Where are you outside world. I'm lost inside my little tourism bubble. No newspapers, no TV, and for the passed week the internet has been a luxury I can't afford at 7 and a half Euro for an hour of connection (that's two meals, Come On).
From Barcelona we crossed the open Spanish plains. This remains as one of the most beautiful country sides I have ever seen. It's tough to read, or catch up on sleep (Danny Archer style; I am very good at this style of sleep, ahh the nap), when every turn in the tracks hits you with a new vista of wide landscapes stretching over rolling hills and big blue skies.
At this point I would like to point out the amazing aspects of Train travel. This is the only way to move through Europe. Josh Soles, if you are out there, I must tell you that I am now a Train guy. I understand your love for the tracks and their cars.
With that said, the Barcelona station is out of control. They most definitely lost our train. Neil and I were thrown in all different directions before finally catching a break and having a pair of friendly Americans share the secret to our hidden coach (Texans, man you got'a love 'em).
MuchoMadrid greeted us warmly, and at first inspection seemed to be in the top five Hostels for the trip (No Nice Hotel Pastoral, thank goodness, sorry Pastoral). Then they told us they lost our reservation (first the train, now the room, who loses a room). They didn't actually say that they lost the reservation, but they kicked out one of those "Oh, ummm, what days were you booked in for?" and "Can I see your reservation again... how did you book this?" Luis was a real swell guy about the whole situation, and I would find that he runs a pretty tidy operation there at MuchoMadrid. (a personal favorite was the Champagn and Sangria party where I was able to practice some bad spanish and catch some great stories for other kooks out there, I dig it, the whole scene, the whole crazy hostel scene).
So we walked the streets of Madrid with excitement; this is a town you walk around, forget the Metro, the place is beautiful and built for the wandering tourist. The whole time in Madrid we were caught in one, huge, crazy Spanish Cup final party. The Plaza Mayor was overrun with Sevilla fans, and every site we visited was crawling with drunken football fans dressed in their teams colours (which was always the Red of Sevilla... it's a good thing they won, the crazy riots of joy and better then the angry riots of defeat; gotta love the Futbol). With all the excitement though, there is still the devastation of leaving Madrid, on a Sunday, at 7pm. This just so happens to be the only time during the summer months that the Matador faces the Bull... We missed the FREAKIN BULL FIGHT. This was not made any easier by Tennessee Matt who had recorded some of the nonesense on his camera. Neil and I watched his little 2" screen and couldn't turn away. I may have said "Wow, just like the movies". But hey, you can't see it all right, and aside from the great weather (nothing but sun), the wonderful food (paella, oh paella), the playful atmosphere (Canada needs so soccer, and fast), and the breathtaking sites (random buildings, just random buildings lining a secondary road... amazing architectur), what would I come back for? It still hurts to think that we were settling in for an overnight train, and the crowds were just welcoming the first challenge... Bull vs Matador, it's so great.
Paris is beyond words. I have loved every second here. Someone told me that I should skip Paris and spend more time in Spain... WHAT. Skip Paris. Never. This city must be seen, by all. And I have already started to try and figure out if weekend trips to this city from Calgary are possible... I don't even think this is a stretch.
The night train was a real adventure. I can't believe that these things exist, and that I got to from Madrid to Paris, rocking to sleep like a baby in a crib. What a trip this has been. What an adventure. Man I love the travel. I love the Road life. I love the journey. Everytime it starts to feel like things are settling, it's time to move...
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Mullets, Diets, and Post-Coital Cigarettes
Good title... oh and I did it again, make sure you read John's post which will be right underneath mine because I started mine once again 2 seconds after he did
Why are mullets coming back? That's what I wanna know and NOW! When I say mullets, I'm sure that most of you are picturing the very small slightly stylish mini-mullet, not unlike the one that I have inadvertantly grown over the past five weeks. But no...that's not what I'm talking about at all. That's not how the euros roll. I'm talking about the full-on, redneck, I've got a nascar sticker on my car, straight out of the trailer, should be extinct by now...80's mullet. Now you're thinking 'But Neil, some of those stuck in the eighties redneck types are also in europe.' Maybe there are and maybe there aren't but that's not what I'm talking about. These are young people, wearing stylish clothes, and aviator sunglasses, and they are sporting the full on, perfect, short in the front, long in the back mullet...................Why? I mean I was warned about the abundance of the faux-hawks and fake DG glasses, but I was not prepared to be seeing this much mullet in such a short period of time.
If your plan is to lose weight, get rid of the nice layer around the old abdoms, here's how to do it. It is the very simple euro diet. Eat hardly anything and walk 10 to 15 miles a day - or for eight hours, whichever comes first. I admit, even I've had trouble sticking to the euro diet. And here are some things that might trip you up in your quest for that skin and bones traveller look. Avoid not eating breakfast and lunch, because you will binge when it comes to dinner time, and that's just too expensive. If you love food, one thing I strongly suggest: is to not go into supermarkets. They are dangerous, they are packed with food, pretty much anything you can think of and it's not that expensive. Because you might end up buying 6 mars bars just because they cost 2 euros. Or buy 2 boxes of cereal that you can't carry, and that you certainly can't eat. And if you fancy yourself a beer drinker, avoid the supermarket at all costs. Let me put it this way, 660mL of Heineken for 1.25.........trouble. Do you even know how many calories are in beer. Having a supermarket around, is like someone offering you free beer, or cheap beer, like draft night at cowboys - just because something is cheap or free, does not mean you need to have it!
And lastly for today, you know when you see a couple that are just way too into eachother and consequently are all over eachother. Well, there is one such couple staying at our hostel. When you see one such couple you might bust out a line like 'get a room'. However, when you bust out the whole 'get a room' line, you make the assumption right off the bat that 'the room' you've told them to go to...isn't going to be your room. Well in this case it was my room. Let me set this up some more by saying that the girl half of this couple is very unpleasant. I mean unpleasant in every way. You know those girls who aren't quite there looks wise but are one of those personality-plus types. Well that's not this girl. She's unpleasant to look at, listen to, be around, and the personality is grade A douche baggian.
Aaaanyways. I wake up this morning because the other two guys in our room are packing up to leave. Oh, by the way, unlike all our other hostels, there are nothing but guys at this hostel, it's a huge sausage fest. One of these guys incidently is a big-time sleep talker. This guys holds both sides of conversations with himself...in his sleep, he also cheers, hoots, hollers, and even busts out evil laughs, which can be kind of terrifying at 4 in the morning. Wow, I got hugely sidetracked there, someone just yelled 'Digression' at me from the book Catcher in the Rye. Anyways, so I'm awake because sleep talker and his buddy are packing their shit as loud as possible. And their shit is allll over the place too. So much so that in the packing mele, sleep talker managed to take my balled up sock out of my shoe and toss it across the room....I have not idea. So I'm awake because of this non-sense. They're doing this for a good half hour until they leave. In the meantime, I've grabbed my sansa and I'm listening to a few songs; a little Jack Johnson to relax my anger at sleep talkers. I'm relaxing in bed when the doucherama show exits the room; I'm almost drifting back to sleep when I lazily open my eyes and see, in the bottom bunk across from me, some rustling of the sheets. You see what I did there, you all had completely forgotten about the overly affectionate unpleasant girl and her manslave. I initially don't think much this rustling of sheets, maybe the manslave is just turning over in his sleep. But I open my eyes all the way to see that the unpleasant girl is not in her top bunk...where is she? And if you guys haven't figured out where this one's going, either I'm a terrible storyteller, or you guys need to give your heads a shake. As you suspected, she is underneath the sheets, causing the sheet rustling. These two are going at it. They weren't making a lot of noise or anything, she was probably just whispering sweet unpleasantnesses in his ear. It's 9am people. The sleeptalkers have just left, how much longer could John and I possibly sleep in for? an hour...maybe, then the room would've been empty, all theirs to do whatever they wanted in it. But they couldn't wait. They went at it, in the hostel, with other people in the room, at 9 am on a thursday. Now, it may have been different if this girl was a knockout, or not just overall-ly unpleasant, but that wasn't the case at all. Ridiculous right...wrong, what's ridiculous is that half an hour after the first...session...ended, another one started up again. And, at it they went again. So that's how my morning went down, listening to the unpleasant girl have unpleasant sex with her unpleasant manslave...twice. And after all this, the unpleasant girl rolled off her man slave and lit a post-coital cigarette.......................................Alright so the cigarette thing was a lie, but the rest was absolutely true; I just liked that for the title.
Why are mullets coming back? That's what I wanna know and NOW! When I say mullets, I'm sure that most of you are picturing the very small slightly stylish mini-mullet, not unlike the one that I have inadvertantly grown over the past five weeks. But no...that's not what I'm talking about at all. That's not how the euros roll. I'm talking about the full-on, redneck, I've got a nascar sticker on my car, straight out of the trailer, should be extinct by now...80's mullet. Now you're thinking 'But Neil, some of those stuck in the eighties redneck types are also in europe.' Maybe there are and maybe there aren't but that's not what I'm talking about. These are young people, wearing stylish clothes, and aviator sunglasses, and they are sporting the full on, perfect, short in the front, long in the back mullet...................Why? I mean I was warned about the abundance of the faux-hawks and fake DG glasses, but I was not prepared to be seeing this much mullet in such a short period of time.
If your plan is to lose weight, get rid of the nice layer around the old abdoms, here's how to do it. It is the very simple euro diet. Eat hardly anything and walk 10 to 15 miles a day - or for eight hours, whichever comes first. I admit, even I've had trouble sticking to the euro diet. And here are some things that might trip you up in your quest for that skin and bones traveller look. Avoid not eating breakfast and lunch, because you will binge when it comes to dinner time, and that's just too expensive. If you love food, one thing I strongly suggest: is to not go into supermarkets. They are dangerous, they are packed with food, pretty much anything you can think of and it's not that expensive. Because you might end up buying 6 mars bars just because they cost 2 euros. Or buy 2 boxes of cereal that you can't carry, and that you certainly can't eat. And if you fancy yourself a beer drinker, avoid the supermarket at all costs. Let me put it this way, 660mL of Heineken for 1.25.........trouble. Do you even know how many calories are in beer. Having a supermarket around, is like someone offering you free beer, or cheap beer, like draft night at cowboys - just because something is cheap or free, does not mean you need to have it!
And lastly for today, you know when you see a couple that are just way too into eachother and consequently are all over eachother. Well, there is one such couple staying at our hostel. When you see one such couple you might bust out a line like 'get a room'. However, when you bust out the whole 'get a room' line, you make the assumption right off the bat that 'the room' you've told them to go to...isn't going to be your room. Well in this case it was my room. Let me set this up some more by saying that the girl half of this couple is very unpleasant. I mean unpleasant in every way. You know those girls who aren't quite there looks wise but are one of those personality-plus types. Well that's not this girl. She's unpleasant to look at, listen to, be around, and the personality is grade A douche baggian.
