Between Borders and Buses

Between

Borders and

Buses

DARREN ASSEY

First published in 2008, by Beyond Yonder Publications First printed in Australia in 2008

By Griffin Press Copyright © Darren Assey 2008 All rights reserved. No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication entry Assey, Darren, 1978– .

Between borders and buses.

1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9804142-0-2 (pbk.).

I. Title.

A823.4 “Every Fucking City” Words and music by Paul Kelly © Universal Music Publishing Pty Ltd. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.

Reprinted with permission.

Edited by Merilyn Smith Contact: correctediting@bigpond.com Proof read by Tim Learner timlearner@kooee.com.au Cover design: Wide Open Media Internal design and typesetting: Wide Open Media All trademarks mentioned within Between Borders and Buses remain the property of the relevant copyright holders Every effort has been made to acknowledge and contact the owners of copyright for permission to reproduce material which falls under the 1968 Copyright Act. Any copyright holders who have inadvertently been omitted from acknowledgement and credits should contact the publisher and omissions will be rectified in the subsequent editions.

For Mum and Dad Whose love made the distance from home minuscule.

Acknowledgements

“I want to write a book,” I remember telling my Year 8 English teacher.

Her response: “I hope you realise it won’t be easy.”

Not really listening, filled with youthful exuberance and naiveté I answered, “Yeah, I do.”

I gave a similar answer in Prague. I had returned from Kutna Hora, found a bar near the hostel and was writing in my journal when I was joined by a hostel mate, who was also an ex journalist from a Sydney newspaper.

“That your travel journal?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, “I’m going to use the entries to write a book.”

“Awesome,” she said, “but bear in mind writing can be hard going.”

“I know,” I nodded.

The ladies were right. Writing a book isn’t easy and was harder than I ever imagined, but thanks to the support of numerous people, my book is no longer bits and bytes on a computer but words on a printed page.

Firstly I would like thank all the bus drivers (especially Matt) and guides on Busabout for making the travel days fun and interesting. I really would not have not got anywhere without them.

In particular I would like to thank the friends I met while travelling. Without them my journey would’ve been pretty damn boring and this book would’ve been the perfect cure for insomnia.

Kelly, Stephanie, Brett and Brenda, Julia, Shannon, Danielle and Ari, thanks for the great memories and let’s do it again sometime.

Thanks to Lisa, Chondona and Vivien for taking time out to read my first draft and providing inspired feedback and comments.

My old flat mate Toby for being the very definition of patience.

Every night after dinner, and often on weekends, he put up with me ignoring him and scurrying into my room to type relentlessly. He was a good flat mate in London and an even better one in Sydney.

Melanie, thanks for being the little sister I never had and supporting me from the first page to the last. Bernard, Sameh and Heidi for agreeing with me that writing a book is a good idea and I would be a fool not to pursue it. Razia, Shyamika, Theresa and Erin, four zany girls who always helped me see the brighter side of life.

Sarah and Bourke who loved the draft version of this book so much they placed it next to their loo giving everyone the opportunity to read it. My best friend Rudolph who never let me forget my dream.

Janine who saw me as an author first and a scientist second, an observation that meant the world to me. Palak, the best friend/fan/ publicist a writer could want. Every week without fail she circulated my long winded emails (the precursor to the chapters in this book) to everyone in her address book thereby creating a fan base I didn’t even know I had. Palak and Janine’s belief in me was what kept me going, especially when I was staring at a page of white space and a mocking cursor.

This book would be nowhere as good if not for my editor Merilyn Smith. Her provoking comments, her ability to cope with overused adjectives (which would’ve driven any other person to acts of unspeakable violence) and her eye for detail has made this book better than I could’ve ever hoped or expected.

Finally, my parents and grandparents who understood that writing can be a reclusive and selfish pastime and gave me all the support, patience and love I needed, put up with my mood swings and was always there when I needed them.

Contents 1

“All Aboard!”

2

Blinded By Lights

1

3

The High Life

40

4

Two for the Price of One

49

5

The Bohemian Way of Life

6

Capital of Culture

7

There’s Music in Dem Dere Hills

120

8

München? Must be German for ‘Beer’

144

9

Romance, Charm and a Whole Lot of Water (Part 1)

158

19

74 100

10 Towards Paradise

187

11 A Gay Ol’ Time

199

12 Where’s a Rabbit’s Foot, a Horseshoe and a Four-Leaf Clover When You Need One?

213

13 Size Does Matter

229

14 Where the Party Be At!

242

15 Sunsets at the Edge of Paradise

250

16 Paradise’s End

260

17 Romance, Charm and a Whole Lot of Water (Part 2)

265

18 Rome Sweet Rome

276

19 Sicilian Segue

305

20 Paradiso Italiano

321

21 Movin’ On Up

339

22 Under a Tuscan Sun

349

23 A Stroll Through Five Lands

370

24 Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice

380

25 And That’s a Load of Bull!

397

26 The Amalgamation of it All

423

27 What Goes Around …

436

28 Swiss Dreams are Made of These

450

29 All Good Things …

463

1

“All Aboard!”

Listening to the howling wind and the murmuring London traffic from my hostel bed it suddenly occurred to me how quickly the last two years had passed me by. It seemed like only yesterday I’d arrived in London and made my way to The Fox and Goose, the pub where I’d planned to work behind a bar for a couple of months to earn some quick dosh so I could bum around Europe for a while.

On my arrival the manager had taken one look at me and relegated me to the restaurant, probably because he could see I had no hope of reaching the wine glasses on the rack above the bar.

Not that being a waiter prevented me from having accidents.

If anything, this increased my chances for mishaps. At least if I’d been confined to the bar there was only the danger of spilt drinks and broken glass. Putting me to work in the restaurant meant there were the added perils of spilt gravy, mushy peas, bolognaise sauce and anything else that could leave lasting impressions on the clothes and bodies of unsuspecting patrons. One such incident left me covered in cream and my manager wearing hot, sticky apple pie. Needless to say he was not impressed. The customers however were overjoyed at the impromptu cabaret.

I’d planned to work at the pub for about three months before beginning my small tour of Europe, but I was so busy experiencing the relaxed antipodean London lifestyle that

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my plans quickly fell by the wayside. Not only did I stay at The Fox much longer than expected, but my travel plans were pushed aside indefinitely. At least until my two-year visa was about to expire.

Not that I spent the entire two years at The Fox. I may be clumsy, but I certainly am not crazy—okay, maybe a little. If I’d stayed at the pub for that long I definitely would’ve left London in a straightjacket and the only sightseeing I would’ve done is from the confines of a padded cell.

Working at The Fox wasn’t all bad, but after six months I was at the stage where if I’d had to eat yet another toasted sandwich and chips I would have gone stark raving mad.

Added to this was the fact that the staff house where I was staying, a mere ten-minute walk from the pub, made the Leaning Tower of Pisa look sturdy, and I’d been silly enough to choose the bed that sat directly under the leaky portion of the roof. That said, the roof leaked only when it rained; being London this meant there was enough water collected in the yellow bucket I’d placed there to fill Sydney’s Warragamba Dam. The food was similarly predictable. Breakfast was a choice of either cereal or fried eggs accompanied by some sort of pork by-product—whether it was bacon or sausages was anybody’s guess—while lunch was a little something I like to call ‘Leftover Surprise’. Why? Because it was always a surprise what was left over from the lunchtime pub rush, and because it was a surprise if it was actually edible. While lunch gave most people indigestion, heartburn, the runs, or all of the above, dinner simply gave people the opportunity to swear profusely.

It consisted mainly of toasted sandwiches and chips, soup and chips, and for the real adventurous who thought their heart— and stomach—could take it, there was melted cheese on chips.

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Obviously, this pub was in charge of keeping the country’s hot chips economy afloat.

Little wonder that after only a week of this I was pretty sick of toasted sandwiches and chips. Yet I watched with disbelief as the same people came into the pub day after day and ordered that same meal over and over. I soon began to wonder if the English had any idea about variety and if the only spice of life they ever got came courtesy of the local Indian takeaway.

That aside, I look back on my time spent at The Fox and Goose with fondness because in all honesty they were some of the best times of my life.

One memory that always brings a smile to my face is the time the staff got together to celebrate Australia Day. I was no longer working at the pub by this stage and had moved on to bigger and better things. According to the piece of paper I was handed just before leaving Australia, I was a qualified industrial chemist and I was eager to find out what that meant. My mates at The Fox weren’t too sure about my choice of career. They’d seen first-hand how uncoordinated I was with pub food and dreaded to think how I’d behave with much more dangerous substances. I guess they were waiting for the headline, Clumsy Anglo-Indian Causes Right Royal Mess! Nevertheless, I finally found a company brave enough to hire me and was soon embroiled in the thrilling world of automotive coatings. It was as fun as it sounds and before long I could proudly say I was actually being paid to watch paint dry.

Anyway, when Australia Day finally arrived—something I’d been looking forward to for quite some time—I left work early and quickly made my way to the pub.

I arrived as the self-titled ‘Bar Boys’ were closing up for the night. There was Toby, a tall blond larrikin who once talked me out of buying a T-shirt just so he could buy it (and yes, you’re 3

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right in thinking he’s a bastard!), Robert “don’t fuckin’ call me Ronald” Macdonald who loved all things Bon Jovi and was adamant that everyone at The Fox kept the faith, and finally Lincoln, a lanky Kiwi who was the most high-tech backpacker I’d ever seen. While others were content with just a camera or two, Lincoln turned up at the staff house armed with a video camera, a laptop and plans to turn our room into a high-tech Mecca. In the space of a week he’d outfitted his laptop with a CD burner, the house with an Internet connection and there was even talk of installing a collapsible satellite dish before the month was out.

Once the boys had closed the bar the four of us and a few other workmates walked to the staff house. The place hadn’t changed much since I’d left. Eleven people were still crammed in there and it still looked like it was about to collapse any minute—the fence had already done so—and the roof over my old bed still leaked.

While Lincoln fired up the laptop and streamed Triple J, the first beers were cracked open and celebrations began and continued well into the next day. Admittedly, there was a short break at around four in the morning when pretty much everybody, overcome by copious amounts of beer consumption, crashed and burned.

Australia Day in London was not at all like Australia Day back home. The weather had a lot to do with that. Grey, miserable and reflecting the state of English cricket—shithouse!

But being the Australian pioneers that we were, Rob, Toby and I weren’t going to let a little drop of rain stop us and we waded into the backyard to fire up the barby. With the rain streaming and the wind blustering, you can imagine this proved quite difficult. Using our extensive knowledge of engineering and building practices, along with some old ladders and clear 4

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plastic sheeting we spotted in the shed, we built a pergola.

Okay, that’s not exactly true. When I say we built a pergola what we actually did was prop ladders up against one another and hoped for the best. Even then it took us the better part of twenty minutes to settle on a design that successfully stood up of its own accord for longer than two seconds.

Finally, wiping the rain from our brows, the three of us stepped back and congratulated ourselves before a small breeze whistled through the backyard and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground and us scrambling for cover.

As a result, the barbecue—the smallest I’d ever seen at one and a half times the length of a loaf of bread and about two times its width—was moved into the shed. Looking at it, I wondered if it would even hold the weight of a sausage, let alone a few chunky rissoles.

Lunch was followed by a game of backyard cricket, which unfortunately didn’t last as long as we hoped. First, the light began to fade at about three o’clock, which was typical of a London winter, and second, Toby gave into the urge to smash the ball into the canal that flowed behind the houses on the other side of the street. This left us with little else to do but pop open more drinks and play drinking games until we all passed out.

For this most of us were glad because in the room directly above us the head housekeeper and her husband, both illegal immigrants, were again giving the bed springs a work-out— they were notorious for it. It was a similar situation where I was staying at the time. I’d moved out of the staff house and into a bed-sit in West London when I’d started the job at the paint company and while the roof wasn’t leaking the other residents seemed to be forever bonking. If it wasn’t the couple in the room next to mine it was the son of the landlord and 5

Between Buses and Borders

his girlfriend. It therefore came as no great shock when I came home from work one day to find someone delivering a brand new bed.

Thankfully, Scotland wasn’t as bad. After I’d finished watching paint dry I moved up north to see how life was in the land of coos—hairy cows—and kilts. Instead of spending my time in Edinburgh or Glasgow I ventured into the Highlands, which turned out to be a great decision. The scenery was beautiful, like something out of The Lord of the Rings, the air was fresh and the people, well, let’s just say they were different.

While they didn’t feel the need to shag around me like bunnies on Viagra—in itself a good thing—I did find a few of the locals a quid short of a fiver. It was a couple of weeks after I’d started work at a Scottish pub when the bar manager told me very casually that a girl had slashed his back with a knife.

“Why?” I asked him.

Apparently he supported the wrong soccer team.

At that point I made a mental note: When chatting to girls in Scotland (a) do not mention soccer and (b) make sure they’re not carrying concealed weapons of any kind. It was a mantra I would follow forever.

One day I was picking up a roll of developed film when the guy behind the counter casually asked me where I was from.

I told him.

“Aye,” he said as his eyes glazed over. “Yeenaw, arv alwees want’d ta visit Awstreelya.”

“What’s stopping you?” I asked.

“Jist ma crim’nal reick’d.”

Deciding not to pry, I simply nodded.

“Yissee, in ma young’r dees, ah wa a wee bit sillay an kill’d sum people ata fitba match.”

“Oh ... okay.” What else could I say?

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“That’s the thin with us Scawttish,” he sighed. “We’re lurvely people, ba we’re aw fuckin’ nuts!”

I certainly was not going to argue.

Despite this Scotland was a place of amazing and rugged beauty and I was sad to leave. But I had a whole other continent waiting to be explored and the following evening would find me in Paris. I could not wait.

To make sure I didn’t miss my bus the next morning I’d set my alarm for six. So when one started going off in the middle of the night I instinctively reached for mine. It didn’t occur to me that my alarm clock, which made less noise than a buzzing housefly but was still as annoying, had been hooked up to an amplifier of concert proportions. Many unsuccessful attempts to kill it and a string of swear words later, I realised the alarm that was blaring wasn’t in fact mine; it was the hostel’s.

Instead of making my way to the nearest exit in an orderly fashion, I spent many minutes trying to find my glasses. Not that they were of any help because the room was pitch-black and I ended up tripping over my bag and sliding head-first along the floor.

Finally I reached the door, flung it open and found the corridor completely empty. Everyone else in the hostel, so it seemed, had ignored the alarm, preferring the warmth of their beds to London’s chilly night air. I could not fault their reasoning, so I too wormed back into bed. Eventually the alarm was switched off and I was soon asleep.

While some would say going on a tour with a company such as Busabout is not really backpacking because everything is taken care of, I would disagree. While Busabout offers a great alternative to Europe’s rail and bus network bussing people from city to city with guides giving the odd bit of advice along the way, I still spent many hours planning journeys, 7

Between Buses and Borders

deciding how long I would stay in each spot and booking my own accommodation. I’d heard great things about Busabout and with the arrival of the bus the next day, found them all to be true. The ride was comfortable and our guide was friendly, laid-back and informative. The season was still early for tourists, which meant the bus was by no means full and finding a seat wasn’t a problem. Before long we were out of the city and weaving through green hills towards Dover.

This was the first place I chose to visit outside of London.

Why? No particular reason. I just wanted to get out of London and the first place that popped into my mind was Dover with its white cliffs.

Compared to Brighton—the quintessential weekend getaway for Londoners—this town was both quaint and quiet.

Not to say it was boring. A few locals definitely knew how to make their own fun. Pouring dishwashing detergent into the fountain in the town square, for example. What resulted was the perfect impromptu foam party and left me wondering what the scene would look like if something similar happened at the fountain in Trafalgar Square.

Unlike the town, Dover port was a hive of activity. Being the main gateway to Europe the port was in a constant state of motion with ferries and cargo ships arriving and leaving with remarkable efficiency. When our bus arrived into port we were marshalled accordingly and our passports checked before the bus was driven onto the ferry and we shuffled out onto the deck.

While my fellow backpackers chose to find seats somewhere in the concourse I decided to walk past the shops and restaurants that were already doing a roaring trade and headed onto the observation area at the stern of the boat to grab a parting look at the UK. 8

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It was a stunning sight. The wide expanse of the chalky British coastline extended endlessly in both directions and perched near the cliff’s edge was the Gateway of England— Dover Castle. By this stage I’d seen more than enough castles to last me a lifetime, having found out castles were to England like Starbucks were to street corners—they were everywhere. But I must admit, of all the castles I’d seen Dover’s remained one of my favourites. Not because of its imposing ramparts, keep and rounded medieval towers, but because running underneath its foundations was a vast network of underground tunnels that served as a crucial and strategic outpost during World War Two. After an uneventful journey across the English Channel we arrived on French soil and our guide picked up the microphone and greeted us with a chirpy “Bonjour” before dumping bucket-loads of information on us about Paris. Once she’d given us the run-down of what to see in the City of Lights she returned to her seat and, like the rest of us, was quickly taken up by the passing scenery.

Not that I blamed her. Unlike the typical dreary weather on the other side of the channel, the skies over France were clear and the sun literally glowed. The drive to Paris was made even more pleasant by the view of the lush countryside and green meadows that flanked the bus on both sides. I wish I could say the same for driving in Paris. It seemed every single vehicle was practising for a demolition derby. I watched in amazement as cars, trucks and buses veered this way and that, moved sideways through traffic, occasionally bent all known laws of physics, and still managed to cause damage to all objects within a ten-metre radius. Anything beyond that, suitable weaponry was employed. In spite of this, our ever-resourceful driver managed to deliver us to Rue Montmartre in one piece by 9

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avoiding lethal stares, death rays and the occasional grenade/ projectile/Surface-to-Air Missile lobbed in our direction.

As the bus pulled into the front of the hotel our guide reminded us of the dangers of pickpockets and bag snatchers.

We warily picked up our bags and eyed every French man, woman and poodle with paranoid suspicion.

Unlike everyone else who walked into the hotel to check in, I’d planned to leave the Busabout circuit for a few days and do my own thing. Standing nearby and eagerly awaiting my arrival were two long-time family friends, the petite Halcyon and her husband Fabrice, who looked remarkably like Gerard Depardieu. After they’d customarily kissed my face four times each, we paused for a drink at a local cafe before we bundled into Fabrice’s car and drove back to their place for a traditional meal of pork chops and mashed potatoes. Not understanding how pork chops and mashed potatoes are traditionally French, I asked Halcyon. She said it wasn’t because the pig was French, but more because the chops were both marinated and cooked in wine.

“Are you any good at bowling, Darren?” Halcyon asked.

“It depends on your definition of good,” I responded.

She smiled. “Would you like to go?”

The bowling alley was unlike any other I’d seen.

“You look shocked, Darren,” Halcyon said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really. It’s just that I never expected the bowling alley to be so ... classy.”

“What do you mean?” Fabrice asked. “What do they look 10

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like in Australia?”

“Well, for one thing we don’t sit on wraparound leather lounges sipping cocktails while we wait for our turn.”

“Would you like a cocktail?”

“Love one.”

While Halcyon organised the drinks Fabrice and I collected our shoes. As I was getting into mine a guy in the far lane scored his third strike in a row. Almost immediately an announcement came over the speakers and he ran up to the bar to claim his prize. France must be the only place in the world where champagne is awarded for a good performance without a moment’s hesitation.

We found our lane and Fabrice, looking every inch the professional, effortlessly picked up his bowling ball, assumed the position and sized up the pins at the end of the lane. He then hurled the ball so fast that I’m sure the pins weren’t even struck, but fell over out of sheer fright.

Looking pretty chuffed with himself, Fabrice rubbed his hands together, smiled smugly at me and said, “Your turn, Darren.”

As I picked up my eight-kilogram ball I swear I heard the pins at the other end say, “weakling”. Naturally, that fired me up. With all my might, I sent the ball spiralling down the lane and straight into the gutter.

Halcyon smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, Darren. I’m sure you’ll do better with your spare.”

I grabbed the ball again and stared down the lane. The pins sneered back. I knew my pride was at stake. Taking a deep breath, I let loose and as the ball tumbled down the lane I thought for at least a second I’d bowled a strike. Ah, revenge would be mine and the pins would come crashing down. But reality landed with an almighty thud as I watched the ball in 11

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painfully slow motion curve at the last minute.

I turned around and shuffled back to my seat, ignoring the chuckling of the pins. “Hey, monsieur,” one called after me, “the only way you could ever get a strike is if we laugh so hard we cannot help but topple over!”

“Darren, it’s all right,” Halycon told me as I slumped back down. “Two pins are better than none. I’m sure you’ll do better next time.” She picked up her ball, knocked down six pins with her first bowl and then proceeded to pick up the spare.

Oh yeah, I was good at bowling, but only in my dreams!

The next day was Sunday, Easter Sunday to be exact. I celebrated with relatives in the very traditional sense; by stuffing myself silly with chocolate and food, and in that order. It also happened to be my birthday so there was the added bonus of a great big cake. I decided to make the most of it, knowing it would be quite some time before I would eat this well again.

I wasn’t going to begin my tour of Europe in Paris but in Lourdes, a town situated at the base of the Pyrenees and made famous by the mysterious appearances of the Virgin Mary.

Needing only one day to visit the spring and go for a hike up a mountain, I did not think it was necessary to lug my monstrous backpack there and back. Neither did Halcyon, who promptly arranged for my bag to be stored at the hotel where I was going to stay when I returned to Paris.

It was obvious the hotel management had no recollection that this conversation ever took place. Bad move on their part.

When you first meet Halcyon it’s easy to be fooled by her sweet porcelain face and soft nature. It’s only when she releases what I describe as her ‘fire breathing, arse kicking, start praying for your mama’ beast within that you realise how wrong you were. The guy at reception made this mistake. By the time 12

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Halcyon had finished with him he was handing over the key to the luggage lockers plus the contents of his wallet. He then turned to his manager—who at this point had taken a step back—and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Once my bag was safely locked away Fabrice and Halcyon kindly took me on a night tour of Paris. We drove the length of Rue Montmartre, Paris’s famous red light district before turning towards the city. After a loop of the Arc de Triomphe, Fabrice cruised down the neon swamped Champs Elysées, continued on to Notre Dame, traced the contours of the Seine until finally he whizzed past the glittering brilliance of the Eiffel Tower.

Looking every bit as incredible as the night sky itself, it was easy to see why Paris is known as the City of Lights.

We arrived at Gare d’Austerlitz and after farewelling my hosts I climbed aboard the Train à Grande Vitesse. On the dot of ten the train rumbled to life, pulled out of the station and took me into the dark French countryside.

When travelling on a train I usually curl up in a ball, make a funny sort of purring noise and collapse in an unconscious heap. In fact I’ve been blessed with a remarkable gift. I can close my eyes and go to sleep anywhere any time—on a train, on a bus, sitting in a lecture theatre during the delivery of an important piece of information about an upcoming exam. But on this train I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not because the seats on the TGV were uncomfortable, far from it, but because I couldn’t see anything through the windows and was afraid of missing my stop and ending up in the middle of the countryside only to be taken in by a farmer and made to milk his goat. Not only that, I was plagued with worry about my bag. I’d heard the trains in France were notorious for pickpockets and bag snatchers and the last thing I wanted was to wake up to find my stuff had been pinched.

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In an effort to stay awake I pulled out a bottle of Coke from my backpack, took a large sip and began to write in my journal about my exciting night of bowling. But it didn’t take long to find myself being strangely lured by the softness of the seats. I needed something more to keep me awake, so I put my journal away, pulled out my Discman, played some rock music and took another swig of Coke. Who would think that the sound of a blaring electric guitar could be so soothing because before I knew it the CD had finished and a full hour had passed. I tried another CD, more Coke, walking up and down the aisle, all to no avail because again I was soon nodding off.

The train pulled into Lourdes as the sun crested the distant peaks of the Pyrenees Mountains. I spent the morning wandering around the Grotto by the spring before later climbing to the top of the nearest mountain to take in the view of the valley below, a panorama of quaint towns and winding roads set against snow-capped mountains.

It was a little past ten that night when the train back to Paris pulled into the station. Unlike the TGV to Lourdes, this train was neither sleek nor empty. Most seats were taken with people jammed in the aisles and vestibules at the ends of the carriage. It was like India where cattle lumber down the aisles at will. But this was France, so rather than opting for the roof I squeezed down the aisle towards my seat and found someone sitting in it. This was the last thing I needed. I could say hello and goodbye and a few other basic phrases in French, but when it came to politely telling someone to get out of my seat, I was at a loss. What made it worse was that the man was asleep.

I pulled out my ticket, not relishing the task ahead. No doubt the guy would not want to be woken and subjected to some tourist gesticulating wildly and pointing at a ticket while repeating in very bad French, “Hello, my name is Darren!” I 14

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was sure he would be left with the distinct impression that I was either a very happy tourist or someone trying to pick him up.

Nonetheless, it had to be done because I did not want to stand all the way to Paris, a journey that from Lourdes takes seven hours.

I reached across the seat and tapped the gentleman’s shoulder. He mumbled something and brushed my hand away.

Undeterred, I again reached across and gently shook his arm.

This time he begrudgingly opened his eyes and gawked at me.

“E-e-excusez-em-moi, m-m-monsieur,” I stuttered, “you,” I gestured at him, “are in my seat.” I pointed to the seat.

He looked at me and muttered something in French.

“Pardon, monsieur,” I said again, “you are in my seat.” I pointed to the ticket then at the seat as well as the number above the seat. “Oh shit.” I’d mixed up the seats. Mine was actually the one in front of this man I’d woken and by all accounts, it was empty.

“Pardon, monsieur, pardon,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

He sneered at me, said something that was obviously not particularly flattering and went back to sleep.

My seat was empty, but it was quite a difficult task to get into it, even for someone with my vertically challenged dimensions. It was bad enough that the leg room was practically non-existent, but adding to my predicament was the fact that the person in front of me felt the need to put his seat so far back that I could’ve rubbed his bald head with my nose and made a wish. Naturally, I did what anyone else in my situation would have done. I raised my legs, pushed my knees through the back of his seat and gently nudged. After a few minutes of this he turned around and glared at me. In the dim light of the carriage I’m certain I saw steam come out his ears, his pale 15

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European complexion turn a lovely shade of red and the top of his bald head ooze a shimmer of heat. I shifted slightly, gave the seat another push and dodged the daggers that were shot at me while he let loose a deep growl that would cause a grizzly bear to get all hot and bothered during mating season.

I yawned and feigned innocence, all the while shrugging my shoulders and flashing a cheesy grin as if to say, What am I doing? I’m just a stupid tourist. His seat went up. Not all the way, just enough so my ribs had room to move, allowing me a few shallow breaths. The small consolation of the journey was there was no fear of me sleeping past my stop because the train terminated in Paris. This, however, did not make it any easier for me to get any sleep.

I expected a night train to be quiet, but I was surprised to find this was not the case. The loudest noise didn’t come from snorers—and there were plenty of those—but from the woman next to me who seemed to have a love for opera. Not just any type of opera. She loved the far from soothing tones of the Chinese variety. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she’d been using headphones, but that wasn’t the case. She was in fact using a radio cassette player and insisted on playing her opera in volumes that were far from subdued. I’m not a huge fan of opera. Spending all that money on watching a show I can’t understand to me is absurd, but if others want to do it that’s their choice and I’m not going to stand in their way. But having to put up with opera, especially Chinese opera, on a train at eleven o’clock at night was enough to push me over the edge. I was about to give the woman a piece of my mind when she began to pull out all forms of plastic bags and proceeded to rustle them in ways some might describe as rhythmic. I on the other hand would describe it as infuriating. By this stage I’d had enough and judging by other people’s scowls I was not 16

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Name

alone. In the next second every passenger within a ten-seat radius of this woman turned and cried as one for her to shut up or else she would be the main attraction in a very public lynching. Instead of apologising and lowering the volume of her music she scowled at us, picked up her plastic bags, turned up the volume on her stereo and stormed off to another part of the carriage. Not that I was complaining. At least now I had some semblance of peace.

Finally, with only the distant clickety-clack of wheels and the odd snore, I began to nod off, only to be woken yet again.

This time it was not Chinese opera that roused me, but a man reaching over me with both hands. I initially thought he was the train conductor needing to check my ticket, so I began to reach into my pocket. If I’d been more alert it would’ve occurred to me that train conductors usually wear some sort of uniform and walk around as if they own the place. They don’t look unshaven and wear ill-fitting denim jackets and pants with holes at the knee. But I was half asleep and to speed up the process I pulled out my ticket. This startled him and sent him scurrying off down the aisle. It was only then that I realised he was a pickpocket and while my legs instinctively curled around my bag, my hand went to the safety pouch I’d hung around my neck. Thankfully, it was still there. Burying the pouch deeper inside my shirt, I wrapped my legs even more tightly around my bag and spent the next two hours trying to get back to sleep. It was difficult to relax. Mainly because I was nervous about thieves, but also because I was too excited.

I couldn’t believe I was on a train racing through the French countryside and for the next couple of months would be traipsing through Europe.

It was one of those surreal experiences where I thought I was dreaming even though I knew I wasn’t. With the silhouettes of 17

trees and farmhouses melting into the shadow-filled countryside my mind filled with questions. What would Paris be like? Who would I meet? Will my room-mates be cool? Would I have fun?

Would my plans work out or would they all go pear-shaped to the point where I’d have to go home early?

While the questions came easily the answers didn’t. But I was definitely looking forward to finding them out.

Chapter Name

2

Blinded By Lights

It wasn’t as loud as an alarm clock blasting out Chinese opera, but it was just as infuriating.

There I was, head against the train window, drooling quietly to myself when the sun sliced through my eyelids with the precision of a scalpel.

After a few moments of resistance I realised my efforts were futile and I let the sun burn away the cobwebs of sleep. Once my eyes had adjusted to the glare I realised I must have slept longer than I thought because we’d arrived at the outskirts of Paris.

It was too early to go to my hotel. Two o’clock was the earliest I could check in so I made my way to the Eiffel Tower.

Except for the silky footfalls of joggers running alongside the Seine and the soft chatter of the dozen or so policemen enjoying their early morning coffee and croissants as they waited for the crowds to arrive, the area was silent and still.

I wandered past the policemen, some of whom paid me curious glances, and sat down on a bench underneath the tower. Instead of facing the road I turned and faced the Parc du Champs-de-Mars and the military school that stood at the far end. Under the morning sun the grass was a vivid green, making it the perfect place to eat breakfast and wait for the tower to open its doors.

If Parisians had gotten their way during the tower’s construction one of the most recognised monuments in the 19

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world would have rated only a mere mention in the history books and I would have been sitting under the Arc de Triomphe waiting for that to open. The design of the Eiffel Tower was so different from the norm that it enraged the majority of Parisians who felt it was an eyesore on the beauty of Paris. Curiously, the environmentalists at the time said the tower would interfere with the flight paths of birds. Looking up, I could not see how this argument could hold any weight. Yes, the tower was fairly tall, but not so tall it would cause migrating birds to fly west instead of south. The only way I could think this could ever happen was if the birds were either cross-eyed or drunk.

Not only had the tower incited hatred and become an obstacle for inebriated birds everywhere, but it had also created fear among the people living nearby. Many were afraid the tower would collapse and destroy their homes and so the architect, Gustav Eiffel, had to step in and personally reassure the locals that the tower would not fall over. But opposition to the tower did not die down quickly and even twenty years after its construction and with the lease up for renewal, another attempt was made to tear the tower down. Thankfully, this effort failed too because the tower was, and still is, an important part of the French communication network.

As nine o’clock approached the peacefulness of the area under the tower began to fade. The crowds slowly gathered and lines of tourists began to snake away from every ticket booth, except the one I was waiting at. It wasn’t because I smelt from an overnight train journey and hadn’t had a shower in over twenty-four hours—although that was a distinct possibility— but the fact that the ticket booth I was waiting at was meant for eager beavers—or stingy backpackers—who preferred to climb the 1,710 stairs to the tower’s first and second levels rather than pay for the privilege of taking a lift. Mind you, 20

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after a couple of minutes of climbing I regretted my decision.

By the time I actually got to the first level I was wheezing, gasping and all but dying. Not that the first level was worth all the effort; it was like a mini museum, showcasing items of memorabilia such as the first hydraulic pump and the original spiral stairs Gustav Eiffel used to reach his office. There was also a post office, function rooms and the obligatory souvenir stand. These things held little interest for me. I wanted nothing more than to get to the top of the tower so I made my way to the stairs that led to the second level. Yes, it occurred to me that I was in no shape to continue my climb, but being a Taurus, which of course means I’m stubborn beyond belief, I simply pushed that thought out of my mind, took a deep breath and began climbing. It didn’t take long before I began to yearn for oxygen or at the very least a set of escalators. In retrospect, I don’t think it was all that difficult to climb the Eiffel Tower, but more that I was simply very unfit, a fact driven home by an elderly gentleman who casually sauntered past me on the stairs, smiled and pointed to the view. I looked over to where he was pointing and while I was sure the view was fantastic the only things I could see were the black spots swirling in front of my eyes.

By the time I reached the second level my legs were ready to fall off. That is, I think they were because I could no longer feel them.

When my vision finally cleared I found the second level similar to the first. More history, a second restaurant and even another chance to buy souvenirs in case you missed your chance on the first floor. Like most, I was more interested in getting to the third level. Thankfully, there were no more stairs to climb and just like everyone else I had to catch a lift.

Even though a fair portion of the city was hidden by a 21

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layer of smog and a haze of heat and was not the archetypical magical view that I’d hoped for, the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower was nonetheless magnificent.

The city was unexpectedly flat, save for a small hill on which sat the Sacré Coeur. It was easy to spot the other famous Parisian landmarks. Across the Seine, unmistakeable against the rest of the city was the Arc de Triomphe, while the Champs Elysées stretched from its base and culminated in a landmark that I did not expect to find in Paris—an Egyptian obelisk.

Further along, the grand shape of the Louvre stood out while situated on the Île de la Cité, an island in the centre of the Seine, the spires and gothic splendour of Notre Dame Cathedral rose above the river and the adjacent Latin Quarter.

It didn’t take long for the crowd at the top to become oppressive and the simple act of walking became a challenge in itself. It was like navigating the dance floor of a nightclub— difficult and in some cases very irritating. At least in a nightclub you can weave through the crowds to the beat of the music and the only things you have to watch out for are drinks splashed in your face or down your pants. At the top of the Eiffel Tower not only did you have to worry about telephoto lenses pushing their way into your nether regions, but also loud American tourists who persistently bark orders while eating Big Macs and dropping special sauce everywhere.

Deciding enough was enough, I returned to the lift, eager to see what the rest of the city had to offer. I reached solid ground and found the area under the tower amassed with tourists, buses and guides, all of whom were surrounded by frazzled police officers trying to control it all. It was organised chaos at best.

I walked across the Seine to the Palais de Chaillot, a large neoclassical building that wasn’t hard to miss. Decorated with 22

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large columns, its two wings curved away from a central elevated forecourt towards the Seine and enclosed a lush garden area complete with fountains, trees and perfectly mowed lawns.

I took the stairs up to the forecourt and found it filled with people and tour groups. No doubt some were there to see the palace’s many museums, but most were there for the same reason I was—to get an unhindered view of the Eiffel Tower.

After a short walk from the palace I arrived at the Charles De Gaulle roundabout. Forming an imposing centrepiece in the middle of the roundabout was the Arc de Triomphe. According to my map the entrance to the Arc de Triomphe was via an underground walkway situated near the start of the Champs Elysées. Getting there was going to be the tricky part.

The Charles De Gaulle roundabout is fed by twelve different roads and is the only part of Paris where cars, buses and any other type of vehicle are not covered by insurance.

Not surprising, since according to statistics an accident occurs there every four minutes. Not that this seemed to matter to any of the drivers; they looked determined to kill all things on two legs and destroy all things on four wheels. After many failed attempts at crossing I was beginning to think the stripes on the road meant something different in Paris. In England and Australia pedestrian crossings clearly mean, Caution, people walking, but in Paris they mean, Hood ornaments—come and get ’em! I cannot exactly remember how I got to the other side of the road, but I do recall a blur of foul language, feats of strength, the odd explosion, a wayward bicycle, some circus acrobatics and a somewhat confused donkey. When I finally emerged at the base of the Arc de Triomphe I was breathing heavily, my hands were shaking and I needed a stiff drink.

That day I learned an important lesson: Crossing roads in Paris is not a right, but a privilege that must be earned.

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Directly underneath the Arc and serving as its centre piece was an eternal flame. Acting as a memorial for all the French soldiers that lost their lives in the war, the fire also marked the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

I climbed up to the roof of the Arc de Triomphe and while the view that greeted me at the top was not as vast as that from the Eiffel Tower, it was still eye-catching, especially the vista along the length of the Champs ElysĂŠes. Looking down its length it was easy to see why some of the locals call it La plus belle avenue du monde or simply translated, The most beautiful avenue in the world.

The stretch from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde was lined with wide pavements, shops, boutiques and car showrooms. Just in case one got tired of walking, one could simply stroll into the Mercedes dealership and for a couple of hundred grand, drive off in a new SLK convertible.

The pavements were wide, but still noisy and congested.

This naturally made walking a challenging and interesting experience. It seemed that while I may have wanted to head in one direction, the other six million or so people who were walking beside me felt this was a wrong decision on my part and chose to point me in another direction, whether I liked it or not. The mayhem on the Champs ElysĂŠes pavements meant I was taking one step forward and two steps back, as well as left to right and up and down.

I pushed forward with all the strength I could muster, stopping occasionally only to enter a shop or watch a busker, an act I quickly found to be a pointless endeavour. While the street was awash with the blaring of horns, the squeal of brakes and the sound of French drivers swearing in the socalled language of love, the pavements were a collusion of loud chatter and boisterous laughter. While all this hullabaloo 24

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made it difficult to walk and think, it also made it practically impossible to hear the buskers perform.

The avenue seemed never-ending from the top of the Arc de Triomphe, but in actual fact in no time at all the road came to an abrupt stop at the Place de la Concorde, which was famous for being the largest square in Paris and the place where the French Revolution began. It was here that over thirteen hundred people, including Marie Antoinette, were executed.

Sitting on the very spot where the guillotine was placed was the Luxor Obelisk. Given to the French over a hundred and fifty years ago, it towered over everything in the vicinity and while the pink granite had faded through years of exposure to pollution it was still an amazing sight and certainly added a unique touch to the Paris skyline.

I crossed the road, stopping briefly to admire the hieroglyphics on the obelisk before entering the most central park in Paris, the Tuileries Gardens.

Walking through the park was the easiest way to get from the Champs Elysées to the Louvre and it also provided the perfect place to escape the noise and chaos of Paris. Up to that point the turmoil of the city streets had been so confronting that I’d developed a giant headache, so I was certainly grateful for the peace and quiet the park offered.

People were everywhere and while some strolled along the park’s walkways or by the Seine, most were happy to simply relax in a shady spot either at a cafe or on a piece of grass and watch the world go by. The park also offered a unique view along the length of the Champs Elysées; the obelisk in the foreground and the Arc de Triomphe in the background on one side, while on the other was the expansive grandeur of the Louvre with its unmistakeable glass pyramid shining in the sun. While a sore point for most Parisians, I thought it was 25

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kind of fitting to have an obelisk at one end and a pyramid, albeit one of modern construction, at the other.

I walked towards it, passing through the other Arc de Triomphe of Paris, the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel.

Much smaller than the centrepiece of the Charles De Gaulle roundabout, it too was designed by Napoleon for a similar purpose. Two arcs at either end of the Champs Elysées provided Napoleon with the perfect place to parade triumphantly with his troops after his successful military campaigns. Starting at the Arc de Triomphe he would ride along the length of the Champs Elysées towards the Carousel and the architectural splendour of the Louvre, while all of Paris cheered him on.

I walked across the large forecourt and was quite surprised to see it predominantly empty. I’d been given the impression that getting into the Louvre was going to take skill, violence and the vigorous use of French baguettes. But the area was strangely vacant. I walked down the stairs to the left of the museum that led to the Metro stop, a shopping concourse and the so-called secret entrance, which like the Louvre forecourt was devoid of any sort of life.

While I wanted to believe it was empty because only enlightened backpackers knew of the Louvre’s secret entrance, this was not the case. It did not occur to me that it was Tuesday and the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays. I guess if I really was the enlightened backpacker I thought I was I would’ve known that. Not that I was too worried. In other cities this would definitely be a cause of much frustration and annoyance, but not so in Paris where there is always something else to do. Like a visit to Notre Dame.

This was a good idea in theory, but a bad one in practice since all the people that should’ve been at the Louvre had gone to Notre Dame.

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While a few were happy to visit Saint Chappelle and view what was said to be Jesus Christ’s Crown of Thorns, most wanted to see what is arguably the most recognisable church in France. To accomplish this, all sorts of covert tactics and methods of persuasion to get in front of each other were employed. I could only gape in horror as people liberally used French baguettes, telephoto lenses and city guides to whack, wallop and wound anybody who got in their way. It was like a mosh pit at a concert, but in this case the music in question was the soothing choral tones of church music. Mind you, some people might argue this music was more riot-inducing than riot-quelling.

I too wanted to see Notre Dame, so taking a deep breath I entered the fray, elbows at the ready. It reminded me of when I used to catch the bus to uni.

Picture this: Central Station, Sydney, eight-thirty in the morning. The bus stops are relatively busy, except for one which is more than busy; it’s a stampede waiting to happen.

As with every other morning, four to five thousand students arrive at the station all hoping to be on time for their nine o’clock lecture. The hard part comes when those four or five thousand students try to get on the buses all at the same time. Naturally, survival instincts kick in and so do acts of violence on our fellow man. In one case I clearly remember an old woman attacking a friend of mine with her walking stick, which left him with an uncanny ability to sing soprano. Quite a feat, considering he prefers singing bass.

I now found myself in a similar situation at Notre Dame, but at least here the scenery, as I pushed, shoved and dodged blows to my rib cage, was more pleasing to the eye. Rising above me was one of the finest masterpieces in Gothic architecture in the world. The exterior was embellished with delicate flying 27

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buttresses, lavish sculptures and statues that represented the monarchs of Judaea. The inside of the cathedral was similarly spectacular, if not more so. Large enough to hold six thousand people, it extended in a typical cruciform shape and was filled with a vast array of slender columns. Along the walls were reliefs, carvings and stained glass windows that depicted various biblical stories. Adding more colour to the cathedral’s interior were intricate stained glass rose windows in the west wing. I was lucky enough to witness the sun stream through them and paint the floor in a mesmerising array of kaleidoscopic colours. It was stunning. Where the colours and lights could not reach the cloisters and naves the air shimmered in an atmosphere of candlelit reverence and was filled with excited yet hushed whispers.

Before I knew it, it was time to head back and check into my hotel so I left the church and crowd-surfed my way to the nearest Metro where the line waiting for the next train was long enough to break the world conga record. My thoughts turned to the trouble I’d encountered when Halycon had asked the hotel manager to store my bag. Would I find it there or would I have to trawl the nearby street markets to buy back my belongings?

When I arrived I found the lobby empty so I let the door close behind me with a resounding thud. A tanned Frenchman came to the desk, his eyes were bloodshot and his hair was ruffled. I’d obviously woken him up. I instantly recognised him as the same guy Halycon had verbally caned, but he gave no sign that he recognised me.

“Excusez-moi, Je m’apple Darren …”

“Bonjour,” he interrupted.

“Bonjour,” I replied. “I left my bag here the other day.”

“Sorry, no bag here,” he replied, shaking his head.

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This time and with more force I said, “I have a reservation and I arranged for my bag to be kept here until I got back.”

“No, you go somewhere else.” He turned his back to me.

I could tell this was going nowhere, so I got out the big guns. “I’ll call Halycon!”

I was amazed at the transformation. The mere mention of her name caused his eyes to glaze over in fear. But still he tried to wave me off.

“We do not have bag here.”

I pulled out my mobile phone and began pressing numbers.

“Okay, okay! You wait. I get bag. Please don’t call her! I have wife that loves me. Here, I show you my kids. See how lovely? I get bag.”

With self-preservation in mind he ran to the back office and quickly returned with a set of keys and a cheesy smile. He led me to the closet behind the kitchen where I found my bag, a bit dusty, but still in one piece.

I thanked him, went up to my room and stayed long enough to shower and change my clothes before I was back on the streets perusing the shops that lined the way to Montmartre.

Known for being the tallest point in Paris and the site where the first martyrs of Paris met their deaths, Montmartre is also home to the Sacré Coeur.

I’d thought Notre Dame was spectacular, but in no time at all I made up my mind that the Sacré Coeur eclipsed it, not only in beauty, but also in location. Admittedly, Notre Dame had endured a rough history, especially during the French Revolution when statues and treasures were stolen or destroyed, and if that wasn’t bad enough, in 1871 the cathedral was almost burnt to the ground. In fact, it was only about thirty years ago that many of the missing statues from Notre Dame were 29

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found in the Latin Quarter. But none of these problems were associated with the distinctly Byzantine and arabesque Sacré Coeur. To say I was gobsmacked is an understatement. It was not remotely like anything else in Paris, with its white stone construction and carved domes. The interior was similarly lavish with its intricate mosaics and remarkably bright and spacious Romanesque architecture. Unlike other churches where people left after visiting, here people wanted to do nothing but sit on the steps and go nowhere. The church was built on the highest part of the city, which meant on a clear day you could see up to fifty kilometres in each direction and while the weather that evening wasn’t perfect, the view of the city was still mesmerising. The steps of the Sacré Coeur were the perfect place to sit back, eat dinner (which consisted of a baguette and some cheese) and watch Paris turn on its lights.

Once nine o’clock rolled around security started moving the crowd along. Instead of following every man and his camera back to Rue Montmartre I decided to see what else there was to see in the area.

Like the Tuileries Gardens, the area around the Sacré Coeur was the perfect oasis from the sometimes overwhelming pace of Paris. Along the streets sat quaint cafes, small cosy corner stores, old dark houses where the faded paintwork only added to the character, and gardens that were small yet homely and filled with painters.

This tranquil setting quickly changed as I strolled back into Rue Montmartre, which like red light districts in other cities was lined with sex shows, sex shops, a sex museum and throbbing red neon signs that culminated in the large neon windmill of the Moulin Rouge.

I was pulling out my camera when I was approached by a guy with hair so greased back he was an oil slick waiting to 30

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happen.

“Monsieur, do you want to see girls?”

“No thanks.” I knew what ‘seeing girls’ entailed. While you ‘see girls’ another girl comes and sits beside you. When you make your move to exit you’re approached by the bouncers and asked to pay four hundred euros for her ‘company’ even though you barely acknowledged her presence. If you don’t have the money on you, you get personally escorted to an ATM. His persistent questions were met with my persistent refusals until his patience with me grew thin and gave way to annoyance.

“What the hell did you come to Paris for, then?”

A myriad of responses came into my head. There was the culture, the monuments, the museums, the fashion, the shopping and even the coffee. His answer was slightly different to mine.

“You come to Paris to fuck!”

Mmm … is that before or after you sample the coffee, I wondered as he stormed off.

Shortly after, I returned to my hotel to find a couple of unexpected room-mates had moved in to keep me company.

Before I’d left for my tour of Europe I held the misconception that any potential room-mates I’d be encountering would be my age or thereabouts. According to all the brochures, backpacking was the domain for the twenty-somethings, but these two were the exception to that rule. Here were two ladies who I guessed to be in their mid-fifties and while one was busily hanging out washing to dry the other was precariously perched on a chair trying to adjust the TV aerial. They turned to me as I entered the room.

“Hi,” the one hanging out the laundry said, “you wouldn’t 31

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know how to fix the TV, would you?”

The one fiddling with the aerial looked at me with hope.

“I can try,” I replied.

Luckily, the problem wasn’t too tricky; the coaxial cable had slipped out.

“What’s your name?” one of them asked as I stepped off the chair.

“Darren.”

“Well, I’m Judy and that’s Meredith.”

“Hey,” I said. “So, how long are you ladies travelling for?”

“A couple of months,” Meredith answered.

“And then we’re going back to London and then we’re going to walk the Thames Path,” Judy added.

“Rock on to you.” I let out a whistle of admiration.

The Thames Path is not something I would call a hard hike and it certainly didn’t have the length or the difficulty associated with walking the Machu Picchu trail in South America. Still, it’s not what I would call a simple Sunday stroll either. Starting at the edge of the Cotswolds, it follows the length of the Thames River, all 294 kilometres of it until it finally reaches London. I was having enough trouble climbing monuments and walking around Paris, but here I’d found two middle-aged ladies eager to walk some three hundred kilometres with packs on their backs after they’d finished traipsing around Europe. I can only hope that when I get to their age I’ll still be travelling and walking immeasurably long distances.

I plopped down on my bed as Meredith said, “Anyway, enough about us. How about you, Darren? Have you been to the UK?” “Actually, I was there this past couple of years. I did the whole work in a pub thing for a while and saved up for this trip.”

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“And how long is this trip going to be?” Judy asked.

“Three months or so. But I have a season pass so it could very well be longer.”

“Have you got enough money?” Judy asked.

“I hope so.”

It was obvious I was sharing the room with two mothers.

As if mine wasn’t bad enough. She is the only woman I know who can nag across time zones.

The three of us talked for a bit longer before the sleep I’d missed out on over the past couple of days caught up with me, and I decided to turn in.

The next day found me leaving Paris for the second time in just as many days. After breakfast I boldly boarded the Metro and after a few quick changes, arrived at Les Invalides Metro station. From there I planned to change on to the Réseau Express Régional (RER) or Regional Express Network, the rail service that goes to various country towns.

According to the map the line I needed to take split in two with the smaller branch terminating at Versailles. This was not hard to understand. In fact, the Paris Metro and RER are quite easy to navigate. Or so I thought until I had to figure out which train to board. Finding the platform was easy enough.

The hard part was figuring out if the train already sitting at the platform was indeed the right one for me.

I decided to ask someone and pulled out my phrase book.

I really don’t know why I bought a phrase book. I guess it was one of those things I thought I’d need. I was in a Sydney bookshop at the time, picking up my European guidebook 33

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and there it was asking to be bought. So I did, thinking I’d study it cover to cover, learn a couple of languages and impress European girls. Naturally, I was delusional.

Holding onto my book, I spotted the perfect guinea pig standing nearby: a businessman looking quite the professional in his three-piece suit, and due to his bald head and pocket watch, exuding a distinguished and grandfatherly aura. He seemed the kind of gentleman who would always be ready to help. Or so I thought.

“Bonjour,” I said as I approached.

He looked up from his newspaper and glared at me over his reading glasses, clearly not pleased at being disturbed.

According to the book, the correct phrase for Is this the right platform to Versailles? was C’est le bon quai pour Versailles? I cleared my throat and started to speak, but what came out of my mouth wasn’t anything that sounded like French. “Say lay bong kay pore Versay?”

The man looked shocked and then fixed me with a steely gaze. No doubt he’d got the wrong idea because judging from my French he probably thought I was telling him of my eagerness to have some marijuana induced liaisons with gerbils in Versailles. Suddenly he exploded, chastising me for something I may or may not have done—I wasn’t too sure because I couldn’t turn the pages of my phrase book fast enough—before running away. Being a glutton for punishment I chased after him, repeating the phrase over and over.

By this time the train on the platform had left. According to the indicator another one was due in a couple of minutes and this one too was stopping at all stops but Versailles.

I decided to slaughter the language of love once again, this time with an attractive brunette. I took a deep breath and repeated what I’d told the previous gentleman. She looked up 34

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at me with dark brown eyes, obviously shocked at my fondness of small rodents. Her lips curled into a smile of pity when she noticed my phrase book. I pointed to the phrase that I wanted to say and she promptly pointed to the platform and told me by way of gestures that the next train to arrive was the one I needed.

“Merci,” I said and avoided eye contact.

The journey to Versailles was a short one and in no time at all I was following the crowds to the palace. Not that you could miss it even if you tried. I think my first words when I saw the Palace of Versailles were “holy shit”. I’d expected it to be huge, on a similar scale to that of the Louvre, but boy was I off the mark. The palace was an immense spectacle of French Renaissance architecture, not a style I would expect in an establishment used for secret affairs because the word secret and the Palace of Versailles really did not go together. Yet Louis the Fourteenth thought it the perfect place to impress the ladies. Not that I blamed him. Rising to over three levels with over two thousand windows and opulent embellishments, it was easy to understand why the palace made the ladies go weak at the knees.

I wandered past the gates and into the forecourt, through the throng of pulsating tour groups to the ticket booth. I wasn’t all that keen to see the palace itself, firstly because it’s impossible to see it all in one day and secondly, I wasn’t so passionate about that period of history anyway. Sure, I’d heard the hall of mirrors was spectacular with its seventeen mirrors facing windows that overlooked and reflected the garden, therefore giving the impression that you were surrounded by greenery. But while this sight would no doubt be wonderful I preferred to actually get in the garden rather than simply view its reflection. As I made my way there I once again had to stop 35

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and silently mouth “holy shit!”

Spread over a hundred acres the grounds sprawled endlessly and were filled with rows of greenery, stone paths, sculpted hedges and intricately chiselled fountains, the most prominent one placed at the entrance of the park itself. From the centre of a basin between the water nozzles a large horse-drawn chariot with the sun god Apollo at the reins rose up from beneath the water’s surface. Apollo was Louis’s emblem because he was the god of peace, a god of life and new beginnings, the qualities and attributes that Louis tried to emulate, hence earning him the title Sun King.

I strolled past the fountain and approached the Grand Canal.

Set at the base of the gardens the large cruciform section of water was created so Louis could go for the occasional Sunday cruise. Although not as wide as the Venetian Canal of the same name, it still covered a fair portion of land; to walk around its edges is to walk seven kilometres. The canal even had its own ‘little Venice’, a collection of buildings at the top of the canal surrounded by boats waiting to take you for a ride.

Down in the garden I found myself facing the smaller Greco style building, the Petit Trianon. This building was meant to be used as the queen’s retreat and a place where the king would stop for light refreshments during his many walks. For meals the king would go to the nearby Grand Trianon and if ever there was a perfect name for a building this was it. A large Italianate structure decorated with floral reliefs, paintings, woodwork and shrubbery. As I roamed, taking in the opulence and richly decorated exterior, I wasn’t at all surprised there’d been a French revolution. If the prime minister of Australia was busily using tax dollars to build a hugely elegant palace in which to eat cucumber sandwiches and drink tea then I think I would revolt too.

36

Blinded Chapter ByName Lights

It was a little after one when I left the palace grounds, eager to see what the town had to offer. I expected to find it as crowded as the palace, but it seemed most people were happy to bypass the town completely. Their mistake. The town had been built to house the people that served the king in his palace and the architecture resembled the palace itself. The buildings had decorative cornices, inset windows, jutting buttresses and columned facades. I found myself wandering down charming cobblestone lanes, coming across old-style markets, chic cafes, delicious smelling crêperies and churches with oodles of oldworld charm.

By the third and final day of my visit I’d seen most of what I needed to see of Paris and all that remained were the Louvre and the Latin Quarter.

I fought my way through the crowds that hovered around the Louvre. Unlike the day before yesterday when the forecourt was empty, it was now literally a free-for-all as people rushed for the pyramid. Being the enlightened backpacker I was I casually sauntered down to the Carousel de Louvre where the crowds were less oppressive. With little time to waste I lined up until I was ushered into the Louvre’s massive, bright and airy reception area. I bought my ticket, grabbed a map and took a few bold steps towards an escalator. Not that I knew where anything was. Looking at the guide didn’t help either; the Louvre was ridiculously big. Hell, it was the only museum in the world that had its own particle accelerator.

I knew there was no way I was going to see every piece of art in there, so like most other tourists I picked what I most wanted to see and made tracks in that direction. It didn’t help that every other person felt the need to join me in my mission to see the Mona Lisa.

When the Bar Boys had returned from their ‘Bar Boys Do 37

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Europe Tour’ they told me not to expect too much from the Mona Lisa. “It’s too small,” Rob had said. Well, compared to other paintings in the Louvre, the Mona Lisa was small, but for a portrait, which is what it is, its size is ideal.

It was a little after lunch when I discovered what was to become my second favourite place in Paris. Across from Notre Dame on the other side of the Seine was the Latin Quarter and I quickly realised this was a place that was as cheap as it was chic. The narrow streets were crammed with cafes, restaurants and bars and if you looked hard enough you could even find a gelateria.

I spent the afternoon listening to jazz and soaking up the atmosphere before I finally returned to the hotel. The two ladies had left, opting to train it to Brussels. In their place I found my new room-mate, Jake. He was nothing like the two ladies and crackled with so much energy his hair stood on end without the aid of gel. I’d barely entered the room when he bounded over to me and shook my hand so vigorously I thought it would break off.

“Hey, mate,” he said.

“Hey, how are ya?”

“Good. I’m Jake.”

“Darren. So what are you up to?” I nodded in the direction of the bag.

It was a question I quickly regretted asking because while in space no one can hear you scream I’m sure you can still hear Jake talk. I stood in amazement as he not only told me in fine detail what he was doing—stitching patches to his backpack—but also what stitch he was employing, how he got the patches, where he got the bag, how come the zips were the colour they were and why he was wearing his shirt.

Then, as he paused to take a breath and I was about to use 38

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this golden opportunity to tell him about my plans, he ran to the window and yelled something before dashing out of the room, leaving me wondering what on earth was going on. He returned a few minutes later as I was repacking my bag in readiness for my departure the next day.

“Darren,” Jake said as he packed up his sewing, “a few of us are going out for a drink. Do you wanna come? It’s my last day. I’m going back to London tomorrow. C’mon, it’ll be good to go out and celebrate.”

“Well, I guess it was my birthday the other day …”

“Then it’s settled!” He slapped me on my back. “Let the celebrations begin!”

So the night became one filled with merriment and alcohol consumption. The first of many on this trip. It was a little past midnight when Jake and I stumbled back to the hotel.

While I enjoyed my visit to Paris I can’t say it lived up to expectations. I was looking for a certain Je ne sais quoi as the French say and while places like the Sacré Coeur and the Latin Quarter contained more than I could wish for, the city itself was just that—a city.

The next day I boarded the bus and moved on. A new day equalled a new destination.

Who knew what else was to come?

3

The High Life

Amsterdam. A city like no other. The mere mention of its name conjures up images of sex, drugs and, I was sure if you looked hard enough, rock and roll.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been to Amsterdam. I’d visited the city with a few of my workmates a couple of months after starting at The Fox. That was a short trip and gave us only a couple of days in the city, but it was still more than enough to enjoy a waffle or two, visit the relevant sights and participate in the cafe lifestyle that Amsterdam is famous for.

Well, I was back and while I knew exactly what to expect I still found it hard to quell my burgeoning excitement as the bus crossed the France/Belgium border.

On the advice of the Bar Boys I decided to skip Belgium and head straight for the Netherlands. From the blandness of the Belgian countryside and the little I’d seen of Brussels on a previous trip I knew I’d made the right decision. The Brussels cityscape was insipid and stark, the art deco buildings painted with grime and pollution and the skyline hindered by the scrawny claws of television antennas. I was also told there wasn’t much to do in Belgium except drink beer and eat chocolate. Not bad, but I didn’t need to be in Brussels to indulge in a cold brew and a slab of chocolate. Nor Brugge for that matter.

Not to say Brugge isn’t pretty. Situated near the Belgian coast its medieval look and tangled mess of cobbled lanes

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nestled between a series of canals gives it an ovoid shape and a let’s escape the hectic pace of the world for a while type atmosphere, making the town pleasant enough for a short visit and nothing more.

The bus reached Amsterdam as dusk was beginning to carpet the city and the neon was beginning to pulse with life.

Once everyone on board filed off and grabbed their bags our guide led us straight to the hostel where we wasted no time moving into our respective rooms. We pulled our sheets from the lockers and arranged them on our beds so they resembled pieces of modern art.

With my bed made—and I use that term loosely—I scurried back down to the bar and found it predictably crowded and noisy. Over the din I still managed to hear the voices of Steve, Greg and Brad, my room-mates from London. I strutted over, beer in hand.

“Hey, guys, what’s happening?”

“Daz! You finally made it.”

“Barely.”

“We’re about to go out to dinner,” Steve said. “Do you wanna come?”

“You guys heading to Maoz?” I asked.

Quizzical glances were shot in my direction. “Maoz?”

“It’s a cheap all you can eat falafel joint down the road.”

Two things were music to any traveller’s ears—cheap and all you can eat.

“Fantastic!” Steve raised his glass. “We are so there.”

“Cool. I’m just waiting for Dan, my room-mate,” I told them. “When he comes down, we can jet.”

“Sweet as.”

By the time we left Maoz to hit the town—in more ways than one—it was obvious our eyes had been bigger than our 41

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stomachs because in the process of trying to eat all we could we’d each grown by at least two pant sizes.

It was good to see that not much had changed in Amsterdam since my last visit. The canals were still filthy, Dam Square was as busy and hectic as ever and walking the streets meant you were taking your life in your hands. Not only did you need to watch out for trams, traffic and people stoned out of their minds who wanted nothing more than to give you a cuddle, a kiss and tell you how awesome you were, but you also had to be careful of cyclists who were insane if not homicidal and constantly on the prowl for fresh meat.

Amsterdam is home to some 600,000 cyclists and at any given time a good portion of that number are on the road because Amsterdam is fairly flat. In fact, save for the south-east province of Limburg the whole of the Netherlands is flat and lies below sea level. While this lack of hills certainly explains why people prefer bikes over cars, it does not clarify why cyclists in Amsterdam feel the need to kill as many pedestrians as possible. I would like to say it was due to the fumes coming from the numerous cafes dotted around the city, but that wouldn’t make any sense. I’ve never known marijuana to incite people to the point of violence. Sure, it can coax people to sit and watch Christmas lights for hours on end, but certainly it would not induce a compulsion to maim, injure and kill.

Whatever the reason, I found cyclists in Amsterdam to be just like Parisian drivers, except instead of four wheels and a horn they had two and a little musical bell.

Case in point, the five of us left Maoz and were walking down a side street in the general direction of Dam Square when suddenly a cyclist whizzed passed and coasted towards three guys who were enjoying a chat and a smoke. Instead of the cyclist going around them—like any sane cyclist would do in 42

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any other part of the world—he did what comes naturally to all cyclists in the Netherlands and drove straight into them. Not to say he didn’t warn the group of his approach. Within two metres of his victims he began tinkling his little bell with gleeful abandon. I suppose that’s the one good thing about cyclists in Amsterdam—they warn you before they kill you. Not that the warning was of any use. The three guys had no time to get out of his way and while he managed to knock the first two down, the third was slightly quicker and managed to get a jab into the cyclist’s shoulder. Naturally, the cyclist was not particularly pleased with what he thought was an unwarranted assault. He slowed to a stop, dismounted, marched over to the guy who threw the punch at him and proceeded to retaliate with a few jabs of his own.

Instead of being witnesses to further bicycle-related carnage, the five of us continued to the red light district, which also had not changed since my last visit. There were still the girls in the windows, the sex shops and random strangers offering drugs of various descriptions.

It’s easy to get caught up in the Amsterdam lifestyle, forget the law even exists and assume all drugs are legal. This assumption, while common, is completely wrong and could get you into a lot of trouble. While the authorities look the other way if you are in possession of less than five grams of marijuana, it’s a completely different story if you’re found in possession of any other type of recreational drug. Put it this way: if you get caught you could end up finishing the rest of your holiday getting up close and personal to an overfriendly person named Hans in the local jail. I wasn’t too worried about this happening to me because like the rest of the guys I was with, we were too gobsmacked at the amount of flesh on display to be concerned with any drugs being pushed in 43

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our direction.

“I don’t see why they don’t have a mega-mart for porn,” I casually commented as we passed a store lined with videos and other goodies. “It would be easier. And besides, porn is porn!”

“Not really, Darren,” Greg disagreed. “It depends on what you’re into.”

I hadn’t realised Greg was such a connoisseur of all things flesh-related, but for the next fifteen minutes I was enlightened as he explained the subtle nuances of the porn industry, sometimes in vivid detail. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bar stool in quite the same way ever again.

We reached the end of the red light district and while Greg, Brad and Steve headed back to Dam Square, Dan and I went in search of a cafe that sold space cakes—a standard sponge cake cooked with that little extra ingredient. Because of the potency of space cakes, any more than a slice and you’ll not only end up floating high above the city, but also at the bottom of a canal.

Taking this advice to heart, Dan and I took one slice each before returning to the central part of the city in search of something else to do.

We were still in control of our faculties by the time we reached the Sex Museum, a place dubbed as an enlightening journey through physical pleasure. We were barely done walking around the first floor when I realised it was more amusing than enlightening. The exhibits varied from weird fetishes, turn of the century pornography, a few devices that looked like cooking implements gone horribly wrong and, for that little touch of class, a mechanical flasher.

“Now what?” I asked Dan as we stepped out of the museum and onto the sidewalk.

“I’m going to find a tattoo parlour,” he said, “and hopefully 44

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grab a little souvenir to remember Europe by.”

“I think I might wander back to the hostel,” I said. “See you back there.”

I’d just passed a large Ferris wheel that was part of a fair in Dam Square when I ran into Greg, Steve and Brad, all of whom were looking very lost.

We were chatting and wondering what else we could do when suddenly my head came unstuck from my body and began floating casually upwards. Everything around me began to take on a slightly different perspective and I could not believe how pretty, picturesque even, Amsterdam was at night. The Ferris wheel especially. I could’ve watched it for hours.

Greg looked at me and laughed. “Well, it looks like the young fella here is headin’ into orbit.”

Once the laughter quietened down Steve patted me on the back and said, “Guys, I think it’s time we went back to the hostel. We have a bus to catch tomorrow. Come on, Darren, lead the way.”

Whether I wanted to or not was beside the point. I stared at them blankly, definitely in no fit state to lead anyone anywhere.

My legs had taken on the consistency of lead and my head was trying very hard to leave earth’s orbit and zoom into space.

“Guys, do you realise right now the only place I might lead you is up a windmill, or worse, through a field of tulips where we can frolic to our hearts’ content?”

“Nah, Darren. You’ll be fine.”

Surprisingly, we were. Once we reached the hostel—and it took us only two hours—we walked straight into the bar for a drink. I never did finish my beer that night and I really wish I could remember why. I don’t know if it was the fact that I had drunk too much or the fact that I was still feeling the effects 45

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of the space cake. All I can remember is the rapture that filled my every being as I watched the bubbles in my glass of beer trickle upwards for what seemed like an eternity.

It was about three the next morning—at least I think it was—when I stumbled upstairs, ready for a quick shower and then bed. A task that proved terribly difficult because I couldn’t find the shower. After I’d looked under my bed for what was easily the sixth time to make sure it wasn’t under there, I rolled back downstairs as fast as my legs could carry me. Thankfully, reception was open 24-7.

“There’s no shower in my room,” I told the receptionist. I was frantic.

“Yes, there is,” she replied calmly. “All the rooms have one.”

No doubt she’d seen this sort of behaviour before.

“Mine doesn’t.” I slapped the desk in defiance.

She followed me up to my room, walked straight to the door that was flush against the wall right next to my bed and opened it. I hadn’t looked in there.

“See? It was here all along.”

“No wonder I couldn’t find it,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.

She simply shook her head, smiled and let herself out.

Morning arrived and my head had gone through the horrible process of re-entry, a process that was as painful as it sounds. What I needed was a hot shower and having been let in on its secret location the night before, I wasted no time having one.

Another of my room-mates was already up and waiting for me in the dining room. From the state of his messy blond hair and the bags under his eyes I could tell he too had had a big night.

“Morrrnin’, Derren,” he said, his thick mid-western 46

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American accent a mere whisper.

Head cradled in my hands, I replied in a similar fashion, “Morning, Brad.”

Most had planned to spend the day visiting the Anne Frank House, the Heineken Museum and the Van Gogh Museum. I’d been there, done that. But what I hadn’t done on my last visit was look at the tulips.

While it was the national emblem of the Netherlands, the tulip strangely did not originate from that country. It was in fact introduced by a botanist in the mid-sixteenth century who originally received it from the Flemish Ambassador stationed in Istanbul.

Brad and I caught the train to Keukenhof—the world’s largest flower garden—to catch a glimpse of a tulip or two. And catch a glimpse we did. The park overflowed with thousands of colourful tulips and numerous fields of daffodils and hyacinths. But for all its beauty we soon realised we’d wasted our money because while Keukenhof was full of tulips, so too was the rest of the country. In fact, right beside the gardens stood row upon row of tulips that could be visited for free.

That evening Brad left me to join a friend of his who’d flown in from London, which left me wondering what to do.

Dominique and Kaye, two sisters with dark eyes and matching dark hair, solved my problem.

“Hey, Darren, what are you doing tonight?” Dominique asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Have you been to the red light district?”

“Twice,” I said, including my trip two years ago.

“Figures,” Kaye said. “You have that dodgy look about you.”

“Thanks, Kaye.” I smiled. “It’s a look I’m quite proud of.”

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“Well, we haven’t been so why don’t you tag along?”

“Yeah, why not? Third time lucky and all.”

Glances were shot in my direction.

Living up to my “dodgy look” I took them on a tour that ended with a visit to a sex show, which while being boring and a complete waste of money and time, still gave a new meaning to the term banana split!

Amsterdam is a city where one can do a great many things and come away with good memories, or do nothing and leave with very hazy memories. Most had chosen the latter and when the day of departure arrived we were all showing signs of ‘Amsterdamage’—the bags under the eyes, the headaches, the groans of pain and the whispered phrase, “Never again.”

At least until tomorrow anyway.

48

4

Two for the Price of One

Our bus pulled into a rest stop a few kilometres from the Netherlands/Germany border. Christy, our guide, nervously reached for the microphone. She had every reason to be nervous, seeing we were a busload of twenty-somethings who’d spent the last couple of days in Amsterdam, all looking extremely suspicious behind pairs of dark sunglasses.

“Er, guys,” she said, a faint stammer in her voice, “we are about to cross the border into Germany and … um … i-if you have any … er … g-goodies from Amsterdam could you please get rid of them here before you get back on the bus. Thank you.”

If busloads of people were using this particular rest stop to off-load their “goodies” kept as mementos of their holiday in Amsterdam then this rest stop must be the happiest, most relaxed place on earth. I would not have been at all surprised to find the surrounding fields packed full of blissful pigs, satisfied sheep and contented cows.

Nils, a German workmate of mine, had told me the odd titbit about Germany when we’d worked together at the pub in Scotland, but on the whole I still didn’t know a whole lot about the place. I’d heard about the large beers, the even larger sausages, the jutting foreheads and the words that are so long you have to stop halfway through to take a breath. But as we crossed the border I was sure there was a great deal more to this country than that, and I was eager to find out.

Speeding towards Berlin the countryside gave nothing away. Except for the occasional Mercedes symbol or the wide range of Smart Cars on display in a showroom, everything else either whizzed by in a blur of motion or was hidden from view by the Autobahn’s concrete barriers.

From what little I did see I was fairly certain I wasn’t missing much. Except for a few undulating green hills dotted with wind turbines and thickets of trees, the majority of scenery was bland and boring. Not all that surprising considering Germany is predominantly made up of lakes, moors and marshes.

Its history, however, was much more intriguing. Reading like a Hollywood war epic, all the history books were full of battles, disagreements, spats and domestics. So much so that after I’d got up to speed on Germany’s past I was filled with a strange urge to take over a small country.

The first of Germany’s disagreements dated back before the time of Christ. When the Romans were expanding their territory into northern Europe the Germanic people at the time felt they were being violated. Typical of most people when they’re in the process of being pushed around, the Germans fought back and, unlike other enemies, managed to beat the Romans back. Unfortunately for the Germans, or the Goths as they were also known in those days, the Romans didn’t take well to losing and for the next five centuries or so there was a simmering animosity between the two empires.

Further adding to the tension, Germany’s borderlines were constantly changing. Depending on the battles fought and the political deals made, it was not uncommon for the Goths to go to sleep in Germany, only to find the next morning they’d woken up in France!

But the trouble didn’t only stem from political upheaval, Roman violation or the fact that your next-door neighbour

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might be doing strange things with Bratwurst at all hours of the morning. The other major cause for the odd disagreement was religion.

It all began after Charlemagne’s reign when the German king, Otto the First, took to the throne and began to instigate a close relationship with the church. The pope at the time felt that state and church should not be so close so he demanded autonomy of the two. The resultant war lasted almost fifty years.

You would think that after half a century of bloodshed the Germans would’ve settled down, but this was not the case and while the conflict generally had lessened, peace was continually disturbed by the odd spat here and there. This not only prevented Germany from becoming unified, but aided the development of the feudal system.

As if this fighting wasn’t enough, Martin Luther decided to stir the pot some more by nailing his 95 Theses to the door of the castle church. Predictably, this caused numerous arguments among the people, split the church right down the middle and started a little movement called the Reformation.

While this document caused much infighting, bitching and the odd slap on the side of the head, Martin Luther had managed to do what no one else before him had done—unite Germany. Unfortunately, it was not in a Let’s get along and be friends type of way, but more in a Wow, now I can understand what you’re sayin’ and you’re even more of a bastard than I first thought sort of way. In the course of sowing all this discord among the church Luther managed to translate the Bible, helping to unify the German dialects into one language.

Instead of capitalising on this new-found understanding, Emperor Karl the Fifth passed a treaty allowing the princes to choose which religion should be practised in their respective 51

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sovereign states. Was it any surprise then that this little treaty further divided the country? And so it went, with kings, queens, noblemen and anyone else in power putting in their respective two cents’ worth and sowing so much discord that war became not simply a means to an end, but an accepted way of life.

Thankfully, after one war too many the Germans decided to quieten down for a bit, which gave the soldiers a much needed break and paved the way for the Peace of Westphalia Treaty to be signed and become the unofficial constitution of the country. Unlike previous treaties and agreements, this one was different. It survived for over a hundred years and was dissolved only because yet another internal squabble erupted in the early nineteenth century, giving Napoleon the perfect excuse to wade in with his army to settle matters.

And so the history of Germany goes. War after war, battle after battle, invasion after invasion. Any period of peace was simply a prelude to the next conflict. In fact, there were so many altercations—not only between neighbouring countries, but within the country itself—that the Germany we know today only came into being as late as 1871 when its borders were finally established. But even this unification was short-lived and couldn’t last even a hundred years because while Germany came through World War One as a whole nation, the same could not be said at the conclusion of World War Two when it was promptly divided into east and west.

Like the country, Berlin was privy to its fair share of war and political turmoil and had also been split down the middle.

It was into what used to be the eastern part of the city that the bus entered.

As we made our way to the hostel I noticed how dirty and drab the city looked. Not even the graffiti—while adding 52

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much needed colour—could detract from the buildings, most of which were covered in scaffolding and in desperate need of rejuvenation if not demolition.

Still, considering the city had been left under ninety-eight million cubic yards of rubble after World War Two, it was a dramatic improvement. But with the Berlin Wall nothing but a memory and the war long gone I wondered whether the west side of the city looked equally decrepit.

In a bid to find out I left the hostel early the next morning for Central Berlin, along with Richard and Sally, a middle-aged couple with eternally broad smiles. It did not take long to notice that Central Berlin looked like a collision between east and west. Drab, colourless buildings sided up against modern structures of glazed glass and steel. It was like standing in an open-air ballroom watching beauty waltz with the beast.

Nowhere was this difference more obvious than at Alexanderplatz. Named after Czar Alexander, most of the square had been destroyed in World War Two and was later rebuilt with all the ‘adornments’ of the Cold War. In other words, it’s one of the ugliest sights I have ever seen! No Renaissance architecture, just rust-stained concrete buildings and grimy windows that looked like grey Lego blocks dumped together, showing absolutely no sense of style. Even the TV tower behind the square, which looked like it’d been inspired by an architect from The Jetsons, looked tacky. Surrounding the square, however, were a few skyscrapers that stood out against the Cold War remnants as beacons and templates for a twenty-first century Berlin.

Mirroring neither of these types of architecture was the Italian Renaissance style Berlin cathedral, the Berliner Dom. While not as old as its architecture implies, the site had been home to the church for over five hundred years. Originally 53

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built as the Protestant answer to the St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, the cathedral had fallen into disrepair during the eighteenth century, was restored the next century, sustained heavy damage during World War Two and was ultimately abandoned. Only after the Berlin Wall collapsed were steps taken to rebuild it and open it to the public.

