Bangers n' Mash

Ahh Bangkok: smelly, cheap, yummy food stalls and home of my future juice franchise- Squeeze - nooo! There goes my idea - sorry Leigh.. anyway fun was had exploring all the crazy markets, Chinatown, my tree house of a hostel, finally getting on a tuk-tuk and going all the way to my destination without the required 'please just look around my shop for 10 minutes' stop - miraculous! And of course movies - for 120 baht (4 bucks) you can't go wrong.

Below: This is one cool restaurant - 'Cabbages and Condomns' is run by a local development agency to raise AIDS awareness and safety by promoting what else but condomns- and aren't they everywhere? You even get one at the end of your meal instead of the usual after-dinner mint!

Right: Colour me happy - poor fluffy needs a mirror..

And I couldn't help trying to take as many photos of food for Crispy Waffle..so here is a little food montage..

No Money, No Problems

Arriving in Sarajevo we knew two things: 1. Jason, my ex-roomate from The Hague, would be there sometime and 2. I like stating facts in numerical form.
Well after bazaar-ing, hiking and sightseeing around, from quaint art galleries to student orchestra performances in the old army building (sill manned by scary army guards); we waited to hear back from Jason after sending some urgent 'WE ARE HERE WHERE ARE YOU?' texts but received nothing...upon having a gut feeling (or just a stomach feeling brought on from too much burek- heavy meat pastry) that Jason would be in one of the more popular bars, we hung around scoping out the scene, looking like two foreign predators seeking out local men (we were looking for our friend I swear). Finally admitting defeat we started back to our trusty hostel, only to be assalted by an unarmed man-like gorilla...WAIT - make that Jason who had seen us across the street on way to said bar! After meeting up with his brother Pat, the foursome (no jokes here jason & co) departed for Mostar, taking in the beautiful bridge that divides an otherwise now peaceful and tourist-friendly town.

Dubrovnik was suppose to be next on our itinerary...except for one thing standing in our way- no buses. Now, normally you would buy a ticket for a bus, have a reserved place and be off but in the balkans a strange thing happens...you still get the ticket and wait for the bus, only to discover the bus is choc-a-block full with people and no you do not have a guranteed place. The solution? To stand, for as long as it takes or else wait for the next bus that evening where yet again the same problem could occur... So off we went- standing, kneeling, bending as far and as long as we could whilst Jason and Pat made best of a bad situation and used the time to chat up any and every girl around us.

Finally Dubrovnik, walled city, cultural splendor and trendy tourist mecca - so much so that prices rival that of most western destinations- and then some.. Being made to translate every second item for the gang grew a tad tiring, considering that pretty much everyone spoke English, but nooo we wanted the possible 'insider discount' for being able to speak the lingo. Ok fair enough, but after the ONE MILLIONITH photo of a bird, tree, rock, castle, our nose, our hair, us in front of every inanimate object, Cas and I made it known the amateur photographer marathon we were enduring from both brothers (it must be a genetic trait) had to end...Following such empty threats and evil laughter Jason finally forgot his camera which eased the burden by half at least- only to miss the best photo moment of all time- Cassie getting shit on by an overhead bird - classic.

One drunken evening we even indulged in another annoying pleasure- piss-poor free-style rapping. Which then generated into an all-night 'lets see how long we can rap for' rap-a-thon. Well it seems approxmately 4 hours - even up to the point our heads were on the pillow and the lights were off we still had a few "i'm so tired i need to sleep but i can't go to bed next to this creep" or "i'm busting to empty my poo, move out of the way or i'll get it on you", it pretty much got worse toilet-wise as a lot of our humor seemed to be.

After Dubrovnik came the little island of Korcula, then lovely Slovenia where we partied in Ljubljana, relaxed beside Lake Bled where we got offered a lift home by a friendly pot-smoking local- politely declining, and parted ways- Cas for London and I to Brussels on my way to Paris.

In typical style I was stupidly robbed upon arrival in Brussels (my second time in 8 months) having my bag, passport, everything gone I had luckily contacted Florence (ex Turtle-camper and local) on my stop over who saved the day by coming to my rescue and doing the only thing possible in such a dire situation: getting me pissed on belgian beer- bless.

After that I hung out in Paris waiting for emergency passports and dealing with boring things like banking, insurance, etc..as well as enjoying the Parisian nightlife courtesy of the lovely Leigh..you know- hanging out with Serbian mafia dudes who claim their uncle is a wanted war crim, watching muggings happen right in front of restaurants (fact: french people always call the fire brigade in these situations - hardly ever the ambulance!) and scored a free car ride to Holland with Maja from Belgrade. Upon arrival we stumbled upon a gay parade in Amsterdam (would explain the 65-year old men in dominatrix costumes) and then hit the red-light district where of course with my special skill for attracting the weird and wonderful, we bumped into the Serbian rowing team on tour of the live sex shows there- great training preparation for their sport indeed.

Caught up with my favourite travelling family - Sheryl and Kyle and their 2.75 kids (one is due in October so is not a proper child as yet) living the life of a bludger in The Hague, catching up with Mieke from my internship program in 2004 and crashing parties just like old times (ok it was just me that was doing the crashing..hehe)..

Suppose to head home in a few days, doing the job application dance ('hire-me hire me') while scheming to start a juice franchise in Paris -none exists and we would make thousands off the American tourists alone! Any backers out there?

Currently in London after spending a week with Cassie and my brother, who lovingly offered a tickey to the giant V-festival in exchange for a clean apartment- sold to the poor backpacker! It was amazing to see everyone from Xavier Rudd, The Feeling, Faithless, Radiohead and Beck (complete with mini-stage puppets mimicking the band) except for Mr. Flatulence in front of me at the Radiohead gig, his supersonic farts could have been used as a crowd clearing device..

Ok off to catch a flight to steamy Bangkok and do some belated shopping (as if i can in London with the crazy pound prices) ..

East Side Stories

So long turtle camp...welcome back, backpack..

None the wiser after spending 6 weeks sleeping on the ground, Cassie, two
turtle campers by the names of Rachel and Stacy (see below right), and myself rented a car with the idea we could save money by sleeping on Kefalonia's lovely, seemingly secluded beaches....only to be rudely awoken as the special guest stars of an all night booming beat box beach party..somehow amidst the finger pointing at 4 huddled girls in sleeping bags sans tent we managed to go back to sleep and realise one day later that we had been the victims of a mosquito massacre..

Although Cassie's acne-like face has returned to normal, we still bear the scars and occasional itches on our arms..

Next island was Ithaca, home of Homer's Odyssey and George, the skirt-wearing, bare-chested Greek-godlike nightcub owner who fueled us with free-drinks all night long, where we danced the night away surrounded only by men (we still suspect this club might of been gay despite their denials) and I was too drunk to realise i had a cigarette burn on my cheek until days later.. another tiny souvineer to add to my bodily scars..

After shipping the turtle girls off to Italy, Cas and I arrived in Corfu (trivial fact: birthplace of Prince Phillip) where we replaced one Rachel with another, Cassie's psych friend and our former travelling companion from North America 2004 (see previous blog entries).. Staying at the infamous 'Pink Palace' where suprisingly 70s porno pink never went out of fashion, the food is gruel and STDs rule..After shooting back ouzo during our 7am cult-like induction we somehow managed to refuse such mandatory activities as the 'booze cruise' where if you go naked you drink for free! Fitting in the required 24 hours of driving, beach-sleeping and swimming we took off to unchartered territory...Albania to see if Sonja would get shot for her Serbian heritage and if it really is, as tourism ads describe, 'as lovely as it seems'..
Right: Lost in translation...suffled how it gush?

