating over the chocolate displays in Laduree we wait to be seated. The walls are painted with a mural depicting paradise, and the tea room is fancy and elegant in decor. Yael orders a chocolate macaroon and tea, while I opt for a delicious pastry-cake layered with jam and vanilla custard, accompanied by a rich cream-filled cappuccino. When in Paris one must have a fine-dining experience - at least for coffee and cakes!

Much later in the evening we meet two of Yael and Sophie’s friends, Raphael and Fabien, in Bastille. A small wine bar on the main street is our venue. It is unassuming and grungy with posters covering the walls and ceiling, a high bar, and a piano to one side. A man is perched in the far dark corner of the bar with a large balloon glass filled with burgundy placed in front of him, and he is sketching little cartoons and caricatures in his diary. After cramming into a table at the back, Raphael and Fabien select the red wine, and we order cheese, meat and salad platters to share. There are a good range of French cheeses: St Marcellin (a soft, runny cheese with a light skin covering), Cancoillotte (a runny, melted cheese served in a small jar), Crottins de Chavignole (a hard goat cheese), Fromage Basque (the region), Bleu de Brebis (a blue cheese made from goats milk) and Camembert (the only one I had previous experience with). You really can’t beat the French at cheese! Delicious!

We head to Republique to a discotheque, where we dance and drink for awhile. It is late and Sophie and Yael keep me walking - all the way home! I fall asleep and then my head hits the pillow.

Sunday October 26th, 2008

A Touch of Paris.

Sophie is leading me through the unusually quiet streets of Paris, on foot. No wonder she is so thin! She lives and studies in Paris. I trust her despite my sore heels and grumbling stomach. We wander past Les Opera, and through Place Vendome – a plaza with expensive designer stores and hotels. In the middle of the square there is a tall, erect pillar - Le Colonne Vendome. A statue of Napoleon stands resolute at the very top and engravings etched into the mast depict the victorious battles. Sophie explains that the monument was built entirely out of recycled cannons from Napoleon’s conquest of Austerlitz - roughly 1200 cannons were used, but this figure is entirely disputable. The column is said to be a tribute to his army and the brass was melted together and constructed into form in 1810. I rather wonder if Napoleon was substituting for some sort of obvious complex?

After a work emergency, our friend Yael meets us in the Musee du Louvre. Over a year has passed since Yael and I lived together in London, but I am glad to reunite in Paris, and share these experiences with someone I know. Immediately, I am stunned by the physical prescence of the estate, with its glass pyramid structure and well-manicured gardens, and grand chateau. The interior itself is furnished exquisitely and features detailed ceiling murals accentuated by natural lighting in each room. We check out the Spanish and Italian paintings on the first floor of the Denon wing, before continuing on to knock out the staples: Mona Lisa, and The Wedding Feast at Cana. Browsing through the French section, we catch a glimpse of art through the Middle-Ages, and then go on to survey Greek antiquities, Egyptian relics and ruins, including a mummified crocodile, and finally take a peek at Napoleon III's boudoir. A very small bed suggests to me that the aforementioned “complex” may run in the family.

A walk over and along the Seine takes us towards the Notre Dame de Paris. Arriving at nightfall (the most atmospheric time to attend), we view the grand, gothic cathedral, protected by its ever-watching gargoyles. They have expressive and cheeky faces, each one individual. I am impressed by the gothic style - the flying buttresses and stained glass. Inside, a massive organ is situated at the back of the cathedral boasting 7800 pipes. We enter into the haunting church promptly before mass. It is 6:30 pm on a Sunday evening, which means that this particular mass held at the main altar is directed specially by the archbishop and broadcasted live on a Catholic television station and on air for Radio Notre Dame. There is a low, spine-chilling music echoing through the passages, capable of raising bodies from their graves. Entranced, I watch as the ceremony commences and we gather to one side as the solemn-faced clergy proceed through the gates, incense swinging. If I were a child attending I think I would be terrified!