“I wonder if our walking tour will go ahead,” Richard said, looking at the grey pall of sky that loomed over us.

“Why?” I asked.

“The weather isn’t looking too good.”

“Well, the brochure says the tour will go ahead regardless of the weather.”

And, as if perfectly synchronised as soon as I hinted at the word rain, a slow steady drizzle began to fall.

Pulling on her jacket, Sally turned to me. “Where’s yours?”

“Back at the hostel.”

“That’s not a good place for it,” Richard said.

“You’re tellin’ me.” I gazed up at the morose sky.

“I guess that means we’re going shopping for a brolly,” Sally said with a twinkle in her eye.

Before I could argue she sped off, leaving Richard and me with no option but to follow. Without a map she zoomed from street to street until she found a chemist-cum-discount store.

After a round of charades with the staff and then discovering that the store didn’t sell umbrellas Sally marched off, legs striding with determination. I would’ve been quite content with just a garbage bag with the applicable holes cut out, but Sally was on a mission.

We soon found ourselves in a department store.

“I’m sure this place will sell umbrellas,” Sally told me.

“It’s big enough,” Richard agreed.

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I surveyed the store’s gigantic interior. “Where, though?”

With her sixth sense for the layout of department stores, Sally darted through aisles and pathways until we suddenly found ourselves staring at an impressive rack of umbrellas.

Sally selected one and held it out to me.

It was one of the funkiest umbrellas I’d ever seen, oozing European design and German engineering. I looked it over carefully.

“What’s wrong, Darren?” Sally asked. “Doesn’t the colour go with your eyes?”

“Ha ha, very funny. I’ll have you know my eyes go with all sorts of umbrellas. My problem is the price.”

“How much is it?” Richard asked as I handed Sally the umbrella.

“Thirty euros! That’s a bloody joke,” she said, putting the umbrella back on the rack.

After more searching and getting shocked by the prices, I almost expected Sally to huff, puff and blow the umbrella rack down in disgust.

“This is useless,” she sighed. “Let’s face it, Darren, you’re going to get wet.”

“C’est la vie and all that,” I shrugged. “And besides I reckon it’ll clear up.”

“For your sake I hope so.”

Thankfully, my optimism paid off. By the time Nathan (our guide) and the other thirty or so people arrived at the side entrance of Hackescher Markt S-Bahn station, the drizzle had petered out. Once Nathan checked everyone’s tickets he led us in the direction of the Scheunenviertel district, Berlin’s Jewish Quarter and stopped in front of the Neue Synagogue. Compared to the surrounding structures this building stood out, largely because of the gold-gilded dome sitting on its roof.

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“Built in the nineteenth century,” Nathan began, “this synagogue was the largest place of Jewish worship in Berlin and quickly became the symbol of the Jewish community.

With the rise of Hitler and the National Socialist Party it just as quickly became a target for Nazi desecration, and while it survived a fire in 1938 it unfortunately did not see the end of the war.

“All that was left was the front wall. The rest was completely destroyed and it was pretty much left that way until the Berlin Wall was toppled. When that happened plans were rapidly drafted to get the synagogue rebuilt. But because it was built without a synagogue chamber—the place where the Torah scrolls are kept—it can no longer be used by Jews as a place of worship. Nevertheless, the synagogue is still an important part of the Berlin Jewish community, serving as both a museum and Jewish education centre.

“That’s why there are so many police around the area. Like every other Jewish site in Berlin, the government provides round the clock armed protection. That said, there’s not usually this much firepower around.” The area was surrounded by concrete barricades, armed personnel carriers and pockets of riot police. “With May Day only a couple of days away the police are preparing for the usual protest marches, riots and violence. Based on previous experience they’re not leaving anything to chance.”

Compared to the industrial surroundings of the train station the area around the synagogue (riot police notwithstanding) was lively, colourful and modern. Lining the streets were small boutiques, cafes and restaurants. For the most part the tables on the footpaths were empty, but the tempting aroma of percolating coffee and the soothing tones of jazz that wafted into the streets were slowly drawing the crowds.

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Without stopping, Nathan turned to us. “By the way, if any of you want a trendy place to eat or enjoy a coffee this is it. The Jewish Quarter is undergoing a bit of renaissance at the moment and if you have time I recommend coming back here.

I guarantee you’ll get a good feed.”

“How ’bout we pop back later for a bit of arvo tea?” I suggested to Richard and Sally.

Richard smacked his lips. “Some of those places look good.

And the coffee sure smells great.”

“I know!” My stomach growled in agreement.

“Honestly, you two,” Sally chastised, “we’re here to see Berlin and all you can think about is food.” She rolled her eyes.

“Sheesh, you guys are all the same!”

“What, hungry?” Richard said.

“No! Stupid! C’mon, we’re falling behind.”

Nathan led us through the rest of the Jewish Quarter before taking us on the same path used by the Russians when they began their final assault on Berlin. To do this we had to step back into what once was the east, through what felt like a transparent iron curtain. The buildings on this side were riddled with remnants of neglect, splashed with faded graffiti and took on a sorrowful look of despair.

Reaching the Spree River, we continued along its meandering banks and in the process stepped onto what used to be No Man’s Land, a stretch of barren dirt that once separated the east from the west. This place used to be filled with landmines, surrounded by barbed wire and vigilantly monitored by armed guards, but we could see how things had obviously changed.

Now, the land was turfed with lush grass and the lawns in front of the new sculptured buildings were immaculate.

At the head of this large area of grass stood a building that had witnessed the end of democracy and the beginning of a 57

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unified Germany.

“Most think Hitler and Reichstag go hand in hand,” Nathan began, “but if anything it has the least association of all the buildings in Berlin. The Reichstag was set alight in 1933 and most of the interior was badly damaged. As a result the building was abandoned. The cause of the fire is unknown and while the communists were blamed, most concur that they were framed by the Nationalist Socialist Party, thus allowing Hitler to take control of the German parliament.

“Like the rest of the area the Reichstag was pretty much destroyed by the end of the war. In fact, the only building left standing was the adjacent one, which used to be the Swiss Embassy. The reason it survived wasn’t because Switzerland was neutral, but because the caretaker used to get up on the roof with a pitchfork and fling the bombs off the roof before they exploded!”

A guy near the front of the group shook his head in disbelief. “You’re joking, right, mate?”

“Wish I was.”

“That’s bloody crazy!”

“He may have been crazy,” I commented to Sally and Richard, “but he certainly had guts.”

“I guess it made up for his lack of brains!” Richard said.

“God, I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if he’d got to a bomb that split second too late,” I said.

“Well, Darren, he would’ve ended up doing his best impersonation of Swiss cheese,” Sally quipped, a smile on her lips, “whether he liked it or not.”

“At the conclusion of the war,” Nathan continued, “the embassy fell into disrepair. Much like the Reichstag, no one knew exactly what to do with it. But at the coming down of the wall and after Berlin once more became the capital of 58

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Germany the decision was made to rebuild the Reichstag and make it home for the German parliament. The exterior might bear some semblance to the original Reichstag, but the interior was gutted, completely refurbished and finished off with a glass dome on top that gives you a good look at the city.”

After allowing us time to take the prerequisite pictures Nathan led us around the corner of the Reichstag to the nearby Brandenburg Gate, the first classical structure ever to be built in the city.

Nathan glanced at the gate. “Ironic, don’t you think, that a structure originally built for peace, even with the Greek goddess of peace sitting on its roof, has had more to do with war.

“If it wasn’t Napoleon and his army cascading through the gate then it was Hitler parading past or speaking from its base.

Either way, not pleasant associations to have. So when the city was divided the gate was walled in and condemned to spend its time in No Man’s Land. When Germany was reunited and the Berlin Wall in front of the gate crumbled it quickly became a symbol of peace and unification.”

I was only eleven when the Berlin Wall was destroyed and at the time I didn’t understand the significance. I mainly recall Brian Henderson, the Channel Nine newsreader at the time, announcing over images of hordes of people demolishing a decrepit looking wall, “The wall is coming down!”

Now, as I stood in the area that divided east from west, the place once scarred by death and segregation, I noticed the green grass and the laughing faces of tourists and locals. I may not have understood what the coming down of the wall was all about when I was eleven, but now I realised what an achievement it really was.

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tearing down of the wall meant more than that. My memories of that broadcast were not so much of bits of concrete tumbling to the ground, but of people reaching through the wall and over it, shaking hands, sharing a laugh and embracing each other like long lost friends. To me the destruction of the wall was not simply about a city becoming one again, but about the restoration of freedom.

“To further drive home the point of unification,” Nathan was saying, “modern Berlin builders are using lots of glass in their constructions. The German government is determined to show the world it’s changed. It wants the world to know it’s a transparent nation looking to the future.”

We walked through the gate and made our way to Bebel Platz, but instead of directing our attention to the lavish architecture surrounding the square, we crowded around a small glass panel embedded in the pavement below where we could see a room filled with rows of empty shelves.

“It was here,” Nathan continued, “that the Nazis exercised their power to block free speech. Books from the university library were brought here and burned. The glass panel reminds us that everyone has the right to express an opinion without fear of judgment.”

We wandered back past a bullet-ridden, graffiti-coated piece of the Berlin Wall, one of the few pieces left standing.

Considering the wall was such a hated symbol of separatism, I was surprised any of it was left at all.

Whereas other walls in history such as the Great Wall of China, various castle ramparts and so forth have been used to keep enemies out, the Berlin Wall was the first wall ever to divide and trap people inside their own country. At the time, everyone was completely taken by surprise, especially the people who lived in Berlin. Before the wall went up it was 60

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commonplace for people in the east side of the city to cross into the west to shop, work or for a night on the town. But on a weekend in August 1961 a barbed wire fence was built. People went to bed in freedom and woke up in oppression. In no time the barbed wire became a concrete wall manned with armed guards. The official name of the strip of land between east and west was No Man’s Land, but it wasn’t long before it earned a much more sinister name—the Death Strip.

We were led back into what was the west and to the most beautiful square in Berlin—the Gendarmenmarkt.

Belying its age of over fifty years and made up of two grand churches—now museums—and the Konzerthaus—a concert hall/theatre—the grandiose architecture added an air of splendour and aristocracy to the area.

After a short walk we found ourselves standing in a bland litter-strewn car park nestled among a nondescript block of apartments. This certainly did not compare to the highly embellished Gendarmenmarkt. Then again, it’s not every day one gets to stand where one of the most infamous dictators in the world was burnt to death.

“Where you’re standing now,” Nathan informed us, “is where the bodies of Hitler and Eva Braun were discovered.

While over there,” he pointed to an area between two apartment blocks, “is where the entrance to Hitler’s bunker can be found.”

From the lack of plaques, information boards and clearly labelled dots on tourist maps, it seemed the site of Hitler’s bunker was one aspect of history that Germans preferred to forget.

A short walk away was a construction site where a monument was being built to commemorate the Holocaust and the numerous Jews that died.

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“It would be like the Americans building a monument to the Vietnamese killed in the Vietnam War,” Nathan explained.

“And while you’re all no doubt thinking this is a fantastic gesture it’s worth keeping in mind that not all Germans share your sentiment. While most are willing to learn from past mistakes, they also want to look to the future, especially the younger generation who feel the blame of the Holocaust is being passed onto them.

“Some feel the monument is too abstract, not Jewish enough, while others feel it doesn’t pay enough homage to the non-Jewish people who gave their lives in the war.”

All this talk of walls and war, although interesting, was getting me down. German history was certainly not a happy subject. This did not stop the tour heading to yet another war remnant—the Topography of Terror. We arrived at the remains of a building that used to be the SS and Gestapo headquarters.

All that was left was a basement that looked more like a hole in the ground than anything else. Stretching along its length was a wooden wall showing pictures of atrocities inflicted on Jews and non-supporters of the Nazi regime.

“While this site was home to SS headquarters,” Nathan told us, “it was in the surrounding buildings that decisions concerning the persecution of political opponents and Jews took place. At a time where people could be arrested on suspicion of about to do wrong, there is no other place in the world where terror and murder was organised on such a scale.”

By now the members of our group were obviously tired and hungry. We’d been bombarded with so much information that our heads were hurting—not to mention our legs—and most just wanted a break. When we arrived at what used to be the official crossing point between east and west—Checkpoint 62

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Charlie—the tour concluded. For that I was glad. My brain couldn’t have stored any more facts and figures. To be honest, I was dumbfounded at the extent of the history behind the city.

Take Checkpoint Charlie for instance. There I was admiring the buildings in the midday sun when a sobering thought occurred to me. Had I been standing in this same spot twenty years ago I would’ve been gunned down by the border guards. And if I’d been in the same spot sixty-five years ago I would’ve been surrounded by rubble while the city was being completely overrun by soldiers.

Quite a scary thought and I felt a shiver trace its way up my spine. Okay, I wasn’t around sixty-odd years ago to experience the devastation of World War Two, but twenty years ago I was living quite comfortably with my parents in Sydney while countless kids in East Germany were going through rationing of food and the stark reality of the Cold War. In that moment I was struck by how lucky I was to grow up in Australia.

I also realised that I’d misjudged Berlin entirely. Like the country, I thought Berlin would have more to do with beer than history, but boy was I wrong. By the time the tour group disbanded I’d concluded that Berlin was a much more interesting city than I’d given it credit. It stirred my emotions and caused me to think. In Paris I’d taken pictures for the sake of taking pictures. In Berlin I found myself taking pictures of sights not because they were interesting or famous, but because of the strong feelings they aroused in me.

“What now?” Richard asked while the rest of the group dispersed.

“I’m starvin’,” I said, “I say we grab some lunch.”

“There you go thinking about your stomachs again.” Sally shook her head. “Must admit, though, I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”

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“Well, there’s a takeaway on the corner over there,” I suggested. “It should be cheap. I dunno about you guys, but a sandwich will do me fine.”

“Us too,” Sally agreed.

“And after lunch, what then?” Richard asked.

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” I said.

That “something” turned out to be a visit to the Checkpoint Charlie Museum where we were amazed at the numerous exhibits and stories of heroic escapes, near misses and tragic failures at scaling the wall. The most famous was that of Peter Fletcher. During his attempt to get from east to west he was shot by the East German guards and in the process fell onto one of the many rows of barbed wire that sluiced their way through No Man’s Land. The bullets didn’t kill him and he was left on the barbed wire to bleed to death, sadly only a few feet away from freedom.

What made this failed attempt particularly famous were the East Berlin border guards who turned their guns on where Peter lay in a bid to shoot anyone who came to his aid. This whole incident occurred in full view of the western media and while Peter was eventually rescued only to later die in hospital, many believed World War Three would start at this very point.

The many failed escape attempts, while tragic, only served to exemplify the courageous nature and ingenuity of those who did make it. The whole museum was filled with harrowing tales and amazing stories. In the centre of one particular room sat a car with a sign that boldly challenged us to find where the person was hiding. After checking all the obvious spots we were at a loss. Who knew she would be posing as part of the seat itself, hiding benignly under a tattered old seat cover?

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to get from one end to the other. There were lots of examples on display, from the obvious such as hiding underneath cars and going through tunnels, to the not so obvious such as hiding in oversized luggage. One story told of a group of elderly people who were spurned by younger escapees simply because they were too old. To prove them wrong the older men dug their own tunnel, one that was high enough to let their wives walk through without bending or crawling.

Other escapes were more inventive. In one case a group of mechanics engineered a chain of folding ladders, and using pulleys and ropes, managed to extend the contraption right over the top of the electrified wall without it even touching. In yet another attempt someone used a bow and arrow to launch a cable and attach a pulley before sailing across some sixty-five feet of wall and No Man’s Land in just thirty seconds. Two separate families built hot-air balloons and safely flew from one side to the other.

All in all, some five thousand people successfully escaped the oppression of the east and by the time we left the museum all three of us were overwhelmed by the depth of their human spirit. I found myself wondering if I would’ve been capable of the same all-or-nothing attitude and know-how these people had shown to make a better life for themselves and their loved ones.

It was late afternoon by the time Richard, Sally and I left the museum and returned to the Reichstag, eager to get a bird’s eye view of the city from its rooftop cupola. The line of people waiting to go up was considerably shorter than it had been that morning and before we knew it, we were standing at the head of the queue.

A female security guard began to walk in our direction so we picked up our bags in readiness to be ushered through the 65

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metal detectors. To our dismay, she walked right passed us and over to the security desk where two male guards were sitting.

After chatting to one, who then left, she casually turned to the other and began to scream at him. Naturally, he screamed back.

We had no idea what they were saying. Maybe she was chastising him over his long lunch hours or blaming him for the lack of spark in their relationship, but whatever it was we didn’t want to get involved and stood well back.

Eventually a lady standing behind us in the queue, who I can only assume got sick of waiting, bravely pushed past and walked through the metal detectors, causing them to go off.

Infuriated, the female guard stopped her screaming, marched over to the lady and pushed her back whence she came. She then switched off the alarm and without hesitation began to yell at the rebel lady who, much to our surprise, turned out to be a dragon in disguise and yelled right back. The male security guard, obviously sick of being ignored, walked over to the two women and stirred the pot. It was soon on for young and old.

The shouting, hand gesticulation, finger-pointing and use of large German sausages as weapons of mass destruction were shocking. I made a quick mental note—nothing can bring a man to his knees quicker than a spicy German sausage!

The top of the Reichstag, while not being the tallest point in Berlin, still provided us with a decent view of the place and it quickly became obvious to the three of us that while Berlin was not a pretty city it certainly was a big one. Spread over an area four times the size of Paris and with more bridges than Venice, Berlin was indeed a sprawling metropolis.

Where most other cities set distinct boundaries between business and residential districts, Berlin was a haphazard amalgamation of both. It was wrong of me to expect it to 66

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be any different considering the city’s tumultuous history.

The Mitte—or middle—district for example was filled with the characteristic Baroque architecture and was home to the Gendarmenmarkt and Berliner Dom as well as the Neue Synagogue, distinguishable by the way the gold edging on its cupola glistened in the afternoon sun. In contrast, the Kreuzberg district—notoriously known for its violent protests on May Day—was a postcard straight from the Cold War with its ugly pollution-stained buildings.

Curiously, what stood out most against the Berlin skyline wasn’t so much the various buildings, but the host of massive cranes. It was obvious Berlin was a city under construction and from the look of things it wouldn’t be stopping any time soon.

The most obvious example of this ‘out with the old, in with the new’ mentality was Potsdamer Platz. Originally destroyed in the war and left to rot during the years of the Berlin Wall, it was known during the 1990s as the largest construction site in Europe. Now it was literally a blueprint of what Berlin was aiming for—towers of glass and modernism. And yet what could not be disguised was the point where the western part of the city ended and the east began. The east had that quintessential renovator’s dream feel to it while the west was a typical modern day twentieth century city one could find anywhere. The west was the Dr Jekyll to the east’s Mr Hyde.

It’d been a long day and by the time we reached the hostel Richard, Sally and I wanted nothing more than to grab some dinner, a beer, a shower, and then crash.

Dinner was not a problem and neither was finding a beer.

If anything, we were spoilt for choice, but a shower was a different matter altogether. In this hostel showering required not only feats of strength, grit, determination and a high degree 67

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of flexibility on my part, but also allowed me an opportunity to demonstrate my advanced gymnastic skills.

On entering the cubicle I drew the shower curtain across.

Not that it did anything to protect one’s modesty; it would blow open at the slightest provocation. I had no doubt that a butterfly in Tokyo need only to flap its wings and the whole contraption would come crashing down around me, shower curtain and all. And if a wayward shower curtain wasn’t bad enough, a fluctuating water temperature certainly was. Either it was cold enough for penguins to start lining up for a shower with me or hot enough for me to start preparing dinner.

After what seemed like an eternity the water temperature finally decided to settle on the mildly scalding setting, and once it did I hoped things would be all right. And they were, at least for a little while. The so-called calm before the storm.

I even managed to work out a great routine where I would shampoo and soap up, all the while making sure the shower curtain remained closed. All this involved a lot of stretching, juggling and interesting yoga positions. Considering I was not a Hindu god I thought I was doing quite well.

Until of course the soap slipped from my hand and went sailing across the floor, right at the time the shampoo began to drip into my eyes and the water decided to turn itself off.

With nothing but happy thoughts filling my head, I began to grope blindly behind me for the button that I knew was there but could not find because it had somehow managed to move two feet to the left. When I finally realised this and got it working once more I was pleasantly surprised to find there was no hot water left. Meaning I now had to share my cubicle with two penguins and an extremely affectionate polar bear.

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The next day Richard, Sally and I by sheer chance were faced with a common problem.

Sally asked me, “So, what are your plans for the day?”

“Well, I’d like to see the Berlin Wall remnants and the Jewish Museum, but don’t know if I’ll have time.”

“Why?” Richard asked.

“I need to find some accommodation in Prague.”

“You too?” Sally said.

“Yeah. It didn’t occur to me when I was planning this trip I’d be arriving in Prague on the May Day long weekend.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Sally suggested, “why don’t we join forces? With three of us looking it’ll speed up the process.”

I agreed, glad to have the company.

“That’s settled, then,” Richard said between mouthfuls of toast. “After breakfast let’s head down to the Internet cafe by the station and see what we can find.”

We began our search with gusto, but after fifteen minutes of set-backs and a dozen messages flashing across the screen saying, “Sorry, all beds taken”, the situation looked dire.

“Still nothing?” Sally’s brow was creased with worry.

“Nope,” I said. “This last place has a bed, but not on consecutive nights. How’re you doin’, Rich?”

“Zilch!”

Sally clenched her fists in frustration. “God, it seems the only places with beds are five-star hotels.”

“Well, I’m not too keen on that option,” I told her as I tried another search. “That’d blow my budget right out of the water.”

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“But all the cheap places are taken,” Sally spat with disgust.

“And it’s better than sleeping in a damn train station!”

“Settle down, Sal,” Richard said. “It’s not over yet. We’ve only been looking a few minutes.”

“I heard Prague was popular, but I wasn’t expecting this.”

I sighed.

“Don’t lose hope yet, guys,” Richard the optimist said as he typed in the address of another website. After a few more tense moments of searching he pulled out his phone and punched in a number. “Cross your fingers. This place looks promising.”

“Are they answering?” Sally asked.

“Shh, Sal. Hello?”

I moved closer to the edge of my seat, the suspense killing me. Sally’s eyes were fixed on her husband.

“Yeah, hello. I saw you have three vacant beds in your dorm. Are they still available?”

For a second he was quiet. Then, nodding intently, he flashed a huge smile.

“Great! I’ll take ’em!”

At a little after eleven o’clock we arrived at what was the longest remaining section of the Berlin Wall, the East Side Gallery. Painted along its 1.3 kilometre length were artworks of various styles and sizes, all portraying what the tearing down of the wall meant, not only for Germany, but for the whole world.

After walking its length the three of us slowly made our way to the Jewish Museum. This building was quite different to other museums I’d visited with its sharp and elongated edges 70

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designed to resemble a disassembled Star of David.

As I wandered through its spacious corridors I found the towering walls overwhelming and disorienting. Unlike other museums, it wasn’t crammed with artefacts, but was strangely filled with large empty spaces—voids, as they were termed.

According to the pamphlet we were handed when we entered, they represented the emptiness felt by Europe after the war had ended, and the Jewish generation that was never born.

Not to say the displays weren’t informative. Far from it. The museum traced Jewish culture not only in Berlin, but also through the rest of Germany’s history from the first settlement of Jews right up to the modern day.

“That’s it.” Sally let out a breath as we left.

“That’s what?’” Richard asked.

“I’ve had enough.” Sally sat down on a nearby bench and took out her bottle of water. “This city is great, but has far too much information for its own good.”

“I agree,” I said, taking out my own water bottle. “By the halfway mark my brain had shut down.”

“So, what do you want to do now?” Richard asked.

“I just want to do something normal, like shopping,” Sally told us. “And besides, we still need to buy some pressies, Rich.”

“Speaking of home,” I said, “I should call and make sure my parents haven’t set fire to my room.”

Richard’s eyes went wide with surprise. “What?”

“Last time I rang they told me smoke was coming from my computer. Somehow they’d managed to set fire to my motherboard.” I let out a sigh.

“How …” Richard shook his head in disbelief, “… did they manage to do that?”

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best of friends. I’m sure they think Hotmail is a term for when letters catch fire.”

“Darren, you’re terrible!” Sally scolded. “C’mon, we better get going.”

“See you back at the ranch,” Richard quipped.

“See ya, guys,” I said and went in search of the nearest phone.

That evening I was busily preparing myself both physically and mentally for the task of showering when Richard took me aside.

“Darren, instead of going through all that malarkey why don’t you use the handicapped shower on the third floor? But don’t tell anyone. The last thing we need is to be kept waiting in line.”

Without wasting a second I grabbed my towel and made a dash for the third floor.

Enjoying a shower where the water stayed on and where one could lock the door was all well and good, but what I could not understand was that this handicapped shower was on the third floor and the hostel didn’t even provide a lift.

No way could a disabled person get up here, unless of course Germany, a country so technologically advanced, had not only developed cars that could park themselves, but wheelchairs with inbuilt catapults.

The problem with Berlin was not so much its ugliness, nor the fact that it had two of everything. No, the problem with Berlin was that it was too informative for its own good. In the two days I spent there my head had been crammed so full of 72

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dates, facts and figures that I honestly thought it was going to explode. Amsterdam may have screwed with my mind, but Berlin had overloaded it.

At least I was grateful that Prague would be different. I was sure it would have its fair share of history too, but from the stories I’d heard there was a whole lot more to Prague than just its history.

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5

The Bohemian Way of Life

“Sleep well, Darren?” Sally asked as we waited to board the bus.

“Like the proverbial log.”

“You weren’t disturbed? Didn’t hear anything?”

“No.” She gawked at me, her jaw dropping open. “Not one little thing?”

“No, why? What happened?”

Apparently a lot. If our room-mates weren’t throwing up in the hall or chatting loudly in the room they were busy slamming doors and repeatedly switching lights on and off.

Sally may’ve been shocked at my ability to sleep through all these disturbances, but I certainly wasn’t. It takes a lot more than screaming people and flashing lights to wake me. In fact, if members of a German Oompah band had walked into the room, planted themselves beside my bed and played their greatest hits I’d have thought it was music to sleep by, turned over and gone into an even deeper slumber.

The bus drove east towards Dresden. Looking back, Dresden was one of the many tough calls I’d had to make on this trip.

It started when I was in Scotland, deciding where I wanted to stop and for how long. The big cities didn’t pose a problem; it was the smaller ones like Dresden that caused me angst and had me pondering. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to see every city on the Busabout route, but while my time may have been

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limitless, my bank account definitely was not.

In the end I avoided making the choice in the hope that it would sort itself out, but by the time my last day in Berlin had rolled around I was still no closer to making a decision.

So I asked fellow travellers what they thought about Dresden and they all agreed it was similar to Berlin and I wouldn’t be missing much if I skipped it altogether. But when the bus arrived into the city at a little past eleven I could not for the life of me understand how anyone could say Dresden was like Berlin. Berlin was a hotchpotch of construction, decay and all things new, while Dresden was more classical by design and extravagant in stature. At nearly eight hundred years old and with its captivating Baroque skyline, Dresden certainly deserved its title as one of Europe’s most dynamic and beautiful cities.

Dresden was in the midst of May Day celebrations and the Elbe River was lined with people and strewn with paddle steamers. To really get amongst it I needed a couple of days, but I only had one hour. That’s not exactly true. I would’ve had an hour if I hadn’t needed to find a toilet.

Joining me on my search for a bathroom was a couple from Melbourne, James and Alicia.

“You know,” I said to James, “for a place that has so many bars so close to a river serving one-litre steins of beer, you’d think they’d have row upon row of public toilets.”

“You’re telling us,” James agreed. “Come on, guys, we’re obviously not going to find anything here. Let’s try away from the river. We might find a McDonald’s or something. There has to be a public toilet around here some place.” His last sentence was more of a plea than a statement.

We asked a few people on the street for guidance, but I guess our hand gestures were not up to scratch because instead 75

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of receiving directions all we got were dirty looks.

Things were beginning to look desperate.

“This is bloody ridiculous!” Alicia said, obviously frustrated.

“Hey, guys, what about over there?” James said.

Alicia and I looked at the small cafe James was pointing to and were overjoyed to see signs for toilets.

“We might have to buy something,” Alicia warned.

James waved her off. “We’ll worry about that later. I am officially declaring this a state of emergency!”

As we entered, the bartender gestured to some menus on the bar before concerning himself with the glass he was polishing.

James and I picked up a menu each while Alicia scurried off to the ladies’ room.

“What do you think, Darren?” James asked.

“Not a bad selection,” I said louder than was necessary while I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “If only I could decide.”

“You know, Darren, I can see this is going to take some time so why don’t you do what you need to do and I’ll see if I can choose something.”

I placed my menu silently on the bar and casually walked to the bathroom. Upon my return James handed me the menu before power walking off in the same direction. I opened the menu and began to look indecisive.

A waitress suddenly appeared beside me. “Do you need a hand?” she offered in pristine English.

“I’m fine, danke. I’m just having a tough time deciding.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked at me. It was a look that told me she knew I was full of shit.

Just then James and Alicia returned.

“So, Darren,” James said in a loud voice so the waitress would hear, “anything take your fancy?”

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“Nah, not really.” I replaced the menu and without so much as a backward glance, the three of us hightailed it back to the bus.

The scenery on the way to the German/Czech Republic border was not the bland green landscape I’d expected, but was surprisingly alpine. In the blink of an eye the road was enveloped by towering pines that occasionally parted to reveal wooden cottages, babbling brooks and a narrow gauge railway.

The German border guards on the other hand were exactly what I expected—mean, efficient and ruthless. Before the bus had even stopped they’d jumped on board, unholstered their passport stamps and fixed us in their steely glare. We knew they meant business.

This level of efficiency was missing on the other side of the border; things were definitely done differently in the Czech Republic. In the time it took for one of the Czech border guards to look up and realise that a bus had pulled up in front of their window, spiders had moved in, my hair was long enough to braid and tumbleweeds were rolling down the aisle. Instead of rushing out to us, as his German counterparts would’ve done, the Czech guard gently woke his sleeping colleague and casually pointed to our bus. They exchanged glances, followed by a few words. Oh Jeez—a bus! It’s the second one of the day.

You know, we’re going to have to ask for that pay rise. All this hard work will be the death of us. Going by their enthusiasm it was no wonder we’d been told that getting across the border into the Czech Republic could take as long as three hours, if not more.

Luckily, it took less. Ninety minutes later we’d officially crossed the border and were heading to the old garrison town of Terezin. Built during the eighteenth century to provide 77

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protection for Prague the town was used for a much more sinister purpose during World War Two. According to our guide through her thick Czech accent, “The Jews that were brought here were not here for death, but only for holding. They were to be placed on trucks and trains and sent to death camps in Poland. But before they left many died due to ill-treatment, overcrowded cells and malnutrition.”

This was not hard to imagine.

“The SS filled each cell with one hundred people,” our guide said, “with no food, no water or toilets.”

She led us to one of the cells, which was about the size of a small bedroom, barely big enough for twenty people, let alone a hundred.

The sad fact about Terezin is that the ill-treatment of the Jews need not have continued if the Red Cross had been more vigilant during a visit to the town. The Nazis did such a good job misrepresenting the truth and pulling the wool over their eyes by filling shops with goods, bakeries with bread, stores with food and placing prisoners in strategic positions around the town, that the Red Cross representatives concluded the Terezin Jews were being treated well.

Altogether, 140,000 Jews were incarcerated at Terezin, 33,000 of who died before the rest were shipped off to places like Dachau and Auschwitz.

Up to that point I never could properly visualise the sheer numbers of Jews that died in the Holocaust. And while I never will, Terezin certainly gave me a better understanding of the scale of genocide that sadly took place. Initially, when our guide told us that 33,000 Jews perished I found it difficult to grasp the scope of what that meant. It wasn’t so much the size of that number that caused me angst, but more what that 78

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number meant. Only when I was back out the front of the fort, facing the large Star of David and surrounded by row upon row of weather worn headstones did it occur to me how significant the number 33,000 was when it pertained to people. I guess I could liken the feeling to sitting in an empty Sydney Cricket Ground, knowing the rest of the crowd who should’ve been there with me had been killed and all laid to rest in the one cemetery. But do you know what I found really scary? That the Jews who died at Terezin were a mere handful compared to the millions more murdered during the war.

We arrived in Prague as the afternoon sun was shining across the Vltava River and its many bridges. Above it all and draped in shadows was Prague Castle, the spire of its Gothic cathedral rising high above its outer walls and the rest of the city.

While everyone watched in silent admiration as the cityscape rolled by, our guide filled us in on Prague and what we could do.

“Julie!” the bus driver suddenly called.

“What’s up, Scotty?”

“We have a problem.”

“What is it?” Julie quickly replaced the mike and huddled next to Scott.

Scott didn’t answer, but simply pulled over and watched a policeman stroll up to his window.

“What did you do?” Julie asked.

“I guess I’m about to find out.”

Scott opened his window and listened to the policeman explain what he had done wrong. Understandably, Scott tried to talk himself out of the situation, but the officer would have none of it. Ignoring Scott’s pleas of ignorance, he pulled out his fine book, flipped to the next empty page and began to 79

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write furiously. Again, Scott tried to explain to the officer that he was taking backpackers to their accommodation. But the officer ignored him, tore off the infringement notice and handed it to him. Scott closed the window and was about to drive off when the officer tapped the window and rubbed his fingers against his thumb. Obviously, the fine needed to be paid immediately. From where I was sitting I could see Scott’s face in the rear view mirror and saw him mouth silently, “You’re fucking joking.” Reluctantly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and handed the officer some cash. The policeman smiled at his fellow officers and tucked the wad of bills into his back pocket.

“What was that all about?” Julie asked.

“Apparently the bus was impersonating a tram!”

“Huh?” “Since the bus is wider than most cars I have no option but to drive on the tram tracks. But thanks to those bloody idiots that’s now a crime. Maybe next time I should drive on the footpath!” Scott clenched his knuckles around the steering wheel as he turned the bus back onto the main road.

“Take it easy, Scotty. Let’s just find another way to the hostel and once we get settled in I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Thanks, Jules, but first we have to get there. You wouldn’t know any other way, would you?”

“No, I was hoping you did. Since you’re the driver and all!”

“Oh well.” Scott smiled as he grabbed the microphone.

“Guys, since our usual route to the hostel has been blocked by the cops we have a special treat for you. Julie and I are taking you on an impromptu tour of the city.”

Rather than touring Prague’s sights, the bus roamed the city’s back streets until it finally found the drop-off point.

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Unfortunately for Richard, Sally and me, our hostel was still another twenty-minute walk away. By the time we finally checked in and dumped our bags the three of us were ravenous so we strolled back into Prague to grab some dinner.

“Excuse me,” a tall blond guy said as he stepped out of a phone booth on a street corner. From his twang he was obviously an Aussie. That and the fact that he was holding a Telstra phone card.

“Yeah, mate?” Richard said.

“You guys wouldn’t know how to use a phone card in these phones would you?” He handed Richard the card.

Richard studied it before answering, “Wouldn’t have a clue; sorry, mate.”

“Is there someone at the place you’re staying who could help you?” I suggested.

“We’ve tried what the receptionist at our hostel suggested.”

“Oh.” He turned away from us.

“Bugger this, Brenda, come on out!”

Brenda stepped out of the booth. She was slightly shorter than the guy, but like him she had blonde hair, only hers was shoulder length.

“But Brett—” “Look, I’m hungry. We can try later.”

The two of them spent the next five minutes having a domestic about whether or not they should make the call.

Richard butted in, “Why don’t you come out to dinner with us? We’re just about to pop into town.”

All eyes turned to Brenda.

She gave in after a short hesitation. “Yeah, okay.”

“So, where are you guys from?” Richard asked after all the 81

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introductions were done.

“Sunny Melbourne,” Brett answered.

“How long are you in Prague?” I asked.

“Four days,” Brenda said.

“Then what? Heading back to the UK? Australia?”

“No,” Brenda said. “Have you heard of Busabout?”

Richard flashed a toothy grin. “You betcha!”

“We’re Busabouters ourselves,” Sally said.

We compared travel plans and life stories before our growling stomachs demanded our attention.

“So, what d’you guys feel like eating?” Brett asked.

“Anything really,” I said, pausing at a menu displayed at the front of one of the numerous restaurants that lined the streets of central Prague, “but looking at these prices I reckon steak could be a goer.”

Richard looked over my shoulder. “I heard Prague was cheap, but this is …” He let out a soft whistle and flashed one of his trademark smiles.

Our search for a restaurant was made incredibly pleasant by the warm spring evening and relaxed jovial atmosphere that pervaded the city. After settling on a restaurant near Wenceslas Square we made quick work of ordering our meals and, more importantly, our drinks.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Brett said, reaching for his beer as soon as it was placed in front of him.

I picked up my glass. “Cheers, everyone!”

“Hang on a sec,” Sally interjected. “We’re in the Czech Republic—let’s do it right.”

With that we raised our glasses and with a loud clink, wished each other a hearty “nice driveway”.

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The next morning found Richard, Sally and me walking to the nearest tram stop. Richard went ahead of me and asked the lady for two tickets.

Saying nothing, she fiddled with a gizmo behind the counter before handing him his tickets.

He smiled and said “Dickweed” then passing me, shook his head. “God, what a funny language. Imagine looking someone in the face, saying ‘dickweed’ and having it mean ‘thank you’.

Crazy, huh?”

I stepped up to the counter and asked for a ticket. The lady looked at me, frowned and said, “No” or at least something that sounded like it. I asked her once more and got the same answer. Before I could ask a third time she handed me my ticket. I looked at Sally and Richard, wondering what the hell was going on.

Sally laughed. “Darren, don’t you pay any attention?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember what Julie said? In Czech ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and vice versa.”

“Oh yeah,” I said sheepishly. Crazy indeed.

Prague Castle looked different up close to what it did from afar. While St Vitus Cathedral was still as impressive as it was from a distance with its high reaching Gothic spires and intricately detailed architecture, the castle itself was not what I expected a castle to look like, especially one renowned for being the biggest ancient castle in the world. There were no round towers or ramparts and its stonework showed a distinct Spanish influence instead of a medieval one.

We bought our tickets and walked to the far side of the 83

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Basilica Church towards one of the oldest parts of the castle, the Royal Palace.

“Wait a minute, guys,” Richard called. “Before we go in I need to use the loo.”

He returned a few minutes later, panting heavily.

“Quick, Sal, give us the camera!”

Sally hesitated.

“Darren, you have to check this out. Come on, Sal, the camera!”

I stayed put and made no attempt to follow Richard. You have to admit I had a right to be suspicious. It’s not every day I get asked by a guy with a camera to follow him into a toilet to check something out!

“C’mon, Darren, get a move on!” Richard grabbed the camera off Sally.

Still making no move to go anywhere I said, “What exactly do you want me to check out, Rich?”

“The view! The view of the city from the toilets is amazing.”

He was right. The view was amazing. But if someone had come into the men’s at that particular moment they too would’ve been amazed at the two guys crammed into a tiny cubicle, fiddling with the zoom lenses on their respective cameras.

Except for the views from the toilets and from the many balconies, the Royal Palace left a whole lot to the imagination.

Unlike other castles I’d visited the inside was bare, completely devoid of the opulence and splendour of the era represented.

Even the stretching expanse of Vladislav Hall, which had seen numerous banquets, markets and knight tournaments, had very little on display. The only part of the old palace that still retained some colour was All Saints Church.

Located at the end of Vladislav Hall the small church was 84

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literally shrouded in gold so bright I almost found myself reaching for my sunglasses. It was not simply the central altar with its towering, highly embellished, somewhat gaudy tabernacle that had me spellbound, but also the two altars on either side of it. While slightly smaller than the central one these altars were inset with countless religious icons and enough gold trimmings to drive most jewellers out of business.

After twenty minutes of walking through the cold empty rooms of the Royal Palace, Sally, Richard and I realised the entrance fee into these apartments was a waste of money, not to mention time. Leaving the palace by the so-called Riders’ Staircase where horses and their riders used to gain entrance to the hall for tournaments, we walked to the Golden Lane.

Going by the crowds that were fighting each other to get into this section of the castle it was obviously the place to be.

For the life of me I couldn’t understand why. On one side there was nothing but a blank wall and on the other stood houses that while picturesque and colourful, served no other purpose than to convince people to part with their money. These buildings were originally used as living quarters for servants and goldsmiths—hence the name of the lane—but in reality they were nothing more than shops.

“Guys,” Richard said, “do you realise the tickets we bought entitled us to do no more than shop and get crushed by hordes of people?” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Well,” I said as we entered one of the smaller shops, “at least it shows Prague has embraced western capitalism with open arms.”

The three of us pushed our way to a flight of stairs at the far end of the lane that seemed to be drawing a lot of attention.

At the top of the stairs we found ourselves at the halfway point of a long, musty cramped corridor. One side led down 85

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to a collection of cells while the other led us past a vast array of medieval weapons, none of which were kept behind any protective barrier of any sort. I suppose one might need quick access to a shield and mace, especially since there were kids at the other end of the corridor playing with crossbows!

“Jeez, I hope the cathedral is less crowded than this,” Sally said as she barged through an unmoving group of people in a bid to lead us to the exit.

If anything the cathedral was worse. It seemed every tour group known to man had congregated at the entrance. As a result, raised above this sea of people were umbrellas, leaflets, antennas, kids, confused Japanese tourists and anything else the guides could think of to make sure their group stayed together. I wasn’t surprised. St Vitus Cathedral is the biggest and most famous church in all of Prague, home to many coronations and the resting place of many provincial saints, noblemen and sovereigns.

It wasn’t only that we were eager to get in and see dead people, but from what I’d been told the view of Prague from the top of the Gothic steeple was unmatched and the tomb of King Wenceslas at St Wenceslas Chapel was not to be missed.

“God, this is ridiculous,” Sally huffed as the three of us fought the crowds.

“At this rate,” I said, “it’ll take at least a couple of hours to get in this place.”

“And even if we do,” Richard added, “it’s so crowded I doubt we’ll be able to get a decent look at anything.”

“What do you say we give it a miss then?” Sally’s eyes had not left the throng pushing towards the cathedral door.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I’m sure there’ll be other churches in Europe that’ll be just as good.”

“If not better,” Richard agreed.

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Instead of directly making our way back into town we detoured through the castle gardens. As expected, the gardens were carpeted in luxuriant green grass and sculpted topiary with a selection of exotic cedar and fig trees and, to my surprise, tulips. Apparently, long before the Netherlands embraced the tulip as its national flower it was common practice to plant tulips along this castle’s paths and flowerbeds.

Shortly before midday the three of us reached Charles Bridge, easily the most famous bridge in Prague with its Gothic styling and array of religious figures. The most interesting was that of a man called John Nepomuk. He was a priest who served during the reign of King Wenceslas the Fourth. The king was a suspicious man and was convinced his queen had been up to some royal monkey business behind his back. To find out for sure the king demanded that John tell him what his wife had told him in confession. Catholic priests are bound not to divulge such things and so John refused. This enraged Wenceslas so much that he had John dragged out to Charles Bridge and unceremoniously dumped into the Vltava River.

Soon after John’s demise a golden halo reportedly appeared over the area where he disappeared, supposedly as evidence of his martyrdom. As a result the statue erected in his honour bears a ring of stars around its head. Standing a few metres away from the statue is a small crucifix that marks the spot where John was thrown over. It’s said that if you touch the crucifix and make a wish it will be granted.

Getting to the crucifix was no easy task, let alone making it across Charles Bridge. The crowd was thick and it was too easy to get distracted by the artists, buskers and pedlars who’d set up stalls along the side of the bridge. But all that pushing and shoving was worth it once we got to the other side.

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and not be affected by its charm and magic—its zigzagged cobblestone laneways were lined with Baroque fairytale architecture and shops where marionettes hung in doorframes and danced in the wind, while windowsills were adorned with hand-painted babushka dolls and gleaming Bohemian crystal.

At the heart of it all was the Old Town Square. Surrounded

by Gothic architecture, cafes, restaurants and shops, the square was both enchanting and laid-back.

Overlooking the square was the Church of Our Lady of Tyn. A church that while immensely beautiful was one of the first monuments to sexism. Built with one tower higher than the other the church is said to be a visual representation of the difference between the masculine and feminine species. As to which species the bigger tower represents, I’ll let you make up your own mind!

Inside the church, like St Vitus Cathedral, lay yet another grave that honoured neither saint nor sovereign, but the famed astronomer Tycho Brahe. Personally, I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall when he died. Not that I’m morbid or anything, but the story goes that Tycho passed away while dining with the emperor. Some say he died of a burst bladder, others that he died of mercury poisoning, and there are those that say it was murder. But the cause is irrelevant. Protocol of the day dictated that no one was permitted to leave the table while the emperor still remained. So when Tycho collapsed and died no one came to his aid. Left lying facedown in his soup he was probably the topic of conversation for the rest of the evening.

The church, while being eye-catching, was not the focal point of the crowds. Everyone who entered the square seemed drawn to the Astronomical Clock that stood on the side of the Town Hall. Built over six hundred years ago, it’s one of the 88

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oldest European clocks of its type and not only tells the time, but distinguishes day from night, the revolution of the sun, the moon and stars, and as an added bonus keeps track of the twelve signs of the zodiac. As the clock struck one o’clock, Jesus and his twelve apostles marched across the dial just as death—an animatronic skeleton—struck a bell. Okay, the show itself wasn’t too exciting, but considering the clock still keeps remarkably good time and the machinery that makes it all happen is more than half a century old, it’s quite impressive.

Just as quickly as it began the show ended and the crowd dispersed. Richard, Sally and I did the same and wandered past the centrepiece of the square, a statue of Jan Hus, a priest who spoke out against Catholic methods of worship and was ultimately burned at the stake.

The old part of town was the perfect place to walk aimlessly and lose track of time. And this is exactly what we did for the rest of the afternoon before I left Sally and Richard and strolled back to the hostel.

I returned later that night to check out an imposing building that stood by the river’s edge. The place was called the Karlovy Lazne Nightclub and proclaimed itself as the biggest nightclub in all Eastern Europe. With its four floors of music this is not a claim I disbelieved. I don’t recall what time I got home. All I knew when my alarm sounded the next morning was my legs hurt as much as my head.

You’re probably wondering why in blue blazes I would want to set my alarm after a big night out. Well, when my alarm went off I asked myself the same question. It was only after I reached for it in a bid to throw it out the window that I realised I was the victim of my own alcoholic over-exuberance.

Among the copious bottles of beer and pounding dance beats, I’d eagerly made plans with Brett and Brenda to visit the town 89

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of Seldec, which is about an hour’s train journey out of Prague.

This in itself was not a bad thing. Going to Seldec was always on my to-do list, but I was literally kicking myself for making plans that meant I had to get up so early in the morning. The fact that I even had the coordination to set my alarm, let alone remember the plans, is a complete miracle.

“Hey, guys!” I said, finally arriving at the platform. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey, Darren,” Brenda said before turning her attention back to the indicators.

“How’s your head, mate?” Brett asked with a grin.

“Still attached, thankfully.” I rubbed the back of my neck.

“How about you?”

“We—” “I can’t see the train to Seldec!” Brenda interrupted.

“God, you’re such a stress-head, Brenda—relax! We catch the train to Kutna Hora.”

“Yeah, Seldec is a suburb of Kutna Hora,” I clarified.

“Oh ... oh damn!”

“Now what?” Brett sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“We just missed a train.”

“Sorry, guys,” I said, “I would’ve been here sooner, but—” “Don’t worry about it, Darren.” Brett turned to Brenda.

“Relax, babe. There’s another one in twenty minutes.”

“Speaking of which, have you guys got your tickets?”

“Sure do,” Brett said.

“Cool. Let me grab mine, then we can jet.”

When Brett, Brenda and I arrived at Seldec we made straight for the Seldec Ossuary, also known on the backpacking grapevine as ‘the bone church’. Nondescript in every essence of the word, the church, while not much to look at from the 90

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outside, gave the phrase ‘dying to get in’ a whole new meaning.

Within its walls were the remains of nearly forty thousand people!

During the thirteenth century a monk went on a pilgrimage to Palestine and brought back a few sods of earth from Golgotha, the site where Jesus was crucified, and sprinkled them over the Seldec cemetery. When word of the monk’s actions spread people came from all over, wanting to be buried at the cemetery because it was thought this would guarantee them a place in heaven. By the early fourteenth century the number of bodies had reached well over thirty thousand, and by the time the plague arrived the gravediggers had run out of room. To make space for new arrivals and because no one knew what else to do with them, the old bones were dug up and placed in storage. A couple of hundred years later someone came up with the bright idea of decorating the chapel with the left-over bones—all forty thousand sets to be precise.

We entered the church and stopped dead in our tracks.

Staring at us from across the room was a chandelier made up of skulls and what appeared to be bones from many human arms.

We were speechless at the sculptures that had been made into crosses, coats of arms and other shapes that were macabre yet captivating. Especially odd was an arrangement that sat near the entrance—a bone-bird pecking at the ocular cavity of a human skull.

“Well, that was ... er ... interesting,” Brett commented as we left the church.

“To say the least,” I agreed.

“Now what?” Brett asked.

“Let’s grab something to eat,” I suggested, “I’m starving.

And then we can have a look around town.”

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Brenda told us.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go.” Brett powered off in the direction Brenda was pointing.

Apart from a few tired looking workers in the supermarket and a big guy who seemed to be getting extreme pleasure from cutting twigs with a large chainsaw, the suburb of Seldec was deserted.

“Come on, guys, let’s get back to Prague,” Brett said. “I doubt we’ll find much more to do here.”

This was a good suggestion. Not only was there not much going on in Seldec, but the big guy with the chainsaw was beginning to look at us with a certain gleam in his eye.

When I woke up the next morning Richard and Sally had already left to catch the bus, leaving me to spend my last two days in Prague in a similar fashion to how they’d spent their last day—shopping and strolling in and out of Old Town and the city. It was also during those two days that I caught the flu.

This wasn’t the only bug I caught.

It was my last evening in Prague. I sat in the kitchen, writing in my travel journal and chatting to others around me when I casually mentioned to no one in particular that while I was due to leave tomorrow I could quite happily miss the bus.

“Ahhh,” said an Irish bloke sitting across from me, “you, my friend, are the latest victim of the Prague bug. Now that you’re here you may never want to leave. Just look at me. A few days have turned into months and now I work in a bar in the centre of town.”

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From the nods of agreement from others at the table, I knew I was not alone in my affliction. I’d simply discovered what everyone else who’d ever been to Prague already knew. It was a place that had more than enough beauty and charm to keep me there for weeks or, as my Irish friend said, even months.

I was tempted to miss that bus, but I’m glad I didn’t.

After a pleasant journey south for a couple of hours we arrived at Ceske Krumlov, a medieval town at the southern tip of Bohemia.

I hadn’t been sure about stopping at Dresden, but I was one hundred percent certain about stopping at Ceske Krumlov.

In fact, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It was a town preceded by its reputation, which meant that by the time I actually set out from Prague in the direction of Ceske Krumlov, my expectations of the small town were high. I’m happy to say I wasn’t disappointed.

Nestled among the hills of Southern Bohemia and straddling the Vltava River, the town expanded outwards in a maze of cobbled alleyways, colourful houses and medieval architecture that gave the town a distinctive fairytale vibe.

Eager to get amongst it, Brett, Brenda and I quickly checked into our hostel, dumped our bags and walked into town. Almost immediately the castle tower grabbed our attention. It was truly one of the most unusual and colourful towers I had seen.

Where other castle towers had a grey and listless appearance, the brickwork of this tower was painted in vibrant tones of red and yellow with splashes of green thrown in for good measure, while golden eaves and cornices adorned the tower’s balcony 93

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and roof.

The castle itself was similarly intriguing. Its Gothic windows were dressed in elegant window boxes and painted in primary colour schemes while Baroque arches and medieval balconies were decorated in bright summery hues. Had I been standing in a different place I would’ve described the castle as garish, but in Ceske Krumlov it was simply Bohemian.

The same could not be said of the castle gardens; they had a distinctly Renaissance influence. Spread over two levels and joined by a grand staircase that bordered an opulent fountain adorned with water deities, the gardens were crossed with rigid pathways, manicured lawns and perfectly clipped trees.

The only part that retained the Bohemian charm of the rest of the castle was the summer house. With its colourful exterior and remarkable, albeit smaller, resemblance to the manor from ‘Beauty and the Beast’, the summer house was certainly one of the more photographed attractions.

Directly opposite stood a structure that was neither Bohemian nor Renaissance in style. If anything, the revolving amphitheatre seemed out of place. Designed and built in the mid-1940s it could be rotated to face any direction and was a popular venue for plays and open-air music during the summer months.

The gardens also provided one of the best views of the town and surrounding countryside, which was dotted with fertile green hills and thickets of dense forest that seemed an ideal setting for a long stroll. The town too, with its maze of streets, seemed the perfect place to get lost for hours on end.

The three of us decided to do just that.

Walking along one of its many alleyways we were immediately transported back in time. Cars were almost non94

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existent, laneways were cobbled, house fronts were painted in various bright colours and the locals welcomed us with warm smiles.

“God, this place is awesome,” Brett said.

“I just can’t believe how pretty it is,” Brenda agreed.

“Is it me, guys, or do you feel like we’re on a different planet?”

“No, Darren, it’s not just you,” Brett concurred. “I just looked at my watch. It seems like we’ve been here for hours, but we’ve only been walking around town for forty-five minutes.”

“C’mon, guys, let’s head down to the river,” Brenda suggested.

Even though the river was no less than five minutes away we didn’t arrive at its banks until nearly an hour later because we were in no hurry to get there.

The three of us spent the rest of the afternoon there soaking up the sun and watching the clouds drift. Occasionally, a boat filled with giggling kids, cheery parents or a group of friends would float by. As they passed they would wave and flash a friendly smile, only to have us and others on the riverbank return the gesture.

It was early evening when we returned to the hostel and grabbed a table on the patio. Overlooking the murmuring river and town, it was the perfect place to drink beer and marvel at the mesmerising view at sunset.

But the beauty of Ceske Krumlov was not limited to the fairytale sunsets, medieval architecture and luxuriant countryside. What made Ceske Krumlov such a hit with everyone I spoke to was that it gave them the opportunity to do as much or as little as they wanted. If you didn’t want to spend the day walking round town or lying around sunbaking 95

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then there were always the nearby forests to explore.

This is exactly what we did the following day. As Brett, Brenda, Abigail—another room-mate—and I wandered along the shadowed path through shafts of sunlight, I relished the fresh, dew-scented air on my face and thought how peaceful this place was. So much so that when one of us spoke we did so in hushed tones so as not to disturb the serenity.

As we hiked deeper into the forest I almost expected to find a house made of candy just waiting for lost kids or hapless backpackers to stumble across. Instead, we found something else that could’ve caused just as much trouble.

“I think we’re on army land,” Brett said casually as we walked into an open field.

Brenda froze. “Don’t you think we should turn back?”

“Nah, we’ll be right,” Brett told her.

“I still reckon we—” “C’mon, Brenda,” Brett said. “How often do we get to take a stroll through a forest on a summer’s day in Melbourne?”

Brenda remained silent as she pursed her lips and her cheeks filled with colour.

Suddenly the path split into two and we stopped to let Brenda catch up.

“Okay, guys,” Brett said, “we either head right and by the looks of things that path will lead us back to town, or we continue left. I’m not fussed either way.”

Neither were Abigail or I. Brenda, on the other hand, was.

“Let’s go right,” she said and before we could argue she set off in that direction.

“I guess she’s right.” Brett shrugged his shoulders. “We wouldn’t want to get shot or blown up.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Brett,” I said. “It’s way too early in the 96

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trip for that.”

That evening the hostel tapped a keg. In theory, this meant free beer; in practice it meant warm froth. Most decided to forgo the offer and went to the hostel bar for their beer because it was cheap—like everything else in the Czech Republic— and, more importantly, cold.

“I know what we can do.” Brett shot up from the table.

“I’m up for anything,” I told him, “as long as it doesn’t involve moving.”

Brett returned with a deck of Uno cards he’d bought in Prague.

After many games later and just as many beers, most were ready for bed when Abigail decided to liven things up a bit. She scampered over to the bar and returned with shot glasses filled with Absinth, a liquid that looked like Coolmint Listerine. This stuff may’ve looked like mouthwash, but it tasted like kerosene. Either way, it annihilated the germs that caused gingivitis and bad breath.

I went to pick up a shot glass.

Abigail stopped me. “No, Darren, you have to do it the right way.”

She placed the shot glasses on the table and handed me a spoonful of sugar.

“Now,” she instructed, “dunk the spoon with the sugar in the Absinth and then pull it out.”

I did so. “Now what?”

“Does anyone have a lighter?” Abigail asked. One was handed to her and she passed it to me. “Light the spoon then wait. When the sugar starts to caramelise, drop the spoon back into the glass.”

I did as I was told and the Absinth immediately caught on 97

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fire, as did the tablecloth and the dog that had wandered too close. I didn’t need to be told what to do next. I snuffed out the fire, inhaled the vapour and knocked back the shot. Good thing was the vapour cleared my sinuses (I still had the flu), but as for the sugar it did nothing to help the medicine go down.

After spluttering, thumping the table, staggering around, gasping for air and finally realising that that my insides weren’t melting, I swallowed another shot. Because nothing can take away the taste of Absinth except more Absinth. And by that time you’re so drunk and your tongue is so numb you can’t taste or see anything. And as for walking, you might as well forget it.

I staggered back into my room and said hello—or something similar but equally unintelligible—to my other room-mates before crawling into bed.

“How was it?” Kelly asked me.

There was a long pause as my Absinthinated mind processed Kelly’s sounds into words and finally into a sentence. This took about five minutes.

I looked up, my head heavy and tried to focus in the direction of Kelly’s voice. She tried to restrain a smile. Stephanie shook her head, probably thinking, You bloody idiot.

“It was good … uh … oooh, my head … God, that’s paytent stuff. Oohhh …”

Kelly burst into laughter.

“It’s not fahhhnnyyy …” I trailed off as everything around me faded to black.

After the likes of Paris, Amsterdam and Berlin I needed a couple of days to relax and unwind. That’s why places like Prague and Ceske Krumlov were so perfect. Prague was a great place for a leisurely stroll and Ceske Krumlov was a great place 98

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to relax, chill out, put your feet up and recuperate from all that sightseeing.

Up to that point I never realised how tiring a backpacking holiday could be.

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6

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Austria was a feast for the eyes.

I remembered what Jake had told me in Paris. “Darren, there are only so many fields of wheat and grass you can look at.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. Up to that point the passing scenery had been bland, listless, unexciting. But these are not words I would use to describe the Austrian countryside, which by contrast was lustrous and alluring. The grass was green to the point of iridescence and each sleepy hillside was dotted with rustic oak cottages complete with stone chimneys and gardens brimming with colourful wildflowers.

It seemed others too were mesmerised by Austria’s postcard beauty. One man was so enchanted that he stood naked at his window, basking in the sunshine and fresh air, smoking a cigarette and welcoming passing tourists with a smile and a raise of his cigarette. While I was grateful for the welcome, I was just as grateful the cigarette was all he raised! Then again, if I lived in a country where over seventy per cent of the land was covered in stunning mountains and forests I would do no less than stand at my window and drink it in. I think, however, I’d remember to put some pants on first.

For all its beauty, Austria is a mere shadow of the empire it once was. Much of its history is linked with neighbouring Germany; therefore its borders have changed with each passing century, argument, war and political upheaval.

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What didn’t change was the Hapsburg family of Austria.

For over seven hundred years they remained a constant among an ever-changing political landscape. The Hapsburgs were not only the most enduring European dynasty, but also the most influential.

Where their German counterparts preferred a bit of biff to expand their empire, the Hapsburgs used more subtle and peaceful means to expand theirs—marriage, that is. Not to say the Hapsburgs weren’t averse to a good fight. Like Germany, Austria’s history is full of instances where if the Hapsburgs could not make love they’d gladly make war. As things turned out this would be their downfall. When the emperor decided to invade Bosnia in the early twentieth century noses were put out of joint right across Europe. Without much provocation the surrounding countries threw their two cents’ worth into the ring and before long World War One had begun. By the war’s conclusion the Hapsburg Empire had ended, leaving Austria with very little political direction and the perfect breeding ground for Nazi-style politics. After World War Two, once the allies had left, Austria—deciding it had seen enough fighting—quickly proclaimed its neutrality. It was one of the best decisions the country ever made. While Germany was being divided and conquered, Austria quickly went on its way to become one of the most highly developed countries in Europe.

It was a bit after three when the bus turned into the most picturesque rest stop I’d ever seen. Like the many houses we’d passed along the way, its roof was fixed with an Austrian flag, adorned with decorative eaves and had smoke billowing from its stone and mortar chimney. The rustic interior was filled with oak furniture and a veritable forest of fernery cascaded from the ceiling. The atmosphere was heavy with the aroma of 101

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pine-scented furniture polish and freshly brewed coffee.

After spending a few moments admiring the homely fairytale architecture, I sat across the table from Brett and Brenda, not expecting the coffee I ordered to be anything special. In fact, I was sure I’d end up drinking a beverage that looked and tasted like two-day-old dishwater. Boy, was I wrong. Set down in front of me was not dishwater, but heaven in a glass. Topped with plumes of light, lemon flavoured whipped cream, drizzled with chocolate shavings and doused in chocolate sauce, this was one of the best coffees I’d ever tasted. I’d been in Austria only a few hours and already it had blown every expectation completely out of the water. If the coffee was this good then Vienna had a lot to live up to.

I didn’t know what to expect of Vienna. I’d heard about Mozart, the Vienna Boys’ Choir and the copious amounts of opera performed each year. But I seriously doubted the city would be filled with boys running around in cassocks or guys sporting weird curls in their hair. Or extremely big-boned women wearing horn-studded helmets and corsets two sizes too small so their bosoms produced enough cleavage to trap local bird life, their voices so pristine that windows cracked at every opportunity. No, what I expected at the very least was a city adorned with decorative architecture, vast promenades and museums. Basically, I was imagining something not too far removed from Paris and I was eager to find out if this was true.

The bus arrived at the hostel and while most checked in and gravitated to the bar with plans to spend the rest of the night there, Stephanie, Kelly and I strolled into town towards the heritage listed Old City.

Where Prague’s Old Town was quaint, Vienna’s was like something out of a Baroque fairytale. Criss-crossed 102

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with cobbled alleyways and decorative fountains, the Old City seemed far removed from Vienna and the twenty-first century. The buildings overflowed with seventeenth-century splendour and as such were embellished with curved cornices, jutting windowsills and flying buttresses. Even the cafes and restaurants had an air of classical elegance about them, from the flickering glow of oil lamps on the tables to the impressionist paintings that decorated the walls.

Making our walk even more pleasant was the fact that the Old City was off limits to traffic. This did not mean we could go where we liked when we liked. The crowds were still oppressive enough to ensure walking was more of a challenge than usual.

Adding to the melee of tourists were the Mozart look-alikes who were literally everywhere trying to sell tickets to classical concerts. In other cities this would be incredibly annoying, but in Vienna they simply added to the warmth and classical ambience that permeated through the Old City.

Nowhere was this ambience more apparent than among the glitzy shops, expensive restaurants and numerous cafes of Stephensplatz. All of which was overshadowed by the Gothic, spire-ridden shape of St Stephen’s Cathedral. Towering over everything in the vicinity, the cathedral was lit from every direction. But all this illumination could not dispel the countless shadows that clung to its highly embellished exterior and nestled in the many decorated edges, giving the cathedral a distinct and eerie aura.

But the city’s art, culture and seventeenth-century architecture wasn’t all that caught my attention. As the three of us ambled back to the hostel, I quickly found another aspect of Austria that I eagerly wanted to sink my teeth into.

“Steph, do you see what I see?” A cheeky smile slowly 103

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found its way across Kelly’s face.

When Stephanie realised what Kelly was gawking at, she stopped dead in her tracks, began salivating and looked like she’d died and gone to heaven.

Stretched out in front of us was shop after shop selling not only pizza and pasta, but also—my all-time favourite—gelato!

Walking past, I was amazed at the number of flavours on offer.

Everything from the traditional supermarket variety to the not so traditional. At least now if I was in the mood for that ‘specially churned vanilla from a hydroponic cow’, I knew where to go. But it wasn’t just the gelato that had us salivating profusely. The sundaes were out of this world and so big they could feed a small nation.

“You know, girls,” I commented as we arrived back at the hostel, “if the city looks this good at night, imagine how good it must look during the day.”

Eager to find the answer to this question, I was up before eight the next morning. Kelly and Stephanie were already halfway through their breakfast by the time I got to the dining room.

“So, what are you girls up to today?” I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Probably go down and see the palace the guide was talking about when we drove in last night,” Kelly answered.

“The one with the zoo?”

“That’s the one. You?” “Oh, you know. I wanna check out St Stephen’s, explore the Old City and see if I can find out about this free concert my room-mate told me about. You girls wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No, sorry,” Kelly said.

“Why don’t we try askin’ round all those temporary stages 104

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we saw last night?” Stephanie suggested.

“Not a bad idea,” I agreed.

We finished breakfast and walked into town. It was barely past nine o’clock yet the sidewalks were full of people enjoying a morning cup of coffee and bowl of gelato.

Kelly stared at them in disbelief. “Do these people ever stop eating ice-cream?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe they prefer their cereal with ice-cream instead of milk.”

Kelly, being a nutritionist, was horrified at the thought of eating ice-cream for breakfast.

“Well, they might. And besides, gelato can be considered a dairy product.”

Like the previous night, the stages around the city were deserted, unlike the cafes that were full of life as waiters scrambled over each other to get ready for the day ahead. We wandered into one place and found the tables were scattered with leaflets of different sizes and colours. Most were written in German and those that were in English offered little help.

“Can I help you?” We turned and faced a waiter who held a cloth in one hand and a couple of menus in the other.

“Hi,” Kelly said. “I wonder if you can help us.”

“I’ll try,” he said with a warm smile. “Are you lost?”

“No, no.” Kelly shook her head, returning his smile. “We’ve heard there is a free concert in Vienna tonight. Is that right?”

The waiter thought for moment before asking us to follow him out of the cafe.

“See that street?” he indicated in near perfect English.

We nodded.

“Cross that street, then go between those two museums until you come to the ring road. You can’t miss it. It’s the widest road in Vienna. If you turn left and follow the street around, in 105

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about five minutes you should come to a large brown building with a clock tower. This is the town hall and the concert is being held there.”

“Thank you.” We all smiled at him.

“You’re welcome,” he answered.

Before he was beyond earshot, I asked as an afterthought, “Excuse me, what’s the concert for?”

“The Vienna Festival starts tonight,” he called back.

“Talk about timing!” Stephanie said.

“What d’you say then, girls? Shall we meet back at the hostel around seven-thirtyish?”

“Sweet as,” Kelly replied.

With a wave the girls turned and set off in the direction of the palace while I continued to walk into the heart of Vienna.

Just past the stages was a building I barely noticed the previous night, but with its bright yellow paint and captivating blend of architectural styles gleaming in the sunlight, it certainly commanded my attention. The Museumsquartier is one of the largest cultural complexes in the world and contains a collection of buildings responsible for bringing together and nurturing a multitude of artistic and cultural disciplines. Filled with theatres, art galleries, video workshops, artists’ studios and museums dedicated to a variety of subjects ranging from modern art to design to dance and even tobacco, the complex had something for everyone.

From the sheer size of it, I knew I could easily spend my two days here wandering from one museum to another, but that would’ve been a misuse of time of which I had very little.

Besides, I was sure there was much more to Vienna than the Museumsquartier.

Two such examples were found across the road and formed the so-called triangle of art on the border of Vienna’s Old City.

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Sitting opposite each other and overlooking a lustrous green lawn were the Museums of Natural History and Fine Art. Both were built in stunning Neo-Renaissance style, which meant they were lavishly adorned with decorative stonework, recessed windows that sat on intricately designed windowsills, and roofs that were bordered by balustrades and extenuated by imposing cupolas. While both museums complemented each other both in looks and in grandeur, it was the Museum of Fine Art that was the more well known of the two. Due to the Hapsburgs’ affinity for art, it contained one of the most extensive art collections in the world.

Like the Museumsquartier, I bypassed these two buildings and continued on to the road the waiter had told us about.

Built on what once was the fortification of the city, the fifty-one metre wide boulevard was spacious, tree-lined and the perfect place for a pleasant stroll.

And it’s not every day you find the perfect place for a stroll to be smack bang in the middle of a city. If I was in Sydney and wanted to go for a walk I would not be heading into central Sydney, that was for damn sure. To be honest, the words pleasant stroll and Sydney CBD don’t exactly go together. I guess this pleasantness is what made Vienna so different to Paris. After what I’d seen so far, it was slowly occurring to me that Vienna was nothing at all like Paris. It was better. A lot better. In Vienna I was constantly surrounded by elegance, culture and art. In Paris I found the classical and elegant areas were outnumbered by the places that weren’t. Not to mention the hectic pace of Paris that in many cases detracted from its beauty and ate away at the romantic atmosphere the city was once famous for.

Not to say the streets of Vienna were dead. Footpaths were rife with workers and tourists and streets were filled with 107

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traffic, trams, even the odd irate commuter. Yet there was not that insistent need to rush everywhere. The atmosphere was laid-back and cruisy.

This meant you could walk without fear of getting run over by a crazed driver while taking your time to admire the beautiful architecture. In fact, the only architectural style you won’t find in the city is Renaissance. This is not because the Hapsburgs didn’t like it, but because during that period of history they were too busy defending the city from Turkish invaders to worry about constructing any fancy buildings. But this lack of Renaissance architecture simply serves to emphasise the other styles that are spread throughout the city.

Not that the buildings around the Rausthausplatz needed emphasising. Whether it was the Greek-influenced Houses of Parliament or the Gothic-inspired Town Hall, the buildings drew attention to themselves whether they wanted to or not.

More so now, considering the Rausthausplatz was where the stage for the Vienna Festival had been set up. Already, the Town Hall’s imposing clock tower was partially covered in a cobweb of scaffolding, sinews of electrical cabling and stacks of oversized speakers. Not much was happening by way of entertainment, except for the odd sound check, so I took some pictures and strolled into the Old City.

Away from the glitz of Stephensplatz the town was still grand, but definitely less glamorous. The cobbled streets were quiet, the cafés rustic and the shops filled with a wondrous old-world charm. But the Old City’s compact size meant I was soon amongst the hubbub of Stephensplatz, staring up at St Stephen’s Cathedral with undisguised wonder. Long gone were the shadows of the previous night, revealing the grandiose splendour of the spires as well as the myriad embellishments nestled amongst the numerous crevices, nooks and crannies of 108

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the cathedral.

It wasn’t simply the architecture that I found mesmerising; the roof of the cathedral was also a sight to behold. Unlike other churches where the roof was usually drab and grey, the roof of St Stephen’s was a collage of glazed multicoloured tiles arranged in a zigzag fashion that, while being out of character with the rest of the church, was nonetheless fascinating.

In a way, the amalgamation of colours on the roof reflected the unification of Austria. When the church was destroyed shortly before the end of World War Two every province, realising the historical importance of the cathedral not only to Vienna but to the whole of Austria, wasted no time donating funds for its reconstruction. The centuries-old cathedral has seen fires, sieges and wars; if anything, the cathedral was as much a part of Austria as were the Hapsburgs.

As I entered, the noise from the square instantly dissipated into hushed whispers and muffled footsteps. While not completely dark the interior was nonetheless murky. Plumes of light were thrown outwards by flickering candles and shafts of dust-filled sunlight entered the cathedral via the cavalcade of windows that lined the walls. Even under these hampered conditions the beauty of the church was neither diminished nor lost; if anything, it gave the interior an ethereal beauty.

Like other churches, religious figures adorned the interior and a magnificent winged altar stood among the lavishly sculpted pulpit in an area where stories from the Bible were taught to the poor and illiterate.

While beautiful, these embellishments were not what caught my eye. Near the apse of the church was the worst looking statue of Jesus I’d ever seen. Usually, Jesus is depicted as robust and strong, but this showed him as dishevelled and unkempt. Yet people still came from all over Austria to venerate the statue— 109

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known as Zahnwehherrgott or ‘Lord of Toothache’—because apparently by worshipping this particular statue your dental problems could be cured.

Apart from the church being used as a proxy dentist, it also served as a judge of bakers. Near the entrance a small groove was cut into the wall. While not much to look at, it played an important part in the medieval judicial system. It was used to measure the size of a baker’s loaf of bread to test if he was being dishonest and short-changing his customers.

What intrigued me even more were the macabre decorations dotted around the cathedral. It seemed that any spare space or corner was the perfect place to carve a skull or some sort of visage of death. One such place was not so hidden, but out in the open. Situated in a part of the church known as the Apostle Choir, the tomb of Emperor Fredrick the Third was crawling with intricately carved hobgoblins complete with talons and evil sneers, all trying to enter the coffin in an effort to wake the emperor.

Fredrick the Third was not the only Hapsburg to be interred in the cathedral. Residing in the catacombs below the church were burial urns that contained the remains of fifty-six members of the Hapsburg family. Not all their remains, mind you, just their entrails; their other body parts were of course distributed to other churches dotted around city and country!

St Stephen’s was by far one of the most interesting churches I’d seen. Not only in terms of architecture and history, but also because it’s not so often you come across a church that was built by the devil.

The legend begins with a man named Hans Puchsbaum and naturally it revolves around love and romance. Hans had come to Vienna to help build the cathedral and also to woo a girl by the name of Maria. It so happened that Maria was 110

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also the daughter of the master builder, Hans von Prachatitz.

Unfortunately for Hans Puchsbaum, Maria’s father did not approve of his affections for his daughter because he’d already arranged for Maria to marry the son of a wealthy family. It did not help matters that Maria actually liked Hans Puchsbaum.

In the spirit of father/daughter relationships everywhere, Hans von Prachatitz laid down the gauntlet to Hans Puchsbaum. “If you can finish the north tower at the same hour that I complete the south tower then you may take Maria to be your wife.” As the south tower was about a quarter of the way built and the north tower had barely been started, the task set by Hans von Prachatitz was almost impossible. As the young man’s hopes and dreams dissipated, he despaired and apparently muttered to himself, “Only the devil can help me now.”

It just so happened that the devil heard Hans’s plea and appeared to him to make a deal.

“I will help you build the tower, but you may not utter the name of God or that of any of his saints the entire time; otherwise your soul will belong to me.”

Hans was now between a rock and a hard—hot?—place.

On one side was Maria’s father and on the other was the devil.

How could he possibly ask Satan to help, knowing he and God weren’t exactly on speaking terms? His thoughts then turned to Maria and his love for her, and without another moment’s hesitation he entered into a pact with the devil.

Day and night, with the devil’s help, Hans Puchsbaum mixed mortar and set stones into place, much to the surprise of Maria’s father and the Viennese people who had never seen a tower built so fast.

Puchsbaum, eager to beat the devil and gain Maria’s hand in marriage, adhered rigorously to the devil’s conditions. As it 111

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grew less likely that the builder would have to surrender his soul, Satan decided to resort to trickery.

One night, assuming Maria’s shape, the devil walked across St Stephen’s Square with his head bowed. Hans Puchsbaum, standing high above on the scaffolding, recognised Maria and quickly forgot his oath. He called out her name and as he did the heavy support beams broke apart and Hans Puchsbaum fell to the ground, his hopes, dreams and soul collapsing around him.

From that day on the tower remained unfinished. No one dared to complete the devil’s work. At least not until World War Two was over when the church was completely destroyed.

The government, deciding not to let a legend dictate building practices, had the church rebuilt in full, tower and all, and hung in its belfry the largest free-swinging bell in Europe, the Pummerin.

By the time I’d left St Stephen’s it was midday and I joined the hordes of locals and tourists stampeding towards the Danube River. Unlike the title of Johann Strauss’s famous symphony, the Danube was anything but blue. It was more a dirty khaki, but then again I wasn’t in love and it’s said that only people who are in love see the river in its blue state. Blue or not, its shady banks provided a great place to eat lunch and make use of the area’s numerous gelaterias.