The verdict: I'm alive and after visiting the towns of Gijokastra, Saranda, Dhermi and Tirana we can confirm that it is indeed safe and the home of endless beaches, bunkers, piles of litter, goats and the Albanian Kramer Hadji Kotoni our slapstic hotelier and man about town.. Albania must not get too many tourists as deduced by way of small hints such as bus drivers stopping the entire bus while Rachel took photos of the surrounding landscape, strangers inviting us for coffee upon discovering we were Australian and giving us free castle tours... Future travellers be prepared however for some diehard communication.. for once my animated hand signals came in handy during the trip..

Arriving in Macedonia at the convenient time of 3am, I rejoiced in the fact I could communicate with the locals by speaking Serbian, and so proceeded to ask a random guy at the nearest petrol station for a hotel that would be open at this time. After a phone call to his workplace, which luckily for us turned out to be the four-star 'Hotel Diplomat', we were hooked up with a sweet and kindly priced room thanks to the Macedonian incarnation of Chuck Norris/Hotel Diplomat's manager. Next morning we were rested and raring to go and explore the beautiful Lake Ohrid, where yet again it seems every local knows someone with a room, in our case a cross-eyed grandma who charges 3 euro a night - bargain indeed. Surpisingly cheaper than Albania we indulged in some long-repressed shopping urges..before scouring the cliffs for 2 hours looking for Rachel's body after we lost her through a maze of cobbled streets, to find out she had just walked on ahead and left us at the lake's edge thinking the worst and preparing to execute operation 'Rescue Rachel'.

Waiting in Skopje watching back-to-back world-cup soccer, we finally boarded the bus to Belgrade - in anticipation of some home-cooking and well-deserved rest after spending no more than two nights in each town. Right: Hanging out with Maja & co.

It was great to watch the girls mingle with the family as they nodded furiously repeating 'hvala lepo' ('thanks nicely' in Serbian which according to Cassie sounds a lot like Kuala Lumpur) - the only communication they could muster with my non-english speaking fam. Being overfed by family and friends, or more intentially plumped for marriage, we lazed the days away
walking the streets and parks of Belgrade and shown the cafe night-life by our lovely host Maja and her loud-music loving, fast-driving posse. Intent on finding Cassie a nice young Serbian to hook up with (Jelka would be proud) we were all dissapointed to stand in the corner of an outdoor club trying to get drunk and only eyeball the talent, wait- Cassie did get introduced to one boy by a gay guy cutting into the girls bathroom line, unfortunately he was bald as a cueball. Right & Above: Sitting, waiting, wishing in Belgrade.... a traveller's life..

Farewelling Rachel who left us straight for Sarajevo, we arrived in Sekovici to spend time with my dad's sisters in Bosnia, where *suprise suprise* we are being fed every 5 minutes and stared at in the streets (foreigners are not many) and mistaken for Germans..could have something to do with the fact that every second channel is in German, even Sex and the City which we endured for a whole hour today without subtitles before accepting the fact that we couldn't understand anything no matter how animated the scenes..

*I'd like to aknowledge Cassie for her contributions to the content and accuracy of this blog entry.

A day in the life of a volunteer...

This should be the new Archelon website photo to entice more men to camp...thank you Javelin!


You get up for morning survey........


Left: sisters doing it for themselves in boat out to isolated beach where they will spend sleepless night watching turtles nest and then monitor and mark their tracks (see right) in the morning..



You eat at least 6-7 time a day...

Relax by nearby hotel pool for ice-cream and showers...


Then indulge in some camp boozing at bar..





In the kitchen cooking up a storm....

Then waddle on back to your tent on the campsite...



Maybe a day-off here or there helps to revitalise the senses....

Right: Girls on Car

Left: Enjoying the sunset- how freakin' romantic

Camp a go-go

Above: Loggerhead turtle coming up for air from a shift out at turtle-spotting boats...

I love Greece. That's what two wonderous days do to a tired and disgruntled volunteer...after arriving in the Peloponnesus with Jacqueline we hitched most of the way to Olympia with a Yoghurt man on his Yoghurt delivery run. After scoring more freebies, i.e free ice cream and entry into Olympia's Olympic ruins and posing frenetically, we kicked back with traditional greek food and booze- I am talking ouzo, which sent us into a shopping frenzy (note to self: never drink and shop- costly exercise where if lady offers free cheesy pen with 20 euros priced cotton pants you yelp graciously believing you have made the sweetest deal ever...fool)..after geeking out at an internet bar we were taken by suprise as a group of 30 cute Irish boys stormed the bar, curiously we approached them -unable to believe the luck that had been bestowed on us, thinking it was the universe's reward for the man drought of turtle camp. Upon finding out the reason for this group expedition to Greece was due to 'high school trip' we then sat in a river called de-nial - 'maybe this cute one is an assistant teacher?' Yes denial can be cruel- luckily we ran out of there before ouzo could make us believe our own lies..

The next day we ventured out to Patras and off to the Diakofto-Kalavryta famous railway journey amongst the wonderous gorges and mountains, only to be met with the tourist-friendly train timetable at the seaside town of Diakofto- 3 trains only throughout the whole day- and we had a ferry to catch back to Zakynthos that night...eeek...after standing about stressing we were approached by a laid-back local on moped- inviting us to his cafe 200m down the road..."Well we are hungry and we can't think about this mess we are in without food...and booze" seemed to be Javelin's thoughts on the matter as we sat, ordered everything and guzzled the free wine in our guide Christos' cafe...after explaining our dilemma to Mr. Cafe, he offered the ancient wisdom of the Greeks - "Fuck the program". And with that, he left the cafe to his parents, grabbed his best mate, a car and gave us a private tour of the mountains, vinyards and villages of this beautiful region...Being Greek of course he did try the usual sleazey discourse- but it can only last for so long until the fact that they are just normal, nice guys wanting their day to be a bit different- and so it was...even more so when we realised we would miss our ferry connection back and had to stay at his place down the road- not of course without a Sonja-talk: "pretend your a girl, in our position- how do we know you won't try anything?" After meeting their mothers, being given a drool-worthy fresh dinner and getting to know the whole neighbourhood ("hey, look at our foreign trophy wives" - Javelin and I guess-translated from all the Greek being babbled to friends), we stayed, we saw and we got driven back to the port an hour and half away by our gracious hosts..Hey I tried to offer payment only to be met with "Sonja, don't break my balls!" 'Nough said.

Above: Re-connecting with the world via trashy magazines- my lifeline

Now camp has a weary air, this being the last week on turtle camp and all, full of night surveys- where I witnessed my first nesting turtle...travelling around the islands this Sunday with Cassie, Rachel (NZ) and Stacey-pants (Canada) who has had the bad luck of cutting her finger on a blender and needing stiches and getting stung by jellyfish - all in the one week- ow.
Left: Camp leader Emma and I - too early in the morning -with my first turtle tracks spotted.
Right: shave parties were held weekly to uphold some lady hygeine...however have seemed to stop after a matter of weeks...

Greece is the word

Yasas to all - I find myself in the land of supposed ancient wisdom, culture and democracy: delicious, sunny and hairy Greece. Where men over 60 have license to sleaze and toilet paper is dispensed in seperate bins which no amount of practice can undo years of conditioning! It is also rabid with eateries which offload bread and bottled water in a seemingly generous manner, but in reality a manipulative and costly tactic to the customer..

I'm here on the island of Zakynthos (part of the Ionian islands), where every second man is called Yanni or George....My reason? I have joined up with Cassie for a volunteer workcamp with Archelon - the sea turtle protection society of Greece (see cool turtle-shaped island which we monitor).