Aaaanyways. I wake up this morning because the other two guys in our room are packing up to leave. Oh, by the way, unlike all our other hostels, there are nothing but guys at this hostel, it's a huge sausage fest. One of these guys incidently is a big-time sleep talker. This guys holds both sides of conversations with himself...in his sleep, he also cheers, hoots, hollers, and even busts out evil laughs, which can be kind of terrifying at 4 in the morning. Wow, I got hugely sidetracked there, someone just yelled 'Digression' at me from the book Catcher in the Rye. Anyways, so I'm awake because sleep talker and his buddy are packing their shit as loud as possible. And their shit is allll over the place too. So much so that in the packing mele, sleep talker managed to take my balled up sock out of my shoe and toss it across the room....I have not idea. So I'm awake because of this non-sense. They're doing this for a good half hour until they leave. In the meantime, I've grabbed my sansa and I'm listening to a few songs; a little Jack Johnson to relax my anger at sleep talkers. I'm relaxing in bed when the doucherama show exits the room; I'm almost drifting back to sleep when I lazily open my eyes and see, in the bottom bunk across from me, some rustling of the sheets. You see what I did there, you all had completely forgotten about the overly affectionate unpleasant girl and her manslave. I initially don't think much this rustling of sheets, maybe the manslave is just turning over in his sleep. But I open my eyes all the way to see that the unpleasant girl is not in her top bunk...where is she? And if you guys haven't figured out where this one's going, either I'm a terrible storyteller, or you guys need to give your heads a shake. As you suspected, she is underneath the sheets, causing the sheet rustling. These two are going at it. They weren't making a lot of noise or anything, she was probably just whispering sweet unpleasantnesses in his ear. It's 9am people. The sleeptalkers have just left, how much longer could John and I possibly sleep in for? an hour...maybe, then the room would've been empty, all theirs to do whatever they wanted in it. But they couldn't wait. They went at it, in the hostel, with other people in the room, at 9 am on a thursday. Now, it may have been different if this girl was a knockout, or not just overall-ly unpleasant, but that wasn't the case at all. Ridiculous right...wrong, what's ridiculous is that half an hour after the first...session...ended, another one started up again. And, at it they went again. So that's how my morning went down, listening to the unpleasant girl have unpleasant sex with her unpleasant manslave...twice. And after all this, the unpleasant girl rolled off her man slave and lit a post-coital cigarette.......................................Alright so the cigarette thing was a lie, but the rest was absolutely true; I just liked that for the title.
Bvar-theh-lonaaaaaah
I´m done On the Road. I´m completely lost. Where are you now Dean Moriarty? What antics have you in store for the adventuresome? Sal I need direction? East, West, or South? Abandonment is a heavy situation.
We moved from the Cote westward to the "Meeting place of the world", Marseille. Drowning in culture and energetic streets Marseille does not represent the south of France, in fact Marseille is unique to Europe. If a change is what you seek, then the African rich shops, and the Arabic cuisin of this busy city is what you need. "Dude, did you read that before you booked us in here?" is Neil´s first question after I hit him with the Let´s Go Travel Guide´s intro to Marseille. He is not quite sure how he feels about this new vibe. I think a day and a half was all he needed to soak up all the culture he can deal with for a while.
Montpellier was another new twist. From the beaches of the Riviera, to the hot streets of Marseille, there was no preparing us for the comfort of Montpellier. With little shops of all kinds and wide pedestrian walkways between sites within the old city, Neil and I took an instant liking to this beautiful town. We spent almost all our time wandering the streets and digging the whole scene. When we left for the train at 6:30, the city was still asleep and we strolled down the center of the streets like we owned the place. Sure the sun was rising, but who could comment on that when we had the whole city to ourselves.
We left France too quickly. Although we stalked up on fresh bread and croissants, not even a late lunch of delicate baguette could ease the pain of leaving the country of love. I speak french, and after a week of traveling the streets, I could speak it quite well (I was still working on my France accent, but accent or not, I loved the whole second language experiment all the same). I understood train announcements for the first time since London´s tube, I could read menus, order drinks, and convers with locals. It was my country to enjoy after only a week, and I enjoyed it in a totally new "complete" way.
I speak a little Spanish. Un Poquito. I even hablo some as well. But what ever they speak here, in Barcelona (say it with me: Bvar-theh-lonaaaaah), it´s not the same spanish I´ve been learning. They speak so quickly, I´m usually just realizing I´m in a conversation when they´ve already come to understand I have no idea what they are saying. I can pick up every 5th to 10th word. I catch some of th"Attencion" announcements, and I order the odd item (with help from the old "that one, that one there" kind of point), but in the end, I am an English speaking tourist again. Travel Tip number 3: Learn the language of the natives, be one with the foreign tongue.
So we land in Barcelona and find that the West has found this city. Like home, the streets of Barcelona feel under control with more cars, less scouter, and rules of the road that appear to be more then simple suggestions. No close calls yet, the pedestrians still live. So we went through our normal routine; arrive, get lost, return to start, get lost, find the hostel, cheer and dance around like idiots, settle in, meet the neighbours, and take to the streets with a map and the thrill of a new town. As far as I can tell (this became apparent to me after half an hour of feeling the place out), Barcelona treasures two heroes; Gaudi, and Ronaldinho. Everywhere you turn there are Ronaldinho jerseys. Number 10 is wandering every street. The guy is in freakin day care adds. But I´ll get back to the Futbol jerseys in this town. Gaudi is as to Barcelona, as Ari is to Entourage. Without Gaudi, I don´t know what this place would be. Each street seems to have been touched by his hand. The Temple de la Sagrada Familia. This architectural wonder stands high above the surrounding buildings and seems to anchor the city, feeding it power and giving it character. Now if you have been lucky enough to see this Temple, and admire its glorious facades. If you have marveled at its unique design and appreciated its bond between art and engineering, that look no further. Don´t ask any more questions. Stop reading. Because this monument is under construction. No, no, not like every other monument that we have visited. No this building is not being repaired, or restored (which is the word of choice for these situations). This masterpiece, the legacy of Gaudi is not yet complete. Since 1882, they have been building this monsterous design. And after more then 125 years they have finally, just recently, made the last additions, to complete the project... to the point of just over 50 percent. They are half done. Neil just stood there in awe. "What 50% done?", "What are they doing?", "Who´s in charge here?" I´m most impressed with their patients. It seems that at no time, any of the hundreds of thousands of people involved with the work has said "Ok, umm, I think we need to kick it up a notch, I´m not going to name names but these last two or three decades some of you have been slacking..." They have yet to reach tha"Get'r done" stage, and I love it. I´ve been going on and on about how Masterpieces just aren´t made any more, how everything is a McMansion, and it´s all functionality. But here is a true piece of architecture, and to have been a part of its creation (okay, I only walked through it and took pictures, but still), to be around during its development... That´s history right there. I love it.
We visited the Museo Picasso, and I suddenly had a flash back from my grade 5 art class. I didn´t understand Cubism then, and I don´t understand it now. But the Pablo definitely was on to something. Turns out, P. Picasso did more then just the abstract art of his impressionism. The guy dabbled in everything, landscapes, oil portraits, ceramics, the works. A life time of creation. Oddly enough, in one of the 20 rooms in the Museum, Picasso´s work centered around Pornograph. That´s right, everything from doodles to complete brush strokes, and it was pretty vivid stuff. A lot of people passed through and kept their sam"Ahhh, yessssss, I enjoy the intensity of this subject, the short strokes bring out a certain...", while others just couldn´t hold back and started giggling like little school girls (or 20 something boys...). Neil and I quite enjoyed the "Man with Chicken, enjoying himself, while relieving himself" but of course it´s art, it´s not for everyone.
Las Ramblas is a favorite local for the two of us. At night the street preformers gather their crowds and awe the masses. Whether it´s the slight of hand of a smiling magician, or the intense attitude of a latin dancer, there is someting for everyone. Neil and I have trouble being confined to a bar, when the real party is in the streets. We roam the roads from our hostel to the beach and dig the whole scene. Barcelona is going to be hard to leave. Barcelona is a favorite.
Some other highlights:
Neil vs the Pigeons - little brother makes contact with an accidental kick, seconds later he is pooed on... I just laughed, and laughed.
Couple has sex - I´m awake, on my top bunk, downloading pictures onto my dream device (Archos 604WiFi, a must for any gaget guru) and below me, one bed over, a couple is waking up with a little morning exercise. I don´t know how I feel about this. I think there is something wrong with the whole situation, but then again, I didn´t even realize it was going down until Neil told me about it an hour later. Hostels, you really can´t go wrong.
Angry woman vs the train - Why was this woman so angry we will never know. All I can say is I´m thankful I can understand French, because the ridiculousness of this woman´s complaints were worth the cost of my entire Eurail pass. She needed a hug, but I couldn´t bring myself to end the entertainment.
The Country´s best - Germany´s Brats, Italy´s pasta, Greece´s sea food, France´s bread, England´s Fish and Chips; it´s tough to make a call on what my favorite is, but one thing for sure is Spain can cook a mean Paella. Wow.
Scams. Everyone loves their scams here in Europe. You can get a fake anything, and you can pay anything for it, because not only is it fake, but it´s probably stolen. Along the way, I have been collecting soccer jerseys. One for each country. I pick one of my favorite Footballers, and I search for a deal. Yesterday I cam across a Torres jersey. The spanish red, the number 9, it was perfect. I ask how much for the jerseys, the guy says 15 euro. This is good, not great, but definitely what I´m ready to spend to keep my series alive. I return today to the same shop, after passes several other stores pushing the Barcelona number 10 of Ronaldinho, I realize that this 15 euro deal is a real steal (and I rhyme that little diddy off to Neil with excitement). I´m in the store, I find my size (a medium), and the guy wraps it up for me and asks for 39€. Uhhh, I just stand there dumbfounded. I, uhhhh. That´s all I´ve got. I finally pull myself together, accept the reality of no jersey in my immediate future, and I tell him I´m going to need to go get more money. 35€ he says. Uhhhhh, I, aaaa... What did you want to pay for it, he asks me. I tell him someone (it was him) had told me they were 15, and that I only had a 20 (this was not true, but who can afford 40 euro on a jersey, when they have only budgetted 10 on food for the whole day). He can´t believe it. 15! he says with a genuin disbelief. He pulls out a different red Torres, and hands it to me. This one is a piece of garbage. It´s last years jersey, it´s a large and it´s 29, he tells me. This doesn´t matter to me, or my story of 20 euro in the pocket. I try it on, it really, really looks bad. I ask if he has a medium. He brings out a different player all together and tries to sell this new piece of garbage to me, without letting me see it. I ask for a medium Torres (I need my Fernado Torres, forget this other smuck that this guy wants to get rid of). He gets a medium, number 9 Torres, and I try it on, it´s great, it´s also the first jersey he gave me, and it´s still 39 euro. I tell him all I have is the 20 euro bill I was going to use for the 15 euro jersey that no longer exists. He brings it down to 35, 32, and 30. My story sticks, I show him the bill, and he pauses. He picks up the phone, and frantically spills out some Spanish jumble. He tells me he can get me a medium, Torres, from last year and he can give it to me for 27. I stare at him. 25. I pull out the 20, and tell him I will need to go get another five. He doesn´t want me to leave. He tells me he can do 22, and he runs out of the store. He comes back 2 minutes later, out of breath. He has a medium beauty that I try on. It´s great. He packages it up. I pull out the twenty, and a handful of no more then 60 cents in 5s and 10s. I tell him I can go get the other 2 euro, but this is all I came with. (I had fished the twenty out of my money belt while he was in the back, hoping that the 3 50s and the other 20 that it was folded into wouldn´t come exploding out. I also had to grab the change without revealing the 5 bill that I still had for today´s dinner). He looks down at the 20, then the coins. He looks up at me, and I spill out the oscar "I´m sorry brotha", and he grabs it all, acting and everything, and I´m out the door with my jersey. Scaming the Scamster. All in a days work. Do I feel bad. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I think I saw the same jersey in Florence for 10 euro, and maybe I think he was getting what he deserved. John 1, silly Spanish kyosk guy 20euro and dirty change...
Bvar-theh-lonaaaah has been a blast. Time for one more Las Ramblas tour with the sunsetting and the wild night life coming up for air.
We moved from the Cote westward to the "Meeting place of the world", Marseille. Drowning in culture and energetic streets Marseille does not represent the south of France, in fact Marseille is unique to Europe. If a change is what you seek, then the African rich shops, and the Arabic cuisin of this busy city is what you need. "Dude, did you read that before you booked us in here?" is Neil´s first question after I hit him with the Let´s Go Travel Guide´s intro to Marseille. He is not quite sure how he feels about this new vibe. I think a day and a half was all he needed to soak up all the culture he can deal with for a while.
