Don't mention the Wall!

Berlin! I think I'm in love! I ought to start by mentioning my parents never taught me 'stranger danger' and i am so thankful!

I travelled to Berlin by means of carpooling with strangers...it's called mittfahrt and is big business here, and, along the way, met a middle aged photographer who was about to open a Mexican restaurant in Berlin while married to a Bochumer. Not only did this kind fellow keep me entertained the whole way by discussing methods and means of photography and commenting on my shots, when we reached our drop off point in Berlin in the pouring rain and close to freezing temperatures he practically held my hand and guided me through the city's underground, ensuring i knew EXACTLY where i was going and double and triple checking to see if i knew where i was to go when i get off the train. Once i disembarked i never saw our old pal Adan again but his help and generosity was the start of a magical time in the divided metropolis!

I head to a tiny kiosk to pick up keys to someone's apartment who i have never met before. The guy behind the counter looks me up and down but is satisfied that my backpack and beaming smile look like they belong to a 'carol' and hands me the keys in an envelope. The envelope has my name and a welcome note printed in neat little letters and my heart goes all warm already. I ascend slightly delapidated stairs through a graffitied and underlit stairwell not knowing what to expect...i have my sister on the phone the entire time talking me through finding the place as she, too, has crashed on her now husband's school mate's couch. I find the unnamed door...no one in germany really uses numbers but, rather, their names beside the door for the the postie...and open the door into a caramel lit, 1930's deco apartment which i instantly fall for! There is a vase of fresh-cut yellow flowers on the table and clean towels on my made bed. I suddenly am overcome with traveller's guilt. I come to crash and seek city insights and have nothing to offer in return...eek!! So 4pm finds me slopping through the rain trying to find Australian wine and trying to compose a relatively easy meal idea to show my gratitude..(keeping in mind Poles express their love by means of food and the rule is the quality of food is directly proportional to the magnitude of affection) i found wine at Aldi...but then got home...opened it and had to venture out in the rain again...and again when i realised i forgot the canned tomatos....and again for phone credit. So, finally, wet, red faced and giggling i start to prepare what i hope is going to be the best fuck-off spag bol anyone has ever tasted...i was sure it would be after my trip to Bologna...the key is salt! Ha ha! What a wank! Anyway...i am disappointed to find out there is some trick to turning on the gas burners and compose a half cut message to my host asking him to reveal the secret. With the instructions sounding too complicated i decide to wait patiently until he returns from a rough day's work to help out this imbecile who has taken hold of his kitchen. Anyway...upon his return i stand like a fool laughing and trying to cover my shame at failing to follow instructions while he shows me how to work that cooking thing. Meal done and dusted my eyelids are heavy and he suggests heading out. Now, one of the few pieces of advice i was given about this guy was 'if he invites you to go out...GO' being a jazz muso in one of the coolest cities in the world is a big plus! We head to so many bars, tucked away inside apartments blocks, nestled in courtyards, pitch black....i cannot recall any of them in complete detail. Nor do i have any idea what time we returned home...all i remember is my brain fading to black as i lay on the polished floor boards of the warm flat listening to Nina Simone croon on the vinyl. The hangover i do remember...not the film...the real one. But my far too accommodating host, let'S call him Andreas...for that is his name... took me on a walking tour of Berlin to clear my head. Along the river Spree, past fragments of the old wall, through the Tiergarten, which, during the war was used as a huge farming field to grow potatoes and other earthy euro gemüse when times were tough, and through the Brandenburg Tor into East Germany. With evening and the temperature descending it was time to warm the heart and soul with a visit to one of the many Weinachtmarkt's in Berlin! In a twist of fate fellow Aussies Andrew and Stephen were in town and joined us for grünkohl (mushy green cabbage with sausages and vinegar..amazing!) and a steaming Glühwein. With the city buzzing around us and steam rising with our words life was grand. With bellies burning and feet itching it was time to explore the city's famed underground nightlife, with our musician tour guide leading teh pack.

All i know about where we went next is this...semi-legal. Someone's cellar. in a ramlbing courtyard in a quiet deserted street. Crawling over rubble and bricks, down rickety steps and suddenly you are shoulder to shoulder with Berlin's true underground dwellers. Experimental band; 10 handy cams set up playing footage of the lead singer singing/narrating from a broom closet behind the stage and the entire facade of the 'stage' draped in canvas on which was being projected interpretive sketches which were being drawn by a beanie wearing left hander sitting on a stool with a lamp beside me up the back. Amazing! The night follows the lead of many with a crazy hazy hue of beer cigarette smoke and vinyl jazz and finds me wake up the next morning a full hour after my train to Krakow has left Berlin. Just my luck to get an extra day in this crazy melting pot of...everything!!!...no really...i really was lucky.