Staying in a luxurious camping site/olive grove I indulge in such guilty pleasures as drop toilets, free bikes and cold showers - that is when we actually do get water....in the meantime nearby hotel pools provide immediate relief from the unrelenting heat.

Zakynthos has, I'm told, over the years increasingly catered to the chav/bogan British tourist market - destroying a lot of once-splendid beach areas and tackifying Greek culture with pubs promoting such wares as 'British Big Brother night', 'British roast dinners' and 'British trivia' -believe me I have tried but no amount of education could ever prepare me for such questions as 'what is a monkey in British slang? (answer: 500 pounds) or 'what was the soap Emmerdale originally titled?' A shame, so I always make a concerted effort to highlight the fact that I am Australian and a volunteer - which on the whole is treated very well- so well that all volunteers receive a discount at most places here..

Being a 'turtle volunteer' involves many tasks before the actual nesting season begins (which actually started two days before - hoorah!) - PA through slideshows, hotels and on cruise boats; riding with the turtle-spotting boats (read: sitting at the back taking copious notes as drivers break marine park law) and my favourite - beach patrol, where most of the time is spent trying to look nudists directly in the eye whilst other body parts flail in the wind as you move them to the front of the beach (so the turtles can lay there eggs on loose sand at the back).

It is quite the hippy lifestyle-camp, we don't wash, we do yoga and have a broken van and dumpster which mark the entrance to our campsite.. heck even some of the leaders actually live in caves when they aren't in Greece. Locals can now spot an Archelon volunteer from a 200m distance by the greasy sheen of their hair, their poor attempts at Greek and timid gait as they fear being hit by the on-coming traffic which misses each volunteer by mere milimetres each time they walk down the road...

We are loving it really except for one thing...the boy to girl ratio (say 22 girls to 5 boys) - the only other males we get are the locals yelling/tooting/leering at us from their cars. Cassie has reached such desperate measures as stalking cute boys who work in sovineer shops or bars where total interaction amounts to 'how much for this ice-cream?'. Instead we fantasise about future potential volunteers who never actually show up! (however I am told tomorrow is fresh meat day- wait for next update for confirmation..).

Below: Yes that really is a mini bar- floating boat..have to love the genius of the Greeks..

Spring Travelfest 2006

Germany: home of this years’ World Cup, weisswurst sausage but more importantly the residence of two very special assistants of the IUFM – Randy Anne and Sweet Simone..As the girls were departing Colmar with a hefty entourage of friends to help load their stuff, Cassie, El and I tagged along for a ride, with me barely managing to squeeze into their passenger unfriendly euro car complete with Simone and Anne’s jam-packed belongings….5 hours later and finally our German adventures could begin..or which will henceforth be known as ‘Spring Travelfest 2006’...

(Below): Getting down on bartops in Regensberg...


Wasting no time, we picked up a bartender (Uncle Jimmy) in Regensberg, explored the pre-world cup souvineer frenzy in Munich (with bartender still in tow as tourguide), Do-re-mi-ed our poor Simone to cheesy death on the Sound of Music tour in Salzburg, Austria (I easily forget this is Europe and countries are a 2 hour car ride away).. We even managed to fit in an overnight soujourn in Prague, in a little hostel amidst the receptionist’s ‘don’t mind the bitches’ advice of the local prostitutes inhabiting our street in the darker hours…After enjoying the cultural delights of Prague from the old town, Easter markets to Prague’s premier opera performance of Don Giovanni- marionette style complete with puppet sex, we explored the southern German city of Passau, schmoozing our way into chi-chi exclusive clubs (more like begging: "come on I came all the way from Australia- you have to let us in"), as well as getting to know Simone’s family roots in Philipsreut…phew! All these marvellous cities and still the greatest find was the ice-cream label ‘Cassie Schokolade’ Simone brought out from the freezer to an incredulous Cassie… "No way – an ice cream named after me?"

(Above): Gotta love Kafka in Prague

Upon arrival back in Colmar we came down with a severe case of ‘itchy feet’; the only remedy – more travel - this time to Switzerland to visit Cassie’s friends from her sea-turtling work in Greece last year. Annina, cute Swiss-German lives near Zurich in the town of Lenzburg, her nudist pal Paul from Cornwall was also visiting with car so we could explore the nearby cities of Bern and Neuchatel, where they say the purest French is spoken…I was able to scoot off later that week to snowboard with my brother in Chamonix, revisiting Leigh and the ladies of room 313 ‘Chamonix Blanc’…keeping with tradition there was the usual drinking, free drinks from the barkeep, debauchery (in the form of Swedish in-fighting brought on by the lovely Eva who had to hide from all the Swedes in town after an entertaining catfest that ended with tears and beers) and of course snow tragedy – this trip’s casualty- my wrist as it sprained in what shall historically go down as the stupidest fall on record- me coming to a complete stop at the bottom of the mountain about to go for après ski and falling backwards on my wrist as I tried to undo my board. Plus side: I got my first ever cast and was able to continue boarding – hardcore it would be if I was going faster than 2 miles p/h..

Easter Sunday was spent with a room full of Swedes and their delicious national spread of fish, fancy eggs and champers where I discovered randomn fact no.362: - In Norway people wear their wedding rings on their right hand as opposed to the left..irrelevent but interesting..

Next stop: Heidelberg, home of fairytale-like wonder and Hungarian-like Spongebob fan Bence. Most of the assistants banded together for one last outing with the likes of Bence’s gang – one of which was a fully-fledged porn star- for real. We got to know the real guts of H-BURG by attending a student bar – literally a bar run by students. Now there are reasons why they aren’t as popular (and profitable): 1. Drinks are shoddy but so cheap 2. Bartenders tend to all get drunk and then forget to demand money from you highlighting the bar’s profit downfall. So all in all a big thumbs up for all poverty students..

This is my last week in Colmar spent farewelling one and all and going on errand and cleaning frenzies…thank god for the gang or we would’ve been stuck moving furniture out ourselves…see left for evidence..

Next desitination: Holland for a big reunion with my ex-Hague comrades of the tribunal and to celebrate Queen’s day in all its orange splendour…

Four Seasons In One Week

Up in the Vosges mountains just outside the valley of Thann we spent an interesting weekend with Amelie, her French crew, and the assistants - stuffing our faces with raclette and then traversing through deep snow at midnight in search of a mysterious French woodland creature that the French girls insisted we catch…This particular animal, the girls enthusiastically informed us, was a cross between a raccoon and fox and had to be seen to be believed. Clutching my Kronenberg beer for balance (and to assist me in continuing this ludicrous journey), trying not catch frostbite or fall into the snow in the surrounding darkness we made a loop of the valley before being separated into two groups. The boys, we were told, would wait with plastic bags at the bottom of a hill to catch the animal which we would shoo down from the trees above….which all sounded fine except for one thing – catching a harmless animal with a plastic bag! What about animal cruelty, not to mention the possibles rabies we could be infected with if said animal bit us… Cassie, by now quite disturbed, began voicing such concerns - interrogating Amelie of her intentions…upon reaching the top of the hill Amelie revealed that in fact there was no animal – we had made a loop back to the chalet and left the boys to suffer out in the woods- a popular French practical joke it turns out – one which we were too fatigued and frozen to laugh at…

Frenchies beware! If I befriend any of you back home in Australia I will send you out into the uncompromising bushland in search for kangaroo-emu hybrid and leave you to perish among the various deadly creatures that inhabit our vast land!