Montpellier was another new twist. From the beaches of the Riviera, to the hot streets of Marseille, there was no preparing us for the comfort of Montpellier. With little shops of all kinds and wide pedestrian walkways between sites within the old city, Neil and I took an instant liking to this beautiful town. We spent almost all our time wandering the streets and digging the whole scene. When we left for the train at 6:30, the city was still asleep and we strolled down the center of the streets like we owned the place. Sure the sun was rising, but who could comment on that when we had the whole city to ourselves.
We left France too quickly. Although we stalked up on fresh bread and croissants, not even a late lunch of delicate baguette could ease the pain of leaving the country of love. I speak french, and after a week of traveling the streets, I could speak it quite well (I was still working on my France accent, but accent or not, I loved the whole second language experiment all the same). I understood train announcements for the first time since London´s tube, I could read menus, order drinks, and convers with locals. It was my country to enjoy after only a week, and I enjoyed it in a totally new "complete" way.
I speak a little Spanish. Un Poquito. I even hablo some as well. But what ever they speak here, in Barcelona (say it with me: Bvar-theh-lonaaaaah), it´s not the same spanish I´ve been learning. They speak so quickly, I´m usually just realizing I´m in a conversation when they´ve already come to understand I have no idea what they are saying. I can pick up every 5th to 10th word. I catch some of th"Attencion" announcements, and I order the odd item (with help from the old "that one, that one there" kind of point), but in the end, I am an English speaking tourist again. Travel Tip number 3: Learn the language of the natives, be one with the foreign tongue.
So we land in Barcelona and find that the West has found this city. Like home, the streets of Barcelona feel under control with more cars, less scouter, and rules of the road that appear to be more then simple suggestions. No close calls yet, the pedestrians still live. So we went through our normal routine; arrive, get lost, return to start, get lost, find the hostel, cheer and dance around like idiots, settle in, meet the neighbours, and take to the streets with a map and the thrill of a new town. As far as I can tell (this became apparent to me after half an hour of feeling the place out), Barcelona treasures two heroes; Gaudi, and Ronaldinho. Everywhere you turn there are Ronaldinho jerseys. Number 10 is wandering every street. The guy is in freakin day care adds. But I´ll get back to the Futbol jerseys in this town. Gaudi is as to Barcelona, as Ari is to Entourage. Without Gaudi, I don´t know what this place would be. Each street seems to have been touched by his hand. The Temple de la Sagrada Familia. This architectural wonder stands high above the surrounding buildings and seems to anchor the city, feeding it power and giving it character. Now if you have been lucky enough to see this Temple, and admire its glorious facades. If you have marveled at its unique design and appreciated its bond between art and engineering, that look no further. Don´t ask any more questions. Stop reading. Because this monument is under construction. No, no, not like every other monument that we have visited. No this building is not being repaired, or restored (which is the word of choice for these situations). This masterpiece, the legacy of Gaudi is not yet complete. Since 1882, they have been building this monsterous design. And after more then 125 years they have finally, just recently, made the last additions, to complete the project... to the point of just over 50 percent. They are half done. Neil just stood there in awe. "What 50% done?", "What are they doing?", "Who´s in charge here?" I´m most impressed with their patients. It seems that at no time, any of the hundreds of thousands of people involved with the work has said "Ok, umm, I think we need to kick it up a notch, I´m not going to name names but these last two or three decades some of you have been slacking..." They have yet to reach tha"Get'r done" stage, and I love it. I´ve been going on and on about how Masterpieces just aren´t made any more, how everything is a McMansion, and it´s all functionality. But here is a true piece of architecture, and to have been a part of its creation (okay, I only walked through it and took pictures, but still), to be around during its development... That´s history right there. I love it.
We visited the Museo Picasso, and I suddenly had a flash back from my grade 5 art class. I didn´t understand Cubism then, and I don´t understand it now. But the Pablo definitely was on to something. Turns out, P. Picasso did more then just the abstract art of his impressionism. The guy dabbled in everything, landscapes, oil portraits, ceramics, the works. A life time of creation. Oddly enough, in one of the 20 rooms in the Museum, Picasso´s work centered around Pornograph. That´s right, everything from doodles to complete brush strokes, and it was pretty vivid stuff. A lot of people passed through and kept their sam"Ahhh, yessssss, I enjoy the intensity of this subject, the short strokes bring out a certain...", while others just couldn´t hold back and started giggling like little school girls (or 20 something boys...). Neil and I quite enjoyed the "Man with Chicken, enjoying himself, while relieving himself" but of course it´s art, it´s not for everyone.
Las Ramblas is a favorite local for the two of us. At night the street preformers gather their crowds and awe the masses. Whether it´s the slight of hand of a smiling magician, or the intense attitude of a latin dancer, there is someting for everyone. Neil and I have trouble being confined to a bar, when the real party is in the streets. We roam the roads from our hostel to the beach and dig the whole scene. Barcelona is going to be hard to leave. Barcelona is a favorite.
Some other highlights:
Neil vs the Pigeons - little brother makes contact with an accidental kick, seconds later he is pooed on... I just laughed, and laughed.
Couple has sex - I´m awake, on my top bunk, downloading pictures onto my dream device (Archos 604WiFi, a must for any gaget guru) and below me, one bed over, a couple is waking up with a little morning exercise. I don´t know how I feel about this. I think there is something wrong with the whole situation, but then again, I didn´t even realize it was going down until Neil told me about it an hour later. Hostels, you really can´t go wrong.
Angry woman vs the train - Why was this woman so angry we will never know. All I can say is I´m thankful I can understand French, because the ridiculousness of this woman´s complaints were worth the cost of my entire Eurail pass. She needed a hug, but I couldn´t bring myself to end the entertainment.
The Country´s best - Germany´s Brats, Italy´s pasta, Greece´s sea food, France´s bread, England´s Fish and Chips; it´s tough to make a call on what my favorite is, but one thing for sure is Spain can cook a mean Paella. Wow.
Scams. Everyone loves their scams here in Europe. You can get a fake anything, and you can pay anything for it, because not only is it fake, but it´s probably stolen. Along the way, I have been collecting soccer jerseys. One for each country. I pick one of my favorite Footballers, and I search for a deal. Yesterday I cam across a Torres jersey. The spanish red, the number 9, it was perfect. I ask how much for the jerseys, the guy says 15 euro. This is good, not great, but definitely what I´m ready to spend to keep my series alive. I return today to the same shop, after passes several other stores pushing the Barcelona number 10 of Ronaldinho, I realize that this 15 euro deal is a real steal (and I rhyme that little diddy off to Neil with excitement). I´m in the store, I find my size (a medium), and the guy wraps it up for me and asks for 39€. Uhhh, I just stand there dumbfounded. I, uhhhh. That´s all I´ve got. I finally pull myself together, accept the reality of no jersey in my immediate future, and I tell him I´m going to need to go get more money. 35€ he says. Uhhhhh, I, aaaa... What did you want to pay for it, he asks me. I tell him someone (it was him) had told me they were 15, and that I only had a 20 (this was not true, but who can afford 40 euro on a jersey, when they have only budgetted 10 on food for the whole day). He can´t believe it. 15! he says with a genuin disbelief. He pulls out a different red Torres, and hands it to me. This one is a piece of garbage. It´s last years jersey, it´s a large and it´s 29, he tells me. This doesn´t matter to me, or my story of 20 euro in the pocket. I try it on, it really, really looks bad. I ask if he has a medium. He brings out a different player all together and tries to sell this new piece of garbage to me, without letting me see it. I ask for a medium Torres (I need my Fernado Torres, forget this other smuck that this guy wants to get rid of). He gets a medium, number 9 Torres, and I try it on, it´s great, it´s also the first jersey he gave me, and it´s still 39 euro. I tell him all I have is the 20 euro bill I was going to use for the 15 euro jersey that no longer exists. He brings it down to 35, 32, and 30. My story sticks, I show him the bill, and he pauses. He picks up the phone, and frantically spills out some Spanish jumble. He tells me he can get me a medium, Torres, from last year and he can give it to me for 27. I stare at him. 25. I pull out the 20, and tell him I will need to go get another five. He doesn´t want me to leave. He tells me he can do 22, and he runs out of the store. He comes back 2 minutes later, out of breath. He has a medium beauty that I try on. It´s great. He packages it up. I pull out the twenty, and a handful of no more then 60 cents in 5s and 10s. I tell him I can go get the other 2 euro, but this is all I came with. (I had fished the twenty out of my money belt while he was in the back, hoping that the 3 50s and the other 20 that it was folded into wouldn´t come exploding out. I also had to grab the change without revealing the 5 bill that I still had for today´s dinner). He looks down at the 20, then the coins. He looks up at me, and I spill out the oscar "I´m sorry brotha", and he grabs it all, acting and everything, and I´m out the door with my jersey. Scaming the Scamster. All in a days work. Do I feel bad. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I think I saw the same jersey in Florence for 10 euro, and maybe I think he was getting what he deserved. John 1, silly Spanish kyosk guy 20euro and dirty change...
Bvar-theh-lonaaaah has been a blast. Time for one more Las Ramblas tour with the sunsetting and the wild night life coming up for air.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
One Line Frenchmen
Okay, here's quick update,
And read the post below this that john just put up and his single serving friends one because I always seem to post one like 5 seconds after John does, so mine are always at the top so I feel bad.
We were really gettin the hang of Nice just when we had to leave, the last night we had a few beers while strollin down the beach with a bunch people. It was late, early morning I guess and there's all kinds of people out. A guy had wheeled up a piano, there were a group of hippies playing guitars, some dude dressed up in native clothes climbing up a lamp post, you know the usual, there were also tons of roller bladers who couldn't skate worth a damn but when they got up to their line of pilons...these guys were amazing.
It was funny, we were hanging out with some girls from the hostel, one of em was kind of a looker, and blond too, so the groups of creepy twenty, thirty, and forty something frenchguys, of which there were many, would come up and say shit like "hey baby," "do you wanna suck me?" "what are you doing tonight, you come with me?" But after their opening line, they had nothing, they had no game past their one line. I guess if the girls wasn't blown away by that kind of charm, that was it, there was no follow up. So these clowns would come up bust out lines like that, and then they wouldn't know any english after that, so John and I would end up having nice, normal conversations with these guys in french...Ha, they try to seem all hardcore, but they only have one line of english. Ahhh Nice.
Time for Marseilles. Remember how I said that every day in europe was garbage day. Well that's true of everywhere except Marseilles. The streets reeked of garbage, and occasionally, sewage, shit, and vomit (sometimes all at the same time). So I had a great time there. But the hotel was nice and McDonalds had a deal for students. Agh, blasphemy, McDonalds in France. Believe me, I wasn't really up for staying out on the streets much past 7 oclock though. Then off to Montpelier which was the exact opposite, a beauty, a real gem. Nice, clean, friendly people, always garbage day, which I now quite appreciate incidentally. And in Monpelier don't worry we hit up a beauty bakery, and got a croissant, a salted baguette (man, it was amazing), and a pain au chocolat, which is basically a croissant filled with chocolate...need I say more.
And read the post below this that john just put up and his single serving friends one because I always seem to post one like 5 seconds after John does, so mine are always at the top so I feel bad.
We were really gettin the hang of Nice just when we had to leave, the last night we had a few beers while strollin down the beach with a bunch people. It was late, early morning I guess and there's all kinds of people out. A guy had wheeled up a piano, there were a group of hippies playing guitars, some dude dressed up in native clothes climbing up a lamp post, you know the usual, there were also tons of roller bladers who couldn't skate worth a damn but when they got up to their line of pilons...these guys were amazing.