Leaving Berlin was hard. Even harder though was my ten hour train trip to Krakow...

The trip that keeps Dublin and Dublin in saize!

UK take 2. With the 90 day limit of my Schengen visa drawing ever closer it was time to bail on the union of nations which have decided to abolish border control and head to the land where they are above all such nonsense....England!!

Now, as I had been invited to spend Thanksgiving with some nuuuuuuu members, it was neccessary to bring a gift which would satisfy rain-sodden countryside dwellers. Gingerbread! Just my luck that a Lebkuchen Schmidt outlet had opened up in Bochum for the Christmas markets! Goodie goodie goodie (back track to photos of gingerbread porn in München for Lebkuchen Schmidt goods). I bought the biggest hamper i could possibly fit in carry on and carried it proudly home. Coming through security at Düsseldorf, however, i wasn't as proud any longer. I was the only person to be going through security as it was early morning. My bag was stopped and 6 hard-looking security personnel gathered around the computer screen to inspect the hazardous material i was attempting to smuggle. All i caught was a smattering of rough sounding German, with me thinking 'what is happening to you from behind?', before they broke out in a chorus of 'Ah, Lebkuchen Schmidt!' as they passed the hermetically sealed box amongst themselves before finally letting it throughh. Phew! I thought i was going to lose my precious!
With that drama over it was time to board the good ol' Bombardier Q400 LEGO plane to London!

Met, once again, by my partner in crime, we hit the road from Stansted heading north to the land of rain, sheep and rocky outcrops across which one imagines the unhinged King Lear crossing in foul weather...WALES!!! After hours on the grey tar of the M1, and several pee/gingerbread latte/chocolate treaties stops we finally hit countryside which made my pudgy face beam! Despite it only being half past three in the afternoon, dusk was already descending and the stillness of the surrounding woods was eerie. Real woods, the kind with a thick bed of leaves and trees so dense Little Red Riding Hood would be a mere scarlet flash! Turning off the paved road found us crawling up a muddy gravel path amidst stonewalled paddocks filled with fat sheep and flouro green grass; heading towards a stone farmhouse, we were ushered through gates by wellington-clad Chris, breathing steam and eager to get us in front of the fire. Thrusting the smuggled Lebkuchen into our lovely hosts, Penny and Chris' hands i didn't realise until a couple of days later that neither can really enjoy the treaties as one is a coeliac and the other can't eat chocolate! In your face gift giving!


Day 2 in the Welsh highlands was taken up searching for pie and laughing at Welsh signs as we travelled the scenic route to Beddgelert (prounounced Beth Gellet) through swooping valleys, along winding main streets of scattered towns, where the largest building was the local inn and the main grocery store backed on to a babbling brook, before sitting down to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. The whole shebang. Turkey, Cranberry sauce, Roast Potatoes, Pumpkin pie, Pecan pie, grapes, cheeses and all cooked on a coal fired stove, dubbed AGA, circa 1929. ( which also happens to be the source of heat for the hot water system, brilliant!) It took well over 14 hrs to sleep off the food hangover and by the time we regained consciousness it was already time to gather our belongings and board the ferry from Holyhead, in the north west corner of Wales to the Port of Dublin! But not ferry in the ordinary sense, this is like Brisbane's City Cat on mega steroids, with duty-free shops, bars and a currency exchange bureau, mental! Following a pleasant journey, sipping wine and stuffing smoked salmon and olives down my throat as fast i could, we arrived in Dublin and this is where trouble starts. Of all the passengers on board, it was me and my terrorismus face they bothered to stop and inspect my passport. An entire boat load of jerks with their maroon UK passports were herded through and yet, here am i, still being scrutinized and having an entire page of my passport defaced for a 7 day visa! Wassat ma love?? Mental. So we miss the ONLY bus into town but think, hey, it's cool, we'll just cab it. haha. Fat chance! Little did we know that our dinghy, industrial estate looking port was competing with Beyonce at the O2 arena AND a rugby match. Shiiiiiit...so fast forward fifty min, find us sheltering from pouring rain in near pith-black darkness, me befriending the vending machine (sweets are ridiculously cheap in the UK, about a third of the mainland prices!), we finally hijack a cab and head in to town. Thinking we would easily find a room in a central Dublin hotel on this dreary Saturday night we rocket along towards the centre of town. Calling ahead, however we discovered that our hotel of choice was fully booked. Ok. No sweat. Any recommendations? 2nd one is full to the brim too...eek...this is where the amazing generosity and likeability of the Irish becomes apparent. The cabbie suggests a hotel which might have space but is a bit out of town, calls call-connect on his own phone, gets connected to the hotel, asks for a room for us and when told they, too, are at full capacity asks for any further suggestions and calls the only hotel in town with any rooms available and finds us space!! So it is to this cabbie that we owe the fact we had a roof over our heads for the night!! So exhausted from this ordeal we decide to stay in and giggle at Irish television. This also happened to be the night that my nephew, Oscar, arrived which brought on a fit of squealing so extreme that i was politely requested to tone it down for fear of it being miscontrued for rape! My bad!

