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En Francais

2 Nov

I’ve always had a low opinion of the French so it’s no surprise that during my last European trip I spent as little time in the country as possible. Almost all the French people that I’ve met have been arrogant, pompous and rude, and similar stories abound from people that I’ve talked to. With this as an introduction it may come as a surprise that my latest trip abroad was a week spent in the French countryside. My excuse is that I was there on the kind invitation of my sister, Rachel, and her partner, Tony. They had been on holiday for a month but had devoted this week to assembling Rachel’s European based friends in the one place.

An old house in a little village in the Burgundy countryside played host to Brendan, Kerry, her partner, Chris, and their son, Felix. For now I will assign these additional players to the shadowy sidelines of this email, perhaps never to return. I think that it’s bad manners to write about people that you’ve just met, apart from when they’re snoring, so I will shelve my analytical skills for all but 2-year old Felix, who occasionally provided the evenings entertainment.

The house we were staying in was an old farmhouse that had been expanded to three floors, but still retained some obvious signs of country living, such as the massive wooden table in the kitchen, the stonework and wooden beams, and in my room a collection of meat hooks built into the ceiling. Thankfully, all the jugged hare had long gone, and although I feared having my dreams invaded by rotting, green hares, I remained unscathed for the duration of my stay.

There wasn’t a lot to see in the sleepy town of Villiers-sur-Yonne, but the surrounding countryside beckoned. The nearby town of Vezelay had the advantage of being situated on the biggest hill for miles around, and as is usually the case in such instances, the best spot was taken by a church. As churches go it wasn’t very ornate or elaborate but it made up for that with a towering, dignified simplicity. On the day that I saw it the outer wall had an additional armour of backpacks stacked four deep. I don’t know whether they get this kind of crowd every Sunday, but on this day it was packed with French scouts. As they stood on the cold flagstones, occasionally shifting from foot to foot, they belted out some of my favourite religious tunes in a manner that soon had the birthmark on my scalp itching in a very sinister fashion. At the end of the service the flag bearers marched out through the crowd, followed by the priests. The next man that came along, judging by his impressive headgear, was some kind of high priest. He had a politicians instinct for seeking out children, but rather than kissing them he simply touched them on the head. The parents seemed a lot more impressed than their children.

Back at the house it was cold. We should have had a big oil burning stove pumping out enough heat to cause a sweat to break out, but due to a misguided change of fuel by the owner it was completely clogged up. As I’m heading into my fourth summer in a row I was quite grateful for the chilly atmosphere. For a couple of nights a few of us stayed warm with some brisk games of table tennis before bed, but this nocturnal activity was halted by a food poisoning attack brought on by a French custard tart.

It’s a pity in a way, because I was starting not to hate the French quite as much as I had previously. Outside Paris the typical snooty attitude had been moderated, some of them were even friendly, but I can’t forgive being sold an off tart. It was so virulent that within three hours of consuming it I was redecorating the toilet in the new seasons colours. It was a curious progression from feeling healthy to throwing my guts up. I wandered off to bed quite early to have a quick nap. This turned into a long lie down feeling slightly unwell, until the dreaded thought entered my head.
- If I was leaning over the toilet right now I would probably throw up.
Casting such negativity aside I tried valiantly to get to sleep, but soon reached the point of no return. I calmly walked to the toilet before gushing forth a quantity of liquid that felt better suited to an elephant sized stomach. I returned to bed a shivering, sweaty wreck and passed the rest of the night as best I could.

The morning revealed another two casualties, Kerry and Brendan, so I had some company in my planned activity for the day of doing absolutely nothing. Actually, my main activity for the day was a desperate attempt to get my appetite back for that evenings meal. Rachel and Tony were preparing a leg of lamb to be cooked in a sealed pot for seven hours. Apart from wanting to try this succulent sounding dish for gastronomic reasons alone, the price of lamb in France would make it a crime to let any go to waste. It turned out as good as it sounds, with the meat literally falling off the bone, which looked as if it had been lying in the bleaching sun for months.