It was funny, we were hanging out with some girls from the hostel, one of em was kind of a looker, and blond too, so the groups of creepy twenty, thirty, and forty something frenchguys, of which there were many, would come up and say shit like "hey baby," "do you wanna suck me?" "what are you doing tonight, you come with me?" But after their opening line, they had nothing, they had no game past their one line. I guess if the girls wasn't blown away by that kind of charm, that was it, there was no follow up. So these clowns would come up bust out lines like that, and then they wouldn't know any english after that, so John and I would end up having nice, normal conversations with these guys in french...Ha, they try to seem all hardcore, but they only have one line of english. Ahhh Nice.
Time for Marseilles. Remember how I said that every day in europe was garbage day. Well that's true of everywhere except Marseilles. The streets reeked of garbage, and occasionally, sewage, shit, and vomit (sometimes all at the same time). So I had a great time there. But the hotel was nice and McDonalds had a deal for students. Agh, blasphemy, McDonalds in France. Believe me, I wasn't really up for staying out on the streets much past 7 oclock though. Then off to Montpelier which was the exact opposite, a beauty, a real gem. Nice, clean, friendly people, always garbage day, which I now quite appreciate incidentally. And in Monpelier don't worry we hit up a beauty bakery, and got a croissant, a salted baguette (man, it was amazing), and a pain au chocolat, which is basically a croissant filled with chocolate...need I say more.
Right around then, I felt a little spent, kinda done with the trip. And then we got to Barcelona, and now I'm revived. What a cool place, tomorrow, I think we're gonna hit up the beach, picasso's place and some more of the old town. This place looks like North American cities for the most part, except for the old town part, which is euro at it's best. It has old school buildings, then you'll run into a piazza (I know they're probably not called piazzas in spain but who cares) with huge palm trees everywhere. And every corner you turn, there's some uber talented musician playing. Some guy was playing "My way" by sinatra on some flat table guitar thing. And we saw a guy with El Mariachi skills playing a traditional spanish song on the old guitarra. It was amazing. And then you'll run into great streets like the one in the pic to the right, that are beautiful and narrow and empty, it's crazy. This was pretty much a quick update, but I've got another beauty story coming up about what happened on the train this morning. I was starting to feel like I didn't have much to blog about, and seconds later some shit goes down, so hang on I'll write it up as soon as possible.
Angry Neil
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Contesting with the Côte
Nice is nice:When arriving in Nice the first thing to do is ask yourself "Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?" The second thing do is make sure that no one heard you kick out a bad Clint impression, then answered the question truthfully, because if the answer is anywhere near "No", then do not stay at Hotel Pastoral. It is a hostel full of "Character"... or something that makes it "unique". Drop your stuff off, don't touch anything, and head down the main drag towards the beach (if it is still under construction, as it was during our stay, don't worry, they won't start bashing around until 2:30 or 3 in the old AM, this fun can be heard from Pastoral). Climb the Colline du Chateau and after catching your breath and resting your legs (I seem to be either out of shape or permenantly exhauted; I choose the later as it makes me feel better about myself when I see all the old ladies that have made it to the top of these monster hikes) gaze out over the hills of the coast, covered in a beautiful red that lines the roof tops of the Nice houses. From the top of the world decide which beach you want to plant your flag in for the afternoon. Below at the water's edge the waves crash in on Rock covered beaches.
Don't worry, the rocks heat up in the sun and most people pay handsomely for this type of spa message. Later listen to the tourists tourist-it-up as they complain about the "Stupid rocks! Ruining their Beach!" Spend more time at the beach then we did. Enjoy the soft sea water of the Mediterranean. Don't look for topless bathers; you won't like want you see. Don't take a towel, lie right on the rocks, and later let the sun dry you off, then throw your sandels back on and try it all over again at your next beach of choice. In the evening walk the promenade with your favorite beverage. Listen to the street performers, watch the roller-bladers, and take on as many French conversations as you can; the people of Nice are... nice, and will want to hear of your travels, in your Canadian accent. And feel free to allow yourself to protect the attractive American girls from the late night punks "Hey, Pal, she's with me, got it". More often then not they turn out to be all talk and you'll end up laughing it up and they'll join
you crew, but more importantly, everyone loves a hero. The rest of your time in Nice should be spent wandering the streets of the Old town, taking in the church scene, and visiting the outdoor restaurants and cafes. And make certain to frequent the bakeries (this stands for all of France). Try it all; the baguettes, the croissants, the pain au chocolate (oh heaven). Nice is the start of every good Holiday on the Cote d'Azur (also listen to the Johnny Favorite Orchestra's song, same name, while along the Riviera)Slacking in St. Raphael:
The train ride is 45 minutes to Frances Florida, and the definition of relaxation along the Cote. We arrived to find a slow-paced, restful beach town, lined with resorts that open up onto the sandy beaches (the complainers are out of luck here, no rocks). The average age of the St. Raphael's scene appears to be significantly older then that of the Nice promenade. It feels like the R&R atmosphere of retirement, and I loved every second of it. The streets are beautiful, but it's entirely possible to miss the town itself as the comfort of the sandy coast can swallow you up for an entire afternoon.The Fame of Cannes:
Rome has its Ruins, Amsterdam its Red Lights, Pisa its tower; Cannes is all about its festivals. Try as you will to stay on the wide, sandy beaches, or tour the promenade along the coast; inevitably you will be drawn to the Palais des Festivals. You can feel the movie star vibe still lingering from the spring Festival. Wander along the park in front of the theatre and try to find the hand prints of your favorite big names. Once you have had your fill (which may take a while if you are traveling with Neil or John) climb the Tour du Mt. Chevalier and see how Cannes compares to its sister cities along the Riviera. You can only leave knowing you will be back.
Monte Carlo's Money in Monaco:
Head in the other direction and find the glitz and glamer of the rich and famous in Monaco. Spend the €10 to get into the Casino so you too can feel like you've made it to the final table in Super Nintendo's Vegas Stakes. Let the roulettes table slowly and painfully take your €25, it's worth the excitement. Leave the Casino before you have to (need to eat right... and eventually leave Europe, so don't lose it all...). Walk any part of Monte Carlo Raceway and wish that the Ferraries and Maseratties that fill the cits streets were yours. Window shop along the docks for the biggest and best in Yachts (I didn't know it, but turns out I really, really want a yacht). Pay €3 to get into The Collection de Voitures Anciennes de SAS Le Prince de Monaco (turns out I now want to be a Prince too). Whether or not you are a car connoisseur, you can't deny a century of the world's best. Don't get caught in the same storm we did (this is an excuse to hide out in the Casino). Realize that Monaco is definitely a place you could live in, and live well.
The most important part of your trip to the Cote d'Azur is to see it. Take the train up and down the beautiful coast, and watch the Riviera reveal its secrets. Stop everywhere. Sample the food, the beaches, the promenades. And above all, if nothing else, the most important thing is to go for more then 3 days. Now I ask myself the last question "When can I go back?"
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Cannes and Monaco run the show
We took two day trips from Nice, over the past couple days. And from the title I should hope you would guess that we went to Cannes and Monaco. These places are the places to be in France. Cannes for obvious reasons for me...it's the film festival town. So John and I hung out at the grand auditorium and saw where all the good stuff was going down at the real festival which ended only a week or two ago...argh. Anyways it's only a matter of time before I'm there on official business. This first picture, aside from it being just a stellar picture on its own, is the before picture, and we will take the same pic in the same spot when were there for real.
Next we took on monaco, here's a couple of pics of this, the swankiest of swanky towns I've seen in europe. You pretty much can't walk down the street for more than 30 seconds before running into a ferrari, a bentley, lamborghini...well you get the idea. Cool place. Exce
pt for the fact that we ran into another day after tomorrow storm for like half an hour. So that was exciting. This pic over here is our hideout pic. This is pretty much a picture blog for me, but don't worry more rants are on the way.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Nice is Nice...yeah right.
Oh Neil, you bitter bastard.
So two nights ago, we stroll into Nice, in the dark because our train's late due to the fantastic train strike going on with the frenchies right now. So we're looking for our hostel which is of course in a nice and sketchy part of town. We get into the hostel and check in and get shown to our room, and a couple of things just kept running through my mind and wouldn't stop. All I could hear was Ed Norton's voice saying "What a shithole. Ya give the condo life, to go live in a dilapidated house [hostel] in a toxic waste part of town, and you have to come home to this..." And 'this' in this case is a very old man, already asleep in this room that is the size of mine with 4 sets of bunkbeds in it.
Now I didn't put this in my why?! blog but I should've...Why is there always somebody sleeping in our room? It doesn't matter if it's 9 oclock like it was this night, or if it's noon, or 4 in the afternoon, there's always somebody sleeping.
So with someone sleeping in your room, the last place you wanna be is there (Dad I seem to think it's you that particularily likes the word wanna and gonna), we get right the hell outta there. Off to the main strip we go which is......completely under construction. However much construction your picturing in your heads right now, multiply that by a thousand and your still nowhere near it (Trainspotting anyone).
But I have to say, my anger seemed to dissipate a little the next day, when I saw the beach, which was huge and the beach was all rounded rocks which was cool, and weird. All the girls here seem to hate that fact though. They keep asking where the real sand is. And I feel sorry for the girls whose trips are all about the beaches, because there's always something wrong...the beaches aren't sand, it wasn't sunny enough yada yada yada. And yes, I am aware that I just bashed others for complaining so much...And yes I think it's funny too.
You'll also be glad to know that I have come to quite enjoy all the hostel antics over the last little while. No matter how painful they seem at the time, they always make for great stories later...I mean what would I have to rant about if there wasn't construction going on the past three nights at 1am to 4am in the morning...And what kinda stories would I have if I didn't have a roommate like the one who cam in last night: a quebec'er who now lives in belgium who never, ever stops talking, in what I can safely call one of my least favourite accents ever, and that's including the civil squad, the El hachas, the wans, the de barroses, the incomprehensible TAs.
How could I justify being angry all the time, which you all know I love to be if I didn't people in my life like a quebec'er from brussels with and accent that makes me want to...in the words of John Webb "Van Gogh my ears," or in my words "Mr. Blonde myself,"
I feel like scum never having pictures in mine but my camera hates computers and John's is in use right now. Just look at the pics John puts up, I'll try to put up a bunch next time.
So two nights ago, we stroll into Nice, in the dark because our train's late due to the fantastic train strike going on with the frenchies right now. So we're looking for our hostel which is of course in a nice and sketchy part of town. We get into the hostel and check in and get shown to our room, and a couple of things just kept running through my mind and wouldn't stop. All I could hear was Ed Norton's voice saying "What a shithole. Ya give the condo life, to go live in a dilapidated house [hostel] in a toxic waste part of town, and you have to come home to this..." And 'this' in this case is a very old man, already asleep in this room that is the size of mine with 4 sets of bunkbeds in it.
Now I didn't put this in my why?! blog but I should've...Why is there always somebody sleeping in our room? It doesn't matter if it's 9 oclock like it was this night, or if it's noon, or 4 in the afternoon, there's always somebody sleeping.
So with someone sleeping in your room, the last place you wanna be is there (Dad I seem to think it's you that particularily likes the word wanna and gonna), we get right the hell outta there. Off to the main strip we go which is......completely under construction. However much construction your picturing in your heads right now, multiply that by a thousand and your still nowhere near it (Trainspotting anyone).
But I have to say, my anger seemed to dissipate a little the next day, when I saw the beach, which was huge and the beach was all rounded rocks which was cool, and weird. All the girls here seem to hate that fact though. They keep asking where the real sand is. And I feel sorry for the girls whose trips are all about the beaches, because there's always something wrong...the beaches aren't sand, it wasn't sunny enough yada yada yada. And yes, I am aware that I just bashed others for complaining so much...And yes I think it's funny too.