Left: Me and my Irish boyfriend Shamus

St Patrick’s Day: home of the lean green drinking machines at every pub we frequented in Strasbourg - I was in a mild state of culture shock to witness that every single patron was an English native speaker – aha! So this is where they hide out! But trust Cassie, my fair visitor, after only being in France a few days to actual score a real local to date (last name Lose – enough said)- you could tell he wasn’t a native speaker straight off the bat, as soon as he guessed the capital of Australia might be Perth, and that he had a ‘passion for pheasants’….hmmmm

Our weekend sojourn in Strasbourg was followed with yet another endless attempt to find a good nightclub in the region…it started off well enough when upon entry we were greeted with the wafting aroma of fresh croissants – the French equivalent I guess to our pizza post-booze food binging, but a few metres onward and some tell-tales signs started to warn of us of our impending doom – 1980s casino décor, early-90s gigolo outfits, and finally the oiled up beefcakes in stage cages appropriately attired in g-strings and butt-less chaps – and this wasn’t even a gayclub- just another fine French establishment. But praise the disco ball above, we were saved by a Japanese miracle- the Karaoke room where we screamed for attention with such tunes as tainted love and a head-banging à la Wayne’s World rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody…the staff loved it so much they switched off our mikes half way through which didn’t stop our karaoke brutality we continued acappella singing as if our lives depended on it- one drunken victory over all those celine dion wannabes who dominated the evening….


From ass to class we finally experienced some old-fashioned culture with a visit to the opera house to hear a solo soprano perform classical and French fable pieces against a piano accomopaniment. We also managed to go skiing last week in the valley of Marstein, just outside of St Amarin with one of our accomodating students. We tried out mini skis- a more conventional and fun way to traverse the slopes which I highly recommend if there is not too much fresh powder…on the way home from out magical ski day we quickly devised a costume for the evenings’ Italian-themed party hosted by the German assistants…my idea: togas – Roman style. We showed up the boys dressed as Italian pimps and later partied on down at the local bar – Cassie still in her toga and El and I in the shortest of outfits – we felt the power by numbers to not get accousted or demeaned by the locals (refer to previous shorts entry last year)…

My French friend Anne, whom I visited in Bordeaux, had now come to stay a little earlier than planned since her exams were postponed due to the kerfuffel stemming from the CPE protests around the country, strikes and the like are so common here that nobody really is too surprised. Anyhow, there was the usual touristic route to show her –Basel, Strasbourg and finally the infamous thermal spa –. of Baden-Baden (fittingly translated as 'Bath-Bath' in German).. Anne was more chaste but Cassie and I braved the naked area (my 2nd time – I am becoming a regular nudist now) to indulge in some good sauna time but with a little bit of public embarrassment thrown in for fun..Upon sitting in the nuddy sauna a male staff member started yelling at us in his booming german. Shocked and vulnerable we felt the eyes of the sauna upon us and our nakedness – until finally he asked ‘english’ to which we nodded. Apparently we were not allowed to rest out feet directly on the wooden bench –we needed to place them on our towels or sit on the first ledge – he then proceded to stare at us until we moved to the first ledge- still acutely aware the eyes of the sauna were now upon our derrières as we shuffled to the front…real friendly – we were also scarred by the hoards of over-60s who dominated the place and the ugliest of uglies boys closer to our age- now we understand why clothes were invented and should be made compulsory..or at least for the residents of Baden-Baden…

Sun has finally decided to shine its overdue face on Colmar- and for the first time I really take note of the change in my and everyone’s mood…Kara joins Cassie and me in a trio of shorts and singlet wearing, beer drinking jubilation – we convert our lounge into a makeshift beach- we open the windows to let the suns rays through and position ourselves under each window, listening to loud music, trying to get tanned without leaving my house..finally we venture out for crepes and the usual public stares (colmar + shorts = public isolation) but are too damn happy to care – with a temp of about 23 degrees it really does feel like Spring – for the next two days at least where we take advantage with a road trip to the surrounding villages..

Tonight we say goodbye to the German assistants, who we will visit in Bavaria next week, with a French-themed party we deem appropriate for this final soirée…

Damn the Cham (or bottoms up…and down…and up)

I have been absent and now I return,
From my holidays where there was plenty to learn
From snowboarding in Chamonix to wine tasting in Bordeaux
There were people to see, and places to go

After my little Dr Seuss intro I will proceed into greater detail…but first last month I happened to catch Ben Lee live in Strasbourg in a small little venue- so small that after the concert I walked up and chatted freely with him. Best of all since this little Aussie is an unknown in France the concert was free!

I also got to witness the near blood thirsty violence generated between our two fair American assistants : Nick and Kara who happened to be from the two competing Super Bowl finalists Pittsburgh and Seattle – and like a champion (or just a naive wannabe football-head) I stayed up until 4am trying to decipher the rules of the games and hear what was really being said underneath the superfluous French commentary.

Here I am playing ‘celebrity head’ with the other assistants and failing miserably to guess who I was – first round Mickey Mouse (which I guessed ‘Jesus’ after they told me everyone knew who I was and I was big around the world) and second round Elton John – the best I could do for this was Cliff Richard….oh the shame!

Ok now back to the adventures at hand: my holidays. Within half an hour of arrival in Chamonix, where I visited the lovely Leigh who had me drinking a giant giraffe of beer at the local Canadian bar. Forgetting the high altitude, plus my infamous incapacity to hold my booze well, the next few hours were spent getting well acquainted with the locals…I think I was overdosing on the fact Chamonix’s après ski atmosphere is dominated by internationals, the vast majority of them male– a nice change from the retirement crowd in Colmar..

The next night fared likewise, but with even more of an obnoxiously grand flair, the next morning Leigh’s 4 roommates subtly hinted at my possible alcoholic tendencies, to which she defended my honour with – "she is Australian on holiday"!

I also managed to fit in snowboarding somewhere in between the drinking, which I think helped numbed the pain achieved from being a diligent student- trying to spin on my first day was admittedly setting the bar a little high. Luckily for me it snowed BIG TIME and fresh snow equals no pain when falling and easier runs down the mountain according to Leigh, the ever patient teacher. Not only did I learn the basics of the actual sport, but the fashion (pants low and undies on display), lifestyle (après ski baby, endless Viva la Bam reruns and snowboarding videos) and rocky-style training techniques(climbing the hill instead of taking the lifts, squatting on the toilet, etc. to build up your leg muscles).

Nick (American assistant) and Eleanor came to join us on Valentine’s day, just in time to enjoy the fresh snowfall. On the last day spent skiing, which henceforth shall be known as ‘Suicide Thursday’, Leigh, Nick, her expert snowboarding friend Damy and I ventured to one of the big mountains for a hardcore day. Due to avalanche-clearing delays we were lined up for an hour waiting for the first gondola to the mountain-top. Sitting patiently with mi amigos, I was nearly knocked unconscious when a careless skier DROPPED HIS SKIS ON MY HEAD = lucky for my brain I had on Leigh’s pink helmet (now with added dent)- which seemed to be the only thing on my mind (literally ON my mind) when the skier asked if I was okay. Paralysed by shock I could only reply ‘I…have…helmet’ to him incredulously.

First crisis averted we commenced our multiple descents of green and blue before taking the off-piste challenge to mix things up. I then proceed to be stranded on the edge of a drop and having to unhinge my snowboard and scramble up the hill a little more to avoid falling onto mountain rock; Leigh nearly got knocked by chairlift when we were unable to untangle ourselves from it in time, Nick and I fought ferociously on the chairlift from hell each time we sat together and Damy’s snowboarding huge air jump nearly ended in a crash when Nick proceeded to cross his path mid-jump. After screams of ‘FUCKER’ from Damy, Nick was able to avoid being trampled on….