There are good and bad things about spending a week in the company of a toddler. The bad is obviously the odd tantrum and general yelling. The good are the cute goodnights and that they do stupidly entertaining things with very little prompting. Felix’s bedtime trick was to run around the kitchen table, which is quite a long way on such short legs, only halting before drawbridges constructed from lowered arms. We soon had him uttering a secret command to get through.
- The 13th century is sooo boring.
It was quite a strange site, especially as Felix, not having the strongest grip on language, soon chinese whispered himself into uttering a drivel of vowels before ending with gusto on ‘sooo boring’.

It would be criminal to stay in Burgundy and not sample a good range of wines. One winery we visited was located in what used to be an underground rock quarry. We walked through a long wide tunnel towards the degastation station, with only the sound of popping champagne corks filling the silence. The nearby town of Chablis had more places to taste wine than restaurants, which is a sure path to tipsiness.

There was a canal running past the front door of the house that we stayed in. One fine day Rachel, Tony and I went for a walk along it until we came to a little lock where two barges were lined up to come through. We watched as the lock keeper wandered around opening gates and sluices, then managed to get a ride on one of the barges back up to the house. If we had followed the canal even further we would have arrived in Paris, which is where we drove at the end of the week in order to fly back to London.

Dave out.

A Smelly Australian in Paris

27 Oct

All through this trip I haven’t booked anything. It was not so much a plan as a philosophy, and while it was stupid, childish and landed me in the shit quite a lot, I also enjoyed the fact that it put me in unusual situations. I broke my code by booking two nights in Paris but left the first night free. I had decided to shun sleep for the night and see the city without the crowds. I arrived in central Paris at 11 pm. As I left the station I saw a man practicing his machete moves, with a machete. This wasn’t an encouraging sign so I left for friendlier turf.

My first task was to stash my bag somewhere. I found a great spot near the bridge opposite the Louvre and behind some rubble. Burden-free I was left to wander along the bank spotting the similarities between Paris and London. The two cities feel remarkably similar to me and even have similar landmarks: the Louvre and the National Gallery; Notre Dame and Westminster Abbey; the Eiffel Tower and the Millennium Wheel. When I arrived at the Eiffel Tower at midnight it was still full of people looking up or sitting on the grass and getting drunk. Parisiennes love staying out late and it’s a great city to wander around in. 24 hour internet and cafes reminded me that cities can be useful places to be.

At about 2 am I headed back to where my bag was and looked out over the river. Below the concrete barrier overlooking the path on the bank was a metre wide ledge. I took advantage of it to have a nap 20 feet off the ground. It was a nice spot but scared the shit out of me when I woke up. From my perch I watched countless single men wandering along the bank and I started to wonder whether gay paree had a double meaning. At that point I might have considered selling me ass for a bed so it was lucky I didn’t get any offers. A man poked his head over the wall but when he saw me he just gave a little ‘Ahh’ of surprise and left. He was probably familiar with the hotel situation in Paris.

Time passed pretty quickly that night. Most of it was spent trying to sort out transport to Amsterdam and with that complete I took a dawn stroll down to Notre Dame. It looked great in the soft light and now I just needed to find the hostel which would let me go to bed at 2 pm.

Before that I completed the small chore of washing my clothes. The laundry was warm after the slightly chilly night air and as I sat in the chair holding my head the reflections in the washing machine started to wave at me. I was too tired to wave back so I just sat there and looked at them.

I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at the Paris metro map. You should try it after being awake for 21 hours. My pack felt a lot heavier than normal, my shoulders ached, my legs ached, my head was sore. I sat on the trains feeling grey with grey bags under my eyes. I got to the hostel to confirm that it actually existed then went to the park to snooze for four hours.

My slumber was interrupted by a small girl trying to sell me a free magazine. She talked to me in French and I talked to her in English. She wasn’t put off by the fact that we couldn’t understand each other but eventually wandered off. She returned later with her sisters to marvel at the foreign freak. I brushed off my high school French with a “je ne parle pas français” which was met with murmurs of surprise which increased when I said “anglais”. They whispered anglais amongst themselves as they wandered off.

After sleeping in the hostel for a while I awoke in the gloaming and briefly wandered around the outer suburb I was housed in before dining on a kebab. It was like being back in London.