You'll also be glad to know that I have come to quite enjoy all the hostel antics over the last little while. No matter how painful they seem at the time, they always make for great stories later...I mean what would I have to rant about if there wasn't construction going on the past three nights at 1am to 4am in the morning...And what kinda stories would I have if I didn't have a roommate like the one who cam in last night: a quebec'er who now lives in belgium who never, ever stops talking, in what I can safely call one of my least favourite accents ever, and that's including the civil squad, the El hachas, the wans, the de barroses, the incomprehensible TAs.
How could I justify being angry all the time, which you all know I love to be if I didn't people in my life like a quebec'er from brussels with and accent that makes me want to...in the words of John Webb "Van Gogh my ears," or in my words "Mr. Blonde myself,"
I feel like scum never having pictures in mine but my camera hates computers and John's is in use right now. Just look at the pics John puts up, I'll try to put up a bunch next time.
Hostels and their Single Serving Friends
I'm lying in the dark, squinting at page 234 of my book. My arm is tingling as it starts to fall asleep. I don't know how long I have been holding up the little flash light, flooding 5 to 6 lines of the page, balancing the open book with my other hand. I stop reading and realize I've scanned over the last 2 sentences without taking any of it in. I'm trying to decide if it's worth making the trip to the washroom again, or to just wait until 4am to climb off the make shift top bunk and stumble through the dark. The light pops on, and I peer over my book, I give a little wave with a smile to the 8th member of the dorm room. There's a ripple of groans and deep breathing from the other half a dozen sleepers. It's too hot to sleep well, and the broken fan just above my head is staring at me, laughing. The light goes back out. "Sorry" doesn't really comfort the rest of the crew, but I still laugh to myself. The book slips out of my hand and hits me in the chin. Both my hands are asleep. It's time to call it quits. I turn into my pillow and listen to number 8 ruffle through his stuff, drop something metal on the lino floor. "Shit", he whispers. This is everynight, in any hostel, with a new team of faceless dorm dwellers to remind me why I'm not fast asleep in an AC hotel; it would just be too boring.
London. Cranley Gardens. Jet-Legged Neil plays the role of Al Pacino in Insomnia and balances exhautian with his new sickness; Rage is knocking on the door.
Amsterdam. Stayokay HI Vondelpark - a hostel lacking in as much personality as it has cold faceless rooms. The Spanish Inquisition wants nothing to do with Neil and I until 3am every night when they wake us up with drunken Spanish giggling and loud blabbering that is only out done by their 4am symphony of snoring. The Stoner Frenchmen arrive with enough time to roll a limited edition series of monstrous joints. They then walk ten feet from the hostel doors and get lost in a cloud of smoke. They sleep for 14 hours. Also See: old Dutch man in wooden shoes yelling at French girls in the Lobby.
Koblenz. The Fortress - a maze of 8 foot thick walls that overlooks the "birth place" of Germany where the Rhine and the Mosel converge. Felix from Düsseldorf is the first person who speaks English since our Stayokay check out. He tells us stories of his exchange to the US, and how he learned English on the fly. He makes us of "F%#k" in a surprisingly efficient manner. We meet him as he devours a bag of MC's finest with a Big Mac in his hand (Felix is a favorite). See Also: The Spanish Cyclist who loves "Eesspagnn" and is riding back to his homeland. See Also: the Old German Man who talks to himself at night and has a fondness for banging his locker door, again, and again. See Also: millions of sugar-filled, hormon-driven, grade school kids on week long field trip.
Mainz. Hotel Moguntia - a sanctuary of privacy a week and a half into 7. Relaxed, calm Neil finds himself with one English channel; he now loves CNN.
Berlin. Jetpak - a converted house that puts TVs and the internet in every corner that doesn't have a couch. The owner Neil says the place is full of Canadians. Neil ignores everything he says and asks "What was your name?". A youth correctional Canuck with an "I'm going to tare your arm off and beat you with it" exterior and turns out to have a heart of gold with tales of the jaded youth who find peace. See Also: the British girl who spends 45 minutes telling scary stories of her misery in Naples (she managed to get 4 different Italians to ask her to "Com to my huse".
I open the door to a dark room. There are beds jammed together and stacked awkwardly in every corner. I check the door. No it's not the storage room, it's us, dorm 14. Of the 8 bunks, one has a breathing lump. There is always someone sleeping. I stumble around the beds and start to unpack my essential with the tip-toe mentality of a thief (I'm stealing lost opportunities). It's been half a day of public toilet stations. 80 cents is too much, I can hold it. I check out the washroom. That's all it is a Wash Room. One shower, with a sink facing it; no sign of a toilet. I leave the room and kick an empty water bottle as I pass the sleeping lump. I'm the one whispering "shit" now. Down the poorly lit hallway is a door that screams washroom. I open up to a wide angle shot of a 15 foot hall with one lonely toilet at the end. I wait for the walls to start bleeding like in the Shining. The toilet is the second worst toilet in the world, modeled after the porcelain prince in Trainspotting. I leave and look for something else. I'm prepared to "hold it" for a long time. I later find a step up from the out-house in the Hills have Eyes. It's the closest thing to a functioning washroom I've seen in days. When I leave I walk passed three other broken down excuses, and wonder why this hostel has invested in so many models of the 18th century commode.
Athens. Students and Travelers Inn - a refuge from the crowded busy streets of Athens with Free internet that people lose arms over and a guided tour for 13 Euro (that's like 3 meals). Vincent and Olivier were excited to meet other Canadians who spoke French. Our English accents mixed with their Quebec jumble made for outrageous conversation. See Also: the Asian couple whose Santorini paradise was flooded by 3 days of rain. See Also: the Drunken Brit who couldn't figure out how to operate the door at 3 in the morning (Neil answered while I dozed on).
Santorini. Stelio's Place - a beach resort claiming to be a hostel, with private rooms and AC that worked too well. Brendon and Kate played Pirate with us. We toured the island with the couple as they told us their top five "American's ask us the greatest questions" and led off with "Is Australia more then 24 hours head of LA?" (the Aussies are Favorites). Stelio himself picked us up from the airport and made Santorini the first place we didn't get lost in as we tried to find our hostel. He dropped us off at the airport for our 7AM flight and drove his little bus like a manic around cliffed-corners and one-laned dirt roads all while he balanced his coffee mug and shifted gears. Real Swell guy. (Stelio is a favorite) Also See: Stelio's whole family making breakfast for us, and managing the hostels reservations.
Rome. Gulliver's House - this haven treated us to breakfast with multiple English news channels every morning, and huge castle style rooms. Joseph spent his days racing around the small hostel asking everyone if they needed anything. Telling them "Cool man, cool man, that's what I'm here for, just ask. Cool Man." Bonavista Paul who after "Canadian", and "Calgary" became a guy who grew up 5 blocks away from us. We compared friends and our 6 degrees of separation turned out to be only 2. Brooke who introduced us to the ins and outs of the hostel as she was part way into a 3 week Italian class. We swapped stories of the crazy Italians in roman streets after every day (Brooke is a Favorite) See Also: Drunken Americans who had endless drinking games and sang like English football fans. See Also: Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn who showed us the ropes in Rome. See Also: guy who met Jim from the Office in "some piazza about 15 minutes from here" who we also randomly ran into in Venice (we may have spent the rest of our time looking for a tall American and randomly yelling "Johnny K" at many "candidates".
Florence. Emeral Fields - a six bed dorm with a spacious washroom and a kitchen. Jen and Kim from Toronto became our 3 and 4 as we roamed Florences streets and explored its museums. They were our 3 and 4 for 2 full days; we were ready to make the cut and play the last 18 as a twosome (Neil and I are just too good a travel team). One can only take "that laugh" for so long. See Also: common room full of shady people who wouldn't laugh at my jokes.
Venice. Residenza Santa Croce - facing the Grande Canal this place forgot it was a hostel and spoiled Neil and I was hotel comfort. The SoCal girls from Orange County had spent 36 hours without a hostel, splitting up the gap with 5am bar hopping. After 6 hours of sleep they got lost in the pubs and parties of Venice and slept again at 8 the next morning. When they finally crashed on the third night at 10, I began to believe they were human. The Colorado girls who had lost themselves in the extreme sports of Interlocken told wild stories of sky diving and canyoning. They also said they don't like to walk around at night in strange cities; it's dangerous. Also See: the Sydney Brit from Liverpool who explains to us how he IDs North American by their fashion. Also See: Brad and Jim from the Mid West who can't wait to find the "Italian Hunnies". Also See: a random from the Rome hostel.
Nice. Hotel Pastoral - This is the hostel you hear about from those stories that start "Things were going fine before we checked in". The Islanders from BC are pic-nic girls who eat all their meals on blankets on the floor of the dorm. They also spend 75% of their conversation explaining to each other the best way to get "Shmamered" off alcohol that you can buy for less then a baguette. Also See: Asian Engineers from the Imperial College in London (which we walked passed not 3 weeks ago). Also See: the Petite Quebec girl whose wild conversation and squeaky French accent make me want to Van Gogh my ears.
The room is staring at me. There's a total of 8 people, coming from 3 different dorms. I've paused for a little extra suspense before I hit them with the punch line. They Laugh, and Laugh. It's been the John show for about 20 minutes. I didn't force this on anyone, but when my one liners started to get all the attention, the team just began to expect more.
Hostels are an experience all to themselves. Whether its a bed that sags to the left and tips you out every night at 3am, or a cool manager that lives to make you their best friend, "this" is what it's all about. Dig the Hostels, love the Hostels. What a Mad journey.
London. Cranley Gardens. Jet-Legged Neil plays the role of Al Pacino in Insomnia and balances exhautian with his new sickness; Rage is knocking on the door.
Amsterdam. Stayokay HI Vondelpark - a hostel lacking in as much personality as it has cold faceless rooms. The Spanish Inquisition wants nothing to do with Neil and I until 3am every night when they wake us up with drunken Spanish giggling and loud blabbering that is only out done by their 4am symphony of snoring. The Stoner Frenchmen arrive with enough time to roll a limited edition series of monstrous joints. They then walk ten feet from the hostel doors and get lost in a cloud of smoke. They sleep for 14 hours. Also See: old Dutch man in wooden shoes yelling at French girls in the Lobby.
Koblenz. The Fortress - a maze of 8 foot thick walls that overlooks the "birth place" of Germany where the Rhine and the Mosel converge. Felix from Düsseldorf is the first person who speaks English since our Stayokay check out. He tells us stories of his exchange to the US, and how he learned English on the fly. He makes us of "F%#k" in a surprisingly efficient manner. We meet him as he devours a bag of MC's finest with a Big Mac in his hand (Felix is a favorite). See Also: The Spanish Cyclist who loves "Eesspagnn" and is riding back to his homeland. See Also: the Old German Man who talks to himself at night and has a fondness for banging his locker door, again, and again. See Also: millions of sugar-filled, hormon-driven, grade school kids on week long field trip.
Mainz. Hotel Moguntia - a sanctuary of privacy a week and a half into 7. Relaxed, calm Neil finds himself with one English channel; he now loves CNN.
Berlin. Jetpak - a converted house that puts TVs and the internet in every corner that doesn't have a couch. The owner Neil says the place is full of Canadians. Neil ignores everything he says and asks "What was your name?". A youth correctional Canuck with an "I'm going to tare your arm off and beat you with it" exterior and turns out to have a heart of gold with tales of the jaded youth who find peace. See Also: the British girl who spends 45 minutes telling scary stories of her misery in Naples (she managed to get 4 different Italians to ask her to "Com to my huse".