The exercise continues as Sophie takes us onwards for another long walk. This trip to Paris was harder than any fitness regime I could ever develop for myself. We explore the islands of the Seine, visit in St Pauls Cathedral and follow through some quiet Parisian streets until we reach the Jewish Quarter. Alive and bustling (the opposite of how Yael and I were feeling - tired and hungry!), the Jewish area is much more colourful, and we have a pit-stop for dinner at the most reputable falafel house in town, L’As du Falafel. Hey, there was even a picture of Lenny Kravitz dining there, on the wall. It had to be good. Trust in Lenny, The Jewish Quarter has some of the best falafel you will experience, whether you are vegetarian or not, made all the better after a hard day’s walk!

Strolling through Paris you will find this city possesses a charm that works its way over you - the very feeling that you have just been to Paris. It makes me want to ride a bike with a baguette bouncing along in the basket, and wear a beret as I window-shop down the Champs-Elysees, and go to church - just to check out the atmosphere! But please, oh please, don't mention the word 'walking' again!

La Tomatina 08 - The Untold Story, Told!

2008-10-23T01:39:00.007+02:00

My trip to Spain went by unnoticed and unwritten about. To tell you the truth the most exciting part was La Tomatina 08! This food-fighting, human soup of a festival takes place annually on the last Wednesday of August, in a small town called Bunyol, just outside of Valencia.
I joined a tour group 'Fanatics' for the experience and we stayed at the Red Nest Hostel in Valencia. A bus picked us up early Wednesday morning to deliver us safely in Bunyol. My travel buddy, Carly, and I walked with the flow of the pack through the towns outskirts and into the heart of this small, pretty village. The local Spaniards laugh at our large group, and guess our nationality with incredible ease. It seems Australians really enjoy this particular event. Personally, I blame 'Getaway' for its glossy travel exposes!

The tomato fight began at 11am. Before commencement we stood in a large crowd in the centre of the main street, toughing the rough crowds to watch the ritual of strong men, weak men, little men, big men and only a few brave girls try to clamber up a lard-basted pole in a fury of passion, attempting vaingloriously to be the victor and bring home the triumph of knocking down the honorary Jamon, which had been tied precariously at the top. It was like a well greased coconut tree, but there were no talented islanders around to produce the coconuts! Yes, unfortunately, no one succeeded in bringing it home this year. And apparently not last year either. It's virtually impossible.

While we watched this drama unfold for a good couple of hours, locals threw buckets of water over us from their balconies and everyone got amped up for the tomatoey goodness that was about to ensue. And ensue it did! A ruthless, dirty, juicy orgy of tomatoes that eventually mixed into a knee-deep puree. Delicious!

Approximately ten trucks of tomatoes are brought through the main street of Bunyol. Volunteers of the community happily sit atop their moving kingdoms as they throw the ripened fruits at us - the eager crowd waiting to get our hands on them so we can squish them into the hair and faces of our friends and enemies.

A friendly moment found me rubbing tomatoes over a young Spaniards naked chest. Unfortunately for me, revenge is a tomato dish best served cold, and at some unfriendly point I was hauled over the back of an XXL Senora, while his friends poured tonnes of tomatoes down the back of my pants....enough said!

After twenty minutes, and four trucks only, the set was unrecognisable. I remember stopping for a moment to watch the crowd in motion, bouncing, heaving and with everyone stained pink, while grappling for tomatoes underfoot and launching their fruity granades back into the frenzy. The street flooded with tomato juice and exhaustion lapses over me. It was amazing fun, an unbeatable experience, even in the painful moments like copping an unripe tomato to the eye, or the stinging acidic juice making its way into the eyes, or T-shirts being used as weapons, along with anything else that could be found and thrown at people.

The fire department provided a power-shower to help clean us up after, but this was futile as the walk back to the bus proved to get messier and uglier. We were like children enjoying getting dirty, but the clean up was an arduous task that no one wanted to deal with once the fun is over.

Tomatoes were in my ears, eyes and nose for at least a week! Well worth it! So, if you're ever in Spain for the last Wednesday of August, get yourself to La Tomatina for a mad, grievous, hilarious and exotic experience that you won't find anywhere else!
Some people may have been put off tomatoes for life, but not this girl! Viva La Tomato!!!!!!