Today has been spent fulfilling my tourist duties. Notre Dame has spectacular stained glass and the Louvre has the Mona Lisa. Please excuse me if I’m being some kind of philistine but I don’t understand why that painting is so popular. A whimsical smile seems to turn a lot of people on. I preferred the Islamic art and I would take a mogul dagger or engraved Iranian bowl over most of the paintings there.

Paris itself is a great city, which pleasantly surprised me. It’s probably shit to live in but for a few days it dazzles the senses. It probably beats London it the ‘cool cities’ competition and is miles ahead in the ‘heads so far up their own asses that they can’t see daylight’ competition.

Europe is drawing to a close now and all that remains is a hallucinogenic weekend in the Dam staring at sunflowers and a week to say goodbye to Old Blighty.

Dave out.

Goodbye to Old Blighty

27 Oct

The Dam lived up to expectations but my expectations are probably different to some. You can have a few different experiences in the city. Drink 50 pints before throwing up all over yourself and your hooker, enter the cafe on Friday and emerge on Sunday night amid clouds of smoke, or take some magic mushrooms and walk around like a zombie with a smile. I chose the latter option and went to visit the Van Gogh Museum. The museum was to tripping what a club is to pilling. I started out looking at some Cuyp, a largely uninspiring Dutch painter famous for ‘capturing ligh”. He never left the city he was born in so the result is a lot of paintings of the harbour and cows. Van Gogh, in comparison, pops out from the canvas in a weird set of daubs which at one stage began to shift around. The colours stood out even brighter and I spent two hours wandering around and smiling.

Amsterdam was the last leg of my tour of the continent. Europe was as expected – lots of beautiful old things and lots of people, but it was a great experience and I saw a lot of amazing things.

The next leg of my trip takes me to the United States of Arrogance. Apparently they invented freedom and are furiously trying to market it to the rest of the world. It’s impossible not to have an opinion about America. They are a financial, political and cultural gargantuan. I hope to answer some questions about them. Are they really that stupid? Do half the country look like sumo wrestlers? If you replaced George Bush with a chimp would anyone notice? If you joke about September the 11th will anyone laugh? Are the children born fat? Do they understand satire yet? I hope so. These and many more questions will be answered by a panel of experts before being given the all clear for your perusal.

I leave this grey land with a light heart and a curious mind. I might be back, I might not, but all the best to those I won’t see for a while.

Dave out.

The Trains in Spain are Mainly a Pain

27 Oct

It’s been a long time since my last email so rather than send a mammothly huge email I’m just sending a gargantuan one. I’m going to have to summarise these cities, partly for brevity, partly because they’re not so fresh in my mind and partly because this French keyboard is going ooh la la on me a bit too much for easy typing. I’m aiming to make brevity my war cry but knowing me I’ll ramble on as much as always. So here we go – all the way back to Italy.

FLORENCE
I was diverted here by a quest for leather gloves for my sister but the fact that most of the worl”s Renaissance art resides in Florence is as much of a reason to go as any. My tourist detector was redlining after Rome and Venice so it was not a pleasant surprise to find that half of America had decided to cram into Florenc”s narrow streets. The word on everyone’s lips was David. Have you seen David? Where’s David? They weren’t talking about your humble author but the famous statue. I didn’t go to see it as I can just strip naked and look in the mirror for some living art. I saw the statue on some postcards and I’m a dead ringer for David, apart from the body hair, which I suspect was too hard for even Michelangelo to sculpt.

Florence might have been an enchanting and amazingly creative little town once but it has whored itself for the tourist dollar. Hordes of shops gather around a shrivelled and slimy river. Every hill is crowded with private villas that take up any possible view. This leaves people to sunbake on concrete by the side of a river that smells like shit. There is some amazing art at the Uffizi Gallery but how many paintings of Madonna and child do you need to see in one lifetime. I left with a bad taste in my mouth.

TURIN
This was my bid to get as close as possible to Spain without staying in France. Turin is in the north west corner of Italy surrounded by mountains and apart from the fact that a shroud came from here I didn’t know a lot about the place. I still don’t know that much about the place other than it was great to be somewhere where people gave me strange looks for carrying a big bag through town. The natives were a strange ethnic mix with a lot of Phillipinos and Eastern Europeans. I spent a great Sunday afternoon wandering in the park by the river with the families and enjoying not doing anything. I stayed for one night.