Sunday found us in much better spirits, perhaps all the Irish blessings were seeping through our skin, but nursing a severe bacon craving ( as we had forgotten dinner in the haze which had replaced the previous evening). We relocated to our hotel of choice in the centre of town and were recommended a little breakfast nook around the corner to satisfy our bacon urges. Oh wow! If i could bottle and sell the feeling of those first gulps of bacon sliding down my throat...the scrambled eggs wobbling on my fork and the way the pancakes soaked up that maple syrup i would be a millionaire!! Following our mammoth breakfast (which was ocnsumed in a dangerously short period of time) it was time to visit Dublin's #1 tourist attraction...the Guinness brewery! The Guinness didn't taste nearly as bad as i had remebered from my Melbourne Irish pub crawls and sitting in the bar constructed at the highest point of the brewery and, coincidently, the highest point in Dublin tourists are permitted to go, life felt oddly peaceful. The 360 deg view of the landscape was gritty and monotonous yet strangely endearing. We sat gazing absent mindedly across the factory roofs and into the fields of Dublin county with a pint in hand, i felt so content! And as if my evening could get an better....dinner!! We found the most authentic looking restaurant in Temple Bar and dove in from the cold. After a hearty mum-cooked meal of Irish beef and (of course) Guinness stew it was time for dessert. Now, i could cry recalling this moment...we were handed the dessert menu and only managed to get a quarter of teh way down the list when our eyes were caught by Banoffee pie. Wassat ma love? What? Carol...you have never eaten Banoffee pie? Treaties...and no dummy...the name is not Indian...it literally is a mish mash of the two ingredients...banana and toffee in a shortbread pie crust! It was heaven! I was silenced by the sticky, mushy goodness, cheeks puffed out due to my oversized mouthfuls. Wow wow wow!

Thinking our evening had been topped by banoffee we started to waddle home only to be sidetracked by a phenomenal jazz trio playing in a nearby shop front bar! More wine...live jazz...sugar coma...I heart Dublin!

But all good things come to an end and it was time to farewell our old Irish neighbours, but not before another killer breakfast to tide us over, and it was back on the boat and back to Wales.

With my Welsh adventures over it was back to East London (is a vampire) to drown my sorrows of my rapidly concluding European holiday. So i hit the books. Well, bookstores. Charing Cross road is a bookworm's paper dream! Foyles, amazing, Borders...well it was closing down. I frolicked up and down, from Tottenham Court Road, up to the three story Paperchase flagship store at Goodge Stret, back down Charing Cross to Trafalgar Square, past old Scotland Yard ( which was the location for the visitor's entrance of the ministry of magic in HP5 fyi) all the way to Westminster and to my old pal, Big Ben! All this wandering had given me a killer appetite, however, so it was time to search for a suitable place for pie. An underlit, vine covered bar in a side street, surounded by overpriced vintage stores street thai food stalls was where i found my drug. A giant steak and ale pie, with chips, peas and GRAVY!!! Washed down with an Australian red even the carols cd wasn't bothering me!!

Well Friday came and Friday went, with Carol's memory and diginty spent. I dimly recall trying to out-promote the promoter of the bar my cousin was playing at and having a 50 something lady cry on my shoulder as she walked past. The rest of Friday does not exist. Saturday's flight, however, does. 'Randomly' stopped at security, questioned and drug swabbed...ok so it was morning and i was wearing sunnies and i may have been oozing alcohol out of my pores and have suspiscious travel movements...let me live!

London Calling

So in between Amsterdam, regaining total bodily control and now i managed to lose my phone at a German fußball match, gain a skinhead, befriend Bochum's homeless and surface tour London.