It was a little past one o’clock when I arrived at Hoher Markt, the oldest marketplace in town and site of the public gallows and pillory where numerous dishonest bakers had been punished and publicly humiliated. I walked through the stalls to the Ankeruhr, or Anchor Clock. Forming the centrepiece of the walkway that joined both buildings of the Anker Insurance Company, the clock was decorated with highly crafted golden embellishments and figures showing important figures in 112

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Austrian history. During the course of twelve hours the twelve figures tread the face of the clock, only to repeat the process in full at midday. I decided not to wait around for twenty-two hours for the next show and slowly made my way back to the hostel.

It wasn’t long before I once again became immersed in the heady brilliance of the Hofburg Palace. I remembered approaching it the previous night and muttering to myself, “Holy grizzoly!” because I was somewhat taken aback to find something as colossal as the Hofburg plonked in the middle of the city.

Extending over eighteen wings, nineteen courtyards, some twenty-two museums and about twenty-six-hundred rooms, the Hofburg is akin to someone building something the size of Ayers Rock on the outskirts of Sydney’s CBD. Unlike other palaces, the Hofburg has stood on the same site for seven hundred years. Even more astounding, the palace—like the Hapsburgs for which it was built—has remained intact through countless sieges, invasions, fires and wars.

Nowadays, apart from being the residence of the President of Austria, the palace is also home to arguably one of the most famous choirs in the world, the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Not that you could simply walk off the street and watch them perform.

Ticket prices are stratospheric and are usually sold out months in advance.

Similarly expensive and just as popular was the Spanish Riding School. This is an institution that prides itself on being the only one of its kind in the world that cultivates equestrian perfection. I guess if watching horses prance around in rigid formation with their movements all perfectly controlled is your idea of fun then the Spanish Riding School is for you.

But since I was interested in neither perfectly controlled horses 113

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nor boys in cassocks whose voices are yet to crack, I gave both places a miss, avoided another confrontation with more Mozart look-alikes and returned to the hostel.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Kelly, Stephanie and I set off in the direction of the Rausthausplatz for the concert. By the time we reached the Town Hall we’d bumped into a few fellow travellers, two of whom were Brett and Brenda.

“Looks like we’re early,” Brett said as we arrived at the Town Hall and found the place predominantly empty.

“At least they’re handing out coffee,” I said.

“Really? Where?” Brenda’s head spun left and right so quickly I thought she was about to do an impression from The Exorcist.

The waitress slalomed through our pools of drool and offered us a tray of paper cups filled with coffee. We accepted without hesitation.

Coffees in hand, we walked towards the stage, eager to find a good vantage point for the concert. A good thing we did too because before we realised what was happening the forecourt was overflowing with hundreds of people and crackling with an atmosphere of anticipation. It was about nine-thirty when the lights faded and the murmurs of the crowd settled to an audible hush. The humid night air was quickly filled with the soft, lilting tones of the Vienna Symphony Orchestra and the heady and powerful voices of the Arnold Schoenberg Choir.

Keeping with the classical mood the orchestra and choir were followed by a piano solo and operatic piece before a trio of violinists, aptly named Triology, took the stage and treated us to some sombre and haunting classical melodies as the clock tower behind them lit up in a vast array of colours. The ambience was enhanced further when Triology’s melancholy 114

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tones were joined with the taut yet sharp sounds of another opera singer.

“Jeez, has anyone else got goose pimples?” Brett said, grinning from ear to ear. Not only did I have goose pimples, but the full length of my spine was tingling.

As the violin trio walked slowly off stage to raucous applause, a band of ten men wearing white suits and black collared shirts and brandishing an array of brass instruments strode onto the stage. At the sound of their first notes it was obvious the classical portion of the concert was over. The crowd, who up until that point had been fairly subdued, were soon jumping and swaying in time as goose pimples were replaced by dancing shoes, and the so-called Brotherhood of Brass filled the air with pulsating Latin rhythms.

They were later joined by four skinny guys dressed in over-sized clothes who, with a musical backdrop of horns, trumpets and saxophones, beat-boxed and hip-hopped their way to the next act, an Austrian rock band.

To cap off what had been a fantastic evening, the crowd was worked into a frenzy as the performers harmonised on stage for the finale, and the night was set ablaze with a myriad of fireworks and arcing spotlights.

The next day I stood at the Gloriette monument, reeling from both the previous night’s concert and the view before me.

Stretching out in front of me was the sumptuous UNESCO heritage listed Schloß Schönbrunn. I found it hard to believe that this palace with its understated elegance, vast green gardens, adjoining zoo—the oldest of its kind in the world— 115

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and superb view of the city was rarely mentioned by travellers along the backpacker grapevine. Versailles was talked about at length, but I thought it barely measured up to the Schloß Schönbrunn in terms of beauty and stateliness.

Stretching over two large wings, containing over fourteen hundred rooms and built in a distinctive Rococo style, the vibrant yet soft yellow colour scheme gave the palace a cheerful summery vibe.

This was in stark contrast to the Hofburg Palace in the centre of the city. Where the Hofburg showed off the Hapsburgs’ wealth and gave the distinct impression of keeping people at bay, Schloß Schönbrunn was completely inviting. It was easy to understand how it quickly became the centre of imperial court and political life in the seventeenth century.

Naturally, the best place to take in the vast expanse of the palace and its gardens was from where I was standing—the Gloriette monument. Built from marble, topped with a stone canopy and situated behind the palace on a hill, the monument offered a great view of the palace, the city and a cafe where your wallet had to be full of gold before you could even consider entering.

Instead of popping in for a coffee (the only thing left in my wallet was dust) or visiting the rest of the garden with its stunning fountains, maze, zoo and palm house that contains various climatic zones in its many pavilions, I reclined on the hillside, relaxed and marvelled at the fresh air and great scenery.

By the time afternoon had rolled around and I’d spent most of the day cataloguing what I’d seen and experienced in my travel journal, I realised I’d fallen into the trap of assuming that Vienna would be a typical capital city. It was just as foolish of me to think that Vienna would be similar to Paris when it 116

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had quickly become apparent that it was anything but. For one, Vienna was greener; trees seemed to sprout from every corner with such a metronomic regularity that it seemed like the buildings were built around the trees instead of the other way around.

As for the art, culture, history and even the coffee, Vienna seemed to offer so much more. But through it all, Vienna managed to be colourful, lively, enchanting and, unlike Paris, had that certain Je ne sais quoi which had me wanting more.

“Hey, Darren, what are you doing tonight?” It was Stephanie.

I’d just returned to the hostel and was waiting for the lift to take me up to my room on the sixth floor.

“Nothin’ much, Steph. Why?” “Kel and I are goin’ to the opera. Wanna come?”

“Oh, I dunno. Opera isn’t really my thing.”

“It’s only two euros.”

Yes, it was cheap and would not break the budget, but that didn’t change the fact that opera to me is about as much fun as getting your face waxed. Yet an annoying niggle in my head was telling me to reconsider. I was torn and so I told Stephanie that I would think about it.

“Well, if you decide to come we’re meeting in the foyer at six-thirty.”

“Okay, I’ll see.”

Not only were Kelly and Stephanie in the foyer but also Brenda and Brett.

“So you decided to come,” Kelly said.

“Yeah. I decided I couldn’t come to Vienna and not see an 117

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opera. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“That’s because this will be your first and last opera, won’t it, Darren?” Brett asked.

“You got that right.”

Two euros bought what are known the world over as the cheap seats. Actually, seats would’ve been a luxury because for two euros we had to stand in the stalls, which were located behind the cloakroom, past the toilets and so high up that I was sure we were entering the stratosphere.

For the first five minutes of the performance I barely looked at the stage. I was too busy trying to dodge migrating seabirds, while staring at the small LCD screen in front of me so I could read the subtitles in the vague hope I could somehow decipher a story. I quickly realised that opera was more complicated than I thought. From what I could gather there was a lot of sleeping around going on as well as an election, the fondling of a duck in a public place, the appearance of a whale, some guys with nets and a bit of swordplay, followed by random acts of spontaneous linedancing. All this was not only complex but also extremely disturbing.

By the time the curtain closed I was still staring at the LCD screen in complete disbelief and utter confusion.

“Okay, guys, can anyone tell me what the hell that was?”

Brett asked once we were in the foyer. From the expression on his face he was obviously just as bamboozled as I was.

“Maybe we can work it out on the way back to the hostel,” I suggested.

“Great idea, Darren. Let’s go.”

“Are you guys sure that wasn’t just the first act?” Brenda asked.

“Couldn’t have been,” I said firmly, and hopefully. “The actors all took their bows. They usually do that at the end.”

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“Yeah, I know,” Kelly agreed, “but no one seems to be leaving.”

Kelly was right. Brett and I were crestfallen.

Brett said, “I don’t know whether to feel happy that there’s more to come or sad that there’s more to come.”

At that point a bell sounded the end of intermission and while the rest of the patrons returned to their seats the five of us began searching for a way out.

Vienna was definitely a city of superlatives. It was much more than I ever imagined a city could be—classical, opulent, relaxed and, most of all, friendly. The City of Mozart had more than lived up to my every expectation, and had in fact surpassed them with ease.

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7

There’s Music in Dem Dere Hills

Stopping at Salzburg was never part of the plan. From what I’d heard the only two things the city had going for it were one, it was Mozart’s birthplace and two, Julie Andrews liked to frolic in its hills. Even Rob, a Mozart fan who specifically took a side trip to Salzburg to see a concert, didn’t exactly rave about the place.

During the planning stages of my trip I was left in a quandary. Did I really want to waste time and money in a place that was good, but not great?

The answer was a resounding no. While I didn’t have anything against classical music, I definitely did not need to go to Salzburg to hear it. It was the same with The Sound of Music.

Am I the sort of guy that can happily sit at home on a Saturday night with a cup of hot chocolate and watch Julie Andrews cavort through the arresting Salzburg landscape? Never! Not while hell is still toasty warm. Seriously, have you ever met a man who admits to The Sound of Music being amongst one of his all-time favourite movies?

That said, I knew it would be quite some time before I returned to this part of the world, so I decided to see if there was more to the city than was rumoured.

While on the way to Vienna I asked the guide what else— besides the obvious—there was to do in Salzburg. Without a moment’s hesitation she told me I would be silly to go there and not visit one of the largest ice caves in the world. This was

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the last thing I expected to hear, but it was enough for me to rearrange my itinerary.

The trip to Salzburg took a few hours, leaving the rest of the day at the disposal of Kelly, Stephanie, Brenda, Brett and myself. It took us five minutes to dump our luggage in our rooms and dash out into the city. It took us an even shorter length of time to realise we were all alone. The streets of Salzburg were empty; the shops bolted shut and filled with darkness.

“Where the heck is everyone?” Stephanie said.

I checked my watch. “It’s Sunday.”

“Not to mention Mother’s Day,” Brenda added.

“Oh well,” Brett said, “let’s make the most of it. After being cooped up in those cities it’s good to take a breath and not have to cough up a lung from all the smog and pollution. And who can honestly tell me they don’t enjoy walking around without running into every man and his bloody dog? Vienna was nice, but Stephensplatz … sheesh … bloody nightmare to get across.”

Brett was right. Salzburg did lack that choking atmosphere typically found in so many other cities surrounded by mountains. From the lattice of powerlines suspended over the streets it was obvious the reason for the city’s invigorating atmosphere was because the buses were predominantly powered by electricity, not diesel. Some people might complain that the powerlines detracted from its eighteenth-century charm, but I would argue it simply added character. Look at Melbourne.

Overhead wires everywhere, but when was the last time you heard someone whinge about them? My guess would be close to never. Just like I presumed very few would complain about Salzburg. The five of us didn’t. It seemed wherever we went we were surrounded by classical corners, embellished facades 121

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and elegant balustrades, which were all decorated in a riot of springtime colours. Such elegance was nothing compared to the magnificence of Salzburg’s Old Town.

We could barely contain our superlatives when we crossed the free flowing Salzach River and meandered along narrow cobbled streets between towering Baroque buildings, through vaulted passageways and across grand squares. All of which were inset with sculpted fountains and surrounded by moulded cornices and countless detailed reliefs.

“Come on, guys, let’s head back to the hostel,” Brett suggested.

“Yeah,” Kelly agreed, “but maybe we should come back at night and see how the city looks then.”

“Yeah,” Brenda said, “if it looks this good in the daytime imagine how it must look under lights.”

Unfortunately, our expectations exceeded reality. That evening we left the hostel, eagerly expecting the city to be lit up in a similar fashion to Vienna, but for the most part the city was cloaked in gloom and silence. The only building that was illuminated to any degree was the imposing silhouette of Hohensalzburg, the old archbishop’s residence.

Overlooking the Old Town from its elevated position on top of the Mönchsberg—a jutting rock face—it provided a rugged backdrop to the stunning architecture of the town.

The darkness did not mean the city had lost any of its charm. It wasn’t lit by the sterile glow of fluorescent lights and sodium vapour lamps, but it was drizzled with the dulcet glow of moonlight, cloaking the city in magic and romance.

By the time we’d returned to the hostel Salzburg had quickly supplanted Vienna as my favourite city. Not taking anything away from Vienna, which compared to Paris and London was incredibly beautiful, laid-back and green, but in 122

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the grand scheme of things it was exactly that, a city. Salzburg was different and even though it was Austria’s fourth largest city, it had neither the hectic pace nor the overwhelming noise usually found in cities of similar size. Its mood was soothing and peaceful, something akin to the atmosphere I’d found only in smaller places such as Ceske Krumlov or Brugge. Even during Monday morning peak hour when cars were rumbling down the street and the pavements were full of people the commotion did very little to diminish the tranquillity. If anything, it was only emphasised.

By comparison, let’s look at Sydney for a moment. In Sydney, ‘peak hour’ is when you reverse out of your driveway, travel to a nearby motorway, then park your car for a couple of hours, all the while swearing at the ineptitude of drivers in a controlled, less than dignified manner. Compare this to the Salzburg peak hour where the definition of traffic jam seems to be limited to about ten cars, and instead of yelling at the guy ahead of you as you speed through red lights and run over anybody who may be in your way, there is an aura of polite patience. In fact, while motorists waited contentedly for the light to turn green or that old lady to amble across the street, most simply read the paper, quietly marvelled at the view of the mountains or revelled in the fresh mountain air. In some cases I was certain that some drivers were fighting the urge to stand naked at a window, smoke cigarettes and watch the world go by.

I too would’ve loved to stand naked at a window and smoke, but neither had I a window nor do I smoke. Plus I felt that for the sake of my room-mates, locals and humanity in general, I would keep my clothes on and instead go for a walk through the Old Town.

I returned to the Getreidegasse, arguably the most famous 123

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shopping lane in Salzburg. Flanked by towering and colourful buildings and enticing shops and passageways, the lane was filled with the natter of conversation, the smell of fresh rain and the arousing aroma of coffee and freshly baked biscuits.

Attention seemed to be focused on a tall, flamboyant looking building. Over the door and inscribed in luminous gold calligraphy it proudly proclaimed to be ‘Mozarts Geburtshaus’ or Mozart’s birthplace. The building was filled with artefacts, like Mozart’s concert violin, various correspondence and the symphonies he composed. It was a good thing I wasn’t overly interested in his life because the hordes of people fighting to get inside made a mosh pit at a death metal concert look civilised.

Don’t take my lack of fascination in his life to mean he was boring. Mozart was the perfect candidate for a modern-day gossip columnist. If he wasn’t composing or performing he was enjoying a good drink, a good woman or both. In the end, some say this is what killed him. Others say it was poison provided by a rival composer, while the Freemasons proclaim they killed him because he revealed their secrets in his opera Die Zauberflote. Not to mention a number of suspects in the imperial court or the countless people he owed money to who wanted him dead. It was safe to say that Mozart was not the most liked man in Salzburg and his funeral consisted of his body being dumped unceremoniously in a mass unmarked grave.

So what became of the man now considered to be one of the greatest composers of classical music? While the Salzburg Mozarteum is owner of a skull that could be Mozart’s, your guess is as good as mine.

I continued on to Salzburg Cathedral and was immediately amazed at the bright interior. Light streamed in from every 124

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direction and for once I did not have to view the lavish portals, the intricate stained glass windows, the majestic organ and the other numerous details of the church by candlelight. Yet I was surprised to find that of all the highlights the tourism board could have chosen as the cathedral’s drawcard, they picked the font used for Mozart’s christening. I was dumbfounded at how much emphasis Salzburg placed on Mozart, since he made it very clear he preferred the excitement of Vienna.

Instead of continuing onto the Hohensalzburg I hightailed it back to the hostel. A good thing too; I’d barely finished lunch when Mick, our guide who had an infectious smile plastered to his broad face, stuck his head in the dining room and rounded up everyone who was waiting for the ice cave tour.

Snaking along the contours of the Salzach River, the bus left Salzburg behind and was soon surrounded by the alpine beauty of the Salzach valley.

“Y’know,” Danielle whispered to Ari and me, “Mick reminds me of someone, just can’t think who.”

I’d met Danielle and Ari on returning from my morning stroll through Salzburg. They had a similar itinerary to mine.

Ari and I studied Mick as he skipped down the aisle and introduced himself to everyone on board.

“How are you, guys?” Mick shook our hands vigorously.

“Good,” we replied in unison.

“So where do you hail from? Hang on, let me guess.” A cheeky grin crept onto his face.

“Go on, then!” Ari said, hamming it up in his New York accent. Ari was originally from New York, but was planning to settle in Sydney with Danielle.

“I’d say Sydney, Australia!”

“How did you …?” I was baffled.

“How did I guess?” Mick finished.

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The three of us nodded.

“I’m just that good!” He paused for a few seconds before laughing loud enough to start an avalanche. “Nah, I overheard you talking before. I’m originally from there.”

“Whereabouts?” Danielle asked.

“Dee Why. An old northern beaches lad, I am.”

“So how long have you been here?” I asked.

“Just coming up to ten years now.”

“Why did you move here?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t. I was here on holiday and just didn’t leave.

Anyway, hope you have a great day.” We stared after him as he bounded down the aisle.

“You’re right, sweetie,” Ari said as Mick joked around with the other passengers. “He reminds me of someone. It’s not his accent. It’s because he seems to have more energy than he knows what to do with.”

“Yeah, I know, and that’s what’s so frustrating,” Danielle said. “Name’s right on the tip of my tongue, I just can’t get it.”

She sighed and turned her gaze to the window.

I didn’t have much time to give Mick’s other identity further thought because the bus soon pulled into a lookout on the outskirts of Werfen, a small town at the base of the valley. Overlooking the stunning Salzach valley it was the perfect spot to marvel at Werfen Castle. Perched on the top of a one hundred and fifty-five metre column of rock that rose up from the middle of the valley, I couldn’t imagine how the builders in the eleventh century managed to construct it. From our vantage point there seemed to be no way to even get to the castle, except by way of intense mountain climbing.

Getting to the ice caves would have been equally as difficult if not for the cable car. Though I don’t know if you could call it a cable car. At various stages of the journey up the mountain, 126

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the angle of incline was so steep it could have been a lift. If you ever feel the need—or a masochistic urge—to hike up to the caves, you can. Just bear in mind it will take about ninety minutes, but I’d take that estimate with a pinch of salt. In many places the path up to the caves is almost vertical and the only way I saw the walk could take the time stipulated was if you were a descendant of a mountain goat or some sort of mountain dwelling rodent. Regardless of which way you choose to go, I guarantee you’ll be blown away by the breathtaking view.

I watched in silent awe as the clouds, which seemed so untouchable moments ago, slowly reached eye level until finally I was looking down on them and not the other way around. It was then that it dawned on me that I could see Germany. Beyond the mountain range on the other side of the valley lay Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest and a corner of Bavaria. It was mind-blowing. How often do you get to climb a mountain, look over the other side and find yourself peering into a different country?

“Okay, guys,” Mick said once we’d reached the top, “the entrance to the cave is another fifteen-minute walk, so if you want to start making your way up I’ll wait for the next group and meet you up there.”

It may have been balmy outside, hovering around the mid-twenties, but as soon as I stepped into the opening of the cave the air temperature instantly plummeted. My whole body broke out into goose pimples and plumes of breath streamed from my mouth. If it was this chilly at the entrance, how freezing must it be inside?

When the others arrived we all gathered around Mick.

“Listen, everyone, there’s no lighting in the cave so I’m handing out some carbide lamps. Can I ask,” he stressed, “that those of you holding these lamps not set the person in front of 127

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you on fire.”

At this, Bree turned to me and said, “Darren, Donna and I think you should be the one to hold the lamp.”

“Me? Why?” “Because I’m too clumsy and you look like the responsible type.” Bree obviously didn’t know me very well.

“Bree,” I said, “I’m pretty clumsy myself and I did study chemistry at uni.”

“What does doing chemistry at uni have to do with anything?”

“A degree in chemistry legally entitles me to play with fire and stuff that goes bang. And besides, if I was holding the lamp not only would the chances of people catching fire increase astronomically, but I would be the first one to go up in flames.”

Bree stared at me, her face filled with scepticism. But that didn’t stop her from intercepting the carbide lamp when Mick handed me one.

Mick gave out the last lamp and returned to the head of the group.

“Before you enter just keep in mind that the cave is exactly as it was found when Anton Posselt discovered it way back in 1879. Except of course for a few safety features like stairs and a raised walkway. Make sure you stay on them. The last thing us tour guides need is for one of you to slip and crack your head open—too much bloody paperwork!” A few of us let out a chuckle.

Mick turned and walked to the door at the far end of the cave’s mouth, rubbed his hands together and said, “Come on, let’s go and see an ice cave.”

He opened the door and immediately a howling, frigid breeze swirled around us. Mick hurried us in and closed the 128

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door. Instantly, the wind died down, wrapping us in a murky silence that was broken only by the distant sound of dripping water.

Towering before us was a massive cascade of ice of varying depths that flowed out from the far corner of the cave and spread across the floor. Mick led us to a set of steps inset into the far wall that ascended the ice cascade and disappeared into the hazy darkness at the top.

“Can you imagine climbing this ice without stairs?” Mick said. “I doubt you’d get far. Being the sensible guy he was, Anton realised this and with his pick meticulously carved out this set of steps as he went, until he finally reached the top.”

Like us, Anton would’ve been amazed at what he saw.

The chamber at the top of the stairs dripped with icicles and was decorated with natural ice sculptures. We walked on a bit further, past a sculpture of ice that looked uncannily like a mammoth, until we reached what looked like a drained swimming pool.

“This was where Anton stopped,” Mick informed us. “Well, he had to. He could go no further. In front of him lay this pool of water and by his accounts, it was unpassable. So he left the cave, published his findings and that was the last anybody heard of the ice cave. At least until 1920.

“Alexander Von Mörk, a local adventurer, read one of Anton’s reports in a mountaineering magazine and, obviously filled with the same curiosity Anton had felt when he first discovered the cave, climbed up to see it with his own eyes.

“Like Anton, when Alexander reached the pool of water he stopped, but unlike Anton, he did not turn around and go back. He realised the water had to have come from somewhere besides the melt from the cave, so he sat at the water’s edge and watched. As he suspected, the water level gradually rose 129

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and fell, and he was eager to find out why. He returned months later with a friend, a deer skin wetsuit and a rope.”

We followed Mick as he descended into the basin towards a tunnel of ice that lay exposed at one side. It was hard enough imagining Anton Posselt laboriously carving steps into the ice to see how far the internal glacier went, but here was this guy Alexander who with nothing on but a deer skin wetsuit, plunged into freezing waters and then proceeded to navigate a submerged tunnel, all without the aid of breathing apparatus or lighting. I was suitably impressed.

I for one was glad he took the plunge because when we surfaced at the other end we stood face to face with not only Alexander Von Mörk’s ashes, but the eight-metre high walls of the Mörk Glacier. We followed this small corridor along until we reached the ice palace, a vast cavern filled with spires and columns of ice.

“You might be pleased to know,” Mick said, “there are four hundred metres of solid rock right above your head and you’ve travelled one kilometre into a cave system that stretches on for another forty kilometres. Minus the ice, of course.”

Mick turned and led us back out the cave’s entrance and straight into the path of an oncoming storm. Heavy rain clouds moved towards us at an alarming rate and it was obvious the downpour was minutes away.

Mick quickly collected the carbide lamps and extinguished them. “Come on, guys, let’s head to the pub.”

The pub in question was situated near the cable car and we barely made it inside before shards of rain began pummelling the roof.

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scuttled aboard. Waiting for us at the bottom and blocking the path back to the bus was a carpet python. We gathered around with curious interest.

“What’ve you got there?” Mick asked as he approached.

When he saw the snake, without hesitation he got down on his haunches. “Crikey, will you look at that! Isn’t she a beaut?”

Then it clicked. Mick reminded us of Steve Irwin. He had similar facial features and the same insatiable reservoir of excitement and energy.

“How was it, Darren?” Brett asked when I arrived back at the hostel. “Are the ice caves all they’re cracked up to be?”

“All that and then some,” I replied. “So, what’s the plan for the evening?”

Bree answered from the adjacent table, “The Sound of Music.”

As I said before, The Sound of Music is not one of my favourite movies and I would never go out of my way to watch it. But, just as I felt compelled to go to an opera in Vienna, I guess I felt I had to watch The Sound of Music in Salzburg.

That’s why Salzburg is probably the only place in the world you’ll find a room full of men, beer in hand, ready to break into spontaneous song.

Everyone finished their dinner and grabbed comfortable places in the dining room while Donna asked reception to play the movie. When she returned, the news was not good.

“They said no.” Her shoulders slumped as she stared at the floor.

All conversations in the room ceased as Donna’s statement was met with looks of disapproval. The only sound that filled the room came from a TV in the corner where the news anchorman was ironically talking about riots.

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Bree shot up from her seat. “C’mon, Donna!” and dragged Donna back to reception.

When they came back the answer was no different.

The jovial atmosphere that was prevalent moments before evaporated as laughter and chatter were replaced by clenched fists, bad language and gnashing teeth. In a matter of seconds torches were lit, pitchforks appeared out of nowhere and spontaneous choruses of My Favourite Things were chanted with storm-like fury. When the staff realised they’d made the wrong decision they hastily pulled out the video of the Julie Andrews classic and began to wave it around, as if waving a white flag. Unfortunately for them, the simple matter of placing the tape in the VCR and pressing play didn’t resolve the problem. Technical difficulties needed to be sorted out first, like getting the sound and the picture to occur simultaneously.

Naturally, none of us were pleased by this development and the mood quickly spiralled from bad to worse until finally it was one notch away from complete and utter destruction.

“Quick!” screamed the receptionist. “Can’t you get that stupid thing to work?”

“I’m trying. Can’t you see I’m trying, damn it? Look, keep them at bay for another minute or two,” the barman yelled back as he frantically pressed buttons on the remote, the TV, telephone, cash register and anything else he could get his hands on in the hope he could fix whatever had gone wrong.

“We don’t have a minute!” The receptionist was frantic as a solid oak table went whizzing past her head. I could not believe that such a serene movie could inspire such violence.

Before anarchy was let completely loose on the unsuspecting population of Salzburg, the angelic voice of Julie Andrews streamed through the speakers as her delicate face appeared on the screen. In a matter of moments, torches were extinguished, 132

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weapons were put down and we all quietly returned to our seats. It’s true, The Sound of Music really does soothe the savage beast or, in our case, even the most irate backpacker.

The next day, with songs from the musical on random repeat mode in my head—much to my dismay, I might add—I wandered into the next room to see if anyone wanted to join Abigail and me in our bid to see if the hills really were alive with The Sound of Music.

“I’ll come,” Kelly chirped, reaching for a pair of boots.

“Cool, see you down … my God, Kelly! Do you need all those shoes?”

“You’re telling me,” Brenda said. “Just looking at them all gives me shoe envy.”

Spread around the floor near Kelly’s backpack were pairs of shoes for every occasion—hiking boots, sports shoes, thongs, even a pair of steel-capped work boots just in case she felt the need to visit a building site and lend a hand. The thing that got me, though, was while she had way more pairs of shoes than me, my backpack was still bigger than hers! But this was because I had more of everything else.

Let me give you an insight into my mum and how she helped pack my bag when I was leaving for London. I was heading into the English summer and as such, the first thing my mum handed me was a jacket. Fair enough, but what followed was another jacket, just in case the first one wasn’t warm enough, and following that was a jumper, “just in case”. This of course was followed by another jumper, this time a different colour to match one of the many pairs of pants she’d already thrown in for good measure. Then came a rain jacket, a beanie, a scarf, some gloves, a few towels and a pile of napkins. When I quizzed her about when she expected me to use all these clothes, Mum simply turned to me and said, “Darren, you never know. Now, 133

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pass me that quilt.”

It was this “just in case” method of packing that my mother employed when she and Dad visited me in London. They’d rung and asked what clothes they should bring. I told them London was in the middle of a “shocking heatwave!” as the papers were calling it, and they wouldn’t need too many jackets. To clarify, a “shocking heatwave!” in London is when the temperature hovers around the high twenties for longer than a couple of days. As you can imagine, after a long cold winter I was loving every minute of this “shocking heatwave!”. If only I could say the same for my fellow Brits who were panting and sweating, whinging about global warming and turning that lovely shade of pink that make lobsters randy.

When I arrived at the airport to pick up my parents who were staying for a mere three weeks, I was shocked to find them surrounded by a mountainous pile of luggage. After I picked my jaw up off the ground and helped the confused Sherpas who thought they were in Tibet, I turned to my mum and asked, “Why’d you bring all that?”

Mum shook her head disapprovingly and said, “Darren, just in case …”

I’d originally thought Kelly, Abigail and I would walk to the mountain known as Der Untersberg, and I was all geared up for it. The girls humoured me, saying this was a fantastic idea and it wasn’t until I reached the other side of Hohensalzburg that I realised what the girls had already figured out—I was bloody nuts! Der Untersberg was not “a short walk out of town”, like I’d been told, but a sixteen-kilometre hike! The girls suggested 134

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we catch the bus and I wholeheartedly agreed.

Soaring up from the ground and piercing the clouds, the mountain was a sight to behold.

“I hope you’re not going to suggest we climb that thing,” Kelly said.

“Er ... no. I was thinking we’d do it the easy way and take the cable car.”

“What?” Abigail shot a glance in my direction. “Darren, why didn’t you tell me we’d have to catch a cable car?”

“Well, it’s a mountain, Abigail, and a rather large one at that,” I said. “I take it you’re not a big fan of cable cars, then?”

“No,” she said, the colour draining from her face, “not particularly.”

We walked into the station, bought our tickets and wandered over to the window to have a closer look at the ascent. The top of the mountain was not visible through the clouds.

“H-h-have you guys seen Cliffhanger?” Abigail’s voice was no more than a whisper. Kelly and I couldn’t help laughing.

“I’m serious! What if the cable snaps or something? Just think about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Kelly said through her giggling. “If it snaps the ground will stop our fall.”

Abigail shot another worried glance at the mountain.

“I-I don’t see why they ... they ... don’t install safety nets.”

“Oh, don’t you know?” I teased. “They hand out parachutes now. You do know how to skydive, don’t you?”

Abigail’s eyes opened wide and her top lip began to quiver.

“Well, you do, right?”

“Darren,” Kelly said with a broad smile, “stop being horrible.”

“I can try.”

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Abigail took one small step into the cable car. It swayed gently and she froze. “No, no, no! I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” I said. “Just one more.”

Kelly stepped in front of Abigail and into the cable car to coax her in. “C’mon, Abigail, you can do it.”

Closing her eyes, she took another brave step and grabbed the bar hanging from the roof. I followed Abigail in and our combined weight caused the car to creak and sway. With a furtive cry, Abigail ran for a seat at the end of the car. Kelly and I moved to join her.

“No! Stop! Stay where you are!” She was frantic. Kelly and I froze mid-step. “Stand on the other side. That way everything’s balanced.”

Before I did what I was told, I pointed out to Abigail the exit and informed her there were no life jackets or oxygen masks and that if we did have a ‘Cliffhanger moment’ she’d better be sure her travel insurance hadn’t expired. She gripped the seat so tightly her knuckles went white “Darren!” Kelly shook her head and let out a deep sigh.

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bastard?”

I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look as innocent as possible.

For all my teasing, Abigail reached the top a changed person. By the time we’d stepped out of the cable car she was quite pleased with herself and rightly so because she had conquered her fear. She even told us she was looking forward to the ride down.

As it turned out, we all were because the peak was encased in thick cloud so there wasn’t much to see. But that didn’t stop us from exploring the snow-covered path.

“What happens if we run into a bear?” Abigail asked with utmost sincerity before she added, “And just say someone 136

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breaks a leg?”

As she finished her sentence I lost my footing on a patch of ice and ended up face first in a bank of snow. The girls howled with laughter. All that needed to happen now was for the aforementioned bear to show up.

I picked myself up, brushed off the snow and the three of us continued to the lookout at the end of the path. While the view of the countryside was hampered by the clouds, the atmosphere at the top was quiet and serene. Even the raven that was hovering on the updrafts wasn’t making a sound. I was surprised to see a raven at this height; why, I don’t know.

Apart from bears that prey on clumsy backpackers like me, I just didn’t expect to come across any wildlife, let alone birds.

This of course was a silly assumption on my part because the last time I checked, birds had been known to fly anywhere they fancy.

What I learnt was that ravens are often seen circling the mountain and that locals would worry if they didn’t.

According to folklore, within the depths of the mountain lives the Roman Emperor Charlemagne and when ravens cease to circle the mountain, it’s a sign that his empire needs him and Charlemagne will return. Furthermore, the cave system—some of which is yet to be explored—is said to be filled with dwarves, knights and buried treasure. Other stories say that the dense and impenetrable forest that carpets the mountainside is home to primeval giants and witches of unsurpassed beauty and magical powers who richly reward any service rendered, while the gale force winds that circle the mountain are said to be drifting spirits. One thing was for sure: while the hills may not have been alive with The Sound of Music, in the case of Der Untersberg, they were awash with legends.

“Let’s head back,” Kelly suggested.

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“Might as well,” I agreed. “Nothing else to see up here.”

“Look, an edelweiss!” Abigail was pointing to a small white-purple flower that was growing near the path.

“So?” I asked.

“Darren,” Abigil scolded, “didn’t you watch the movie last night?”

“Yes. And?” “Well, it was all in there!”

“It was such a long movie and I was too busy trying to remember all the words to the songs!”

“He’s a guy, Abigail,” Kelly chided, “he can’t be expected to sing and pay attention at the same time.”

“Ha ha ha, Kelly. Very funny.”

“I think so,” Abigail said, grinning.

“Anyway,” I said, “what’s so special about an edelweiss?”

“It’s a flower given by a man to a woman to prove his love for her.”

“What’s wrong with roses?”

“Nothing, but because these flowers are extremely rare and grow in precarious locations, men have to go to great lengths, even risk their lives, to get one. Most men who go in search of the flower never return. It really is the ultimate gift a guy can get for his girl!”

Kelly sighed. “Oh, how romantic.”

“Isn’t it just?” Abigail agreed.

In that instant my idea of romance and what women want went completely out the window. Apparently, girls don’t want flowers from Interflora, candlelit dinners, or even a romantic picnic. No, what girls want is for men to die for them, or at the very least be mortally wounded. No wonder people say romance is dead. Or in this case, the men who pursue it. This did not stop me from plucking the flower and handing it to the 138

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girls, who of course managed to lose it within the space of two minutes. And to think I’d gone to all that trouble and climbed a mountain—albeit with the aid of a cable car; there was no mention that modern technology couldn’t be used—almost broke my leg and risked a run-in with a bear. Naturally, I was devastated.

When the three of us reached the base of the mountain the sunny weather that was so prominent that morning had gone and the sky was painted in dark grey clouds. Luckily for us there was a bus waiting to take us back to Salzburg.

Kelly asked, “Do you mind if we get off at the Hellbrunn Palace?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Abigail said.

Like the Schloß Schönbrunn in Vienna, the Hellbrunn Palace was painted a summery yellow and is one of the finest examples of Renaissance architecture in the Alps. What makes the Hellbrunn so unique, even today, is that it remains almost unchanged and contains many of the endearing features that once entertained the archbishops. Dotted around the gardens are mysterious grottoes, water-driven figures and mischievous water jets that squirted tourists at every opportunity. There were even hidden jets at the dinner table so the bishops could wet unknowing guests. No wonder the name of the palace— the Lustschloß Hellbrunn—literally means pleasure palace.

But it wasn’t the fountains or the well laid-out gardens the girls wanted to see. They were more interested in visiting the gazebo featured in The Sound of Music.

Kelly was mildly disappointed. “It’s a lot smaller than I expected.”

“I know,” Abigail agreed, “there’s no way Liesl and Rolf could fit in there.”

After the girls spent many minutes discussing the intricacies 139

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of gazebo dancing with respect to The Sound of Music, we caught the bus back to Salzburg, passing the Leopoldskron Palace on the way whose exterior was used as the Von Trapp house.

“Well, I’m off to check my emails,” Abigail told us as we wandered back into town.

Kelly returned to the hostel and I walked into the Old Town.

I’d barely taken two steps in the direction of the Hohensalzburg when Salzburg was battered by a heavy, unrelenting storm, leaving me saturated within minutes. This put the kibosh on my plans for the afternoon so I walked back to the hostel.

Luckily, the afternoon wasn’t a complete waste. A group of us filled in time by playing cards until we were dragged back into the dining room by Bree and Donna to watch The Sound of Music.

My last day in Salzburg started early. Abigail and I arrived at the Nonnberg, the nunnery used in The Sound of Music, and its adjacent small church by eight.

Kelly had told us that when she and Steph had gone for their usual morning jog the previous day they’d heard the nuns singing and it was one of the most beautiful sounds they’d ever heard. My first reaction when I heard this story was one of mild shock and awe. Not so much that the nuns had angelic voices—this was easy to believe—but that Stephanie and Kelly had got up at the crack of dawn on their holiday for a jog. It was official—the world had gone mad!

“Do you think it’s open?” Abigail asked me.

“Only one way to find out,” I said as I tried the gate. It 140

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creaked open.

We stepped up to the solid wooden door. It opened in a smooth motion and with a hushed reverence, we entered.

The interior was lit by shafts of sunlight and a plethora of candles.

“Do you think we missed them?” I asked Abigail.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

We sat in a pew and waited.

“Do you hear that?” Abigail said.

At first I couldn’t hear anything, but then I heard the faint sound of feet shuffling against stone and the gentle whooshing of heavy fabric.

“I think the nuns are coming,” Abigail whispered.

“You could be right.”

Unfortunately, she wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes later the two of us were still waiting and there was no sign of the singing nuns.

Reluctantly, we left the church and while Abigail walked back into town I finally managed to make it to the Hohensalzburg. Built over nine hundred years ago the fortress is an icon to Salzburg’s lavish skyline and also remains one of the few palaces in the world that has never been captured or successfully besieged by its enemies.

Instead of traipsing along the walls of the fortress I went inside. Like other fortresses, the Hohensalzburg was decorated with intricate carvings, richly adorned staterooms and provided a marvellous view of the surrounding countryside. I descended back into town and made tracks for the Augustiner monastery.

It’s not every day you find a beer hall inside a monastery.

The hall was enormous, filled with large polished oak tables, the cheerful laughter of children, the haughty conversation of 141

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red-faced Austrians and the musical clank of large steins. With my first sip it was blatantly obvious that the monks knew how to brew a good beer because in my opinion Augustiner is easily one of the best beers in the world. Then again, the monks not only relied on scientific principles and paid strict attention to quality but also, I’m fairly certain, received extra help from the master brewer upstairs.

Suitably refreshed, it was late afternoon when I arrived at the Mirabelle gardens. Unlike Maria and the children, I chose not to skip through its many pathways singing Do-Re-Mi. Not to say the song wasn’t doing the rounds in my head. I found it to be the perfect accompaniment as I weaved my way through the park’s colourful pathways and admired its manicured flowerbeds, all the while taking in the sumptuous view of the Old Town. I could not have asked for a more perfect way to finish my last day in Salzburg.

I returned to the hostel and found Stephanie about to open a can of whoop ass.

“Hey, Steph, what’s up?” I pulled up a seat opposite her.

She rolled her eyes, but before she could answer, a man from a nearby table turned and faced us.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, his American drawl drowning out the TV, “but my friends and I are debatin’ whether you can walk from Australia to New Zealand.”

I glared at him, then at Steph. I could tell she was resisting the urge to get up and pound some sense into him.

I’d met many Americans on my travels. Most were pretty worldly. Others, like the ones sitting across from us—and I have to stress that these were exceptions to the rule—were so clueless it was amazing they could find Europe in the first place.

I turned to him and said, “Mate, there is a body of water 142

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between Australia and New Zealand called the Tasman Sea.” He turned to his friends. “See, I told ya. All you have ta do is catch a ferry.”

Before any violence could ensue involving Stephanie, a bunch of Americans and an oversized atlas, the receptionist ran into the room waving The Sound of Music.

“Girls, I know I just got here, but I don’t think I could watch The Sound of Music again. To be honest, I’m on the verge of insanity as it is and if I hear anymore about people’s favourite things, I’m sure I’ll end up throwing myself into the Salzach.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kelly said.

“Worse. Anyway, I might go out and grab some dinner. A kebab or something. You girls wanna come?”

“No,” Steph answered, “we’ve got laundry to do.”

“Okay, then. See ya round.”

As I wandered around the city streets in search of a kebab I couldn’t believe I’d seriously considered skipping Salzburg. I would’ve regretted that. I recalled a conversation I’d had with my backpacker friends when we first arrived. It was afternoon and we were returning from the Old Town.

“You know,” Brett said looking around, “if I could live anywhere else, I think it would be here.”

“Really?” Steph said. “Can you speak German?”

“No,” Brett said, smiling, “but I could learn. It can’t be that hard.”

“Especially since English is more closely related to German than the so-called romantic languages,” I said.

Brett looked at Steph. “You see? It’ll be a breeze.”

He wasn’t alone. I too could see myself happily living in Salzburg. With its intoxicating fresh air, rugged countryside, incredibly friendly people and beer blessed from the heavens above, why wouldn’t I? 143

8

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With sadness, I watched the rugged beauty of Austria melt into the flat and listless plains of Germany.

From the little I’d heard and read about Munich there wasn’t much to see and do. I guess that’s why nearly everyone I spoke to, including Brett and Brenda, were happy to spend only one night there, while others such as Kelly and Stephanie avoided it altogether. In fact, the general consensus on Munich was that it was a place to go hard and not so much go home, but move on.

I don’t mean to imply Munich was completely boring. It is after all the capital of Bavaria and it does have its fair share of must see sights; the Glockenspiel for instance. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are in the world, stick a clock in the middle of a public square, have it burst into life with animatronic goodness at the turn of the hour and I guarantee you will get hordes of star-struck tourists staring in wonder.

This always strikes me as odd because I find these shows dull and unexciting to say the least.

Nevertheless, Brett, Brenda and I joined the congealed mass of eager tourists at Marienplatz near the base of the Town Hall to watch what was described as a “charming animatronic display”. Considering there were three shows a day and each drew an audience big enough to rival that of a rock concert, I expected the performance to be so charming that I would run out of adjectives to describe it.

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Boy, was I wrong.

At five o’clock the bell atop the Town Hall pealed, two small doors under the clock face flew open and a parade of dancers painted in various colours twirled out and performed the Schlaffertanz, a dance originally performed in Marienplatz in the early sixteenth century to celebrate the end of the bubonic plague. When the dancers stopped two knights, one red and one black, charged at each other.

This display of dancing and jousting repeated itself for what seemed like an eternity before the most fake-looking cockerels you’re ever going to see ‘crowed’ and brought the whole show to its undramatic conclusion. People in the crowd looked at each other in dismay as if to say, “What the hell was that?” I now completely understood why the Glockenspiel had been dubbed the most overrated show on earth.

I turned to Brett. “Well, that was a waste of time, ten minutes I’ll never get back.”

“You’re telling me.” He was clearly not impressed. “C’mon, let’s go grab a beer.”

“That, Brett, is the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

Brenda got out her map. “Where do you wanna go?”

Brett exclaimed, “Where else—the Hofbrauhaus!”

The three of us crossed the square and weaved through the surrounding cobbled streets and laneways until we reached the beer hall renowned for being the oldest and biggest in the world. It was a claim to fame it rightly deserved. Fitted with high ceilings, row upon row of beer-soaked tables and benches, gaping windows and endless bars, the place was cavernous beyond belief and the smell of beer along with the scintillating aroma of sausages and pork knuckles permeated every corner. The smell did very little to smother the noise. At only half-full there were enough patrons in the Hofbrauhaus to 145

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keep the buxom waitresses busy and create a din that bordered on deafening.

“Shit!” Brett exclaimed. “This place is pumpin’ and it’s not even Oktoberfest. Man, can you imagine it? This place would go off!”

Looking at a rowdy table on the other side of the hall, Brenda shuffled nervously. “I wonder what it’s like.”

“It’s crazy,” I said.

“You’ve been?” she asked.

“No, but a flatmate of mine has.”

“And?” Brett’s eyes opened wide in anticipation.

“From her description I think calling it a madhouse is an understatement.”

“In what way?” Brenda had not taken her eyes off the far table.

“Well, besides the dancing on the tables she told me if I ever came here I should remove my underwear.”

“What!” Brenda crossed her hands protectively over her chest.

Brett’s grin spread from ear to ear as he eyed a busty waitress. “It’s not some weird kinky German thing, is it?”

In a matter-of-fact tone I explained, “No, but if you don’t take your undies off they’ll be taken off for you.”

“Thanks for the advice, Daz. Whaddya say, Bren? Come back in a couple of months? I’ve never gone commando before.

Could be an interesting experience!”

“I don’t think so.” Brenda’s curt tone told us the topic of conversation was closed.

Lucky for us Oktoberfest was still a few months away, which meant our underwear was safe and finding a table was relatively painless. We had barely sat down before our orders were taken and our drinks were served.

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“Not having anything to drink?” I asked Brenda as her half-litre of Coke was set down in front of her.

“No.” “You don’t like beer?”

“Not really. And besides,” she tilted her head towards Brett, “if this one has too much he’ll never get up in the morning.

And I for one don’t want to miss the bus tomorrow.”

“Yep,” Brett added, “who needs an alarm clock when I have you, babe.”

I picked up my stein and as tradition dictated, said in an enthusiastic voice, “Prosit!”

“Prosit, mate!” Brett replied, not taking his eyes off his beer.

Our glasses came together with a resounding clang before they landed on the table with a loud thump. To wish someone cheers is not something to be taken lightly in Germany and is a tradition that dates back to King Ludwig. Now there was a king who knew how to be a gracious host. He made it his duty to go around to each of his guests, regardless of how big his shindig was and wish them a hearty “Prosit!” Can you imagine how heavy his stein felt by the time he’d reached his last guest?

As a result of his good cheer, he didn’t so much place his stein on the table as bring it crashing down.

The art of wishing everyone cheers is not the only tradition attributed to King Ludwig. The other—some might say more important—tradition is Oktoberfest. When King Ludwig got married he was so happy he invited the whole town to the reception. It was such a success that he invited everyone back the following year for his anniversary. One year followed another until soon it wasn’t just the whole town turning up, but the entire district. As the popularity of these celebrations grew so did the revenue. It wasn’t long before Oktoberfest was 147

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born and the rest, as they say, is history.

And what a history it is. These days Oktoberfest is such a huge money earner for the city that preparations begin months in advance. Considering almost seven million people visit every year and the festival spreads out over a hundred acres, it’s not such a bad idea.

But what is Oktoberfest without beer? During the festival Munich goes through six thousand litres of beer and just over half that amount in wine. To cater for the morning after blues, the city supplies thirty-three thousand cups of tea and coffee and over five hundred thousand bottles of water. It’s one thing having the patrons watered, but keeping them fed is no mean feat either. All up, nearly five hundred thousand chickens, eighty-nine oxen and countless fish give their lives so the human masses can eat and be merry.

Not that these statistics were of any consideration as Brett and I slurped our beers with relish. I was amazed at how quickly it went down and by the time I’d finished, my head was on its way to another planet and, by the looks of him, Brett wasn’t far behind.

It would be easy to assume, with such a strong beer drinking culture, that Germans win the prize for consuming the most beer in the world. And you know what? You would be wrong.

The country that beats Germany hands-down is Ireland. The Irish can knock back one hundred and fifty-five litres per person compared to the Germans who manage a measly one hundred and nineteen! This is pretty astounding considering Germany is bigger than Ireland and has almost twenty times its population. I guess what I’m saying is, never challenge an Irish person to a drinking contest because you’ll get your booty whipped. If you’re curious about where we Aussies fit in, well, we pale into insignificance compared to our German and Irish 148

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cousins and manage only eighty-nine litres—and with five times the population of Ireland!

“What do ya reckon, Darren? Another one?”

“Most definitely, but let’s try something different this time.

How about we head to Augustiner beer hall? Now, there’s a good beer.”

“That’s the stuff you had in Salzburg, right?”

“Yep.” “And it’s really that good?”

“You betcha!”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Hang on a sec, guys,” Brenda said. “I’m all for going to another beer stop, but let’s grab some dinner first. I’m starving.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.

“Hey, didn’t we pass a Burger King on the way?” Brett smacked his lips. “I could really go a Double Whopper.”

I rubbed my stomach. “Mmm, I love Double Whoppers.”By the time we reached Burger King the three of us were ravenous.

“Brett, check it out!” I could barely contain my beer tinged excitement. “A Triple Whopper!”

“What? Really? Where?” His eyes darted across the menu board.

“There. Next to the sign for sundaes. I am so getting myself one of those.”

“Settle down, for Pete’s sake,” Brenda said. “People are looking.”

Brett was too busy salivating to care. “Let them look all they want!”

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without squirting pieces of tomato out the other side and hitting some poor unsuspecting bystander in the eye. And that’s without any beer consumption.

With a litre of beer inside me, my attempt to eat a Triple Whopper turned into an interesting, altogether disgusting spectacle. By the end of it sauce was everywhere, some guy on the other side of the restaurant was wearing a pickle in his hair and kids were stopping, pointing at me and breaking into uncontrollable tears. Not that any of this bothered me because that Triple Whopper was bloody fantastic and truly hit the spot.

The Augustiner Cafe was smaller than the Hofbrauhaus, but no less lively. By the time Brett and I polished off a few more steins (Brenda stuck to her Coke) we too were caught up in the atmosphere and on the verge of breaking into German show tunes. That’s the thing with German beer. After a couple of steins you begin to think you can speak and write German.

In fact, looking at my journal entry from that night, it could very well have been written in German because it certainly doesn’t resemble English.

That’s not the only problem with German beer. It’s not just that it bloody tastes so good and you end up ordering more and more; it’s the fact that the glass sizes are not conducive to keeping your seal from breaking.

Soon after leaving the Augustiner, Brett and I were longing for a toilet. Not to say we didn’t go before we left. We did, but since the two of us had consumed more than our fair share and our seal had long since broken, every ounce of beer thereafter decided to bypass our stomachs completely and make straight for the exit. Much to our anguish.

“Sorry, hon, we gotta go!” Brett told Brenda as we ran back to the hostel.

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“Serves you two right!” she called after us.

It didn’t help our bladders any that the Munich government had kindly built numerous fountains along the way that gushed with free-flowing streams of water at every possible opportunity.

After drinking that much alcohol I would usually wake up feeling like my head was being used as a ball in a soccer match between two Brazilian teams on speed. But this was not the case since German beer is treated as a food group and there are strict laws pertaining to its purity. This ensures that preservatives are kept to a minimum and the brewing process is strictly controlled. This not only guarantees a hangover-free morning, but also an incredible tasting beer that can be enjoyed in copious amounts without consequences.

Unlike others, I’d chosen to stay a bit longer in Munich, not because the sights in the city interested me, but because there was a town on its outskirts that did.

Going by the Metro map, Dachau did not seem like a difficult place to get to. About a twenty-minute train ride away, I guessed. But what I hadn’t factored in was the time it would take me to buy the ticket.

I stared blankly at the ticket machine. All the directions were in German—funny that!—and I couldn’t find the appropriate button that switched the menu into English. I began to randomly press buttons in the hope that a ticket to Dachau would get churned out. That of course did not happen, but everything else did. Toilets flushed, ejector seats activated, lights flashed on and off, coffee machines churned out latte of their own accord and somehow I managed to land a jumbo jet.

Luckily, a commuter who’d been waiting behind me got cheesed off watching the station fall to pieces around him and decided it was safer for all concerned to show me how it was done.

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After pushing me out of the way he selected certain buttons, brought up a secret menu, entered the cheat code, swore and kicked the machine twice before it spat out my ticket.

I thanked him. He glared at me. I cowered and hurriedly moved a couple of steps away. I had my ticket, which was all well and good, but I still had no clue what platform my train departed from. I found the information bureau and asked the lady behind the counter for help. Leaflets pertaining to all the fun things I could do in Düsseldorf were handed to me. I knew I should’ve had that beer for breakfast; at least it would’ve helped me with the language barrier I was currently encountering. Finally, after numerous questions, hand signals, a PowerPoint presentation and the use of morse code, the lady realised my destination was not Düsseldorf, but Dachau and she pointed me in the right direction.

It wasn’t at all what I expected. A leafy and picturesque town complete with quaint houses, parks and rambling country lanes wasn’t quite what I had in mind for the former concentration camp that became the template of so many others. I entered through its original gates where the original wrought iron inscription still reads, Arbeit Macht Frei—Work Brings Freedom—and saw there was not much left of the camp.

To the left of the gate stood the original administration block.

Inside, its sun-filled rooms detailed the rise of Nazism, World War Two and the horrors of the Holocaust.

No matter how many times I visit museums like this one, the terrors of the Holocaust always shock me. It obviously had a similar effect on others who were shuffling through its dusty corridors. Besides the hollow footsteps and the odd sigh, the museum was filled with a heavy and solemn silence.

It was much the same with the rest of the camp, even though there was not much left of it. The original prisoners’ barracks 152

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had been pulled down in the 1960s, but the reconstructions were detailed enough to show the terrible conditions the Jews endured. Alongside rooms no bigger than a modern-day bedroom where twenty people were expected to sleep, typical belongings such as coarse mesh shoes and tattered clothes were on display.

Beyond the barren and parched expanse of ground lurked the showers-cum-gas chambers, execution wall and crematoriums. Encompassed under thick trees and behind a high fence this particular area of the camp had remained as it was during the war, well-hidden and impossible to see from where I was standing. If not for the signs I would not have known they were even there.

Unlike the rest of the camp, this area is shrouded by dew-scented shade and filled with verdant green plants and trees. Ironically, this greenness is not filled with birdsong and a sense of calm, but instead oozes an eerie claustrophobic feeling.

I left Dachau shortly after midday and returned to Munich with a little less than half the day at my disposal. I walked back to the centre of the town via the Karlstor Gate.

I hadn’t noticed the gate the previous night for two reasons.

One, Brett, Brenda and I were in a hurry to catch the five o’clock show of the Glockenspiel and two, on the way back I was mildly intoxicated and had other things on my mind, like finding a toilet for instance. Looking at it now it occurred to me that I may have been a bit rash in my judgment of Munich. Let’s be honest. How many times do you walk into the centre of a city through a five-hundred-year-old Gothic gate decorated with immense arches and turrets? Not many, that’s for sure. In fact, three gates of similar design are scattered around the city centre at various distances from Marienplatz and while the Karlstor 153

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Gate is not the oldest—that honour belongs to the Sendlinger Gate—some say it is the most important. The Karlstor Gate is one of the main thoroughfares to Marienplatz and the street that connects it to the square—the Neuhauserstraße—is the main shopping area in Munich. It took me a while to walk its length to Marienplatz because I was forever getting sidetracked by the multitude of shops that lined the street.

Like Neuhauserstraße, Marienplatz was throbbing with noise. Some of it came from the buskers who were performing here and there, but mostly it came from the shops, restaurants, bars and cafes that filled the square and the surrounding streets with music, lights and chatter. From the hordes of people swarming into and out of the square, it was hard to imagine that Munich began its life as nothing more than a tollway.

I arrived at the Frauenkirche or Church of Our Lady. With its impressive Gothic styling and onion-shaped domes it was one of the more distinctive buildings in Munich. But I wasn’t interested in looking at the church because by now they were all starting to look as ornate and decorative as each other. What I wanted to see was the Devil’s Footprint.

Just inside the entrance was a big black footprint that was supposedly left there by the devil. Unlike Stephansdom in Vienna, love had nothing to do with the devil’s involvement in the Frauenkirche. This time it was all about money.

When architect Jörg Von Hasback found out his bank balance was running low and there was no way in heaven he could finish the church, he decided to turn to hell. The devil, realising Jörg’s predicament, appeared to him and made a deal that he would help build the church as long as the nave was made without windows. Jörg couldn’t think of any way out of it and since Munich was depending on him to build the church, he reluctantly agreed to the devil’s demands. Luckily, 154

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as the building progressed Jörg discovered a loophole he could exploit that would enable the nave to be devoid of windows, but at the same time be drenched in light. He simply built the other windows big enough to compensate for the lack of light in the middle of the church. Naturally, the devil was not happy with this deception and stamped his foot into the floor in a rage.

Unfortunately, the large windows in question were nowhere to be seen due to allied bombing in World War Two. The church has since been rebuilt using smaller windows, but in keeping with tradition the nave was left windowless.

This is not the only tale that surrounds the footprint. There is another legend and it has less to do with the devil’s rage and more to do with the devil’s triumph. After the church was built and waiting to be consecrated the devil popped in for a squiz. The first thing he noticed was the lack of windows.

But from where he was standing—the current location of the footprint—it was impossible for him to see any windows anyway. As a result, he burst out laughing and was rumoured to have said “A church without windows is useless” before he stamped his foot in triumph. As he took a step forward, however, the windows he couldn’t see earlier came into full view and he realised his mistake. Naturally, he was angry and in retaliation decided to turn himself into a strong wind so he could blow the church down. The church, being built from neither straw nor sticks but stone, was barely moved. This hasn’t stopped the devil from trying and it’s said that even today he is constantly trying to destroy the church and is the reason for the constant breeze blowing around its steeples.

On my last day in Munich I was struggling to find something that interested me. I could’ve gone to the BMW headquarters or to Olympiapark, but I decided I wanted to do nothing more 155

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than relax and watch the clouds go by. Luckily for me, Munich had the perfect place and after breakfast I grabbed my bag and made my way to the English Gardens, one of the biggest parks in the world.

Spread over an area of nine hundred acres, filled with seventy-eight kilometres of paths, over one hundred bridges, twelve hectares of lakes and stretching from the city’s centre to its northern edge, the park was the ideal place to do what I do best—nothing. Even though the day was cloudy and nippy, the park was still fairly full, especially around the Eisbach River, which was lined with tourists and even the odd surfer.

Just beyond the Chinese Gardens the Eisbach River gushes into the park and as it does, crests a ledge and creates a standing wave. While not as big a wave as you’d find at a Sydney beach, it was big enough for Munich’s surfers to hone their skills.

After ten minutes of watching I continued deeper into the park to see what else it had to offer. I walked back through the Chinese Gardens and ambled along a path until I came across a colourful Chinese tower. Built over two hundred years ago, it is the centrepiece of the biggest beer garden in the park.

Nearby and within earshot of the jazz band that was playing at the beer garden I found a shady spot that overlooked an elegant water feature and decided this would be the perfect place to relax.

As I did, a horizontally challenged man walked past wearing little else but tight bike shorts, acting like his well-cultivated beer belly was the sexiest thing known to mankind. It was not only the fact that he was rubbing his huge belly with undisguised pride and giving me a smile that police tell you to be wary of that filled me with dread, but the thought that I might have stumbled into the area of the park that permits what is known as Free Body Culture. Which basically means 156

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Let’s get naked and sunbathe. I must say, though, Germany is the only country where I could possibly envision walking into an area fully clothed yet feel as if I was breaking the law.

As I whiled away the rest of the day it occurred to me that I’d underestimated Munich. The architecture was more than I expected and there was certainly much more to do than simply drink beer. But this did not alter the fact that like others before me, I could not wait to leave. And when I left, I knew I would not be looking back.

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9

Romance, Charm and a Whole Lot of Water (Part 1)

I was gazing at the street outside the hostel, anticipating the arrival of the bus when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and found myself facing a petite brunette.

“Hey—” I hesitated. “Sabrina … isn’t it?”

“Selina.”

“Sorry, I’m terrible with names.”

“That’s okay, and you’re … Darren, right?”

“Got it in one. So, Selina, how are ya?”

“Recovering,” she said, massaging her temples and trying to wipe the sleep from her eyes.

“I can see that.” I laughed.

“Ha ha, very funny.” She made a face that told me it wasn’t.

I’d met Selina in Amsterdam. When we were first introduced she was moping around and feeling incredibly homesick, a feeling I could relate to.

When I’d arrived in London I was pretty much the same.

I wasn’t moping, but I still missed my family and friends, wanting a bed without a leaky roof and trying to figure out the best way to live out of a backpack. All up, it took me a couple of weeks before my homesickness vanished and I lost myself in the hectic pace of London life.

Selina had been homesick to the degree that it was contagious. I remember advising her to get out there and have

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a look at Amsterdam and she’d told me matter-of-factly that she wasn’t interested. It was only after much convincing that she finally yielded, but even then she didn’t seem to enjoy what the city had to offer and was counting down the days till her departure.

Waiting for the bus, however, it was immediately obvious to me that her demeanour, hangover notwithstanding, had become bright and optimistic.

“So, Darren,” she said, “you wouldn’t know anyone travelling to the Greek Islands, would you?”

“One person. Why?” “I’m looking for someone to share the ferry journey to Athens. Have you seen how long it takes?”

“Yeah, I have and I agree it’s a bitch and a half.”

“Who’s this person you know?”

“Me.” Her eyebrows arced slightly and a thin smile traced her lips. I immediately knew what her next question would be.

“Do you want to join me?”

“I’d love to, but I’m going up to Switzerland after Venice.”

“Are you sure? Switzerland will be cold, but the Greek Islands will be all about sun, beaches and lots of time spent doing nothing.”

I curled my lips indecisively.

“C’mon,” Selina cajoled, “y’know you want to.”

Mmm … Switzerland or the Greek Islands. I’d heard great things about both.

“Er ... I dunno.”

“Oh, go on,” Selina’s large brown eyes pleaded.

“I’ll have to change so much …”

“But think of all the fun you can have. The partying. The cocktails. The beaches. The cocktails.”

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“I know, but—” “The cocktails …”

“Okay, okay you win. I can always go to Switzerland later.

And besides, I need a holiday!”

Selina smiled. “Excellent.”

I couldn’t believe that in the space of two minutes the itinerary I’d spent hours perfecting in Scotland quickly became nothing more than a distant memory.

“So,” I asked, “how long will you be in Venice?”

“Only two days.”

I’d allocated four. “That doesn’t leave you much time to see it all.”

“It’s enough to see what I want.”

“Fair enough,” I said as the bus grumbled to a stop outside the hostel.

When we left Munich and crossed into Austria, for a second I thought I’d boarded the wrong bus. Two buses usually leave Munich, one to Switzerland and one to Venice. I ripped open my bag, pulled out my guidebook and flipped open to the map of Germany. Highlighted in black print the highway to Venice was shown snaking through Austria. Breathing a sigh of relief, I closed my book and focused on the breathtaking scenery that was whizzing past.

Shortly after, we arrived at St Johann, a cosy alpine town nestled in the Austrian Alps, the perfect place to stop for a bite to eat.

I was immediately struck by the freshness of the air and the sizzling aroma of a BBQ breakfast being prepared at the local Australian pub. I wasted no time grabbing a plate.

“Hey, Darren, how was Munich?” Brenda asked as she and Brett plonked themselves down at my table.

“Not too bad, but really it was just another city, so trust me 160

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when I say you guys didn’t miss much. More importantly, how was St Johann? It looks stunning.”

“It was stunning,” Brenda agreed without hesitation.

“Yeah, Darren, it’s a shame you aren’t staying.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. If I had the money to stay at every stop en route I would. Anyway, did you guys do anything life-threatening? Brett, didn’t you tell me you wanted to jump off a cliff?”

St Johann was not just another town-cum-ski resort in the Austrian Alps. During the summer months it became an adventure lover’s playground. From jumping out of planes to sailing off cliffs and white-water rafting, there were more than enough activities to put everyone’s travel insurance to the test.

“I would’ve loved to, Darren,” Brett answered, “but for the same reason you can’t visit every place you want, I couldn’t afford to sail off a cliff.” He looked crestfallen.

“Bummer, man. So what did you end up doing?”

“We hired a pair of mountain bikes, went for a ride and had a picnic at the river. Honestly, it’s a shame we have to leave,” Brenda lamented, staring off into the distance. Brett nodded in agreement.

I could not fault their sentiments. St Johann certainly did seem like the perfect place to get lost among nature and the spectacular Austrian countryside.

Italy brought with it a change of scenery as well as some new and interesting challenges. I expected the usual language barriers and cultural differences, but who knew ordering food 161

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would be so difficult?

An Italian rest stop, or Autogrille, is unlike anything else in the world. The process of ordering food is like jumping into a pool of frigid water or removing a Band-Aid from a hairy part of your body or being on a navy SEAL insertion deep within enemy territory. It has to be done swiftly and without fear.

While in most places ordering food is a fairly straightforward process—you walk in, decide what you want, ask for it, pay, collect then leave—this is not the case in Italy. Italy works on a pay first, collect second system for the reason that the person handling the food need not handle the money. This system may work in theory, but in practice leaves a whole lot to be desired. The problem lies not in deciding what you want—this is actually the easy part—but in ordering it. Like anywhere else, you line up, but considering no one else is doing anything of the sort, getting to the front of the ‘line’ is a battle and does not necessarily mean your troubles are over. Far from it. Just because you may be ready to order doesn’t mean you can, since you quickly realise you can neither speak nor understand Italian. This fact is not lost on those around you. Meaning, not only do you have to order, but you have to do so while irate and incredibly impatient Italians gesticulate wildly and hurl abuse and foreign objects in your direction as you simultaneously try to suppress the urge to panic and run screaming, vowing never to return.

But to do that would mean having to turn around and face the people behind you, which at that moment you decide— rightly so—is not the smartest course of action because to do so would mean certain death. It is at this point you begin to think that all is lost and you will never see your loved ones again.

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own accord and in ways you never thought possible. So much so that by the time you get the point across that you want chicken soup and are not in dire need of psychiatric help, you are beginning to look quite the Italian.

With a sigh of relief, you order, hand over your money and are given a receipt that you must hold on to for dear life, otherwise there will be no soup—or anything else for that matter—for you. Then you begin to make your way back through the crowd to the counter where you pick up your soup. This is not as simple as it sounds because you soon realise that all the counters look the same and you have no idea where to collect your soup.

Finally, after thirty minutes and three attempts later, you find yourself at the correct counter, but the chicken soup you are handed is cold and not what you expected. That’s because you didn’t specify that you wanted the soup hot, did you. By this stage you are speechless from shock, on the verge of a nervous breakdown and in urgent need of a psychiatrist.

Brett, Brenda and I stood outside the Autogrille, filled with trepidation.

“So, Darren, you heading in?” Brenda asked.

“Thinkin’ about it.”

“You sure?” she asked.

“No, but I’m curious to see what it’s like.”

“Dead cat walking,” Brett said, shaking his head.

Swallowing hard, I crept towards the entrance with the utmost caution, but immediately stopped once I heard the screaming from inside. I then watched with horror as a group of navy SEALs, faces strewn with terror, ran from the Autogrille as a voice behind them bellowed, “Save yourself! Just go! Go, damn you, your loved ones need you!”

I quickly reconsidered my decision and instead walked 163

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over to the adjacent service station where I decided to take my chances with a five-week-old tuna and mayonnaise sandwich.

I opened it, blew away the dust, brushed away the moths and looked it over with suspicion.

Brett was dubious and offered these words of wisdom: “If in doubt, throw it out”. It was advice worth following.

The bus was soon motoring south and the imposing shapes of the Italian Alps gave way to the Veneto region of Italy, known as much for its wine production as its star-crossed lovers. We passed chalets, stucco villas and the town of Verona, home to Romeo and Juliet before we arrived at the outskirts of the industrial town of Mestre and turned into our campsite.

Unlike the north of Europe where hostels were the places to stay, Venice was different. For one, it was not part of the mainland of Italy, but a collection of buildings on numerous islands situated in the Adriatic Sea four kilometres from the Italian coast; and two, the cost of accommodation in Venice was stratospheric.

“I don’t even feel like I’m in Italy,” Brett said over dinner.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, here we are in this camp filled predominantly with Aussies and Kiwis. The only Italians I’ve met are the girl at reception and the waitress who served us dinner.”

“Yeah, I guess …” Brenda said.

“And another thing,” Brett added, “it’s so quiet.”

“Huh?” Brenda glanced over at the bar, which was not at all quiet.

“That’s not what I mean. Here we are at the edge of a runway at Venice Airport where you would expect planes to be zooming around and creating so much racket that you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself think.”

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airport were minimal, almost non-existent.

Until six o’clock the next morning when the sound of a plane taking off was far from minimal and extremely existent.

Not that I was too fussed because I just rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I finally woke up I got dressed and wandered over to Brett and Brenda’s cabin. Brett was standing outside in a pair of board shorts, yawning and willing himself awake.

After commenting on how muggy it was I asked, “So, what time do you guys plan to head into Venice?”

“Don’t wait for us,” Brenda said. “We’re doing some laundry.”

“Yeah, why don’t you ask that girl you introduced us to yesterday?” Brett suggested.

“Who, Selina?”

“Yeah.”

“I would, but I dunno where she’s got to. She hopped on the bus in Munich, but I haven’t seen her since.”

“I hope she hasn’t left for the Greek Islands without you,” Brett said. I’d told Brett and Brenda about my change of plans.

“Yeah, me too,” I agreed. “Anyway, guys, I best jet if I want to catch the bus.”

“See ya.” Brett picked up his towel in readiness for his shower. “Oh, Daz?” “Yeah?”

“You goin’ on that walking tour?”

“Sure am!”

“See ya there then.”

I arrived at the bus stop to find Selina waiting and scowling impatiently at her watch.

“Mornin’, Selina.” I yawned.

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Katrina, her room-mate.

After Katrina and I exchanged a few pleasantries I turned back to Selina and asked, “So, girl, what happened to you last night? Last thing I knew you were wolfing down your brekky at St Johann and then you kind of dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Yeah, I was tired,” she whinged. “And I would’ve slept in this morning if not for that damn plane.”

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I’d lived under a Heathrow flight path when I was living in London so anything compared to that was peaceful.

“It was worse!” Selina spat. “How can you sleep through that?”

Obviously the whiny mood I thought she’d left behind in Amsterdam was back with a vengeance.

“Oh, I dunno, stick a pillow over your head.”

“As if that’s going to work! I’m on holiday, for fuck’s sake and I don’t wanna be gettin’ up at six in the friggin’ morning.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “It’s bad enough I have to put up with snorers!”

Her attitude was beginning to grate. “Oh, c’mon now—” “Did you have a shower this morning?” she fired at me.

The question caught me off guard. I was sure I’d put on deodorant and didn’t smell too bad. “Yes, why?”

“No hot water,” Katrina interjected.

“Yeah,” Selina complained. “You’d think the camp would have enough hot water for all its residents. The last thing I want in the morning is a cold shower.”

“But cold showers are good, especially when the weather is this muggy. And surely it must have been refreshing.”

“Whaddya mean, must have been? Didn’t you have a cold shower this morning too?” Selina’s eyebrows arced 166

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with frustration.

I should have kept my mouth shut, but my foot always finds a way in regardless. “No, I didn’t. Somehow I got a cabin with an ensuite for the same price as a regular cabin.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky!” Her sarcasm was not lost on me.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“God, why couldn’t Busabout get us into a hotel in Venice itself ?” Selina persisted. “’Cause it’s expensive.” I was filled with dismay at her rotten attitude and was beginning to think I’d made a huge mistake agreeing to go with her to Athens. The day had barely started and already she was whinging. How whiny would she be on the long ferry crossing to Greece? I dreaded the thought, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

Thankfully, the public bus was on time. If it hadn’t been, she would’ve added that to her whinge list too.

Ten minutes later the bus screeched to a halt at the airport and we all hopped on the waiting Venice connection. Catching two buses to Venice might seem like extra hassle when the campsite provided a shuttle bus, but if I caught that I was restricted to returning to the campsite at designated times.

And besides, I’d heard so much about crazy Italian drivers that I wanted to experience them for myself. Not that it turned out to be all that crazy. If anything, the bus driver drove in a rather subdued manner. But considering the traffic was bumper to bumper and it took us forty-five minutes to reach Venice, there was no opportunity for him to be anything else.

“Hey, we need to stop at a supermarket,” Selina ordered. “I have to pick up some supplies for lunch.” I noticed it was not a question up for debate.

Without hesitation, Katrina unzipped her bag, pulled out her guidebook, opened it to the appropriate map and spent the 167

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next few minutes studying it. “According to this, a supermarket should be only a couple of streets away.”

Now, maps are meant for cities that have order and some sort of infrastructure, two attributes Venice definitely did not have.

On the contrary, this city was a haphazard, higgledy-piggledy arrangement of streets and alleyways and as such, maps, directions, even NASA navigation systems were more of a hindrance than a help. On a map of Venice the quickest way to a supermarket—or any other destination—seems straightforward; the reality is anything but. Within minutes of setting out on the route you planned so meticulously to take, you will come across a street that isn’t even on your map, some sort of spontaneous construction blocking your path or a canal without the bridge your map explicitly states is there. If that’s not bad enough, I guarantee that at some point in your search for that elusive supermarket your way will be blocked by a locked gate, a brick wall or a heavy-set Italian woman wanting to feed you, all equally immovable objects in any case.

To combat this problem, there were bright yellow signs indicating directions to places of interest like Piazza San Marco and the Rialto Bridge. Unfortunately for us, there were no signs pointing to any supermarkets, meaning of course that Selina, Katrina and I were soon lost and extremely confused.

“This is bloody useless,” Selina growled.

“Chill out, girl,” I said. “It’s all part of the fun of Venice.”

Selina’s glare could’ve frozen a polar bear. “Well, obviously your idea of fun is different to mine.”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s try down this street,” Katrina chirped.

“Why the hell not? We’ve tried bloody everything else. I thought Venice was supposed to be charming.”

I couldn’t speak for Katrina, but Selina was beginning to 168

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piss me off.

“Look,” I said, “obviously, we’re not getting anywhere fast.

Why don’t we just go to the Rialto Bridge? There’s got to be a supermarket around there somewhere.”

“What makes you so sure?” Katrina said.

“From what I’ve read it’s like the CBD of Venice and since it’s such a tourist trap there’s bound to be a place to buy food.”

“Hey, what else have we got to lose?” Selina muttered through her gnashing teeth.

Luckily, I was right and within minutes of arriving at the bridge we found a supermarket. Walking in, I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew if I’d been wrong, Selina—aka Little Miss Whiny as I was beginning to call her in my head—would’ve had my guts for garters. Truth be told, though, we didn’t so much find a supermarket as stumble across one, like someone would stumble across a raised piece of concrete. I guess that’s the way things are in Venice; you stumble across what you’re looking for because God knows you’d never find it any other way.

After buying what we needed for lunch we continued on to the Rialto Bridge, the widest bridge in Venice, which was brimming with people. Unlike the locals who were scurrying from one side to the other, us tourists took our time browsing through the numerous shops that lined both sides before taking in the unmatched view of the Grand Canal, a stretch of water often referred to as the most beautiful street in Venice.

This view did very little to prepare us for Piazza San Marco.

Where the Rialto Bridge was understated and functional, Piazza San Marco was ornate and breathtaking. Flanked on all sides by stunning architecture and colourful paintwork, the square was full of people and noisy commotion. Like fairground clownheads that turn from side to side, we were gobsmacked.