LYON
I entered France with trepidation. The French can sense when you don’t like them and return it with icy cold disdain. So it was in my first brush with a frog. The conductor on the train looked like a plump Napoleon with thinner hair and beady, piggy eyes. I desperately, irrationally, wanted to get to Spain by that day. In a typical froggy bid to be different the train system at Lyon confused me. I stayed for two hours.

MONTPELLIER
I arrived at Montpellier after sneaking on a high speed train and avoiding detection. I had been travelling for eight hours. The noticeboard at the station said the train to Barcelona left in 15 minutes. I stayed in Montpellier for 15 minutes.

BARCELONA
The subject of this email should really read THE TRAINS IN SPAIN ARE FOOKIN’ SHIT. They take double the time they should to get anywhere, mainly because they go at half the speed and stop in the middle of nowhere for extended periods. I arrived in Barcelona after travelling for 13 hours but got out of the station somewhere familiar, as I had been to the city before. I stayed for one night.

ZARAGOZA
This is on the way from Barcelona to Bilbao. I didn’t intend to go there. I didn’t know it existed. When I got on the train the conductor flinched when I showed him my rail pass and started talking to me in Spanish. I just nodded and looked tired, as I knew what he was saying. I can let you on but if someone else has reserved that seat then you have to get off. That’s how I ended up in this northern Spanish city. The highlight was a beer vending machine with a sticker warning people under 18 not to use it. I don’t think that’s going to stop a 16 year old with a pocket full of change and looking for a buzz. I certainly felt better afterwards. I stayed for one night.

VALENCIA
I had to go somewhere after Zaragoza and the only train I could catch for free was going here. I had heard good rumours about the place and they had oranges so off I went. Valencia smelt like shit and was crowded. The only remarkable feature was a river, not made up of water, but parkland and dirt football pitches. I didn’t get it. I stayed in a cave for one night.

MADRID
Madrid was my saviour. The streets smell nice, are leafy and cool, and even though the hostel was full I found a nice pension. I played charades with the woman that owned it for a while but she won so I gave her some money. Madrid was also home to the Prado Gallery which features some Goya just as he starts to switch from doing portraits to featuring leering madmen and ugly children. It was a welcome change and I enjoyed staying for two days.

Spain was a massive disappointment to me, mainly because I couldn’t get anywhere that I wanted to go. The terrain in between the large cities conjures up images of a wave of banditos rising up out of the distance and storming the train. Unfortunately nothing that exciting happens in modern-day train travel and I was left to ruminate on the dryness and inhospitability of the terrain. I was beginning to wonder how the Spanish ever managed to get an empire together as I was greeted by countless abandoned stations in the wasteland.

It’s only as you get on the trains around Valencia and Madrid that you begin to see the Spanish crop – a lot of wheat. I’m talking about hundreds of kilometres of fields. It’s also a stark reminder of why Spanish wine isn’t the best. They have their vineyards competing with rocks in the desert for sun. Most of my time in Spain was spent sitting on a train looking at this kind of thing until I went back to Barcelona.

This time I didn’t bother with the sights. I splashed out and hired a villa in the hills just outside the city where I staged a three-day long orgy with some porn starlets I had arranged to meet there. My favourite part was when Rebecca stimulated my anus with a lark’s tongue. After the orgy I was quite tired and got lost several times looking for a laundry, once walking in a complete circle.

My bid to get out of Barcelona did not go well. The trains were booked out with a six-and-a-half hour wait to buy tickets. I decided to do the yuppie backpacker special and take to the skies, sneering at the train travellers below.

I honestly thought my flight left at 2:55 pm. I mean – absolutely positive. I arrived at the ticket counter at told the lady this. She looked worried as she told me there were no flights then, soon telling me I was on the 1:40 flight. I assured her she was wrong but as she sorted it out for me a thought drifted in that perhaps she was right. I had done it again – missed another flight. Luckily for me the ladies at Air Europa are a lot more understanding than those Lufthansa swine and she put me on a later flight with a bunch of French teenagers as punishment. I was heading to their hometown of Paris. Spain looks amazing from the air. Gone are the endless patches of nothing, replaced with a patchwork of light brown fields broken up with mountains. It’s the only way to get around the place and I’ll be abandoning the train on future visits. Now that that’s out of the way I’ll let you recover before I regale with tales of gay Paree.