I open the door to a dark room. There are beds jammed together and stacked awkwardly in every corner. I check the door. No it's not the storage room, it's us, dorm 14. Of the 8 bunks, one has a breathing lump. There is always someone sleeping. I stumble around the beds and start to unpack my essential with the tip-toe mentality of a thief (I'm stealing lost opportunities). It's been half a day of public toilet stations. 80 cents is too much, I can hold it. I check out the washroom. That's all it is a Wash Room. One shower, with a sink facing it; no sign of a toilet. I leave the room and kick an empty water bottle as I pass the sleeping lump. I'm the one whispering "shit" now. Down the poorly lit hallway is a door that screams washroom. I open up to a wide angle shot of a 15 foot hall with one lonely toilet at the end. I wait for the walls to start bleeding like in the Shining. The toilet is the second worst toilet in the world, modeled after the porcelain prince in Trainspotting. I leave and look for something else. I'm prepared to "hold it" for a long time. I later find a step up from the out-house in the Hills have Eyes. It's the closest thing to a functioning washroom I've seen in days. When I leave I walk passed three other broken down excuses, and wonder why this hostel has invested in so many models of the 18th century commode.
Athens. Students and Travelers Inn - a refuge from the crowded busy streets of Athens with Free internet that people lose arms over and a guided tour for 13 Euro (that's like 3 meals). Vincent and Olivier were excited to meet other Canadians who spoke French. Our English accents mixed with their Quebec jumble made for outrageous conversation. See Also: the Asian couple whose Santorini paradise was flooded by 3 days of rain. See Also: the Drunken Brit who couldn't figure out how to operate the door at 3 in the morning (Neil answered while I dozed on).
Santorini. Stelio's Place - a beach resort claiming to be a hostel, with private rooms and AC that worked too well. Brendon and Kate played Pirate with us. We toured the island with the couple as they told us their top five "American's ask us the greatest questions" and led off with "Is Australia more then 24 hours head of LA?" (the Aussies are Favorites). Stelio himself picked us up from the airport and made Santorini the first place we didn't get lost in as we tried to find our hostel. He dropped us off at the airport for our 7AM flight and drove his little bus like a manic around cliffed-corners and one-laned dirt roads all while he balanced his coffee mug and shifted gears. Real Swell guy. (Stelio is a favorite) Also See: Stelio's whole family making breakfast for us, and managing the hostels reservations.
Rome. Gulliver's House - this haven treated us to breakfast with multiple English news channels every morning, and huge castle style rooms. Joseph spent his days racing around the small hostel asking everyone if they needed anything. Telling them "Cool man, cool man, that's what I'm here for, just ask. Cool Man." Bonavista Paul who after "Canadian", and "Calgary" became a guy who grew up 5 blocks away from us. We compared friends and our 6 degrees of separation turned out to be only 2. Brooke who introduced us to the ins and outs of the hostel as she was part way into a 3 week Italian class. We swapped stories of the crazy Italians in roman streets after every day (Brooke is a Favorite) See Also: Drunken Americans who had endless drinking games and sang like English football fans. See Also: Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn who showed us the ropes in Rome. See Also: guy who met Jim from the Office in "some piazza about 15 minutes from here" who we also randomly ran into in Venice (we may have spent the rest of our time looking for a tall American and randomly yelling "Johnny K" at many "candidates".
Florence. Emeral Fields - a six bed dorm with a spacious washroom and a kitchen. Jen and Kim from Toronto became our 3 and 4 as we roamed Florences streets and explored its museums. They were our 3 and 4 for 2 full days; we were ready to make the cut and play the last 18 as a twosome (Neil and I are just too good a travel team). One can only take "that laugh" for so long. See Also: common room full of shady people who wouldn't laugh at my jokes.
Venice. Residenza Santa Croce - facing the Grande Canal this place forgot it was a hostel and spoiled Neil and I was hotel comfort. The SoCal girls from Orange County had spent 36 hours without a hostel, splitting up the gap with 5am bar hopping. After 6 hours of sleep they got lost in the pubs and parties of Venice and slept again at 8 the next morning. When they finally crashed on the third night at 10, I began to believe they were human. The Colorado girls who had lost themselves in the extreme sports of Interlocken told wild stories of sky diving and canyoning. They also said they don't like to walk around at night in strange cities; it's dangerous. Also See: the Sydney Brit from Liverpool who explains to us how he IDs North American by their fashion. Also See: Brad and Jim from the Mid West who can't wait to find the "Italian Hunnies". Also See: a random from the Rome hostel.
Nice. Hotel Pastoral - This is the hostel you hear about from those stories that start "Things were going fine before we checked in". The Islanders from BC are pic-nic girls who eat all their meals on blankets on the floor of the dorm. They also spend 75% of their conversation explaining to each other the best way to get "Shmamered" off alcohol that you can buy for less then a baguette. Also See: Asian Engineers from the Imperial College in London (which we walked passed not 3 weeks ago). Also See: the Petite Quebec girl whose wild conversation and squeaky French accent make me want to Van Gogh my ears.
The room is staring at me. There's a total of 8 people, coming from 3 different dorms. I've paused for a little extra suspense before I hit them with the punch line. They Laugh, and Laugh. It's been the John show for about 20 minutes. I didn't force this on anyone, but when my one liners started to get all the attention, the team just began to expect more.
Hostels are an experience all to themselves. Whether its a bed that sags to the left and tips you out every night at 3am, or a cool manager that lives to make you their best friend, "this" is what it's all about. Dig the Hostels, love the Hostels. What a Mad journey.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Venice...Neil...Gelato
So, I was asked recently whether or not I'm really as angry as I come off in these blogs. You'll be happy to know that I'm not actually this angry...I'm angrier. I'm just toning it down for all your sakes.
Okedokey, two nights ago we were out in Venice doing the things people do in Venice, such as walking around, getting lost, kicking pidgeons, and enjoying the occasional sewage waft from the canals. We'd just come from dinner where I had a beautiful little meal called the pizza Americana. This was a pizza, with french fries as toppings. It was amazing...I also love how it's called the Americana, when you'd never see such a monstrosity in America. Anyways. Next comes the mandatory gelato desert. (Don't get the idea that were eating a lot by this story either, believe I am always hungry, and my moods are always at the mercy of the food I eat, and of the last time I ate, it's ridiculous). And back when we were in Rome, John made some comment that sounded something like 'next time I get gelato, I'm not skimping out, I'm going all the way, I'm getting a waffle cone packed to the brim'. So that's what we did. We found a gelato place and each got a huge waffle cone pack with four scoops of gelato.
I should preface this by saying that before this point it had been awhile since our last bit of dairy intake, so for lunch we each got two cups of yogurt from the supermarket. Now those of you who know Neil, know that Neil can only handle so much dairy before bad things happen to Neil and his stomach. (It is still Neil writing this, I was just seeing how that whole third person thing would go). But don't worry that's not where this story is going. So John and I both have these enormous gelato cones piled high with enough ice cream to feed an entire school of young children. Anyways, about 1 of the four scoops into my gargantuan cone of gelato, I start to feel like I'm in that episode of Jackass where the brilliant jackassers were trying to see how much milk they could drink in like 10 minutes. But that's also not where this story is going.
So I have this monstrous cone of ice cream, and no more dairy capacity in my stomach. But what I'm I gonna do with it, I'm not just gonna throw it away... f*$# that, I paid 2 and a half euro for that bitch so I'm gonna use it up one way or another. So I'm eating this thing, when the cone cracks and the huge pile of ice cream was inches from falling onto the ground. But I saved it. Then, big John has an idea, apparently a funny one, because it takes him about five minutes to explain it through fits of laughter. It wasn't so much an idea as it was a 'wouldn't it be funny if' type of story. But I decide it'd be a nice acting challenge, so I'd perform the idea and John would film it from a distance.
So I run with my nearly full, busted up gelato cone around the corner, and John starts filming once I'm set up in place. Here's how it goes down, and this is all planned as you can tell. So I start walking in this crowded narrow street with patio restaurants on each side. I'm walking with my gelato, I go to lick it, and to the observer, my cone appears to break, and my mountain of gelato starts falling...I try to catch it...it bounces off both hads and plops down smack in the middle of the street. And in a really loud pissed off voice I yell Ohhhhh man!!!! then I throw the rest of the cone on the ground as hard as I could. Everyone stopped and looked over, a couple guys even said some shit in italian to me, then I stormed off with my head down, and threw my napkin on the ground as hard as I could and wandered down the street. Man it was hilarious, all these elderly people eating there nice dinners in these hoity toity restaurants are suddenly interrupted by a seemingly stupid clumsy North American.
John and I figured everyone around would have a nice funny Venice story to tell everyone because of us...and we'd have it on tape...It was hilarious. Ahhh good times.
Okedokey, two nights ago we were out in Venice doing the things people do in Venice, such as walking around, getting lost, kicking pidgeons, and enjoying the occasional sewage waft from the canals. We'd just come from dinner where I had a beautiful little meal called the pizza Americana. This was a pizza, with french fries as toppings. It was amazing...I also love how it's called the Americana, when you'd never see such a monstrosity in America. Anyways. Next comes the mandatory gelato desert. (Don't get the idea that were eating a lot by this story either, believe I am always hungry, and my moods are always at the mercy of the food I eat, and of the last time I ate, it's ridiculous). And back when we were in Rome, John made some comment that sounded something like 'next time I get gelato, I'm not skimping out, I'm going all the way, I'm getting a waffle cone packed to the brim'. So that's what we did. We found a gelato place and each got a huge waffle cone pack with four scoops of gelato.
I should preface this by saying that before this point it had been awhile since our last bit of dairy intake, so for lunch we each got two cups of yogurt from the supermarket. Now those of you who know Neil, know that Neil can only handle so much dairy before bad things happen to Neil and his stomach. (It is still Neil writing this, I was just seeing how that whole third person thing would go). But don't worry that's not where this story is going. So John and I both have these enormous gelato cones piled high with enough ice cream to feed an entire school of young children. Anyways, about 1 of the four scoops into my gargantuan cone of gelato, I start to feel like I'm in that episode of Jackass where the brilliant jackassers were trying to see how much milk they could drink in like 10 minutes. But that's also not where this story is going.
So I have this monstrous cone of ice cream, and no more dairy capacity in my stomach. But what I'm I gonna do with it, I'm not just gonna throw it away... f*$# that, I paid 2 and a half euro for that bitch so I'm gonna use it up one way or another. So I'm eating this thing, when the cone cracks and the huge pile of ice cream was inches from falling onto the ground. But I saved it. Then, big John has an idea, apparently a funny one, because it takes him about five minutes to explain it through fits of laughter. It wasn't so much an idea as it was a 'wouldn't it be funny if' type of story. But I decide it'd be a nice acting challenge, so I'd perform the idea and John would film it from a distance.
So I run with my nearly full, busted up gelato cone around the corner, and John starts filming once I'm set up in place. Here's how it goes down, and this is all planned as you can tell. So I start walking in this crowded narrow street with patio restaurants on each side. I'm walking with my gelato, I go to lick it, and to the observer, my cone appears to break, and my mountain of gelato starts falling...I try to catch it...it bounces off both hads and plops down smack in the middle of the street. And in a really loud pissed off voice I yell Ohhhhh man!!!! then I throw the rest of the cone on the ground as hard as I could. Everyone stopped and looked over, a couple guys even said some shit in italian to me, then I stormed off with my head down, and threw my napkin on the ground as hard as I could and wandered down the street. Man it was hilarious, all these elderly people eating there nice dinners in these hoity toity restaurants are suddenly interrupted by a seemingly stupid clumsy North American.
John and I figured everyone around would have a nice funny Venice story to tell everyone because of us...and we'd have it on tape...It was hilarious. Ahhh good times.