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Our revolving gazes gradually settled on Basilica di San Marco. Byzantine by design, its six cupolas gleamed in the sun and created a self-imposed golden halo, illuminating the vast slabs of polychromatic marble and mosaics that adorned the church’s exterior.

Without so much as a word, the three of us automatically gravitated towards the church and soon found ourselves inside.

The interior was no less stunning.

There was such an abundance of decoration, artwork and fixtures that we didn’t know which way to look, let alone walk.

Usually in a place like this I take my time, saunter around and pause at anything that takes my fancy. This was not to be since Katrina and Selina power-walked their way through the entire church with such haste that anyone would’ve thought Venice was about to sink into the Adriatic in the next five minutes.

Before I realised what was happening we were back in the piazza and Selina was commanding us to “follow her to the palace”.

“Actually,” I said, “I think I’ll give that a miss. I’ve had my fair share of palaces with all their art and stuff.”

“And stuff ?” Katrina’s eyebrows were raised. “You mean all the architecture, history and elegance?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh well, your loss,” Selina said.

“And I could really go some deep dish action.”

“Whatever, Darren.” Selina frowned. “Catch you back at the campsite then.”

“See ya.” I had to fight the urge to say good riddance.

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was also over Selina and Katrina. Earlier when we were making our way to Piazza San Marco, Selina was constantly bitching about the lack of supermarkets in Venice, the weather, the campsite and anything else she could think of, while Katrina for some reason kept insisting on using the map. In our haste to find a supermarket and get to Piazza San Marco, I hardly had time to appreciate Venice, let alone take a picture.

Once the girls had left I turned away from the Basilica and faced the rest of the square. Now that the magnificence of the Basilica was no longer a distraction, I could see why Napoleon called Piazza San Marco the finest drawing room in Europe. Enclosing the square on three sides were three-storey buildings with the second and third storeys jutting over the first, creating a shady promenade that was lined with shops, restaurants and cafes.

It wasn’t simply that the buildings added a touch of regal elegance to the square, but that there was an air of underlying aristocratic charm I found hard to ignore. I half expected couples to burst forth from all corners of the square and start dancing the Viennese Waltz.

I guess that’s why not too many people seemed interested in the museums contained in these buildings, instead preferring to savour their coffee, their lunch or the mere fact that they were in Venice. I too would’ve loved to sit in a cafe and watch the world go by, but the only way I could afford such a luxury was to begin a life of petty crime. Instead, I wandered into the square and found a sunny spot to sit and eat my lunch.

This was a bad idea.

While Piazza San Marco was elegant, it was also fraught with danger. And it wasn’t the pickpockets you had to watch out for, but the pigeons, “rats with wings” as Brett calls them.

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see they were insane. This did not seem to deter people from standing with arms outstretched, hands filled with birdseed.

Why they did this was beyond me because the pigeons flocked with a voracity I’d only witnessed in teenage girls at a boy band CD signing. Scattered around the square stood dazed, quivering humans, all covered in pigeon crap and showing signs of severe emotional shock. It was bad enough that these pigeons were deranged, but when I realised they also had kamikaze tendencies I seriously began to fear for my life. No matter where you were, walking or sitting, these crazy birds would swoop down, expecting you to get out of their way.

Obviously, the Piazza was not the safest place for a quiet and relaxing lunch. I quickly left and—not by choice, I just took a wrong turn somehow—found myself walking the city’s back streets when I stumbled across a shady spot by the canal where I could sit and eat my lunch in peace.

Away from the crowds and well maintained tourist centre of Venice, the extent of damage caused by the many floods Venice had endured through the years was obvious. While flooding has been a burden for Venice ever since the area was settled over a thousand years ago, it was a problem that went from bad to worse during the mid-twentieth century when the city began to pump underground water to the factories situated on the mainland. This not only increased the rate of sinkage of the city, but also increased the height of the flood water.

The locals coped with this rise in water levels by progressively increasing the foundations of the buildings above the flood line, but they quickly realised this was not a viable long-term solution since the flood levels were rising more quickly than they could build. The worst example of this occurred in 1966 during an unusually high tide when water levels throughout the city soared four feet above normal.

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Regrettably, the tide did not recede as fast as hoped, which meant during a subsequent high tide, the city and its historic centre were swamped by six feet of water. Power went out, gas tanks ruptured and the canals were filled with thousands of drowned rats.

This was the wake-up call the Italian government needed to realise that if no one did anything soon Venice would quickly become nothing more than a memory. So committees were formed, reports were written, studies were undertaken, consultants were consulted and all relevant red tape was unravelled and wound around the plight of the city, but the parties involved could not agree on a single course of action. But a whole city was at stake and the groups did not give up until a plan—and it’s still that by the way, a plan—was formulated.

The crux of which involved placing hollow steel panels on the seabed and during dangerously high tides, raising them into position, thereby forming a protective wall around the city.

Like ordering food in an Autogrille, the plan works in theory, but in practice it’s another matter altogether. The problem lies in the fact that Venice has an ancient plumbing system and most refuse, human and otherwise, is flushed directly into the canals. While this causes the city to stink occasionally, during normal tidal cycles the garbage is simply removed out to sea.

If this system of walls was installed all the waste sitting in the canals would stagnate, leaving the city stinking and becoming a breeding ground for disease.

All these thoughts of stagnating water, human waste and garbage were not at all conducive to enjoying my lunch.

Instead, I decided to be grateful that Venice did not stink, was not flooded and that I did not have to eat my lunch with floating dead rats, and I let the rustic charm of Venice work its magic over me.

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I have to admit, for a place that had so many blemishes, scars and general underlying dirtiness about it, Venice was incredibly beguiling. It was hard for me not to get taken in by the slow gliding of gondolas, the flapping of washing in the breeze and the occasional snippet of music that wafted by.

I was so captivated by it all that I almost missed the walking tour.

“So, what have you guys been doin’ all morning?” I asked Brett and Brenda when I arrived at a small patch of parkland behind Piazza San Marco.

“Trying to find our way around this place,” Brett said, shaking his head. “We had a map, but threw it away after five minutes. How about you?”

“Similar.” I proceeded to fill them in on our quest to find a supermarket.

“Not surprising. Jeez, just look at this city.”

“Speaking of getting lost,” Brenda said, “that must be our tour guide now.”

We watched a lady walk towards us, leaflets in hand. She had olive skin, auburn hair and hid her eyes behind Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

Minutes later about eight more backpackers were milling around.

“I take it this is all of us?” the lady said. “Does anyone know if anyone else is coming?”

We looked at each other, back at her then shook our heads.

“My name is Miralla and let me begin by welcoming you to Venice, one of the very best cities in Europe.”

She led us back towards the Piazza, around two towering columns on the square’s southern side and stopped in front of the Doge’s Palace.

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“The reason I took you around the columns instead of between them is because this place was once used for public execution. You will never see a local walk between the columns because that’s considered bad luck.”

This little fact was lost on the mob of tourists swarming the base of the columns, eager to grab a better look at the figures of St Theodore and the winged lion of St Mark, the patron saints of Venice that rested on top.

She directed our gaze back to the palace. “It is quite strange that the Palace of the Doge, home to the elected representative of the people and series of government offices, is so grand yet is hardly protected from invaders, no?” Not giving us time to come up with an answer, Miralla continued, “The reason is that unlike other palaces around Europe the Doge’s Palace did not need fortification. All the protection it and the city needed came from its location. That is why Venice was built in the marshlands that ultimately lead to the Adriatic Sea, because the water made it too hard for her enemies to attack.

“Although the palace is lavish, don’t be fooled. The doge himself had very little power. He was simply a figurehead and any decision he made had to be agreed upon by six councillors from the six Venetian districts. The doge even had to pay for official festivities, restoration work and any military campaigns out of his own pocket.”

“So why bother doing it?” a girl asked.

“They did it for the honour of holding the highest position in Venice and having their name go down in history. It was not uncommon for people to buy their way into nobility in the hope they would be nominated for doge.”

After a short spiel about the must see artefacts contained in the palace, Miralla walked us to the Basilica and highlighted the colourful archways above its entrance.

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“These mosaics tell the story of how St Mark came to be laid in the crypt, even though he died in Egypt.”

Apparently, St Mark had a dream that foretold his final resting place would be in Venice. This would’ve been all well and good if St Mark had not been an avid traveller. But he was and it just so happened that while on an evangelical mission to Egypt he passed away. This meant his body was going to have to get back to Venice through one of two highly impossible events. One, that the Egyptians returned the body or two, through some miraculous, Lazarus-type means.

Unsurprisingly, neither of these events occurred. What did happen though was that some local merchants heard the story of St Mark and decided they would set sail in the direction of Egypt to make this prophesy a reality. To do so they had to get the exhumed body past customs officials. Not an easy task, but these merchants were as cunning as they were dodgy.

After they’d dug up St Mark they stuffed him into bales of salted pork—with the utmost reverence of course—knowing full well the Muslim border officials would realise what the meat was and refuse to search the cargo.

I’d always been under the impression that God worked in mysterious ways, but until then I didn’t realise his ways were also dubious.

“Unfortunately, the story of St Mark’s body did not end there,” Miralla said. “Not long after the body was returned to Venice it was lost.”

All of us did a double take. How anyone could lose a dead body was beyond me. Smuggling it in was one thing, but losing it completely? But then I reminded myself that this was Venice so anything was possible. Apparently during a church renovation the body was moved aside for safe-keeping, but when it was time to bring it back out of storage it’d been so 176

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well hidden that no one knew where to find it.

“So where did they find the body?” Brett asked.

Miralla answered, “In one of the pillars of the Basilica.”

I didn’t know which was the more bizarre; that they’d managed to lose the body of St Mark or that someone had put the body inside a pillar, only to forget they’d done so.

“Once the body turned up a couple of years later,” Miralla continued, “it was moved to the crypt to prevent the same mistake happening again. Unfortunately, the people who were in charge of the body forgot that Venice was prone to flooding, especially Piazza San Marco, the lowest point in the city. They soon were made to regret this oversight because after a bad storm the crypt of the Basilica flooded. Instead of the water subsiding with the going out of the tide, as most expected it would, it stagnated in the crypt. It took another three hundred years before the means became available to pump out the water. To everyone’s surprise the remains of St Mark were found intact with no water damage. But to make sure this sort of thing never happened again the remains were placed in an urn by the altar.”

It had taken a while, but St Mark who’d had his body exhumed, packed in salted meat, lost in a pillar, found, then submerged under water for over three hundred years, could now finally rest in peace.

We entered the church and like before, my gaze automatically went up to the domed ceiling.

“Above you are over two square kilometres of mosaics that took over five hundred years to inlay. That is why the style of art changes from a more iconic, two-dimensional type at the top of the cupola to art that has more depth and dimension, which you see towards the bottom, typical of the Renaissance period.”

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We were still staring at the ceiling, trying to take it all in when Miralla drew our attention to the disjointed marble floor.

“As you know, Venice is sinking and the Basilica is no different. Like the rest of the city, it has been built on pylons of wood that have been driven into the seabed below. In other parts of the city the pylons were driven right into the firmer bed of clay beneath, but this was not the case with the Basilica.

The pylons it is resting on do not go down far enough and are simply floating in the layer of silt above this clay layer.

This means the pylons are subject to the coming and going of tides and while the pylons themselves are flexible, the floor it supports is not. So please watch your step.”

Miralla showed us more mosaics and intricate art before leading us out past the Quadriga, the gilded bronze four-horse-drawn chariot that was once said to adorn a Roman arch in Constantinople and, like numerous other pieces of architecture, was pillaged from the Turkish city during the thirteenth century.

“Unfortunately, due to time constraints I cannot show you all of what the church has to offer, but if you have time I recommend you take a look at the Palo d’Oro. It is one of the most precious altar screens in the world and when you see it you will understand why. It contains over three thousand precious stones, including three hundred emeralds, three hundred sapphires and thirteen hundred pearls.”

We left the Basilica and strolled past the Campanile, a large belltower opposite the palace, famous for the view it provides from its belfry and for the fact that after a thousand years it suddenly collapsed for no known reason. Continuing around the side of the Palace of the Doge we stopped on a bridge that overlooked a canal that ran behind the Basilica and the palace 178

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and also underneath another one of Venice’s famous bridges.

“Before the English poet Lord Byron romanticised the Bridge of Sighs in one of his poems,” Miralla told us, “the bridge was nothing more than a way for prisoners to make their way from the palace to the prison to serve out their sentence. The most famous prisoner to walk across—and you may have heard of him—was Casanova. He is a man preceded by his reputation and whenever I conduct this tour, comments about him being the greatest lover in history are usually raised.”

At first I thought Miralla was exaggerating about Casanova being the greatest lover in history, but as she imparted a bit of his story I became speechless. For two reasons really. One, for the amount of action he got, even though he was partial to a bit of cross-dressing, and two, his apparent last words, which were, “I have lived as a philosopher and died as a Christian”.

The former part of this statement was easy to believe.

Casanova was an avid traveller and from a young age journeyed around Europe offering his services to those in need. Whether as a diplomat for the church, a spy for a royal court, or even a soldier, when the time called for it, Casanova could do it all.

Including women.

This is why I found the latter part of his dying sentence considerably harder to swallow. Well, let’s just say Casanova gave a new meaning to the term ‘sleeping around’ and the last time I checked Christians were not renowned for their promiscuity.

He started young. When at boarding school he not only learnt the three R’s—Reading, Writing and Arithmetic—but also the all-important fourth R—Rooting and was only ten when he first experienced the ways of the woman. Naturally, once he popped he couldn’t stop. Not to say he didn’t try. After a few amorous adventures in his teen years—completely natural and understandable—he decided to attempt a career in the church.

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But that’s all it was, an attempt, because by age twenty-one he was at ‘it’ again.

He was then hired by a guy called Bragadin who believed Casanova’s ‘medical expertise’ extended from mystic origins.

This resulted in Casanova being given a large allowance and he spent his next three years devoted to pleasure. All the parties and satisfied women did not go unnoticed by the authorities and Bragadin suggested to Casanova that for his own safety he should leave Venice. Which he did, and it turned out to be the best thing because during his travels he happened to meet the love of his life, the mysterious adventuress named Henriette.

But he wanted more. Women, that is. So he returned to Venice where he was soon arrested on the grounds of his knowledge of occult activities. It also did not help that at the time he was having a ménage à quatre with a nun, the French ambassador to Venice and another girl. He attempted to escape from prison by digging a hole in the floor, but was moved to a different cell before he could finish. If he’d dug that hole, he would’ve been digging his own grave because the hole would’ve dropped him straight into the main chamber directly in front of his captors. His second attempt, however, was more successful and he walked right past the wardens, mistaken for just another politician. As before, he soon began travelling around Europe running errands for heads of state and church figures and bedding women everywhere.

I had to wonder whether Casanova knew where to draw the line. In Naples he wooed and proposed to a seventeen-year-old called Leonilda who just happened to be a ‘mistress for form’s sake’ of the impotent Duke of Matalone. Nothing wrong with that, I guess; men woo and propose to women every day, but what most men don’t do is propose to their seventeen-year-old daughters and then go to bed with them. Turned out Leonilda 180

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was Casanova’s daughter, born to one of his earlier conquests with whom he’d had a torrid affair when he was nineteen. This is where the story gets a bit freaky to say the least. Casanova decided instead of marrying Leonilda—which he realised would be the wrong thing to do—that he would simply sleep with her and her mother.

Talk about keeping it in the family—literally.

After his incestuous threesome, Casanova was soon on the road again in search of work and more women. This travelling and shagging went on for about nine years until he again bumped into his daughter. Leonilda was now married to a seventy-year-old man and, since Viagra wasn’t around back then, was completely unsatisfied. Being the caring father that he was, Casanova again bedded both Leonilda and her mother, but this time he decided to pay most of his ‘attention’ to Leonilda. Such attentions bore fruit and six months later Casanova discovered his daughter was pregnant with his baby.

He continued to travel until finally, after performing the wild monkey dance with one hundred and twenty-two women, age—or exhaustion—finally caught up with him and he passed away at the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

It was hard to imagine how such debauchery could inspire romance and fidelity yet over the years the Bridge of Sighs has apparently been the chosen site of many marriage proposals.

Addressing the males in the group, Miralla advised that if we wanted to propose while in Venice the way to do it was to hire a gondola, sail under the Bridge of Sighs, turn to our partner and ask for their hand in marriage. Sure enough, before we were led away I caught a glimpse of an endless row of gondolas, each filled with a cuddling couple sailing slowly towards the Bridge of Sighs.

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dell’Orologio, a five-hundred-year-old clock that told the time as well as the lunar phases and the motion of the sun through the signs of the zodiac. She also showed us parts of Venice rarely seen by tourists, such as Marco Polo’s supposed residence. Finally, we emerged at the Rialto Bridge where the tour concluded.

Back at the campsite I was making my way to my cabin when a familiar voice from behind called my name.

“Hey, Kel, how you doin’?”

“Good. You enjoying Venice, Darren?”

“It’s great, except I keep on getting lost. I hear you and Steph are heading to Verona tomorrow.”

“Been speaking to Brett, have we?”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Mind if I tag along?”

“Course not. Say we all meet about nine-ish.”

“Sounds great.”

The next day did not start off as well as we hoped. The weather looked sour, the hot water at the campsite was on the blink and the bus to the airport was running late, causing us to miss our corresponding connection into Venice. To top it off, once we reached Venice I realised I’d left my money—and other important items like my passport—back at the campsite.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, getting on a train to Verona was a nightmare.

We wandered into the station and while Brett, Brenda and Stephanie searched for train times Kelly and I asked about the price of a ticket to Verona.

“So how much?” Brett asked when we returned.

“Nine euros.”

“That’s not too bad,” Stephanie said.

“We better buy the tickets now,” Brenda informed us.

“From the look of those indicators our train’s leaving soon.”

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Kelly and I were given the task of buying the tickets and dutifully lined up until we were called to one of the ticket windows.

“Cinque tickets to Verona, return,” Kelly said.

The man behind the counter tapped a few keys and told us the price. We looked at each other in shock because in the space of five minutes nine euros each had quickly become twenty-two. I’d heard of inflation, but this was ridiculous.

Confused, we walked back to the others and told them what had happened.

“What?” Brett exclaimed.

“Something must be wrong,” Brenda said.

Kelly and Brett went back to information, but returned looking more confused than ever. According to information, the price to Verona was still nine euros. Kelly and I bounded back to the ticket window and finally, after a few hand gestures and the odd raised voice, discovered that the ticket prices we were quoted were for a train leaving Venice at a different time that afternoon and to catch the train that was due to leave in fifteen minutes we had to pay an extra eleven euros each.

Could things get any worse? Of course they did. When we arrived in Verona it started to rain and while the others had the foresight to bring their jackets, I didn’t. Mine was lying on my bed back at the campsite, meaning I was drenched within minutes. I was seriously beginning to wonder if all this trouble was worth it.

Thankfully, I soon found out it was.

We scurried from the station to Piazza Bra and found the rain had done very little to dampen the mood there. Orbiting one of the oldest amphitheatres in the world, the scores of cafes that bordered the piazza filled the area with chatter, melodious music and scintillating aromas.

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When the rain finally abated the five of us wandered into the arena for a closer look at its numerous archways and ancient curved exterior. Standing there, it was easy to picture myself sitting in the square during a balmy summer evening when the arena opened its doors and became an open-air opera theatre, sipping Italian wine and savouring the cool evening breeze that was ripe with chatter and the full-bodied notes of opera.

Captivated by this image, it occurred to me that even without the legend of Romeo and Juliet hanging over the city, Verona would still be more romantic than Venice.

“Does anyone know the way to Juliet’s Balcony?” Stephanie asked.

“According to the map it should be down past the arena,” Kelly replied.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Brett said and turned in the direction Kelly was indicating.

After we realised the street we were on did not exist on the map, we decided to ask someone. This was easier said than done because we couldn’t find anyone to ask. Either the rain had kept the locals inside or else they were revelling in the crackling atmosphere of Piazza Bra. At least it gave us a chance to take in the stunning architecture of the city, which had an old-world charm I hadn’t found in Venice. No matter where we looked, every building was elegant, each street was cobbled and all the footpaths were lined with thick slabs of marble.

“Wouldn’t it suck if we came all this way and couldn’t even find Juliet’s Balcony?” Brett said.

“Hey, if Romeo can find it in the dark,” I said, “I’m sure we can find it in broad daylight.”

“Yeah and we all know what happened to him,” Brett said.

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Maggiore.

“I’ll go ask in there,” I suggested.

Kelly handed me the map as I walked inside.

“Uno?” the girl behind the counter asked as she began to tear off a ticket.

“No, Juliet’s tomb?” I pointed to my map.

After a pause she responded, “You sure it’s open?”

I shrugged.

“I find out. You wait!”

I did as I was told and was astounded at the lengths she went to help, looking through the white pages and ringing around for information. Finally, she came up with exactly where it was and hours of operation. Then on my map she showed me the best path to take.

I thanked her and skipped out to the others.

“What went on in there?” Kelly asked.

Brett elbowed me in the ribs. “You didn’t pick up, did you, Daz?” “Well, I got directions to a girl’s house.”

“Pity the girl is dead.”

“Guys!” Brenda stepped in between us and looked at the map I was holding.

The route the girl in the church had outlined looked fairly simple, and it would’ve been if the streets in Verona had names.

It wasn’t long before the five of us were again lost. At least this time we were in a more populated area of Verona and there were more people we could ask. Eventually, we found a lady who was extremely helpful. She not only gave us directions, but led us right to it. One thing was for sure, Verona’s locals were friendlier than the Venetians I’d encountered.

The courtyard below Juliet’s Balcony was as packed as it was drab. In fact the only source of colour—and entertainment— 185

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was provided by the golden statue of Juliet. Many people were fighting for a chance to grab the left boob—the shinier of the two—and we were no different. It’s said that if you give her breast a rub, you will be lucky in love. After a good fondle, the five of us sauntered towards the Adige River.

Finding a spot opposite Castelvecchio, an old fort once used as a German stronghold in World War Two, we basked in the sun, which by this stage had come out, and gobbled down our lunch. That was another thing about Verona. It was cheap, much cheaper than Venice. Not only in terms of lunch supplies, but also in terms of gelato, which for me and Stephanie—seeing we’d become addicted to the stuff—was a good thing.

Although the start of the day had been far from perfect and we’d been in Verona less than a day, the five of us agreed we preferred Verona over Venice. With the Italian Alps as its backdrop, the city was quainter, quieter and much prettier.

This of course did not mean that Venice was not worth visiting. Far from it. While I was leaving Venice for the Greek Islands—my holiday from a holiday—I planned to return because there were more places I wanted to see.

But for now those places would have to wait until I got back from the Realms of Paradise.

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I glanced up from my journal as Brett and Brenda entered the bar at the campsite.

“Hey, Darren, all ready and raring to go?” Brett asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Just for the record, I envy you, but I still think you’re bloody nuts.”

“Why?” “Thirty-four hours on a ferry. Just thinking about it makes me seasick.”

“Speaking of which,” Brenda said, “you don’t, do you? Get seasick, I mean?”

The question caught me off guard. Of all the things I’d prepared for on the journey from Venice to Athens—boredom, collecting dust, a slow spiral into insanity—I hadn’t even considered the possibility of getting seasick.

“Er ... I dunno, Brenda.”

Brett and Brenda shot bewildered looks at each other.

“Darren,” Brenda said, eyes wide, “If you do, it’ll be the longest trip of your life.”

“I’ve been on a Sydney ferry. Does that count?” It was bad enough I had to spend over thirty hours on a ferry; I dreaded to think how much worse my journey would be if I had to spend it cuddling a toilet bowl.

“Mate,” Brett said, shaking his head, “crossing Sydney Harbour is not the same as crossing the Adriatic Sea.”

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“Yeah, I guess.”

He shook my hand. “Anyway, take care of yourself and safe travels.”

“Same to you, guys, great meeting you both. Catch ya round.”

I finished the coffee I was nursing and joined Tom and Don, two steely jawed Kiwis, poolside. Like me, they weren’t looking forward to the upcoming ferry crossing.

Don was the taller of the two. His face was drawn and hung-over, caused by too many late nights and trying to keep their budget in check. Tom, on the other hand, was so chilled out his grin looked to be frozen in place.

Shortly after three that afternoon, after an exhausting day spent sunbathing, the three of us plodded to the entrance of the campsite.

“Where’s that girl that’s supposed to be joining us?” Tom asked as we waited for the shuttle bus to arrive.

“Selina?”

Tom nodded.

“I dunno. She told me she’d be here at three-fifteen.”

“Well, it’s almost quarter-past now,” Don said.

“She’d better get a wriggle on.”

“Are you going to wait for her?” Tom asked.

“No, I’m not going to risk missing the ferry. I’ve already changed a lot of bookings and lost a few deposits because of her. I don’t want to take any more chances because it’s money I can’t afford to waste.”

By the time the bus had shut its doors Selina was still nowhere to be seen and as the bus made its way through Venice, thoughts of her whereabouts were quickly replaced by thoughts about my own mortality. It seemed our bus driver was more concerned with what was being played on the radio 188

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at any given moment than keeping the bus in the required lane and out of the path of oncoming traffic. Not five seconds passed before he would forget about steering and start fiddling with the knobs and buttons on the dial. Then he would rub his chin thoughtfully, consider what was being played, huff in annoyance that the first four bars of the song, advertisement or radio static were not catchy enough, then resume his search for that elusive toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing tune.

On the rare occasion he did find a song that warranted his attention, he stopped what he was doing—that is, steering a bus—and focused on the radio. In those instances not only did I find the bus veering nonchalantly into oncoming traffic—I’m actually surprised we didn’t end up on the runway at Venice Airport staring down the nose of a Boeing 747 as it sped for takeoff—but I was left wondering whether I would ever reach Venice in one piece, let alone Greece. Thankfully, the driver never failed to steer the bus back into the correct lane at the last second—incredibly violently, I might add—before proceeding to yell abuse at the other drivers for getting in his way!

“That was fucking nuts!” Tom said when we got off at Venice bus station.

“I can’t believe we’re still alive,” Don agreed.

“Guys,” I interrupted, “I think we have worse things than that bus trip to worry about.”

“You haven’t left something behind, have you?” Tom asked.

“No, but have you looked up lately?”

Tom and Don did so and murmured in unison, “Oh shit!”

The sky was grey and the smell of rain hung heavily in the air.

“Jeez, what happened to the sun?” Tom asked.

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ablaze and the sky was clear, but in the time it took us to unload our bags the sun had disappeared behind angry black clouds. Spending a day and a half on the deck of a ferry was bad enough. Doing so during a downpour was another thing altogether.

Not that my feelings on the matter changed anything.

We’d barely entered the ferry terminal and exchanged our travel vouchers for tickets when plump drops of rain began to pummel the Venetian coast.

“Guys, these don’t look like the right tickets,” Tom said as he was handed his. Don and I studied ours.

“What shit are you talkin’?” Don said.

“Seriously, I thought we were going to Patras, but these tickets say we’re off to a place called Igoumenitsa!”

It was a valid question, so we asked the lady at the window who apologised and made the appropriate changes.

Correct tickets in hand, we lumbered onto the ferry only to learn there was another forty-five-minute wait before we could board. We went back to the terminal, found some seats and did what everyone else seemed to be doing, that is, gazing at the weather, shaking our heads and counting the minutes till departure. There was still no sign of Selina as departure time drew near. I’d pretty much given up on her when suddenly she appeared just as the boarding call crackled over the PA system.

“Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” I said.

“I know, I know. I completely lost track of time,” Selina said half-heartily before sticking in one of her usual barbs.

“Thanks for waiting for me.”

“Hey,” I said, “you weren’t there and I had no idea if you were even coming. You said it yourself, you lost track of time.

What if you ended up missin’ the ferry?”

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“Obviously I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but how was I supposed to know that! Look, I can’t afford to be changing plans every day.”

Selina pursed her lips and stared at me. I stared back. Icicles formed between us.

She broke the standoff. “Oh well, I’m here now, let’s go catch a ferry.” She looked over her shoulder. “Where do we get tickets?”

I pointed to the window and she marched off, muttering angrily to herself. After she grabbed her ticket the four of us shuffled on board and found a spot that sheltered us from the rain, but not from the wind.

We got as comfortable as we were going to get, secured our backpacks using the many locks we had in our possession and waited patiently for the ferry to set sail.

I watched Venice drift by as we journeyed southward and wondered whether the city had a bad side. I decided that whether walking through or sailing by, Venice was beautiful.

A quality further enhanced as the sun descended below the rain-sodden clouds and draped the city in hues of red, orange and yellow.

“Find anything entertaining?” Don asked when Tom returned from his exploration of the ship.

“Nah, not really.”

“Not even a movie theatre or a nightclub?” I asked. “The brochure said there’d be something.”

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t even see a public phone.”

“Fantastic,” I commented.

“But seriously, guys, thirty-four hours of this shouldn’t be too bad.”

We’d barely left Venice and Tom had already gone insane.

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was about to get up and slap some sense into his friend.

“Why? Surely two hours have already gone—surely.”

“Tom, mate,” I looked at my watch, “I hate to burst your bubble, but we’ve only been sailing for thirty minutes.”

His wide smile faded and the look on his face said it all— this was bad, extremely bad. Time may fly when you’re having fun, but in our case it was seriously grounded.

The upside was that at least I now knew I wasn’t vulnerable to seasickness. But this fact was small comfort since the onset of night and a slow drizzle made the air cold and damp. In resignation I unpacked my sleeping bag.

“Hey, guys!” Don rushed back from his examination of the ship. “I asked around and we don’t have to sleep on the deck.”

Selina leant forward, her hands clasped as if praying in anticipation of good news. “You mean you can sneak us into a cabin?”

“No, but we can sleep in the dining room after ten o’clock.”

“Excellent!” Tom’s smile returned with a vengeance.

“Yeah, excellent,” Selina murmured and rolled her eyes.

“God, this sucks.”

While the dining room shielded us from the wind and the rain, it was not as “excellent” as Tom claimed. Our sleep was fitful at best since all through the night people chatted, TVs blared and staff wandered by whistling and tapping tabletops with their keys.

Added to that, at five the next morning we were rudely awoken and kicked back out on deck. We returned to our cold seats and tried to go back to sleep as best we could. This wasn’t a problem for me, considering I can sleep through anything anywhere. I call this talent. Others have been known to call it 192

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bloody laziness.

When I woke again I was amused to find Tom lying under me, that is, underneath the chair I was sleeping on. He’d inadvertently stumbled onto the perfect place to sleep—curled up right next to the smokestack, completely sheltered and warm.

While cold, the morning was bright and sunny and like other passengers, I decided to make the most of it and found a quiet place near the bow of the ferry and got stuck into my book.

But a bright morning did not guarantee a bright afternoon and it was a little after midday when the ferry was again encased by dark cloud. I retreated to the dining room to continue my reading and journal writing and hopefully grab an afternoon kip.

“Hey, Darren.” Selina pulled up a chair.

“Hey.” I was curt.

“You know, I should’ve paid the extra money for a cabin.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“It’s awful. I’ve actually gone into the change room and slept on the benches.”

I shook my head. “You’re not serious.”

“Sure am. Anyway, how many Greek islands are you planning to visit?”

I was not expecting this question. After the tension between us I thought she’d be happy to see the back of me. Just as I was counting the days to see the back of her.

“Five,” I answered. “You know, make the most of it while I’m there. Who knows when I will be back.” I hoped she got the message that when I left Athens for the Greek Islands I’d be doing so without her.

“I’m going to three starting with Santorini. Care to join me?”

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“No. I’m starting at Mykonos and working my way around from there.”

“Sure you don’t want to change?”

“Nope. I’m not changing my plans anymore.” That was a lie. If previous experience was anything to go by, my plans would change more times than Casanova changed girlfriends.

But I was not about to tell Selina that. I turned back to my journal.

“Fine then,” Selina huffed, “do it your way.”

“I plan to,” I said, not looking up.

Don appeared at the head of the table. “Don’t mean to interrupt—” “What’s up, Don?” I asked.

“Could I grab the keys to the bags?”

“Why?” Selina asked.

“Oh, nothing, the deck is flooding.”

“What?” Selina shot up out of her seat.

We sprinted up the stairs, quickly unlocked the bags, moved them to higher ground and watched as the rain increased in ferocity and the water level on deck continued to rise.

At this rate I expected the four of us would be swimming the rest of the way to Greece.

We sailed into Patras at six the following morning, quickly disembarked and made our way to the waiting Athens shuttle bus. The journey to Athens took three hours and we used the time to catch up on sleep after the turbulent night before.

Athens held no fascination for me; it was exactly as I expected. White, rectangular coffee-stained buildings made worse by the minefield of construction sites, roadworks and unfinished houses. Even the confines of the bus could not shut out the overwhelmingly erratic nature of the city.

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were insane. In Italy drivers were concerned with changing radio stations, eating, talking on the phone or chatting to the guy in the adjacent car. In Greece drivers seemed intent on committing vehicular homicide.

I watched with morbid fascination as cars and mopeds drove on sidewalks, overtook pedestrians, veered across lanes of traffic and cut off semi-trailers who were running over motorbikes.

No wonder when we arrived in central Athens—the Plaka district to be exact—the driver opened the door and said ominously, “This is the end”. And it very nearly was, considering on the way to the hostel we had some near death experiences with a couple of mopeds and a bus.

“Okay, see you later,” Don said once we’d all checked in.

“Where are you two going?” Selina asked. “Aren’t you coming with us to the travel agent to book the ferry tickets and island accommodation?”

“Nah,” Don said, “we’re heading back to the port. I reckon we can score a better deal there.”

“Okay, nice travelling with ya,” I said. “Have a good rest of your trip.”

“Will do, bud.”

We followed them to the front door when I heard a familiar voice call my name. It was Phillip, a Mauritian whose bald spot was bright enough to warrant sunglasses.

“Phil! How you doin’?”

“Knackered. Only got in late last night.”

“That’s right, you guys caught the ferry from Ancona. Was it any better?”

“It was quicker, but still not the ideal way to travel.”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “By the way, this is Selina.”

Selina said nothing and nodded curtly.

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“Are you heading out to get your ferry tickets and accommodation sorted?” I asked.

“Sure am.”

“Can we tag along?”

“Sure. Evelyn’s out there. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Selina and I walked outside.

“Howdy, Evelyn!”

“Darren! When did you arrive?”

I looked at my watch. “About four hours ago. Evelyn, this is Selina.”

“Hi. And this is Shannon.” Evelyn turned to the girl standing next to her who shook my hand vigorously.

“Hi, I can’t wait till tomorrow.” Her eyes sparkled and she flashed me a toothy smile. I wasn’t looking, but in that instant I knew I’d found my travel buddy for the Greek Islands.

With the relevant bookings and paperwork out of the way, we made a beeline for the Acropolis. Looking like another construction site, the area was wrapped in caution tape and safety barriers because the government was trying to rebuild the Acropolis and return it to its former glory. Apart from this momentous and admirable task the government was also attempting to preserve the site by correcting a past mistake.

Originally, the powers that be decided the best way to preserve the Acropolis was to clean it up. Everyone agreed this seemed the obvious solution, but stripping the layers of grime that had built up on the ruins over the years also removed the coating that was in fact protecting the stone from the city’s corrosive smog, pollution and dust.

Viewing the sprawling mess of Athens from the lookout— and that’s what Athens was, a mess—I felt a strong urge to leave.

With not much holding our attention, we began to walk 196

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back down when we were stopped by an elderly Greek man.

“Ah, tourists, welcome to Athens,” he said, his hands raised to the sky. “Where you from? Where you from?”

“Australia,” Phillip answered.

“Ah, Australia, beautiful country. With kangaroos, no?

Come with me, I tell you stories of Acropolis.”

We made no move to follow him.

“Come, come. Free, free, no charge. If you were British I charge.”

We laughed as he led us to a rock that overlooked the city. He bade us all to sit as he began to tell us the history of the Acropolis, how it was used by the Greeks not only as a means of protection from invasion, but also to symbolise the cultural and political works of the city’s inhabitants. His topic of conversation quickly drifted to real estate.

“Where you stay?”

We pointed to the Plaka district.

“Ah, nice area. Where you go next? Greek Islands?”

We nodded.

“Very good, very good. Have you found place to stay?”

We nodded again.

“My cousin will get you better deal.”

“We’ve already booked our accommodation,” Shannon explained, smiling.

“You should ring travel agent, cancel, ring my cousin. He give you good deal. He has apartment on Rhodes.”

“No, we are going to the Greek Islands,” Phillip said.

“He has place there too.”

Of course he did. We began to get up.

“No, no, no. You ring my cousin, tell him Cosmo sent you and he will do you good deal. His name is Constantine.”

Of course his name would be Constantine, otherwise known as Con. 197

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We returned to the hotel and by the time we finally set out for dinner the cafes, shops and restaurants in the Plaka district had come alive, the area living up to its reputation as the most cosmopolitan in Athens.

The five of us zigzagged through the buzz of conversation, the thick aroma of traditional Greek cooking and a gauntlet of maitre d’s offering us deals of free food, drinks, a daughter’s hand in marriage and anything else they could think of to entice us inside.

We finally found a restaurant away from the noise where we could sit outside in the fresh night air under the stars and admire the beauty of the lit-up Parthenon. Admittedly, it was only the left-hand corner of the Parthenon, but it was still the Parthenon nonetheless.

The five of us were leaving Athens the next day. Selina was shipping out mid-morning while the rest of us were leaving much earlier. We could not have been happier.

It boiled down to this: When paradise is at one’s doorstep, why stay in a place that is not?

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11

A Gay Ol’ Time

My holiday from a holiday did not start as I had hoped.

It wasn’t the early start that bothered Phillip, Evelyn, Shannon and me, but the raindrops that kept falling on our heads.

The rain and the early hour did little to quell the tumultuous activity at Piraeus, the world’s oldest port. Getting through the teeming traffic to our ferry in one piece was a challenge that would cause most army infantry to think twice. We constantly had to duck and weave around wayward mopeds, side-step buses and dodge cars that were taking short cuts across footpaths. Vehicles were bad enough, people were worse.

Tanked up to the eyeballs on Greek coffee—a substance known to cause people to vibrate through walls—they scurried and swarmed in all directions, crash-tackling anybody that got in their way and eyeballing those on holiday with that I hate my job and I hate you for going to the Greek Islands stare.

Avoiding eye contact at all costs, the four of us boarded the ferry and did not look back. We knew in five hours Athens would be a distant memory and we would be setting foot on our first island.

It was five hours that could not go fast enough. Up till this point, I’d spent most of my trip walking around various cities in an attempt to take in as much as possible in the limited time I had. Each day had been exciting, but all that walking was tiring work and I quickly began to long for a day or two where

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I could relax, put my feet up and savour the sunshine.

The way the weather was looking as we left Piraeus, savouring the sunshine wasn’t going to happen. But this was the Mediterranean and a lot can change in the space of five hours.

When the ferry sailed into Mykonos the sky was cloudless and reflected the colour of the water, a pristine iridescent blue.

The port of Mykonos was minuscule compared to Piraeus, but no less chaotic and it wasn’t only the rumbling of vehicles and boats that was causing the commotion. Lining the exit and forming a veritable barricade between the port and the town were representatives from the island’s hotels.

Others from the ferry braved this throng to see what was on offer, but we had already secured our accommodation and all we had to do was find our hotel representative among the shouts of “great deal”, “good accommodation”, “pools”, and “fantastic views” that were heralded in our direction.

“I can’t see ours,” I said.

Phillip scanned the wall of tanned Greek faces. “Me neither.”

“Then I guess we have to catch a cab,” Shannon said.

Driving away from the port, I realised how wrong I was about the Greek Islands. I’d expected to find them fertile and grassy, but was startled to find a semi-arid, rocky landscape interspersed with prickly pear and spinifex.

The hotel, however, was exactly what I’d expected. Like every other building on the island, its walls were painted gleaming white and its windows were decorated in colourful shutters. The only feature it lacked was the characteristic hemispherical roof. Not that this bothered us any because the four of us migrated straight to the swimming pool as soon as we’d checked in.

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drifting off to sleep.

“Shan, you got the room key?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m headin’ up to have a kip.”

Next thing I knew Shannon was returning from the pool and two hours had elapsed.

“Had a good sleep?” she asked.

“The best.” I yawned and stretched.

“You hungry, Daz?” “Starvin’!”

We got ready and waited downstairs at reception for Phillip and Evelyn. Thirty minutes later there was still no sign of them.

“Where are they?” Shannon impatiently tapped the screen on her mobile phone.

“Tell me about it, I’m ravenous.”

At that moment thoughts of dinner dwindled away as the rain started bucketing down hard and heavy. Shannon and I exchanged looks of bewilderment. We came to the Greek Islands to get away from the rain, but apparently we’d brought it with us. Even the receptionist and the bar lady, both seasoned locals, stared outside with similar expressions—rain? Greek Islands? Has the world gone mad?

Maybe so, but we were still hungry.

“I’m going to see what’s taking them so long,” Shannon said, getting up.

“Tell them to hurry up, will ya?”

While I waited my attention turned to the TV in the bar, which was tuned to the music channel. Since I didn’t know much about Greek pop music I watched with interest, but was soon confused. The video started with an attractive librarian walking along a beach with a sad, forlorn look on her face.

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The camera then cut to the singer who was busy crooning to a bookshelf, his shirt undone and flapping in the breeze that blew from an unseen corner.

I assumed the girl at the start of the clip was the object of the singer’s affection. If you think I’m an ass for making such an assumption, I’m going to have to agree with you. I was forgetting I was in Greece and should’ve known better than to assume Greek men would lavish attention on their women when they could heap it on themselves.

True to form, the camera did not cut to the girl, but remained focused on the singer as he ran his fingers up and down his chest and through his hair in ways that left me feeling dirty and used.

It was only at the tail end of the clip that the librarian reappeared. Not that she was in the centre of the camera, but more to the side and cast in shadow. Even so, as soon as she walked into the library and found the singer touching himself and mounting a staircase banister she fell instantly in love with him and her sad, forlorn state was replaced by a happy, frisky one.

I was so dumbfounded that I didn’t hear Shannon return.

“Come on, Darren, let’s go.”

I tore my gaze away from the TV. “They’re not coming?”

“No.” “Evelyn not being moody again, is she?”

“How did ya guess?”

“I met them both in Venice. They joined a few mates and me for dinner. Phil was easy talk to, but Evelyn … can I just say, Shan, I could’ve had a better conversation with a parrot.”

“Meow!” Shannon clawed at me. “If you thought that was bad, you should’ve seen her on the ferry. The trip was long enough, but her whinging just made it worse.”

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“Been there! You know, the problem with her is you simply don’t know where you stand. One minute she’s fine, the next she’s in a strop.”

“Exactly,” Shannon agreed. “Never mind, Dazzler, let’s forget them and grab some dinner.”

“Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

The rain had left the ground damp and the air smelling clean and fresh.

“What do you feel like eating, Daz?” “Something cheap and cheerful will do me fine. You?” “Same.”

We settled on a place that sold Gyros, a Greek pita sandwich.

“My guidebook wasn’t wrong when it said Mykonos Town is the most cosmopolitan town on all the islands,” I commented to Shannon over dinner. “Just look at all these shops and boutiques. Who would think you could buy designer gear on the Greek Islands?”

“Do you want to have a look after we eat?”

“You betcha!”

I was glad that Shannon enjoyed shopping as much as I did and since the streets of Mykonos Town—a proverbial rabbit warren—were filled with shops that varied in price as much as in goods, this meant there was plenty of shopping—window and otherwise—to be had.

Of all the shops, restaurants, supermarkets and money exchanges, one offered services above and beyond the call of duty and stood out among the rest. Out the front of this particular money exchange was a sign that read Exchange. In front of the E was a carefully placed dollar sign so the sign actually read, $Exchange.

“Shan,” I said, “unless I spoke fluent Greek, I’d be too 203

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scared to go in there.”

“Why?” she asked.

“You might get a good rate of exchange, but you might also come out with something nipped when in fact it should’ve been tucked.”

“I suppose that’s why Mykonos is the gay capital of the Greek Islands,” Shannon informed me as we crossed the waterfront. The sun had long since set, but the restaurants were still packed and a heavy aroma of Greek cooking hung in the air. “Ready to head back, Dazzler?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I could do with an early one.”

Not far out of town we reached a fork in the road and stopped.

“Which direction did we come from, Daz?” “I was kind of hoping you knew.”

“Oh well, let’s go this way and see where it leads.” We veered left.

Twenty minutes later we were in the middle of nowhere, wolves were howling and tumbleweeds rolled across our path.

“See anything familiar, Shan?”

Shannon replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “No.” We continued on without fuss. Like me, Shannon is an eternal optimist and we both figured we’d get to the hotel eventually. Even if eventually meant traversing the full island on what appeared to be the road less travelled. We did, however, reconsider our decision to keep walking once vultures began circling overhead.

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Like the first day, the second day of my holiday from a holiday was far from what I’d imagined. With no ferry to catch because I was already on the Greek Islands, I still woke up at five-thirty in the morning. This early rising had less to do with me wanting to copy Kelly and Stephanie and go for a morning jog—as if that was ever going to happen!—and more to do with me forgetting to switch off my alarm.

I initially ignored it, thinking the annoying beeping sound was part of some horrible dream about killer alarm clocks, hoping that if I shut my eyes for long enough the sound would go away. It didn’t and as a result it woke Shannon who jumped out of bed and ran to her bag, thinking it was her who’d left her alarm on.

When I realised what was happening I leapt out of bed and turned off the alarm, all the while apologising profusely to Shannon.

At the more reasonable hour of nine-thirty we rolled out of bed and drifted down for breakfast. After living on dry cereal with the occasional jam sandwich thrown in for variety, I was stoked to find the breakfast buffet offered a fantastic selection of boiled eggs, bread, jam, cheese, ham, yoghurt and fruit.

Soon after we’d sat down Phillip and Evelyn walked in.

“Hey, guys,” Shannon and I said simultaneously.

“Morning.” Phillip yawned, grabbed a plate and shuffled over to the buffet.

Evelyn said nothing, paid us a cursory glance, picked up a plate and followed Phillip.

Shannon rolled her eyes at me and tore into her toast.

I waited for Phillip and Evelyn to sit down. The air was packed with tension.

“Er—” I swallowed hard and got ready to place my foot firmly in my mouth. “So what’s the plan for the day, then?”

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Thankfully, Phillip answered. “Well, didn’t we say yesterday we’d hire mopeds? Why don’t we do that?”

“Fine by me,” I agreed.

“Yeah, we can check out that market in Ano Mera,” Shannon added. “My guidebook says it’s a great place to snatch a bargain.”

After breakfast the four of us walked into town to the first moped hire place we could find. That was the easy part.

“Hi,” Phillip called to the two men sitting behind a grease-stained desk. “We’d like to hire four mopeds.”

Unmoving, they stared at us and one of them eventually responded, “For you? Two only.”

Frowning, Phillip said, “But there are four of us.”

“No. Only you two ride,” the other guy said. “Girls go on back.”

Having none of that, we tried next door and were met by the same sexist attitude.

We entered a third shop. This time a lady sat at the desk and we thought things would be different. They weren’t. She was just as reluctant to hire out her mopeds to females as her two counterparts next door. By this stage we’d had enough.

“I have a bike licence!” Evelyn exclaimed, her impatience far from hidden.

“And I’ve ridden dirt bikes,” Shannon added.

Finally and after much persuasion the lady relented and handed over a set of keys to the girls. What I could not believe was that she was more worried about Shannon and Evelyn riding mopeds than the fact that I had never ridden one before.

A point that was painfully obvious when I could not even get the moped started, let alone off its kickstand. Rather than let me loose on an unsuspecting public the lady promptly took back the keys.

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This was probably a good thing because before too long I’d have found myself in some sort of bother like riding off a cliff or screaming headfirst into a tree or a bus, a car, person, goat, startled cow or all of the above.

I hopped on behind Phillip and we all made for Ano Mera.

To say we were disappointed is an understatement. The market we’d been looking forward to didn’t even exist, the only seller being an old man trying to fob off his limp day-old fruit and vegetables. Taking one look at his floppy celery, we decided to move on.

We rode to the peninsula at the north-western corner of the island and instantly realised the lighthouse shown on the map was not its biggest attraction. Like the numerous windmills on the island, the lighthouse had not aged gracefully and was covered in the scars of neglect and rust. But the view was perfect, spanning all of Mykonos and the neighbouring islands and a fair portion of the Mediterranean as well. It was mid-afternoon when we returned to the hotel pool.

Come evening, the four of us strolled into town for some dinner before visiting a place called the Scandinavian Bar. We’d barely set foot in the place when a tray of shots floated in our direction, a custom that continued well into the night.

The results of which were evident the next morning because none of us were in the mood to speak. This required the ability to string words together and we were certainly not capable of doing that because it hurt too much to think, let alone talk.

It was two in the afternoon before we’d recovered enough to make a move away from the pool to Super Paradise Beach.

We quickly realised why it had been named that way: the sand was a fine golden colour and the water a rich turquoise.

This and not the fact that there was a naked couple doing laps of the beach meant we were back the next day. But only after 207

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we’d made a couple of detours first.

The day started at Plati Yalos. Compared to Super Paradise this beach was well below par. The sand was coarser, the beach narrower and the water contained more than its fair share of rocks. Nonetheless, we laid our towels down and stretched out.

“I’m going to take a dip,” Shannon said.

“Tell us what it’s like,” I said as she got to her feet.

We watched as Shannon walked towards the water then suddenly, in the space of a few seconds, vanished.

I turned to Phillip and Evelyn. “Okay, what just happened?”

“Yeah,” Phillip agreed. “One minute she’s there, next she’s gone.”

Shannon surfaced a few minutes later and walked back.

“What happened?” I asked. “We were watching you and then you disappeared. Is there a hole or something?”

“It’s really weird. You know how beaches slope gently into the water? Well, here it’s really steep and you kinda just sink in.”

This raised my curiosity, so I trudged down for a look. I waded in and even before the water reached my knees I felt myself sinking into the sand.

“What d’ya think, Daz?” Shannon asked when I returned.

“Certainly not Super Paradise, that’s for sure.”

“What do you say we try somewhere else?” Shannon suggested.

“Where?” I asked.

Evelyn shrugged. “How about Paradise?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

Phillip got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

The sand at Paradise was strewn with seaweed and the 208

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water was full of kelp. We instinctively knew what each other was thinking.

“Super Paradise it is, then,” Phillip said.

When we returned to the hotel Phillip and Evelyn bolted up to their room while Shannon and I gravitated to the pool, hoping to catch the final few hours of sunshine.

Lounging by the pool, beers in hand, were three guys.

The one with wild unkempt hair bounded over to us. “Hey, I’m Connor! Where are you from?”

“Sydney,” Shannon answered.

“Cool. Us too.” Connor turned to his mates. “Hey, guys, scope this out. These guys are from Sydney.”

The tall one with a huge grin walked over. “Great ta meet some Aussies over here. I’m Mick and that’s Jason.”

Hiding behind dark glasses, Jason looked in our direction and nodded.

Introductions complete, Shannon and I reclined poolside with our new found friends and whiled the afternoon away chatting, swimming and downing a few bevvies.

“That’s friggin’ awesome, man,” Connor said watching the sunset from his banana chair.

“Too right, mate,” Mick agreed, pulling himself out of the pool.

Jason nodded and posed the question, “What’s there to do in this part of the world after the sun goes down?”

Shannon piped up, “The Scandinavian Bar was fun. Don’t you agree, Dazzler?”

“From what little I recall it was goin’ off.”

“Then what are we sitting around here for?” Connor sprung out of his chair and grabbed his towel. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“Yeah, I’m with him,” Mick agreed.

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“Guys,” Jason sighed. “I’d like to have a shower first.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I agree with Jase on this one.”

“I have to go with those two,” Shannon said.

“Sorry, guys.” Jason smiled. “Three to two. We win.”

“See, I’m tellin’ ya,” Connor shook his head, “democracy just doesn’t work.”

“Yeah, but only when you lose,” I said picking up my towel.

Shannon grabbed her book and towel. “Meet you guys back here in an hour.”

“We’ll be here,” Mick said skulling the last of his beer.

Walking through the foyer, I suggested, “Shall we see if Phil and Eve wanna come?”

“Yeah,” Shannon agreed, “why not.”

We walked to their cabin and knocked. No answer. Not even a TV could be heard.

“Maybe they’ve already gone out,” I said, picking a loose thread off my towel.

“Maybe.” Shannon tried again, louder this time.

The door creaked opened and Phillip stuck his head out.

“Yeah?”

“Daz and I are headin’ into town for dinner then goin’ back to the Skandy Bar. You guys coming?”

“Nah, Eve’s got a bit of ... er ... sunstroke.” The hesitation in his voice was not lost on us. “We’ll probably have a quiet one.”

“Fine.” Shannon flashed a grin that vanished as soon as the door was shut. “Sunstroke,” she muttered to me. “Yeah, right.

She seemed fine at Super Paradise. Heck, she was even laughin’ with us.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shan. We’ll probably have a better time without her.”

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From what I remember it was shortly before dawn when we staggered back to the hotel. This ensured the next day— or as the case actually was, that same day—was spent by the pool waiting for the feeling to return to our heads. Which it thankfully did by evening when the five of us went out to eat.

“What do you guys feel like?” Shannon asked.

“Man, this place is awesome!” Connor said.

His voice carried through the streets, causing a few diners to pause and look up from their meals.

Connor’s head flicked from side to side as he took in the sights and aromas. “Y’know, I’ve never been into town.”

“Where do you think you went last night?” Mick slapped him upside his head.

“I think he means he hasn’t been into town sober,” Jason prodded.

“Shut up, shorty!”

Shannon tried again. “Guys …”

“Oi, don’t be pickin’ on short people,” I said.

“Oooh, whatcha gunna do?” Connor turned, faced me and began walking backwards while making ‘come on’ gestures with his hands.

“He’s gonna kick your arse, aren’t you Daz?” Mick said, jabbing me in the arm.

“Or they are.”

“Huh?” Connor said before backing into and almost knocking over a middle-aged couple.

Once we’d finished laughing and Connor stopped apologising Shannon boomed, “Guys!”

“Yeah, Shan?” I asked.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m up for anythin’,” Connor said, running ahead of us, 211

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his hair bouncing on top of his head.

“How about sushi?” Shannon ventured.

“Sounds good,” Mick said. “Lead the way.”

After a quick dinner we returned to the hotel, picking up a bottle of wine each on the way, hoping it would numb the chill in the air. It didn’t. Instead, the taste made our faces go into involuntary spasms and the bouquet caused passing seagulls to drop out of the sky and explode on impact. Realising the wine wasn’t going to be enough against the cold night air, we resorted to jackets and jumpers.

While the weather wasn’t perfect, I loved the fact that I could get up in the morning and not do a bloody thing. And the great thing was that my holiday from my holiday was just beginning. There were still more islands to come and more to look forward to.

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12

Where’s a Rabbit’s Foot, a Horseshoe and a Four-Leaf Clover When You Need One?

The morning’s rain, lack of sleep and because Shannon and I were twenty-five going on twelve ensured the topics of conversation between us did not get very far out of the gutter.

“Where’s this ferry?” Evelyn growled.

Phillip stared at the cloud-ridden horizon. “I can’t see it.”

“Maybe he couldn’t get it started this morning.” Shannon’s cheeky grin indicated what tack this conversation was going to head.

“You are talkin’ about the ferry, aren’t you, Shan?” I said.

“Maybe.” She stifled a giggle.

I shook my head. “You’re thinking about Erecthions again, aren’t you?”

“Well, if they are built correctly,” the giggle Shannon was holding in escaped, “they can be quite useful.”

Strolling around the Acropolis, we’d come across a structure named the Erecthion. If we’d bothered to find out more about ancient Greek archaeology we would’ve discovered the significance of the building, but instead, while we waited for the ferry, Shannon and I came to our own conclusions.

“But as you may have noticed, Daz,” Shannon said, trying to look serious, but failing, “sturdiness was not one of their strong points.”

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“I guess that’s why Greek civilisation fell into ruin.” I grinned.

“Yeah, they just couldn’t keep it up. No staying power, these Greek Erecthions.” We fell over each other laughing.

Phillip turned his back to us and Evelyn let out a deep sigh, which we ignored.

When the ferry docked at Paros we discovered the bad weather was not limited to Mykonos. Weatherwise, this holiday from a holiday was not going as planned. I pictured long sunny days followed by balmy nights and certainly was not expecting rain to put in an appearance. If I’d wanted to spend time in rain jackets looking for shelter I would’ve gone to London.

But I was not in London. I was in the Greek Islands and that did not change the fact that it still was raining.

Shannon studied the sea of faces at the port. “Let’s find our hotel rep and get outta this rain.”

“Great idea,” agreed Phillip. “Anyone see him?”

Five minutes later we still could not find anyone bearing the name of our hotel.

“I guess we’re walking then,” Shannon said.

“Great!” Evelyn spat with disgust.

“Cheer up, Eve,” Phillip consoled, “the travel agent back in Athens said our hotel was within walking distance of the port.”

Shannon’s eyes scanned the port. “If only we knew which way to go.”

“Let’s ask someone,” I suggested.

“Who?” Evelyn asked.

“How about over there?” Shannon pointed to a travel agency, one of the many lining the port. While the others waited, I went inside.

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“Excuse me,” I said to the man behind the counter, “I’m looking for this hotel.” I showed him a piece of paper with the name and address. “Could you tell me where it is exactly?”

“Down there.” Absentmindedly, he waved his finger back out the door and towards the ferry we’d arrived on.

Apparently, our accommodation in Paros was located on the coast of Mykonos. Maybe I misunderstood, so I asked again.

He looked up at me, surprised I was still there. “Down there!” He tapped the piece of paper I was holding and pointed in completely the opposite direction to the first time.

I asked again, believing in that old adage third time lucky.

“Down there and left.” His coffee-tinged breath singed my face as he thumped the piece of paper with two fingers to drive his point home before shooing me away.

By now, I realised luck had nothing to do with it. It didn’t matter whether it was the third or the thirty-third time; from the looks of things we were going nowhere fast, not even slow for that matter.

“It’s over there somewhere,” I told the others without pointing in any direction because I didn’t know where to point.

“Where?” Phillip asked.

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “I asked him three times and got three different answers.”

“These islands are fan-bloody-tastic!” Evelyn huffed, rolling her eyes, her hands on her hips. “What are we gonna do now?”

“Catch a cab.” I began looking for one.

“Hey, guys, isn’t that the name of the hotel on the side of that van?” Shannon said. We all turned.

“Well spotted, Shan.” Phillip gave her a thumbs up.

When we’d convinced the startled shuttle bus driver that 215

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we were not four random strangers wanting to use his van as shelter from the weather, but in fact had reservations, we were driven to the hotel.

After Shannon and I were led to our room we laid on our beds and stayed there. We were in no rush to leave again; the rain had made sure of that. It wasn’t long before I was watching TV and Shannon was asleep.

She woke forty minutes later.

“Good sleep?”

She yawned. “Yeah.”

“What do you say, Shan, time for lunch?”

“Most definitely!”

I grabbed my wallet as Shannon draped her travel bag around her neck and we walked to one of the waterfront restaurants.

Once our plates were cleared Shannon said, “How about a cup of coffee and then we check out the town?”

“Why not?”

“And hopefully we can find a place where I can buy some credit for my phone.”

Shannon reached inside her bag and felt around. Her usual cheery face suddenly filled with panic.

“Oh shit, where’s my phone?”

“It’s not there?”

“No. Fuck!”

“Take it easy, Shan. It’s probably back at the room.”

“I hope.”

We forgot the coffee, paid, then dashed back to our room where we searched bags, drawers, even under our beds, but Shannon’s phone was nowhere to be found.

“Mick!” she slapped the bed.

“Sorry?” I glanced up from the drawer I was rummaging 216

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through.

That morning back in Mykonos Mick had barged into our room with a cheery somewhat drunken “Hello”, rousing Shannon and me before he collapsed and passed out on Shannon’s bed.

“I bet it’s still under the pillow. Damn! I usually check—” “It may still be there,” I tried to reassure her. “Mick might’ve found it when he got up, or even housekeeping, and handed it in. Maybe they can send it over by ferry or something.”

We hurried down to reception and told the guy behind the desk what had happened and he wasted no time making the appropriate phone calls.

All we could do was wait.

“You know, Daz,” Shannon told me through pursed lips and a heavy sigh as we climbed back to the room, “I seriously doubt I’ll get my phone back.”

“You never know.”

“But you know what? It could’ve been worse. I could’ve lost my passport.”

“You’re right there,” I agreed, “but don’t worry, I know what’ll make you feel better.”

“What?”

“Retail therapy.”

The twinkle in her eye told me I was onto something. We power walked back into town, but in our haste forgot to check one crucial aspect—the time. Siesta in Greece takes place between one and four. It was two-thirty and the streets of Parika, the capital of Paros, were silent and the shop fronts dark. It was obviously not the best time to indulge in retail therapy or any other form of therapy for that matter.

Among the few shops that were still open was one that sold the latest in ladies gear. I followed Shannon in and as she 217

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browsed through various T-shirts gave her my uninformed male opinion.

The sales assistant quickly realised that while my mouth might be in a constant state of motion, nothing much of value ever comes out of it. She then succeeded where others have failed by managing to shut me up and at the same time contribute more than I ever could. She picked out a T-shirt and showed it to Shannon, all the while looking at me and emphasising the slogan. Shannon was bemused and somewhat grateful at my sudden silence. The T-shirt proudly proclaimed, “All Men Are Pigs”.

“Still want that cup of coffee, Shan?”

“Sounds good. Maybe the other shops will be open by the time we finish.”

“Maybe.”

We found a waterfront jazz bar-cum-cafe and were about to enter when Shannon suddenly stopped. “Honeysuckles!”

I eyed the small yellow flower she was holding. “What are honeysuckles?”

“You’ve never heard of a honeysuckle?”

“No.” “Then you’re missing out, Daz. Here, you have to try one.”

Shannon handed me the flower.

Following her lead, I twisted the stem and removed the flower’s stamen to reveal a drop of nectar.

“Now suck the nectar.”

I did as I was told and was pleasantly surprised.

“Nice, huh?”

“You’re right, I have been missing out.” I went back for another.

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entered and were directed to a table at the front. Overlooking the Paros waterfront, I could imagine that on a good day the view from our table would be sublime. Under a blue sky the streets would be filled with the raucous cheer of locals and tourists, while the clear water’s surface would gleam in the sunlight.

A thunderclap brought me back to reality. I shot a sullen glance over to Shannon who was shaking her head as she watched the thick grey clouds lumber overhead. Ironically, the song that was playing at the time was the Gershwin classic Summertime.

We finished our coffee and continued our exploration of the town, only to find that everything was still bolted shut.

It was late afternoon when shops began to open. We’d just walked past the port and were dawdling back to the hotel when we stopped at the sound of Shannon’s name.

“Clarissa! Jamie! How you sexy chickadees doin’?”

“Great,” replied Clarissa who was the taller and more tanned of the two girls. “How about you?”

“Fantastic, except I left my phone on Mykonos.”

After a round of introductions, talk moved on to travel plans and stories.

“What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Jamie asked.

“We hadn’t really thought that far, had we, Dazzler?”

Shannon said.

“How about joining us, then?” Clarissa said. “We heard the restaurant on the corner has the best seafood on the island.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shannon said. “What about you, Daz?” “I’m up for it.”

“Great,” Clarissa said. “See you there at seven.”

Dinner was excellent, but when we made our move to 219

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leave we were stopped by the manager. We were about to ask why when four servings of dessert and a carafe of wine were brought to our table. Dessert was on the house and the wine came with compliments from the table behind us. Between entree and main course, we’d struck up a conversation with the French patrons sitting at that table. Apparently, the fact that we were Australian and not British was enough to warrant their generosity.

Once we’d finished dessert, drank more than our fair share of wine and bade our French friends “Au revoir” we left to see what Parika could offer in the way of a good time.

Paros was not as cosmopolitan or as lively as Mykonos. By nature, the island was subdued, but still had its fair share of bars and clubs. We went in search of one in particular, an Irish pub known as the Dubliner, but it wasn’t long before we were scratching our heads and intently studying the map. We voted to ask the girl behind the counter at a nearby convenience store for directions. She studied our map, consulted her workmate in the back room, scratched her head, rubbed her chin, looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, popped her chewing gum, then pointed to a boat on the water and told us it was “down there”.

We thanked her, exchanged Oh that went well glances, left the store and ran into a balding man who looked as lost as we were.

“Excuse me,” he said. “My name is Hägen and I am looking for bars or nightclubs.” His accent was distinctly European.

“Would you know of good places to go?”

“No, we are looking for a bar too,” Shannon said. “You can join us if you like.”

“We can use my car,” Hägen offered.

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if this was anywhere else but the Greek Islands the last thing we would be doing is hopping into a strange guy’s car.

We piled into Hägen’s car and closed the doors. I realised too late that Shannon still had her fingers in mine, so for the next fifteen minutes my vocabulary was reduced to one word: “Sorry”.

Even in a car we still could not find the mysterious Irish bar so we decided to cut our losses and settle on an American bar instead where we found the good time we had been looking for. In Shannon’s case, a good time and a bucket of ice.

Unlike our heads, the sky had cleared by morning and while the sun was a welcome sight it was still causing more harm than good. It wasn’t until that prerequisite morning-after coffee that Shannon and I could face the day, in which we spent the first half shopping, a task made easier since most of the shops were open.

“What time are we meeting the girls?” I asked.

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Oh.” Shannon followed with the next question, knowing exactly what my reaction would be: “And what time is it now, Daz?” “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, feeling chuffed, “just let me check my brand new watch.”

My old watch had given up the ghost in Mykonos and while I thought I could survive without one I soon realised I couldn’t.

“Why, it’s eleven o’clock!”

Shannon smiled. “You love that watch, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“But you’re right. Let’s head back to the port.”

Shannon took a left and began to cut across town. Minutes later nothing in the area looked familiar.

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“Shan, do you know where we are?”

“Yes.” “Where?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

A few turns later we were standing outside a Greek fast food restaurant that also sold a decent selection of health food.

“Here we are, Dazzler, right next to Goody’s. Told you I knew where I was going.”

“Didn’t doubt you for a second.”

We picked up the pace and arrived at the bus stop to find Clarissa and Jamie waiting next to the bus.

Driving across the island, I noticed how different Paros was to Mykonos. The countryside was greener and the buildings, while typically Greek, were more flamboyant. Each house was painted a different colour from its neighbour and the walls were covered in creeping bougainvilleas.

When we reached Naoussa, a fishing village at the northern tip of the island, the morning-after coffee was wearing off and the four of us needed a second dose of caffeine. We spotted a cafe near the bus stop and while the girls stuck to either a latte or a hot chocolate, I wanted something stronger and more traditional and so ordered a Greek coffee.

“Are you sure, Darren?” Clarissa asked.

“Yeah, surely you don’t need that much caffeine, Daz,” Shannon warned.

“Trust me, I do,” I replied through a gaping yawn.

“Didn’t sleep too well, then?” Jamie said.

“Shannon’s snoring kept me up all night.”

“Yeah?” Shannon shot back, “Well, I had to put up with someone farting all night long.” The girls cracked up.

“Touché,” I said, laughing.

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Greek coffee; you eat it. It looked like bitumen in a glass and I’m positive if you had any left over you could use it to tar a road, build a house or even seal that pesky leak in the roof.

Once the girls had talked me down from the roof we had a look at what Naoussa had to offer. Like Parika and Mykonos town, its maze of alleyways were lined with shops painted a blinding shade of white. Like yesterday, we were unlucky enough to arrive in time for siesta.

That left us without any option but to find a cafe—the only type of shop we knew would be open—eat some lunch and wait until it was time to catch the bus back.

Back at Parika talk turned to plans for the evening.

“What you guys doing?” Shannon asked.

“Packing,” Jamie answered. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Clarissa agreed. “It’ll be an early one. You?” Shannon looked at me and I shrugged. “We don’t know yet.”

After saying goodbye to the girls we returned to the hotel.

“You know,” Shannon said, stretching out on her bed, “I’m glad we’re not having a big one tonight.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’d be happy to grab some dinner and watch a movie.”

“I am so up for that. Good idea, Dazzler.”

While Shannon and I may have been twenty-five going on twelve, sometimes we were also twenty-five going on sixty-five. After dinner we decided to get some snacks from the local supermarket to keep us company for a night of watching telly. Like Greek music videos, I was slightly confused after I’d wandered through the aisles. The marketing strategy employed by the supermarket was obvious: buy something and get something else free, but what that free product was intrigued me no end. Getting a free bottle of conditioner with shampoo 223

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made perfect sense, but why any lady would want washing powder with a leather handbag was beyond me. And what use was a disposable fork with a 1.25 litre bottle of Pepsi?

By the third day Shannon and I were ready to leave Paros, as were Phillip and Evelyn. Two days was more than sufficient time to spend on the island. When Shannon and I caught up with Phillip and Evelyn over breakfast we decided the best way to use the time we had left was to drive around on mopeds.

Unlike Mykonos, hiring four mopeds on Paros was a breeze, but I still had to question whether they should’ve let me drive one. It wasn’t that I couldn’t ride a moped, but more because I couldn’t read the uncomplicated dashboard. Before we left Parika we were told to fill up with fuel, so we rode to the nearest petrol station where I had a second look at my petrol gauge on the dash. It was flashing. But I decided the reason my petrol gauge was flashing was because my tank was full, not for any other reason, so I didn’t bother to fill up. My excuse was—and still is—it was all Greek to me.

Before visiting any of the beaches on the island we rode towards the Valley of the Butterflies. Our guidebooks told us that in summer you cannot see the ground for the butterflies, but we were disappointed to find the reverse—a whole lot of ground and only two butterflies!

“Hey, is anyone’s petrol gauge flashing?” I asked as we were about to leave.

“No,” was the unanimous answer. Thankfully, it was mainly downhill to the next petrol station.

The four of us were soon on our way to a beach called 224

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Golden Paradise, but by the time we’d gone halfway around the island we still had found no signs leading us there. This was strange because according to our map we should’ve passed the beach a while back. In the end we turned into Logras to figure it out and grab a bite to eat.

Shannon and I decided that instead of wasting an entire afternoon looking for a beach that may not even exist, we would relax at Logras. Phillip and Evelyn continued their search.

Before I left Venice I’d joked with my mates back in Oz by email that I was off to paradise. Riding back to Parika, I realised that this wasn’t just hyperbole on my part and for once an assumption I’d made did not make me look like an ass. Under the afternoon sun the beaches were radiant and the surrounding sea glistened.

Even with such a marvellous view to keep us company, Shannon and I could not dwell on it too much because the ride back to the hotel was much more hazardous than expected.

It was bad enough we had to contend with crosswinds and wayward insects, but I also had to be wary of Shannon’s hair ties that would occasionally appear out of nowhere and wallop me in the face.

After breakfast the next morning Shannon and I hopped on our mopeds and made for the tip of the island in the hope to spend some time at the beach we saw when we were at Naoussa. When we got there we realised that the beach was much smaller than we remembered and the winds that were lashing the island made working on our tans—let alone trying to read—difficult and annoying.

Shannon looked up from the map she was holding. “What do you say we fang it to Faranga?”

“Let’s go.”

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We never made it. Instead, when we passed the entrance to Bounda Beach we decided rather than continue to Faranga we would settle for Bounda and that way increase our time spent on a beach. All we had to do was execute a U-turn. This was not a problem for Shannon who completed it with ease.

For me, however, it was a completely different story. Starting the turn posed no problem. I could do that. It was completing the manoeuvre that was the trouble. When I started the turn I immediately knew I would not make it, but being the optimist that I am I didn’t stop. Before I knew it I’d met the rear end of a bus with a crunch. To make matters even more embarrassing, it was a Contiki bus.

Thankfully, for the rest of that day nothing else went wrong. If only I could say the same for the next day.

Apparently my unco-ordination was contagious and Shannon was unlucky enough to be infected by my lack of dexterity. By day’s end, if anyone had called us unco or clumsy we would’ve taken it as a compliment. The day started well enough. The hot water didn’t run out, breakfast was delicious and the sun was out. It would have ended pretty nicely too if we hadn’t decided to leave the hotel and chill at a beach.

Seriously, what could possibly go wrong? What indeed.

Since Shannon was the better rider we kept her moped and returned mine, which I did after using Shannon’s nail polish remover to get off some bus tyre marks and make other cosmetic enhancements. (I knew all that time working in an automotive refinish lab in England would someday come in handy.)

We arrived at the supermarket to grab some drinks for our trip to the beach and I glanced over at the deli section. “Shall we get some stuff for lunch as well, Shan?”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just buy a roll from Goody’s.

It’ll be less hassle.”

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“I’m always up for less hassle,” I agreed. “We should leave the moped here. It’s a short walk and it’ll save you steering through the port.”

“Great idea, Dazzler.”

We’d walked most of the way to Goody’s when Shannon suddenly stopped.

“Darren, you haven’t got the key, have you?”

“For what? The moped? No, why? Don’t you?”

“Shit! I must’ve left it in the ignition.”

With panic rising we sprinted back to the supermarket, pushing tourists and locals out of our way, all the while running scenarios through our heads, which of course made us run even faster. By the time we reached the moped, which luckily was still there, we were extremely out of breath and fairly sure we’d broken the world record for two hundred metres.

“Daz,” Shannon said some minutes later, “I’ll take care of the driving. You take care of the keys.”

“Deal.”

But the mishaps did not end there. In fact they were just beginning. Soon after we started riding, Shannon lost a shoe, meaning we had to stop, turn around and go back for it. In the process we almost ran into a donkey that literally came out of nowhere. We retrieved the shoe, avoided the donkey and were once again on our way.

Phillip had told us the reason we couldn’t find Golden Paradise Beach a couple of days ago was that the sign leading to it could only be seen from one direction. We had no problems finding the beach this time, but were disappointed it didn’t live up to its name. For some reason the two of us kept tripping and stubbing our toes, so we decided it would be safer to return to Bounda Beach.

It was just the getting there in one piece that posed the 227

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problem for us. Crosswinds aside, we stopped at another beach along the way to take in the view only to find that when we wanted to leave, we couldn’t. Somehow we’d managed to get the moped bogged in the sand and only after many unsuccessful tries did we finally get it free. We then took a short cut to avoid the roads—why, who the bloody hell knows—and in the process nearly rode off a cliff.

By the time we reached Bounda Beach we agreed this was Dumb and Dumber’s—as we’d nicknamed ourselves—big day out. Who was Dumber? The one smart enough to run into a bus.

This whole island trip had been a comedy of errors. If it wasn’t the horrendous weather it was lost phones, hands slammed in doors, a misread fuel gauge, hair ties smacking into faces, colliding into buses, leaving keys in the ignition, and so the list goes on.

We hoped our luck would change at the next island and after the bloopers on Paros we could not get there fast enough.

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Shannon, Evelyn, Phillip and I arrived on the island of Naxos to glorious sunshine, the succulent aroma of barbequed fish and a horde of screaming hotel representatives.

How anyone could find their hotel rep in that throng was beyond me, but Shannon did, much to my amazement.

Our rep furiously waved her manila folder in our faces.

“Come! You stay with us!”

“We already have reservations with you,” Shannon told her.

“Good, good.” She pulled out her mobile phone, barely looking at the receipt Shannon showed her. “Go over there and bus will come and pick you up.”

Not that I would call what rolled to a stop in front of us a bus. A more appropriate description would be pieces of metal strapped to an engine. The four of us watched in stunned silence as the driver got out, untied the rope that was holding the back door in place, removed it and set it on the ground, before asking us for our luggage. Once our backpacks were safely—and I use that term loosely—in the bus and the door firmly re-attached, our driver led us around the side where he removed the side door and gestured for us to get in.

Which we did only after a moment of slight hesitation and with the precision one might use when navigating a minefield, because not only was the bus groaning and begging to be put out of its misery, but we knew any sudden movements, like

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blinking too fast, would surely cause the bus to explode.

We arrived at the hotel in next to no time, but like in Paros, Shannon and I were in no hurry to rush back out into town once we’d settled into our room. It wasn’t rain stopping us this time, but the fact that we’d arrived in the middle of the afternoon, leaving us with little option but to enjoy a siesta ourselves.

