Time Travelling with Ash Grunwald @ Bombay Rock

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!

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!

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!

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!!!!!!