Let's start at the start. Freiburg Vs Bochum, in Bochum. I, with that stupid traveller smile, agreed to don a Freiburg scarf and travel into town, stopping to meet friends and stand around drinking beer at the station, before heading off to Bochum's main stadium to experience a real piece of Germania! Let me just explain how this works. At home, you support Melbourne, your stupid cousin Collingwood and your mates Hawthorn. It's cool if you all go to a Melbourne Collingwood match together, drink a few beers, shout a few incoherent insults at both sides, pat eachother at the end and go home. That is not how it goes here. The fans of each side are separated by tall metal fences. Security guards pat you down as you enter the stadium one at a time and gruff looking policemen patrol the entire area. But once inside the stadium the air relaxes and you are among friends! Our tiny red and black Freiberg corner surrounded entirely by a swarm of roaring blue and white. About 6 or so beers later, a lot of shouting in english (and polish by that stage) i began to notice the German's love for unified hand movements. This worried me. All i was thinking was war, war, war, war...these are an easily arounsed people!!! A few dodgy umpiring desicions later and Freiberg walked away victorious. Never have i seen such elation. I was dubbed the good luck charm and was bought for a repeat event in Dortmund in December. Hours of crawling through Bochum's Bermuda Triangle...no it is really called that...drinking god knows what i found myself in deep philosophical discussion with a kid that looked like he was plucked straight out of This is England. I'm talking shaved blonde hair, braces, white t shirt and army jacket. If i had been sober i would have been terrified! Many hours later, stuffing my face with Mc D's i noticed i had a certain lack of phone...left my brother-in-law sitting on the pavement outside, draping his Freiburg scarf around his new homeless friend and searched in vain. Fail. Ah well...the polish say...one pays for stupidity!!

Anyway...longest introduction ever! London! Spur of the moment desicion, cousin was free, cheap AirBerlin flight done. Now i am not normally one to fear flying, i relish it...You're in a chair IN THE SKY!!! but for the first time something squeezed my insides when i saw what would be taking me over a sea and into another country. Picture a paper airplane, add some lego propellors, put a lick of paint on and you have a rough image of my international flight. No fear, got there in one piece and thrilled at the prospect of seeing English signs and hearing brit accents again. Disappointment at point 1. More migrants than Melbourne and even less English accents than home.

London itself felt like home, although Melbourne is like the smaller twin, the one that came out second when the parents were not even expecting twins. It gets the older, stronger, sportier brother's hand-me-downs. He looks the same but is skinnier and is not as popular with the girls at school because he likes playing chess. Again...distractions!

The amazing grey weather was not at all condusive to intensive sight seeing so i indulged in what i have dubbed surface tourism. I took photos of the important things but found excuses not to go in...'oh, what, Remeberance Day..means i can't spend the day in Westminster Abbey' or '4:30 and it's already dark, that means i can't do the tower either' but it was far too easy to dive into some underlit cavern of a bar and stare somberely at the football match on screen. I did battle ridiculous amounts of water pouring unrelentlessly from the sky to walk Southbank and see Big Ben and the Eye. I did try. No. I succeeded. I concluded my Bard experience with a tour of the Globe and its adjoining museum which rocked my nerdy literature loving world. But i still have time to try again right??

Amshter Damn girl! Sexy b%$*§!

Yes, in Germany that song is still being plugged as a wicked cool €5 ringtone!

This post will be quite short as, as it is, i am scratching my head as to recall the exact chronology and contents of the trip...

Anyway...the Netherlands! With Amsterdam a mere 3hr train trip from Bochum it would be criminal to miss this city and all its decriminalised criminality! Yee! The train system in Germany is so über fantastische, they have posters on the platform depicting colour-coded numbered carriages; first and second classes and most importantly, the restaurant cart, and information on exactly which section of the platform each carriage will stop, unlike Poland, whereby the tor, of which there are normally around 5 on a platform of around 200m in length, is announced approximately 30 sec prior to a train pulling in to the station. So one has about 15 sec to rush madly to their designated carriage, normally dodging a wave of people bolting in the opposite direction and irritated, screaming conductors, with oversized bag swaying the spine in a most precarious manner all because there is no poster!

I have been sidetracked!! Back to the trip. Arriving to the most ornate station i have seen yet, Centraal station, (they write funny and speak even funnier but i will return to that!) i was met by a most handsome chaperone who was to accompany me through Amsterdam's red light terrors, not a place you want to be alone and sober!