Turned out our siesta wasn’t long enough because when Shannon and I walked into Hora, the capital of Naxos, most of the shops were still shut. Not that this diminished the vibrant atmosphere that remained. By design, Hora was different to other towns I’d encountered on Mykonos and Paros, not because of its whitewashed buildings, but more in terms of its layout. Where other Greek Island towns were a mishmash of streets and cobblestone laneways, Hora was smartly laid out with wide airy streets that were easy to navigate.

While the majority of shops were closed, the many restaurants and bars along the waterfront were not. It was the latter that caught our attention.

Out the front of each bar, chalkboards proclaimed an amazing range of cocktails at prices that were cheap, and got cheaper with the onset of happy hour. A happy hour that finally made me realise how trivial time was on the Greek Islands because it didn’t last for one hour, but a whole seven.

“Daz?” “Yeah, Shan?”

“I hope you realise things could get extremely messy here.”

“But not tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I’m not in the mood for a big one. A nice quiet night in would suit me just fine.”

“Though one wouldn’t hurt,” I suggested.

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“No, it wouldn’t,” Shannon agreed.

After we’d finished our cocktails we went in search of dinner.

“What about this one, Shan?” I said, studying a menu that was displayed outside one of the waterfront restaurants.

“Cheap, cheerful and the selection isn’t too shabby.”

Before Shannon could properly scan the menu a middle-aged waiter with deeply tanned skin and sharp calculating eyes appeared.

“Welcome, welcome. You want to come eat? I have special romantic table for you.”

Shannon and I shared a smile and chose not to say anything.

“Whaddya reckon?” I said.

Shannon shrugged. “Let’s go.”

“Ahhh, good choice,” the man said, and with one deft movement swept us into the restaurant.

As promised, he led us to his so-called romantic table and while it did have a great view of the setting sun through the sailboats, the man had forgotten to mention the deafening roar of passing vehicles and the bitter suffocating smell of boat fuel that lingered.

The man returned when we’d finished eating. “You enjoy your meal?”

“Yes, thank you,” Shannon said.

“You stay, I will bring bottle of wine.”

“No, that’s all right,” Shannon told him, “we’re fine.”

“No, no. You nice customers. Wine from me to you.” His right hand patted his heart.

After more insistent offers of wine and our just as insistent refusals, the man finally relented.

“Okay, I understand you want to shop, but come back later.

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We all sit down and drink.”

“Sure,” Shannon said.

“Not a problem,” I agreed.

We never returned. Instead, we had coffee at a cafe on the other side of the waterfront before returning to the hotel via a few shops.

We hoped to catch a movie on TV, but this was easier said than done because our TV did not have a coaxial cable. I went down to reception to get one, or at least an aerial.

“What the hell is that?” Shannon exclaimed when I returned.

I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

I was holding an archaic, coat hanger contraption that looked more like a medieval torture device than an aerial. We tried it.

“Bingo!” I said. “We have a picture.”

“Don’t get too excited, Dazzler, we still haven’t got sound yet.”

It was like watching a silent movie from the turn of the century.

“This is bloody ridiculous, Shan,” I grumbled.

“You’re tellin’ me. C’mon, let’s try some of these knobs and see what they do.”

For what seemed like an eternity Shannon and I fiddled with knobs, buttons, adjusted the position of the antenna, stood on our heads and violently assaulted the television until finally pictures of man’s first landing on the moon flickered across the screen. This was not only a giant leap for mankind, but also a giant leap for us because now we were receiving both pictures and sound. All that remained now was to find a show that was produced after 1990.

Which we finally managed to do once Shannon stood on 232

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one leg while I impersonated an Egyptian on the balcony, holding the aerial between my legs.

At breakfast the next morning Shannon and I discovered we weren’t the only ones having problems with appliances.

“The TV was the least of our worries,” Phillip told us. “You should’ve seen what happened with our fridge.”

“Why? What was wrong with it?” Shannon asked.

“For starters, we didn’t have one,” Phillip said, rolling his eyes.

“And when we came down to see if we could get a room with a fridge,” Evelyn said, “the porter said no.”

“Next thing we know,” Phillip added, “the guy is carrying a fridge up the stairs to our room.”

“I think we’ve booked into the Greek version of Fawlty Towers,” Shannon suggested.

I turned to the kitchen, expecting Basil and Manuel to come tumbling out.

To see the other islands the four of us had been happy to cruise around on mopeds, but since Naxos is the largest of all the Cycladic islands we decided mopeds would be too exhausting and instead decided to hire a car or, as the case was, a jeep.

“You know,” Evelyn commented after we’d left Hora, “I was expecting green hills and lots of trees.”

“I think this is as green as it’s going to get,” Phillip told her.

“Why?” “Well, according to the girl at the place where I hired the car, this is the greenest part of the island.”

Naxos is known for being the greenest island in the Cyclades and while its hills were greener than those of Mykonos and Paros, especially since they were lined with groves of citron trees, the landscape was predominantly semi-arid.

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It was among all this ‘greenery’ that we found the town of Halki.

“Eve, are you sure this is the place?” Phillip asked as he turned off the engine.

“That’s what it says on the map. The potter is supposed to be in this town.”

We hopped out and went for a walk. Except for a lone cafe and bakery, the majority of buildings looked deserted.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any potter around here,” Phillip said as he pulled the map out of his pocket.

“Or anything else for that matter,” I added.

“Excuse me,” a woman interrupted, “we’re looking for the old citron distillery.” Another woman and two teenagers were standing behind her studying a map. “It’s supposed to be around here. Have you seen it?”

Phillip shook his head. “No, sorry.”

That did not stop us from joining them in their search, but unlike the potter we’d been looking for, the distillery wasn’t hard to find.

“Welcome to Vallindras Citron Distillery,” we heard the guide say as we entered. She motioned for us to join her group.

“Before we begin, you would all like taste?” She directed our attention to a small table holding three rows of small glasses, all filled with yellow citron. The green version of citron was contained in bottles that lined the walls.

It was only when I got closer to the table that I realised the shades of yellow varied from row to row. I asked the lady standing behind the tray of samples why the colours were different.

“So you can tell which has more alcohol,” she answered.

“Lighter colour is less alcohol.”

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We each grabbed a glass, choosing the colour that was neither too light nor too dark.

“Cheers, guys,” Phillip said.

“Bottoms up,” I echoed.

We each took an almighty swig and slurped the citron down in one gulp.

Instantly, my eyes popped out of their sockets, my hair stood on end and I began gyrating uncontrollably. “Holy shit!”

Shannon’s eyes glazed over. “It is a bit strong, isn’t it.”

“Let’s just say I’ve worked with chemicals less caustic than this.”

Evelyn began coughing and grabbed her chest. “God, after a few of these I doubt you’d even notice the colour.”

Phillip blinked furiously, tears streaming from his eyes. “I hate to think how potent the darker stuff is.”

After the burning sensation in our throats subsided and our coordination returned we followed the guide into the small sunlit courtyard. Sheltered underneath a sloping corrugated roof stood an aged copper vat.

“Citron liqueur is not like other liqueurs,” she began. “It is not made from fruit of citron tree, but from its leaves. At end of summer, leaves are taken from trees and dampened with water before being placed in here with alcohol.” She patted the copper vat. “When brewer is happy product has been distilled correctly—and sometimes he will distil liqueur more than once—sugar is added for fermentation.”

The guide led us back to the gift shop where the tour concluded.

“Let’s see if we can find this pottery place of yours, Eve,” Phillip said as we left.

We found the potter in a wooden hut a few kilometres down the road. Not that there was much pottery or anything 235

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else to see and as for the tour, it left a lot to be desired.

“This is clay,” the guide said, pointing to a lump of dirt, “and it is put on wheel,” also pointed out, “to make pottery.

When finished pottery is placed in big oven over there.” He directed our attention to a rusty kiln in the corner of his workshop.

The four of us soon returned to the jeep.

Back on the road I noticed a distinct similarity between drivers in Athens and those in Naxos—they all wanted to kill something or someone. It made our journey to the old capital of Filari as heart stopping as jumping into a sea of great white sharks.

It got even more interesting once we ascended into the mountainous centre of Naxos. Frequently blocking parts of the road were piles of rubble left over from landslides. To get around meant driving in the wrong lane along the crumbling road’s edge that overlooked a drop that was anything but comforting. Call me crazy, but if I wanted to indicate to motorists where the road ends and the cliff begins I would line the road with reflectors, poles, or—and I know I’m thinking outside the square with this idea—maybe even a fence of some sort. The Greeks have decided to go for something a little more subtle—rocks. Yes, the Greek Island Department of Vehicular Homicide—or Transport if you prefer—had placed stones and rocks at regular intervals along the edge of the road to act as early warning signs to motorists who veer too close to one side of the road. And if you think about it, this system makes perfect sense. If you’re driving along and you suddenly hear crumbling noises this alerts you to the fact that if you move any more sideways you will die. Unless of course you can’t actually hear the stone fall off the edge of the road due to the volume of the radio, the engine, your passenger talking, or 236

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that you have in fact already toppled over the edge yourself.

I guess if you don’t trust this fail-safe system—and why wouldn’t you?—you could always drive on the wrong side of the road where the only danger you might have to worry about is oncoming traffic and landslides.

“I didn’t know gazelles lived on the Greek Islands,” I commented as we passed yet another pile of rubble and a sign with a silhouette of a deer painted on a yellow background.

“Yeah, Daz,” Phillip said, “and according to the signs, leaping ones at that.”

It turned out the gazelles were in fact mountain goats and they definitely were not leaping because they were too busy lazing around in the sun. They watched us pass with a somewhat disjointed curiosity, probably wondering why anyone in their right mind would want to see Hinaro’s Tower.

The colourful diagram on the map showed the tower to be quite the tourist attraction. Naturally, we were expecting a vibrant fairytale tower.

As Phillip slowed the jeep to a stop we could not believe what we saw.

Shannon spoke first. “Not really that impressive, is it?”

“The scaffolding leaves something to be desired,” Phillip agreed.

“Oh, come on, guys,” I said, “give it time. Once they finish building it I’m sure it’ll be out of this world.”

“How long do you reckon it will take?” Evelyn asked.

“Well …” I started, “I’d say a couple of years.”

“At least,” added Shannon.

“I guess we’ll have to come back then,” Phillip said. “In the meantime what do you say we head to Zeus’s Cave?”

After parking the jeep and a ten-minute hike we reached the path that led up to the entrance.

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“Okay,” I said, “no one said anything about climbing a mountain.”

We looked at each other.

“Does anyone really want to do this?” Phillip asked.

“Maybe we should find out how far it is to walk.” Shannon elbowed me. “Dazzler, quick, ask this guy.”

I asked a man who was walking nearby how much longer it was to the cave.

“From here? Thirty minutes or so.” He continued on.

“Look,” Phillip said, “Eve and I have been to the caves on Anti Paros, that little island off Paros, and those caves are supposed to be the best caves in the Cyclades. To be honest, they weren’t that crash hot. Tell me something, guys, have you been to Jenolan Caves?”

Shannon and I nodded.

“So have we, and I doubt we’d miss much if we decided not to continue.”

That was all the convincing we needed to jump back in the jeep and continue our road trip along the winding, seemingly endless roads that took us around the mountains, down to the sea, past emery mines and through quaint little villages.

We reached the last attraction late in the afternoon. Inset into the side of a hill not far from the town of Apollonas was an ancient quarry that contained an unfinished weather-worn statue of Apollo. We stayed only long enough to take the prerequisite pictures.

Phillip dropped Shannon and me back at the hotel before he and Evelyn returned the jeep. By the time they got back Shannon and I were long gone and making good use of the Naxos happy hour. A couple of hours and more than a few cocktails later, Shannon and I were the happiest two people alive.

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“What do you say, Daz, grab some dinner?”

I rubbed my stomach. “You know, I could really go some spag bol.”

“I know what we could do after dinner.”

“What?”

“We should collect that bottle of wine we were offered yesterday.”

“I wonder if they’ll give it to us.”

“Why not?”

“Exactly! No harm in asking.”

Not only did we get the wine, but a whole lot more than we bargained for.

The manager from last night instantly recognised us and welcomed us with open arms as we were again led to the “romantic table”. Soon after we were seated the topic of conversation turned to our relationship, or lack thereof.

“What!” exclaimed the man, “you sleep in same room with such beautiful woman and you not want to make love?”

“We’re just friends,” I emphasised.

“But she is so beautiful! You know, once English couple came here. And she too was beautiful, so after shift I joined them in bed before I go back to family.”

Shannon and I shot sideways glances at each other.

And so the man continued to tell us of his sexual escapades with beautiful women from England until finally he realised we weren’t the least bit interested in having a threesome.

“Ah, never mind, but let me tell you this,” the old man said, looking down at me.

“Okay,” I replied, curious to hear what he had to say.

“Women are gentle and special. When it comes to love you must satisfy woman five times before making love to her. Only then will she be happy.”

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Shannon agreed wholeheartedly. “I hope you’re taking notes,” she told me.

“Mental ones,” I replied.

Once he felt his advice had been adequately imparted his attention turned to Shannon. For a second I thought he was going to give her advice on men, but instead he introduced her to one of his waiters and tried to play matchmaker.

Before we knew what was happening—the many cocktails made sure of that—Shannon and I had agreed to meet this waiter at the Latin Club at the end of the promenade.

“What just happened?” Shannon asked me as we left the restaurant.

“I don’t know. Between the both of us we get into so much trouble.”

“You’re telling me.”

We bypassed the Latin Club for the cocktail bar above it, hoping to avoid the Greek Casanova, but he found us just the same.

“Where were you? I look for you downstairs and not find,” he told us.

“We changed our minds,” Shannon explained.

“Quieter place,” I said.

“Okay, you stay, I get marijuana.” His wide smirk was overshadowed by his humungous nose.

“Let’s go, Daz,” Shannon said as soon as he was gone.

“Right behind you.”

Our aim was to sneak away quietly, but the reality was slightly different. If anyone had been watching they would’ve seen two people whispering loudly, telling each other to be quiet, falling over each other and any inanimate object that happened to appear out of nowhere. All in an attempt to cross a car park, sneak through the town and return to their hotel.

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By dinnertime the next day—most of which was spent by the hotel pool—we had more or less recovered from the excesses of our Naxos happy hour. By unspoken agreement Shannon and I decided there would be no cocktails on what was our last night on the island. There was, however, to be an indulgence of a different kind.

Opposite the restaurant where we’d chosen to have dinner was a place serving gelato and turning out waffles as quickly as people could buy them.

One girl summed up eloquently what pretty much everyone who passed by was thinking: “My mouth says yes, my hips say no.” At that point I knew I could not leave the island without sampling what was on offer.

Two days were more than enough at Naxos and I couldn’t wait to move on. In fact I couldn’t wait to get back to the Busabout circuit.

It wasn’t that I was not having fun. Each day with Shannon was a (mis)adventure waiting to happen, but I slowly found myself beginning to miss days spent sightseeing and traipsing through city streets. Because really there was only so long I could sit around and do nothing.

But I didn’t dwell on this as I ripped into what was an orgasm on a plate. Sitting on a thick waffle was a devilish slice of chocolate fudge cake that was flanked by two mountainous scoops of gelato and drenched in white chocolate syrup.

There were still two more islands to go and plenty of fun yet to be had.

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14

Where the Party Be At!

It took an eternity for the ferry to lower its gangway, and as it did the many pairs of legs that sprouted from just as many backpacks shuffled with excitement. The mindset of everyone alighting at Ios was simple—go hard or go home—and it was obvious home was nowhere near anyone’s thoughts.

Neither were markets nor hiring of mopeds. Like everyone else, Shannon and I had planned to spend our days at Ios lounging by a pool or on a beach and our nights grooving at the countless clubs into the wee hours of the morning.

We eagerly trundled off the ferry and in the process ran into Connor, his haughty laugh and floppy mop of hair unmistakable in the crowd. There was no time for us to catch up because like the majority of backpackers, Shannon and I were staying at one of the campsites that lined Ios’s main beach and were soon embroiled in the scramble to board the waiting shuttle bus. But all our pushing and shoving did not get us very far and we were soon told to wait for the bus that was “on its way”.

Finally arriving at the campsite, we hurried to reception to check in. From the music coming from the bar area, it seemed happy hour festivities were already beginning. But I had to ask myself, on Ios did the festivities ever end?

Apparently not.

“Where’s your room, Dazzler?” Shannon asked, receiving

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her key.

I looked at the key ring. “Four-o-five. You?” “Four-o-six.”

Shannon was thrilled to find that her room had a balcony.

She scurried up the stairs, leaving me to fiddle with the lock on my door, only to have it suddenly swing open.

“Hey, roomy!” Connor greeted me.

“Hey, bud!”

Connor moved out of the way to let me in. “You’d better be comin’ down to the bar after you dump your bags!”

“Like I’d miss it. It is happy hour, after all.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” He slapped his forehead before yelling at the top of his voice, “Cheap beer, here I come!” and bounded off to the bar.

Shannon and I followed suit shortly after. We grabbed a table by the pool and began the enjoyable task of filling it with empty beer bottles. A task made immensely easier by the fact that during happy hour the price of beer at this place was as cheap as chips. Cheaper even.

Needless to say, after a few drinks most were getting up and dancing to the loud and infectious music. I was busy shaking my groove thing and getting down with my bad self when I felt a tap on my shoulder and a jovial voice ask, “What up, dawg?”

I turned and faced the unmistakable smile of Mick. Behind him, hiding his eyes under dark glasses and nursing a sore ankle, was Jason.

“Hey, guys, how long have you been here?” I asked.

“Couple of days,” Jason told me.

“How is it?”

“Great!” Mick was finding it hard to resist the beat of the 243

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music. “Specially since I got a job and can earn some dosh.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s a door bitch,” Jason said.

“A what?”

Mick looked over at Jason and shook his ahead. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, Daz. Basically, I stand at the door and dance and try to get people into the bar and the next morning I go back and clean the place up.”

“Oh well, at least you get the arvo off to do what you want,” I said.

“Not really. After I clean up I have to visit all the campsites and round up people to come to the bar in the evening.”

“Isn’t it tiring?” I asked.

“Nah, not really.” Mick shrugged, the bags under his eyes telling a different story. “Anyway, talk to you later, gotta get back to work.” He dashed off in the direction of the pool.

“Hang on a sec,” I said, turning to Jason, “didn’t you guys tell me you had jobs lined up in Ireland?”

“Yeah, we did.” Jason scowled over at Mick, shaking his head, “I’m going to have to talk some sense into him.”

With the onset of night and after happy hour became nothing but a memory the party relocated from the bar to Shannon’s balcony. It was near midnight when we caught the bus into town.

Before I knew what was happening our group had dispersed in all directions. Shannon had walked off with some travel mates she’d met in Venice and Connor and Jason danced over to the bar where Mick was dutifully grooving.

“Where did everybody go?” asked Meagan.

“It’s as if somebody farted.” I smiled in her direction.

She looked horrified. “It wasn’t me.”

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Shortly after ten Meagan and her friend Elaine had wandered up to our balcony to see what all the noise was about. Now here was an odd couple of travel mates. Elaine had just started her tour of Europe and was trying very hard to plan the rest of her Busabout trip, and while everyone on the balcony was laughing, drinking and being merry, she was being terribly serious. As I drank my beer she would ask me about every place she wanted to stop at and if the time she allocated was enough. I looked at the notebook she was carrying through my beer goggles and saw every day had been planned to the second. I think I even noticed a note saying, breathe now. Meagan, on the hand, was nowhere near as rigid.

Heck, a strand of liquorice would’ve been stiffer than Meagan.

When I asked her about her plans all she said was that she wanted to get to Rome by the end of July.

“Oh, that’s cool,” I replied. “So how do you plan to get there?”

“Plan?” She looked mystified. “All I have is a general direction.”

“That’ll work too.” I smiled.

It was with a similar attitude that the two of us (Elaine had chosen to remain at the campsite) decided to choose a club, knowing that if we didn’t like it we could simply move on to the next one.

A welcome aspect about the clubs on Ios was they did not charge a cover, meaning if the music was good you could stay and if it wasn’t you could leave. Considering the number of clubs to choose from it would be hard to find one not to like.

After trying a couple, Meagan and I found one that we both liked and I dragged her onto the dance floor without a moment’s hesitation. Initially, she was keen to join me, but 245

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then she realised—like so many before her—that I needed lots of room to move. A whole lot of room. I must’ve looked like a cross between a baboon in pain and Elaine Benes on too much red cordial.

All this haphazard movement caused the beers and Bacardis I’d drunk—not to mention the spaghetti I’d eaten for dinner—to mix in ways not at all conducive to my health, and my dancing soon turned into a one hundred yard dash for a toilet.

Meagan kindly handed me a bottle of water when I resurfaced. “Shall we go?”

“Why? The night is still young.” I pulled her back to the dance floor.

It was almost dawn when we called it a night.

I wanted to walk back to the campsite, but Meagan had other ideas. “We’ll catch a taxi, Darren.”

This was probably a good thing because walking required too much effort and coordination. After swaggering to the bus stop-cum-taxi rank I was intrigued at the way Meagan hailed a cab. I stretched out my arm in the typical way, expecting her to do the same, but instead she burst into a bout of star jumps.

Unusual, but effective.

At the campsite I bade a hearty drunken goodbye to Meagan and stumbled into my room to find Connor standing at the door looking worse for wear and fumbling with the doorknob.

To save him the trouble, I reached into my pocket. “Ife gosh the key, mate.”

“Oh.” Connor leant against the doorframe for support.

We collapsed on our respective beds and the next thing I knew, morning had broken and apparently so had my head.

I got dressed and shuffled to the bar, hoping they sold 246

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coffee intravenously. I settled for a big mug and slumped into a nearby seat. A girl at the next table looked as bad as I felt.

Her face was drawn and her blue eyes were bloodshot. To my surprise, a waiter placed a tub of yoghurt in front of her.

Dairy? At this time of morning? And after the night before?

Was this girl nuts or what? Maybe, but by all accounts she was still braver than me. The mere sight of food sent my stomach into an Olympic gymnastics routine.

I finished my coffee and caught the bus into town.

Ios during the day was a shadow of its night-time self. It was as if the buildings themselves were recovering from the night before. The bars were shut, the streets were empty and only muffled sounds came from unseen TVs. Even the old Greek men sitting at small cafes nursing cups of coffee were silent, too busy focusing on a game of draughts or watching time and people pass.

Compare this to the campground that when I returned was overflowing with people, brimming with conversation and pumping beats of dance music into the air. While some chose to enjoy the water activities on offer, the majority preferred to lie in the sun, read a book, listen to music and recover from the previous night, and at the same time get ready for the night ahead.

A night that was filled with more cocktails than beer, from what I recall.

I bumped into Shannon at the bus stop the next day. Like me, she was looking worse for wear. We looked at each other and sighed, knowing we didn’t mind going hard, but that we liked to have a night off in between. On Ios there was no such thing as a night off.

“You’re lucky you’re leaving tomorrow, Daz. I don’t know if 247

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I could handle this every night.”

“Tell me about it.” I yawned and rubbed my temples. “And you plan to stay here for what? Three months? You crazy woman!”

“You’re right on both accounts,” she said, smiling.

“Had any luck finding a job yet?”

“No. I’m poppin’ into town now to see if anyone has anything to offer.”

“You’ll get one. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t become a door bitch.”

“The thought never even crossed my mind.”

“Good.”

“But I might try to get a job at one of the bars along this beach.”

“Now there’s an idea.” I nodded in approval. “You’d be a cool bar woman.”

“Thanks, Dazzler.” Shannon smiled. “So, off to the port, then?”

“Yeah, get my ferry sorted out for tomorrow.”

“You going out tonight, Daz?” “Well, it is my last night.”

Not that it mattered because it was no different to the previous two nights—a blur of music, dancing and extremely colourful drinks. As a result, I expected to wake up and find myself adrift in the middle of the Mediterranean, but was quite pleased to find I’d made it into my own bed. My last night, however, was not without its consequences. At some point a bear had crawled into my head and was now trying to get out.

Quite relentlessly, I might add.

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Headache or not, I still had a ferry to catch, even though I could barely walk or carry a backpack.

I’d finished with Ios. Or better put, Ios had finished with me.

Four islands down, one more to go.

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15

Sunsets at the Edge of Paradise

Meagan, Elaine and I were filled with excitement as the ferry manoeuvred into Santorini.

It wasn’t simply the characteristic whitewashed, bluedomed houses perched on the plunging black cliffs that held our attention, but also the cascading lava flows and intriguing basalt formations that ran down the sides of the cliffs to the water’s edge.

Santorini, or Thira as it is also known, is easily the most unique island in the Cyclades. It is made up of the remnants of an old volcano that blew itself apart, causing the crater to collapse in on itself and sink into the Mediterranean. It is this sunken crater and the cliffs surrounding it that provide the backdrop for a sunset that is regarded as one of the best in the world.

I’d planned for Santorini to be a place of relaxation and detox, something I desperately needed after Ios. I certainly was not planning on hiring a moped or running into a dope-smoking Greek Casanova, that was for sure. If anything, my to-do list for Santorini involved grabbing some peace and quiet by enjoying a beer or two, lying on a beach somewhere and ending each day watching a beautiful sunset.

It was not to be.

We followed the driver to the waiting shuttle bus and hopped in. He was about to join us when he was approached by a police officer. It did not take long for the yelling to

Sunsets at the Edge of Paradise

begin. Yelling accompanied by some frantic and dangerous hand movements. I swear, if we’d been anywhere else but the safety of the bus, one of us would’ve lost an eye. No amount of shouting, finger-pointing, name-calling and threats to tell mama could sort it out. As a result, our driver was led away, but not before he’d told us that if asked by the officer to say, “we approached him”.

Hotel reps can pretty much do anything to attract people’s attention. And they will, trust me. I’d witnessed them shout, jump, wave signs, break a plate and even send up a flare to entice tourists to their hotel. The only thing they are not allowed to do is physically accost a visitor getting off the ferry, unless that person initiates contact first.

Which is exactly what we did. We had approached our driver, but this fact managed to get lost in the translation and somehow we’d managed to become embroiled in the Greek legal system. In the time it took us to get off the ferry and choose our hotel—an act which took all of five minutes—we’d made the jump from humble backpackers to criminal accomplices.

It was some time before our bus driver returned, and when he did the look on his face said it all: he’d fought the law and the law had won.

He drove us to the hotel in silence and once we checked in and dumped our bags the three of us bolted into Fira, the capital of Santorini, curious to see what it had to offer.

I didn’t expect Fira to be much different from Mykonos Town. Both islands were as cosmopolitan as each other with Fira being a shopaholic’s paradise. Lining every street and cobbled laneway were shops that were as varied as they were plentiful, with price tags that ranged from the affordable to the be prepared to sell your house variety.

When Elaine pointed out that it was nearly time for 251

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sunset, shopping became an afterthought and we migrated to the waterfront or, as the case actually was, the cliff front.

Unsurprisingly, it was lined with cafes, bars and restaurants, all offering “spectacular views at great prices”.

Except for the locals who had seen it all before, all eyes were cast westward as the sun descended into a silver horizon, turning the sky into a roaring furnace. Apart from a sunset I’d witnessed while sailing on the Nile, this was the best I’d ever seen.

While Fira was similar to Mykonos in terms of shopping, when it came to nightlife they were worlds apart. There were no big nightclubs, no loud music and apart from a few bars in and around the town, no real place where you could party all night long. Not that we wanted to. The three of us were pretty much partied-out after Ios, so after a quiet drink at a bar we returned to our rooms to grab an early night.

The sun was fairly high in the sky when we woke the next morning. We rushed into town and after searching high and low we finally found the stairs built into the side of the cliff that led down to the old port.

While everyone associates Santorini with magical sunsets and seemingly endless shopping, most people forget to mention that the island is still an active volcano. Protruding above the waterline in the centre of the caldera was a new crater. When Elaine, Meagan and I realised this, naturally we were eager to hop on a tour that would take us out there.

“C’mon, guys,” Elaine shouted, speeding ahead of us, “we’d better hurry up if we wanna catch this boat. It’s a long way down.”

Meagan grinned. “Now there’s the understatement of the year!”

The distance from Fira to the port was almost three hundred 252

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metres and in less than five minutes we found ourselves in a spot of bother. Three flights down and blocking our path was a pack of donkeys. Often used as a novel way to transport people up and down the stairs, it must’ve been a donkey public holiday because these stubborn creatures weren’t moving for anything or anyone.

Unperturbed, Elaine and I pushed our way through. When we popped out the other side we turned to see how Meagan was doing.

Not too good.

She reached the middle of the donkey pack when fear grabbed her and she refused to go any further. Not that I blamed her. As a chemist, if I’m not breaking glassware and setting things and myself on fire, I’m handling substances that are best described as unhealthy. But if someone gave me the choice of whether to handle a volatile chemical or be surrounded by donkeys, I would definitely choose the former.

It’s not that I don’t like donkeys. I have nothing against them personally, you understand. They’re hard-working, love hay and enjoy loitering around stairwells. It’s just that they stink, drool a lot, are prone to random bouts of kicking and occasionally enjoy cosy relations with horses. So I too was a tad wary when barging through. The last thing I wanted was to spook them and have my groin endure a close encounter with a donkey’s hoof.

“You can do it, Meagan,” Elaine called. “Just take a few more steps.”

“Yeah,” I echoed, “you’re nearly there, Meags, just open your eyes.”

Meagan shook her head furiously.

“Just one step at a time, Meags,” Elaine said.

“No, no, no!” Shutting her eyes more tightly and hugging 253

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herself, panic brimmed on her face.

It was obvious that no matter how much we tried to persuade her, Meagan was not going to budge. Deciding on a firmer, more direct course of action, I dived back in, grabbed Meagan’s hand and pulled her out.

Getting Meagan out was only part of the problem; the other part was reaching the old port in time to catch our boat. We quickly realised that power walking down the stairs was not going to get us there in time, and we had to run. Not that it helped because we were still a couple of flights up when our boat sailed away.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I cursed.

“Damn it!” Elaine watched the boat get smaller.

“Now what?” Meagan asked.

“Either buy another ticket or walk up,” I said.

Meagan gazed up at the stairs. From the look on her face it wasn’t the strenuous climb that bothered her, but the donkeys that waited near the top.

A man approached us, his sun-worn face etched with deep wrinkles. “Excuse?” he asked, removing his cigarette.

“Yes?” Elaine said.

“You miss boat to crater?” He coughed.

“Yeah.”

“No worry,” he said, smiling through rust coloured teeth.

“You catch next one and meet your boat there. I will radio and tell them you come.”

Meagan grinned. “Thank you.”

“When is the next one leaving?” I asked.

“Two minute,” he said, pointing us in its direction.

We arrived at the crater and as expected the whole area was as bleak as it was inhospitable. The black and red earth was littered with shards of basalt, obsidian and iron enriched 254

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rocks, while the air was permeated with the pungent odour of sulphur. As for the ground itself, while the surface was cool to the touch, when you dug deeper the temperature soared dramatically. Yet even in these inhospitable conditions I was surprised to find the area was filled with myriad insects and reptiles.

With little else but the occasional tendril of smoke to look at, the three of us clambered back down to the makeshift port and hopped back onto the boat that we had previously missed.

Shortly after, the boat pulled away from the crater and began sailing towards the nearby hot springs.

Why would I want to swim in hot springs, especially when summer temperatures in Greece rise to the mid-thirties? Well, for one, I’d never swum in hot springs and I thought it would be fun. What I did not realise was that in the case of Santorini the term hot springs was certainly misleading. Calling them hot was like Londoners telling me four days in a row of twenty-five degrees is a heatwave. Then again, the Santorini tourist board would not generate as much interest if the slogan said, Come see the volcano and take a dip in the tepid springs of Santorini.

Hot? You must be bloody joking!

We arrived back at the old port and were faced with the arduous task of climbing the stairs and coming face to arse with many a donkey. A task none of us were keen on, especially Meagan.

“Hey, guys,” Elaine said, noticing a better option, “why don’t we take the cable car?”

“Oh,” Meagan lamented, “why didn’t we know about that this morning?”

We spent the afternoon at Perissa, a beach famous for its black sand. Not that there was anything unusual about this because being a volcanic island Santorini’s coastline is lined 255

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with not only yellow sandy beaches, but black and red ones too. The sand at Perissa was a different colour to the norm, but still provided the same challenges as any other beach. The grains wormed their way into every nook and cranny, meaning two weeks later I still found sand in places where sand should not be.

We called it a day just before three.

“What’s wrong, Darren?” Elaine asked on the way to the bus stop.

She obviously noticed me limping.

“I don’t know, but each time I put pressure on my right foot I feel a sharp pain.”

“I hope you haven’t been stung by something,” Meagan said, her forehead creased with worry.

“So do I.” It wasn’t until I reached the bus stop and sat down that I discovered the sliver of glass buried in the ball of my foot.

I pulled out a set of tweezers from my pocketknife, but after several failed attempts it was obvious the situation called for more drastic measures. Meagan got out a first aid kit, handed me an alcohol wipe and continued to rummage through.

“It’s okay, one will do. I’ve nearly got it out anyway.”

“But I’ve got heaps more and really you should use these as well.” She showed me a bag filled with translucent latex objects.

“Meags, why do I need to use a condom to perform minor surgery on my foot? Especially ones that aren’t in their packets.”

I’d heard of foot fetishes, but this was ridiculous.

“No, silly!” she said, laughing. “These are rubber gloves.”

She shook the bag so everyone at the bus stop could see. Then she pulled out some packets and began to wave them around.

“These are condoms!” They were disco coloured to ensure a 256

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groovy time.

That night was Meagan’s last on the island and we wanted to do something special, so the three of us bussed it to Ia, a town on the southern tip where the view of the sunset was rumoured to be even more spectacular than the one at Fira.

We found a restaurant close to the cliff’s edge and as I watched the sun trickle down the blue sky and leave a trail of red and orange skid marks in its wake, I heard someone say, “Wollongong”. To my delight, sitting behind us was Kate, a red-haired girl I’d had the pleasure of travelling with around Southern Ireland.

“Where are you staying, Kate?”

“Santorini camping.”

“Any good?”

“For a campsite, it’s fine.”

Meagan piped up, “Why don’t you take my bed tomorrow night? I won’t need it, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Can I?” “Sure,” Meagan said with a smile.

“Looks like we’re roomies again,” Kate said to me.

“Should be fun,” I said.

“And don’t worry, Daz, I’ll try not to run around in my underwear again.”

“Geez, you still haven’t forgotten.”

“No, I haven’t.” Kate smiled. “Anyway, Daz, I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“What was she talking about?” Meagan asked once Kate was out of earshot.

“Nothing,” I said, smiling “Sure it isn’t,” Elaine said, shaking her head.

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was on the Ireland tour with me they would probably disagree.

Our small tour group was about to leave Kilkenny when I went up to the room to check if I’d left anything behind. I found Kate sitting on her bed fumbling with a sewing kit and wandered over to see what she was doing. As I drew closer I saw that her jeans were down around her thighs and she was giving me a complete view of her underwear.

There were two things I could do in this situation: remain nonchalant and say something suave like, “I guess I’ll have to show you mine then”. I chose another route and ran screaming from the room. This, I quickly realised, was the wrong course of action because when a girl is in her underwear the last thing she wants is to send guys screaming from the room.

Being a glutton for punishment I tried to redeem myself, but in true Darren style my attempt failed miserably. A few of us were in the pub after a busy day of sightseeing when the conversation turned to the undies incident. That’s what it had been named, by the way—Darren’s Famous Undies Incident.

Kate eyed me over her pint and casually asked, “Darren, how do you react when girls on the beach wear far less?”

I thought for a moment and answered, “It’s different. On the beach they’re nicer to look at, more colourful.”

That did not go down well and while I got the earbashing of a lifetime from all girls present, I sank into my chair and watched the bubbles in my beer float to the top.

All the strife I’d gotten myself into didn’t make Ireland any less enjoyable. If anything, it made my trip even more memorable.

Which is more than I can say about the sunset at Ia, which was highly overrated. While the sunset wasn’t worth the bus trip from Fira, the shopping certainly was.

Each island I’d visited in the Cyclades had its own charm 258

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and beauty. Mykonos was vibrant and cosmopolitan, Paros was subdued, while Naxos had its cheap cocktails and size going for it. As for Ios, if I remember what happened in more detail I will definitely let you know, but if I were you I would not hold my breath. Santorini was all this and more, that quintessential Greek island people dream about.

I had to ask myself, though, why limit myself to one island when I could experience all five?

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Paradise’s End

The Greek playwrights used to say life is a mixture of comedy and drama. On this island-hopping escapade there had been plenty of both and as I made my way from Santorini to Patras, I was hoping for comedy; all I got was drama.

I left the room as quietly as possible so as not to wake Kate and Elaine and hopped on the bus to the port. Thankfully, the drama Meagan, Elaine and I encountered when we arrived on Santorini was not repeated, but I reminded myself that the day was young and a lot could happen.

My plan was simple. Ferry it back to Piraeus, get a train to Patras, the port where I first arrived into Greece, and then finally catch another ferry back to Venice.

Some nine hours later I arrived at Piraeus and my fantasy was brought to an abrupt end.

As soon as the gangway was lowered I was immediately engulfed by the heat of the day, the stench of the port and the chaos of Athens. The port was rife with people and traffic moving in every direction at once.

I hurried to the train station, but quickly learnt that the only train to Patras was completely booked. Thankfully, the news was not all bad. According to the lady behind the ticket counter there was a bus I could catch and by all accounts it was the quicker of the two options. While the train took five hours, the bus took three.

“Just head down road,” she told me, “and from there you

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catch bus number 420 into town, change to bus number 100.

That will take you to Patras.”

It sounded easy enough, but I was forgetting that this was Athens and the word easy did not exist in the Greek vocabulary.

Well, it may have, but in the end it was all Greek to me.

I strutted down the road full of optimism, expecting to find an orderly arrangement of bus stops. What I expected and what I found were two completely different things.

Planted randomly along the street were poles bearing different numbers. The placement of these did not necessarily mean that the bus of the same number would stop there. I quickly found out that the numbers were there merely for suggestion purposes. If that was not enough to drive me barmy then the preferred method of signalling a bus certainly was.

I watched in disbelief as people nonchalantly stood in the middle of the road until they saw their required bus lumbering towards them. Then, as if someone put a racoon down their pants, they would wave madly, yell, swear and pray that the bus would stop. From the little I saw, sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t.

There had to be an easier way, so I asked at the Metro where the lady behind the counter looked at me as if to say, “Are you insane? Look around you. This is Athens. Not some magical world of organisational commonsense.” Snickering to herself, she shook her head and fobbed me off to the guy at the adjacent window.

“Go to Omonia and you should find bus,” he told me. I noticed his careful use of the word “should”.

Thankfully, the Greek Metro was easy to navigate and the journey to Omonia took shy of twenty minutes. Once again, I let my optimism overshadow the reality of the situation as I walked through the ticket barriers, expecting to reach street 261

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level and find a bus terminal. What I found was not a terminal, but a maze of streets with buses stopping here, there and everywhere in no discernable pattern.

I stepped into a currency exchange.

“Excuse me,” I said to the girl behind the window, “could you please tell me where I could find information on buses to Patras?”

She shrugged her shoulders, pointed to her left and said with disinterest, “Try down there,” then continued to file her nails. It was the hotel situation in Paros all over again.

I walked out and looked “down there” where there was not one street, but a couple of hundred. Each looked dark and dingy, the kind of places a lost backpacker might enter, never to return. At this point, the cold realisation struck me that Athens would be my final resting place—whether I liked it or not.

But what choice did I have but to keep going? I decided to go back to the Metro and ask if they could help me in my quest to find the bus to Patras.

“Catch bus 51 or 100 from central bus station,” one station assistant told me. At that point I knew I needed to find this somewhat elusive central bus station. The only question was how. The station assistant read my mind.

“Head up and out of station, turn left, left again, then right, turn around, turn left, pray, cry and then walk back two paces, turn around again, realise you are back where you started, look confused and begin swearing profusely. So, would you like to be cremated or buried?”

I thanked him, hiding the concern that I so plainly felt and walked out of the station and turned left. There was no place for me to turn left again so I skipped all the other steps and started swearing profusely. Already looking confused, I 262

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decided to give it one more shot; third time lucky and all.

I asked a doorman at a nearby hotel.

His eyebrows arced, his eyes doubled in diameter and he sucked in a breath. After a long pause he said, “Which one?

There are two.”

It was then that I felt the onset of a nervous breakdown, but resisted the urge to give in. All I wanted was to get to Patras. Was that really so much to ask? In Athens it apparently was.

“Please,” I whimpered. “Please,” I grabbed hold of his hand and held fast as I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes, “I just want to get to Patras. Why won’t you people let me leave?

Patras, please!”

Taking pity on me and trying to remove his hand from my grip, he said, “Go down that street and take either your second or third left. You will find bus 51.”

Bus number 51 dropped me off at the bus interchange I had been searching for. With tears of joy streaming down my cheeks I kissed the floor and hurriedly bought my ticket to Patras. But my problems were far from over. I now needed to find the bay that the bus to Patras would leave from. A near impossible task since none of the indicators were working and all the signs were in Greek. After ten minutes of walking around in seemingly endless circles and almost getting run over twice by a bus, I decided to cut my losses and save not only my life but what was left of my sanity, and ask someone.

I arrived in Patras three hours before my ferry sailed and joined the people, cars and trucks that were lumbering on board. I had to be quick if I wanted that nice comfy spot on deck because I knew for the next thirty or so hours this would be home. During that time I planned to do nothing more than relax, sunbathe and dive into a good book.

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My time spent among the Realms of Paradise was at an end and it was time to return to the mainland, get back on the Busabout circuit and move onto bigger and better things.

The second half of my trip, for instance.

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17

Romance, Charm and a Whole Lot of Water (Part 2)

My arrival in Venice signalled the halfway point of my journey.

I navigated through the melee of noise and confusion that was typical of the Venice bus station, eager to catch the next airport bus. My path was suddenly blocked by a fellow backpacker.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how I get to this campsite?”

I read the directions he was holding and immediately understood his harried expression.

From Saint Lucia train station, cross the water, turn right and walk for three hundred metres. If you can’t see the bus station then you have taken the wrong right turn and are now lost. Good luck finding your way out. For the lucky few who did make it past the second bridge—you did see a second bridge, didn’t you? No? Then you are lost as well. Better luck next time.

For those who actually managed to find the bus station, well done. Your trials and tribulations are far from over; you still have a bus to catch.

In the far corner of the bus station you should find the Summer Shuttle waiting in Bay D1. If you find a brick wall blocking your path or some impromptu construction in progress, do not be surprised, that is perfectly normal for Venice. In that case, make your way to Bay A8, which is red in colour. Or at least it should be. Depends on what colour has taken the painter’s fancy

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this week (please check the website for details). Once there, catch bus no. 5 to the airport and switch to bus no. 15. If you end up on a goat farm in Albania then you have taken the wrong bus.

Never mind, we hear Albania is quite nice this time of year. If you did manage to get on bus no. 15 then let us wish you a hearty congratulations because the fourth stop en route will drop you off right in front of the campsite.

Please note: By the time you finish reading these directions Bay A8 might not exist so in that case, thank you for visiting Venice and we sincerely hope you build up the courage to come again.

I handed the piece of paper back to him. His blond curls were as frazzled as he was and from the look in his eyes he was on the verge of physical violence. Not unusual in these circumstances.

“Look, mate, I’m heading there myself. You’re welcome to join me. I’m Darren, by the way.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, I’m Larry.”

“So where you from, bud?” I asked.

“England. You?” “Australia.”

Larry instantly forgot about his trouble with the bus and began to bombard me with questions about the plot points in Neighbours and Home and Away. I sighed and told him I didn’t watch those shows. Bad move on my part. For the entire journey I was scolded for my lack of interest in “great Australian drama” and lectured on all the reasons why I should be watching. Maybe it was because I was overtired, maybe because I’d spent two years in the UK and had grown immune, or maybe it was because I was glad to be back in Venice, but for whatever reason Larry’s whinging didn’t bother me as much as you might think, and instead amused me no end. And 266

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I certainly needed some amusement after spending thirty-odd hours on the deck of a ferry.

I was amazed at how quickly the campsite had changed.

Only three weeks ago the camp was barely half full, but the arrival of summer meant the place was now literally bursting at the seams.

That meant finding a place poolside was extremely difficult, if not impossible. Not that I was too fussed. I had all day and was in no real hurry to pop back into Venice because all that was left for me to see were the islands. Not all of them, you understand. Venice is made up of over a hundred islands and since I wanted to get home before my fiftieth birthday, I decided to visit only two—Murano and Burano.

But that wasn’t going to happen today. Instead, I filled up my day with excitement by doing laundry, emailing, more laundry and catching a few zees.

When evening rolled around my clothes once more smelled like a Swiss forest with a hint of lemon, the next portion of my trip was planned and accommodation confirmed, and I was ravenous. After meeting Larry for dinner we migrated to the bar to take advantage of happy hour.

After lubricating my legs with a few pints I moonwalked onto the dance floor and began shaking my booty. My foolishness was rewarded with a free shot of grappa. Grappa is to Italy as ouzo is to Greece and after downing the shot I wondered if it should be offered not as a reward, but as punishment.

“Where did you learn to dance?” Larry asked me when I sat down.

“Watching MC Hammer videos. Over and over and over again.”

His jaw dropped and his eyes expanded to the size of Italian salami. He was probably expecting an answer that involved 267

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stories of dancing school, endless hours of work and blistered feet. Not an answer that focused on a guy in baggy pants and steps in his hair who loved to run on the spot.

Not that the shocked look on Larry’s face prevented me from finishing the rest of my beer and returning to the dance floor to show everyone how not to dance. Needless to say, it did not take long before everyone at the table joined in to show me how it was really done.

The night continued well into early morning and as a result the next day was not pretty. I would’ve been happy to spend the rest of the day strolling through Venice in silence, but since I was spending the day with Larry this was not to be. Most of us did not mind the campsite, but the same could not be said for Larry.

“Why do I have to sit on the ground? How come there aren’t enough chairs? What’s the deal with the swimming pool? It’s too warm. And these trees are too tall.”

I’d never realised there were so many things to whinge about. The guy was amazing. Any topic, any place, Larry could find something wrong with it. We weren’t even two steps into Venice when he started again.

“Bloody bank machine! It’s too slow. And look at this weather—too bloody hot!”

“It’s summer, Larry,” I reminded him, “and this is Italy.”

“Yeah, but it’s too hot.”

It was going to be a long day.

“If I lived here,” he continued, “I’d have to shower three times a day. Maybe even four.”

His complaints were not limited by geographical boundaries either. “Girls just aren’t pretty in Britain. It’s not fair.”

Admittedly, compared to Italian women, British women are not as attractive. That’s not to say they’re unattractive, far from 268

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it, but like everything else, it’s all relative.

Before I could say anything further he moved on. “Where are all the information points?”

“This is Venice, Larry! Information wouldn’t help you because you’d still be lost.”

“That’s another thing. Why aren’t there any street signs?”

I sighed as he continued to whinge about the UK and its overcast weather patterns, a topic close to the heart of Englishmen and women everywhere. And for Larry it was not a huge leap from the weather to another topic that the English like to whinge about—the transport system. I could see he’d given this topic particular thought because he’d developed a law that governed all things wrong with it and dubbed it Larry’s Law. “Darren,” he informed me, “no matter where you sit on a train there will be a crying baby, a hairy fat guy, a person with a runny nose, or a guy who’s always whinging.”

“Really?” I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

He was on a roll now. “And don’t get me started on the French.”

I had not planned to. Heck, I would not have dared.

It was only when he stopped to take his next breath some thirty minutes later that I fully appreciated the saying, Silence is golden. I’d thought he was finished by that stage, but who was I kidding? He’d merely found a new target for his complaints—me!

“What? You don’t know a second language?” He looked genuinely shocked.

“No,” I lamented. “In retrospect, I should’ve taken a language when I was at school.”

“Yes, you should have!” he scolded. “Don’t you know a second language would expand your horizons and teach you 269

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more about the world and its people?”

“Yeah, you’re right. After I finish travelling around Europe and visiting all these countries and experiencing these different cultures I’ll head home and learn a second language. It’ll help me ‘expand my horizons’, as you say.”

“Good. You won’t regret it.”

We boarded the ferry to Murano, an island famous not only for the part it played in the James Bond film Moonraker, but also for being home to Venetian glass.

Now you have to admit, I was pretty gutsy visiting a place like Murano. As you know, if I’m not an accident waiting to happen then I’m an accident already in progress. If you don’t believe me, just ask my mum.

Even now if I’m out shopping with her and our jaunt leads us into the glassware and crockery section of a home-ware store my mum instantly warns me, either out of reflex or because she knows me too well, “Darren, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.” Not that I blame her. I’m probably the only person I know that can crash into a parked bus.

Usually my clumsiness is never too much of an issue because the stuff I end up breaking only costs a couple of dollars. This is certainly not the case in Murano where the only thing you could buy for a few bucks—or euros as the case is—was a pack of gum. The glass creations here had prices starting in the low hundreds and rocketing up from there.

It wasn’t hard to see why Venetian glass was so highly valued throughout the world. I really cannot even begin to describe some of the pieces I saw because they had to be seen to be believed. Unlike other glassware you might find in Myer or David Jones, which are amateurish by comparison, the designs in Murano were beyond anything I thought possible with glass. Take a hanging lamp for instance. Where other lamp 270

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designs are straightforward, the one in Murano was meant to be hung from the ceiling via twisted strands of glass, while the lights themselves extended from the central hub via tendrils of multicoloured glass, which made the lamp look more like a Medusa hairpiece than an object of illumination. In addition to the intricate and innovative designs, each piece of glass, whether it was a lamp or a piece of objet d’art, was a palette of colours and hues that resembled a coral reef.

Equally amazing as the glass were the glassblowers themselves. Situated in numerous alleyways around Murano, Larry and I were mesmerised as they turned a lump of molten glass into a vase, a plate, or other artistic design with the ease that a child would mould playdough.

Then again, the people of Murano have been supplying glass to Europe for over nine hundred years. Not only did they refine and perfect various glassmaking technologies into an art form, but for a few centuries they were the only people in the world who knew how to make mirrors. Previously, to keep their skills in Venice the government declared glassblowers leading citizens of the community on the condition they were not allowed to leave Venice, and if caught doing so, would be punished by assassination or hand amputation.

Despite our fascination with all this, Murano had nothing on Burano. Where Murano was commercial and busy, Burano was tranquil and quaint. It was as if I’d stepped into a place that was a perpetual lazy Sunday afternoon. Adding further to this charm, every house lining the canals of Burano was painted a different colour from the next, making our stroll a colourful and pleasant experience.

What most people come to Burano for is its lace. In and around the streets were lace shops complete with old ladies who with the meticulous and dexterous fingers of a surgeon 271

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created a wide range of haberdashery with amazing speed and agility.

But for all its appeal I saw Burano being a very dangerous place. Well, can you imagine what would happen if a gaggle of grannies decided to rock up? Why, I reckon it would be akin to a Viking raider party, only instead of horned helmets and swords they would gallop ashore with shawls and Estée Lauder face powder. Like Vikings, they would rampage through the town, leaving no shop unpillaged and no cheek unpinched, while squealing in delight and cooing with vicious intent. And God help the person who stood in the way of these ladies and their doilies because the end result would be something out of a Roman gladiatorial contest. The mere thought of it made me shiver with dread.

Thankfully, there were no maniacal grandmothers about so Larry and I managed to reach the main square with our cheeks intact.

“This looks like a good place to stop for lunch,” I said.

“You reckon?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” As soon as I said it I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

For the next fifteen minutes I was lectured that the square was too crowded, the pizza in the shops was crap because it did not taste like Dominos, the canals were too narrow, there were not enough benches and the smell of fish in the air was disgusting.

“Larry,” I sighed, “besides the fact that Burano is populated by fishermen, the island is surrounded by water!”

“Yeah, but still—” “Come on, let’s get some grub,” I said and led him into a supermarket.

While we ate our lunch and Larry complained about the 272

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bread being too white and the lettuce being too crisp, I became transfixed by the lopsided belltower at the far end of the square, amazed that everyone I had spoken to about Burano had not talked about it.

I guarantee if I walked into a room and mentioned Pisa everyone would automatically think of its leaning tower. But if I was to mention Burano in the same sentence, chances are the first thing that would pop into people’s minds—if they even knew where Burano is—would be either the lace shops or the colourful houses. How anyone could forget to mention the leaning tower of Burano was beyond my understanding.

And how the leaning tower of Burano is still standing was also beyond my comprehension.

While I would’ve loved to stay and watch a tower that may or may not fall, there were better ways to spend an afternoon.

Like sitting by a canal, taking in the aroma of the sea and watching the world go by.

“Geez, Larry,” I said, checking my watch as we boarded the ferry back to the main island of Venice, “it’s way past gelato time.”

Of all the things I was gearing up for on my return to Italy gelato was it and I made a promise to myself that I was going to have at least one a day. At least.

Larry turned to me, eyebrows raised. “What’s gelato?”

I returned his gaze. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking!”

“No, Darren, I’m serious. What’s gelato?”

This was an emergency of epic proportions. I needed to get Larry a gelato, and quick. Luckily, I knew where to go.

Travelling was all about priorities and I had those sorted out right from the get go. Not only in terms of gelaterias, but also— being the comic book collector that I am—the whereabouts 273

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of comic stores. This was a good thing since Larry had also mentioned he was looking for a Tin Tin comic.

“Do you have Tin Tin?” he asked the shopkeeper in broken Italian.

The shopkeeper rummaged around in some boxes and pulled out a copy.

Larry flipped through the pages and then promptly handed it back. “No, I want it in French.”

The shopkeeper and I exchanged glances as I led Larry quietly out of the store and down the alley to the gelateria before he asked for the complete works of Archie in Russian.

On the way to the airport to catch the connecting bus to the campsite not only had Larry become a gelato-aholic—much like myself—but the two of us had bumped into Anna, an American-Chinese girl we’d met at the bar the previous night.

“Is that right?” Anna asked, staring up at the indicator.

We followed her gaze. Judging by the indicator we would be waiting another twenty-five minutes for our bus to arrive.

“Geez,” I commented, “it’ll be quicker to walk.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Larry said. “Let’s go.”

We were not even five minutes away from the airport when Anna asked, “Darren, do you know where you’re going?”

“Sure do.”

Anna shot a sideways glance in my direction. “Good. Lives are on the line.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.”

“Not a problem. Anyway, are you guys coming out tonight?”

I answered first. “No. It’ll be a quiet one tonight, I think.

I’m too buggered.”

Silence and concerned looks were thrown in my direction.

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English was a funny language. You think it’s the same the world over and then you meet British, Canadians, Europeans and Americans, and realise it’s not. More often than not, you end up spending five minutes figuring out what the other person is talking about. If you think I’m joking try talking to people in the northern hemisphere about wearing your thongs!

“I’m knackered,” I corrected.

Larry now knew exactly what I meant; the same could not be said for Anna who still looked perplexed.

“I’m tired, Anna,” I clarified further.

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? When we get back maybe you should have a rest so you won’t be so … so … snickered.”

Venice was the perfect place to start Italy. A place of wonder, a place of spontaneous construction and a place of lost souls all rolled into one. Yet it still retained an air of romance and charm all its own.

If anything, it set the standard for things to come.

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18

Rome Sweet Rome

I was apprehensive about visiting Rome.

The city’s long history and countless places of interest left me wondering whether I’d be able to experience everything I wanted in the limited time I’d allocated. But my apprehension could not douse my excitement and when the bus left Venice I had to pinch myself—I was going to Rome!

Not even the prospect of running into gypsies could dampen my enthusiasm, even though I’d heard the horror stories.

Stories that begin with a thrown baby or being enveloped by a swarm of kids, only to end with you being relieved of all your personal possessions.

Nonetheless, when the bus arrived at an Autogrille for lunch and was met by a group of gypsies, everyone on board was wary and eyed the women with suspicion. We shouldn’t have worried because except for one little girl, they ignored us.

As we approached the entrance of the Autogrille she brushed away a strand of tangled hair, making sure we all got a good look at her sorrowful expression, before she extended her right hand in a gesture recognised the world over as “Gimme”. Once she realised none of us were going to give her anything, she took a sip of the coffee she was holding and pulled out a large ham and salad roll from behind her back. Her clothes were in tatters, but she was still eating better than any of us and if anything, we should have asked her for money.

The bus arrived into the port city of Ancona much later

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than scheduled due to traffic and roadworks, leaving barely ten minutes for us passengers to get off and stretch our legs.

While I was stretching mine I noticed a familiar face in the crowd.

“Hey, Danielle, how are ya?”

“Hey, mate,” her fiancé said, walking over.

“Hey—” I paused, “—look I’m really sorry, buddy, but I can’t remember your name.”

“Ari. And don’t worry, I’ve forgotten yours. It’s not Bob, is it?”

I laughed. “Nah, it’s Darren. So tell me, what have you two been up to since Salzburg?”

“We’ve just come back from the Greek Islands.”

“Yeah? So have I. What did you think?”

“Fantastic,” Danielle and Ari replied in unison.

“You?” Ari asked.

“Bloody awesome!”

Danielle questioned, “Hang on a sec. In Salzburg you said you were going to Switzerland and then the Greek Islands.”

“Yeah,” Ari agreed, “we didn’t see you in Switzerland.”

I grinned. “Geez, you guys have good memories. Those plans kind of went out the window in Munich.”

Ari said, “That would explain why we thought we saw you in Paros.”

“Yeah,” Danielle agreed. “We couldn’t work out whether it was you or some Greek guy who looked like you.”

“Well, I suppose I have the nose for it,” I said, smiling.

Danielle and Ari smirked.

“You probably saw me right before I crashed into a bus,” I informed them.

Danielle’s mouth fell open. “What?”

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staying in Rome? The campsite or the hostel?”

“The hostel,” Ari said.

“The campsite is way too far out of Rome,” Danielle added.

“We don’t want to waste all that time on trains going back and forth every day when we could spend it in the city itself. How about you, Darren?”

“Me too. And besides, according to the guide there’s a flasher down by the campsite and that’s one part of Rome I am not keen on seeing.”

“I’m with you, Daz,” Ari agreed.

“Come on, Ari,” Danielle called, “let’s grab our seats, it looks like the bus is about to leave.”

“See you at the next rest stop, Daz,” Ari said.

“For sure.”

It was late evening when Ari and Danielle, sisters Sophie and Ellen and I were dropped off at the train station. We’d barely taken three steps when we encountered a problem.

Like other European countries, train tickets in Italy need to be validated before boarding a train. Unfortunately, the validating machines at the station entrance weren’t working at the time, which left the five of us in a pickle.

Ellen had the solution. “Don’t worry, guys, I remember reading somewhere that if the machines aren’t working all we have to do is write the time and date on the tickets ourselves.”

We pulled out pens, scribbled on our tickets, hopped on the next train and eagerly awaited our arrival in Rome.

A few stations on, a ticket inspector boarded the train and the look he gave us said it all: Easy money. Ignoring the vagrants in the vestibule, the kids writing graffiti on the seats and the old Italian man who was chain smoking, he marched over.

“Biglietto! Biglietto!” he called at us, his hands going into 278

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spasms.

We looked at each other. “I think he wants to see our tickets,” Sophie said.

We fumbled for our tickets and handed them to him. When he saw mine he burst into a spontaneous impersonation of the Karate Kid and yelled in my face, “Biglietto! U Stupido pizza pasta whatadematta with you spaghettio meetballa Me Danielson crazio Mama Mia!” I’m not too sure what he meant, but after he performed the crane kick a couple of times I think I got the general idea.

He furiously scribbled on the ticket, flung it back at me and stormed off.

“What the hell did you do, man?” Ari asked, the others quivering behind their backpacks.

“I have no idea!”

“You haven’t been fined, have you?” Sophie asked, peering over her day pack.

“No.” “What did he write on the ticket?” Danielle asked.

I checked. “Oh shit!”

“What?” Ellen asked.

I looked up, grinning. “Ellen, why didn’t you tell me I had to write the time in twenty-four hour notation?”

“I just kinda thought it was a given.”

“Let me tell you somethin’. With me, nothing is a given.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, Daz,” Ari said, “at least we can thank you for providing the entertainment.”

“Any time.”

“So what are you going to do for us next?” Ari asked.

“That’s a surprise.”

We arrived in Rome later than expected, but our small 279

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group still reached the hostel before dinner was served, and really that was all any of us wanted. This hostel was probably the only place in Rome—or the world for that matter—where one could get a four-course Italian dinner, all the sangria you could drink, plus a view of the Colosseum and surrounding city, all for only one euro. As Ari later said, “You could have dinner here, or buy a magnet.”

After eating all we could and more, I did not expect to wake up the next morning feeling hungry. But I did. So too did Ellen and Sophie. Thankfully, the hostel provided dinner and breakfast, albeit at a nearby cafe.

We received our breakfast tokens from the guy at the beaten-up old desk that served as reception and listened carefully to his directions on how to get from the hostel to the cafe.

“Go down there, turn right and you should find it.”

There was that should word again. I’d heard it countless times in Greece and now it seemed it was a popular word in Italy also.

“You can’t miss it; the cafe is directly opposite the Basilica Santa Maria di Maggiore.”

Considering the Basilica takes up a whole block and every second place “directly opposite the Basilica” is a cafe, we had no option but to ask around.

“Excuse me,” I asked the person behind the counter of the first cafe we came to, “if we gave you one of these tokens,” I waved a small piece of paper, “would you give the three of us a meal and cup of coffee—for free?”

The look we got said it all: “Are you bloody stupid?”

The pleasant morning stroll around the block only increased our appetites and when we finally found the cafe we were looking for the growls in our stomachs were drowning out the 280

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noise of the passing traffic.

It was difficult enough finding the cafe, but it was near impossible selecting what we wanted for breakfast. Our decision was made tougher because everything on the menu contained chocolate. In the end, we all chose a chocolate croissant. A croissant that was doused in so much icing sugar and powdered chocolate that it was hard to see exactly where the croissant began and the coating ended.

The croissant tasted even better than it looked. One bite released an explosion of light, buttery melt-in-your-mouth -not-on-your-hand pastry before a rich burst of chocolate oozed slowly into your mouth, filling every orifice. Was it any surprise then that the three of us were reduced to groans of delight bordering on sexual gratification?

Breakfast in Rome would not have been complete without a cup of coffee and the cappuccino I drank was as close to perfect as coffee can get. I knew I was in heaven, or pretty close to it.

Sophie voiced what I was thinking. “I cannot believe I’m in Rome.” Her head turned slowly and her eyes filled with wonder. She took another bite of her croissant and added, “My God, this is the best croissant I’ve ever eaten. I don’t think I’ve ever been this satisfied.”

“You’re telling me,” I said, swallowing the rest of mine.

“I’m going back for seconds.”

“Darren, you’re insatiable!” Ellen exclaimed.

“So I’m told,” I said, winking.

There’s something to be said about sitting in a Roman cafe eating breakfast. It’s at first surreal, but reality quickly sets in and you cannot help but smile as church bells peal, snippets of Italian conversation waft over from adjacent tables and the pleasant aroma of coffee mingles with the succulent smell of 281

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freshly baked pastries. It all added up to the perfect start to a perfect day.

We’d planned to begin by visiting the Information Bureau and getting ourselves a map. While Rome is a great city to wander around aimlessly, the chances of actually getting anywhere without a map are practically zero and you can end up missing a few key sights. Not something Sophie, Ellen and I were keen on.

We were about to set off when it occurred to us that while we knew the address of Information and the general direction—“north of Termini Station”—we still had no idea where it actually was. For that we needed a map, the same map we planned on picking up at Information. A catch-22 situation if ever there was one. Nonetheless, we decided to take our chances and stroll in a northerly direction. We’d barely taken two steps when we were faced with another dilemma. No, it wasn’t gypsies or language problems, but something much scarier. We had to cross the street.

The method of looking left then right then waiting for a break in traffic worked in other cities, but not in Rome. Twenty minutes later we were still at the kerb’s edge waiting to cross.

If I’d known it was going to take this long I would’ve come prepared with food, a portable stove and a tent because at this rate we were going nowhere fast.

In the end, we decided to copy the locals, even though what they were doing defied all logic. But you know the old saying, When in Rome … So with a car, a couple of mopeds and a van bearing down on us at unheard of speeds, we stepped onto the road and braced for impact.

Unlike Paris, most of the cars stopped, while others just steered around us, and the mopeds, well, they simply veered onto the footpath. Crossing the road in Rome, we realised, 282

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had less to do with bravery and more to do with insanity; not surprising really, considering that while Italians are lovely people they are all completely bonkers.

By the time we’d crossed a few more streets and seen our lives flash before our eyes one too many times, we’d all but given up hope of ever finding the Information Bureau “north of Termini Station”. I was sure if we’d gone any further north, we’d have ended up in Florence. We did, however, manage to find another Information Bureau, which was near the entrance and to the west of Termini Station, and it had all the maps we could ever need.

Our plan was simple: walk to Piazza Venezia, turn left and make directly for the Colosseum. This was before we realised that the Piazza is home to the biggest monument in central Rome.

Sophie flipped open her guidebook to the relevant page.

“Okay, guys, apparently this is the Il Vittoriano or Altare Della Patria. In brackets it’s got ‘Altar of the Fatherland’.”

“What’s it for?” Ellen asked.

“It says here that the altar was built as a sign of the unification of Italy and is dedicated to the first Italian king, Victor Emmanuel the Second.”

Now you would think that the Romans would be proud of a monument that symbolised their country’s unification, but the funny thing is that they are not. They view the monument with disdain, regard it as a pompous, overbearing eyesore, and give it derogatory nicknames such as ‘The Typewriter’ and ‘The Wedding Cake’.

Maybe the Romans would find it more acceptable if the monument mixed in better with the architecture of the city, but with its white marble construction, boxy shape, majestic white staircases and lack of domes, the monument was like 283

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nothing else in Rome. For all its beauty and even though it had the three of us looking up at it in awe, the Il Vittoriano stuck out like an erection in a pair of bike shorts and would have looked more at home in either Paris or Vienna. Especially since at the top of the stairs stood an impressive curved portico supported by two rows of Corinthian columns on which two Quadriga were placed, proudly displaying Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory.

The three of us climbed up to the portico not so much for a look at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but to take in the expansive view of the surrounding area.

I noticed that the statues that lined the staircase and represented the various regions of Italy were all female.

Apparently, the Italian architects responsible for the design of the Il Vittoriano wanted to represent the beauty of Italy and felt the only way they could personify it and do the country the justice it deserved was via the feminine form.

From what I’d seen coming into Rome—the lush green hills, the many vineyards, the acres of olive groves and the fields of sunflowers—I really could not blame them.

And it wasn’t only the countryside that was worthy of a woman’s representation. Rome itself is a city filled with earthen charm, towering monuments and a seemingly endless history.

A history that was unlike any other city I’d been to. Where the origin of other cities could be traced back to a single moment, the beginning of Rome is something that archaeologists cannot exactly pinpoint because Rome’s origins are the stuff legends are made of. How many other cities do you know that began with a virgin, sex with a god, a wolf and a shepherd?

Even though archaeologists agree that Rome was founded

by Greeks and Etruscans settling in the surrounding area, the legend of Rome’s origin begins with the Trojan Horse. Okay, 284

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the horse itself had more to do with Troy, but if it was not for the Trojan Horse, Troy would not have been ransacked and the escapees would not have fled to Italy.

As is the case with any new colony, everyone wants to be the leader. And it was no different in the case of Rome. Some three hundred years after Rome was settled a prince named Aumulius got sick of living in the shadow of his brother the emperor and killed him, his family and anybody else who got in his way. The only person to escape Aumulius’s rampage was a niece who he forced to become a vestal virgin so she could pray to Vesta for his long reign and protection.

Shame then that after his niece had an amorous liaison with Mars, the Roman god of war, she fell pregnant with twin boys.

The punishment for a vestal virgin getting involved in some illicit hanky panky was not a simple little tap on the wrist, but was more along the lines of death.

Not wanting to anger Mars, Aumulius spared his niece’s life.

He did however imprison her and throw her baby boys into the Tiber River. Surprisingly, the boys did not die, but were washed ashore on the side of Palatine Hill where they were found by a she-wolf who suckled them until they were taken in by a shepherd who named them Romulus and Remus.

If you think that after all this hardship Romulus and Remus were bosom buddies and constantly on the lookout for one another, you’d be wrong. While they buried their sibling rivalry long enough to kill their mother’s gaoler and restore the throne to the rightful owner, the brothers could not stand the sight of each other.

When their father Mars told them to build a city on the side of Palatine Hill, I can only imagine the arguments, fights and biffo the brothers must’ve had designing the city. Something had to snap and in this case it was Remus’s neck when Romulus 285

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killed him. Happy in the fact that he could build the city in peace and without distraction, Romulus set about laying the foundations for what would ultimately become one of the greatest cities in the ancient world.

The heart of the city could be found at the base of Palatine Hill. Where Palatine Hill was strewn with the ruins of Rome’s early years, the Roman Forum showed the machinations of the Roman way of life and if you believe the stories, it was a lifestyle of sex, violence and politics.

Not that we had any option but to believe the stories because the Roman Forum was not a collection of weathered Roman buildings, but an organised arrangement of foundations and overgrown pathways with a column or two thrown in for variety.

With so many different ruins to visit, it would have been easy to spend all day milling around the Forum, but Sophie, Ellen and I were more than happy to meander towards what once was the meeting place for the senate—the Curia. The three of us had no interest in ancient Roman politics, but were immensely curious to see the supposed place were Julius Caesar was assassinated and buried.

We continued on to Palatine Hill and were treated to a spectacular vista of the erratic Roman skyline and the remains of what used to be one of the more versatile and violent race tracks of the ancient world, the Circus Maximus.

Sophie turned to the relevant page in her guidebook. “It says here the Circus Maximus was used mainly for chariot racing, but occasionally was a stage for hunts and mock battles. Oh and get this, guys, it had a capacity of 250,000 people. Unbelievable! That was about a quarter of Rome’s population!”

It was difficult to imagine a stadium that could fit triple 286

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the capacity of Sydney’s Stadium Australia yet was so useful it lasted for one thousand years. I couldn’t imagine Stadium Australia lasting longer than a hundred years. Heck, after the 2000 Olympics its capacity was reduced by about twenty thousand.

This incredibly long history is not simply limited to the Forum and Palatine Hill, but to all of Rome. This ensures that finding ruins and places of archaeological importance is not unusual, but commonplace. It is the main reason very little construction happens in the city and why the Metro consists of only two lines. Each time an extension was planned and building commenced it was quickly stopped because a building, temple or something else of historical significance was uncovered. In the end, the government gave up and encouraged people to take the bus.

Not that we needed to because most of the sights in Rome are within walking distance of one another. Sophie, Ellen and I descended the slope of Palatine Hill, walked back through the Arch of Titus and re-entered the Roman Forum.

Along with temples and government buildings, the Roman Forum was known for its grandiose arches. After a conquest it was common practice for an emperor to parade through with the prisoners and spoils of his campaigns in tow.

While the Arch of Titus was covered in detailed reliefs of Titus’s victories, it was nowhere near as impressive as the Arch of Constantine, which is not only well preserved and richly decorated, but is also the largest of Rome’s remaining arches.

Not that we paid it much attention. It was built near the Colosseum and trust me, when you have something as big and overwhelming as the Colosseum in the vicinity, everything else pales in comparison.

Including the traffic. I cannot remember how we crossed the 287

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road, especially since there are four lanes of traffic careening around the Colosseum at breakneck speeds. All I remember is looking past the Arch of Constantine at the size of the Colosseum and the next minute finding myself on the other side, walking towards the entrance.

The queue to buy tickets was neither short nor the quickest moving. Luckily, we’d bought a combined ticket at Palatine Hill, which allowed us to avoid the wait and walk straight through the turnstiles and into the arena.

To say the three of us were blown away would be an understatement. The Colosseum was a bigger and much more complicated structure than the three of us had anticipated.

Able to fit in excess of seventy thousand people, all of which could exit in less than twenty minutes, the Colosseum was four storeys high with a fifth level sunk into the ground. Acting as a kind of backstage this fifth level, while no longer showcasing the complex arrangement of pulleys and slings that activated the numerous trapdoors dotted around the arena, showed the complex nature of passageways and prisons where the gladiators and prisoners were readied for their performance.

Walking across the bridge that extended over the original arena, we stared in awe at the tiers of seats and were instantly overwhelmed.

Picture yourself stumbling into the arena, surrounded by your fellow prisoners, and immediately being swamped by the deafening roar of the crowd as the hot blood-soaked sand chars the underside of your feet. You look up, trying to take in your surroundings, but thanks to the blinding sun you can’t see much at all, unlike the audience who, shielded from the awful glare by retractable sunshades, has a perfect view. You stumble into the middle of the arena and stare back at the door where you entered, only to see it slowly shut, sealing your fate. The 288

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other prisoners fan out, each looking as terrified as you and like them, your gaze drifts up to the emperor’s box. You look for mercy, but find none.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a clanging noise. On the other side of the arena a recessed door opens. For what seems like an eternity you are transfixed by the gaping blackness and the only sound you hear is the metronomic heartbeat throbbing in your ears. You barely notice the movement to your side. Seconds seem like hours and still nothing comes through the black void at the other end. Suddenly, a loud roar fills the amphitheatre and the crowd echoes with a roar of its own. The first of many wild beasts enters.

A lion lumbers in and fixes its stare in your direction. In the animal’s gaze you see a bloodlust that is mirrored in the cheers of the crowd. Survival kicks in and you slowly begin to back away in an effort to reach the far wall.

But you were so focused on the lion you did not notice the tiger that entered the arena from a door to your side. Before you realise what’s happening it’s sunk its teeth into your right leg. You go down, hard and fast. Pain explodes throughout your body and you feel your tunic go moist as the salty smell of urine fills the air.

Your breath becomes ragged as the screams of other prisoners fill the Colosseum. You stare at the sun, but find its warmth does nothing to dispel the cold that slithers through your veins like eels. You watch the hulking shape of the tiger’s head move over you. It’s the last thing you see as a cold and smothering blackness engulfs you as the tiger’s jaws clamp around your neck and death sucks you under.

While the stadium was an engineering marvel—they even flooded it to re-enact naval battles—it was an arena devoted to cruelty and death.

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Take the builder, for instance. He went about his job with haste and managed to build the Colosseum in eight years. Now I don’t know about you, but I reckon this was pretty darn good, especially considering the lack of technology at the time. You could be excused for thinking that if the builder did not finish the Colosseum on time, chances are he would end up not simply watching the main act, but being the main act.

An incentive to reach a deadline—pun not intended—if ever there was one.

But that’s exactly what happened. When the builder presented the finished product to the emperor, instead of receiving a financial reward for his efforts rumour has it that he was thrown to wild beasts during the inaugural games.

Games that lasted a hundred days and saw the slaughter of nine thousand animals and probably just as many humans.

The walk from the Colosseum to the Pantheon was long and hard since the temperature had reached the low forties.

Thankfully, Rome is a city dotted with water fountains full of clear, clean and refreshingly cold water. Exactly what Sophie, Ellen and I needed on such a hot day.

I found out the majority of these fountains were built over two thousand years ago. Even more astounding, while modern technology and plumbing have been added to keep the water flowing, back in the times of the Roman Republic the engineers had no such luxury, yet still managed to provide a thousand litres of water per person per day. That’s more than most governments supply today.

How did the Romans do it? By building aqueducts at a shallow and constant gradient, even if that meant modifying the surrounding landscape, thereby relying on gravity to transport the large quantities of water. But the problem lay not in simply getting the water to Rome, but distributing it to 290

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various parts of the city. This too was solved with gravity. By directing the aqueducts into large cisterns built higher than the city, enough water pressure was generated to circulate water to every bath and fountain around Rome. And with all this need for water and aqueducts, it was a good thing the Romans invented concrete too.

It was a little past midday when we reached Piazza del Rotonda and joined the crowd of people streaming into yet another architectural marvel of ancient Rome—the Pantheon.