If this wasn’t enough, unable to find the gang after boarding by myself down the last 200m of the mountain I jumped on a bus and headed for home (the beer we stopped for halfway down the mountain could of contributed to my lack of thought) resulting in leaving the group traversing up the mountain looking for my battered body and thinking the worst, moments away from calling search and rescue.

Well it was memorable at least and the Raclette (yummy French mountain dish of grilled cheese with anything) that night certainly made us forget the troubles and regale the roomies with our death-defying (or death misleading rather) stories..

On my next journey to Bordeaux I spent one night transit in Paris, attending an ex-pat costume party where I caught up with ex and future Hague habitants (Jose and Sara the kiwi respectively), and re-visited Michela’s drunken bongo and DJ playing sessions – belissima!

Ye olde town of Bordeaux, the home of good red and Anne – my French friend from Finland (say that 5 times fast), who took me for degustation in the vineyards, but my favourite time was spent ..well doing nothing but some old fashioned home-style lounging around next to the fire, eating and watching winter-Olympics- a much-needed recouperation period from the week before…

And now I can’t sit back just yet since Cassie, one of my close comrades from Bris Vegas, is coming to stay with/ leach off me for a month, yes I’m sure there will be a truckfull of stories in a few weeks…so much to do so many places to go since time in this snow-filled corner of France is running out…

Snow time like the holidays (part 2)

Ahh new year, new resolutions. I can’t reveal mine out of superstition they might not prevail, but the first week certainly got off on an action-filled start. The first Sunday back, all the assistants got together at our place, which has become like a basecamp for all, to watch ‘La poupee russes’ (Russian dolls) - the sequel to l’auberge espagnol (the Spanish apartment which incidently I watched for the first time in Barcelona – and could spot each landmark and street in the movie). The movie’s raison d’etre was on love and relationships’ or more particularly, the male character’s approach to the relationship - will every woman he goes out with be his smallest Russian doll? How does he know when he has found the smallest Russian doll after all that searching? The deep and meaningful discussion post-film proved more entertaining than the movie itself when everyone had a good love rant that exploded into a battle of gigantic opinionated preportions between Eleanor and Damian (Candaian assistant) who took it to whole new bitter and personal levels. Popcorn anyone?

Last weekend was one of the most eventful, beginning with the arrival of my euro-virgin travellers from Brisbane- Paul (Cassie’s ex Dickfuel’s roommate) and his friend Bridget. In honour of them, the Spanish assistant, Serbian New Year and my general love of Spainish food we threw one of our infamous parties – this time themed in Spanish style. Kara, the American assistant made chilli, over ten litres of cheap Sangria materialised and then just as quickly disappeared and a Spanish themed playlist (dominated by my favourite pop artist du jour Juanes) was put on ipod rotation. We even had some of our French students from the IUFM come and experience the cultural delights of watching Anglophones inebriate themselves into a karaoke-inspired rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.

After sleeping off the hangover the following morning, Paul, Bridget and I walked to the park to indulge in some good ol’ bottle smashing, the recycling of over 50 bottles of booze much to the chagrin of curious onlookers. Suddenly a crowd had formed in the middle of the park which we discovered was in protest against the imminent closure of Colmar’s beloved airport thanks to a pompous mayor. What better way to show my guests the sights of the town then by protest march? So we donned on our masks (of the mayor’s face); Bridget nicked a flag from the ground and joined the hundreds of people as if we had been in the Colmar activist scene for the greater part of our young lives.

Sunday- or should we call ‘we nearly died day’, our first experience of snow shoeing – a bizarre outdoors activity, introduced to us by our newfound Frenchie friends and IUFM students.
The plan was to go for a nice walk in the Vosges Mountains with a picnic and delight in the splendour of a sunny winter’s day. The reality was just so but with a few unexpected delights. Firstly I was lucky enough to be loaned a car by the German assistant to get the group there in the first place, my second time driving on the wrong side of the road and thankfully not my last! Did I mention I had no license with me since my Barcelona stollen-wallet debacle? I actually got the hang of it immediately and did quite well following the French girls, until they led us up the mountain – filled with icy roads which was fine except for the fact NONE OF US had snow tracks on our tyres. We proceeded to watch the Frenchies’ car slide backwards and try and struggle up the small and windy road. After receiving an urgent education into ice driving (rule no.1 always drive in 2nd gear up the hill, rule no 2. keep to the middle of the road where there are less grooves and most importantly rule no 3. drive at a steady and fast speed to not loose momentum and DON’T STOP) combined with sheer determination and our uncanny ability to throw common sense out the window, we safely made it to a rest stop where we decided to value our lives and walk the rest of the way.

Dressed to impress with a borrowed snow jacket two sizes too big resembling a marshmallow, off I went with the gang, the sun shining gloriously behind us. After a couple of hours we arrived to the base of a beautiful valley, next to a frozen lake and the steep mountain curves only to be informed that we would be climbing those very steep sides in order to reach the plateau and walk along the mountain ridge. We eventually did so, however one of the French girls had fallen, aggrivating a previous injury and causing her to slow down on our descent. The trip was already running overtime, so much so that before too long the sun had started to disappear and we had started to officially freak out. It was dark, we weren’t even half way down the mountain, no one had any light, the group leader had lost the way back (so much for her orienteering courses) and the French girl who had fallen started to cry from pain- I told her, in true dictator mode, to save the tears until we were safe in the car and that we had no time to stop – instead we took turns helping to carry her home.

After playing ‘worst-case scenario’ and imagining how we would all survive the night on one bagette and I would protect the group from wolves with a couple of matches, we finally made it back to the car after 7pm. But no, fate had other plans than a simple drive home. When we eventually got to the car, les filles francaises found their battery dead, something to do with hazard lights left on all day – at this point if a gang of pirates had come and held us for ransom I would not have batted an eyelid - nothing more could possibly surprise me. Luckily they waved down a passing car who helped us to push the car and drive it down the mountain and get it started. Egads what a day – we all counted our blessings and had hot chocolate back at one of the Frenchies’ houses, proudly displaying our injuries like war wounds and reaccounting the day’s adventure to anyone who even glanced in our direction.

Snow time like the holidays (part 1)

Hola! Based on a 5-day stint in Barcelona it’s official: I love Spain- excluding the fact of course that half an hour after arrival I had my wallet expertly snatched (didn’t even feel a thing). Bad luck aside, I spent the rest of my time drowning such sorrows away with the cheapest mojitos and tequila shots I have had, exploring street after street of festival-filled Spaniards – even their protests resemble a carnival – loud drumming, human castle building and fire-twirling.

Staying with my French friend Marc I soon came to undertsnad the Spanish mentality, namely why it is so essential to have siesta and then lunch at 3pm and dinner at 10pm – late nights and cheap booze.

Arriving back in Colmar I was soon greeted by 10 Aussies over the Christmas break, offshoots of Harpreet and Yolanda who enjoyed the quaintness of Alsace, the hot wine, the 500 million X-mas markets and made my Christmas feel like home: tonnes of food and lots of noise. We also had a post-Christmas indulgence at Germany’s premier thermal spa – heated to perfection, where we wrinkled up like prunes and floated like Christmas puddings, even venturing into nudist territory for some sauna time –where I nearly ran into Harp’s boyfriend and had to quickly cover myself under a stranger’s towel until embarrassment was safely avoived.

After everyone departed to their respective cities, Yolanda and I had time to undertake such adventures as “three countries in one day”(Germany, Switzerland and France) followed by a spoiled-rotten visit to her adoptive French family’s place in Champagne where I learned the ‘t’ in Moet and Chandon is not in fact silent. New Year was spent recovering at home and watching amateur fireworks tear up the streets.