Dave out.

Rome is where the Pope lives

27 Oct

WARNING! The following email is sacrilegious. If you are likely to be offended by any such material I strongly recommend that you stop reading now. As you have continued to read on I feel free to heap sarcasm, scorn, and weirdness upon the catholic church.

You can’t deny that Rome has played a massive part in western, and indeed world, history. Being the seat of the Roman empire and pretty close to the heart of the Renaissance, two of the world’s most interesting times, it’s hard not to find things to look at.

My first port of call was the another great institution of Rome – the Vatican City. I say great as there is no denying its size and influence. It whacks you on the head when you enter the plaza and strain your neck looking upwards.

A strange thing happened to me as I wandered around. I felt an energy running though my limbs. That’s right, brothers and sisters, I could see the light, filtered through my fake prada sunglasses. It burnt my arm as a sign of renewal and my soul was reborn.

There were many such events taking place around the square. Old people leapt out of wheelchairs and frolicked in the fountain like children. Able-bodied people sprouted wings and with a look of glee flew into the air to copulate. Soon a light rain of bodily fluids fell and dampened the square.

I’m glad entry into the Vatican is free as I would have a problem contributing to the wealth of an organisation that houses child molesters. The Pope is obviously not universally loved as there is a security check before you go in. There is an obvious flaw in security as nuns get waved through. If any of you want to kill the pope I suggest you hire a nun’s costume and practice looking like an old Italian woman.

Nuns get a sweet deal in Rome. No security checks, free entry into the treasure room and people giving them presents, all for just a lifetime of devotion and service. I find nuns quite attractive and I imagine they’re devils in bed with all that pent up sexual energy. You don’t see many sexy younger nuns around. I think they keep them all locked away until they’re so old that sex simply isn’t an option.

Once you get inside St. Peter’s it’s hard to stop your jaw dropping as you look up. It’s an enormous space that succeeds in producing awe in the viewer. My reverence was directed to the artisans involved rather than god. You are struck by the same opulence and orgasm of colour in every church in Rome. You end up being dazzled by the light outside and the colour inside, but you can see why the churches are so popular. It’s the only place you can escape the whine of the scooter motors.

You’ll have to excuse my ignorance of all things religious, especially the names of objects and places. I wasn’t even sure the Sistine Chapel was in Rome till I peeked in a guidebook. After being suitably awed by the dome of St. Peter’s I went in search of the chapel. I tried to follow a group of people through a set of gates but a man dressed in a striped purple and red outfit with a foppish hat stopped me.
Foppish man – What do you want to see?
Me – Whatever those people are going to see.
Foppish man – They are here on private business.
I think he was just there to sniff out the non-believers.

Following the crowd I successfully made it to the Sistine Chapel and promptly joined the tourist feeding frenzy. It was standing room only as the sweating crowds hustled past tapestries and ornately painted ceilings. It was all too much for me. Perhaps if I was at all religious I would have found it a rewarding experience. Despite messages in four different languages requesting silence there was an appreciative hum in the chapel. A plump Italian guard was furiously trying to quieten people without making a noise himself. It was only when a recorded announcement was played requesting silence that people were quiet, for about 5 seconds. I found the paintings a bit garish and busy for my tastes but I could appreciate the skill and effort that went into them. I preferred some of the small pictures further into the building a painting of the dead Christ looking lost and feminine and one depicting Jesus hanging on the cross while angels collected his blood in bowls. I can only take so much religion before the birthmark on my scalp starts itching so I quickly left and pushed an old woman over.

It’s funny that Rome should be the seat of power for the catholic church as it also spawned the people who nailed their saviour to a big wooden cross. Evidence of the Romans is everywhere but the most striking remains are across the river and along a bit. I speak of the Colosseum. So let’s step even further back in history in a city that has more than its fair share.

In terms of impressive stadiums that give you a tingle the Colosseum has been knocked off number one spot by places like the MCG and Wembley, but the colosseum still has the power to give you a jolt as images of the past race screaming through your head. It happens the most when you walk along a platform through the middle of the arena. The floor is long gone, exposing the rooms below, but it is an easy place to picture full of bloodthirsty Romans demanding you kill or be killed.