The Italian Job via Venice
Venice is Amsterdam meets Florence, with all the fun of the Dutch canals and all the beauty of the narrow italian streets. This combination also happens to create the greatest labrynthe known to man (forget the hedge masterpiece from the Shining, getting lost in Venice is the real Stephen King horror). However with a map, and some built up enthusiasm, Neil and I managed to find San Marco's Square quite easily. This took place after we had found the Residenza Santa Croce hostel quite easily as well. In fact it was these two (small) victories that led us to believe we knew what Venice was all about. I put the map away... it took us less then 15 minutes to hit our first dead end. The truth of the matter is, getting lost in the a-mazing streets of this floating city is alone worth a trip to italy (provided of course that it isn't dark out, and that you are only lost for a couple of minutes, it really doesn't take long for that gentle laugh, the one that screams embarasment with a touch of anxiety, to turn from "hey, look at us, we're lost in Venice, this is funny..." to "holy crap, weren't we just here 10 minutes ago, I swear we've seen that bridge before"). Travel Tip number 36: start your day in Venice with a little hide-and-go-seek game between you and yourself (oddly enough you never win, Venice seems to rig the game in its favor, and mess you right up). Now Neil and I only lost ourselves between the canals within the city a few times. At this point I will reveal a slight character flaw of mine (or an envious aspect of my personality depending on how you look at things): me and gadgets, we're like an old married couple. Like a true engineer, at the point just before panic, I pulled out the old digital compass on my "hey that does everything you could possibly think of" watch and before Neil could point and laugh, we were back on the map, and surrounded by flow of tourists.
After getting to know the cozy streets, we took to the canals with a Water Bus day pass. This is Italian public transit with out the rules of the road. These Water Buses are the biggest boats on the Grand Canal, and they know it. They crash in and out of the many stops along the canal, giving tourists a few seconds to climb on and get pushed off before they tare off and try to hunt down the Gondolas and cut off the taxies. At one point, after Neil and I had been thrown all over one of the buses, with quick stops and shot gun starts, and had decided that the Calgary LRT is a luxurious dream ride compared to water bus number one, a short yelp and frantic splashing confirmed the quality (or lack there of) of the driver. A girl half on, but definitely half off, took a plung into the cold green soup as the driver decided to snag a few extra seconds on his mid day route. This was enough to have Neil and I elbowing our way on and off at each dock, and giving a little fairy jump over the opening and closing gap. I loved it. I really dug the whole scene. We spent the whole day hoping these rigs like hobos on rail cars.
Part way through the day we visited Lido island. This resort part of Venice was completely different from the snakes-and-ladders paths of the main island. We wasted no time and were in the warm sea water, soaking up the italian sun, getting lost in part of the trip that had nothing to do with museums or queues or catching connecting trains. It was pure relaxation. Travel Tip number 2: Vacation is the key word, don't forget to keep up with the R&R sessions.
Venice was full of great picture spots. My favorite part of our stay was wandering the streets and seeing all that this desktop wallpaper hevan had to offer. I can't emphasis enough the importance of getting completely turned around and lost in this city. It is also imperative that you visit San Marco's square with Neil Webb; he has a strong dislike for Pigeons (hate isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind), and loves to yell at them and chase them around. This city is also full of great Carnivale Mask shops, and the people who own these shops really love the Mask business. Visit them, let them show you how excited a person can be about Masks.
I miss this city already. I can see why there have been so many James Bond boat chases down these canals. I wanted to orchestrate my own Italian Job, and find the Ocean's 12 crew, but alas we only had 3 days there...
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Venice...ah Venice...What are you.
What a strange town, this Venice place. No cars, just boats, and gondolas. I have no idea why they're called gondolas (there the fancy black big canoe looking things manned by some italian with a funny hat, a black and white shirt, and one oar). And these clowns in the referee zebra shirts and the hiked up black pants say 'gondola' in abouuut the most annoying way possible...they don't really pronounce the 'g' and they pretty much sing the rest of the word at every who goes by. But still I really wanted to steal one of these 'ondolas.'
When people talk about riding the busses here...they mean water busses. There public transport system consists of water busses motoring up and down the canals. And the taxis, are also in the rivers, and wow they are some sharp looking boats. They look like limos. So I guess if it was your dream to drive a taxi, I guess Venice would be like the 'the show' or 'the big dance' if you will. But back to the busses, these "busses" had the worst boat drivers ever. Every bus station is like a little dock, and these bus drivers just smash into these docks at good speeds. It's pretty entertaining, providing you have a seat, because the germaphobic touching anything bus surfing would not work here.
So having said that. Of these bad bus drivers, we had a real mensch (wedding crashers anyone, man I haven't seen a movie in a long time, quotes are all I got). This guy was trying to pull of the worst parallel park job in the history of venice. He went back and forth about 8 times running into the dock every time, and then gunning the engines to get us going in the other direction. So after this clown spends 5 minutes tryin to park this boat, after about fifteen seconds of people getting on and off, the guy rips outta the station, with one girl half on and half off. So use your imagination here and think about how this looks. And she barely makes it onto the dock in time....just kidding, she definitely fell into the nasty, nasty green sewage venice water. Come on I wouldn't dissapoint you with a story like that would I.
As bad as I felt for this girl, who had the I'm so embarrassed uncomfortable smile on her, I was laughing my ass off. Oh man, that's kinda mean but it was a laugh I'm telling ya. And all that kept going through my head was Will Tait saying "you must be so embarrassed" in the way that only will can pull off.
I have another real gem of a story I wanna tell about venice but we gotta go catch a train so next time. And of course there's no pictures because the computer I'm on...is older than I am and literally does not have usb ports. Ha! What a place.
When people talk about riding the busses here...they mean water busses. There public transport system consists of water busses motoring up and down the canals. And the taxis, are also in the rivers, and wow they are some sharp looking boats. They look like limos. So I guess if it was your dream to drive a taxi, I guess Venice would be like the 'the show' or 'the big dance' if you will. But back to the busses, these "busses" had the worst boat drivers ever. Every bus station is like a little dock, and these bus drivers just smash into these docks at good speeds. It's pretty entertaining, providing you have a seat, because the germaphobic touching anything bus surfing would not work here.
So having said that. Of these bad bus drivers, we had a real mensch (wedding crashers anyone, man I haven't seen a movie in a long time, quotes are all I got). This guy was trying to pull of the worst parallel park job in the history of venice. He went back and forth about 8 times running into the dock every time, and then gunning the engines to get us going in the other direction. So after this clown spends 5 minutes tryin to park this boat, after about fifteen seconds of people getting on and off, the guy rips outta the station, with one girl half on and half off. So use your imagination here and think about how this looks. And she barely makes it onto the dock in time....just kidding, she definitely fell into the nasty, nasty green sewage venice water. Come on I wouldn't dissapoint you with a story like that would I.
As bad as I felt for this girl, who had the I'm so embarrassed uncomfortable smile on her, I was laughing my ass off. Oh man, that's kinda mean but it was a laugh I'm telling ya. And all that kept going through my head was Will Tait saying "you must be so embarrassed" in the way that only will can pull off.
I have another real gem of a story I wanna tell about venice but we gotta go catch a train so next time. And of course there's no pictures because the computer I'm on...is older than I am and literally does not have usb ports. Ha! What a place.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Tusseling with Toscana
We left Rome by train and arrived at Firenze SMN just in time to jump on a local track to take us to Pisa and its tower. The norm in Pisa is to get off the train, get on a bus, get to the tower, take The Picture, and move on. Neil and I made things interesting by walking through the town towards the sites. Pisa itself is very nice. The main street is full of little shops and restaurants and even with the over cast and slight drizzle everything was quite picturesque.
There are three interesting facts that Neil and I discovered about the Leaning Tower. First off, as true engineers, we were searching the grounds for the indepth explination of this design disaster. We wanted to know who got fired. Who didn't pay attention in their Soil Mechanics class? Who can we make fun of? Nothing. They had nothing about the actually cause of the tower's ridiculous lean (Which insidently is Ridiculous. You round a corner and see this beautiful piece of architecture peering out from behind the wall of buildings that lines the street and you can't help but laugh and go "Really?"). It felt like maybe they were trying to cover it up, hide the fact that the tower is actually a complete catastrophe by calling it a "marvel" and labeling it a "must see attraction". Turns out, its working. (I love it) This brings me to the next interesting fact. When you arrive in Pisa, and see the tower, and enjoy its ridiculousness, move on to the real fun; watching the Tourists. There seems to be an unspoken rule concerning this location that says "instead of caring what the rest of the world thinks about you
, act like a complete fool". Neil and I spent close to an hour wandering the area and the most entertaining part was watching people try to line up their pose. "No left. Too Much! Back, back, Stop! Ah, man you had it. Okay, okay, not bad, now move your left hand down, back, no, no, you have to tilt your wrist out. Oh, geez, you totally had it. Alright, start again with your right had." " FOR HEAVEN SAKES!!! Shut up, why don't you just take the F&£king picture, is it that hard." (I love it) Its also fun to take pictures of the people lining up their shots. The entire area is full of tourists, young and old, trying their best to support the poor, pathetic, sagging tower. This now brings me to my final interesting fact about the Leaning Tower of Pisa (this is Pisa's pride and joy, and therefore they need to make all their money off the silly tourist that want their Leaning Tower of Pisa picture, so everything in Pisa is 4 times the price of everywhere else in the world. So you have the tower, as well as the most expensive post cards known to man). Everyone takes the same picture; I am huge, watch me hold up the tower (I love it). Neil and I didn't think twice about trying to crust the tower, punch it down, push it over and stop it to pieces. At one point a pair of English Gentlemen wandered by and said "Thomas, look, they're doing it wrong, should we tell them". (I love it) Pisa is worth the trip. It's amazing to see that this post card friendly gag actually exists, and it's worth the trip just to see how people act in unusual situations ("reality TV, without the TV").When it rains in Florence it's comparable to Vancouver. Or Calgary, or basically any other place in the world, because everyone still hides under umbrellas and talks about how bad the rain is to one another. When it hails in Florence it is a completely different story. I think we brought the situation on our selves, when we lathered up with sunscreen. It had been nearing 30 degrees in the hot Tuscan sun, and 10 minutes later it was the end of the world. I had a rain jacket. But that really didn't mean anything when the sheets of water started falling from the heavens. We were finishing up a day of exploring the beautiful city when we made a fatal error NOT to go into the last museum. We were half way back to the hostel when the hail started hurting. At one point the main street where our accomodations lay had turned into a lake with floating cars and abandoned scouters (and things floating by that I care not to mention, the streets in Italy tend to gather Character throughout the day). Getting
back to the hostel, in the perfect storm style weather, was the most fun I had had since the go-cart driving of Santorini. I thought it was out of control and I couldn't get enough of it. An hour later it was back up to 30 degrees and the water had dained away; it was back to post-card Florence.We raced around for two days exploring the many museums of this artistic haven. I could try to discribe the experience of turing the corner in the Accademia and seeing Michelangelo's masterpiece, but at 21 feet, David is something that you have to see with your own eyes. (Oddly enough, the sculpture held a striking resemblence to myself. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but David appears to have been a pretty stand up guy, so...) It's funny to see, both women and men, spend so much time just staring up at David's sculpted buttock. People will just marvel at it. I heard several girls walking by saying "wow, he's a pretty good looking sculpture, that Michelangelo was good".
Tuscany is absolutely gorgeous. It's country side made the trip from Florence to Venice really interesting. It was definitely not the generic trip to Florence that many people experience, but between the fun in Pisa, and the down pour of the century, we really took advantage of the amazing museums, and the beautiful street of the red-roofed city. Tuscany gave us a run for our money, but we're still kicking, and loving Italy.
WHY?!?
Alright so...I gave you all a bit of a rest from angry germaphobic Neil for a while, but he's back and he has a few questions about europe.
Why is it always garbage day?
Why are the sirens so loud?
Why do you have to pay to use washrooms?
Why is my memory worse over here?
Why did I almost forget to write the above question?
Why do you have to weigh your own fruit at the supermarkets?