The beauty of the column-fronted round building has nothing to do with the lavishly embellished exterior, but has everything to do with its construction. Built as a perfect geometric figure, the diameter of the dome is the same as the height of the building. And it’s this fact that dumbfounds today’s engineers—that a dome the size of the Pantheon’s, which is the biggest free standing one of its kind in the world, can hold its own weight and not collapse, especially considering the mechanical properties of concrete being the way they are.

Once inside, our gaze was drawn upwards to the art on the ceiling and the large gaping hole, or oculus, at the centre of the dome. Originally built as a Roman temple, the Pantheon symbolised the then Roman belief that the sky was a hemisphere of crystal to which the stars, moon and sun were attached. In the case of the Pantheon, the oculus represented the sun.

After viewing the remains of the artist Raphael, the Italian kings Umberto the First and Vittorio Emmanuel the Second, we left the Pantheon and followed the crowds to Fontana di Trevi.

Adorned with Rococo sculptures of palm trees, tritons, seahorses and a fierce looking statue of Neptune, it wasn’t the most beautiful fountain in Rome, but it was easily the most famous.

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Its edge was rimmed with people, all eager to make a wish or two. It’s said that if you face away from the fountain and throw a coin over your opposite shoulder your return to Rome is guaranteed. A second coin grants you a wish, while a third and final coin ensures you will forever find matrimonial bliss in the arms of an Italian.

“Darren,” Ellen said after we’d taken pictures, “Sophie and I are going back to the hostel.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, the heat’s really getting to us.”

“Fair enough.”

The heat was getting to me too, but since I was determined to see everything on my Rome agenda I pressed on to my next destination. I retraced my steps back to Piazza del Rotonda and continued on to the Tiber River. I’d hoped to find shade along its banks and a cool refreshing breeze coming off the water.

The banks were shaded all right, but when it came to that cool breeze that I reasoned should be there, someone should have told me I was dreaming.

Not that the lack of breeze kept people away or made my stroll any less pleasant. Although the numerous beaches that lined the Tiber have been removed, all in the name of progress, the banks were still the perfect place to relax and get away from the unrelenting Italian sun. Enhancing this laid-back atmosphere were bars and cafes that had been set up at constant intervals, filling the area with music and chatter.

Even without the bars and cafes, the Tiber River would be just as crowded because it has always had a close relationship with Rome. Associated with being the saviour of Romulus and Remus, the river was also an important commerce route and played an integral part in the city’s defensive frontier.

But for all the good the river provided, it also caused just as 292

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much grief. During times of torrential rain the river would burst its banks, flood lower sections of the city, kill hundreds and cause outbreaks of disease. The Romans accepted this flooding as their lot because they believed the Tiber came from the god of the underworld and hence provided both fertility and ruin.

In fact, the river was so highly regarded by the Romans that it took on a divine aspect. It was even considered an act of sacrilege to cross it by boat and the building of bridges was entrusted only to the highest order of priests, the Pontifices.

This is the reason many Italian bridges have the prefix Ponte before their name.

Like the Ponte Sant’Angelo, easily the most charming and beautiful bridge on the river.

To me, the bridge’s beauty had nothing to do with the fact that across it stood the imposing rotund shape of Castel Sant’Angelo, but more because the bridge was lined with angels that tell the story of the Passion of Christ and are a sign to pilgrims who made the journey to Rome that they were nearly at their destination, St Peter’s Basilica. This wasn’t the only reason the bridge and Castel Sant’Angelo were famous. A historian will tell you Castel Sant’Angelo is famous for being Emperor Hadrian’s mausoleum and also for being the prison that once held the Count of Cagliostro. Opera lovers will relate to the monument because its terrace is where Tosca, the protagonist of Giacomo Puccini’s opera, threw herself over.

A few will even recall the legend of how the castle got its name. But then again, many of the sites around Rome are the stuff of legend. Take the Pantheon, for instance. During the consecration of the church when the first notes of the Gloria were played the Romans claim to have seen a swarm of devils flying through the oculus in the ceiling.

Castel Sant’Angelo, though, has less to do with the devil 293

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and more to do with an angel. During 590 AD when Rome was in the grip of a plague Pope Gregory the Great organised a procession to pray for its end. It’s said that when the procession reached the mausoleum the Archangel Michael was seen flying up and sheathing his flaming sword as a symbol to the crowds that the plague was over.

What most people remember about Castel Sant’Angelo, however, is that it was a papal fortress linked to the Vatican by a tunnel, allowing a pope to steal away from the city during times of unrest and attack.

But I was here to see neither the papal apartments in the castle nor the magnificent frescoes that lined its walls so I climbed straight to its ramparts to get a completely unhindered view of Vatican City and St Peter’s Basilica.

I finally returned to the hostel after what had been a long and tiring day, and was trudging up the stairs when I was almost clothes-lined by my room-mate Abby who scurried past, her face oozing with excitement.

“SorryDarrenthepopeiscominghavetogetdownstairs!”

“What?”

She stopped, faced me and took a deep breath. “Darren,” she said, emphasising every word, “The. Pope. Is. Coming. To. Visit. The. Basilica. Santa. Maria. Di. Maggiore. I want to be in a good position when he arrives.”

“What?” I repeated. “I just came from there and no one seemed to be preparing for a papal visit.”

Rochelle, one of the Busabout guides, stepped out of the office. “She’s right, Darren. If I were you I’d race down and get a good vantage point.”

I didn’t have to be told twice and rushed up to what I thought was my room, only to find two beds were missing.

I was fairly sure there were six beds the night before, but 294

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now I counted only four. Rome is a place notorious for items disappearing, but whole beds?

I later found out that it was quite common for people staying in this hostel to find their bed had been moved from one room to another, or even into the hall. Interesting. Not only did this place supply you with a one-euro dinner and breakfast, but also a free moving service—whether you liked it or not.

Without giving the situation any more thought I dumped my daypack, grabbed my camera and joined Abby at the Basilica.

The whole area surrounding the Basilica was in a frenzy.

Barriers were up, security had arrived, pews were arranged, the PA system was tested and Vatican City flags were being draped from windowsills all around the block.

News of the pope’s visit had travelled fast and before long others from the hostel joined us in a wait that turned out to be longer than expected. While we waited we amused ourselves by watching the insane antics of Italian traffic.

It was not unusual to see a car swerve in front of a truck, which at that moment cut off a moped that was jumping on to the pavement to avoid a pedestrian who was whispering sweet nothings to his salami sandwich. Let’s not forget the driver who stopped in the middle of the road, casually got out, walked in front of the swerving truck, crossed the road, chatted to the guy who was now making love to his sandwich, whinged about the moped on the footpath and then asked the police what was going on. I was left wondering how Roman civilisation had managed to last this long.

It was three hours after I’d learned about the pope’s visit that the first part of the procession actually reached the Basilica Santa Maria di Maggiore.

Preceding the pope were many religious orders and 295

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non-clergy types. While some in the procession were understandably brimming with excitement, the majority marched with hushed reverence. Of course, there was the one guy who was too busy chatting on his mobile phone to be fussed about the whole situation. But it was late and well past dinner time, so maybe he was ordering pizza.

Looking all of his eighty plus years, great Pope John Paul the Second was the last to arrive. As feeble as he was, he still managed to say a few words and bless the crowd. I was awe-struck that this one man could command the attention of so many people from different walks of life and faiths, all of whom were happy to wait more than three hours just to catch a momentary glimpse of the man.

In keeping with what we’d seen, early the next morning Sophie, Ellen and I trained it to the Vatican Museum, eager to beat the crowds.

We did not succeed. The line started at the museum’s entrance, snaked around the corner and trailed a fair way down the street. Luckily, the queue moved quickly and we were soon inside.

It was colossal, much like the Louvre in terms of size and the amount of artwork on display. Even without the Sistine Chapel as its drawcard the Vatican Museum would still be one of the world’s greatest museums.

Filled with countless exhibits such as intricate and detailed altar screens, Renaissance paintings, Greek marbles, medieval tapestries, Egyptian relics, ancient maps, and even a moon rock from the Apollo 11 Mission, the museum had so many points of interest it was hard to know where to look first. And it wasn’t just the art on display that warranted our attention, but also the rooms themselves. As we progressed through the museum’s seemingly endless corridors the veined marble floor 296

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and ceilings gave way to intricately designed carpet, draped windows and a roof that was covered in lavishly sculpted cornices and numerous frescoes. With all this to look at, was it any wonder it took us the better part of the morning to reach the Sistine Chapel and the less famous, but still extravagant, Raphael Rooms.

Like many others, the three of us gave these rooms a cursory glance before we joined the constant gush of people pushing their way into the Sistine Chapel.

Not for one second did I expect the chapel to be so beautiful.

Covering every corner were paintings that defied superlatives.

Whether it was the eventful lives of Jesus and Moses that lined the walls or the humbling Last Judgement, the grandeur and detail were beyond description. There was little I could do but stare, mouth open, neck strained as I attempted to take it all in.

It was at this point that I realised the Sistine Chapel is too big for its own good. Just when I thought I’d seen it all, I’d turn my head a fraction of a degree and something new would catch my eye. Take the barrel-vaulted ceiling for instance, which is covered with thirty-three panels, each portraying scenes from the Old Testament such as the creation of Adam, as well as themes from pagan history. If that wasn’t enough, incised between each of the panels are pictures that are smaller, but no less captivating.

The scale of it all was mind-boggling and I could not understand why people were taking photos because no photo could do it any justice.

“Darren, we’re going to grab some lunch,” Ellen told me once we’d left the chapel and began making our way to the Vatican exit. “Wanna come?”

“No, I’m not that hungry, to be perfectly honest.”

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“Really?” they replied in unison.

“Yeah, it’s too hot. I’ll just head off to St Peter’s and then see where the wind takes me.”

“Okay, see you back at the hostel.”

While I’d seen numerous pictures and even captured a bird’s eye glimpse of it from the top of Castel Sant’Angelo, I was not prepared for St Peter’s Square. It wasn’t its size and grandeur: that much I was expecting since it can hold over three hundred thousand people. What blew me away was the feeling it evoked. Initially, I could not work out what the feeling was, but one thing was for certain, St Peter’s Square was different. At Piazza San Marco I was gobsmacked by its beauty and design, but in the case of St Peter’s it was not only the beauty that had me looking like a stunned mullet, but the emotion of power that exuded from all around. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised. After all, St Peter’s is the home of the Catholic Church.

The presence of dominance did not detract from its welcoming atmosphere. Everywhere I looked people were milling around, either happily taking pictures or resting in the shade of one of the most beautifully designed colonnades I’ve ever seen.

Bordering the square and designed by Bernini, the colonnade is made up of two semi-circular pedestrian corridors that extend from either side of St Peter’s Basilica. Covered by a roof that is supported by four rows of Doric columns and decorated with statues of numerous religious icons, it represents the open and welcoming arms of the Catholic Church.

For all its beauty, the square was nothing compared to the dominating presence of St Peter’s Basilica. Adorned with statues, jutting balustrades, Baroque cornices and decorative windowsills, the Basilica is the handiwork of many architects 298

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and its most prominent feature—the cupola—was designed by none other than Michelangelo.

After I’d taken my fair share of photos—let’s just say I was keeping Kodak in business—I made my way to the Basilica’s entrance and once I was deemed to be appropriately dressed, that is, not showing bits of my shoulders or knees, I was allowed to enter.

I know I’ve said previously that I was over churches and once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, but this is not true of St Peter’s. Not only is it the grandest, but it’s also the most enormous and impressive church in the world.

It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the size and richness of it all, especially since it began as nothing more than a small shrine. Nowadays, it contains twenty-five altars as well as countless religious works of art. The most well known was Michelangelo’s Pieta. Famous for two reasons; one, for its beauty and two, it’s the only piece Michelangelo ever signed.

Apparently, he’d overheard a conversation that attributed the Pieta to another artist. So one night he hid inside the church and once it’d been locked up for the evening, set about rectifying the situation, making sure the same mistake would never be made again.

The other two pieces of artwork in St Peter’s Basilica that caught my attention were the Papal Altar and St Peter’s throne.

Positioned at the centre of the Basilica’s cruciform design, adorned with cherubs, the Holy Spirit and numerous other carved embellishments, it was hard to believe the Papal Altar was carved from one solid piece of marble. Standing twenty metres high and decorated with over sixteen hundred kilograms of bronze, it took Bernini only nine years to complete.

No less impressive was St Peter’s throne. It was surrounded 299

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by five-metre tall statues representing the doctors of the church, a host of angels, the Holy Spirit, the keys to heaven and the chair that represents the pope’s authority on earth.

It wasn’t only the Pieta, the Papal Altar and St Peter’s chair that had me walking around in silent admiration. Other seemingly endless monuments, paintings and statues that lined the Basilica’s many naves, altars and chapels had me equally mesmerised. There was so much to admire that, like the Vatican Museum before it, a couple of hours had passed me by and the afternoon had nearly turned into evening.

St Peter’s Basilica was no doubt the biggest church in Rome, but one of the more interesting has to be the Capuchin Church of the Immaculate Conception. Not so much the church itself, but the chapel and crypt below. Like the Seldec Ossuary in Kutna Hora, the chapel is decorated—if that’s the correct word—with the bones of some four thousand monks that are said to have escaped the French Revolution.

The bones have been arranged to represent human mortality and beg the question about life after death. Above the entrance of the crypt is a quote: “What you are, we once were; what we are, you will become”, while on another wall is a clock made out of hand bones that represents the idea of time being without a beginning and end.

Being Rome, this church was not alone in its collection of relics. Rome does not have as many relics as it once did due to black-market trading in the middle ages, but it still has more than its fair share. No matter what your interest in religious artefacts, chances are you’ll find it in Rome somewhere.

If you want to see part of the Crown of Thorns or St Thomas’s finger then Santa Croce in Gerusalemme is the place. If that doesn’t take your fancy have a look at the skull of St Agnes in Agone. And if you’re more morbid and would like to have 300

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a squiz at the spleens, pancreases and livers of the popes from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries, then SS Vincenzo e Anastasio, which is located near the Trevi Fountain, is for you.

I went to none of these places, preferring instead St Peter in Chains, for no other reason than it was on the way back to the hostel. Nothing as interesting as internal organs or severed heads were on display, but there was Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses and the chains that bound St Peter when he was in Rome and Judaea, which are said to have miraculously welded shut during the Middle Ages.

By the time I returned to the hostel I was famished and went straight to reception to get a plate for dinner and a bottle of water. When I got there I received a most pleasant surprise.

“Shannon!”

“Dazzler!”

“Shan, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working on Ios?” “Yeah, I was. But you know what Ios is like.”

“Say no more. I’ll let you get settled in then you can tell me all about it over dinner.”

“Look forward to it.”

We caught up over dinner and then again over breakfast.

Her face was glazed over with that look of pleasure one gets from eating a chocolate croissant in Rome.

“Hey, Shan,” I said, sitting opposite.

“My God,” Shannon gushed, her lips coated with icing sugar, “have you had one of these?”

I grinned. “Every day. Good, eh?”

“Good?” She ripped into the croissant again. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

“Have you tried the coffee yet?”

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“Bloody unbelievable.”

All this talk of coffee and croissants was making me drool so I fetched my own.

“You know, Dazzler, this is enough to make me forget what happened.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You know how I arrived yesterday? I was told they were still getting my room ready and I could just leave my bag and get it after dinner.”

“And?” “Well, I went down later and couldn’t find it.”

“You’re joking.”

“No! They told me they’d moved it.”

“Where the hell did they move it to?”

“To the other hostel—across the way!”

“They should’ve told you first.”

“Try telling them that.”

“This place is in such a great location, but it’s dodgy as.” I shook my head. “It seems every day I hear about people losing stuff or having it go missing.”

“Never mind, at least I got my stuff back. So now I can look forward to seeing Rome. How about you, Daz, what are you up to today?”

“Well, I plan to head to St Peter’s—” “Why?” Shannon licked a stray piece of chocolate from her lips. “You told me yesterday you already went.”

“I did, but I was chatting to my room-mate and he told me about the view from the cupola. Apparently it’s awesome.

You’re more than welcome to join me.”

“Love to, Dazzler, but I’ve already made plans with the chicks in my room.”

“No problem.” I popped the last morsel of flaky pastry into 302

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my mouth and washed it down with some coffee.

Shannon shook her head. “Dazzler, you never cease to amaze me when it comes to food. You kinda just swallow it whole. And you eat so much!”

“What can I say, Shan?” I grinned. “Us Oompa Loompas need all the energy we can get.”

She laughed.

“Oh well, Shan, I best be going.” I stood up. “Ciao, bella.”

Shannon smiled. “Ciao.”

I strolled in the general direction of St Peter’s, happy to take it easy and pay more attention to the passing city. Rome was as hectic as any other city, if not more so, but it was filled with oodles of charm. Among the main roads and lavish piazzas the city is filled with cobblestone lanes, opulent fountains and Baroque architecture. While unexpected, this architectural style added a sophisticated elegance to an otherwise dusty and dirty city.

This Baroque influence was even more apparent from a bird’s-eye perspective. I reached St Peter’s Basilica by mid-morning and walked to the side of the church. I could’ve ridden the elevator to the top, but it was cheaper to take the stairs. The climb was as tough as buggery, but my exhaustion was worth it because from the top, with its sprawling mass of jagged roadways and towering monuments, Rome was everything I imagined.

I walked back down and continued onto Via Condetti, one of Italy’s most fashionable streets. Being the fashion victim that I was—suitably attired in a pair of worn sandals, a crumpled T-shirt, looking every bit the dishevelled backpacker—you can imagine how I fitted right in and in no way at all looked out of place.

I drifted down its length until I arrived at Piazza di Spagna, 303

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the most famous meeting place and pick-up joint in Rome where it’s not unheard of for foreign ladies to be approached

by Italian men offering roses and marriage proposals. While the area was packed with tourists, no one seemed to be proposing.

Everyone was too busy basking in the sunshine, watching bees and butterflies flutter between the azaleas that grew alongside the Spanish Steps, letting the calming tones from the nearby Bernini fountain wash over them.

While the atmosphere was soothing at the base of the steps, it was nothing compared to the breezy ambience at the top.

But it wasn’t only the chilled out vibe that made the head of the Spanish Steps the perfect place to have lunch. It was the view.

Sitting there with my tuna sandwich watching Rome as it expanded all around me, I could not understand why I’d been apprehensive about coming. Sure, the locals were mildly loony, but the city had exceeded all my expectations. Heck, even the McDonald’s was beyond anything I could’ve hoped for.

After lunching on the Spanish Steps I sauntered down to McDonald’s for some gelato and, like every other place in Rome, this McDonald’s was grand by design. There were water walls, marble fixtures, frescoes and even lush fernery. And how was the gelato? I reckon it’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted.

As I dawdled back to the hostel I was happy I’d seen everything I wanted to see, but at the same time was sad because I had not experienced all of what Rome had to offer.

But I wasn’t too disappointed because even the Romans believe that in the case of Rome, “one lifetime is never enough”.

And you know what? Anything I missed simply gave me the perfect excuse to return.

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19

Sicilian Segue

To confuse similar sounding names and places is an easy mistake to make. A mistake often made when my friend Daryl and I are within a suburb or two of each other. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been referred to as Daryl and vice versa. As a result, both Daryl and I have resorted to answering irrespective of which name we hear. But to confuse names and places that don’t sound remotely the same—like the Sicilian towns of Palermo and Catania—takes talent, if not utter stupidity.

It took the better part of the morning to reach Naples from Rome and once I’d arrived I could not wait to leave. Naples was a far cry from the splendour of Rome and being one of the most populated cities in Europe, it was teeming with people and unimaginably dusty. The streets were lined with litter, the air reeked of boat fuel and the buildings were decrepit. This was a city preceded by its reputation, a city known not for being the place where the humble fork and Margherita pizza were invented, but for being a haven of pickpockets and petty crime.

If those weren’t good enough reasons to leave immediately then the fact that I could not find a gelateria within fifteen minutes certainly was.

Unlike many others who continued south, Harris, Debra and I escaped west on an overnight ferry bound for the island of Sicily.

“Daz, have you got your accommodation lined up?” Harris

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asked when we later walked off the ferry into the still quiet port of Palermo. It was six in the morning.

“Yeah.” I pulled out a flyer. “According to this the hostel is a short walk from the port.”

The flyer had written in bold capital letters the name of the hostel followed by its address. The word Catania was unmistakeable and adjacent to the hostel’s address was a map and picture of Mt Etna. Oblivious to the obvious, I gazed at the surrounding area, but could not see any smoking volcanoes.

This did not strike me as strange, however, even though the flyer reported that Mt Etna was only forty-five minutes from the hostel. They say ignorance is bliss and I am as blissful as they come.

“Do you think they’ll have room for us?” Debra asked.

“Sure,” I replied with confidence.

I looked at the map once more.

The first street we turned down matched the street name on the map so things were looking rosy. When both the second and third street names did not even remotely match the ones shown on the map, Harris and Debra must’ve realised I didn’t have a clue. Still too busy revelling in my bliss, I walked on.

Only when we came to the highway not indicated on the map did it dawn on me that Catania and Palermo may not be one and the same. Imagine that. We asked some locals at a nearby shop and were pointed in the direction of the train station. When we arrived Harris and Debra stayed with the bags while I enquired about trains to Catania.

“Honestly, guys, I don’t think it can be that far away,” I told them.

Famous last words. Catania was not the next suburb as I’d hoped, but a town on the opposite side of the island. To get there you either had to spend five hours on a train or three on a bus.

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When I relayed this information to Harris and Debra the look of shock and disbelief on their faces said it all.

I of course was completely unfazed by the situation. “So, guys, shall we go buy ourselves some bus tickets?”

They exchanged glances. With me in the lead they stood a better chance of finding a corner in a circular room than accommodation in Sicily, or anything else for that matter.

“Uh ... no, Darren,” Harris answered. “I think we’re going to stay here.”

“You sure?”

Debra answered for both of them, “Yes, we think so.”

“Okay, then. Take care, guys, safe travels and all.”

“You too, Darren. Hope you find your accommodation,” Debra said.

“Yeah, so do I.” I strolled blissfully to the bus station and boarded my waiting bus. Sitting behind me was Keith, a lanky Canadian with short, spiky brown hair.

“Where are you staying, Keith?” I asked.

“Who knows. You?” “Here.” I handed him the flyer.

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all.”

For an island that is slightly smaller than the Netherlands, I was surprised to find such stark contrasts throughout the Sicilian landscape. Where the Netherlands is predominantly flat, covered in tulips and scattered with windmills, Sicily’s landscape varies from mountains to flat plains to undulating hills.

Also unexpected was the fertility. Stretching from the highway were vineyards, almond orchards, endless wheat fields and what I quickly came to realise was a constant feature 307

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throughout the Sicilian landscape—lemon groves. Being summer, their heat soaked, drooping branches were laden with fruit, ripe for the picking.

For all its fertility the Sicilian countryside could not escape the pressure cooker heat of summer. Apart from the lush coastal regions the land retained a burnt, semi-arid look. Still, it was not too difficult to picture what it might have looked like in spring when the lemon orchards burst with blossoms and the fields were filled with colourful ribbons of wildflowers. I wasn’t disappointed I’d missed this floral spectacle because in all honesty, I hadn’t known what to expect from Sicily. When planning my trip I noticed it was not that far from the mainland so I thought, Why not? and decided on impulse to add it to my itinerary.

Being one of those spontaneous Darren decisions, I would’ve expected to find nothing remotely interesting to see and do on Sicily, but this was far from the truth. For starters, the island is home to two of the most active volcanoes in the world, Mt Etna and Mt Stromboli, with the latter being the more active of the two. My first choice was to visit Mt Stromboli because I’d heard it was common to see smoke, ash and lava pouring from the crater, but as I planned to stay only one day in Sicily and getting to Stromboli involved catching a bus and a ferry, my choice was pretty much made for me. Mt Etna it was.

But really, when it comes to Sicily who wants to talk about lemons and volcanoes when you can talk about one of the most infamous criminal syndicates in the world? And no matter who you ask, when most people talk about Sicily the topic usually drifts to and settles on the Mafia. Which is kind of strange since the Mafia is described as a “top secret underworld crime organisation”. Think about it for a second. How often do you find yourself talking about top secret organisations? I for one 308

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rarely do for the simple reason that it’s supposed to be a secret and technically no one should know about it. Yet for a society that prides itself on its secrecy I was amazed at the amount of information readily available on the Mafia’s activities and way of life. Not that this was a bad thing. When it comes to research the more information the better. What was a bad thing, though, was not that most of the information was in Italian, but, due to its ‘secret’ nature, facts regarding the Mafia were often contradictory and any objectivity had concrete blocks tied to its feet and thrown to the fish. This made it tricky to separate fact from fiction, especially when I was trying to find out about the Mafia’s early years. It wasn’t just that the information was conflicting, but because the modern day Mafia was not incorporated until the nineteenth century and any available facts before that time were at best sketchy.

Take the legend of the Beati Paoli, for instance. Resembling something out of a badly dubbed Chinese martial arts movie and looking every bit the Italian ninja, this group of bandits dressed completely in black and operated out of the catacombs, subterranean passageways and the labyrinthine alleyways that were built throughout Palermo. Not limiting their activities to the town and much like Robin Hood, they are said to have stalked through the Sicilian countryside at night to fight the good fight, help the oppressed and provide resistance on behalf of the Sicilian people. As the bus sped past the dense thickets of forests it was easy to picture some poor nobleman going out for a midnight stroll only to be set upon by the Beati Paoli. But where the ninjas would have used shurikens to subdue him, I was certain the Beati Paoli resorted to extremely crisp and sharp slices of pizza, waving their hands in ways not seen since Monkey Magic.

For all the good they did, no one is one hundred percent 309

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sure just who they were. Depending on who you ask, the Beati Paoli were either a secret order of knights, a band of noblemen or a group of intellectuals who were too afraid to openly challenge the status quo.

This was completely unlike the early Mafia, who not only fought the good fight, but aimed to cause as much disruption as possible. I suppose that’s why people describe the early Mafia as heroes who defended the Sicilian way of life. It’s a view that is not often shared. For every Mafia sympathiser there are always two others who dismiss this idea and refer to the society as nothing more than petty criminals. Which is probably what they were. Regardless of how you look at its early years, good or bad, it’s not difficult to understand why the Sicilian people resorted to theft and subterfuge to survive.

Sicily was like a large double choc fudge cake—everyone wanted a piece, and for the life me I could not see why. Don’t get me wrong, from what I saw the island was beautiful, but I just could not see what value—monetary, political or otherwise— could be obtained by occupying it. It seemed that any country that invaded Sicily did so simply because it was there.

By the time the French raided the island the Sicilians had had enough of foreigners barging in and applying their laws willy nilly. And in the case of the French they not only brought with them escargot and Kronenberg, but also the feudal system.

Quickly realising they could not fight the French head on, the Sicilians had no option but to resort to guerrilla tactics. Groups of men from the villages were led and coordinated by an elected leader—the capodecina—to steal food and supplies, along with other items of value such as jewellery and weapons. These were then secretly traded with the mainland for necessities that could not be stolen, thereby creating the black market.

The ties between this loose-knit arrangement of families slowly 310

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tightened until finally at the turn of the twentieth century the group solidified into the organisation everyone now knows as the modern day Mafia.

Once this occurred crime was no longer random acts in dark forests, but was so thoroughly organised that the Mafia managed to infiltrate every aspect of Sicilian life and become an integral part to its economic development.

Ironically, for all its suspect deeds and actions, a few web pages associate the Mafia name with beauty, excellence and perfection. Three attributes that could not be said about the town of Catania, which like Naples and Palermo was dishevelled and in dire need of a facelift.

Maybe it was the heat, but Catania looked tired. The buildings were a patchwork of flaking stucco and weathered posters, while any cars that lined the street were ravaged by age, their duco long since replaced by rust as the colour of choice.

Occasionally, a newer car would roll by, its engine purring among the grumble of others. Similarly rebelling against the decay were the few designer stores that were nestled between grease soaked mechanics and discount electrical stores.

Whether the Mafia was still active or not—some say yes, others are unsure—one thing was certain about Sicily. Along with the smell of grease, exhaust and pollution the air was permeated with the slippery scent of corruption. It seemed to me that in Sicily everything from people to jobs had its price.

Including airconditioners. And from the looks of the banners draped across the shop windows, it was a good price too. I guess that was why they were walking out of the stores quicker than a politician could accept a kickback. Not that I was too surprised. Like Keith and me, the locals were in dire need of some cool air as they nestled in doorways, stood under redundant, slow moving ceiling fans and trudged wearily 311

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along sidewalks on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

After navigating the litter strewn footpaths, Keith and I reached the main square. Adorned with Baroque architecture and a big church, it stood out as one of the more beautiful areas of the city.

“Darren, are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Sure do. According to the map on the flyer the hostel should be on the other side of the square.”

I’d barely finished the sentence when I realised I’d already spent too much time in Italy and Greece because I was beginning to use the word should with reckless abandon. That wasn’t the only thing that concerned me. With all the instructions on the flyer there was no mention of the Market of Death. Not that any written warning was needed because Keith and I smelled it long before we saw it. Before we’d reached even halfway across the square the air began to reek with the pungent odour of rotting fish and the sweet stench of raw meat.

On the other side of the square we found ourselves facing a sunken courtyard, which along with the surrounding alleys was lined with tables that were strewn with fish entrails and carcasses, pigs’ heads and the ubiquitous cows’ horns, while plucked headless chooks hung from the awnings and gently swayed in the breeze.

“Well,” Keith said, “if ever I need a horse’s head for any purpose at least I know where to find one.”

“You’re not wrong.” I looked at the map. “I guess Sicily is the only place where finding a horse’s head would be easier than finding your accommodation. Haven’t we seen this dead cow before?”

Before I go on, and before any Mafia hit men reading this book get a tad bit cranky for misappropriation of facts, I should correct a faux pas I made in the previous statement.

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Those lovely people in the Mafia would never dream of using a horse head as an item to threaten their victims. Apart from the fact that horses are lovely creatures, I imagine carrying around a horse’s head would make any person highly conspicuous and draw unwarranted attention. Not something Mafia hit men really want since they pride themselves on secrecy. Instead, the preferred animal the Mafia choose are fish. It’s not that fish can be stuck down your pants any easier than a horse’s head, but that the Mafia believed that fish, being underwater as opposed to horses being on land, don’t talk. (Hey, we’ve all seen Mr. Ed, right?) This meant that if a person found a fish in their bed they had better be careful because if they weren’t they would not only be as dumb as a fish, but swimming with them also.

Not that we were busily focusing on Mafia hit men scare tactics. We had other things to worry about, like finding our hostel for instance. We knew we were close to it, the map said so, but everywhere we turned people distracted us with their yelling, bargaining or chatting, causing us to walk around in endless circles. It wasn’t just the confusion that spread throughout the square that was disorientating, but it seemed whichever way we went we came face to face with a dead cow, a bloated eviscerated pig and an overweight butcher/Mafia hit man splattered with blood, waving a cleaver and shouting in our direction. We had two options. Comply: “Mmm, I haven’t tried that part of the sheep, but for you, sir, I’ll give it a go.

Please don’t kill me.” Or walk away quickly, pretending not to hear, whistling nonchalantly.

We chose the latter option. And if hadn’t been for some helpful locals, we’d have wandered well past nightfall in our search for the hostel, or more than likely ended up on the menu ourselves—backpacker stew seasoned with sheep’s dangly bits.

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Locating the hostel was hard enough; finding Information was near impossible. According to the map we were given at the hostel it was located directly opposite a park near the centre of town. We walked around the park, through the park, circled back in a different direction, all to no avail. Finally, after some ten or more laps we somehow stumbled across it, and I asked the lady behind the desk how to get to Mt Etna.

“If you take this leaflet to their office and book you will get fifty percent off price,” she responded without hesitation.

Keith and I raised our eyebrows and shared a sceptical expression.

“Here, I will show you where you go.” On the map I was carrying she drew a thick black circle where the office was located.

It was just as hard to find as Information itself. Even harder.

When we finally did locate the relevant street we couldn’t find the office because there was none. In its place was a cobbler cum locksmith.

“Fantastic!” Keith said.

“Sure is.” I studied the map, more confused than ever.

“I guess we could try the train station,” Keith suggested.

“Besides, I need to find out about trains to Brindisi.”

At the train station we were promptly directed across the road to bus information. One problem solved, another to go.

“Could you please tell me how I get to Brindisi?” Keith asked.

“Where?” the lady answered.

“Brindisi.”

“Where?” she repeated, this time louder and with more irritation.

“Brindisi,” Keith said again, also louder and with more irritation.

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“Where?”

This went on for at least five minutes. I watched as raised voices turned into shouting, abusive language, name calling, threats, pounding of fists against tables, all of which culminated in a thrown chair. As she picked up the water cooler and aimed it in our direction it suddenly dawned on her where Keith needed to go.

“Oh, Brindisi.” Her voice became soft and silky.

“Yes.” Keith sighed, his fists clenched and his face the colour of a tomato. “Brindisi.”

“No, Brindisi.”

Keith decided he could save himself further aggravation and not have his head spontaneously explode if he just nodded. It was not Brindisi, but Breendisi.

She handed him the instructions then went out for a cigarette.

Keith stared at the piece of paper long and hard.

“Can you figure these out, Darren?”

On the piece of paper were names, numbers, a few diagrams, a recipe for disaster and what looked like a quantum mechanics equation.

“Are you sure this is not the formula for time travel?”

“I’m going to ask her again,” Keith said as I gave the paper back to him.

“Are you sure? She scares me.”

“What choice do I have?”

When the woman came back she found Keith still standing there and me quivering behind a chair.

“Could you explain these instructions again?” I noticed a faint tremble in his voice.

Snatching the piece of paper from him the woman vigorously tapped it with her finger, thumped her foot and scolded at us 315

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in Italian before stomping back outside for another cigarette.

“I think that means you have to carry the one,” I said to Keith.

“Let’s go to the bus station, Darren.”

The bus to Mt Etna left early the next morning and Keith and I made sure we were on it. It wasn’t long before Mt Etna came into view and with an endless plume of vapour pouring from the main crater we could see why it is considered to be one of the most active volcanoes in the world.

From the amount of devastation, ash and soot left over from the 1999 eruption it would be easy to assume Etna is volatile and that people must be bloody nuts walking up its sides and living around its base. But, like every dog owner says, its bark is worst than its bite. In over two thousand years of recorded history only seventy-seven people have been killed by Mt Etna. That’s why, for the most part, when Etna is simmering quietly the slopes of the mountain are usually carpeted with towering oaks, pine and birch trees and filled with an abundance of animals such as snakes, lizards, foxes, squirrels and even the occasional wild cat.

The bus arrived at a makeshift camp where cafes, Information and souvenir shops appeared between the carcasses of other buildings that had been buried by the 1999 eruption.

“You going up the rest of the way?” Keith asked.

“You bet.”

Before the eruption, “going up the rest of the way” involved nothing simpler than catching a chairlift that served as a ski lift during winter. Since these had been destroyed the only way up was either to walk or catch a four wheel drive.

Keith and I chose the latter.

Like Santorini, the black barren sides of the mountain were 316

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strewn with ripples of iron oxide and sulfur, and plagued by copious numbers of beetles, butterflies and spiders eager to get in our face, nose and ears.

“That was pretty cool,” I said to Keith as we climbed back into the four wheel drive.

“I have to agree, Darren—” “But—?”

“It’s just that I wanted to see some lava.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I wanted to check out the main vent at the top. That would’ve been so cool.”

“You’re right, but they probably don’t want anyone falling in.”

“No doubt. You hungry?”

At one of the few cafes back at the camp I ordered some Arachini—a parcel of rice wrapped around a savoury mince mix, peas and carrots—and sat down at a nearby table, expecting Keith to be right behind me. He was still at the counter.

“Could I please have some Bruschetta?”

“What?” the lady asked.

“Bruschetta,” Keith repeated.

The lady replied with a bit more irritation, “What?”

Keith looked at me and rolled his eyes, deciding it would be safer for his sanity if he just pointed to what he wanted.

When he joined me at the table he shook his head and said, “Honestly, Darren, ordering food in this country is bloody insane!”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I smiled. “But it’s the Italian way, so you might as well just accept it.”

“Or else?” He looked at me.

“Or else it’ll drive you barmy!”

“Barmy?”

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I’d forgotten Keith was Canadian. “Barmy in Oz-land means crazy.”

We’d both seen what we came to see so the next day Keith left for Brindisi—so he hoped—and I to Palermo.

Halfway through my journey a lady sat down next to the bus driver and started chatting. Whatever she was talking about required hand actions, extremely frenetic, techno style hand actions. The bus driver responded in kind and whatever he was saying also required rapid hand movements. I wondered, since both his hands were otherwise occupied, who was driving the bus. Obviously not him. None of the other passengers seemed the least bit concerned that the bus was slowly making its way towards the ravine at the side of the road. Neither were any of the other drivers on the road showing concern. And why should they, since they were doing the same thing.

I closed my eyes and began to think blissful thoughts.

While most thoughts were focused on the trip to come, I couldn’t help my mind drifting over the trip that could have been.

In London I’d noticed advertisements for Malta on the Tube and in travel sections of various papers and decided it was a place I wanted to go. I’d heard countless good things about it—its lively atmosphere and great beaches—and judging by the pictures I’d seen it looked like a great place to spend a week or two, munching on all the pastitsios I could get my hands on. So I’d made a promise to myself that before I returned to Australia I would visit Malta.

But I did not keep that promise and instead visited places 318

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like New York and Spain. My fear of running out of money made me cancel Malta at the last minute and it was a decision I still regret because looking back there was more than enough money in my account to cover not only Malta, but other places like Dresden. Damn hindsight and its 20/20 vision!

Thoughts of Malta were interrupted when the bus, cut off by a car, began to veer onto the median strip. This was of little concern to the bus driver who was too busy sharing a giggle with his female companion.

Instead of focusing on what looked like my impending death, I happily returned to thinking about my trip and decided that of all the places I’d visited, Sicily was the place where I’d experienced the most culture shock. Well, how many places can you count that are without a McDonald’s or a KFC? Then again, in a place like Sicily where the food has so much flavour McDonald’s would probably go out of business.

Added to this was the fact that very few people in Sicily spoke English, and those that do intersperse it with snippets of Italian. This can make simple acts of getting information on how to get to places like Mt Etna and Brindisi quite trying to say the least. So trust me when I say that if you go to Sicily it won’t take you long to start waving your hands about erratically, slapping your forehead in frustration and using four letter words that mothers the world over frown upon.

Not that you can blame Sicilians for their pride because they have, after all, been through so much, and in the case of their traditional language—Sicilian—there is still a fair way to go.

Even the Bible, the world’s most widely published book, has never been translated into Sicilian because it is not considered a formal language. Though the Mafia used the language often, it did so not for sentimental reasons, but because so few could decipher it, making it a near unbreakable code.

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And there I go again, going on about the Mafia. But you really can’t talk about Sicily without mentioning the Mafia, no more than you can talk about Superman without mentioning how he wears his undies on the outside.

All in all, Sicily is a place of endless history and culture, complete with pizza-wielding ninjas, plenty of political intrigue, medieval towns and beautiful golden beaches. I was amazed at what I’d experienced, which was only part of the growing feeling of admiration I felt about Italy thus far.

I’d seen a city on water, a city so spectacular it defied description and now I’d set foot on a highly active volcano.

Italy was a country that was as varied as it was beautiful, and while I did not know what more to expect, I knew it would blow my mind and I would love it.

I was right on both accounts.

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The ferry from Sicily arrived into Naples shortly before six in the morning. The bus to Sorrento was not due to arrive until midday, meaning I had the whole morning at my disposal.

I’d planned to spend it strolling through Naples, see what there was to see and enjoy a gelato or two. But to do all that meant I needed to find somewhere to store my backpack.

After twenty minutes of aimlessly roaming the streets I was unable to find any place that remotely resembled ‘left luggage’ and decided to cut my losses and return to the port. Therein lay the problem, however, because while the streets surrounding the port were nowhere near as confusing as Venetian streets they were still about as organised as a ball of old Christmas lights. You will recall I’d had enough trouble differentiating between towns with dissimilar names, so it should come as no surprise that after a couple of turns I found myself down a back alley facing a brick wall.

Unperturbed, I did an about-face only to find my way blocked by a Rottweiler the size of a small dinosaur. Now, I do consider myself quite a dog lover and have the utmost respect for them, especially when some have the inane ability to see me not as a human, but as a tasty chew toy. Staring at the dogcum-dinosaur I noticed that clasped between its great jaws was what appeared to be a person’s arm. An arm that still had wrapped in its fingers the tattered remains of a travel guide.

The dog placed the arm carefully on the ground and took

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a step forward.

“N-N-Nice puppy,” I managed.

I took a step backwards. Then another and another, until soon there was nowhere else for me to go. My canine friend had used the dead end—an appropriate term if ever there was one—to his advantage and the satisfaction in his eyes was unmistakeable. By now, I could see the epitaph on my tombstone: “Here lies Darren Assey. Great Son, Good Friend, Fantastic Dog Food.”

With my canine pal getting ready to pounce and my knees knocking out pulsating Latin rhythms, there was nothing else for me to do but close my eyes and wait for the end.

When nothing happened I slowly opened my eyes and saw that the dog’s attention was occupied elsewhere. From a nearby building a man who I presumed was the dog’s owner appeared, dragging behind him a deep trough filled with chunks of disembowelled flesh. Emblazoned on the side of the trough was a picture of the dog alongside the name Mr Cuddles. Mr Cuddles continued to study me with hungry eyes then after a moment’s hesitation, galloped over to his owner.

After stroking the dog behind its ears the owner glared at me as if saying, “I hope you did not bother Mr Cuddles because if you did …” his gaze drifted down to the trough. Not waiting to become dessert, I hightailed it out of there.

A few streets over I stumbled onto what I’d been looking for ever since I’d left Venice—a barber. More out of necessity than whim—I was beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to the dog from the Dulux commercial with each passing day—I entered the shop and was met by a man whose face was creased from years of experience. He smiled and gestured for me to sit.

I pointed to a few styles on the wall that came close to 322

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resembling how I usually wear my hair. He nodded knowingly and smiled a grandfather smile before he silently set to work.

I sat back and watched with wonder as he guided his scissors over my head with speed and precision, trimming, chopping and slicing at every opportunity. At one point the blades moved so fast that they were a blur and I swear I was about to lose an ear.

In less than ten minutes what could’ve been a complete shemozzle turned out to be one of the best haircuts ever.

Whether it actually looked good on me is another story altogether and something I refuse to comment on.

I returned to the port and spent the rest of the morning sitting in the shade counting the taxis that came and went, taking in the fresh nautical air—a mixture of brine, smog and boat fuel—and watching a guy try to sell Rolex watches to everybody within a hundred metre radius.

By midday I’d grown a layer of dust, pigeons were shitting on my shoulders and people were pointing and saying, “What is a fantastic haircut like that doing on such an ugly statue?”

Thankfully, my descent into boredom—and insanity—was halted when I became surrounded by a horde of gabby American tourists. One of the ladies was studying an information leaflet when suddenly her face flooded with uncertainty.

“Trudy?”

Trudy looked up from what she was doing. “Yes, Holly?”

“It says here that Castle Nuovo is opposite the port. Which building do you think is the castle? The building on top of the hill or the one directly in front of us?”

The building “opposite the port” had circular towers, turrets, arched windows, a keep and even a drawbridge. The building on top of the hill was slightly different. Opulent in the true sense of the word, it was adorned with grand balustrades, 323

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jutting windowsills and Baroque cornices. Considering it was the presidential palace I was not in the least bit surprised it was so impressive.

Trudy studied both buildings for what seemed like an eternity before she finally answered, “You know, I’m not too sure. At a guess I would say the castle is the building in front of us, but don’t take my word for it. We’d better ask the guide.”

“And another thing, Holly?”

“What’s that?”

“Are we in Naples or Napoli?”

I prayed that the judgment of Darwin would come sooner rather than later.

It was near one o’clock when the bus arrived. I strolled over and joined a girl who I’d seen on the ferry earlier that morning.

Her short blonde hair was being tossed by the wind.

“Where were you hangin’ all morning?” she asked me.

I pointed to the taxi rank. “Over there.”

“Fuck that for a joke! Didn’t you know there’s a place at the end of the port you could leave your luggage?”

I had to smile. Usually when people meet each other for the first time they’re guarded. Not this girl. She had a ‘this is me, like it or lump it’ attitude, which was refreshing. I knew exactly where I stood.

“I do now. I’m Darren, by the way.”

“Julia.”

The bus took us out of Naples and towards the Amalfi Coast.

A coast known the world over for its ruggedness and extreme beauty. I stared in silent admiration as the cliffs rose steeply on one side of the road and plunged unforgivingly into the clear turquoise water of the Mediterranean on the other.

This was Italy’s version of paradise and at its heart was Sorrento.

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A heart that was barely beating when we arrived; siesta had made sure of that. While most of the shops were closed the few that were open were still interesting enough to warrant the attention of Julia, Valerie and myself. Out the front of these stores were bottles of various shapes and sizes, all of which were filled with Limoncello, a lemon flavoured liqueur.

Valerie picked up a fluted bottle and showed it to me. “I haven’t seen this type of Limoncello before.” Instead of the typical bright yellow colour the contents were a distinct coffee hue.

“Neither have I.” I handed the bottle back to her.

“Hey, have a look at this,” Julia said, waving us over. In her hands was a cylindrical bottle the exact shape of which I recognised as I got closer.

“Julia, put the penis down.” I shook my head.

She picked up another bottle, this time in the shape of a naked man.

“Look at the size of his doodle.” Julia laughed. Valerie took Julia’s advice and had a closer look.

I chose not to and decided to see about getting us some free samples. Of the two flavours, the three of us preferred the coffee variety. It not only looked and tasted like coffee, but also had a pleasant lemon aftertaste.

“What now?” Valerie asked.

“Gelato?” Julia suggested.

When Valerie’s eyes lit up I instantly knew she was a gelatoholic and, like me, had become obsessed with the stuff.

We hoped the shops would show signs of life by the time we’d finished our gelato, but no such luck. After another stroll through the town and some more free samples of Limoncello we voted to go back to our campsite.

I was sitting at one of the picnic tables at the centre of our 325

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group of tents, busily writing in my travel journal when I heard someone walk up behind me and say, “We heard about you, Daz!” I didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. Shannon, Danielle and Ari sat down around me with wry smiles on their lips.

“What do you mean you heard about me, Shannon?”

“How did you like Sicily, Dazzler?” she teased. “Find your way around okay?”

Great. My lack of direction was now as famous as my clumsiness.

“Oh, you heard about that?”

“Yes. Yes we did,” Ari answered. “Not that we were surprised, of course. In fact, we wouldn’t expect anything less from you. So, tell us, what happened?”

“How long have you got?”

The whole evening, apparently.

The next morning at breakfast Valerie and I were discussing plans for the day when Julia walked over.

“Morning, guys.”

“Morning, Jules,” I replied and once she’d made herself comfortable asked, “Tell me something, Julia. Do you usually like to use the boys’ showers or were you just having a blonde moment?”

“How was I supposed to know there are separate showers?

I thought it was all unisex.”

Before I could say anything Valerie jumped in. “Sure, Julia, a likely excuse.”

“See anything interesting?” I asked.

“Nothing to have a cold shower about,” she responded, winking in my direction. Valerie laughed.

“You’re a riot, Jules.” I looked at Valerie, shaking my head.

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“I try.” She returned to the tent to collect her daypack.

Shortly after nine o’clock Julia, Valerie and I joined up with six others at the camp’s entrance and our group of nine made tracks for the train station. While big groups are great for going out to places like restaurants and bars, when it comes to making small decisions, like catching a train for example, they’re usually more trouble than they’re worth. In this case, our decision-making skills were akin to bureaucratic red tape—a lot was said, but nothing happened.

Two trains were waiting at the platform and after all the relevant enquiries were made it became clear that the train at the far platform would be the first one to depart. There were two ways to get to it. We could either walk around the buffers at the end or use the overhead walkway. In theory, the decision should have been simple; just pick whichever route was the quickest and use it. But that was too easy and any logic our group could’ve used went out the window. After spending an immeasurable amount of time discussing the problem, writing reports, conducting surveys and checking horoscopes, we decided to agree to disagree and get to the far platform whichever way each person wanted. Not that it mattered because in the end we arrived in time to watch the doors close and the train pull away.

Thankfully, when it came to choosing a guide to lead us around Pompeii the nine of us were much more organised.

Loitering at the entrance were tour guides for hire, and while in other countries prices are fixed, at Pompeii they’re negotiable.

So while some of us stood in line to buy tickets, others haggled for the services of a guide. After ten minutes of bargaining we found a guide who was willing to do the job for a reasonable eight euros each.

Pompeii was nothing like I expected. A couple of ruins, the 327

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occasional bit of pottery and even a petrified body or two was what I’d anticipated. Not for one second did I think I would be walking through an almost intact Roman town, perusing ancient streets, passing through perfectly preserved buildings and admiring mosaics that are over two thousand years old.

While most of us were happy to let our guide lead us through the streets of Pompeii, Julia wasn’t. She had one single destination in mind and wanted to get there as soon as possible.

It seemed each time we passed another ancient building or monument of significance, Julia would announce her desire to get to the brothel.

“Julia,” I said finally, “what’s so special about the brothel?”

It was a question I never expected to hear myself ask.

“You don’t know?”

“No, not really.”

“The mosaics, Daz. They’re supposed to be really well preserved and give guys clues on where to put ‘It’.”

I was speechless. Here we were at arguably one of the greatest archaeological finds in the world and all Julia could think about was ancient Roman porn. But as the tour progressed Julia’s enthusiasm penetrated the rest of us, and by the time we’d visited more villas, admired an amphitheatre, checked out a bakery complete with petrified bread, we too were keen to scope out the brothel.

Even without a guide, locating the brothel in the maze of unmarked streets would have been easy. All we had to do was walk in the direction that was indicated by the phallic-shaped signs carved into the road.

Getting there was easy enough, getting in was another matter altogether. From the crowds that had congregated outside, it was obvious we weren’t the only ones eager to have a squiz at how the Romans got freaky. It seemed the brothel 328

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was one of the most popular places in the city. Not surprising, since it was one of the few places in Pompeii where you were guaranteed a good time.

After thoroughly studying the Roman version of Joy of Sex that was plastered along the brothel walls, we joined our guide out the front and followed him to what served as the Roman equivalent of a fast food restaurant. To be honest, I really was not paying much attention until our guide mentioned Lemon Granita. When I heard this I did a double take and mouthed the words, “What the?” If you’ve ever eaten a Lemon Granita—and for those who haven’t, you’re missing out—you know you need two things (besides lemons, of course). One, ice shavings, and two, electricity to prevent the ice from melting. I’m no historian, but I was fairly sure that electricity and freezers weren’t around in Roman times. But who needs electricity and freezers when you’ve got snow? During winter the Romans would harvest the snow, mix it with lemon juice and then bury it underground. Acting as insulation, the soil prevented the mixture from melting and when summer arrived the required amount of snow—or as it was by then, Lemon Granita—would be dug up and served.

It was well after lunch when the tour ended and while Julia, Valerie and I wanted to continue on to Herculaneum—the other town buried by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius—the heat and sun had taken its toll and we decided to call it a day and train it back to Sorrento. Once there, we weren’t in too much of a hurry to get back to the campsite, at least not without our daily dose of gelato.

After our required two scoops, we walked to the bus stop.

“Fuck this for a joke,” I said after no bus had come after thirty minutes of waiting. “I’m gonna walk.”

“Walk?” Julia grabbed my arm. “Are you nuts?”

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“Yeah, hang on a sec, Darren,” Valerie said. “Let’s catch the bus on the other side of the road. The route is probably nothing but a big loop anyway.”

A loop that resembled a straight line and took us completely in the wrong direction. This was cause for concern until we realised there were more important things to worry about. Like reaching our destination—wherever that turned out to be—in one piece.

Our bus driver was too busy chatting up a lady passenger to worry about silly things like keeping the bus in a straight line, out of the way of oncoming traffic and making sure it did not topple over the cliff edge. An edge that drew closer with every passing minute. With one hand on the wheel and the other on the small of her back, his mind was obviously on other things.

We got off at a beach and being the optimists that we were, assumed all we had to do to rectify the problem was catch a bus going in the other direction to Sorrento. But this was Italy where nothing was ever that logical.

The next bus drove us away from the beach and then promptly stopped at a nearby train station. Instead of going any further the driver kicked everyone off, parked and locked the bus, crossed the street and boarded a train for Sorrento.

This left us with very little option but to do the same and when we finally got back to Sorrento, the girls this time decided to take up my suggestion and walk.

Well, I wasn’t going to risk being late for Ari’s birthday bash, now was I? Not that I needed to worry because I had more than enough time to shower and buy some supplies— read here: bottles of cheap yet fantastic tasting Italian wine— and meet up with Shannon, Danielle and Ari. From what I recall, the evening started with some decorum.

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Quiet drinks and sensible conversation, talk of Capri, Amalfi, Positano and Sydney, which descended into talk of embarrassing moments, pedicures, food, make-up, embarrassing moments involving food. Then everything after that is kind of blurry.

My thoughts—and my vision—were just as blurry the following morning. I could barely focus on my alarm clock, which was making so much noise I’m sure it could be heard in Bolivia. I know what ya’ll are thinking. Why the hell did I set my alarm? Well, unlike Julia, Shannon, Danielle and Ari, who were leaving Sorrento and travelling north later that day, I’d made plans with Valerie to visit the Isle of Capri. It was bad enough having to get up early; it was worse when I remembered that to get to Capri I had to catch a boat. Not something I wanted to do in my delicate condition.

I stumbled out of my tent and found Valerie sitting at one of the picnic tables.

“Big night, Darren?”

“Huge.” I’d been reduced to monosyllables.

“Not feeling too well, I take it?”

“Nope.”

“Well, no pity for the self-inflicted.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“So c’mon, get your stuff and let’s go catch our boat.”

I could only groan my reply as my stomach decided this was the perfect moment to demonstrate its agility in high impact aerobics.

Thankfully, by the time we were approaching Capri my stomach had settled down and the sea air had cleared my head, allowing me to fully appreciate the jagged cliffs, windswept trees and precarious rock formations that characterised the island’s coastline.

Instead of following every tourist and their camera to 331

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Capri, we caught the bus to Ana Capri, the highest town on the island. On the whole, there was nothing all that special about it. Apart from the breathtaking view of the whole island, it reminded me of the countless small towns I’d been to on the Greek Islands, with its whitewashed houses, cobblestone laneways and small quaint churches.

The town of Capri on the other hand, while retaining the charm of Ana Capri, was worlds apart. Capri was filled with five-star hotels, opulent cafes, fancy restaurants and a seemingly endless supply of designer boutiques where prices were so high I swear I heard credit cards everywhere begging for mercy. It was obvious that finding something cheap and cheerful to eat was going to be like trying to find an Italian driver who knew what an indicator was—near impossible.

But we tried and in the end our perseverance was rewarded when we found a small bakery in a tiny alcove just off the main square where the food was not only delicious but tasted like it cost ten times the amount we paid for it.

“What now?” I asked as I gobbled down my last slice of pizza.

“We could shop,” Valerie suggested.

“We could,” I said, “but I don’t think we meet the dress code. I’d be too afraid to dirty the floor.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Valerie agreed. “Plus looking at stuff I can’t afford only makes me depressed.”

“So we head back to the port.”

“I guess.”

At the port there was still a couple of hours left before our ferry returned to pick us up, so Valerie and I did what every Italian seemed to be doing at this point of the day—we found a bit of shade and enjoyed a siesta.

We were woken up by the cheerful voices of Regina, 332

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Kathleen and Linda. The three of them were in the middle of a serious discussion. The topic being gelato.

“Which place do you guys reckon has the best?” Kathleen asked, her brown eyes looking earnest.

“Venice,” Valerie answered.

“Rome, without a doubt,” I said.

“I would have to say Naxos.”

“Naxos? As in the Greek island?” I was befuddled.

“Yes, Naxos,” Kathleen repeated.

Then it clicked. “Oh, you mean the place with the waffles.”

“That’s the one. You’ve been there, Darren?”

“How could I resist?”

“Tell me, how good was it?”

All I could do was let out a sigh of satisfaction and contentment.

“Was it really that good?” Valerie asked, intrigued.

“Better,” Regina said as her tongue flicked out and licked her lips.

“I don’t know what the people in the next rooms must’ve been thinking when we ate ours,” Kathleen said.

“Yeah,” Linda said, laughing, “we were groaning so much they must’ve thought we were in the middle of a lesbian orgy.”

By three, the five of us had wandered down to the concrete platform, which doubled as a jetty, only to realise our ferry was nowhere to be seen. Instead, reversing into the dock was a small cruiser with a family on board.

With expressions of mild amusement, we watched as the father of the family ‘secured’ the boat by placing one foot firmly on the concrete platform while keeping the other firmly planted on the stern of the boat. He then gestured to his family 333

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that they could all disembark safely.

Our looks of amusement quickly turned to looks of horror as the gap between the platform and the stern of the boat steadily increased. The father was soon doing the splits while the rest of the family were taking leaps of faith and kissing the ground once they’d landed. No wonder sharks were lurking and a priest was busily performing the last rites.

It was a relief to see that when our ferry arrived the crew remembered the gangway. Okay, it was just a piece of wood, but it was a gangway nonetheless.

Instead of sailing directly back to the campsite the boat took us on a circuit of the island. Along with the shopping, views of the Bay of Naples and the Sorrentine Peninsula from Ana Capri—one of the more famous sights of the island—the grottos situated around the coast are a great tourist attraction.

I don’t know why. Except for the blue grotto, the others left a lot to be desired. The first one, the green grotto, was nothing more than a small archway that reflected the green colour of the water against its walls. At least the white grotto was bigger and more interesting with its stalactites dripping off the ceiling. Even then, if not for the afternoon sun refracting off the water’s surface and throwing up dancing colours against its walls, the grotto would have been nothing more than a water-worn archway.

Despite all this, when the ferry arrived at the blue grotto everyone clamoured for their cameras. From the outside, it looked like a mere hole in the rock face, not worth a second glance.

Our ferry dropped anchor about six metres from the entrance and we shuffled to one side of the boat where a ladder was being lowered into the water. The only way to truly appreciate the blue grotto—apart from swimming into it—was 334

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from a rowboat. Getting from our ferry into the tiny leaky boat filled me with a dread I simply cannot describe. One wrong step, a breath out of time, a look in the wrong direction and I knew it would be all over. It was a minor miracle I actually got in the boat and managed to stay dry, and a major miracle the boat was still afloat once another five people got in.

And that’s not counting our oarsman.

He lumbered into the boat with all the elegance and grace of a hippopotamus and as he did so, filled it with so much water that fish eagerly began taking up residence around my ankles. This didn’t seem to bother him as he picked up the oar and began to row us in the direction of the blue grotto.

Drawing closer, I noticed another boatload of people about to exit and I was not the least bit surprised when both oarsmen did not wait for the other to go through, expecting their boats to comfortably slide through the entrance at the same time.

Needless to say, within moments we were stuck.

To rectify the problem the oarsmen yelled at each other, waved their hands about and slapped their foreheads over and over. And you know what? It worked! Don’t ask me how because it defied all logic, but within minutes our small boat came unstuck and sailed into the cobalt gloom of the blue grotto.

It was only when I glanced back from where we’d entered and was immediately captivated by the colour of the water that it all fell into place. Backlit by the afternoon sun that cascaded through the entrance, the water took on the consistency of liquid topaz and an iridescent quality that shimmered along the walls and filled the grotto with an atmosphere of tranquillity.

Unfortunately, we were not given the chance to fully soak in the grotto’s ambience because the quiet was quickly shattered by our oarsman who without any prompting on our part began 335

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to serenade us with his nails-down-a-chalkboard rendition of some Italian opera. Although, considering the amount of water we’d taken on board, maybe we were sinking and he was calling for help.

Apart from the singing—and I use that term loosely—the grotto had a soothing atmosphere that I’d experienced only in places like the highlands of Scotland and the mountains of Austria. A good thing too. After the stress of getting into and out of the rowboat, enduring a grown man try to sing and pass it off as opera and watching sea life build their homes in and around my legs, I needed all the serenity I could get my hands on.

Valerie and I started our last day in Sorrento at a cafe for breakfast. As we entered, we instinctively looked over at the gelato counter. It was eight in the morning.

“Don’t you think it might be a bit early for gelato, Val?” I asked.

“Are you sure, Darren?”

“No.” Ahead of us at the bakery counter were three girls busily giving the guy serving them a hard time. Apparently, he’d asked them to pay first, which is the custom in Italy. They refused, telling him that they didn’t know what they wanted, so how could they possibly pay first? The guy decided to save himself the aggravation and asked them what they wanted and they each reeled off their respective orders in quick succession.

I whispered to Valerie, “For people who didn’t know what they wanted they ordered pretty quick.”

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“You’re telling me. A few words in Italian would not have gone astray either.”

“Yeah, I know. How rude were they?”

It always got me about some tourists. Wherever I went in Europe, there were always those who expected everything to be done exactly the same way as at home, whether it was the language or the customs. No effort would be made to try and embrace the culture of the country they were in. And since so many European languages aren’t too far removed from English, I thought more people would’ve bothered.

We caught the bus to Amalfi, which is situated almost at the centre of the coastline that proudly boasts its name and is known for its porcelain and for being one of the oldest of the Maritime Republics. The town itself is ruggedly enchanting with its snaking alleyways, covered passageways and countless cosy squares. It was the perfect place to spend an hour or two.

You wouldn’t want to spend more time there, however, because you might end up missing out on Positano, a town which captured our imaginations as well as our hearts. The word charm doesn’t do the town justice. It’s a lot more than that. Quiet and quaint, with an atmosphere so laid-back that it seeps into your pores and massages your worries away. It was not only this that had us cooing. Apart from the fact that each house is painted in a different yet vibrant colour, it seemed that every wall, covered walkway and terrace was plastered in luxuriant blooms of creeping bougainvilleas. And, as if that wasn’t enough, in the middle of the town square was a cart that Shannon, Danielle and Ari had talked about at length.

We understood why once we sampled its Lemon Granitas, easily the best both of us had tasted. And on a day when the thermometer was waving the white flag and talking about early 337

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retirement, it was definitely a welcome refreshment.

It was time for siesta when we arrived back at the campsite, and while Valerie went to the pool to have hers I returned to my tent for mine.

“What do you wanna do, Daz?” Valerie asked when she returned later to find me catching up on my journal entries.

“Why don’t we go into town with the others?”

“Why not.”

Compared to the relaxed, lazy atmosphere of the day, Sorrento by night was buzzing. Palm trees were lit up with different colours and the main street was closed off to cars and packed with pedestrians. Stores we never knew existed or thought were deserted were now open and the noise and chatter coming from the bars and restaurants was barely contained.

Of course, the last night called for that last Sorrento gelato.

“You do realise we only have six gelato days left, don’t you, Val?” “Don’t remind me. I’m in denial.”

Kind of like me. But in my case it was not just the gelato, but also where I was. Overlooking the lights of Sorrento, I understood why people go on at length about the Amalfi coast.

It wasn’t just the houses perched on the cliff sides, the lemon groves that scaled the landscape, the pristine blue water or even the remarkable view. There was something different about this part of the world. Something that keeps you coming back for more.

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21

Movin’ On Up

“Don’t piss me off, Malcolm!” the girl screamed.

“What’s your bloody problem? I’m not doing anything.”

“Oh yes you are. Now don’t fucking argue, get outside and bring in our clothes.”

“God, you’re always shitty in the morning.”

“Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Ever since Rome you’ve never been in the mood.”

The digits on my watch had barely flipped to 8 AM. I burrowed further under the sheet and tried to get back to sleep. I wasn’t due to leave Sorrento until later that day and wanted a bit more of a lie in. It was not to be.

“Well, I think maybe my mood would change if you helped a little now and then.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Malcolm. You’re fucking lazy!”

“We’re on a bloody holiday, for fuck’s sake. God, you’re a pain in the arse!”

This comment was met with silence. And it was not a comfortable silence either. It’s the sort of silence that comes right after you crash your father’s car into the mailbox that came out of nowhere, and you realise that you are well and truly up shit creek without a paddle. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Suddenly, Malcolm’s girlfriend let loose with a string of names, all of which I can’t print here for fear of censorship.

Then there was a resounding thump that was followed by a deathly stillness. Even the usual early morning birds had stopped twittering.

I came up with a number of reasonable explanations for the cause of that thump. Maybe the boyfriend had left in a huff and he’d kicked his bed in frustration on the way out. Maybe it was nothing more than a backpack being dropped on the floor.

These were both valid reasons, but the conspiracy theorist in me decided to go with option three—the girl had gone all Lara Croft and killed her boyfriend with a swift roundhouse kick to the head.

I jumped out of bed, grabbed my towel and peered outside.

No one else was around. I took a deep breath and slowly tiptoed past the couple’s tent to the showers, careful not to make the slightest noise. The last thing I wanted was to alert the girl next door of my presence because as any murderer knows, witnesses are not good for business.

By the time I’d returned to my tent there was no trace of the body and the tent next door was empty.

Somewhat relieved, I finished packing, checked out and returned to Sorrento for one last look.

It was a little past noon when I got back to the campsite and found Regina, Kathleen and Linda relaxing under the shade of some trees.

As I got within earshot I learnt they were once again embroiled in a fierce discussion about gelato. If only Valerie was here, I thought. But she’d left early that morning on the first train.

“Darren will agree with me,” Kathleen said, meeting my

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eyes.

“What am I agreeing to, Kath?” I sat down beside them.

“These girls think my obsession with gelato is unhealthy.”

“Hang on a sec.” I turned to Regina and Linda. “Don’t you guys like gelato?”

“Yeah, we do, but Kath here is obsessed. We’re trying to tell her that eating too much is bad for her.”

“No, it’s not. Who told you that?”

“See!” Kathleen crossed her arms triumphantly.

“Okay, so it may not be unhealthy, but it’s definitely fattening.”

“Don’t be silly, Regina.” I shook my head. “Firstly, gelato as you rightly say is not unhealthy and secondly it’s far from fattening. For the simple reason that it’s not made from cream like ice-cream is, but milk.”

“Really?” Leanne said, not entirely convinced.

Regina’s eyebrows arched suspiciously. “You’re makin’ this up, aren’t you, Darren?”

“Maybe.” I smiled.

“And even if he is,” Kathleen interjected, “it sounds good to me.”

“Of course it would to you, Kath,” Linda said. “You’re nuts about the stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if you go through withdrawals once you leave Italy.”

“I don’t blame her,” I added. “I’m currently on the lookout for a good twelve-step program.”

Regina was about to add further to the conversation when the bus pulled into the campsite. The eleven of us who were leaving Sorrento for Rome picked up our backpacks and were about to walk over to the bus when our guide, Jenna, rushed over.

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“Sorry, guys, you might as well put your backpacks down.

There’s a small problem with the bus.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“It’s leaking oil.”

Terrific. In less than a minute my plans had turned from rock solid to extremely shaky.

“Don’t worry,” Jenna said, pointing to a stocky guy with a crew cut who was tinkering with the engine, “Machine rang the coach company and they said they would call us back and tell us what to do.” She walked back to ‘Machine’ who by that time had been joined by the lanky replacement driver, Brendan.

“What happens if we can’t get to Rome?” Linda asked.

“Yeah, what happens to all our bookings and what not?”

Regina added.

“I suppose we could go into town now and catch the next train to Rome,” Kathleen suggested. “Might be quicker.”

“Whoa, hang on a sec, girls,” I said. “Let’s see if the guys can fix the bus first before we start jumping to conclusions and catching trains.”

“How long do you reckon they’ll take, Darren?” Regina asked.

“Half an hour,” I said with all the confidence of a person who knows absolutely nothing about diesel engines.

Fifteen minutes later Jenna was back. “Hey, grab your stuff.

The boys have fixed the problem so let’s get going.”

The journey was uneventful until we were a few miles out of Rome.

“Oh shit,” Brendan muttered.

“Oh no,” Jenna added.

I looked up from my book and noticed that whatever 342

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measures had been taken at Sorrento to fix the bus had come undone. Apparently, not only was the bus now leaking oil, but the engine had also caught fire!

“Boys and girls,” Jenna said, smiling into the microphone as Brendan pulled over and got out, “you’ve probably noticed we’re having a little technical difficulty so our arrival into Rome may be slightly delayed. The good news is we couldn’t ask for a better place to break down because the campsite is not that far from here.”

Brendan got back on the bus a few minutes later. “The engine’s shot so I’m gonna have to floor it all the way into Rome. Fasten your seat belts, folks, it’s gonna be one helluva ride. Yeeha!”

Everyone except me roared with laughter.

Our bus was frigging on fire and all my bus-mates could do was cackle wildly. Were they all insane? From their raucous cheers I would have to say yes. I’m a pretty laid-back kind of guy, not much troubles me and I usually roll with the punches.

Which is fine since I usually don’t see the punches coming. In this case, not only could I see the punch coming, but also my impending doom.

I could picture it all so clearly: a wayward spark curiously slithers through the fuel intake in its eagerness to see what it can find until it ends up at the fuel tank. With erratic glee it sets about licking the surface of the diesel like a thirsty dog, causing it to erupt in flames, bringing about the beginning of the end. Embracing us like a passionate lover, the fire quickly roars back into the engine and spews into the passenger compartment with uncaged ferocity where the chaos of its scorching heat is reflected in the madness now burning in everyone’s eyes.

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I shook my head. Of all the ways I expected to cark it, getting blown up in a bus on the way to Rome didn’t even rate a mention. But when we became encased in thick acrid smoke, it was an option I began to consider.

We weaved through the traffic and as every motorist we passed stared and pointed, Jenna and Brendan waved back and smiled. Other passengers broke into dance as if death was a DJ and he had all the hottest tunes. I opened my water bottle, closed my eyes and gave in fully to the insanity that had gripped us. If I was going to die I might as well go with a grin on my face.

The bus limped into the campsite amid a cocoon of bitter smoke and the raucous cheers of everyone on board. Grateful to be alive and relieved to have my feet back on solid ground, I stepped off the bus, grabbed my backpack and set off in the direction of my room. It was already open and Julia was busily stuffing clothes into her backpack.

“Hey, Jules.”

She turned to face me. “What the hell happened to your bus?”

“Who knows?” I dropped my pack on the floor. “According to Brendan it was something to do with the turbo. But no need to worry, I’m here now.”

“Oh, good! And here I was planning to wait up for you.”

Julia shook her head.

“I thought you might be.”

“How long are you staying in Rome, Daz?” “Not long.” I plonked down on the bed. “Just tonight. I’m leaving for Florence tomorrow.”

After joining Julia and a few others for a leisurely dinner the two of us returned to our room for an early night.

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She was asleep in no time, but thanks to the stuffiness of the room it was nearly an hour before I finally dropped off, and even then my sleep was not restful.

It was a little after midnight when I woke to our cabin door shaking violently and the door handle pumping vigorously. I remembered what Jenna had told us when we were speeding into Rome.

“People,” she’d warned, “I know it’s hot, but if you’re staying at the campsite I recommend you sleep with the doors and windows locked. There’s been a recent spate of break-ins by a band of gypsies. I’ve heard stories of people waking up to find arms reaching over them for valuables. So be careful.”

I glanced over at Julia. She was dead to the world. I got up to investigate. It could be gypsies, but it could also be a drunk person merely trying to find their room. The handle stopped shaking as I placed my feet on the floor. I leant over and peered out the window and saw a shadowy figure slink into the darkness. I scanned the area for the next couple of minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was at the door.

The night remained silent.

I lay back down, but could not fall back to sleep. My imagination was working overtime. Every time I started to drift off a slight noise would jolt me awake. I would turn to the window, expecting to find a shadowed face inset with a pair of cold calculating eyes ogling me and my belongings with malign intent. I must have finally dozed off in the early hours of the morning because before I knew it the sun was streaming into the cabin and the randy camp peacock was crowing loudly.

Julia was already up and getting ready for a shower.

“Mornin’,” I yawned.

“Morning. Darren, are you going to stay here?”

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“No, I’m headin’ down for a shower.”

“How long will you be?”

“Not long. Say about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, then, you take the key.”

“Done. Oh, and Jules?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you go to the right showers this time. Maybe you’d like some help finding them.”

“Darren,” Julia said, sticking her middle finger up at me, “sit on this and rotate.”

Later, we walked to the beer garden to meet the bus.

“Do we know what’s happening with the bus?” Julia asked.

“Is there one?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Jules,” I answered.

Jessica asked, “If there isn’t, what happens to all our bookings?”

“Why don’t we ask her?” Julia suggested as Jenna walked over. “Hey, Jenna?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“What’s happening with the bus?”

“Well—” As Jenna was about to answer a Contiki coach rolled up behind her. “There’s your answer right there.”

“Oh, great, now we’re on Contiki,” Julia said, looking at me. “And to think of all the shit us Busabouters got last night from the Contiki crew when your bus rolled in practically on fire.”

It was mid-morning when the bus arrived at our scheduled rest stop.

Jenna hopped on the mike. “You’re more than welcome to hang around this bus station, which is as exciting as it sounds, but since we’ll be here for an hour I highly recommend you 346

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bus it,” her gaze shifted from us to the buses on the far side of the station, “to Oriveto, the town on the hill in front of us.

Just bear in mind we need to leave here by eleven-thirty and if you’re not back we’re leavin’ without ya.”

What Jenna failed to mention in her spiel was that to actually get on one of the buses she pointed out we had to fight off the other few hundred tourists who were also clamouring to climb on board.

With all the decorum and poise of a rugby scrum, we pushed, gouged, fought and tickled anyone who got in our way, until with one almighty shove Jessica, Julia and I crammed on board.

By the time the bus closed its doors and we set off up the hill the axles were buckling, arms were stuck out of windows, legs were out of doors, heads were through the roof and I’d gained a better appreciation of the term touchy feely.

I can’t emphasise enough the relief I felt once we reached the town. Not only could I finally breathe again, but once the spots in front of my eyes had cleared I could enjoy unhindered views of Tuscany with its earthy villas, expansive vineyards and lush rolling hills.

Like Ceske Krumlov, Oriveto was captivating and picturesque. Filled with cobbled squares and cosy alleyways that were lined with stucco houses complete with terracotta roofs, small balconies and darkened, shutter-flanked windows, the town was as homely as it was enchanting.

What really stood out was the Duomo in the main square.

Unlike other churches I’d seen, the Duomo had been built using bricks of two colours, one dark and one light, giving the exterior a unique, two-tone striped effect. Unfortunately, the interior was nowhere near as spectacular. Apart from a few 347

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stained glass windows and paintings, the church contained nothing we had not seen before.

The drive from Oriveto to Siena where we stopped for lunch was short and uneventful. By the time Jenna had left for the hostel on foot to drop off the few who were staying in Siena, and returned with those who were leaving, most had finished their Mickey D’s and were already on the bus.

“Shan, we really have got to stop meeting like this,” I said as soon as she got on.

“You’re telling me, Dazzler. So we’re on Contiki, huh?”

“Oh yeah, welcome to the party bus!”

Not that Shannon or the rest of us could enjoy the Contiki bus for very long because before we blinked we’d reached the outskirts of Florence.

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Under a Tuscan Sun

“This place is great,” Julia said to no one in particular.

Julia, Jessica, Shannon and I were at the campsite on the outskirts of Florence. Its roomy cabins and shaded verandas were the perfect place to relax after the relatively short bus ride from Rome.

“And it’s even better now, thanks to that cool change that’s come through,” Jessica added. “The last couple of days have been hell.”

“You’re telling me,” I agreed. My idea of a cool change had changed since I’d arrived in Italy. In Australia a cool change is when the temperature plummets from the high thirties to the low twenties. In Italy a cool change is when the mercury drops from forty-five degrees to a more palatable thirty.

“Italy’s had one of its worst heatwaves in years,” Julia said.

“In Sicily the temperature got to forty-seven some days.”

“Don’t remind me, Jules,” I said.

“Really?” Jessica asked.

Julia was no longer paying attention. From out of nowhere a ginger kitten had appeared and was brushing up against her leg.