I was hoping they would have real armour and weapons laid out. That way I could have started hacking my way through the crowd of tourists and satisfying the sand’s thirst for blood.

The hostel in Rome was located next to a quite busy four lane road. ‘Quite busy’ in Rome means constant traffic. The rooms were so hot that the windows had to be left open or you risked dehydration by the morning. I ended up sleeping with ear plugs in which muted the roar to a constant drone. The only bonuses were that the traffic noise drowned out the snoring and the carbon monoxide wafting in through the window helped me get to sleep.

The catholic church has become expert at getting money out of people. Even though I consciously didn’t want to give them any they got me with the entrance to the Sistine Chapel and the post office. The post office comes with authentic Vatican stamps and god has even set aside an angel to deliver the Vatican mail. If you wake up one morning with a postcard on your pillow and a warm inner glow you’ll know why. The Vatican also has a strip club round the back called ‘Heavenly Temptations’. The Pope likes to go there to let his hair down and occasionally stick his dick in some warm custard.

Dave out.

Life is like a Canal

27 Oct

Venice was never one of those cities that I really wanted to see. What’s so great about canals? We have them in Canberra but they’re called stormwater drains and are bone dry for most of the year. The canals in Britain usually double as the local tip. As for romantic, it’s hard to top a revolving restaurant for romance and alliteration.

So I came to Venice ready to pour scorn upon it but it got under my skin within hours. It took me a while to figure out why but it dawned on me that after walking through a large part of the city there hadn’t been one car, no traffic lights or pollution. After years of being subservient to cars I was finally in a place where the pedestrian is king.

The canals in Venice don’t really rock my world. They are what you would expect and would be a delightful surprise if you had never heard of them before. I found the nicest thing about them was that once you escaped the tourist throng all you could hear was the gentle lapping of water. It is a very relaxing city and I can see how a quiet stroll along the canals sometime past midnight after a couple of bottles of wine shared with someone special would be lovely.

That said, I don’t think I’ve come across a city worse for getting staggeringly drunk in. If you manage to avoid falling into a canal you have to face the water bus rocking you to and fro the entire way home. It’s one of those places that is much better to visit, mainly because all the tourists would start to piss me off. I wo’ldn’t blame the native inhabitants of the city for hating tourists with a passion. They remind me of pigeons as they trot around in groups shitting on everything. There is a more literal link between the two as tourists seem to enjoy feeding the pigeons and having the filthy beasts clamber all over them. People become surrounded by a seething grey mass. Surely it is only a matter of time before the pigeons become dissatisfied with corn and bread. One of those little beaks will peck off a tiny piece of flesh and the word will spread of this new delicacy. Soon the skies will be full of rabid, flesh-eating pigeons. People won’t think they’re so cute then.

I only intended to stay in Venice for a night but when the hostel say they are locking you out of the rooms, they mean the entire place. So with my bag inside and me outside I had no option but to stay an extra day. I can think of worse places to be stranded. Venice may have smelly water, bad food, too many tourists, Italian guys singing in gondoliers and manky pigeons but it’s Venice and no-one cares because it’s magical.

The only regret I have is that I was here by myself. The happy couple factor is high and walking around by yourself is not they way to go. I will have to come back when the air is still and quiet and the streets are bare, to share it with someone special.

The next city on the menu is the one all roads used to lead to and has seen more orgies than a por’ star’s mansion. I’m expecting a change of pace and a little bit of madness.

Dave out.

It’s Travel, Not a Holiday

27 Oct

I’ve been watching the pigeons in the park and I could become quite a pigeon fancier. I never noticed on the pigeons in London but when the sun catches their neck it reveals glowing green and purple colouring. The pigeons in Verona are big and fat. If you can’t make it as a pigeon here you’re not trying hard enough. Their mating behaviour is interesting as well. The female pigeon will be slowly walking around, pecking for food, when a male pigeon, puffed to double its normal size and with tail feathers spread, will trot up to it warbling as hard as he can. The female pigeon then ignores the male and continues looking for food while the male prances around. I think there are some similarities with the human mating ritual. I’m thinking about developing my own pigeon strut to impress the ladies. After all, there are a hell of a lot of pigeons.