Why does everyone here smoke? (Did they not get the smoking'll kill you memo? and they smoke everywhere too: inside, outside, in train stations, around babies, in restaurants...and so on)
Why do you not need a liquor license to sell alcohol here? (Or if you do need one, why are they so easy to get)
Why do art museums sell wine?
Why am I always hungry?
Why is there nothing but stupid people here?
Why is everyone trying to scam everyone here?
Why aren't there any people out there trying to make the honest buck?
Why is our hostel in Florence right near the unemployment office?
Why is it called 'take away' here instead of 'take out'?
Why are fries called chips and chips called crisps?
Why is the ketchup different here?
Why do they put salt on the tables but not pepper?
Why do restaurants have a cover charge?
Why were the kiosks near the coliseum trying to sell me coke for 4 euro?
Why are there thousands of people trying to sell umbrellas and other useless shit like noise makers?
Why does the tour at the coliseum cost more than the entrance fee? Are they fighting lions or where's the money going?
Why is it then when I see the coliseum the first question that comes into my head is 'when am I gonna get to see Gladiator again'?
Why do i wanna knock people out when they misuse a word?
Why would I wanna buy a shitty umbrella when I'm already soaking wet?
Why am I so angry all the time (answer: see questions above)?
Why won't my clothes dry?
Why are there pigeons all over the place?
Why don't they sell Fanta in Canada?
Why don't they sell Barq's rootbeer in europe?
Why, when I feel depressed, is it that thinking about making movies or editing my movie the only thing that cheers me up?
Why are the scooters so loud?
Why is it ALWAYS GARBAGE DAY???
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Day After Tomorrow in Florence
Here's a couple pics from pisa
Alrighty, today was absolutely ridiculous.
So we're strolling throu
gh Florence, after our museum visit this morning (lots and lots of paintings on no breakfast, it was a struggle after the first couple hours), we go to find some big hill where there's supposed to be a great view. As we get up there we realise that it looks like there's some kinda italian spring break kinda thing going on in this Piazza. They've got american music playing and some guy talking very enthusiastically and it turns out we ran right into the show filming of TRL (that's 'total request live' for all you kids out there) for MTV Italy. There were tons of people there, and I'm not just talking about the regular tourist crews. We got to mix with the yocal locals. There were even busty girls taking their shirts off (relax, don't get too excited they were still wearing bras), but still...not something you see every day (well...it is something that I see everyday but I figured that'd be pretty exciting for everyone else).
At this point in the day, it's bright as shit, and hot as blazes, so we toss on some sunscreen, like the responsible kids we are. And no more than 20 minutes later, the biggest rainstorm I've ever seen rolls in. I'm talking 'Day after tomorrow' style here. And wherever we went the lightning was about half a mile away, because once every thirty seconds or so, there would be ear bleeding thunder about half a second after a nice big lightning flash (you see what I did there, I used the seconds to miles away lightning/thunder rule). So we tried to rush back to the hostel. But it turned out were about...20 minutes away...by running. This is what happens when you do what I call Eurowandering, you end up waaaaayyy farther away
than you thought you were.
Anyways, we're running back, soaked to the bone, and then good people, hail the size of marbles started falling from the sky. It was amazing, and don't worry we got pics and video of it. You see, in every town we go to, we do this thing where I circle big John with the camera in a nice place to get the idea of what it's like. So, my camera being water proof and all, we decided to do the circle thing out in the hail and rain, so that should look cool.
We were almost back to the hostel when we hit our 'home free' street, Via Nazionale, (which ironically, was the same name as the street we stayed on in Rome so...I don't know what that's about). And we turn the corner and via nazionale...is a river. The water is anywhere from upto 6 inches deep at arts, and it was flowing down the street. So up to our ankles in water and dripping wet we finally got back to our hostel.
Alrighty, today was absolutely ridiculous.
So we're strolling throu
gh Florence, after our museum visit this morning (lots and lots of paintings on no breakfast, it was a struggle after the first couple hours), we go to find some big hill where there's supposed to be a great view. As we get up there we realise that it looks like there's some kinda italian spring break kinda thing going on in this Piazza. They've got american music playing and some guy talking very enthusiastically and it turns out we ran right into the show filming of TRL (that's 'total request live' for all you kids out there) for MTV Italy. There were tons of people there, and I'm not just talking about the regular tourist crews. We got to mix with the yocal locals. There were even busty girls taking their shirts off (relax, don't get too excited they were still wearing bras), but still...not something you see every day (well...it is something that I see everyday but I figured that'd be pretty exciting for everyone else).At this point in the day, it's bright as shit, and hot as blazes, so we toss on some sunscreen, like the responsible kids we are. And no more than 20 minutes later, the biggest rainstorm I've ever seen rolls in. I'm talking 'Day after tomorrow' style here. And wherever we went the lightning was about half a mile away, because once every thirty seconds or so, there would be ear bleeding thunder about half a second after a nice big lightning flash (you see what I did there, I used the seconds to miles away lightning/thunder rule). So we tried to rush back to the hostel. But it turned out were about...20 minutes away...by running. This is what happens when you do what I call Eurowandering, you end up waaaaayyy farther away
than you thought you were.Anyways, we're running back, soaked to the bone, and then good people, hail the size of marbles started falling from the sky. It was amazing, and don't worry we got pics and video of it. You see, in every town we go to, we do this thing where I circle big John with the camera in a nice place to get the idea of what it's like. So, my camera being water proof and all, we decided to do the circle thing out in the hail and rain, so that should look cool.
We were almost back to the hostel when we hit our 'home free' street, Via Nazionale, (which ironically, was the same name as the street we stayed on in Rome so...I don't know what that's about). And we turn the corner and via nazionale...is a river. The water is anywhere from upto 6 inches deep at arts, and it was flowing down the street. So up to our ankles in water and dripping wet we finally got back to our hostel.
Monday, June 4, 2007
MY Roman Holiday
We sailed through the clouds on our decent into Rome from Greece, and after the usual period of blind travel (where the pilot can mess around with all his favorite tricks and blame even a barrel roll on "light" turbulence) we ran straight in to roman rain (which is like Calgary rain, but with Italians trying to sell you broken umbrellas).
In most cities, our routine has been to arrive, to get horribly lost, to return to our start point, and eventually Forest Gump our way to the hostel. In Rome however, we found Gulliver's House (which in Hostel terms means "amazing accomodations, with kitchen, American TV, and Free Internet") in no time at all. Unfortunately the hostel has a lock out between 12 and 4pm for cleaning (which in Hostel terms mean go back out into the roman rain and have fun with the umbrellas sellers).
Although our first day was full of post-card pics with Neil and I soaked by the rain, we were able to visit Trinita dei Monti (wet Spanish Steps), the Piazza del Popolo (large People's square, also wet), Palazzo di Glustizia (very unique, wet architecture) which was next to the Castel Sant' Angelo (fortress of massive, wet proportions) beside the Ponte Sant' Angelo (wonderfully wet bridge lined with sculptures), and Vatican City with out the massive crowds. But the really exciting part of our first day was seeing a real life, energetic "exchange" between a man and a woman... We are talking, colourful Italian argument. Neil and I just stopped and watched as these two people just tore into each other, arms flailing, spit flying, Italian words sounding like music to our tourist ears. It was a highlight. Crazy Italians and their emotional existance.
We later made our way to the Pantheon, and Trevi Fountain before eating Spagehti a la Cardanara at a small pasta house (too Italian for our first day? perhaps).
Rome for us was divided into 3 parts, making the experience less "a few days in Rome" and more an "entire Roman vacation". The Vatican can't be rushed. This is partly because it is physically impossible to do anything but stand in a crowd or line up in Vatican City, but mainly because there is so much to take in. The Vatican museum is more then just the Capella Sistina (as every wall is filled with murals, sculptures watch over each room, and the hallways are covered with intricate ceiling art), but they never let you forget that Michelango's ceiling is the main event. After an hour of moving through the museum and following the Capella Sistina -> signs, we ran right into it. The room was huge. I didn't even care that my neck ached beyond pain killers, the work was spectacular. It took close to an hour just to try and take it all in. (I did get distracted every now and then by the "No Foto, No Camera" followed by the 2 claps that the many security guards would yell. And the covert camera work was hilarious too; suddenly everyone is a spy, trying to snag a few shots of the room. Neil was like a pro, shhhh.)
The Vatican part two was in the afternoon. A significantly shorter 30 minute wait (the museum was closer to 2 hours) took us into St. Peter's Basilica. This was a highlight for Neil and I (even better then the two italians fighting). We got lost in the Cathedral's force of importance. You couldn't help but feel how powerful the Basilica was. We left the Vatican regenerated, and ready to tackle the rest of our Europe Trip.
Part 2 of Rome was set aside for a new day. We beat the crowds and entered the Colloseum like gladiators (actually we entered at the same time as a large group of Asian Tourists, which made it kind of hard to feel like Russel Crowe's Maximus).
This actually brings me to Travel Tip number 7: Queue like Asian Tourist. The most impressive display of "line work" that I have ever seen was in the queue for the Vatican Museum, when a group of 20 plus asian tourists managed to squirm their way passed dozens of people without anyone noticing. Their techniques can't usually be taught (like nijas they use deception, and they work in pairs to distract their targets as they slip by, if they can't implement "sneekiness" then they use their secret weapon, the unbrella, they'll flip open an umbrella in a crowd and clear a 5 foot radius, then they'll fill the gap) so it is best to simply join their group and hope that you can blend in (this was difficult for a 6 foot 3 white boy, with no umbrella).
The Colloseum has seen better days. This isn't to say it's not impressive, in fact we circled the arena several times on multiple floors to take it all in. We mooched off of a number of different tours and feel that we are now (expert isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind) ready to... watch Gladiator again, and really appreciate it. 
The ruins of Rome are like the ruins of Athens, only standing (I'm joking, I'm joking... they appear to be different colours too). It was amazing to see how different the two ancient cities are. Part of the fun of Rome is running into ruins throughout the city. We would be walking along a narrow, cobble stone street, with classic Italian apartments funneling us forward, and suddenly the next turn would reveal the Pantheon. Rome is a great city to get lost in, provided you have the time to wander, and the patients to work with the crowds.
This brings me to another important point; Travel Tip number 31: When in Rome... no seriously, do as the Romans do, especially when it comes to Pedestrians vs Vehicles. The sidewalks are narrow, and sometimes they completely disappear. The roads are several lanes wide with buses, cars, and freakin scouters wizzing by. This isn't a huge problem, but if you ever need to cross a street, don't wait for the small green man to tell you it's safe, team up with an elderly italian woman, or a person pushing a stroller. It sounds bad, but if you want to survive side with a team that won't lose (no one is going to feel good about running over an old lady, and strollers are practically bullet proof when it comes to cars... "american" looking tourist on the other hand are considered bonus to roman drivers).
Part 3 of our Roman tour took place as a "filler". It was everything in between the big sites, it was our Audrey Hepburn, Gregory Peck routine (I was Gregory Peck... Neil's a big Audrey Hepburn fan). We wandered through the city and created our own Roman Holiday. Travel Tip number 32: if you are uncertain as to how to proceed with a roman vacation, study Roman Holiday on DVD. In fact one of the girls in the hostel had spent the better part of a day searching the city for a copy of the movie. So with a full day left Neil and I joined the Gulliver's House crew and mapped out our last day in Rome with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck (you should watch this movie, even if you aren't going to Rome to eat Gelato on the Spanish Steps... set below).
Rome is a must. It's like a New York, a Paris, an Edmonton (HA!), it has to be experienced at least once in everyones' life. It was back on the train after 3 days of roaming Rome. We head north to Florence, and I have returned to Jack Kerouac for guidence as we return to the Road. I'm digging this traveling stuff, and like Dean and Sal, I can't stay put for too long (3 days is usually enough to get the feel for a place). And just like that we start our 4th week in Europe, having punched each city... right in the face (or at least in their big monuments).
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