The time we did spend in a total state of awareness we decided to sightsee. We battled through the grey circling watery mist aand knee-deep puddles to get some culture in us! A tre touristy canal boat trip to the Rijksmuseum, Veneers, Rembrandts, Night Watch(es)..no really..plastic watches in the gift shop with Rembrandt's Night Watch on them! Get off your high horse...it IS funny!



The shopping is a strange experience as everyone speaks near perfect english and you forget where you are. You start to go all arrogant white at-home shopper on their ass and tisk impatiently when they try and upsell when you should really be standing gawking in amazement that thay have words such as 'gel-insole support' in their vocabulary! Labels are hilarious though. I could not stop laughing at the ridiculous sounding words!! For instance our museum tickets said 'voorfdekoop' or something equally humourous, implying we had prepurchased the tickets form the hotel! And i couldn't stifle my giggles when the amazingly smart hotel attendant approached us and asked us if we required anything more from the 'boo fett' or when he was looking for a 'shpoon' for someone....mean...but hilarious!

The red light district is a bizarre experience. The majority of our wanderings saw me gaping, mouth wide at half naked flouro bikini bottom clad women posing seductively in their own shop windows, the spell broken only when the occasional lady of all hours was seen scratching her ankle and spilling ash from the cigarette dangling from her mouth while slumped on a pvc chair on her break.

After having sampled from the cultural milkshake which is Amsterdam's day time, it was time to leave the comfort of the crispy white sheets and minibar, and wander through the pot paraphernalia and stoner food to find somewhere for afternoon coffee and cake.

Law and Order was ever so frightful afterwards.

Aaah Motherland!

Flight out of Fuimicino Rome. 25 deg. Sunshine. Left my jumper in a cab. Not too fussed as life is pretty, pretty, pretty good.

Flying shaky Hungarian airline, Wizz Air, to Warsaw. Begin our descent while captain reports a balmy 5 deg outside. Wait...WHAT?!! Here i am breathing steam, jumper absent, jacket deep in checked-in bag. Hmmm...welcome home!

I fare evade on the bus into town as i only have notes and the ticket machine requires the EXACT change...not a grosz more as you will not get change and perhaps the ticket will come perhaps it won't...ahh that's Poland! So here i am, shaking like a leaf, not only for the freezing air being blown into the bus every time we stop but in the fear that at any moment an iron boot clad ticket inspector will board, drag me off the bus by the hair for not having a ticket and then run off with my shoes. Got to the main station relatively unscathed, karma was on my side as i picked up a lay dee's dainty glove when the bus jolted to a stop after the driver decided that he should in fact stop when the light had changed to red, and it was time to use Polish for more than bitching about someone's ghastly fashion for the first time in my life ( although more often than not the one with ghastly fashion understands what you are saying as they are of Polish descent). Note to self, Warsaw station is a weird and slightly terrifying place at night. Although one can procure fresh smallgoods with surprising ease! Heading to Krakow, peering with nose pressed against the window staring at what my Australian brain was telling me was sand, it suddenly dawned on me that it was, in fact, snow which blanketed the forest floor. It was THAT cold. Eeek! Arriving in Krakow saw four of my cousins in formation waving frantically at the train before crushing my bones with hugs and love!!! Here is where i learn how 'hardcore' (said with a strong Polish accent it is mildly hilarious) my cousins are. Two take my bags, four talk at once and suddenly i find myself in an dimly lit, underground bar with beer in my hand. Hi! So I'm one of you're six uncles and you just missed our concert!...Where's your brother and why didn't he come? More beer? 1am rolls around and the day's excitement is tearing at my bones. One cousin takes me home, 3 stay behind. One cousin is unscathed, 3 return bruised, bleeding and one minus his specs! This is Polska! Hard core!


Life calmed down relatively quickly in the following days, if you ignore the litres of Vodka consumed, the late night nation sized pizzas and more bars visited in a week than in my entire drinking life back home. But a trip to Czestochowa to explore my mother's birthplace and meet more family was bound to mellow things out a little. Wrong. Take one phenomenal saxophone playing cousin in a folk/rock/metal band playing in the philharmonic hall; a gypsy-violin playing uncle and a troupe of around ten drunk Poles and trouble ensues. I vaguely remember something about seeing a Jamaican reggae act at yet another underground hovel, obscenely cheap beer and dancing to the wee hours of the morning in the house that my siblings were all born in. Just a regular Friday night apparently. I was due to return to Warsaw on the Saturday but was easily roped into attending an impreza in Czestochowa so stayed on to play hard with the cousins. Stumbling home through the forest at 5am, which was actually 6am with the end of daylight savings, nedless to say the next day was a write-off. Thankfully auntie Iza saved us with a ridiculous Christmas style breakfast with cheeses, hams, smoked fish and creamy salads so i was once again ready to tackle life on the road!