Talking of things military in nature, I recently saw a man in tourist attire take up his umbrella as if it were a gun and test out various sniping positions over a wall. In Sherlock Holmes fashion I surmised that he was an American and his speech soon confirmed this. It made me wonder at his motives. Was he simply a keen sporting shooter? Perhaps a psychopath with too much time on his hands. It could be that he was keeping his skills sharp in case his country suddenly needed him or that he was a secret operative planning an invasion of Italy. I think not bringing a book with me was a big mistake.

I’m over here in Italy, slowly wandering down the street due to malnutrition brought on by a stomach bug, when I come across a newsagent. I thought I would pop my head in to check the cultural differences in the media and to my great surprise there was a magazine devoted to pasta. It made me wonder just how many ways there are to cook it. Is this marketing gone mad or does it fill a vital gap in pasta information? I’m buggered if I know … I think I’ve got sun stroke.

Dave out.

The Streets of Milan are Laced with Posion

27 Oct

I left you in a train in north Italy as the heavens opened resulting in the windows being forced shut and the train carriage reaching levels of humidity on a par with a rainforest. It’s not a place you want to be stuck in so I’ll move you on. I never wanted to go to Milan but that crooked finger of fate was pointing me there. It took longer to come down the alps than I expected so instead of making it to Vicenza I settled for the city of the damned.

There are a couple of reasons I didn’t want to go to Milan. The first was that it got a couple of bad word-of-mouth reviews, the second was that I dated a hypochondriac mother-complex woman from Milan for a while before I got to know her well. In one of her flirty moments she told me a story about a friend of hers that had pushed her over. Her Dad then got some guys to beat him up. She joked that if I upset her she would have the same thing done to me. It was somewhat comforting that her father had been run over and killed years earlier but when I remembered she had a picture of me I started to become worried. I imagined that as I walked along a rain swept Milan street a black car would screech to a halt beside me and I would be taking a short drive to my death.

When I got in at the train station Milan struck me as a concrete jungle. I briefly attempted to work out how to get to the youth hostel before settling for a taxi. It’s lucky I did because the hostel was almost in another town. It was housed in semi-industrial, semi-suburban wasteland. The bus stops were full of hookers and the 4th annual pimp conference was being held in the park. The hostel itself reminded me of a high school. It had that linoleum floor and dorm feel, with metal lockers outside that were constantly banging open and shut. It felt like bells were going to start ringing any second.

I’didn’t get a very good ‘ight’s sleep due to the combination of another snorer, the pimp conference outside and the banging lockers. I got out of there pronto and headed to the station with the intention of going to Verona. When I got to the station I felt sweaty and shaky. I was threatening rapid fluid loss from both ends. I had a stomach bug but whether it was from the water, the roadside vendor sausage or the off milk mixed with faeces that they served for breakfast I wasn’t sure. Perhaps the spark of recognition the server gave when I asked for hot chocolate saw him reaching for the instant poison instead. Whatever the source was, I was not in good shape.

I made it onto the train and sank into a half sleep until my stop arrived and I foolishly tried to figure out the map and walk to the youth hostel. I now know that what I thought was the river was in fact a canal leading me to the wrong side of town. As to what happened next, well, it’s really disgusting and embarrassing so I’m going to make it request only. If you want to know what happened between here and my arrival at the hostel then you will have to email me and ask.

The hostel in Verona is unbelievably good. It’s an old villa perched halfway up a hill with a big garden. It’s a very relaxing place and the perfect spot to get over a sore tummy. So I’m staying here for the maximum five days to build my strength up. I’ve had little wanders around here and there. Further up the hill on the ridge is an old Roman wall. It just pops up and blends into the scenery as most of the old Roman relics seem to do. The wall is made up of an inner and outer one and you can walk in between them with a legionnaire strut. To get over it the smelly Barbarian hordes would have had to climb the ridge, get past a 20 foot ditch, climb a 30 foot wall past Roman defenders, avoid being killed in between the inner and outer wall, get over the inner wall and fight the soldiers in the city. You can see why it didn’t happen too often.