“Aww, what’s your name, cutie?” Julia bent down to pick up the kitten.

“Oh look,” Shannon said, “there’s another one.”

A grey spotted kitten with white tufts bounded onto the veranda and glanced up at us with playful eyes. Before we

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could blink it was in Jessica’s lap.

“There’s another one,” Jessica said.

“Where?” I said, turning around.

“Just behind you, Darren.”

Standing at the edge of the veranda was a grey kitten with black stripes. Unlike the others, it stared at us with caution.

I reached out to him. “Hey there, li’l buddy.”

The kitten eyed me with trepidation and took a slow step backwards before scurrying away.

“Good one, Daz,” Shannon teased.

“What?” I protested, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Someone did,” Julia stated dryly.

“What do you mean, Jules?”

“There’s only one reason a kitten would shy away from a human like that.”

“Why?” Jessica asked.

“Mistreatment. Someone’s hurt that cat.”

“Geez, there are some bastards out there,” I spat.

“You’re not wrong, Daz,” Shannon agreed.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Jessica cooed to the purring kitten in her lap, “we won’t hurt ya.”

“You know what we should do?” Shannon said. “We should name these little fellas.”

“Great idea, Shannon,” Jessica agreed.

Staring at the kittens, we mulled over some names.

“How about Garfield for yours, Jules?” I suggested.

“That’s not very original, now, is it, Daz.” “No it’s not,” I agreed, “but—” I stopped as the three girls glared at me and shook their heads in disapproval.

“Okay, okay, I’ll think of something else. But as for the kitten you’re holding, Jess, how about Specks?”

“Now that I like,” she said.

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“I see you guys have met the kittens,” came a familiar voice.

Ari and Danielle had snuck up on their way back from the pool and were leaning against the rail of the veranda.

“Yeah—” Shannon stopped. “Ari, what are you wearin’ on your head?” It was a red lycra swimming cap with a white stripe down the middle. The rule was that everyone using the pool at the camp had to wear one to avoid clogging the filter with hair.

“You look like a Bondi lifesaver,” Shannon continued.

“I’d say he looks like a dag,” Julia added.

“He can wear whatever he wants on his head,” I added, “just as long as he doesn’t pull out the matching budgie smugglers.”

“Now that you mention it …” Ari said, playing with the drawstring of his boardies.

“Step away from that drawstring,” Shannon said.

“And Darren,” Julia warned, “let’s never mention that image ever again.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon gabbing it up and playing with kittens before Shannon, Jessica, Julia and I farewelled Danielle and Ari and got ready for the night ahead.

Our trip to Florence was quicker than I expected and we again aided our driver’s attempt to break the world record for the most people squashed into a city bus. I am pleased to report that the record I helped set in Oriveto was not only broken, but smashed completely.

I stepped off the bus and instantly understood why everyone thinks Florence is the embodiment of the Renaissance and one of the most enticing cities in Italy. The earthy, rustic architecture, typical of the Tuscany region, was full of elegant architraves, sculptured cornices and regal facades. But it wasn’t only the grandiose buildings that stood out; as Danielle 351

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had told us earlier, the shopping wasn’t bad either. A fact that was blatantly obvious as we walked to the restaurant through streets that were lined with an endless supply of shops and boutiques.

“I’m so going to make the most of this meal,” I said once we arrived at the restaurant and were shown to our seats.

“I’m with you, Darren,” Julia agreed.

The meal, of course, started with wine, which was poured into glasses so massive I could’ve used them to start an oceanarium. After a hearty “Cheers” and my first sip, I knew exactly why Tuscan wine is renowned the world over.

“This wine is absolutely amazing,” Shannon said licking her lips and going back for seconds.

“You’re not wrong,” Jessica agreed.

But you can’t have great wine without great food and the food does not get any better than in Florence. A fact proven with the arrival of the entrée—a mixture of bruschetta and chicken liver pâté—which was not simply eaten, but devoured. Both the second course—pasta—and the third course—a choice of chicken or the traditional Florentine Steak—were eaten with similar gusto. Being Italy, three courses were never enough.

When the fourth and final course arrived I began drooling with such fervour that the waiters had to place Wet Floor signs around my ankles. One even offered me a trough as the ice-cream was placed in front of me. Everyone else at the table was beyond full and could barely get through theirs. I on the other hand am a firm believer that no matter how much you eat there is always room for ice-cream.

“My God, I haven’t eaten this much or this well in ages,” Jessica said leaning back in her chair and letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

“You’re telling me,” I agreed. “I couldn’t eat another bite if 352

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you paid me. I’m stuffed to the gills.”

“No room for gelato, Daz?” Julia asked, eyebrows raised.

“I wish, Jules, but no.”

This was a travesty and a sin against the gelato gods.

Florence is a city filled with gelaterias, serving up an endless variety of flavours that were there for one purpose and one purpose only—the empowerment of hips everywhere. On offer was vanilla, vanilla stuffed with profiteroles, the Are You Getting Fat Or Is It Just Your Imagination chocolate, the Reason Diets Were Invented caramel swirl, the You Know You Want It mint magic and the Sex Is A Thing Of The Past double choc.

Salivating like an excited dog and wishing for hollow legs, I was reminded of a passing remark I’d overheard: “If you can only afford one gelato then make sure it’s in Florence. They’re the best in all Italy.” Good thing I was here for another three days.

My attention slowly shifted from the brilliantly lit gelaterias to the brilliantly lit buildings. Like Salzburg, Florence had that relaxed ambience that was perfect for strolling aimlessly.

Especially since the cobbled streets were packed with street performers and artists who were using every available space to peddle their talent or, in some cases, lack thereof. By the time the six of us reached Piazza Del Duomo we could barely walk without bumping into a singer, a painter, a mime, talented dog, hip-hop grandma or guy in a leather jacket trying to pick up girls. We, however, were more interested in the church that stood at the other side of the piazza. The Santa Di Maria Del Fiore is the fourth largest church in the world and even at night time its spires, darkened stained glass windows and Gothic design were an imposing sight.

Similarly impressive was the octagonal building opposite.

The Baptistery is famous not because it is a shrine to the city’s 353

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patron, St John the Baptist, but because its two eastern doors were designed by Michelangelo. Made completely of gold, each door was inlaid with scenes taken from the life of Jesus Christ and are known, predictably, as the Doors of Paradise.

After a few photos we called it a night.

Julia was already on the veranda when I woke the next morning.

“God, I feel like shit,” I commented, taking the seat across from her.

“You’re not the only one.”

“And we didn’t even drink that much last night.”

“You know what I think it is?”

“What?”

“The dinner. This is not a hangover, but a food-over, Daz. It’s been ages since we ate such good food and we’ve made fatty-boom-bahs of ourselves.”

“And from the looks of things, if these kittens aren’t careful they’re going to have the same problem.”

Planted all around the verandas were makeshift saucers of milk.

Jessica stepped onto our veranda. “Hey, Jules, you ready?”

“Yep, let’s go. See you later, Darren.”

“See ya, girls.” I got up and made for the showers.

Later that morning Shannon, Danielle, Ari and I bussed back into the city with the sole intention of taking a squiz at arguably the most famous naked man in the modern world. We stopped off at Piazza Del Duomo on the way. In the light of day 354

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its grey and white patterned walls and stained glass windows were even more spectacular.

Thinking it would be no different to any other church we’d seen, we snapped up some more pictures and continued on to the Accademia.

I was surprised to get there in one piece. For some reason my sense of coordination, of which I have very little to begin with, decided to take a vacation of its own and walking became a challenge to say the least. I was lucky there was no cop on the scene because I would’ve been arrested for either being drunk and disorderly or, at the very least, a public nuisance. And God forbid I’d be asked to touch my nose and walk in a straight line because I would’ve failed.

Walking on the footpath was causing me enough angst, but when Shannon stepped off the pavement to cross a road I knew things were going to take a turn for the worse. I was thirsty so before following her across the road I removed my bottle of water from my bag and unscrewed the lid. The fact that I could barely walk should’ve alerted me to the danger of drinking and walking at the same time. I took one step off the pavement, instantly lost my footing, stumbled into a parked car, bounced off, tripped over my feet, poked myself in the eye and ended up on the other side with a face dripping with water.

Danielle too went sprawling all over the road. Not because she tripped over the kerb, but because she was laughing so hard at me she couldn’t see where she was going. Ari did the same and when he reached the other side of the road he literally crumpled to the sidewalk with laughter. Don’t even get me started on the complete strangers who went head over heels from splitting their sides. Shannon spun around to see Ari and Danielle with tears streaming down their faces and a woman laughing so uproariously she almost walked into and 355

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locked lips with a man who was walking his dog.

“What’s goin’ on? Darren, what’d you do?”

Once Danielle regained some form of composure she told her.

Shannon wasn’t surprised. “Don’t worry, Darren is just being … well, Darren.” She shook her head. “Sheesh, Daz, you’re the only person I know who is clumsier than me.”

After I dried off and the laughter died down the four of us continued on to the museum.

“Has everyone got the exact change?” Danielle asked once we joined the queue.

“Why?” Shannon answered.

“That’s what the sign says.”

We began to fish around in our pockets for loose coins.

“Oh crap, I’m short.”

“You realise this now, Daz?” Shannon teased. “We knew that ages ago.”

“Very funny, Shan. I mean I’m like—” I did a quick count of the money in my hand, “—seventy-five cents short.”

The others helped me out.

“Thanks, guys,” I said as Ari gave me the last of his change.

“Not a—” Ari didn’t get to finish his sentence because not only was walking becoming a problem for me, but apparently so was holding onto money.

“Darren!” Shannon exclaimed. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

“Sorry, it’s not my day,” I said as I bent down to pick up the scattered coins.

“You’re telling us,” Danielle said as they joined me on the floor to help.

“Now, Daz, hold on to it tightly,” Shannon instructed.

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“I will. Sorry, folks.” I clenched my fist around the change in my hand.

“Don’t worry,” Ari said, smiling, “just don’t let it happen again.”

Ari was smiling, but I certainly wasn’t. It was amusing the first few times, but the fact that my coordination, or lack thereof, was going from bad to worse was pissing me off. I simply wanted to enjoy the day, but since most of my energy was being spent on keeping upright, away from walls, poles and random strangers, I really couldn’t appreciate Florence.

“Excusez-moi.” We turned around at the sound of a lady’s voice. “What line – er – what to see inside?”

“It’s to see David,” Shannon explained.

The blank expression she gave us said it all. She had no idea what Shannon had said and we had no idea how to convey to her that we were standing in line to see a sculpture of a naked man. Well, I did, but I was getting myself into enough trouble as it was and the last thing I needed was to get arrested.

The Accademia wasn’t as spacious as other museums and we quickly reached the corridor leading to Michelangelo’s David.

Lining its walls were the unfinished works of Michelangelo’s Slaves. The name was chosen after his death because the carved figures appear to be escaping from the blocks of marble from which they were carved and embedded.

The detail in these sculptures was so impressive that I naturally expected David to be even more breathtaking. I was wrong. David was incredibly out of proportion, which was somewhat surprising. I’d always been under the impression that Michelangelo had sculpted his David as the perfect male form.

But I learnt that this disproportion was an intended optical illusion devised by Michelangelo to help people gain a sense of 357

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perspective when they viewed the sculpture. While this sense of perspective did not work in the Accademia, it would’ve worked beautifully in the Piazza del Signoria where David was originally displayed high on a pedestal in the centre of the square.

This certainly explained the size of the torso in relation to the head and the lower parts of the body, but it did not explain why the size of David’s hands was disproportionate with the rest of him. But Michelangelo had a reason for this too and it had to do with the political climate of the era, which believed that power equated to the size of one’s hands. Shannon and Danielle felt that the size of David’s hands was related more to other biological features.

“I guess it’s not true,” Shannon commented, looking upwards.

“Yeah, I guess,” Danielle agreed.

I followed their gaze up to the statue. “What’s not true?”

“The size of a guy’s hands is a good indication of the size of his penis,” Danielle said.

“Yeah,” Shannon agreed, “so David should have a big one.

But he doesn’t, it’s quite small.”

“Puny, even,” Danielle added, shaking her head.

Here we were, in the presence of what was arguably the most famous sculpture in the world, and Shannon and Danielle were concerned that David’s donger was not in proportion with the rest of his body. Up to that point I’d noted everything besides David’s penis, but thanks to the girls my attention was constantly drawn back to it. And yes, it was considerably smaller and my only reasoning was that Michelangelo had run out of marble. Either that or David was the victim of a circumcision gone horribly wrong.

Another aspect about David I didn’t know was that its name 358

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did not come about through Michelangelo’s random choice.

The statue was in fact named after the same David from the biblical story of David and Goliath. But I suppose it’s fitting.

Michelangelo’s Bill or Bob really does not have the same ring to it, now does it.

The four of us left Accademia and walked to the Ponte Vecchio. Once renowned for its butchers, the oldest and largest bridge in Florence is now famous for its jewellers and precious stone dealers.

Once we’d walked its length we were faced with the question of what we wanted to do in Florence. We were over museums so places like the Uffizi Gallery where the Birth of Venus was on display was out of the question. We eventually decided to go with our gut and go shopping. Or as the case actually was, window-shopping.

After lunch Danielle and Ari bussed it back to the campsite to spend some quality time by the pool while Shannon and I decided to catch up on some emails.

Jessica, Julia, Danielle, Ari and kittens Specks and Garfield (I decided to call him that even though the consensus was to name him Mickey) were sitting on the veranda when we returned. The shy grey kitten was also there, but unlike the other two who were lapping up the attention, he was content to watch from a safe distance.

With the onset of dusk the veranda became murky.

“Daz, switch the light on will ya?”

“Sure thing, Jules.”

I reached behind me, found the switch and flipped it on.

Nothing happened. I tried again with the same result.

“Oh well, I guess you’ll have to fix it then,” Julia told me in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Why me?”

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“Because us ladies are going to make dinner. And besides, you’re the man.”

I stared blankly at her. Of all the answers I’d been expecting, that was the least of them. As the girls got up and left for the kitchen I half expected one of them to order me away and round up a woolly mammoth.

“C’mon, Daz, the light isn’t going to fix itself,” Julia added.

“We expect it to be done by the time we get back.”

“Yeah, Daz,” Shannon chipped in. “Chop, chop!”

After they’d gone I took out my trusty pocketknife, undid the casing of the light, removed the globe, took it to reception and collected a new one. After I removed fixtures, checked wires and reset safety switches, the light still refused to work. I returned to reception and told them they should send someone.

We were in the middle of eating dinner when that someone arrived. He initially ignored us and focused all his attention on the light. He scratched his chin thoughtfully then turned to us, took a deep breath and amidst a flurry of blurred hand movements let rip with a hail of abuse, none of which we understood because it was all in Italian. He completed his tirade by slapping his forehead with the heel of his palm, a gesture that did not need translation, then stormed off never to return.

The next morning Julia, Jessica and I were sitting on the veranda eating breakfast when Shannon stumbled out, her hair ruffled and cheeks rosy.

“What’s up, Shan?” I asked as she pulled up a seat. “Weren’t you planning to sleep in? It’s—” I glanced at my watch, “—only half-past eight.”

Shannon yawned. “I’ve just been lying awake in bed for the past half hour. By the way, I forgot to tell you last night that 360

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when you get to Siena make sure you climb to the top of the tower in the square. The view’s stunning.”

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been shat on!”

The girls did a double take.

“See?” I showed them the bird crap that had landed on my right forearm.

They howled with laughter.

“Having one of those days already?” Ari asked as he walked towards our veranda. Behind him Danielle was smiling.

“Apparently,” I sighed, accepting a tissue from Julia.

“Ready to rock and roll, ya’ll?” Jessica stood up.

“You bet,” Julia said.

“Good to go and all that,” I agreed, tossing the wad of tissue into the bin.

The journey to Siena was quick and uneventful. But unfortunately for me the walk into town was quite eventful because like the day before, my coordination had abandoned me.

“Daz, are you okay?” Julia asked as my foot slipped out from under me.

“No,” I answered. “I just dunno what’s up with me. It seems everything I do is doomed to end in strife. After the day I had yesterday I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jessica said. “You can actually walk in a straight line now.”

I was about to answer, but instead tripped over a raised cobblestone and crashed into an Italian lady who fixed me with a gaze so intense I thought I would turn into stone.

By the time we reached the centre of the town and Piazza del Campo my ability to walk had returned in full and I could not have been happier. For two reasons, really. One, the steps leading into the sunken square were steep. And two, the 361

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square was wet and filled with dirt left behind from the Palio del Contrade, a biannual horse race that runs through the city streets in honour of the Virgin Mary.

The three of us walked to the tower on the opposite side of the square and climbed to the top. The view, as Shannon promised, was stunning. It wasn’t simply the magnificent green hills and sumptuous Tuscan countryside that had us transfixed, but also the town with its mixture of Gothic and earthen architecture.

But its rustic appearance was misleading, especially since its layout could rival Venice. Except for the fact that there were no canals, Siena was a veritable network of cobblestone lanes and alleys that, like Venice, led to quaint shops and hidden squares. But we were astonished to find hidden among this old-world charm enough shops and boutiques to give Florence a run for its money.

This really was the perfect place to get lost for a few hours and it wasn’t until the sun was practically touching the horizon that we hopped on a bus back to the campsite.

I was the first to wake the next morning. Not by choice, but because Julia was leaving that morning and making all sorts of noise with her backpack and any door or wall that happened to get in her way.

“What the hell is she doing out there?” Shannon murmured from her bed.

“Who bloody well knows. Redecorating,” I grumbled back as I rolled over and buried my head deeper into the pillow.

After more tossing and turning and a couple of door slams later, I’d given up.

“Bugger this, I’m getting up.”

“I’m not,” Shannon replied and burrowed deeper into her bed.

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I walked outside to find Julia on the veranda eating her breakfast.

“Couldn’t sleep, Daz?” “What the hell are you doing, girl? Some of us are trying to sleep, you know.”

“Did I wake ya?”

“Yes!” I shook my head and faked a yawn. “A bit of consideration would be nice.”

“Well, excuse me!” she retorted.

“I tried to, but you were making too much bloody noise.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“At this moment, you are.”

“Geez, Darren, you need to chill out.”

“And you need to remember your manners!”

I marched back into the room as Julia called behind me, “Dickhead!”

“A bit cranky this morning, are we?” Shannon observed.

“Well, we shouldn’t have to put up with that in the morning.

And she should know that people are trying to sleep.”

“Just relax.”

I plonked back down on my bed. “I’m never gonna get back to sleep now!”

“C’mon, some retail therapy will get rid of your cranky pants and cheer you up.”

After a leisurely breakfast we made for the Florence markets.

The smell of leather hit us like a rampaging bull and was all the encouragement we needed to begin trying on leather jackets. It took even less persuasion to follow one of the stall owners back to his shop for a closer look at the rest of his stock.

Shannon whispered as we entered, “Remember, Daz, we’re just looking.”

Looking that soon turned into buying.

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“Daz, I am so taking this,” Shannon whispered again after we’d both tried on countless numbers of jackets. “How about you? You like yours?”

“Yes …”

“But?” “I dunno, Shan.” I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, feeling a little apprehensive.

It had nothing to do with whether the leather was genuine.

The store owner had already proven that fact to us, subjecting our jackets to water as well as to his lighter. What I was worried about was whether I could afford it. The answer I kept coming up with was maybe.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Shannon said as she looked on. “Look, the final decision is up to you, but the jacket does suit you.”

Again, I studied my reflection and thought, When will I next be in Florence and have this opportunity? The answer was simple and I knew if I didn’t buy it I would have regrets.

Without further hesitation I said, “I’ll take it!”

Shannon and I left the store with broad smiles that remained well into the evening.

On my last day I left Shannon by the pool and returned to Florence, just to walk around, enjoy a coffee and see what else I could find. Which turned out to be nothing I’d not seen before.

I was back at the campsite by the middle of the afternoon and went straight to the pool, hoping to grab the cabin key from Shannon. A quick scan of the deckchairs told me she wasn’t there.

I walked to the cabin, thinking she must be in there, but to my surprise the door was locked. I tried the pool once more, but again no luck.

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Wondering where Shannon had got to, I grabbed a spare key from reception and whiled away the afternoon playing with the kittens and catching up on journal entries.

“Hey, Daz!” It was Nicole, Shannon’s room-mate from Sorrento. “Hey, Nic, have a good day?”

“Yeah, not too bad.”

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she pulled out her newly purchased leather jacket.

“Very funky, Nic,” I said.

“Where’s Shannon? I want to show her.”

“No idea. She’s supposed to be at the pool.”

Shannon, Nicole and I had planned to grab a gelato in the city and take one last night-time stroll through Florence. Of course for that to happen Shannon had to show up.

She was still missing in action when Nicole returned from the pool a couple of hours later with a plastic bag. “The guy at the pool told me this was Shannon’s stuff.”

“That’s strange. Where would Shan go and not take her stuff?” I accepted the bag from Nicole.

“Who knows, but there’d better be an interesting story to her disappearance.”

“Absolutely.”

Shannon was still nowhere to be seen by the time Jessica and Kara (Jessica’s new room-mate) had returned.

“Hey, how was Cinque Terre?” I asked.

“Fantastic!” Jessica said. “The walk is tough, but the view is well worth it. You’re going there on the bus tomorrow, yeah?”

“You bet. I’ll be spending two nights there. Can’t wait.”

“Trust me, you’ll love it,” Jessica said. “Where’s Shan?”

“Good question.”

A question that did not get answered until after dinner 365

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when Shannon stumbled onto the veranda. The fact that she was completely trashed was not lost on the rest of us.

“Where’ve you been?” Nicole asked.

“I kinda passed out in one of the Contiki cabins.”

“How did you get in there?” I asked.

“I was chatting to the Contiki reps by the pool and when they found out it’s my birthday in a couple of days they treated me to an early party.” Shannon collapsed into the chair next to Jessica. “God, I feel sick.”

“No pity for the self-inflicted,” Jessica chastised.

Shannon let out a groan.

“Look, Shan, why don’t you go have a shower and I’ll cook you some dinner,” I offered.

“Thanks, Daz. What are you gonna cook for me?”

“It’ll be a surprise.” Meaning I had no idea.

I went to the kitchen and rummaged through what was left of our supplies. I had the bright idea of making up some vegetable risotto, but soon realised we’d run out of vegetables.

This meant I had to improvise and use the vegetable soup I’d found at the bottom of the bag.

Shannon barely finished eating when the Contiki reps showed up at our veranda. After a round of introductions one of the Contiki guys placed his arm around Shannon.

“C’mon, Shan, we’re taking you out for a proper birthday party.”

“No!” Shannon pleaded.

But it was no use and the two reps quickly dragged Shannon away.

“Ladies,” I said, “I think we need to get her back.”

“She’s a big girl, she can handle herself,” Kara said.

“I’m sure she can, but we’re leaving tomorrow and I know for a fact she has plans that she really does not want to stuff 366

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up.”

“Then we’re going to have to get her up somehow,” Nicole said who was also leaving tomorrow.

“I can get her up, that’s not a problem,” I said, still tempted to go and get Shannon back.

“I can come over and chuck her into the shower,” Nicole said.

“A cold shower,” Kara added.

“Maybe,” Nicole answered, smiling.

“Man, she’s so gonna feel like shit tomorrow,” Jessica said.

The girls had just finished finalising their plan when Shannon staggered back again and collapsed into a chair.

“What you need is a couple of Berocca,” Kara said and rushed off to her room. She returned with two tablets, dissolved them in some water and handed the mixture to Shannon who smiled gratefully and downed it in one deft motion.

“There you go,” Kara said with a smile. “That’ll make you throw up quicker.”

“Oh thanks, Kara,” I said, relieved Shannon was back. “I hope you realise I have to sleep with Shannon tonight.”

There was a moment of silence as each of the girls turned and faced me.

“Is that right?” Jessica said, grinning.

“No, no, no! I don’t mean that. I mean I am going to sleep in the same room as Shan.”

“Sure,” Nicole said. “Now us girls know which sleazy guy to look out for.”

“Yeah, Daz, and here I was thinking you were nice,” Shannon teased. “But no. The first opportunity you get you’re going to take advantage of me.”

“Oh, come on girls, you know what I mean.”

“You bet we do,” Kara said. “You want to have sex with 367

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Shannon.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Why not?” Shannon said, smiling. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yes, that’s another name for it,” Jessica said.

I could see this was a trap I was not going to get out of and decided it was better to shut up rather than dig myself deeper.

It was the dreaded undies incident all over again. So after the girls got a few more barbs in we decided to turn in.

“Don’t mind if I read for a little while do you, Shan?” I said, hopping into bed.

“Not at all. G’night, Daz.” I reached over and switched on my reading lamp. The moment I touched it the casing disintegrated and the bracket fell off the wall. Shannon burst into a fit of giggles and continued to laugh as I tried unsuccessfully to stick the lamp back onto the wall.

“Shan, it’s not funny, I can’t get it in.” I continued to fumble with the screws.

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, get in, damn you!”

“Oi,” Jessica yelled from the other room, “you two can have your fun, but keep it down in there.”

“Sorry, Jess,” I replied, “but it’s not going in.”

Shannon laughed harder.

If anyone was to ask me what I’d seen in Florence I would have to answer not much. But this wasn’t because Florence didn’t 368

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have anything to offer. On the contrary, it had more than enough. Whether in terms of art, culture, shopping, even food and wine, there was no shortage of things to see and do.

But Florence is a city where one can do a whole lot and be satisfied, and at the same time do nothing but walk around and feel just as happy.

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23

A Stroll Through Five Lands

Shannon and I were waiting for the bus.

Nicole came over and joined us. “How’s the walking wounded this morning?”

“Don’t ask,” Shannon mumbled.

“That bad, huh?” Nicole smiled. “Don’t forget, Shan, you still have to get through the bus trip.”

“I’ll get there.”

“Barely, by the looks of you,” I said.

“At least it’s a quick ride today,” Nicole consoled. “Even quicker for me.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m spending a couple of days in Pisa before I go to Cinque Terre. From the stories I’ve heard it’s everyone’s favourite spot on the circuit. You’ll still be there when I get there, won’t you, Shan?”

“Sure will. I’m there for eight days. Apart from the hike I have nothing planned but beach time. Can’t wait.”

“Neither can I,” Nicole agreed.

The trip to Pisa, as Nicole had said, was not long, but in that small space of time I was amazed at how much the countryside changed. We’d barely left Florence when the sumptuous green rolling hills morphed into mountains, where the trees were so closely packed together that I could not see the ground through the canopy. Just as quickly as it appeared, this Austrian-type terrain vanished, leaving in its place wide open fields populated

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with farms and pockets of light industry.

Like the trip, the time spent in Pisa was short. Then again, an hour is all anybody really needs in this town. A short walk from where the bus dropped us off was the town’s main square, the Campo dei Miracoli—Field of Miracles. Certainly an apt name if ever there was one. Not because of the Romanesque Duomo—built from colourful, lustrous marble—or because of the Baptistery—famous for being Italy’s largest and having incredible, near perfect acoustics—but because it was a miracle the leaning Tower of Pisa had not yet fallen over.

From the tower’s slant I honestly reckon that a gentle breeze, an extra wad of bird shit or even a wayward sneeze would be enough to bring the tower crashing to the ground. Bear in mind the tower’s lean is not something crazy like fifteen or twenty degrees, but a mere five degrees off centre. That may not seem like much, but when applied to a heavy stone structure, five degrees can mean the difference between a lovely monument and a lovely pile of rubble. And from the looks of things, it could go either way.

Before you get the idea the tower was built on an angle just to attract tourists, well, it wasn’t. It started off straight enough, but by the time the third storey was complete the slant was becoming obvious. Naturally, the project was stopped, meetings were called and steps were taken to find out the cause. And it wasn’t because the architect had drunk too much wine with breakfast, but more because the foundation of the tower was built on sandy soil. I may not have a degree in engineering, but I imagine—and call me crazy if you haven’t already done so— that the first step for any builder who encounters a problem of this kind is to increase the stability of the soil.

This was not what the Italians did. Not surprising really, since logic and the Italian way of life are far removed from one 371

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another.

Rather than firming up the ground in some way, they continued to build the tower as before, albeit at a slightly different angle so it would counter the lean. This solution did not work as expected—imagine that!—and the angle of the tower’s lean increased with each passing year. Without so much as a “Mama Mia”, the builders went back to the proverbial drawing board and after a couple of hundred years of arguing and violent hand-waving, returned with what they considered to be the perfect solution—a dodgy and hurried installation of a Gothic belfry on top!

It wasn’t until soil was removed from the tower’s northern side and lead counterweights and steel support cables were attached in the late twentieth century that the tower was finally stabilised and its lean corrected by a whopping fifty centimetres.

After Shannon took a picture of me holding up the tower— and before you shake your head and mutter “Bloody tourist”, all I have to say is you’d do it too—the two of us returned to the campsite, said goodbye to Nicole, hopped back on the bus and eagerly awaited our arrival in Cinque Terre.

When I began planning this jaunt around Europe, my bank balance and my guidebook were instrumental in helping me choose the places to visit. When it came to cities like Paris and Vienna my guidebook was filled with so much information that my brain went into meltdown. But when it came to Cinque Terre I didn’t have the foggiest idea and my guidebook wasn’t much help. All it told me in about three lines was that Cinque Terre was filled with hikes and was “unforgettably scenic”, which wasn’t much to go by. If my guidebook wasn’t going to waste space on this place then I certainly wasn’t going to waste my time there. But this changed very quickly when stories of 372

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Cinque Terre’s beauty and charm ripped through the Busabout grapevine with the ferocity of a flu virus.

It was a reputation well deserved because Cinque Terre or Five Lands is not one beautiful place, but a collection of five, hence the name. Dotted across eight kilometres of rugged coastline are five quaint Italian towns and fishing villages that are interspersed with terraced hills, vineyards, orchards, chestnut woods and an unhindered view of the Mediterranean.

Riomaggiore, the first of the five towns, is less than a ten minute train journey from La Spezia, the grimy port where the bus dropped us off. My first instinct was to explore Riomaggiore further, but since I was encumbered with a backpack what I really needed to do was get to my accommodation. Unlike other places, Riomaggiore did not have a hostel per se, but an accommodation agency that placed people in various apartments around the town. Finding the agency wasn’t difficult since Shannon had been made honorary guide and knew where she was going. But while the agency was easy to find, getting to it was not. Like the other towns that made up Cinque Terre, Riomaggiore was nestled in the mountainside and crisscrossed with steep laneways that were the perfect training ground for anyone with an ambition to climb Mount Everest.

Once the members of our group were given the whereabouts of our respective accommodation, we quickly dispersed. My room was a short walk from the agency and when I opened the door Kathleen was busy whinging to Leanne.

“Hey, girls, is Kathleen whinging about the lack of gelato again?” I directed the question towards Leanne.

“Hi, Darren,” Regina said, stepping out of an adjoining room.

“No,” Kathleen responded.

I found an empty bed and dumped my bag.

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“What we’re complaining about is these other room-mates,” Leanne grumbled, pointing to two unmade beds in the other room.

“Why? What’ve they done?”

“In a nutshell, not a lot,” Regina spat.

“They’re messy and don’t realise that everyone has to share this apartment,” Kathleen said, her hands on her hips.

“Not to mention the guy is a sleazebag,” Leanne added.

“I swear he was watching us yesterday when we were hanging out our underwear,” Regina said.

“Oookay,” I said, “that’s kind of disturbing.”

“You’re tellin’ us,” Regina said.

After catching up and welcoming two more room-mates, Dylan and Bradley, who after a round of hellos shot back into town, I left the girls to their bitching and set out to explore Riomaggiore.

I quickly understood why an immeasurable amount of people had fallen in love with this part of the world. The place was as non-touristy as you can get and seemed to be the epitome of all things Italian.

Washing hung from windows above the streets and flapped in the fresh sea-scented breeze, while lilting sounds of laughter and chatter floated through the air and dissipated through the town. The small port at the base of the town was just as quaint with small rustic fishing boats bobbing in the clear turquoise water.

I returned to the room a little before sunset and was almost bowled over by Dylan who was literally skipping down the stairs.

“Hey, dude, you comin’?”

“Where?”

“To the party across the street.”

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“Why not. I’ll just dump my stuff and be right there.”

“No probs. Tell Brad I’ll see him over there.”

“Will do.”

Brad and I were walking across the road when he asked if I’d met the other two room-mates.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Trust me,” he said, “it’s not a pleasure.”

“I’ve heard they’re a bit strange.”

“To say the least. I went to say hi and the girl looked right past me. It was as if I wasn’t even there. She looked trashed as.

Then this guy pushed his way between me and her and gave me the dirtiest look.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Nah, just kind of shoved me aside and then pushed the girl into their room and on to the bed. And the weird thing is he looked completely sober …”

“Are you saying he’s drugging her?”

“I don’t know. She could be a stoner or something, but I don’t trust him.”

We arrived at the apartment across the road and saw it wasn’t so much a party, but more a dinner with mates.

I spotted Shannon as Brad and I entered. “Hey, Dazzler, right on time,” she said.

I followed Shannon into the kitchen where she handed me a glass of wine before introducing me to her room-mates. After a leisurely dinner we stretched out on the couches and futons and listened to a Caucasian Lenny Kravitz called Danny belt out some tunes on his guitar. By midnight we’d migrated to the beach where under a full moon everyone except Shannon and me jumped into the water.

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The streets of Riomaggiore were quiet and deserted the next morning when Dylan, Brad and I left for the next town of Manarola along the path known as the Lover’s Walk.

Manarola was similar to Riomaggiore. The colours of the buildings, the smell of the sea, the ruffling of the washing in the wind and the air of relaxation were all the same. Not stopping for a break, we left Manarola and continued on to the third town, Corniglia.

It was here that the path increased in difficulty and beauty.

Reminding me of the Amalfi coast, the rugged path gave us a clear view of the rising sun, the vivid blue Mediterranean, and a spectacular vista of the other towns.

When we reached Corniglia most of the shops had opened and since the hike was beginning to take its toll on our legs we decided to take a break.

The path from the third town to the fourth was long and mostly uphill. Luckily, much of it was sheltered from the sun by the apricot and cherry trees that grew alongside and the lattices of grape and tomato vines that hung overhead.

By the time we reached Vernazza my legs were ready to fall off. While similar in design to the previous three, this town had more places for tourists to stroll through and spend their money. In the case of Vernazza it was not only the extra restaurants and shops that had people arriving in droves, but also the remnants of a fortified medieval round tower that was built on a rocky outcrop outside the town. It was the perfect place to take a short break before continuing on to the fifth and final town. While we were there Kath appeared.

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something, Kath.” I looked at my watch. It was ten-thirty. “Do you think it’s too early for gelato?”

She licked her lips. “I was thinking the same thing.”

We arrived at the fifth town, Monterosso, five hours after we’d left Riomaggiore.

“You know,” Dylan told us as we arrived, “my room-mate in Rome told me it’s easier if you catch the train from Riomaggiore to Monterosso and then walk back.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Kathleen agreed.

“Bullshit,” Brad said. “It’s definitely more uphill if you go that way.”

It was a moot point. It did not matter whether you hiked from Riomaggiore to Monterosso or vice versa, because I guarantee that by the end of it, you will be in dire need of a hip replacement.

Apart from being as touristy as Vernazza, Monterosso has the longest stretch of beach of all the five towns. It was this thought that had the four of us racing each other to the shore, because after such a strenuous trek the only thing we wanted to do was jump into the Mediterranean and cool off.

It was late afternoon when we returned to Riomaggiore.

We’d unanimously decided to catch the train back and wasted no time returning to our respective beds for a snooze. When I woke up Bradley and Dylan had already left. I found them chatting to Shannon at a nearby cafe.

“You’re comin’ over tonight, Daz?” “Of course, Shan. It’s your birthday and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The evening was filled with guitar playing, singing, dancing, a bit of drinking to say the least, and of course swimming. I crawled into bed a little past midnight and was soon asleep.

“Bananas … cherries … bowl … bitch … bastard …”

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“Whuh?” I mumbled, trying to open my eyes. Surely it wasn’t time to get up yet.

“Oh, go back to lah lah land, Daz.” I opened my eyes just enough to see Kathleen wave a bowl of something in my face before going back to the kitchen. I grabbed my glasses and followed her in. Renee and Leanne were also there.

“Wass up, girls?” I yawned, looking at my watch. It was 1:30 AM. “It’s that crazy broad,” Renee moaned.

“Just look at the mess,” Kathleen said.

The kitchen was in disarray, strewn with dirty pots and cooking utensils. The bowl that Kathleen showed me was full of cherry seeds.

At that point Dylan and Brad walked in.

“Oh cool, another party,” Dylan said.

“Not really,” Leanne said. “Just a bitch-fest about our other room-mates.”

Brad and Dylan surveyed the mess with disgust.

“You know what we did tonight?” Leanne said.

“What?” Dylan asked.

“The three of us made a big show of cleaning the kitchen, washing and tidying up and all that.”

“Not that they paid any attention,” Kathleen added.

“Maybe we can get them back,” Renee said.

“How?” Dylan asked.

“Well, for one, I’m going to put these cherry seeds in her bed.” Kathleen stormed off into the other room.

“And another thing—” “Yeah?” said Brad.

“We reckon the other guy is trying to get her drunk so he can sleep with her.”

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“I fuckin’ knew it!” Dylan pounded his fist into his hand.

“That bastard.”

“And if that’s not bad enough,” Renee continued, “we reckon they’ve been using our bed.”

“What?” the boys said in unison.

“It’s true,” Kathleen said, returning from the other room.

“We found her sunglasses on the bedside table.”

“That’s just wrong,” I said.

“You think!” Renee growled.

“Anyway,” Kathleen said, “let’s see if we can come up with a way to teach ’em some manners.”

“And maybe teach that guy some respect for women!”

Dylan said, clenching his fists.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Brad commented.

While ideas were being tossed around I remained quiet and listened.

“Guys,” I said. They stopped and looked at me. “I haven’t met these room-mates of ours—” “Count yourself lucky,” Renee chirped.

“—but this is what we can do. We get up tomorrow, have a big fry up and then we leave all the dishes, the egg shells, bits of bacon and anything else we can think of for them to clean up. That way we get a good feed without having to worry about the aftermath.”

Smiles slowly formed on their faces.

“Darren, that’s just evil,” Renee said. “But I like it!”

After we worked out who would do what, we turned in. I was too busy thinking about the following morning to sleep, wondering how the plan would go down.

Only time would tell.

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24

Sugar, Spice and All Things Nice

“Couldn’t sleep either, Daz?” Leanne asked when I walked into the kitchen.

“No, what the hell are people doing out there?”

“Have a look for yourself.”

If it wasn’t the garbage truck driving up and down the street simply so the driver could talk to ladies sitting in cafes or standing outside shops, it was the two guys hauling scaffolding from one side of the street to the other for no discernible reason other than to make as much noise as possible.

Being Italy, these two events were not mutually exclusive and in no time at all the two men were yelling at the guy in the garbage truck for getting in their way. Naturally, the driver yelled back. And before long, as expected, total strangers were joining in with random bouts of screaming and hand-waving.

“Tell me something, Daz,” Leanne asked as I popped my head back in.

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to do the whole fry up thing?”

I smiled back at her knowingly. “What do you think?”

She shook her head. “I thought so.”

“Hey,” I said in my defence, “I’m just the evil genius here.

It’s my job to come up with the ideas; it’s up to my henchmen to do all the work.”

“Henchmen? Yeah, right.” Leanne looked around. “If you haven’t noticed, your henchmen as you so nicely put it are all

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still asleep.” At that moment a lady outside screamed something in Italian just as the sound of scaffolding clamoured across the road and the garbage truck reversed into a wall. “Don’t ask me how,” Leanne added.

“Well, you’re up,” I said.

“Yeah, and so are you. And besides, aren’t evil geniuses supposed to lead by example?”

“Touché.”

Leanne gave me a wry smile before walking to the bathroom.

In turn, I got dressed and went downstairs to the nearest cafe to grab some breakfast.

“Buongiorno,” a lady greeted from behind the counter.

“Buongiorno,” I replied, surveying the selection of delicacies neatly arranged behind the glass. While it took me no time at all to decide what I wanted, it took me a lot longer to order what I wanted.

“Er ... uno latté di café and …” The lady raised her eyebrows expectantly, but I could not finish the sentence because while I knew how to order coffee in Italian I had no idea what the Italian word for doughnut was and was fairly sure it wasn’t doughnuto. There was nothing else for me to do but point and smile.

I sat down and sank my teeth into the doughnut. Instantly, the sugar flaked off, the pastry melted in my mouth, my lips became smeared with icing sugar and I was left with a strand of sticky yet succulent chocolate hanging from my right index finger. I sucked it off and walked back to the counter.

“Mi scusi,” I said, “er …” Once again I was stuck for words.

Like doughnut, I did not know what the Italian word for napkin was and neither did my phrase book. While I hated to be rude I had to point yet again.

The lady smiled and handed me a napkin. “Tovagliolo.”

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“Toviglolo?” I repeated, taking it from her.

“No, tovagliolo.”

“Ahhh, tovagliolo,” I said, holding up the napkin.

“Si.” She nodded.

“Grazie.” I smiled back.

“Prego,” the lady replied. It was a word I’d heard numerous times since my arrival in Italy. I’d quickly learnt it not only meant You’re welcome, but whatever else you wanted it to mean. From my experience, it was commonly used by Italians to greet, yell at and annoy other Italians.

It dawned on me as I sat back down and ripped into my delicious doughnut and washed it down with a sip of perfect coffee that this was my last morning in Italy. I instantly felt a pang of sadness. I’d been in the country for three weeks and not only had begun to pick up and even understand snippets of the language, but I’d also become quite accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of the Italian way of life. Everything from the complete and utter abandonment of road rules to the hip-expanding selection of food that fatty-boom-bahs are made of; the people who were abrupt to the point of rudeness, insane to the point of needing a straightjacket, and as charming as they were friendly.

I thought more about this and then it hit me that not only was this my last morning in Italy, but it was also the last time I would see Shannon. I glanced at my watch. The train to La Spezia arrived soon and I hadn’t even finished packing. If I wanted to spend some time with Shannon I’d best get a wriggle on.

I polished off my coffee, said goodbye to the lady behind the counter and scurried back up to my room.

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floor was the one half of the room-mate couple that everyone loved to hate, his serpentine glare masked by his squint.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he hissed at me.

He meant it as a threat, but in his squeaky voice it sounded pathetic.

His other half peered out from the doorway, reminding me of the timid kitten from Florence. “L-l-leave him alone,” she said, her gaze hovering on the floor.

Regina, Leanne and Kathleen were in the kitchen, frozen in place. They turned to me wide-eyed as I stepped into the room.

“What happened?” I mouthed.

They didn’t get a chance to answer.

“Calm down, mate, it’s not worth it!” Brad said, restraining Dylan with his arms.

“Yes, it is!” Dylan yelled. “The guy tried to steal my friggin’ wallet!”

The guy on the floor was slowly being helped up by the girl.

“Get to fuck, you liar. I was nowhere near your wall—” Dylan twisted free from Brad’s grip, raced across the room and punched the guy in the stomach. He went down hard and fast. The girl screamed.

“You were fucking holding it in your hand when I woke up. You were flipping through it, for fuck’s sake.”

Brad grabbed Dylan and dragged him back. The three girls quickly ran from the kitchen and stepped between Dylan and the curled up body on the floor.

“Mate,” I said to the guy on the floor, keeping a watch on Dylan from the corner of my eye, “if I were you I’d leave. Come back this arvo when we’ll be long gone.”

“Listen to him,” Regina said.

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The guy staggered to his feet and placed an arm around his girl, looking like he was about to say something.

“Don’t even open your mouth, mate,” Brad warned. “You and your girl just go.”

Silently, they slithered out the door.

“Well,” Kathleen said, “that was interesting.”

“To say the least.” Renee looked over at Dylan.

Brad released Dylan who sat down on the bed.

“Look,” Dylan said, “it wasn’t the best start to the morning, but it happened.”

“At least it’ll make an interesting email back home,” Brad added, sitting down next to Brad.

Everyone smiled in agreement.

“Let’s just pack up, catch that train outta here and get back on the bus,” Brad said.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.

After I finished packing I strolled across the road for one last time.

“Shan?” I called, walking through the front door of her apartment.

“In here, Dazzler.”

“Didn’t I have an interesting morning.”

“What happened?”

I filled her in.

“Excitement seems to follow you everywhere, doesn’t it?”

“Hey,” I said, “at least I’ll have heaps of stories to tell the grandkids.”

“Very true.”

“Anyway, I’ve come to say cheerio. You know, before I vamoose and all.”

“Geez, Dazzler, it seems like we’ve been travelling together forever.”

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“Tell me about it. Seems like only yesterday we ran into each other in Athens.”

“And even sooner since you ran into that bus. Try not to do that again.”

I laughed. “Hey, I can’t promise anything. You know how unco I am.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. And you know what we kept on forgetting to do?”

“No, what?”

“We kept on forgetting to introduce you as Apu.” “Golly gosh,” I said in an Indian accent, “you’re right. Well, no Squishie for you then!” Shannon laughed. “Anyway, best be going. The train back to La Spezia is due in ten minutes.”

“Well, I’ll miss ya, matey, and I’ll see you in Sydney when I get back.”

“For sure. See ya, Shan.” I returned her hug.

I arrived at the station and joined the many others who were also ready to move on. Our wait turned out to be longer than we expected.

While trains are mostly on time in the rest of Europe, in Italy they run whenever they want and I wondered why the Italian government bothered to print timetables at all. But we needn’t have worried about the train being late because in the end so was the bus.

I sat in the row of seats in front of Jessica. “Hey, Jess, how you doin’?”

“Hey, Daz. How’d you like Cinque Terre?”

“Awesome. Loved it.”

“Which village was your favourite?”

I answered without hesitation, “Riomaggiore or Manarola.”

“Really?” Jessica was surprised.

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“They were quiet and not as touristy as the others. I liked that whole quaint Italian feel.”

“I liked Vernazza. The view of the ocean and the cliff side blew me away.”

Our journey took us along the Italian coast, past sweeping views of the Mediterranean, around hills and valleys, across countless bridges and through numerous tunnels. It was while we were zipping through one of these tunnels that Italy turned into France and into the region known as the Côte d’Azur.

Apart from being home to cities such as Cannes, St Tropez and Monaco, this is a region of France that’s famous the world over for being the playground of the rich and famous.

Stuck in the heart of the Côte d’Azur was Nice whose reputation had less to do with wealth and more to do with petty crime. I lost count of the number of times our guide warned us about bag snatchers and pickpockets.

This meant once we arrived at our hotel we were extremely watchful of our bags. Actually, we were so watchful that neither Jessica nor I noticed Ari until he was stranding right in front of us.

“Geez, Ari,” I exclaimed, “where did you spring from?”

“From across the road. I was just making a phone call, trying to get some accommodation in Barcelona.”

“Any luck?”

“Yeah, thankfully.”

Jess said, “So tell us, what’s to see in Nice?”

“Er ... not much. But the shopping is great.”

The three of us walked into the hotel.

“Speaking of shopping,” Jessica said, “where’s the nearest supermarket?”

“Around the corner.”

“Good. I need some supplies for dinner.”

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“Don’t do that,” Ari said quickly. “Once you two get checked in, come up to our room, five-five-one, and we can take you to Flunch.”

“Flunch?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s this cool place where you get a steak and an all you can eat salad bar for five euros.”

“Bargain!” I shouted, drawing a few stares from passersby.

“I know,” Ari agreed as the lift doors behind him opened.

“Well, guys, here’s my ride. See ya soon.”

It turned out that my room wasn’t in this hotel, but in the hotel adjacent, while Jessica’s room overlooked the courtyard that linked the two hotels together.

“How’s your room, Jess?” I asked in the elevator up to Ari’s room.

“Not good. It’s bad enough having to share with thirty-five people, but it doesn’t have a lock on the door, which worries me.”

“Have you asked if you can change?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” “They said to go back and see ’em tomorrow.”

“Fantastic. And if your bag isn’t there tomorrow what are they gonna do about it?”

“My point exactly!”

The lift opened to the fifth floor.

We stayed in Ari’s room long enough to catch up with him, Danielle and Kara and allow Julia to happily tell everyone about my dummy spit in Florence.

At Flunch, like in Italy, we had to pay before we placed our orders. I found it a bit strange that everyone in our group was ordering chicken when steak was so cheap, but when I saw it I 387

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knew why. The so-called steak resembled a hamburger patty.

“Blue?” the cook behind the grill asked.

“What?” Jessica said.

“Blue?”

Jessica suddenly realised her meaning. “No, medium.”

The lady looked at me. “You?” “Medium too.”

The lady frowned at me.

“Same as her,” I clarified, making a gesture that I hoped she would understand.

“Do you think she understood us, Darren?”

“No idea, but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

We did.

“Is your steak raw, Jess?”

“Hang on a sec.” She sliced into her piece and screwed up her face as blood oozed out of the meat. “Yeah, it is.”

“Why did you guys get blue steak?” Kara asked.

“We didn’t,” Jessica responded. “We asked for medium, but it must’ve got lost in the translation.”

“You should take it back,” Danielle told us.

“Nah, she’ll be right,” I said, dumping half a bottle of tomato sauce on mine.

“You hope,” Julia added.

“I’m with Darren,” Jessica agreed, biting into her steak.

“I’m too hungry to wait any longer.”

While it didn’t taste too bad, I also knew it would not be something I would try again in a hurry.

Jessica and I met in the courtyard the next morning, eager to leave Nice. It wasn’t that Nice wasn’t nice (pun definitely intended), but considering we were in Côte d’Azur there were nicer, certainly richer cities and towns to explore.

A fact that was immediately confirmed once we left and 388

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the towering hotels and apartments of Nice were replaced

by Spanish villas, stucco houses and shaded bungalows that overlooked a Mediterranean dotted with boats, catamarans and yachts of all shapes and sizes. When we crossed into the principality of Monte Carlo we realised size didn’t matter anymore because everything was either massive, bloody huge or ginormous enough to have its own area code.

No place was this emphasis on enormity more obvious than in the capital city of Monaco. The bus dropped us off at the harbour, a part of the city known as Condamine where the moored yachts were like floating palaces complete with heliport, runway, control tower, customs officials, golf course, football field and even a light rail system to get from one end to the other.

“I don’t get it, Darren,” Jessica said, ogling the nearest yacht.

“What don’t you get?”

“Why anyone would need a boat this big.”

“Maybe so they have somewhere to land their helicopter,” I ventured.

“Even so, what’s the point? Think about it, Daz. With a boat there are only so many places you can go. Because in the end you have to find a port, leave it there then head onto land anyway. You’re better off catching a plane.”

“Fair point,” I agreed, “but if you had the money and could spend your summer sailing the Med and cruising the French Riviera, wouldn’t you do it?”

“Yeah, I guess. I suppose us who can’t afford these huge things are probably the only ones who think it’s silly to buy one.”

“Exactly. It’s like all these Ferraris, Porsches, Mercs and Beamers. No one really needs them, but it’d be great to 389

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own one.”

“I bet. Which one do you want?”

“Why discriminate? I say why not have ’em all?”

“You would say that.”

We left the port and followed the promenade around, soaking in the sun-drenched yet vivacious atmosphere of the stalls, rides and packed Olympic pool that lined the waterfront.

We reached Monte Carlo Casino via its perfectly manicured gardens. Like every other building in the area, the casino was fronted by an opulent and grandiose entrance. The only aspects that differentiated it from the surrounding buildings were the red carpet that decorated the steps and the Casino sign hanging over the doorway.

“Shall we go in?” Jessica asked.

“You got a spare twenty euros?”

“It costs to get in?”

“Sure does.”

“What a rort!”

“You’re tellin’ me. You lose your money even before you gamble.”

Deciding to save our pennies, we took a few pictures and strolled along part of the Grand Prix circuit before walking slowly along the waterfront, occasionally stepping into a car dealership to have a squiz. Okay, okay, I admit it, that last sentence is not exactly true. When I say “we” occasionally stepped into a car dealership, I actually mean “I”. To get one thing straight, the dealerships in Monaco are nothing like the ones on Parramatta Road, Sydney, with their small demountables in one corner and bunting rippling in the wind.

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hallowed ground. Okay, I made that bit up. You can keep your shoes on, but it’s still hallowed ground.

All I can say is poor Jessica. When I entered the Mercedes dealership there was little she could do but witness a grown man cry, simper and drool. Which was nothing compared to my reaction at the Lamborghini dealership where I began partaking in foreplay, whispering sweet nothings (“Ooh baby, I love your air intake”), caressing the paintwork and smattering kisses across the windscreen. When I began to undo my belt Jessica decided enough was enough, dragged me back out to the street—under protest, I might add—and pushed me in the direction of Condamine and the bus back to Nice.

The trip was long enough to grab a power nap, something we were both keen on, but this was not to be. Sitting behind us were two teenage girls who were under delusions that every passenger on board wanted them to sing. Let’s just say that when they opened their mouths windows cracked, old people turned off their hearing aids and dogs started howling in pain.

By the time we’d reached Nice not only were our ears bleeding, but I was ready to hold the girls down while Jessica kindly introduced them to a sixpack of whoop ass.

“What’re you doing now, Daz?” Jessica asked me once she’d calmed down.

“Interneting. I have to get some accommodation in Portugal.

You?” “I’ll head back to the hotel and get myself checked into a new room, hopefully one with a lock this time, and then do some shopping.”

We agreed to meet later at the fountain.

While I had no luck finding any accommodation in Portugal and was beginning to think I’d end up sleeping on a beach somewhere, I did get a good look around Nice.

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For a city at the hub of the French Riviera I was taken aback that every attractive building was surrounded by at least four ugly ones. I guess that’s why Nice was filled with parks, gardens, woodlands, lakes and fountains, so the people could escape the lacklustre architecture and littered streets of what was in essence a typical city. That said, Nice still had its beach and boardwalk. The latter was the perfect place to shop for bric-a-brac and generally do as little as possible for a good portion of the afternoon.

Shortly after six Jessica found me waiting by the fountain, watching some local kids show off their talents on their skateboards.

“Ready to go, Daz?” “You bet. Any luck shopping?”

“Not really. Yourself?”

“Nope, all the places in Portugal are full.”

“So what’re you gonna do?”

I shrugged. “See what happens, I guess.” I turned to the freckle-faced girl standing beside Jessica. “Hey, how you doin’?”

“Daz, this is Samantha, my room-mate.”

“How long have you been travelling, Sam?” “This is my second day.”

“Ahhh, a newbie.”

“She’s a bit nervous, Darren, a bit worried about everything.”

“Don’t be,” I told her. “You’re now hangin’ with a couple of veterans. Isn’t that right, Jess?”

“Darn tootin’!”

After the three of us grabbed some red wine, cheese and baguettes for dinner we returned to the beach and plonked ourselves down near the water’s edge, eager to bask in the 392

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sunset and watch the colourful, gaudy lights of Nice twinkle into existence.

“I take it you haven’t been to Monaco yet, Sam?” I asked.

“No. Could you tell me how to get there?”

“It’s easy,” Jessica said. “The bus will take you straight there and let me tell you, Sam, you’re going to love it.” Jessica sighed. “Man, I could so live there.”

“You got a spare million bucks?” I said. “In US dollars, naturally.”

“Why?” “That’s how much it costs to get a passport.”

“Really?”

“Really! But the upside is there are no taxes and no crime.”

“I bet,” Jessica said, unwrapping the cheese. “Have you got a pocketknife, Darren?”

“Sure do, never leave home without it.” I opened my bag and rummaged around. “Oh, fuck!”

“What’s wrong?” Jessica asked.

Sam frowned. “You haven’t lost your passport have you?”

“No, much worse. I can’t find the last roll of film I finished.

Shit! It was the one of Florence, Pisa, Cinque Terre and Monaco.”

I began to rip stuff out of my day pack. “Fucking hell!”

“When did you last have it?” Jessica asked.

I forced myself to stop and think. “I stopped at a cafe this afternoon for coffee and pulled out my journal. It might’ve fallen out then. Damn it!”

It might seem strange that I would value a roll of film more than a passport, but at least a passport can be replaced, unlike the photos I’d so carefully taken. After a hurried dinner we bolted to the cafe I’d visited that afternoon, but the roll of film was nowhere to be seen and none of the waiters had noticed it.

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I was not happy.

“Well, Darren,” Jessica said, “I know it sucks, but you have to face it, the film is gone.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed, my anger spent. “I was kind of grasping at straws, hoping against hope and all that shit.”

“It could be worse. You could’ve lost all your rolls.”

“Yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s get back to the hotel.”

The next day Samantha left for Monaco while Jessica and I caught the train to Cannes. After leaving the train station Jessica suggested we catch a movie.

We visited Information and quickly discovered that none of the cinemas in Cannes were showing movies in English.

“What now?” I asked, following Jessica out of Information.

“Well, there’s always shoppin’,” Jessica replied.

This also turned out to be a bad idea. The majority of shops we passed were pricey beyond comparison.

“Geez, is there anything us common folk can afford?”

Jessica asked.

“Coffee?” I ventured.

“Everything here is even more expensive than in Monaco.”

“You’re tellin’ me. At least in Monaco with everyone so rich it didn’t seem to be so much in your face.”

“I know what you mean, Daz. I expected Monaco to be pretentious, but it wasn’t compared to this. Cannes is the complete opposite.”

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sectioned off so that each of the waterfront hotels had their own piece of it.

“Well, it’s official,” I told Jessica, “I don’t like Cannes. Any place you have to pay extravagant prices just to sit on a beach is not for me.”

“I’m with you,” Jessica agreed.

We finally found a small part of the beach that was open to the public where we relaxed for a while and took in the atmosphere. The bitter sweet smell of the salty air was filled with the lilting laughter of children, the lapping of waves against the shore, a shroud of conversation and the murmur of rollerblades against the sidewalk.

There was little else for us to do in Cannes so we returned to Nice and spent the rest of the day strolling through town, popping into any shop that grabbed our attention and whinging that the gelato was nowhere near as good as in Italy, until it was time to meet up with Samantha for dinner. We took her to Flunch. This time instead of ordering blue steak Jessica had found out that you had to say, “No blood”.

“Did you guys hear about the free concert?” Samantha asked.

“Really?” I looked up from the steak I was busily eating.

“It’s at the beach. A couple of DJs and a band, supposedly.”

“Rockin’.”

“Well, I guess that’s our plans after dinner sorted,” Jessica said.

Or so we thought. When we arrived the beach was empty, save the occasional fisherman.

“So, where exactly is this concert?” I asked.

“I don’t know, the guy at the hotel said it would be on the beach.”

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“Well, it’s obviously not here,” Jessica said.

The beach was empty, but the promenade wasn’t. As on previous nights it was packed with tourists, buskers, rollerbladers, families and crepe makers. This meant our last night in Nice was as lively as it was relaxing.

I was glad there was not much to do in Nice. I’d already been travelling for a few months, and while I’d enjoyed going places, seeing monuments and meeting so many great people, I was exhausted. I wished I could take another holiday from a holiday.

But there were more destinations left, and I was still looking forward to each one of them. The next one especially.

When I last went to Barcelona I was with two workmates from The Fox and Goose, Jill and Lisa, and it was literally a passing visit. We’d thought it would be fun to drive around Spain.

And it was, until we picked up the car. Then all the fun kind of went out the window. For a couple of reasons, really. In Spain the girls got freaked out by the traffic and ordered me to drive. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d had only thirteen hours experience driving a manual and so in typical male fashion, bit off more than I could chew. As you can imagine, my subsequent ‘driving’ was more like hopping along in the required direction. Thankfully, by the time we’d reached the outskirts of Barcelona Lisa was the driver and I the navigator.

Needless to say we didn’t get very far. By the time night had fallen we still were no closer to figuring out where we should be going so before any of us suffered a nervous breakdown we checked into a hotel on the edge of the city. It was a unanimous decision to return to Madrid the following day where we happily returned the car and spent the rest of our Spanish adventure on foot.

I hoped this time my stay in Barcelona would be longer.

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25

And That’s a Load of Bull!

Unlike Jessica and Samantha who continued north, I went west, away from the coast and into the south-east region of France to the medieval town of Avignon.

I’d originally planned to spend a couple of days in Avignon, but when I heard that one hour—the time the bus stopped enroute to Barcelona—was heaps of time to experience what Avignon had to offer, I reshuffled my itinerary without a moment’s hesitation. Funny thing is if I’d made that decision earlier in the trip I would’ve been filled with regret. But by this stage I didn’t bat an eyelid. Like I said at the end of the previous chapter, I was becoming exhausted, jaded and yearned for a couple of weeks to put my feet up and recharge my batteries, so I trudged off the bus and into town with an Oh well, I’m here. Might as well have a look mentality.

I arrived at the Palace of the Popes. Easily the most impressive building in Avignon, it shadowed the town with its grandeur and literally oozed power and money. In the fourteenth century during the reign of three popes the heart of the Catholic Church was relocated to Avignon for various political reasons. This so-called New Rome quickly became extremely wealthy and all sorts of art, paintings and other extravagant objets d’art were acquired. While most of the items are still on display I didn’t give the building a second glance since I’d seen enough grandiose buildings and valuable artefacts to last me a lifetime. After taking a couple of happy

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snaps I continued to the Pont d’Avignon.

Unlike the Charles Bridge in Prague, the Pont d’Avignon is neither grand nor imposing. Heck, it isn’t even finished and barely stretches halfway across the Rhône River. The only reason it’s still around and hasn’t disintegrated into mounds of rubble at the bottom of the river is that it was built as a personal favour to God. Stop me if you think I’m nuts, but if a supreme being with the power to destroy heaven and earth asked me to build a bridge I would jump to it. And that’s exactly what Bénézet did, the shepherd God picked out to be his chief builder. Shame then that the bishop did not jump with him. When Bénézet told the bishop what God wanted him to do the bishop thought he was loony and sent him off to a judge for sentencing. To test the shepherd’s state of mind the judge ordered Bénézet to pick up a heavy boulder and move it to where he wanted to build the bridge. Without fuss Bénézet did as he was told, much to the shock of the bishop and townspeople. From then on Bénézet received all the help he needed and enough money to build bridges right along the river.

Instead of lingering at these two sights, because truth be told they did not interest me, I took a quick stroll through Avignon. I could not believe how much it reminded me of Siena. Not so much because of the architecture; in that respect the two towns are poles apart. Siena is rustic and earthy while Avignon is ornate and decorative. No, what made me think of Siena was Avignon’s infrastructure, a haphazard arrangement of cobbled lanes, narrow alleyways, winding avenues and tree-lined courtyards.

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amongst it, all in the hope of grabbing a bargain, but this time my attention was drawn elsewhere.

At the mouth of one of the many lanes that led into the square was an agitated congregation of people handing out leaflets. Curious, I wandered over.

I took a leaflet and although I couldn’t read it there were enough pictures on it for me to understand what was going on. These people were actors on strike. Of the many things Avignon was famous for amateur theatre was near the top of the list.

I stepped back out of harm’s way, expecting the protesters to pull out placards, signs and megaphones at any moment and start rampaging through the town. To my amusement they chose a different course of action. They suddenly stopped and lay down in the middle of the road, aiming to cause as much disruption to traffic as possible. In other cities this would work, but in Avignon where the streets are narrow and not known for carrying heavy traffic this was far from the truth.

Instead of traffic chaos or inconvenience as hoped, the only feelings these actors’ protests generated from bystanders were curiosity and bewilderment.

I returned to the bus and found Danielle, Ari and Kara waiting outside, admiring what was easily the best view of the town. Stretching out before them was the Rhône River, the Pont d’Avignon and an all-encompassing vista of Avignon.

“Hey, guys, how was Avignon?” I asked.

“Great,” Danielle answered.

“Doesn’t seem like there was much to do.”

“But that’s why we loved it,” Ari told me. “We sat around, played Uno, drank wine and just chilled out.”

“So I take it you didn’t check out the Palace of the Popes.”

“Nah, not really,” Kara said.

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“We’ve been to Rome and seen St Peter’s,” Danielle said, “so I really don’t think we’ve missed much.”

“But Avignon was a great place to recharge the batteries,” Kara added.

“Especially before going to a place like Barcelona,” I said, turning to her.

“Yeah,” Danielle said, “from what we’ve heard it’s one of those cities with so much to do and not enough time to do it.”

“You’re not wrong,” I agreed.

“You’ve been?” Kara asked.

“Well, passed through is more the phrase I would use.”

“Why?” Danielle asked. “What happened?”

I told them about my previous visit to Spain.

“Bunny hopper from hell, huh?” Ari said, highly amused.

“Oh yeah.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not driving,” he said.

Back on the bus and before we even got started Chad, our guide for the journey, opened his mouth. Now here was a guy who could easily hold a conversation with a fish, breathe and eat a steak dinner all at the same time. I’d first met Chad when I was on my way from Rome to Naples. Let me give you an example of what went down when he picked up the mike.

“Welcome aboard, everyone! Now, as you are aware there are safety regulations on this bus and since you’ve heard them all before I won’t go into too much detail. Oh, check out that tree! Y’know, it actually reminds me of a tree where I grew up. I’m from the US by the way, but don’t hold that against me. And this tree had the best tyre swing on it. Don’t you guys just love tyre swings? Did you know that tyre swings are more popular than normal swings? By the way, just around the corner Mount Vesuvius is coming into view. Now there’s a behemoth of a mountain. Killed a few thousand people in 79

And That’s a Load of Bull!

AD and still has not settled down. If you look carefully you can see him still smoking away. So who’s getting off at Naples?

Crazy place! It’s as bad as New York. So who’s been to New York? Did you like it? Isn’t the shopping brilliant? But boy does it have smelly taxi drivers …”

It was a similar case as the bus wound its way to the French/ Spanish border.

“Olè! Hope everyone has their maracas ready because we’re about to paaah-tay. Does everyone here like sangria? If you do you’re in for a treat. They make the best stuff in Barcelona.

I remember this one time at college my frat made heaps of sangria. Whoooeeee! Now there was a great party, of what little I can remember anyway. And hey, it must’ve been awesome because I got soooo tanked I slept under the dean’s desk in my underwear. You should’ve seen the dean’s face when he walked into his office the next morning and found me watering his pot plant—” he flashed a grin. “Boy, was that a tough semester!”

In the time it took us to get from Avignon to the border and into Catalonia I swear Chad never came up for air. But it wasn’t only random pieces of information that he rattled off.

Not long after we’d crossed the border he gave us a piece of very bad news. “… and about accommodation in Barcelona, for those of you who pre-booked you have nothing to worry about. But those who haven’t—” he paused for what he thought was a dramatic effect, “—well, all I can say is don’t knock park benches until you try ’em …”

Barcelona is a city where accommodation even in the off season is scarce and should be booked well in advance. Even then it’s best to cross your fingers and toes. Come summer, however, crossed fingers and toes just don’t cut it anymore and instead you’d better start praying for a miracle.

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As the people without accommodation realised when they started making frantic phone calls at our next rest stop.

It didn’t help their cause that Barcelona at the time was also hosting the world swimming championships.

Of course, Chad had the perfect solution for those who were left out in the cold, so to speak.

“For those who could not get a place to crash, don’t stress.

Barcelona is a fairly happenin’ place and there are heaps of bars and clubs where you can spend your night. In fact, I guarantee you’ll be spoilt for choice. So when we get in tonight what I recommend you do is find a locker, dump your bags and boogie down all night. And if you pick up, that’s a bonus. At least you know you’ll have a bed for the night. After all, it’s Saturday night in Barcelona!”

“What do you say, guys?” I said. “Are you eager to hit the town tonight?”

“Fine by us,” Ari answered.

We agreed to meet by eight-thirty at the Kabul Hostel, which was near the main street and central to everything.

It was a twelve-hour trip from Nice to Barcelona so when Kara and I finally staggered into our hostel we were tired and hungry.

“Geez, I was wondering if you guys would ever show up,” said a voice behind us.

“Jules! How are ya?” I said.

“What happened to you two? How come it took you so long?”

“Traffic,” Kara answered.

“Yeah, it was nuts,” I agreed. “So, Jules, tell us where are the good places to eat around here? I’m starvin’.” Julia had already spent two nights in Barcelona.

“You and me both.”

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“Haven’t you eaten yet?” Kara asked.

“No, I was waiting for you guys to show.”

“Oh, aren’t you nice,” Kara said.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Modest as well,” I added.

“We’re supposed to be meeting Danielle and Ari at the Kabul Hostel for dinner. Do you know where that is?” Kara asked.

“Sure do.”

Chad was wrong. Barcelona was not vibrant. It was much more than that. The instant Kara, Julia and I left the hostel the city’s atmosphere smothered us completely. The whole place seemed to be alive. Everywhere I turned bars teemed with people and the air crackled with Latin rhythms and boisterous chatter.

There was even more energy at Plaça Reale, the square the Kabul Hostel overlooked.

“Sorry we’re late, guys,” Danielle apologised when she and Ari arrived. “Our hostel is further away from this place than we thought.”

“No sweat,” I said.

“Hey, Jules, how are you?” Danielle smiled in Julia’s direction.

“Starving.”

“You’re not the only one,” Ari sympathised. “Do you know any good places to eat, Jules?”

“You bet. Follow me.”

I found myself standing outside a place I had frequented many times while I was in Amsterdam. Once again, like at Flunch, everyone abused the all you can eat salad bar that Maoz offered.

“Does anyone remember how to get to the bar Chad was 403

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telling us about?” I asked.

“He called it the Fairy Bar,” Danielle said.

“It’s somewhere near the wax museum,” Ari recalled.

“Are you guys talking about the bar with trees?” Julia asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “you know it?”

“You betcha!” she answered with a smile.

The atmosphere in Plaça Reale was buzzing, but along La Rambla, the city’s main tourist strip, it was throbbing. The whole area pulsated with loud music, raucous laughter and gaudy neon lights.

The bar—Bosc De Fades or Forest of the Fairies—was not on La Rambla, but one street away. From the outside it was nothing to look at, but once inside I saw how right Chad had been in his description of the place.

The bar was anthropomorphic in all regards. Planted randomly throughout were fake trees complete with human faces etched in a variety of expressions. It wasn’t just the personalities oozing from the trees that made me believe I was in a Brothers Grimm fairytale, but that the branches reached out and formed an umbrella of foliage above us. But the weirdness was not limited to human-like trees. Every available space was plastered in two-way mirrors, sideways mannequins, fairies, gnomes and abstract works of art. This and the cruisy atmosphere made the bar a perfect place to sip chilled sangria, relax and unwind after a long day of travelling. Shortly after midnight we called it a night and returned to our respective hostels.

“Geez, it’s warm,” I mentioned to the girls as we walked across Plaça Reale.

“I’m dreading my room,” Kara said. “It’s going to be ridiculously stuffy.”

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“Don’t worry about that,” Julia said, “the hostel has airconditioning.”

It was a shame then that I did not have a sleeping bag. Well, I did have one, but in my infinite wisdom and foresight had sent it home. I figured that since I was going to be staying in places like Spain where summer nights are hotter than Jalapenos I wouldn’t need a sleeping bag. How wrong was I! While it was thirty-five degrees outside, inside my room was minus three. And as I pushed past the snowboarders who were lined up outside waiting for the first snow of the season, I thought of my mother’s words when I’d phoned her from Nice.

“Darren,” she said, “why is your sleeping bag here? You’re going to need it. Are you stupid? Why won’t you listen?”

“Mum,” I replied, “it’s like forty degrees here. Why the heck am I going to need a sleeping bag?”

“You never know. Just because it’s hot now doesn’t mean the weather can’t change.”

“Mum, it’s the middle of summer here. I would welcome a cool change.”

And so it went for some twenty minutes until finally my ear was red and my head was hurting.

As I shooed the seals and penguins out of my bed and said goodnight to the lost Eskimos who’d camped in the middle of the room, I wondered how in the world my mother could know my room mimicked the Antarctic. The only possible answer scared me to my bones—my mother was psychic and could control destiny, just to prove a point.

After a frigid night’s sleep I brushed away the icicles that had formed around my face, had a much-needed hot shower to thaw myself out and shuffled down to the foyer. Kara and Julia were already in the middle of breakfast.

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“So where haven’t you been, Jules?” I asked.

“Nowhere, really. Yesterday, just to check out the city I hopped on a bike tour.”

“How was it?” Kara asked.

“Not bad.”

“But since you have a better idea of where everything is,” I said, “I vote you guide for the day.”

“I second that,” Kara said.

The three of us strolled to the Metro and I was overwhelmed by the peace of the city. The marauding hordes of tourists and locals that had overrun the city the previous night had vanished, leaving the streets quiet and filled with a lazy dulcet atmosphere.

It was a short train ride to Parc Güell, one of the many places around the city where the legacy of the famous architect, Antoni Gaudi, can be found. Built in what was the highest part of the park, overlooking a large portion of the city was a terrace that had all the trademarks of a Gaudi design—bright colours and curved edges.

Gaudi had a naturalistic way of thinking and believed if nature didn’t use straight lines in its construction then why should he? Even the supporting columns of the terrace were intertwined with aspects of nature. The top was sculpted so it represented a tree’s foliage while the columns themselves were slanted to represent wind-swept trees. To further add to the theme, halfway down the stairs leading from the terrace to the ground was a colourful wide-jawed mosaic lizard that completely explained why the word gaudy had been invented.

“Where to now?” Kara asked when we reached the park’s exit.

“La Sagrada Familia,” Julia answered without hesitation.

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Of all the Gaudi buildings the most famous is the church that he started, but failed to finish.

Gaudi was a man of routine and liked to go for a walk after a day’s work. It was during one of his evening strolls that he was knocked over by a tram. These days you would like to think that everyone about you would rush to your aid, but you have to remember things were different back then. Not only did your grandfather have to walk ten miles to school every day in a blizzard in his bare feet, but people were given or denied medical treatment based solely on their appearance. It just so happened that on that fateful day when he was knocked down, Gaudi was wearing tattered old clothes and when someone did finally come to his aid he was taken to a hospital for the poor where his treatment was inadequate, resulting in his untimely death.

This is a shame. On admiring the church I could only imagine how stunning it would have been if Gaudi had finished it. The only portion of the church that Gaudi did complete before his sudden death was the front. Made up of four columns with the central two reaching to a height of one hundred feet, each is interspersed with aspects of nature and meticulously decorated in religious figures and symbols.

“Jules,” I asked, squinting up at the exoskeleton of scaffolding and cranes shrouding the sides of the church, “you took the bike tour yesterday. Did they say when the church was due to be finished?”

“2011.”

Kara was surprised. “That long?”

“Well, yeah. The towers and the rest of the church might not take long, but because the plans Gaudi left behind were inconclusive there’s a lot of room left for interpretation. The work is stopping and starting as the architects try to sort out 407

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their creative differences. The only aspect they’ve managed to agree on is the number of towers the church is supposed to have.”

“How many?” I asked.

“Eighteen all up. Twelve for the apostles, four for the evangelists and one for Mary and one for Jesus.”

“I reckon they should leave the church the way it is.”

“Why?” “Because Gaudi’s style was very unique and I seriously doubt anybody would be able to capture it. If there are as many architects as you say, this church will end up being a complete shemozzle. It’ll be a case of too many cooks.”

We arrived at Parc de la Ciutadella after midday and wandered up to the park’s impressive Gaudi designed fountain.

Unlike his later work the fountain was neither colourful nor curvaceous, but had a definite art deco style about it.

Either side of a man-made lagoon a grand pair of curved staircases ascended to a central apex on which rested a four-horse chariot that was similar to the sculpture on top of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin. What made this fountain unique was the water feature. Unlike other fountains where water spurts from concealed jets beneath the surface, here the water cascaded from beneath the central apex and into the lagoon below. This waterfall effect is what ultimately gave the fountain its name, The Cascada.

The three of us returned to the hostel. It was Sunday afternoon, which meant that any shops that had opened for Sunday trading were now closing for a siesta. This left us with little to do but have a snooze ourselves.

Before I go on I would like to thank you for reading this far. I really hope you have found my book entertaining and informative. If not then I sincerely hope you’ve kept the receipt 408

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and you can just say you bought it for a present and that your friend already has a copy. And if they ask about the coffee stain you can always blame it on the ink running because the stingy author couldn’t spring for the decent kind.