Bon année tout le monde!

A very quasi-Christmas

‘Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the town every local was donning on their santa hats and pissing vin chaud down….

Houses and especially hotels have been done up to the max resembling the‘ if chirstmas threw up all over them’ look; as one lovely Colmarian so eloquently put it.

Speaking of Christmas throw-up, El and I have declared December the season of party: French party, dance party, birthday party (even if it is pretend since I won’t be celebrating mine here I made up a fake one and even got faux-cards and presents), any excuse really.

Next major event was a Christmas party we held at our place, where all came near and far to ooh at the decorations and stuff their face. Hundreds of bottles of booze later our Christmas wonderland turned Hiroshima site, thank god we were drunk enough to not let it spoil our night!

Above: Me...getting inebriated with the harem..

I have already gotten into the spirit by attending multiple Christmas concerts and hearing traditional Alsacian songs; merry tunes desrcibing the German occupation of the region whose chorus consists of: ‘je suis alasacian’ – (lyrics you cannot get wrong).

Last week ‘Operation rescue Elle’ became a personal misson after my roomate missed the last train and got stuck in a hole of a town so at midnight I marched through the streets like a mad woman trying to endear a shuttle bus-full of french police with my tale and get them to drive me to get her only to be met with shrugs and mild flirtations.. But after doing the old ‘rocks at the window’ (their phone wasn’t working) to the German assistants' house, one of them kindly succumbed to my pressure to rescue Elle and her poor guest she had just picked up from Basel airport.

Europa Park in Germany was another event to behold, a theme park all about Europe and still open in the cold, we rode the space station mir in russialand, the teacup ride in spain, we watched the snowman 4D picture in Germanland and picked up a few sayings that were lame, e.g. “ich bin der weihnachtsmann nich du!” ( I am Santa Claus, not you!).

I leave for Barcelona tommorrow and next week shall return to my door and be met with 7 other Australians whom I will host Christmas for…call my place the ‘home for wayward expats’…adventures (and cold showers) await!

*Joyeux Noel* tout le monde!

Swiss miss and the magic of pre-Christmas capitalism

Centre ville in Colmar has come alive. Whereas previously it would be full of German tourists it is now full of German AND American tourists which means the famous Christmas markets have officially begun. The day the markets opened it started snowing for the first time – talk about precise, and the park outside our apartment has been transformed into an ice-skating winter wonderland- with pine trees and logs imported to give it that genuine après-ski feel.

Finally a reason to step into the increasing cold after weeks of clinging to the heater in the kitchen and stuffing out faces with filthy choclate bought from a recent trip to Switzerland , otherwise known as ‘the land that poverty forgot’. Zurich, our town of choice, is where El and our German friend Simona spent the weekend accosting animals at the zoo, fondling fondue (see left) and exploring overpriced chi-chi nightclubs where topless male dancers take centre stage yelling out “perfect lovers” (?), their bodies oiled up so much you can actually see your reflection as you dance to the doof-doof. The Swiss are strange indeed.

Zurich oozes money, in a classy understated way, so that even the cheap hostel has 40-channels-or-more cable television. I also caught up with my favourite Zurich export next to the Army Knife, Dragana, a former Den Haag intern and ‘save the world crusader’ who showed me the graffiti-lined university hangouts of Zurich to prove it did have edge.

I am slightly traumatised after having come back from the local hairdressers, who actually either in an ingenious or idiotic (I’m still debating) attempt used an electriv razor to cut hair. For a split-second I thought I was going back to baldom circa 1987, however soon realised that this was their supposed efficient method of ‘layering’ hair to give it the ‘edgy look’. What happened to good old-fashioned manual clippers? It is surprisingly okay, even thought without smoothing serum I could pass for a shaggy dog with crazy fur hair.

Besides from such incidents, local Colmarians are growing on me, admin ladies are inviting me back to their homes for dinner because I am from so far away and students asking for explanations of their text as to what ‘chicken’s droppings’ mean which led to a half hour philosophical discussion of the many types and names of poo and when to use which word in what context. This job literally is ‘the shit’.

I have sworn off more rich food and alcohol for the hundredth time following American thanksgiving celebrations were I endured drunken verbal abuse by my fellow assistants (being called a pervert by Bense the Hungarian-German hybrid who thought its definition was something else entirely bordering on a compliment); a ‘what is your brain sex’ quiz, and lashings of foie gras, truffle chocolates (somehow ending up in my jacket pocket the next morning melting all over my lining) and pumpkin pie (not in this order) – truly something to be thankful for… as well as getting back to my old dinkying* ways now that my roommate has the holy grail of transportation here- the bicycle and a Peugeot brand too!

*Dinky [din-kee]: to prop one’s ass on the end of a bike or in some cultures, on the front handlebars. Strangely forbidden in Colmar but continued to be used as efficient and time-saving way to get around town by disrespectful expats.

One EGG-cellent Adventure

A few weeks ago El and I ran into some young, wealthy French pilots – it’s official: life in Colmar just got better. I have to stop myself fantasising about weekend trips in private planes, so to tide me over for now, I suckered the French boys into bringing me back a little momento from their work trip to Egypt- the hookah pipe and some apple tobacco! I was surprised they were still speaking to us after our initial evening out where El and I did our respective countries proud- me smashing a glass from over-gesticulation and El yelling at the bar wench – I blame the pilots for the never-ending supply of kir (a tasty combo of white wine and blackcurrent) which served to heighten our loud, disruptive yet highly entertaining behaviour.

What am I doing in Colmar again? Oh that’s right- supposed ‘work’. I started my job teaching English at a Teacher Training College here (known as the IUFM) which is quite hands-on, from having to explain the Australian education system in great detail, sing ‘incy wincy spider’ to a bunch of late 20 / early 30 year olds to pestering the students to pronounce the letter ‘h’ after endless attempts. I haven’t had much time getting to know Colmar yet, as I have just returned from a stint in London interning at Lonely Planet (scoring free guidebooks and frivolous merchandise like the LP Frisbee and towel along the way); finishing off my honour’s thesis and supporting my brother make his DJ-ing debut (he performed brilliantly especially since the other talent proceeding him were total clueless loafers in comparison).

Staying with the lovely Yolanda I studied hard, drank and spent too much – making for a very traditional visit-Britain experience – spoiled only by one incomparable event, a display of one of worst acts of terror ever experienced in the London Underground post-bombings: an egging at Kings Cross Station. Yes that’s right, I got egged. Not since the Halloween of 1992 have I experienced the smell, fury and ultimate wrath that is the sudden impact of raw eggness. Like Superman, it came from nowhere – silent but deadly. Upon impact I turned in shock but could see no signs of an ‘egger’. After standing around for 5 minutes, frozen, trying to piece together this unexpected turn in events, Yolanda and I approached the ever-helpful police officer 2 metres away from the damage – his only response ‘CCTV’ – the UK’s big brother security network- as evidence of who the perpetrator might be. And then it dawned on Yolanda. As a teacher of down-and-out, kicked out of multiple schools, on crack-cocaine youth, she cops daily abuse – sometimes resulting in targeted pranks on her and other teachers out of class. This particular week’s homework activity involved ‘adopt an egg’, where students were required to take home an egg and monitor it like you would a child. Now, stop me if I’m wrong, but if you hurl your infant across a tube station at someone I don’t really think you would be classified as the most responsible parent. As the egg was actually intended for Yolanda, I felt proud having been a ‘body-guard or body double if you will, and intercepting the egg for the greater good of humanity- or specifically her teaching sanity.