My return to Warsaw, when viewed in retrospect was a food stop. I stayed only long enough to enjoy my auntie Marilla's traditional barley soup and cheese filled, butter smothered, Russian style Pierogi. Of course the day was broken up with Polish chocolates, (Ptasie Mleczko), cheese platters, crusty brown bread and thick slices of smoked hams but tourism was off the menu!


The last of my time in Pooland was spent in Krakow, once again crawling the underworld beer in hand and hiding from the little daylight that was. In the search of tacky souvenirs, Lukasz pushed me onto the traditional form of transport in Krakow, one of the 30+ yr old blue trams to head into the old town. Laughing merrily in my silly way i suddenly notice smoke pouring from beneath the tram. I'm gazing horrified out the window, some others glance over but aren't too bothered by the fact that something is ON FIRE! We carry on as normal for a few stops but finally comes the point at which the billowing black cloud prevents our onward journey and the driver, obvjously annoyed by the inconvenience which has occurred on his shift, irrately informs us we need to disembark. All too gladly i fly off the tram, my cousin laughing that 'this is just what happens in Poland'. My final night in the magestic city of Krakow started with a meltdown when i realised my flight left not from Krakow airport but from Katowice, merely 2hrs away!! never fear. I made the 6am flight by drinking and dancing the night away before boarding the minibus to the airport, all in tears, perhaps from the overwhelming pain of being torn apart again or from the tiredness gnawing at our flesh. Either way, i made the flight, slept at the airport and fell into my seat on the plane, mouth open and snoring and finally arrived in time to wish my ever expanding sister a very happy flipping birthday!!!

When in Rome

Uh, Ron, that saying doesn't really apply here. Well, actually it kinda does. Rome. A lifetime would not be enough! But i will attempt to convey the sheer amazement which every single day brought on my Roman Holiday...not the film fool, my actual holiday!!

Day 1 in Rome...post sweaty arrival at Termini and an even sweatier bus ride to some obscure monument (which was to be a point of reference in finding one of the most elusive hostels in history), engtalian directions to said elusive hostel and finally arrival at hostel it was time to sight see. And see the sights we did. **Refer to previous post for wicked explanation of former death centre/amusement park.

Next came the Monumento Vittorio Emanuele II, a grandiose white marble beast, honouring the first king of a united Italy, which was dazzling when lit by the late afternoon sunshine.

Such a sight could only be topped by something delicious to put into my grumbling belly and it was henceforth we decided to venture to the Trevi Fountain in search of Gelato. And wow! I would give my left pinky to go back now. I mean...the left pinky is really kind of useless, no? Argh...i digress. Winding through narrow cobble stoned lanes, dodging scooters, shiny cars ( which i swear must have been enchanted; for their ability to be in such tiny lanes defied all logic...bus in Harry Potter 3 anyone??) and imigrants selling 'genuine' Dolce and Gabana (hello?) handbags, strategically laid out on blankets which could easily be swept up as the sellers flee from the Carabinieri, we found the place were wishes are made and our Gelato wishes were granted. The Romans have an uncanny ability to illumiate fountains in a way which gives a 5star hotel pool advertisement hue to the water and a most ominous presence to the crowning sculptural decoration. Sitting in a post-gelato sugar coma and throwing pennies over our shoulders into the blue abyss (the first to ensure your return to Rome, the second for a personal wish) i was horrified but simultaneously amazed at a roaming gypsy's ingenuity. Along comes beardy with an extendable rod with a magnet at the end picking out pennies from the fountain!!! I was so amazed by his device i failed to realise he was taking my wishes!! Never fear...the 2nd time i threw in so far he would require a life vest to go fishing for them!!! In your face gypolata!!

In an vain effort to walk off the gelato we climbed an excessively steep hill to watch the sunset over Piazza del Popolo, in the centre of which sits an Obelix pilfered from Egypt thousands of years ago!! At this point ´the lunch time pasta high had wavered and it was nearing the time to wind the backstreets of Rome back to our nun fortress of a hostel to prepare for the coming day of bliss!



Having explored a munite corner of the east bank of the Tevere, the following day was devoted to visiting the most religiously concentrated quarter in existence. The Vatican city.