Verona is quite a small place which suits me fine. There’s not too much hustle and apart from the crowds gathering for the opera it’s been a relaxing stay. Venice, Florence and Rome await so I think I’ll need my energy.

Ciao,
Dave.

Switzerland Means Land of the Still Water in Swahili

27 Oct

I was staying in Zurich (emphasis on the rich) which is built around an enormous lake. You can see the other side of the lake but it’s so long that it stops being Zurich before the lake finishes. I was glad to be near some water as it was still damn hot. The first morning I was there I headed down to the lake but could find no good places to swim. It appears that Zurich was a property developers wet dream in the eighties and they promptly splodged all over the shoreline. Virtually all of it consists of little marinas and private houses which stretch into the hills on either side. They’ve even built little pool complexes which simply portion off a section of the lake and charge an entry fee to keep rabble out. I eventually took a train until I struck farmland and there I found the farmers paddling in one of the few free beaches. It was lovely water but the stones were a bit hard on the feet.

Zurich is an exceptionally lovely city. I didn’t realise it would be so beautiful but I guess being neutral in wars has the benefit of keeping those old buildings. The water in the river that feeds the lake and a couple of canals is an amazing clear green and the sun twinkling off this and a couple of swans floating by helped to soothe my raging mind. There was also a little park at the top of Zurich which had a cool breeze and comfy deck chairs so I plonked my ass down and took in the atmosphere. It’s the kind of town that exudes money. In fact I don’t think poor people even bother coming here but it was good for a visit. The other major attraction of the city were all the drinking fountains that just keep bubbling out cold mountain water.

On my last day in Switzerland I headed to true mountain country by taking the train up to Interlaken, which is in the middle of Switzerland. The scenery has to be seen to be believed. I couldn’t conjure up the platitudes to do it justice and I’m sure they’ve all turned into clichés anyway. Let’s just say they mountains were sheer and enormous and the lakes had an almost radioactive luridness.

I took the train down from Zurich to Chur and on to St. Moritz with the intention of coming into Italy. If you ever have the chance I would recommend the train ride from St. Moritz to Tirano. It trundles up and down about 2000 metres passing a 4000 metre mountain which was covered with snow and in the height of summer. I arrived in north Italy to a terrific deluge and suffered a heated train with no open windows to the heaving shitropolis and subject of my next email – Milan.

Dave out.

You Are Like a Cat

27 Oct

This is what a middle-aged French gentleman said to me when I accidentally scratched his finger on the way out of the elevator at the youth hostel in Vienna. He was more right than he knew. I do have quite strong nails, I love sleeping and lounging around, a dead mouse can keep me entertained for hours and don’t get me started on licking between my legs.

I was ecstatically happy when I arrived in Vienna because it was the first youth hostel I actually managed to find. This soon soured when I discovered that I don’t like youth hostels very much. I have enough trouble getting to sleep in a pitch black room in absolute silence when I’m tired, let alone in an environment reminiscent of school camp. There are lots of kids running around excited at being away from home for the first time and there is always a snorer. I’ve encountered a couple of world class snorers – one here and one in Zurich, my next destination. It would be hard to pick a winner. The Vienna snorer was amazingly loud and varied but the Zurich snorer would slowly build up to chainsaw levels before erupting in a fit of snorting. I have been taking regular naps to make up for my lack of night time slumber.

I liked Vienna. The first night I was there I went for a wander and got lost in the new city with the endless rows of shops. It reminded me of Sydney, mainly because of the pavement and road markings. The next day I headed down to the old quarter which is a really nice area for wandering around, a speciality of mine. It’s a pedestrian only zone apart from a few horse-drawn carriages that go lumbering by. I love the smell of manure in a city. It’s like a mixture of the past and the countryside. Vienna has the same huge buildings as in Germany but they have little touches of elegance about them. Still, it is a tribute to a fallen empire and such tributes are usually on the grand side.

My only bad experience in Vienna was watching the world cup with a bunch of yanks cheering for Brazil against England. When England lost one of the Americans said “Well at least there’ll be no more annoying English fans”. I desperately wanted to stab him in the neck with my pen but the laws that keep me safe protected him as well. Instead I took my anger to the streets but found no wave of irate English supporters to join in rolling cars over. Instead I took to the park and sobbed into the grass.

Dave out.

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