Thank god I’ve returned to my civilised French life here after all the hoo-ha. Yes wonderful civilised France, where if you wear shorts on a sunny day, the townsfolk stare at you like they haven’t seen a pair of legs since the 70s, you get propositioned by 2 out of every 7 men and a few even pose questions as to why you decided to wear shorts when it is not summer - sacre bleu! How DARE you disrupt our strict social dress code which I had no idea existed! You mean I can’t be a proper adult-individual and actually choose what I FEEL like wearing at any given time? It’s like having a hundred Karen’s (my Brisbane fashionista) commenting openly on my wardrobe, only they don’t even dress that well to begin with! It hurts only because my many comebacks I have stored away are unable to be French-i-fied for these cretins- so I can only sneer and consider doing the finger in justification. Maybe a simple ‘parce que je suis australienne’ would suffice.

Colmar-vellous Chronicles - Part One

Bonjour to all, I’ve travelled so far to be situated in an apartment directly above le boudoir (erotic lingerie store).

Life in my new home of Colmar is cute in the ‘gingerbread cottage biscuit and cookies’ type of warm and fuzzy cuteness, it would actually be quite fairytale perfect except for one thing: that it is inhabited with French men. Men who prey on women- any women and especially foreign ones. This particular species of man never fail to practise the National Sport of le dragué (also known as the art of flirting, chasing skirts or in some cases pure sleazemanship). This would be a great thing for a woman fleeing a man-drought ridden city like Bris Vegas if it weren’t for the fact that most of the men are over 40 and look like Gerard Depardieu’s ugly brother (this is saying something). Ok ok I have only been here 5 days and am basing these observations on two run-ins with some enthusiastic over 50 year olds. But I like to draw quick conclusions..quickly!

After doing a dash to the Ikea (I am such an Ikea-ho) for what seems like the annual ‘fill the empty-apartment’ pilgrimage – which I can now do in 4 hours; my roommate El (also referred to as Elton or elm tree by moi) and I scored a trip to a French nightclub outside of Strasbourg by our official tour guide Fred. Interesting fact: Nightclubs in many French cities are positioned on the periphery, far from the city centre for some bizarre reason, which leads to many drink drivers making the trek back home – very dangerous and not really doing the French driving reputation any favours either.

On the way we innocently gawked at the many prostitutes lining the streets in an infamous part of town, we were told by our guide that if you prefer white you turn left and for black go right- a most straightforward and politically incorrect form of supermarket-style sexual convenience. The club itself was a not-too-bad sort of ‘doof-doof’ club, the kind that was really popular in our respective cities 5 years ago but the French version seemed to have stopped evolving in 1997.

Nevertheless we had a good time, drank outrageously-priced and shittily concocted cocktails; and wondered why for the first time in our short stay in France we weren’t getting sleazed on at the most opportunistic moment by any hot-blooded French man.And then it dawned on us. The tight T-shirts and jeans weren’t just Euro-trash get-up, 99 per cent of the men in the club were gay! It seems our guide had the best dragué strategy – to surround himself with inebriated females unable to score action or even attention from any mere male. Fortunately for us we weren’t that inebriated and ended up meeting the remaining 1 per cent of straight French men and made quick friends with our foreign zaniness.

Yesterday I managed to embarrass myself sans alcohol, by indulging in my penchant for flower stealing from the nearby public park (I couldn’t find any flower markets I swear!)…instead of opting for a subtle ‘pick a flower here and there’ during the day amongst the crowds of people, I took El’s advice and waited for evening which in retrospect seemed doomed for failure..Imagine: 1 girl, dressed inconspicuously like a burglar all in black, 1 huge-ass white empty plastic bag and a pair of scissors running out to a park now made visible by the roving spotlights. My mission was clear…unfortunately so was I. So clear that a passer-by stopped in his tracks upon noticing a girl foraging in the bushes. “Mademoiselle..?” he asked puzzled and continued to remark in French to which I replied “oui oui” sheepishly, not understanding a word. I proceeded to make gestures indicating I had dropped a non-existent earring and it was this that I was trying to find in the bushes, I heard him exclaim “c’est bizarre” which at this point I decided it was time to make do with the 4 flowers I had already, and scooted into the dusk like the disgruntled thief that I am..

I have learnt my lesson to not take away an inch of the beauty which French people try hard to maintain, from the way they wrap every little item you purchase like some intimate present- with much pomp and ribbon, heck even the bin-liners come with a red ribbon attached at the bottom to secure the bag when full!

Scuba Son goes diving

I am now an officially certified open water scuba diver and it only took 2 weekends, 2 blocked ears, 4 dives, 1 sea sickness tablet, a pod of dolphins and 2 friends to get there.

Cassie, Leigh and I went out to North Stradbroke Island for our dives on the weekend and had to suffer through 5:30 am starts, cold winds, runny noses and bad bikini lines- haha!

But in the end it was very unretarded and surreal to be swimming alongside stingrays, wobbigong sharks and jellyfish - very cool- especially the board game session the previous night at the backpackers were Cassie and I plotted against the boys next door and sent them threatening letters...so high-school and so fun..

In other news: I think I might have some possible internships lined up with Lonely Planet in London and the Collectif Jeune Cinema in Paris when I finally arrive in France- I hope the cinema one- known as an "experimental" film collective- isn't as porno as everybody says it probably is!

Son blog : the next adventure

Where do the months go?

I am right in the thick of honours-esqe research, part-time job and internship hunting, sanity hunting...

C'est fantastique - I will be a language assistant in Colmar, a small town just outside of Strasbourg in France this coming October...it seems I have kept to my usual record of 6 months for staying in Australia and any other country for that matter...

Recent highlights of time in Oz: skanky adventures (thank you 4-day birthday weekend), car towage episodes, UN dinners (60th anniversary this year), guinea pigging for drug trials (fungal cream? Who would of thought it pays so well!), forming a netball team ('Spotless Assassins' with Karen and girls from her work place- funnily enough called Spotless)...

Looks like this travel blog will actually consist of travel again soon- hurrah!

Estimated departure date for next adventure: early October 2005

Stay tuned…

Berserk in Brizzo

So this doesn't truly consist of purely travel bloggish entries anymore- unless you include short trips to the Sunshine Coast and Tugun (all within an hour and a half from Brisbane) but eh? Who cares!

For all who care: scored a job at the Australian Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies and trying to balance that plus my honours, quite unsuccessfully so far, much of it involving organising a big conference whilst sprinting around like a maniac calling out to friends "let's do lunch sometime" like some inane yuppie.

Trying to over-exert myself in most areas is having some "insaneo" (my word of the month) effects. After some persuasion from Karen I took off to her gym for this body step class- and I must be soo unfit, or maybe it was my low blood pressure (excuses, excuses) but I completely blacked out half way through and had to stop and felt like one of those unfit losers who can't do a class! Especially considering there was this 50 year old overweight gentleman next to me going for it and throwing pity looks my way! I blame the bad mix of Christina Aguilera and Jessica Simpson music to techno beats that sent me in a dizzy spin....anyway I get home later that day and my throat is itchy, eyes are red and swollen for no reason- WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!

Besides from these happenings, I am primarily trying to get research together for my thesis topic which is on the Armenian Genocide (a light and fluffy piece I know) - if anybody knows any morbid people with plentiful knowledge on this issue please email moi!