An independent state with its own currency and police force. Brimming with devout Catholic pilgrims, religiously apathetic youngsters and vestment clad priests, this is an unmissable experience. The queues, the security, the strict dress code; when one finally enters the heart quickens at the opulence. Every corner of the Basilica San Pietro (burial site of one of Jesus# 12 apostles; Peter) is dripping in gold and religous art. History's popes are entombed within and for those Dan Brown fans out there, the altar which Ewan McGregor once stands beside in Angels and Demons, a four pillared obscure looking thing (baldacchino), is one piece of Bronze and was made, in part, by Michelangelo himself. TRIVIA!!! From the basilica a 3km queue around the walls of the Vatican city lead us to the Sistine Chapel and adjoining museum, where centuries of obscenely lavish treasures were gathered and stored by consecutive popes. An entire menagerie of carved marble animals in the first room is merely the beginning of a most fascinating and simultaneously frightful journey through the overt riches of the Catholic church. Beware of this journey though, as all individuality is sucked form you and the crowd moves as one. A bleating, photo taking herd being shepherded through kilometres of corridors, where every square inch of wall and ceiling is masterfully adorned by works of Michelangelo and his artistic counterparts of the day, including hundreds of square metres of Raphael's tapestries. It is a strange feeling when one finally descends the narrow stone steps into the silent hall of the Sistine Chapel, (the site of Papal Conclaves although more reknowned for being the home of Michelangelo's work 'Creation', whereby God's hand is giving Adam life). I could have spent days gazing, jaw dropped at the wonder which covered every space of ceiling and wall in the Chapel. I won't try and be witty here as it would be too disrespectful to the years of mastery which went into creating such a space.

On the eve of my planned departure it was time to let our hair down. Wine is cheaper than water and restaurants serve pasta well after midnight so we were set for a blast! The night saw us in the tre cosy Campo dei Fiori eating pasta and interrogating locals as to the reason behind uneven coupling ( whereby a fairly attractive male is seen with a ghastly female mate) and the rates of adultery. Results: Italian men will almost definately stray and only date ugly girls as prety girls won't mother them as well. Love it! But never fear, not all males in Italy are twats. The tourists are ok!

Here is the fun part...I had everything booked for Prague and was to fly out of Rome the following day. Didn't happen. Unable to tear myself away from what Rome had to offer i never got on the flight. I never saw the castles or the cheap beer, instead i romed hahah roamed the Pantheon and the Piazza Venezia, unable to remove the giant smile plastered fast to my pink face. I wandered the Roman Forum and tiny backstreets, so pleased with myself and utterly titillated at the thought of the extraordinary people i had met and sights i had seen.

The sky was a most vivid blue, the crumbling ruins blindingly white, the parks painfully green, life was marvellous!! The only thing that dragged me from my fantastical world of wine, british accents and history was the thought of meeting my family for the first time in Poland. Now i know why i m the way i am...

Oh Mein Gott!

Wow! I know not where to start so the beginning is a good place.

The 8hr train trip to Venice on which i witnessed an intercultural slaying match over a seat was the prelude to Italian hospitality! I arrived in Venice, the city of dreams, alone, slightly terrified and sweating like an animal in the sweltering 28deg heat!! I boarded the vapporetto and sailed away into the late afternoon air towards my hostel. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry! I was doing it. I was there! All by myself, seeing things i had always wanted to see and feeling the cold air whip through my hair as we sailed along the Canal Grande, houses leaning slightly, aged and damp; front doors leading to open water, boats following no apparent set of rules but, somehow, avoiding collisions, i gripped the barrier on the boat for fear that i was about to float away on the weightlessness of my own emotions!!

Arriving in the hostel saw me man up and approach a girl who was also travelling alone and through whom i met such a super fantastic girl it makes me sad that i won't be there to tour the rest of Europe with her!! Enough of my sop! After a day of exploring Venice both by boat and on foot, through tiny dark alleyways where old men sat on lone chairs pondering life's existence, it was time for dinner and wine! There is no way i could possibly explain the intensity of all the flavours! They put salt in their food!! You remember that white stuff that they used to put in food in Australia when you were 2? It was around the same time that Maggi noodles still had a taste...the tomatoes are not floury but sweet and slightly sour. The olives glistening and still bearing a pit! Washed down with some marvellous local white wine my gastronomique journey was set to continue with a canal side picnic of wine, cheeses, chocolate and late night cards. Oh i am pining over the memory already! The next day saw me convince Amelie that a day in Verona with me is worth far more than a day alone in Venice...wow wow wow wow! Verona. Where do i start?