Now you’re probably wondering why in the middle of my chapter on Barcelona I’m thanking you. Well, I’m about to get a bit controversial and I reckon after the next couple of pages you might throw the book down in disgust or use it as kindling in your fireplace. (I use it to level my computer desk and I know my friend Sarah and her husband Bourke keep it in their bathroom because apparently it’s really absorbent. Go figure!)

Anyway, you might think I’m joking, but when I was writing emails home and mentioned that I was going to a bullfight a workmate and good friend from Scotland decided that I was no longer a person she could associate with and ended our friendship with a series of abusive emails. I don’t know what your views on bullfighting are and instead of sullying your judgment with my views just yet I will try and present an unbiased description of what happened next.

It was early evening when the girls and I returned to La Rambla to meet up with Danielle, Ari and a few others from their hostel. With anticipation and to a certain degree trepidation, our big group pushed its way through the crowds to the nearest subway.

On the train I was chatting to a lady who’d come to visit her daughter on the Spanish leg of her European tour when she asked me where I was originally from.

“India,” I answered.

“Whereabouts?”

“Chennai.”

“Oh really?” She looked at me with a wistful expression.

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“You wouldn’t know anyone called Fabian Mendez, would you?”

“No,” I answered. “I reckon Mendez sounds more Spanish than Indian, don’t you?”

“How about Salmon?”

A knot of excitement began churning in my stomach.

“Yeah, my uncle’s family name is Salmon.”

“Do you know Olivia Salmon, then?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, she’s a friend of mine.”

“My God! Olive married my Dad’s brother, Cyrus. It’s actually Olivia Assey now.”

The two of us were instantly reduced to yelps of excitement.

By the time we’d settled down and exchanged email addresses the train was pulling into Monumental Station and we had to say our goodbyes.

It was a short walk to the only active bullring in Barcelona, but when we’d reached our seats my excitement had been diluted with apprehension. I’d seen pictures of bullfights and heard the stories, which ranged from the exciting to the macabre, so I didn’t know what to expect or how I’d handle it.

At five o’clock the sound of horns signalled the arrival of a VIP in the corporate box, and the show began.

To a fanfare of Spanish trumpets and the crowd’s raucous applause the gates at the other side of the ring opened and three toreadors, their capes draped around their shoulders, strode into the arena. Following in their footsteps were their assistants who were really nothing more than rodeo clowns without the funny pants. Their task was to hand out swords and capes and when necessary, distract the bulls. Trotting in behind these were two mounted horsemen whose horses were 410

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blindfolded. Bringing up the rear were the cleaners and four draught horses whose job was to remove the dead bulls from the ring.

After each bowed to the dignitary sitting in the corporate box they left the ring and an atmosphere of anticipation filled the arena.

A musical introduction and thunderous cheers signalled the arrival of the first bull. Each bullfight consists of six bulls, two for each toreador.

I expected the first toreador to stomp into the ring, cape swinging and flapping in the wind. Instead, the far gates of the arena opened and the two blindfolded horses trotted out.

The bull watched closely as the riders were given lances and proceeded to circle. I was reminded of what Chad had said: “A bullfight is a bit of a passion play, similar to that of Hamlet.

Like the Danish king the bull is the only one who is unaware of its fate.”

Without warning the bull charged at the rider’s horse to its left. The horse, unable to see, stood its ground. The bull rammed harder, causing the horse to buckle. I was not too keen on this aspect of the fight.

This bravado was short-lived and with a deft gesture the rider thrust his lance into the nape of the bull’s neck. Instantly, the bull retreated. But not for long. Hardly a moment passed before the bull lowered its head, exposing the full extension of its horns, and charged. This time it was the other horse that received the full brunt of its power. But no sooner had it connected when the rider jabbed his lance into the bull’s neck.

The bull backed off while the riders exited to the sound of unrelenting applause. I scanned the arena and it appeared that our group were the only ones not cheering.

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The applause grew louder as the first of the three toreadors entered the ring and faced off against the bull. In his hands were two skewers sheathed in a material that made them look like bottlebrushes. Once his assistants had positioned themselves around the ring, ready to distract the bull at a second’s notice, the toreador raised the two skewers and pointed the tips straight at the bull.

Sensing an attack the bull lowered its head and began to gouge the ground with his right hoof, stirring up dirt. The crowd fell silent. I inched my way to the edge of my seat.

The bull snorted and as if on cue the toreador charged hard and fast. The bull charged back.

I believe courage and bravery go hand in hand, but in this case, it’s not courage you need, but a whole lot of craziness.

Let me tell you, if a bull charged towards me I would not be charging towards it, but bolting away in the opposite direction, shrieking at the top of my lungs regardless of what I held in my hand, unless that something was a panzer tank.

I watched with a mixture of awe and horror as the toreador sprinted towards the bull and jumped directly into its path.

Then with the skill of a gymnast, he twisted to his left as he planted the tips of the skewers into the bull’s neck and landed at its side.

The crowd roared, once again unrestrained in their adulation.

An assistant handed the toreador another set of skewers.

Again, he turned and ran towards the bull.

This guy was fucking nuts. It would not take much—a step in the wrong direction, a mistimed jump, the odd stumble—for the toreador to give new meaning to the term horny.

But all things come in threes, as do crazy acts involving pissed-off bulls. The crowd had barely settled down again 412

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when the toreador grabbed two more skewers and raced towards the enraged bull.

What happened next is something that I can only describe as a macabre sort of dance.

Grabbing his cape from one of the assistants, the toreador began to wave it in front of the bull’s face until it charged.

The toreador seemed nonplussed as he shuffled his feet like someone dancing the flamenco, transferring the cape from one hand to the other and allowing the bull to run under it.

Twenty minutes later the bull was exhausted, its coat velvety from blood, its breath ragged from its wounds. Judging by the feeling of anticipation sweeping through the crowd, it was obvious the fight was nearing its conclusion. As if on cue the toreador walked to the side of the ring where he was handed a sword.

The bull watched as the toreador approached and placed the cape just below its nose. The bull bowed its head and studied the cape intently. This guaranteed that the nape of the bull’s neck was now completely exposed.

Two things are done to the bull before it enters the ring.

The first is an injection of muscle relaxant into the animal’s neck, rendering it unable to lift its head up more than halfway.

The second is the attachment of a small ribbon at the base of the bull’s neck. While the muscle relaxant aids the toreador to gain a clean shot of the bull’s heart, the ribbon ensures a clear aim for a swift kill.

The toreador was setting himself up for the final attack when suddenly the bull charged, causing the toreador to back-pedal.

The crowd’s cheers turned instantly to jeers.

Not fazed at what was going on in the stands the toreador resumed his position in front of the bull, and this time when the bull charged he was ready. Like he’d done when he was 413

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wielding the two skewers, the toreador did a Michael Jordan impression and drove the sword deep into the bull’s neck, piercing its heart. The bull went down.

Unlike the rest of the crowd that was cheering unabashedly, everyone in our group was silent.

This changed at the conclusion of the second fight because while the first fighter was good, the second was not simply better, but the world’s best.

Where the first fighter simply waved the cape in front of the bull from a standing position, El Huli would do so while standing, kneeling or even lying in front of the enraged beast, thereby increasing the risk of being gored and adding the risk of being trampled.

Our cheers grew louder when the third fighter entered the ring. Like El Huli, he would dance in front of the bull and do other more flamboyant, highly dangerous stunts, like turn his back on the animal only to swivel out of the way at the last second before the bull’s horns connected with his posterior.

By the fight’s conclusion we were cheering and shouting to the person in the presidential box to give the toreador a token of appreciation for a great performance. In this case, as custom dictated, the ear of the bull the toreador had just killed. It was the aim of all bullfighters to receive both ears and a tail.

A reward that the first fighter could only dream of. As I discovered earlier, the crowd was fickle and would turn against a toreador if he failed at killing a bull the first time or if his fights were prolonged and dull.

“Well, what do you think?” Ari asked us as the last bull was dragged from the arena.

“It was good,” I said. “Better than I expected.”

We pushed our way to the exit.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Kara said.

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“Would you go again?” Ari asked.

“That depends,” I answered.

“On what?” Julia asked.

“I think we were lucky. We got to watch one of the world’s best fighters. If I saw fighters that weren’t as good as El Huli or that third guy—” “Like that first one?” Danielle commented.

“Exactly. I’d feel sorry for the bull.”

“I don’t know about everyone else,” Julia said, “but I’m hungry.”

“What do you feel like?” Kara asked.

“Steak!” I answered.

Ari nodded. “Me too.”

“There’s a lot of beef in there,” Danielle pointed out.

“Didn’t Chad say the meat of fighting bulls is the best there is?” Kara asked.

“He did say they’re well taken care of,” I said. “They get all the best grass and get to take all the hot cows out to their paddock for a roll in the hay.”

Julia slapped me across the back of my head.

“Well, bulls need love too.”

Kara rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the meat of fighting bulls is supposed to be extremely tender.”

“It’s a pity we don’t have a kitchen in the hostel,” I added.

“We could visit the market tomorrow and pick up some steaks.”

“Why steaks, Daz?” Julia asked. “The best bits are the tail and the balls.”

“I’ll say it again,” although this time I did so with more than an ounce of sarcasm, “it’s a pity we don’t have a kitchen in the hostel.”

“I suppose we could get Maccas,” Kara suggested.

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“That’ll do,” I said.

From the above, you might assume I am advocating animal cruelty, but no. I did enjoy the bullfight, but I can honestly say it’s not something I would do again in a hurry. But being in Spain, I felt I should experience a bullfight first-hand so at least I’d know what I’m disagreeing with.

The next morning I met up again with Kara and Julia in the foyer.

“What’s the plan for the day, girls?”

They looked at me and shrugged.

“I can see the excitement in this place is catching. So you girls don’t really want to see anything?”

“Nope,” Julia answered as she turned to Kara. “How about you?”

“Nothing really. How about you, Daz? What do you want to see?”

I could tell they were waiting for a long list of responses.

“Haven’t got a clue, Jules. I suppose we could check out the Picasso and Dali museums or those Gaudi houses.”

The girls answered in unison, “I don’t think so.”

“I thought as much.”

“You know,” Julia said, “I’d be happy to go for a ride in the cable car, take in the view of Barcelona and then spend the rest of the day on the beach.”

“By gum I think she’s got it,” I said.

On a clear day the scene from the cable car would be spectacular and endless, but unfortunately the day was not clear and the city was covered by a mixture of smog, dust and heat haze. Despite this we could still see enough of the city to gain a decent concept of how sprawling Barcelona is. In fact, as the car ascended upwards the ordered arrangement of streets 416

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made me think of Manhattan.

By the time we’d walked down to the beach Julia’s enthusiasm had simmered.

“It’s not the best beach,” she said as we stepped to the edge of the promenade.

“What do you expect?” I said. “It’s fake, simply created for the 1992 Olympics.”

The beach itself was not that bad as the many people sunbaking on the sand would have agreed, but by unspoken agreement the three of us preferred to give it a miss and we dawdled back into town.

“Come on, guys,” Julia said as we turned back onto La Rambla and were quickly enveloped by all its erratic noise and chaos, “I’ll take you to this great market. The lollies there are yummy.”

“Yeah and maybe we can get a bull testicle or two,” I suggested.

Kara shot me a dark look. “No, thank you.”

Mercat De La Boqueria was just off La Rambla and apart from being one of the few places where you could buy bulls’ balls and tails there was also a great selection of sweets and confectionery as well as an amazing range of fresh fruit and vegetables.

Since mangoes were in season I bought one and ripped into it. By the expressions that filled the girls’ faces me eating a mango was one of the most disgusting things they’d seen.

“Darren,” Julia said, “anyone ever tell you you’re a pig?”

Kara could not speak because she was in shock.

“Whuh?” I mumbled. “Thik id fantisig.”

“You’re gross, Daz.” “Tank youd.”

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Smeared in juice and in dire need of a bib—or a trough—I endured the frightened stares of random strangers as the police cordoned off the area to protect innocent bystanders. But it was a small price to pay because it was easily one of the most succulent mangoes I’d tasted. Julia just sighed and handed me a tissue. Once I’d cleaned myself up we returned to the hostel to watch some TV and grab a few zees.

The girls were still snoozing when I left the hostel shortly after six. After the bullfight I’d agreed to meet Danielle, Ari and their room-mates Nicola and John for dinner at La Fonda, a restaurant famed for its affordability and mouth-watering food. The restaurant opened its doors at eight-thirty and even though the five of us arrived at eight, the line had already stretched down the street. It was near to nine o’clock when we were finally led to our table.

Not that any of us minded because the food was definitely worth the wait. I was gobsmacked at how flavoursome everything tasted. Needless to say by the time we finished eating and decided to call it a night we were so full that our ability to walk had completely vanished and all we could do was waddle.

It was six-thirty the following morning when I ambled downstairs to find the foyer filled with weary-eyed backpackers.

“What are you doing up, Daz?” Julia asked.

“Yeah, Darren,” Kara joined in, shaking her head. “You should be in bed. You’re not leaving today too, are you?”

“No, actually far from it. I’m going to Montserrat with Lana.”

“Lana?” Julia asked.

“You remember her. She came with us to the bullfight.

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Blonde girl, slightly shorter than me.”

“No idea.”

“Doesn’t matter. Take my word for it she was there.”

“Where’s Montserrat?” Kara asked before adding quickly, “What’s Montserrat?”

“It’s this place north of the city, a monastery in the hills built in recognition of when the Virgin Mary appeared.”

“Aren’t you over churches?”

“Oh I am, but apparently the scenery out there is unique and the guy I was travelling with in Sicily told me I just had to go. And since I’m here I thought, why not?”

“Fair enough,” Julia said as I helped her on with her backpack. “Well, you’ll have to tell me all about it when I see you in London.”

“Will do. See you, girls.”

They picked up the rest of their stuff and marched out to the bus stop.

Lana appeared shortly after.

“Ready, Darren?”

“You bet!”

Montserrat was a little more than an hour’s train journey out of the city and nothing could have prepared us for what we were about to see. When we first witnessed the landscape we were lost for words. Instead of the usual pointy triangular monoliths, these mountains were skinny and very steep with rounded tips. They reminded me of chubby fingers.

Well, that’s what I thought. Lana had different ideas.

“My God, all these mountains look like penises. Big erect ones!”

Sheesh, I thought to myself. And they say guys are sex crazy. “Thanks for that insight, Lana, much appreciated.”

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“Anytime.” Lana smiled broadly. “It’s good to see Mother Nature knows what she wants.”

“Big and bulgy, apparently.”

“Smart woman!”

The scenery grew more spectacular the closer we got to the monastery where we were greeted by a marvellous view of the mountains and a completely unhindered view of Catalonia, a region known for its open plains, rustic villages, vast barren beauty and for being home to Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso.

The monastery was renowned for having one of the best choirs in Europe, but there was nothing else that Lana and I had not seen before. So we found a quiet spot in the courtyard to sit and take in the scenery and fresh air.

“God, it’s nice up here,” Lana said, closing her eyes and relishing the cool breeze that washed over us. “It’s just so quiet and peaceful.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s so good to get out of the city, away from the smog, dirt and heat.”

“Most definitely, Darren. It was so worth coming up here.

Even without the mountains I would come up just to get away from the craziness of Barcelona. God, that city is hectic.”

“You’re tellin’ me, but you know what?”

“What?”

“I’m going to miss the whole siesta thing. Ever since Italy I’ve loved that it’s mandatory to have a nana nap in the afternoon.”

Lana agreed. No surprise then that when we returned to the hostel we went straight to our respective rooms.

I woke in the early evening and went for a stroll around the Barri Gottic area of the city. Being the oldest part of the 420

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city meant it was a literal maze to navigate. What struck me as strange though was that it seemed to have more atmosphere and character than I’d found down the full length of La Rambla.

The shops were less tacky, the cafes more relaxed and tapas bars more lively.

My last day was spent not doing much at all. After a quick visit to the apartments that Gaudi designed and built—the Casa Mila, Casa Calvet and Casa Batlo, which like the rest of his designs were colourful and curvaceous—I spent most of the day trying to find accommodation in Portugal.

Something that proved extremely difficult to come by. But I wanted to rock up anyway and see what happened, which at this stage looked like me spending my nights on park benches.

Lost in thought about this next leg of the journey, I didn’t notice the two girls who approached me.

“Excuse me,” one said.

“Hable Inglès?” the other asked.

“Sure do. What’s up?”

“Could you please tell us how to get to this arch?”

The arch in question was a smaller version of Paris’s Arc De Triomphe and was actually named the Arc de Triomphe. It was one of the many entrances into Parc de la Ciutadella.

I pulled out my map.

“Are you a tourist?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, sorry, we though you were Spanish.”

“Hey, I’ve been called worse,” I said, pointing them in the right direction.

During my two and a half years away I’d been mistaken for English, Italian, American, Egyptian, Greek, Spanish and, on rare occasions, a terrorist. At least I knew my place in the 421

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world.

And it certainly wasn’t in Barcelona. This was an extremely vibrant and exciting city, much like New York and London, but I could see why reports about Barcelona were mixed. It was dusty, swamped with smog and ran at an exhausting pace that sucked people dry. And really, in the grand scheme of things, Barcelona was just another city. I’d seen more than my fair share of them on this trip and was not in too much of a hurry to see more.

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The Amalgamation of it All

If looks could kill I would’ve been a dead man before I’d left Barcelona.

The bus had just pulled away from the kerb when Richard hopped on the mike and had everyone on board wishing the driver a cheery “Hola!”. Alfonzo returned the greeting by beeping his horn twice. At that precise moment an attractive girl walked in front of the bus.

Without hesitation she shot a glance in our direction that could’ve split the atom in two and sent Alfonzo, Richard and me scrambling for cover. The girls sitting in the front row with me let out a hearty chuckle.

Their laughter turned to knowing smiles however as they realised the downside of sitting in the front row while wearing low-cut tops. It wasn’t the panoramic view out the front windscreen that kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, but the reflected view of the three girls from the neck down.

“Okay, Darren, I think it’s time to hand them over,” Jamie said, tightening her pigtail.

“What?” I said innocently.

“You know exactly what we mean, Darren,” Tanya piped up, readjusting her halter top.

“No,” I responded, trying to contain a smile, “please explain.”

“Darren,” Melanie chirped, “the three of us want to know where your eyes are at all times. So come on, hand over your

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sunglasses.”

“If you want ’em come and get ’em.” I grabbed my glasses and held on to them tightly.

Jamie shook her head. “I kinda figured you would say that.”

“Of course he would say that,” Tanya said. “He’s got the best seat in the bus.”

“Don’t I know it!”

I turned to them and winked. “Is it me or did it get sunny inside this bus all of a sudden?” and put my sunglasses back on.

The girls laughed before Jamie, a smile still plastered to her face, turned to me and said, “Be careful, Darren. I’d hate for you to have an accident before we reached Madrid.”

“Yeah, Darren,” Melanie added. “It would be a crying shame if something happened to you.”

The girls’ smirks told me they were joking, but deciding it would be in my best interests, I removed my sunglasses, focused my attention on the sunbaked scenery that was whizzing past the bus and mulled over my accommodation situation in Portugal, or, as the case was, lack thereof.

“Rich?”

He turned around and faced me.

“What’s the deal with Lisbon? How come it’s so hard to get a bed at the campsite?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The world gymnastics championships are being held in Lisbon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the campsite we usually use is booked out and completely overrun by gymnasts.” Images of gymnasts in 424

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bright leotards backflipping around the campsite, imposing vigorous flexibility training on the non-gymnasts suddenly swam through my mind and sent a shiver down my spine.

“I doubt you’ll get a room there, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Bugger!”

“Are you still going, then?” Melanie asked.

“Oh, for sure.”

“Then I hope you realise you won’t find a bed,” Jamie told me straight.

“Yeah,” I replied in a matter of fact tone.

The girls thought I was nuts. And they were probably right, but considering I’d come so close to bypassing Lisbon in the first place I knew I could not pass up the opportunity to go there now.

In Sorrento I’d gone through my budget and came to the conclusion that I was going to run out of money by the time I reached Lisbon. This left me with very little choice but to either begin busking or sell a kidney, just so I could get home.

Turned out in the end that I’d miscalculated, but as I told you at the end of my chapter about Sicily, hindsight is a bitch.

Since I did not have hindsight at my disposal, I resorted to some creative budgeting to get from one side of the Iberian Peninsula to the other. This involved scrimping on purchases where possible and removing the entire south of Spain from my itinerary. I was disappointed that I was not able to visit places like Seville and Costa del Sol. I’d been told there was not a lot to do there, but I’d also heard that in terms of partying and cultural aspects—and in the case of Costa del Sol, fantastic beaches—this was one part of Spain I did not want to miss.

But like so many others before me who’d ended their trips prematurely or removed whole sections, it came down to this 425

one simple fact—limitless time, not so limitless bank account.

While I wasn’t happy about missing out on one whole section of a country, I was willing to do so if it meant I could say I’d visited Portugal. It’s not because I have a fetish for Oporto— and yes, I think their Bondi Burger is bloody fantastic—but I am a ‘completist’, and would’ve regretted it immensely if I’d not made an effort to visit every Western European country. If to achieve this silly goal of mine meant I had to sleep on trains, buses, park benches or even someone’s veranda, then so be it.

The bus arrived into Valencia and I was completely taken aback by what I saw. I expected the place to be a small medieval town, similar to that of Avignon or Siena except surrounded by acres of orange groves, but it wasn’t. It had the orange groves all right, but compared to those other cities, Valencia was a mini metropolis and well deserving of its title as being the third largest city in all Spain. The streets were wide, intersections were punctuated with impressive ornate fountains and rising above it all were tall, Art Nouveau buildings.

There was no time to look around so I eagerly asked Danielle and Ari who’d stayed in Valencia what it was like.

“Oh you know,” Ari started, “The usual museums and churches—” “—not that we saw any, the shopping was so good,” Danielle finished.

“You’ll never believe what Dan did,” Ari said.

“What?” I asked.

Danielle grinned widely and raised her voice a notch. “I chucked ‘A Darren’!”

“You chucked a what?”

“A Darren,” she repeated.

“Yeah, Daz,” Ari said, “you should’ve seen it. She was like you in Florence all over again. Danielle was walking along the

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street when bam, down she went!”

“Yeah, down I went all right.” Danielle laughed. “Crushing our food bag in the process.”

“She looked like a turtle that couldn’t do anything. All she could do was wave her hands and feet about and ask for help.

It was hilarious.”

“I bet.” I could barely contain a smile, but at the same time was honoured to think that acts of clumsiness had been named after me. “So what happened? You weren’t trying to drink and walk at the same time, were you?”

Danielle said, still grinning, “I was walking and thinking about the bus and how we’d be catching up with you when as if by magic I began to trip over my own feet. And I couldn’t stop until I was face first on the ground. Maybe you have the power to infect people with your clumsiness just by them thinking about you!”

“What do you mean maybe,” I said. “This power is all part of my plan to take over the world. Instead of people fighting, they get so uncoordinated they simply fall over.”

“And is it working?” Ari asked.

“No, the only person who seems to be falling over more times than they can count is me.”

“What is it with you, Darren?” Ari asked.

“To be honest, I think it has to do with my epilepsy.”

“Really? Is it serious?”

“Only when I fall over,” I said with a smile. “Nah, it’s not that bad. Sometimes I’m unco, other times I get a little dizzy.

So chances are when I do trip over it could very well be a mild fit.”

“You don’t remember any of it?”

“Never. Kind of like when you get really pissed.”

“Damn, Daz,” Ari said, shaking his head. “I had no idea.”

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“It’s no biggie.” I shrugged. “If I did take a turn for the worse I’ve got a letter from my doctor on me, so at least if I did get taken to hospital I’d get my head examined instead of getting breast implants. C’mon, looks like we’re ready to go.”

It was early evening when the bus reached Madrid.

“When does your bus leave for Portugal?” Danielle asked.

“Not for a couple of hours yet,” I answered.

“Why don’t you leave your bag in our room?” Ari suggested as we hopped off the bus. “Then you can come out and have some dinner with us.”

“I think I might just do that.”

Madrid hadn’t changed much since I was last there. The footpaths still swarmed with activity and the streets were clogged with cars, scooters and the occasional open-top bus filled with girls wearing one size too small bikinis shaking their booties to bombastic Spanish rhythms.

Ari and I gawked with wide-eyed appreciation and slack-jawed admiration.

“I’d get you guys a bucket,” I heard Danielle say, “but for how much you guys are drooling I think a trough would be better.”

Those girls increased our appetites no end, resulting in Ari and I super-sizing our KFC meals.

“Well,” I said, pushing away from the table, “time for me to vamoose.”

“Geez, Daz,” Ari said, shaking his head, “I don’t know how you’re going to do it, from one twelve-hour bus trip to another.”

“At least I can sleep on this one,” I replied.

“You hope,” Danielle said.

The three of us returned to the hotel.

“It’s been fun,” I said, shouldering my backpack.

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“It has,” Danielle said.

Ari shook my hand. “We’ll see you in Sydney.”

“Better believe it!”

Locating the bus station was easy; buying a bus ticket to Lisbon was another story altogether.

According to the guy at the information booth it was nothing simpler than going to booth number nine. I did, and patiently waited in line. When I reached the window I calmly asked for a ticket to Lisbon. The guy behind the window turned to the lady at the next window, tapped his skull and then pointed at me. She giggled and nodded her head in agreement.

Deciding to interpret his body language to mean that he liked my haircut, I continued my line of questioning. This time, instead of using his hands he shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows and stared at me with confused silence.

I had a backup plan. (You forget that I spent the better portion of a month in Italy and my hands could be used as lethal conversation devices.) But I wasn’t as proficient at it as I thought and by the time he realised that I wasn’t crazy and only wanted to go to Portugal, I had a fair portion of the bus station participating in charades. With this small matter cleared up, he smiled and pointed me in the direction of the other booth nine on the other side of the station.

Lucky for me there was no queue at the second booth nine and I was soon waiting for my bus to arrive. Not that I would call what rolled up to the stop a bus. It was more like business class on wheels.

Through the tinted windows I saw its leather recliners, drink holders, Playstations, personal assistants, a playroom, a dance floor and more buttons than a Houston control room.

I eagerly lined up with the rest of the passengers and pulled out my ticket. I couldn’t believe I was going to Portugal on the 429

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‘Bus to the Stars’. Grinning like a goon, I stepped up to the driver who glanced at my ticket, shook his head and directed me to the adjacent bay.

Unable to contain my feelings of rejection any longer when my actual bus hissed to a stop, I began to sob uncontrollably.

There were no leather recliners, no buttons to push and as for drink holders, it was more the hold your own damn cup variety.

Admittedly, my bus did have an ashtray and considering what the other bus had to offer and what I was missing out on, it was enough to drive anyone to chain smoking.

While my bus didn’t have all the fancy gismos of the other bus, it did have a bunch of people figuring out how many ring tones were on their mobile phones. Not many by all accounts, but just to make sure, they checked them over and over and over again. Thankfully, once we left Madrid the interior lights were turned off and so were the phones, allowing me to try and get some shuteye.

The sun had not yet risen when I woke. I brushed the sleep out of my eyes and glanced out the window. In the distance across Tagus River, Lisbon was calm and dark. I reached out and touched the glass. From its icy feel the morning temperature in Portugal was nothing like I’d experienced in Spain.

Stepping off the bus drove this point home. The morning was neither balmy nor humid, but crisp and fresh. I grabbed my bags and set off to find a much needed hit of caffeine. A task that proved harder than I imagined because the majority of cafes were closed. This was strange. According to my watch it was eight o’clock, a time when cities are usually full of angry workers in search of a good coffee. But the streets were empty and strangely quiet.

I finally found a cafe that was open and realised what was going on. I’d forgotten to set my watch back one hour because 430

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unlike the rest of Europe, Portugal did not participate in daylight saving.

A fact that worked to my advantage because it meant I now had an extra hour at my disposal to find the campsite. When my coffee was served I opened my guidebook to the relevant map of Lisbon.

It was then that I learnt a valuable lesson—maps are useful things only if you know where you are to begin with. I had no idea where I was relative to anything else and there were no arrows in my guidebook telling me “You are here”. I called the waiter over and asked for directions. He picked up the book and I was soon left with the distinct impression that he had no idea where we were either.

He studied the map, walked outside to get his bearings, came back in, turned the book upside down, then sideways and even tried standing on his head while squinting, all to no avail.

Shrugging his shoulders he handed the guidebook back to me and pointed me in the direction of the nearest train station. I finished my coffee, walked to the Metro and eventually found my way to the campsite.

As predicted, my fears were realised and the cabins were full. Unless I could convince them I was a world championship gymnast—and with my level of coordination this was never going to happen, even if pigs began to fly over a frozen hell—I had no other option but to buy a tent. Of all the things I’d packed before I left Australia—torch, towel, clothes, sleeping-bag (which I was seriously beginning to miss)—the last item I thought I’d need was a tent. But there I was in Lisbon and in dire need of one.

Thankfully, there was a sports store nearby and I was soon pitching a one-man tent on the hill behind reception.

I expected all sorts of problems—poles breaking, getting 431

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tangled, ripping the nylon, being pegged to the ground, and if all things went to plan, having a tree fall on me. But much to my surprise, the tent went up without a hassle and to make things really easy, the breeze even died down at the crucial moments.

Happy that the tent was properly pitched, I treated myself to a leisurely breakfast and a long shower to scrape off twenty-four hours’ worth of bus funk.

Feeling suitably refreshed, I bussed it back into Lisbon and made straight for the Baxia district. With its rigid lattice of straight streets and squares all lined with shops, cafes and restaurants, it was the perfect place to stroll aimlessly for a couple of hours.

Not planning to spend the full day around the Baxia, I went in the direction of the castle overlooking the city, Castelo de São Jorge. I’d barely walked one block when I was stopped by a local man bearing gifts.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Like sunglasses?” He showed me a tacky worn pair.

“Er ... no thanks,” If this guy wanted to get into the sunglasses business he really needed more than one pair. And certainly not ones that looked like they belonged in 1975.

He put the sunglasses away and pulled out some small, leaf-filled plastic bags. “Okay, then. Like hash? Marijuana?”

“No, mate, I’m good.”

Not fazed, the man simply walked away and asked a nearby elderly couple if they would like to buy some sunglasses.

Shaking my head, I continued my walk to the castle, stupidly thinking it would be easy to find. Well, how could one miss a castle? Surely it would be conspicuously magnificent and, compared to the rest of the city, would stand out like a stain on 432

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a presidential intern’s dress.

Shows how much I knew. Even after following the signs, walking through the maze of streets and cobblestone alleyways, getting lost, almost having an intimate encounter with a tram and walking around in circles, I did not actually find the castle, but accidentally stumbled on to it. And when I entered its grounds, looked around its ramparts and walked to the viewpoint, I realised I was over it all anyway. I was done playing tourist and wanted nothing more than to stay in one place for more than three days.

Gazing over the city and the Tagus River, certainly an amazing view, I could not help but agree with Paul Kelly. I’d seen enough on this trip to know “Every fucking city looks the same.”

A point that was driven home when I returned to the Baxia district and realised how much it reminded me of Austria. The ornate buildings had the same whitewashed classical style I’d found in Salzburg and in Vienna’s Old Town. Then again, with all the trams and the pseudo Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the Tagus I could’ve been in San Francisco; while the statue of Jesus in the background meant one could be forgiven for thinking they were in Rio. Even when I walked from the Baxia district to the less touristy parts of the city, I found buildings with faded paintwork, peeling plaster and bloated wooden windowsills that were more at home in Venice than in Lisbon. It was as if the city planners could not decide on one particular design and decided to mix and match the best bits of other cities. From what I saw they definitely got the mixing part right, but the matching left a lot to be desired.

I returned to the centre of the town, stopped in a wide open square and pulled out my guidebook to see what else there was to see. From what I read Lisbon had a lot more going for it than 433

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mixed architecture, churches and a castle.

If I wanted to I could take a ferry and climb the statue of Jesus, or if I timed it correctly I could travel down the coast and catch some pre-season Formula 1 testing. Then there were the many museums dotted around the city. If I wanted a day trip I could take a short train trip down to Sintra, a town that was famous among Portuguese royalty and English nobility for its grand architecture and thick surrounding forests.

I don’t know if you noticed, but in that last paragraph I used the phrase, I could more than once and started with the statement, If I wanted to. Here’s the thing, though—I didn’t want to. I felt no need to see more sights, go on day trips or have my head filled with important dates in history. I just wanted to take it easy and do something non-touristy for a change.

With this in mind, I made straight for the big shopping centre, El Corte Ingles, where I discovered—much to my delight—a cinema that showed movies in original English, albeit with Portuguese subtitles.

The next morning I returned to the Baxia district and to a little cafe I’d found the previous day that made a decent cup of coffee, where I spent the morning catching up on my travel journal.

As I sipped my coffee I was again approached by my favourite sunglasses salesman.

“Want sunglasses?”

I looked up at him and again answered, “No, mate.”

“How about marijuana? Hash?”

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“No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Good hash.”

“I’m sure.”

“Come on, marijuana really good.”

“Honestly, no.”

He shook his head, obviously disappointed in me and slinked down the street.

The rest of the day was filled with emails, window-shopping and a movie.

And with the end of the day came pretty much the end of my trip. I’d been to nearly every country in Western Europe and in the process had seen everything I wanted to see and then some. But there was still one country I needed to visit before I could leave Europe for home.

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After spending two nights sleeping on the ground among rocks, sticks and creepy crawlies, my back had more twists and turns than a chicane at Mount Panorama and was in dire need of realignment. Easier said than done. It took over thirty minutes of stretching, bending, impromptu displays of gymnastics and interpretative dancing to stand up straight and walk without a pronounced limp.

Unfortunately, any small relief was eclipsed by the dread of facing my next problem. Somehow, I had to pack my baby elephant sized tent into its peanut sized carry bag without breaking the laws of quantum physics. Nonetheless, I eagerly set to work, although my attempts were foiled by a more pressing issue.

You may recall me saying that when I was pitching the tent there was a lovely breeze blowing through the campsite. Well, guess what? My final morning in Portugal was also breezy. I wouldn’t have minded so much if what trickled through the campsite was similar to those pleasant summer breezes we all crave at the end of a hot summer’s day. You know the ones I’m talking about: those cool refreshing draughts that blow softly over the veranda while you’re reclining in your deckchair savouring a cold beer. But as you’ve probably guessed, the breeze that came howling through the campsite this particular morning was nothing like that. I shouldn’t even describe it as a breeze because in all honesty it was like a mini-cyclone on

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performance enhancing drugs.

These squalls, while annoying, allowed me to fully appreciate my tent’s versatility. It was obvious that if ever I thought to take up windsurfing my tent would make the perfect sail. But at that point in time windsurfing was not at the top of my things-to-do list. Packing up my tent was.

But my tent had other ideas. The instant I removed the final peg the tent grabbed the closest gust of wind and went on a surfing safari of the entire area.

I finally caught up to it, wrestled it to the ground and began the arduous task of packing it away. Something I only managed to do after some gentle coaxing and negotiation. Or put another way, incredibly bad language and no-holds-barred stuffing.

After strapping my bundle of joy—aka my tent—to my backpack I found a shady spot by the pool and waited for the bus. Boy, was this a mistake. I quickly realised that mixing gymnasts and water is like giving red cordial to kids; it should never be done. It was bad enough that they freaked me out by randomly doing the splits, but they also spent every moment of their time doing triple somersaults with a half twist into the pool and splashing everyone within a twenty-metre radius. It got to the stage where I would’ve been drier had I actually jumped into the pool.

The bus arrived shortly after three, picked me and a few others up and then shot back into the wildflower grasslands of central Portugal.

When the bus reached the rest stop a few kilometres out from the Spanish-Portuguese border shortly before nightfall, which during summer in Portugal and Spain means anytime past nine o’clock at night, everyone was ravenous. Barely giving the driver a chance to open the doors, we stormed into 437

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the cafe and raced up to the counter, only to be stopped dead in our tracks by an indecipherable menu. Yes, there were pictures, and a picture can say a thousand words, but the problem was these thousand words were in another language. Lucky for us one of the girls in our group spoke a smidgeon of Spanish. We let her order first.

“Whaddya get?” the girl beside her asked.

“Soup.”

Most of us wanted something a bit more substantial than soup.

“What’s the other stuff?” a girl standing beside me asked while looking at a picture that showed a bun packed with some sort of meat concoction.

“Meat.”

“What kind?” asked the guy who was standing next to her.

Without answering his question, she grabbed her bowl of soup, backed away from the counter and weaved her way through the crowd.

“Well, that was a bit rude,” the guy murmured to no one in particular.

My stomach monster was too busy grumbling to worry about rudeness. Relying solely on gut instinct I pointed to a picture on the menu that I thought closely resembled beef. The guy behind the counter shook his head, the universal sign that meant, “Sorry, we’re out of that”. Hoping for the best I ordered what was in the adjacent picture.

A few minutes later I was handed what looked like steak on a bun. My fellow passengers watched as I took my first bite.

“Any good?” one of them asked.

I chewed thoughtfully before I answered, “Yeah, not bad.

Not bad at all.”

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“But is it edible?”

“I’ll find out tomorrow.”

We arrived into the medieval town of Salamanca at midnight and found everything—except for the two-thousand-year-old Roman Bridge and the cathedral, which were illuminated by spotlights—in complete darkness. I have to admit I found this strange because Salamanca is a university town and is renowned for having the most exuberant nightlife in all of Spain.

Not that any of us were in the mood to party the night away in the town’s clubs and bars. My excuse was that I hadn’t slept well over the previous two nights while the majority of my fellow bus mates had been travelling for over eighteen hours.

Either way, we were all exhausted and in dire need of a bed.

It was past nine the following morning when I walked into town and was dismayed to find everything closed. The only building that was showing any evidence of life was the university—if you can call half-asleep university students a form of life!

Truth be told, though, I was glad no one else was around because I could admire the decorative Gothic architecture that adorned one of the oldest universities in the world without having to fight the crowds. The most stunning example was situated over the main entrance.

But I hadn’t gone there simply to admire the beautiful stonework. I wanted to find the frog hidden amongst the carvings. There are a couple of reasons for this. It’s said that if you find the frog you will be married within a year. For those who have no need of marriage they simply believe that by finding the frog they will be endowed with good luck. The students of Salamanca neither believe in getting married nor having good luck, but prefer to think that finding the frog ensures they will pass their exams. As to which of the reasons 439

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are true, I can’t say for sure. All I knew was that the frog was a sign of neither luck nor love, but a symbol of sin. I finally found it after thirty minutes of intense searching. Where was it, you ask? Well, that’s for me to know and for you to find.

Did you honestly think I was going to tell you? Sheesh, how nice do you think I am? Don’t fret, though, because I’m going to give you a clue that will aid in your quest (and I apologise in advance for the horrendous poetry): If it is the frog you seek For whatever desire you wish to reap It can be found on neither lily pad nor leaf But ‘skullking’ amongst the stone relief.

Salamanca’s beautiful architecture is not limited to the university. Take the ‘new’ cathedral for instance, which is both awesome and confusing. During a recent renovation the stonemasons were cleaning the exterior of the cathedral when they thought that it lacked a little something. Being proactive, they added the finishing touches themselves, which as you can probably guess aren’t your typical everyday religious embellishments. Hiding among the eye-catching statues and elaborate masonry is a dragon and an astronaut.

I continued on to the university library, which is home to over a hundred and sixty thousand books and one of the most macabre honour rolls in existence.

During the Middle Ages every exam was given orally and students were instantly told whether they’d passed or failed.

The lucky ones who passed were invited to a bullfight held in their honour. And this is where things get freaky. Once the final bull was killed the graduating students entered the arena, collected the blood of the slaughtered bulls, mixed it 440

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with flour and inserted this mixture into incisions made in the library wall.

I don’t know whether it’s because I’m a little squeamish or that I’m a bit of a traditionalist, but as I stared at the incisions and thought of all the bulls that had been sacrificed, I was grateful this practice had ceased.

I left the library and entered Salamanca’s main square, Plaza Mayor, which is renowned for being one of the most decorated in Spain. Wrapped around the square were lavishly embellished, two-storey Baroque buildings. I strolled around the square and its streets and realised that while Salamanca was stunning from an architectural point of view it was also— along with Lisbon—one of the cheapest places I’d visited.

Unlike Madrid, which certainly was expensive. When the bus rolled into the Spanish capital I felt a sense of déjà vu, especially since Lana was sitting in the hostel foyer.

“So, girl, what happened to you in Barcelona? Was it me or were you supposed to leave when I did?”

“Yes I was, but—” She smiled sheepishly.

“Let me guess. You slept in.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, how are you, Darren?”

“Not too bad, glad to be here and all. Have you eaten yet?”

“We’re about to head out. This is Maria, by the way.”

“Hi,” I said, gawking at Maria’s clothes. Backpackers are not usually known for their fashion sense, but if Maria’s outfit had clashed any more, innocents would’ve died in the crossfire.

“Where are you ladies thinking of eating?”

“The Ham Museum. You wanna come?”

“You betcha. Let me dump these bags in my room then we can jet and get some pork on our fork.”

The Ham Museum, or Mueso Del Jamón, was a short walk 441

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from the hostel and one of many ham museums situated around the city. Decorated with shanks of ham, trotters and all, it was packed with workers and tourists alike relishing the cold drinks and tapas arranged before them. Even more attention grabbing than the legs of ham hanging from any available point was the floor. It was a literal pigsty. Typically, at the sight of this the three of us would’ve turned and fled, but in Spain the sign of a good bar or eatery is not how clean the place is, but how dirty.

Take it from me, the floor never lies. The food at the Mueso Del Jamón was excellent and incredibly good value for money.

The girls had a few more days in Madrid and after a round of cheerios they kicked on and partied Spanish style—that is, all night long. I returned to my room and pysched myself up to spending the next day on a bus. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least the day’s journey would be short and sweet.

Famous last words. I guess no one planned on us getting pulled over by the police.

It wasn’t that our driver was doing anything wrong, but that he could have done something wrong. Also, drivers of heavy vehicles in Europe run the risk of being fined after the event, which means if a driver was speeding in Austria they can still get pinged for that offence in Italy.

The cops confiscated Antonio’s log books and driving records and dragged him into the middle of the Spanish countryside. Much to the relief of everyone on board, he returned shortly after and manoeuvred the bus back onto the road. Our cheers died instantly when we realised our bus was being escorted to the truck stop a few hundred metres up the road. This time Antonio was bundled into the back of a police car and driven away.

“Don’t worry, guys,” our guide Bronwyn told us, watching the cloud of dust dissipate in the wake of the police car, “this 442

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shouldn’t take long. Twenty minutes tops.” Twenty minutes that became thirty, which turned into forty-five until Bronwyn admitted that the wait “could be indefinite”.

It was mid-afternoon and nearly three hours later when an extremely harried Antonio returned. Thanks to the delay, we arrived into San Sebastian shortly before six.

Even though I’d visited the city before with Jill and Lisa, I still wasn’t fully prepared for the dramatic change that occurred when we entered Basque Country. Within a couple of kilometres the rocky sunbaked plains that had accompanied us from Madrid had vanished and were replaced by vivid alpine scenery.

As we approached the city the excited murmurs of my bus mates were louder than usual. I don’t blame them. There are so many superlatives I could use to describe San Sebastian that if I went through them all I’d probably bore you to the point of insanity. What I will say is this: San Sebastian is like a drug— you always want more, and the thought of leaving gives you withdrawals. I know it happened to me when I first visited. It wasn’t simply the beach or the shopping that I loved, but the soothing atmosphere that takes your every problem and makes it a distant memory.

Driving through the city I too felt the city’s magnetic pull.

I had to resist. Don’t get me wrong, I really wanted to stay, it would’ve been the perfect place to lose myself for a couple of weeks, but all I could afford (or so I thought back then) was one night. I planned to make the most of it.

I dumped my bag in my room, bolted back out the door and nearly crashed into Julia and Melissa, my red-headed room-mate from Nice. Both were laden with bags.

“Hey, Jules, Melissa.”

“Daz!” Julia exclaimed. “How you doin’?”

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“Recovering after a longer than expected day.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Melissa told me.

“You have?”

“Yeah, Daz,” Julia answered. “Don’t you know that news travels fast?”

“Yeah, especially when you’re involved, Julia.” She slapped my arm and smiled. “Anyway, you two ladies want to join me for dinner?”

“Sure,” Julia said, “just let us dump our shopping.”

Being our last night in Spain the three of us settled on tapas for dinner.

Tapas have always been synonymous with the Spanish bar lifestyle, but haven’t always been thought of as snack food.

Roughly translated, tapas means lid and before they became the food of choice in every Spanish bar they were simply pieces of stale bread placed over drinks to prevent flies and other insects flying into your glass. This raised a perplexing question; perplexing to me anyway. How does a stale piece of bread go from being nothing more than a lid to a cultural delicacy? The answer, I found out, was not that strange and actually made perfect sense. Think about it for a second. When you go down to your local pub and enjoy a cold one, how much better does the beer taste when it comes with chips or nuts? The Spanish had neither and had to make do with the next best thing—a stale piece of bread covering their drink.

The bartenders soon cottoned on and replaced the stale bread with fresh pieces complete with a variety of toppings, thereby creating the modern-day tapas.

At the tapas bar the girls found a table while I walked to the bar, chose a few tapas from the huge selection and ordered a round of Kalimotxo (pronounced calimocho). Kalimotxo may look like sangria, but is not as sweet. Really, it’s nothing more 444

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than red wine and Coke. And before all the wine connoisseurs reading this book have a heart attack, I should clarify that only cheap and nasty wine is used when Kalimotxo is made because as anyone would agree, you certainly wouldn’t want to sully good wine by mixing it with Coke.

After dinner the three of us found a waterfront cafe to relax in, chat and come to terms with the fact that our respective trips were coming to an end. It was hard to believe it was nearly all over. It seemed like only yesterday I was in London boarding a bus for Paris. It was a long time ago, but the excitement I felt back then quickly came bubbling to the surface. I remember thinking to myself, Holy crap, I’m about to travel around Europe. I must be dreaming. Even sitting in San Sebastian, while exhausted, a part of me still found it sobering that I was on the other side of the world.

My mind drifted back to my year eight home-room where every day I lost myself in the posters of Italy, Germany, Spain and other European countries plastered around the room.

Would I ever get to visit any of these places or would it be something that I would only read about or watch on TV? But here I was in Spain on the last legs of my European jaunt and I could not believe it. I smiled to myself, realising that I was living my childhood dream.

The good thing was the dream was still not finished. I had one more place to visit, but to get there I would have to return to where it all began.

The bus arrived in Paris at eight in the evening, twelve hours after we left San Sebastian. Thankfully, the trip was broken up 445

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by a couple of rest stops, which were not your stock standard petrol-station-cum-greasy-restaurants, but the towns of Bordeaux and Tours. I can’t say I had any idea about Tours, but I did have a preconceived notion about Bordeaux. Boy, was I wrong! I’d expected the city to be filled with detailed architecture, green parklands and shops selling great bottles of wine. I also expected the surrounding countryside to be brimming with colour and plump grapes. But it was nothing of the sort. The fields lacked life, the grass looked worn, the buildings were grimy and dishevelled and the streets were overflowing with litter.

Where Bordeaux was forgettable, Tours was anything but.

Then again, the city was built in the heart of the Champagne region of France and overflowed with elegance and character.

Similarly beautiful was the countryside, which seemed to glow of its own accord. If it looked this good under an overcast sky, how beautiful it must be under the full glory of the sun.

The clouds weren’t limited to Tours, but stretched all the way across to Paris where the only thing that glowed was the fury in the eyes of drivers still intent on committing vehicular homicide on anyone who got in their way. This did not bother Julia, Melissa and me since we had other things on our mind, like where to eat dinner.

“I know where there’s a Flunch,” Julia suggested.

“That cheap all you can eat place?” Melissa asked.

“Yep,” Julia answered with a smile.

We arrived at Flunch shortly after nine and while Julia chose the chicken, Melissa and I went for the steak.

“Gracias,” I said, receiving my meal. The waiter raised an eyebrow. I suddenly realised that I was not in Spain anymore.

“Merci,” I corrected myself.

Melissa shook her head. “Don’t worry, Darren, I know what 446

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you’re going through. Changing languages so often is giving me a headache.”

“You’re telling me,” I agreed.

After dinner, with the day’s journey weighing heavily on our eyelids, we retired to our hotel and crawled into our beds.

“What happened to the weather?” Julia asked, leaning out the window the next morning.

Melissa added, “Where the hell did all this cloud come from? I was hoping our last day in Paris would be sunny.”

“Yeah, isn’t this supposed to be summer?” I questioned further.

“One would think,” Melissa replied.

After a relaxing breakfast we caught the Metro into the city. Up to that point none of us had had any issues with the Parisian Metro. But there’s a first time for everything. We arrived at our stop, rode the escalator up to the concourse and were then faced with a choice of several hundred exits.

“Which one?” Julia asked.

“How about eenie-meenie-minie-mo?” I suggested.

“Maybe as a last resort,” Melissa replied.

“Let’s just pick one,” Julia said, striding off in the direction of the nearest exit.

The exit we chose led us into another area that contained more exits and tunnels. At least we weren’t the only ones having trouble leaving the station. Other commuters were also scratching their heads and running around in circles. Some had even resorted to clawing their way out, while a few had lost all hope and were crumpled up in the foetal position, sobbing loudly. Ignoring these lost souls, we continued searching until we found a set of escalators nestled in a distant corner of the concourse. Filled with the belief that travelling in an upwards direction would eventually lead us to daylight, we hopped 447

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aboard. So much for that idea because at the top we found ourselves standing in an area with no visible way out of this Metro Station of the Damned.

Julia shrugged. “Let’s go back down, maybe try another route.”

“Hey, what have we got to lose?” Melissa said.

Our sanity for one, I thought.

The three of us were on the verge of physical violence when we finally escaped twenty minutes later, but our delight was quickly dampened by the cold rain falling across the city.

Deciding to make the best of the bad weather, we rushed to a nearby Internet cafe.

Within minutes of claiming a computer each our stress levels increased dramatically. The layout of a French computer keyboard is quite different, which makes typing emails quickly and accurately extremely difficult. I ended up with a few paragraphs where my p’s and q’s were not minded, my x’s and z’s were all over the place, and I’d somehow managed to type a couple of sentences detailing the improper use of a croissant when courting a French lady. After nearly twenty minutes of this our stress levels were off the scale and the three of us were on the verge of re-enacting a scene from the movie Falling Down. Deciding it would be safer for the general public we logged off and agreed to never speak of the incident again.

“So what do you guys wanna do?” Julia asked as we wandered outside.

“I reckon we find a nice little place in the Latin Quarter and have some lunch,” I suggested.

Julia said, “I’ve never been to the Latin Quarter.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

After lunching on crepes we cruised through the Latin Quarter, past jazz bars and through cobblestone alleys until 448

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we reached the Seine. We followed the river to the Eiffel Tower and grabbed a seat underneath.

I remembered sitting in the exact spot when I’d arrived from Lourdes. But this time I wasn’t thinking about what was to come, but what had been. I couldn’t stop my mind drifting to what I’d missed on this trip. By all accounts compared to my original itinerary put together in Scotland, it wasn’t much.

But I still couldn’t shake the traces of regret that crept into my thoughts. Without the benefit of hindsight the question, What if? kept on rearing its nagging head. What if I’d gone to Malta? What if I’d cut short my stay in the Greek Islands so I could’ve gone to the south of Spain? Why didn’t I ever stay in Dresden? What if I won the lottery and used the money to continue travelling?

What if?

What if?

What if?

Thankfully, my mind had settled down once evening had descended on the city. The girls and I returned to a shopping centre near our hotel, grabbed some food and wine and made straight for the steps leading up to the Sacré Coeur. What better way to end my time in Paris than on the steps of my favourite place in the city, drinking French wine and watching Paris turn on its lights.

It was my last night in Paris, but not yet the end of my trip. I still had one place yet to visit and I could not wait to get there.

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28

Swiss Dreams are Made of These

“It had to happen, didn’t it, Mel?” I whispered.

“Darren, pass me my towel, will ya?” she whispered back.

Melissa took the towel from me and packed it into her backpack, slowly zipping the bag shut while trying not to wake Julia.

“Sorry, Darren, what were you saying? What had to happen?”

“The weather.” I gazed out the window with disdain.

“Yesterday the weather was worse for wear, but now on the day we’re leaving there’s not a bloody cloud in the sky. And from the looks of things the day’s going to be a scorcher!”

Melissa nodded, rolling her eyes. “I hope the weather will be this good in London.”

“Have you been there before?”

“Yeah, a couple of months before I started travelling.”

“I won’t lie to you then, it’ll be crap.”

“Try not to remind me,” Melissa sighed.

“I wonder what the weather will be like in Lauterbrunnen,” I said, reaching for my sunglasses.

“Well, from experience it won’t be as warm as this. C’mon, Darren, let’s see if we can grab some brekky before we go.”

“Guys?” came Julia’s muffled voice.

“Sorry, Jules,” Melissa apologised. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Thas okay.” Julia turned over. “Jus wantif to say bye!”

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Before we could return her sentiment Julia burrowed deeper under her covers and went back to sleep. Exchanging smiles, Melissa and I left the room and walked down to the corner bakery. To our disappointment, it was closed.

“How about over there?” I suggested.

Next to a McDonald’s was an all you can eat kebab-burgerbakery-cafe-let’s-hope-it’s-edible establishment.

“Darren, are you sure? Remember we have long bus trips ahead of us.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Even though I suggested it, I stared at the place with suspicion and was positive I saw the rolls inching closer to the burgers that in turn were grazing on the adjacent doughnuts. Honestly, it looked like the only fresh thing in the shop was the dirt that had crawled in that morning. If this had been Spain Melissa and I would be in there without a second thought, but this was France and there was not only a second thought, but also a few third and fourth thoughts.

“Look, Mel, it’s either that or—” “Nope. We’re not havin’ Maccas!”

I looked over at the cafe-kebab-salmonella house. “Well, there’s nothing else open so it’s either that or nothing.”

“I guess you’re right,” Melissa said after a moment’s pause.

“I think the best thing we can do is not think about what we’re eating.”

After some indecision we chose the safe option and ordered a couple of croissants and a coffee each.

“So how’s it feel, Mel?” I asked when we arrived at the designated pick-up point.

“How does what feel?”

“Now that your trip is over, how do you feel?”

“Weird, it’s like a surreal dream. Do you know what I mean?”

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“Sure do. It’s as if it’s just dawning on you that you’ve done and seen all this cool stuff.”

“That’s it exactly. But now I have to get back to reality and you know what really sucks?”

“No.” “I have to find a job in London to pay off my credit card.”

“Don’t think about it,” I advised. “Denial is a good thing.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Our respective buses rolled to a stop in front of us and after a round of nice to meetchas followed by some goodbyes and good lucks we went our separate ways.

I settled into a window seat and could not believe how it seemed like only yesterday I was in a similar position. Then, I was going to Amsterdam and my Tour of Europe was just beginning. Now, I was going to Switzerland and my Tour of Europe was coming to an end.

It was near one o’clock when the bus pulled into the slowest McDonald’s in the world. If you think I’m exaggerating let me ask you this: How often do you get shown to a waiting room to wait for your meal?

“Well, we know one thing for sure,” I told a fellow Busabouter who was led to a seat beside mine, “this is not going to be quick.”

“You got that right, mate. I wonder how long it’s gonna take.”

“Maybe we should ask him,” I suggested, glancing over at an elderly gentleman in the corner.

“After you,” the guy said.

We walked over.

“Excusez-moi?”

The old man turned to me with weary blue eyes. “Oui?” “How long …” I pointed at my watch, “have vous waited 452

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here for food?” I gestured at him before making a sweeping gesture of the room and made a sign that I hoped represented eating.

The man stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“Do you think he understood?” the guy beside me asked.

“No clue, mate.”

The two of us were about to return to our seats when the man tapped me on the arm. He picked up a yellowed newspaper and handed it to me. I scanned the front page and found the date printed in faded typeface—27th July, 1973.

“That can’t be good,” my mate said.

“Our guide said we had thirty minutes to get back on the bus, not thirty years.” I gave the elderly gentleman back his paper. “Merci.”

We sat back down and resigned ourselves to the wait ahead.

By the time our order arrived we were coated in a veneer of dust, spiders had moved into our nooks and crannies and the bus was ready to leave. Up until then I’d never had to swallow a Big Mac whole, and it’s certainly something I hope I never have to do again.

We finally crossed into Switzerland where the instantaneous change in scenery was mind-blowing. Fields and sunflowers gave way to crammed rows of conifers, babbling brooks and narrow gauge railways.

It was the perfect accompaniment to Bern, a city that seemed to have based its architecture on cuckoo clocks. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if on the hour a chorus of birds popped out of attic windows and filled the air with birdsong, informing everyone within a ten kilometre radius what the time was.

It was these clock-shaped sandstone buildings that gave Bern its fairytale charm and made it one of the finest examples 453

of Medieval civic architecture in Europe, putting it up there with the likes of Cinque Terre and Ceske Krumlov on the UNESCO heritage list.

Staring out the bus window, I wished the bus could stop long enough for me to take a stroll through Bern’s enchanting streets, but I barely had a chance to stretch my legs, let alone take any happy snaps before we were again travelling through the rugged Swiss countryside.

I had never heard the bus so quiet. No one spoke, the TV was off and everyone was gazing out the window with child-like wonder. Even our guide was silent, letting everyone bask in the vision of the ragged snow-capped mountains, the freshwater lakes that were dotted with boats of all descriptions and the homely towns that were snuggled along its banks.

With all this beauty is it any wonder the Swiss went to such great lengths to keep its borders protected? Not only does Switzerland have the highest military expenditure in Europe, but conscription is a way of life here and every person owns or at least has access to a firearm.

That the population was armed and dangerous was scary enough, but to be told the country can cut itself off from the rest of Europe via strategically placed explosives along its borders all in the space of forty-eight hours was downright freaky.

If I’d been anywhere else these facts would have concerned me, but as the bus rolled into Lauterbrunnen I couldn’t have asked for a better place to finish my Tour of Europe.

It wasn’t simply the rustic village with its shingled houses, flowerboxes and carefully manicured gardens that had me enthralled, but also the surrounding countryside. Lined with plunging cliffs that were inset with over thirty-five waterfalls, the valley was scattered with blooms of wildflowers and glowed

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a vibrant, phosphorescent green.

It took me all of five minutes to decide that Switzerland was one of my favourite countries, up there with Italy, Austria and Scotland. And Lauterbrunnen along with Ceske Krumlov, Cinque Terre and Salzburg was one of my favourite places.

The beauty of Switzerland was not limited to its scenery.

Like other countries I’d visited, it extended to its culture. And what better way to be introduced to this particular aspect of the country than to attend the free concert held in the campsite that evening.

News of the concert travelled fast and by the time I grabbed my dinner and returned to the courtyard all the tables were full. But it wasn’t all bad news because while I couldn’t find a table, I did find Jessica.

“Hey, Jessica! Got room for one more?”

Jessica spun around so quickly she almost took my head off. “Shit, Darren, you bloody scared me!”

“Sorry, Jess, I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s okay.” She paused, letting her breathing settle. “So, how are you?”

“Pretty darn good. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” said the girl sitting next to Jessica.

“Emma, this is Darren,” Jessica said. “He’s my stalker.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Well, I did meet you in Nice and since you’re here you must be stalking me.”

“He does have that dodgy look about him,” Emma agreed, smiling.

“Ha ha, very funny, ladies. Now shove over.”

I squeezed in next to them, but before we could continue our conversation a loud clanging noise resonated through the campsite.

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“Oh,” Jessica exclaimed, “look at the size of his bells!”

“They’re massive,” Emma agreed with a cheeky twinkle in her eye.

Parading down the driveway dressed in national costume were two rows of men swinging ginormous cow bells. No joke, I reckon those bells were almost half the size of me. I knew Switzerland was famous for its cows, but if these were the size of their bells I would hate to see the cow that they belonged to, let alone run into one in a dark paddock.

Thoughts of killer cows were replaced by feelings of admiration once these men took the stage and used their bells as musical instruments. Their musical prowess with cow bells was nothing compared to their musical skills behind guitars, a set of drums and an assortment of brass instruments. Naturally, you can’t have folk music without folk dancing, which was provided by a small ensemble of girls and boys.

All this music and dancing was well and good, but I have to ask you, what would a night of traditional Swiss entertainment be without yodelling and the odd Swiss Alp horn? To put it bluntly, it would be pretty damn boring! Thankfully, there was more than enough yodelling and horn blowing, not to mention a stunning display of flag twirling to keep everyone entertained. This was promptly followed by a choir that captivated the audience with soothing and dulcet tones.

After the voices of the choir subsided into the brisk evening air the band fired up with some big band favourites until the concert concluded in the same way that it began; the men grabbed their bells and walked slowly yet rhythmically out of the campsite.

I arrived back at my room and found my string bean of a room-mate, Malcolm, getting ready for bed.

“So, did you check out the concert?” I asked.

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“Yeah, it was awesome,” he said as he climbed into bed.

“I hope you don’t mind I’ll be setting my alarm fairly early.

About six?”

“You goin’ up to Jungfraujoch?”

“Yep. You too?”

“You bet. So what d’ya say we head up together?”

“For sure,” he answered.

Except for a train change two-thirds of the way up the mountain, the journey to Jungfraujoch—the so-called Top of Europe—was uneventful and took longer than expected.

If you’re good with geography you’re probably thinking I made a mistake in the last paragraph by referring to Jungfraujoch as the “Top of Europe”. And to a point you are correct. Jungfraujoch is not the highest peak in Europe; Mount Elbrus is. What you have to remember however is that while Jungfraujoch is not the tallest mountain in Europe, it is the highest point accessible by tourists.

To me, this fact was of little consequence because the vista from Jungfraujoch visitors’ centre was spectacular. Beyond the glacier and the snow-covered peaks ran deep green valleys that were sluiced by glacial rivers and punctuated with enchanting villages. After we had taken more than our fair share of photos we descended back into the mountain towards an ice cave.

“This is going to get dangerous,” I stated, stepping into the cave.

“Why?” Malcolm asked.

“Because I’m an accident waiting to happen.”

“Then this is not the best place for you, is it?”

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“No,” I replied, “but that has never stopped me before.”

My concern was that the ‘cave’ was not really a cave like the one I visited in Salzburg, but more of a cavern that had been carved out of the glacier approximately ten metres below its surface. This meant that the ceiling, walls and floor were all made out of ice.

Malcolm was not bothered by this. Being Canadian, walking on ice posed little problem for him. I on the other hand hail from western Sydney, a place famous for its flannelette shirts and ugh boots, not frozen tundra and icy footpaths, so walking through this ‘cave’ proved not only problematic but downright dangerous.

Not that I would call what I was doing walking. It was more like a modern interpretive dance sequence that had me moon-walking, break-dancing, doing the running man and face planting my way to the exit.

“What d’ya say, Malcolm,” I suggested, picking myself up off the ground for the umpteenth time and sliding towards the exit, “we grab a cup of coffee and then visit the glacier?”

“Yeah, why not.”

The glacier was the most popular feature on Jungfraujoch, allowing people the chance to hike along its surface and fool around on the snow. What struck me as odd was how some people dressed for such activities. Apparently, some felt that the weather conditions on top of a Swiss mountain closely resembled those of a beach in Hawaii, because why else would they come to the Top of Europe dressed in nothing but a T-shirt, shorts and thongs? Maybe wherever they came from— the South Pole perhaps—one degree with a windchill factor of minus ten is considered balmy.

Not giving this question much thought, Malcolm and I strolled across the glacier until we reached the lookout at 458

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its highest point. Not that the view from there was any more amazing than what we’d already seen from the Jungfraujoch lookout; it was simply different.

“Anything else you wanna do?” Malcolm asked when we returned to the visitors’ centre.

“Nah, not really. Although I wouldn’t mind grabbing a bite to eat.”

“Maybe afterwards if you’re keen we can hike the rest of the way back to the campsite.”

“Suits me fine,” I replied. “The way I figure it, there are over ten thousand kilometres of hiking trails in this part of the country and I’d be a fool not to do at least one.”

We caught the train back down, got off at a place called Eigergletscher, found a cafe and promptly ordered lunch.

Enthralled by the valley below and marvelling at the sheer mottled face of the Eiger wall behind us, we were astounded by the area’s silence. I closed my eyes and let the serenity of the valley wash over me.

The tranquillity was suddenly shattered by a thunderous cracking noise.

“What the—?” My eyes sprung open and I looked at the sky. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere.

Malcolm returned my bewildered look. “I don’t know.”

We heard the noise again, this time louder and turned just in time to witness part of the glacier that was encroaching on the edge of the Eiger wall split, crack and plummet to the bottom of the valley.

My eyes followed the piece of falling ice until it came to rest in a crevice. My gaze moved slowly back up to the glacier.

I could not believe we had just walked that glacier and then right in front of us the edge had crumbled and fallen away.

People talk about the movement of glaciers, but I never ever in my wildest dreams expected to see it happen right in front 459

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of me.

My stare drifted from the glacier to the valley to the distant peaks. I let out a sigh of contentment as my disbelief mingled with admiration for this part of the world.

Kleine Scheidegg was an easy twenty minute stroll from Eigergletscher. Shame I could not say the same for the rest of the hike. Shortly out of Kleine Scheidegg the path split into two.

“Which way?” Malcolm asked.

The signpost indicated that it did not matter which fork we took because they both led us to Lauterbrunnen. The only difference was that one way took forty-five minutes while the other took three hours.

“You up for the scenic route?” I asked.

“Always.”

It was the scenic route all right, but it was also the road less travelled. The first part of the path was easy enough, flanked with nothing more than lush paddocks filled with cows, pockets of wild flowers and the occasional grove of conifers.

The second part was slightly more strenuous. But I guess we should have expected nothing less, considering the path led us down a sheer cliff face. Not that it was a path by this stage; it was more of a ledge that crumbled under the slightest bit of pressure.

Any regrets that Malcolm and I had about choosing the scenic route evaporated when we reached Trummelbach Falls.

It was an amazing feeling to stand on a wooden platform and watch twenty thousand litres of water pass beneath us every second. Besides the odd four-letter expletive, we barely said a word because nothing truly described the force and speed of the raging waters.

Four hours after we started Malcolm and I finally arrived on flat ground and by the time we reached the campsite it was 460

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evening. Malcolm decided to finish off the day by reading a book by the river behind the campsite. I on the other hand grabbed my journal and went in search of something to eat.

The following day was not as strenuous, which was a good thing because I didn’t know where I could find a replacement hip-knee-foot-and-everything-else-that-was-in-pain on such short notice.

It was mid-afternoon when Malcolm and I found enough energy to return to Trummelbach Falls.

The falls are hailed as being the only glacial waterfalls in the world inside a mountain, but as we discovered, this is not exactly true. Instead of boring through solid rock into a large cavern as I had first thought, the waterfalls had simply carved a deep groove along the side of the cliff. Though what gave the impression that the waterfalls were enclosed in rock was that the sides of this groove arced around the falls so that they were almost touching. The fact that Trummelbach Falls is not surrounded by rock did not make them any less spectacular, and I have to say that getting up that close and personal to a waterfall that can cut through solid rock, and probably snap your neck if you fall in, is a very humbling experience.

“You going to the Bomb Shelter tonight?” Malcolm asked me as we wandered back to the campsite.

“You betcha,” I replied. “After all I’ve heard about the place I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It was not an actual bomb shelter like I had originally pictured. It was the name of a bar that hid behind the Contiki laundry and toilet facilities. Not that this mattered because the Bomb Shelter certainly lived up to its reputation and 461

Between Buses and Borders

my memories of the night were like London after the Blitz— practically non-existent.

Malcolm obviously didn’t feel the effects of the Bomb Shelter as much as I did. He had long since gone when I finally woke up the following morning. Then again, he had a bus to catch. Not that I really cared where Malcolm was because I was too worried about making any sudden movements in case my head exploded. After ten minutes or so—I can’t be certain since I’d lost the ability to count, let alone think—I crawled out of bed, got dressed and dragged myself to the courtyard to meet Jessica and Emma.

“Sorry we’re late, Darren,” Emma apologised when they finally arrived, “but you have to understand that we’re on chick time. You might want to adjust your watch.”

I’d always thought my watch was pretty cool with its world times, personal phonebook, three alarms, stopwatch and timer functions. Yet with all that it didn’t have the one function that every guy in the world would find indispensable—‘girl time’.

After synchronising my watch with females everywhere, the girls and I caught the nearby funicular railway to the cliffside village of Mürren.

I’d already hiked down once from Jungfraujoch, but there was still plenty to captivate me the second time round. Hardly a minute passed by before one of us would rave about how great Switzerland was or how we wished we could stay longer.

The path back down to the campsite took us under the cool shade of trees, past nattering waterfalls, shingled cottages and rivers where the water was so invigorating it could’ve flowed from the fountain of youth itself.

I was glad I had skipped Switzerland all those months ago and trotted off to the Greek Islands instead, because I now realised that by doing so I’d saved the best for last.

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All Good Things …

Filled with melancholy, I took one last look at the breathtaking beauty of Lauterbrunnen then dumped by backpack into the belly of the bus, jumped on board and took my seat. I was leaving one of my favourite places in Europe and after four months of travelling my trip was over.

Well, almost.

Because my itinerary had gone through more permutations than I could count, instead of ending my tour in Paris like I’d originally planned I was leaving the Busabout circuit in Frankfurt. This left me with one more night and one last sight to see. And wouldn’t you know, it was a castle.

You’d think I’d be blasé about visiting yet another castle, since I’d seen more than my fair share of them in Europe and the UK, but this one was special because it was the inspiration behind the castle that was built at Disney’s Magic Kingdom in Florida, USA. As we crossed the border from Switzerland into Germany I felt a tingle of excitement.

Built near the town of Neuschwanstein and the remarkably blue and aptly named Swan Lake, I didn’t find it difficult to understand why Walt Disney wanted to replicate the splendour of Neuschwanstein Castle in Florida. Rising majestically above the undulating plains of Bavaria, its neo Romanesque architecture, numerous turrets, faux medievalism and circular towers were pretty damn spectacular to say the least.

But it wasn’t simply its stunning architecture that blew me

Between Buses and Borders

away. Complete with flushing toilets, hot and cold running water, central heating and telephones on the third and fourth floors, it was a technological marvel way ahead of its time.

I returned to the bus and found that everyone was eager to get to Munich. I wasn’t too fussed. I’d been there and, for the most part, done that. The only thing I hadn’t done—which was strange seeing it was what the city was famous for—was immerse myself into the Munich way of life and consume liver-destroying amounts of beer. Instead of standing in the way of my cultural development any longer, I decided to go hard and then go home.

Once I’d dumped my backpack on my bed I shot back out, grabbed a bite to eat and bolted to Munich’s central station.

Loitering at one of the side entrances were two Australians who were in charge of the Munich Pub Crawl. Sitting between them was an esky the size of a small iceberg. The reason for this was simple. Apart from the goal being to drink as much beer as possible at each place we visited, we had the option— if you believe that then you really will believe anything—of drinking between pubs.

A short walk from the station we came to our first stop, the Augustiner Beer Garden. Being Europe’s biggest beer garden the noise erupting from the packed tables was deafening, while the collusion of aromas from the pork knuckles, pretzels and beer was tantalising enough to make anyone drool uncontrollably.

After we’d savoured what is in my opinion the best beer in the world we were ushered back onto the street, handed a beer from the esky and led to the second beer hall. By the time we were on our third, most of us weren’t walking, but running, all on the verge of a bladder emergency.

It was after the third stop that everything got extremely blurry. While I cannot remember the exact details I do know 464

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for a fact that there was more beer, a detour to an Irish pub and that I ended up showing everyone my impersonation of a leprechaun doing a Michael Flatley impression. And if you’re wondering how I got back to the hostel in the state I was in, I can’t really comment on that because I don’t even remember getting into bed. All I know is I woke up the next morning to my whining alarm and had a plane to catch.

I stumbled out of bed and murmured a heartfelt thanks to the German beer gods for inventing the purity law, mainly because my head was still in one piece and my brain could process complex thoughts like, Where the bloody hell are my socks and why is my underwear on that girl’s bedpost?

The bus trip to Frankfurt was long and tedious and I used the time to catch up on some much needed sleep. We arrived into the city near to five o’clock. After a solemn farewell to my guide and driver I shouldered my backpack for the last time and trundled off to the train station to catch the airport shuttle bus.

While waiting for it to turn up I thought back over what I’d seen and done on this trip and as each memory whizzed across my mind’s eye I had to smile. I recalled a birthday card that was given to me by Fabrice and Halcyon when I’d first arrived in Europe. The card simply said, “L’important n’est pas de mesurer le temps, C’est de le vivre intensement”. Or put another way, “What is important is not to count the time, but to live it to its fullest”. And while I’d missed the odd place or two or wished I’d stayed longer at others, for the most part I knew I had lived this saying to a T. Even though I’d seen so much, nothing could compare to going home and, really, folks, I could not wait to see my family and friends again. It was a pity then that while my friends were glad to see me the same could not be said of my parents.

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Admittedly, my mum and dad weren’t expecting me back so soon. According to the itinerary Mum had glued to the fridge, I was not due to arrive in Sydney for another six weeks. But since that original itinerary had long since changed—not that I told my mother that—everyone thought I was leaving Cinque Terre when I was actually boarding a plane for home.

Instead of arriving at Sydney I flew into Melbourne because my parents were there for my great aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday and I was eager to surprise them. To say they were stunned by my sudden appearance is an understatement.

I expected to be hugged to death, but once again I assumed wrong. The first words uttered by my mother were, “What do you think you’re doing here? Your father is going to kill you!”

My feelings of rejection were compounded further when we got back to Sydney. While my parents were paying the cabbie I grabbed my backpack and walked to the front door, but after a couple of minutes of trying, realised my keys did not fit the lock.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Mum said, coming up behind me. “We changed the locks while you were away.”

I was shocked. Their only son leaves for two years and they change the locks. And if that wasn’t bad enough, six months after arriving back from overseas and enjoying the luxuries that come with living at home, my mother casually tells me, “Darren, I’m surprised you’re still here. I expected you to move out ages ago.” While I can’t say for sure, I think she meant to say wished instead of expected.

It was not only my mum enquiring about when I was going to leave. My friends, acquaintances and even strangers would occasionally ask me, “Darren, what the hell are you still doing here?” Not that I blame them. Of all the things I’d learnt while I was away, the one lesson that sticks the most is that the 466

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world is a humongous place and no matter how much you’ve seen there are always more places to visit and plenty of new experiences to be had.

To prove this point, while sitting at Frankfurt train station, apart from reminiscing about my trip I flipped through my guidebook and noticed all the places I didn’t get a chance to visit. My guidebook is about 1300 pages long and I’d managed to cover—and this is a generous estimate, by the way—about 275 pages. Naturally, I spent the rest of the wait at Frankfurt station planning my holidays for the next fifty years.

Which I have to admit was a strange thing for me to do because at that point in time the last thing I wanted was another holiday. After spending so much time without a place to call my own, all I wanted was my own bed and a cupboard to hang my clothes. But do you know what? I was exhausted and over-travelled, but given the choice I knew that after a couple of months of relaxation and recuperation—and enjoying another holiday from a holiday—I would grab my backpack, race back on that bus and do it all over again.

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About the Author

Darren Assey had his first taste of travel at the age of five when he left India for Australia. On the way he picked up the travel bug and has not shaken it since.

After finishing his degree in Industrial Chemistry, Darren realised two things: one, being clumsy and playing with chemicals will always be a source of amusement, and two, once you have been bitten by the travel bug there is no cure. By his final year at university it was not uncommon to see Darren spacing out and drooling contentedly every time a plane flew over the chemistry building. Instead of fighting it, he gave in and after he graduated, filled with an unquenchable thirst for adventure and European beer, he left Australia to take on the world.

He has since returned to his Sydney home, where he is planning his next holiday, writing his next book, and continuing to play with chemicals, much to the amusement of his workmates who always have a video camera handy.