Salsa-Singa-Safari fever

London town brought out all the finery to meet with my arrival- namely snow-and lots of it. Catching up with Jay-lee (or should I see Jay-lee’s DVD player while Jay had to work the next day) I began to get accustomed to the lazy life until meeting up with Jay at her weekly boat cruise job. Free drinks downed and discarded in the nearby dumpster we were off on a long journey- all the way across the road to what seemed oh too familiar- the infamous “Walkabout” pub- yes that’s right, what better or more ironic place for an Australian visiting London to go but a gimmicky pub devoted to down under. The music matched the atmosphere- loud, obnoxious and seedy- and after having a gazillion “snakebite” drinks I finally started to appreciate the underrated hits of the 1990s. Back across the road (my, my we do travel far) we salsa-ed the slippery boat of “The Latin Club” complete with short and hairy dancing men, ending the night in a cab with another 4 Aussies (good to see Jay mixing it up with foreigners) squabbling with the driver for a reasonable fare home. Hangover-free (mon dieu) I was up-&-at-em ready for Portobello- unfortunately Jay did not take her previous night’s drunken advice (“drink lots & lots of water b4 you go to bed Son”) and was incapacitated for the rest of the day- so I did it alone- luckily she was revived by the evening and made it up by organising a trip to Camden with Kate, Ali and I. Market-ed out with purchases I didn’t require (i.e. a woolly beanie for the 30+ degree heat back in Bris Vegas)- I departed the next morn for Singapore to meet with a friend of Cassie’s whom I didn’t know…at all!

Needless to say my arrival with Singapore was met with little fanfare- so much so that I was worried if this “friend” of Cassie’s would even arrive! Finally I approached a shy-looking guy and prayed it was the mysterious one known as “Teo”. Luckily I was saved from embarrassing myself when he nodded that he was in fact the man himself- we went straight back to his flat where I slept for the next 3 hours- catching up on jetlag and developing a nasty fever. With enough rest to prevent a major collapse- we headed out to Orchard Road, checked out the shops (mainly on my part for the hardcore air conditioning), met his friend for Yum Cha and then went to see the icon of Singapore- the “Merlion”: a half-fish, half-lion statue with a glorious fountain of water pouring out of its mouth, which incidentally in Sing-lish slang refers to someone spewing up- they are referred to as having a “merlion”. Having a mini-collapse/sleep after the 6 hours of non-stop sight-seeing we (ok I) called it a day. The next day I checked out the little areas of Chinatown and Little India before heading out with Teo and his friend in the evening to attend the Singapore Zoo’s Night Safari. The Night Safari is a good idea for 2 reasons:

1. It is the coolest temperatures you can get in Singapore for an outdoor activity
2. You can ride in the open air right next to flocks of flamingos, herds of deer and a couple of giraffes, however since the lights are so low as not to disturb the animals- the whole trip feels like a dream or that you are semi-unconscious and only have hazy vision (and yes I did have both contact lenses in)! However the good news is you are able to get off the tram cart and walk around for a closer look Unfortunately no one was attacked from our cart thingy so excitement was reserved for the creature show- where the screaming Japanese tourists became an entertainment attraction unto themselves.

Back in Bris Vegas and at the end of my glorious trip and reality has struck: no job, no finances and now a thesis to complete- shock! But it is good to be home and catching up with all, planning more adventures and playing host to my first visitor for this year- Mathieu from Paris and now New York (who is visiting for some Colombia University field trip). I shall keep up the web log as events of interest hopefully occur throughout the coming months..

Loch Nessy and the toe nail clippings..

My time in Memory Lane aka Den Haag ended with quite a dramatic spectacle- involving some childish taunts from Jason and I towards his roomate, known that fateful evening as 'Flatulence' or 'Floater' (real name: Flattau), who, in a fit of rage walked out on my last supper..not since the Monopoly game of 1991 have I played witness to such audacious melodramatic behaviour- but at least it kept the conversation over-flowing for the rest of the night!

Shaken, but not stirred, I departed the next day for Scotsville- Edinburgh to be exact. For the first time I had come to the realisation this would be the first city I did not in fact know anybody there- shock! However this realisation became folklore once I got off the bus and immediately befriended two Argentinian backpackers, Ezequiel and Daniela who I hung out with, walked around castle grounds with (entry fee- £9.5 - get real!), split 2 for 1 pub lunches and had 'free' drinks with, quickly becoming convinced after much conversation that South America was my new spiritual home (next trip, next trip!).

The next afternoon I headed for Glasgow- home of Taggert, the infamous headbutting kiss, pub where Oasis got discovered and a great little cheap music & book store called 'Fopp' but most importantly where I was meeting up with a wee lass I met in Finland- Greta the Great- who showed me the quaint delights of her town: the Student Union club, where the beer is cheap and so were the minges getting on with hoards of drunken yobs- ok the 3 drunken yobs brave enough to withstand the horrid DJ set- so we made a quick exit for the local take out for a trad. 'chips and cheese': a fatty-but-great-at-two-in-the-morning treat.

Glasgow seemed a very cosy, friendly and liveable city, less touristy than Edinburgh but also with beautiful greenery and one huge goth-arse university building- a Harry Potter cross with Dracula's castle hybrid.

The following evening was a revelation- a real Scottish pub where the barmen wear kilts, the music is live with an assortment of traditional ditties, and the whisky smooth - as well as the soft drink of choice: IRN-BRU- an orange soda that can get very addictive...

Parting note about Scotland: please people- PLEASE- enough with the toe/fingernail clippings that were discarded everywhere in public places which I sat, on tabletops and benches, truly truly gross!

Leeds.. or should I say home of unfulfilled promises- upon visiting my brother at his new abode, I was promised days filled with horse-riding classes and an afternoon of watching the cheesy soap 'Emmerdale' being filmed, but alas none came through- instead we went to visit the nearby pretty city of York- home of the Vikings' archeological site 'Jorvik'- where you can be part of a (cheesy) time-travel trip to witness the town's past and see how the people lived but most importantly- smell how everything smelled back in those days...hmmmm- I wouldn't be advertising this bit as much as they did to us..top day- except for the afternoon where I became the non-suspecting chaperone or third wheel to my brother's casual-meeting-up-turned-mini-date with a French girl- tres fantastique, non?

Va bene, Va Ben eh?

After a glorious overnight sojourn in a place with 360 degree views, also know as the aiport lounge, I arrived to meet Ben “billy boy” Bravery in the “dream-like visage” (as stated by lonley planet which I sub- consciously quoted during the entire stay much to ben’s annoyance) that is Venezia.

Staying in the famed hostel “Room for Friends” as evidenced by the millions of photos collected from fellow prisoners, I mean visitors to the lovely hostel (okay apartment of a communicative but funnily enough non-english speaking old couple), we endured many questions related to our relationship status such as “Are you copulado?” which I thought referred to us copulating but after frantic dictionary flipping, found out it meant married- we reassured the lady that Ben was like a “fratello” (brother) and there would be no strange noises coming out of the bedroom, except perhaps Ben’s snoring.

Two days were spent dominating the Venice bridges and side streets thanks to the talents of the famed superhero duo of Map boy (Ben) and Sense girl (me)- before embarking for Bologna to stay nearby with my Belgrade friend Maja, who deemed everything in Italy as “nothing special”- but nonetheless showed us the very special sights of Verona and the slippery slopes (okay slippery for me and my lack of ski prowess so after 5 minutes of burshing up, my leg was bruise city and pants ripped to shreds by my tumbles and pretzel positions) of Passo de Cerreto.

Following a bike-riding, Matteo-visiting and jazz-filled time in Bologna (home of the oldest university in the world), Ben then departed to Rome and I to Florence, otherwise known as the Gelati capital of the world, before returing to spend some more days with Maja and her new arrivals, two acquaintances from Belgrade who shall henceforth be known as “Cretin A” and “Cretin B” who delighted all by calling me Kangaroo girl and