With a terrifying bus ticket buying adventure whereby the lady stared blankly at my request to get to the obscure little township of Pedemonte, followed by a 25 min wait alone in the street, during which i considered strapping my documents and cash to my abdomen for fear of a gang of gypsies cursing me and my bag exploding for not giving them any 'spare' change...what a word..spare...as if...i'm travelling...all my fears were unnecessary as i arrived at my bed minus breakfast (in Italy coffee=breakfast) which was so luxurious and so cheap i was convinced something bad was going to happen, settled in for a recharge night excited about my day ahead exploring the famed city of feuds and romance with Amelie. Verona was the gift that never stopped giving. I got into Flight Centre travel agent mode and planned a fantastic circular route around town visiting every sight the town had to offer a well endowed (map bearing) tourist! We started at Juliet's tomb. After swooping through the museum dedicated to the queen of hearts we descended into the bowels of the earth to explore the deathbed of literature's most famed couple. Love messages were scrawled into the rock, depictions of flames long gone and perhaps enduring...a truly girly awwwww moment! From there we followed the old town walls which are approximately 2000yrs old and in which the Veronese have established cafes, restaurants and offices, into the town centre. Piazza Bra was a feast for the senses. With Verona being the most Roman city in Italy after Rome itself it is not surpirising that a spectacular arena, which is still in use for opera season and holds 20, 000, greeted our smiling faces! From here we headed north to Juliet's house to leave our own messages of love upon its graffitied corridors. Decades worth of love notes pinned to the wall. Layers upon layers of permanent marker scrawled dedications in every language, barely a square inch of blank wall remained! After rubbing Juliet's right breast in the hope of good love it was time to explore the remaining ruins of the Roman gate to the city Porta Leona. A surreal remnant of an ancient time beneath the city, bordered a few metres above by cafes and souvenirs! In a truly educational experience we ventured through to
the Scaligeri palaces, built by one of the feuding families upon which the bard based his magnificent tale, now the location of the Veronese parliament. From here we crossed the river to get a better view of the Ponte San Pietra bridge, historically laden as it was bombed several times. The last time it was destroyed every rock was taken from the bottom of Fuime Adige and it was rebuilt as per the original! Crossing the bridge and climbing miles of stairs between ivy covered houses we discovered an amazing view of the historic town! Our journey south took us through Castelvecchio, a medieval castle built purely as an exercise of opulence by the Scaligero! A quick meal of cheap pasta and white wine finished the day and from there Bologna awaited!

This will be a quick one. Bologna was a downright disappointment! From the amazing experience offered by Verona i arrived to the greyish red concrete jungle that is the university town of Bologna. After discovering the 'charming' bed and breakfast was merely someone's house with a spare room and too much pot pourri housed in a faceless, nameless grey shroud of cement my day just delcined! Everyone was so angry looking. I ate my Ragu for which i came, yes i planned an entire stopover to try real bolognese sauce. And that was it. I sat alone, literally alone, in the restaurant. The food and service were amazing and the sweet wine dirt cheap but heading home in the dark for the first time in my life i was scared. I hurried back through graffiti poisoned streets where gruff looking guys passed me without even a glance...well maybe a glare but that was all. Dark alcoves were unavoidable and i skipped in front of cars simply to get into bed all the faster! The next morning i left Bologna. A ransacked handbag was sprawled at the door.

My disappointment was overshadowed entirely and my every expectation was blown completely out of the water when i got to Rome and back to my old pal! Waiting map in hand, Amelie greeted me with a smile and it was off to the Colloseum! The real deal! 50, 000 spectator capacity, crumbling facade and a 500m queue! Oh mein gott! Nothing could have ever prepared me for such a sight. We entered the arena, the sun glinting softly through the archways. I couldn't move. The sight of the ruined cells and corridors which once housed prisoners beneath the floor of the stadium, waiting to die a most gruesome death. The deathly steep seating, the marble steps worn out in the middle from millenia of stamping feet. I could feel the years of life pressing in on me! Or perhaps it was the tight feeling in my bladder from the lack of toilets. Either way, i was finding it hard to believe my eyes. Frome.hahh get it..rome...from here we ventured past the ruins of the Roman Forum, former CBD of the Roman world! and on to visit the many monuments the marvellous city had to offer by twilight!...it is at this point i take a pause..
Oh mein Gott!! i can't write anymore. If you have read this far i applaud you. If not...your deadded from Facebook.