Somewhere Nowhere by Heather Liddell

SOMEWHERE NOWHERE A TRAVELOGUE BY HEATHER LIDDELL & CLANCY CUMMINS

JOURNEY DESTINATION #1

THAILAND

Phuket // Koh Samui // Koh Phangan DESTINATION #2

PARIS

6 26

DESTINATION #3

SPAIN

San Sebastian // Madrid // Seville

DESTINATION #4

TURKEY

Istanbul // Cappadocia // Antalya // Princes Islands DESTINATION #5

SOUTH CYPRUS

70 120

DESTINATION #6

ITALY

Florence // Cinque Terra // Venice // Rome

138

DESTINATION #7

CROATIA

Split // Hvar // Trogir

192

INATION T S #1 DE

THAIL AND sawasdee krab . ka

THAILAND BUSY & STRANGE. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD DEFINITELY FIND AN ENTIRE FAMILY ON ONE SCOOTER. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND A COUPLE AS PASTY AND WHITE AS WE WERE.

n Phuket you either spend money or make money. As a tourist in a popular destination, this shouldn’t really have been a revelation, but I guess the urgency of it all struck us both. We were surrounded as soon as we left the airport gates; hailed desperately across the street by suspicious looking women calling: ‘thigh mesharge’; then mistaken for Australians and affronted with: ‘gidday mate, I got nise sui for you.’ It was relentless.

We headed up off the beach through the market area of the town and tried (again) at looking for some eyeglasses. After several unsuccessful attempts, we at last found some that we both liked. I went in low, and despite the assistant appearing genuinely offended, decided to go even lower. My first attempt at bartering felt like a success, but I guess I’ll never know. In the end, I paid 5000 Bhatt ($210 NZD) for both the frame and lenses. Heather likes them because she now thinks I work for NASA in the 1950’s. I like them because I paid less than I would in New Zealand.

One morning we trekked down the hill from our hotel to Kata Beach. Despite reaching the beach around 10:40 am we found it already packed with hung-over Australians and copper-coloured Europeans. Heather and I walked the length of the beach - two fully clothed glow-worms out for a day trip. Needless to say, we looked entirely out of place.

Arriving back at the hotel, we snuck big bottles of Asahi down to the pool and drank them with the childlike pleasure of ‘doing something we shouldn’t’ and ‘getting one past the man.’ Nobody at the hotel cared in the slightest.

“PHUKET WAS

A ZOO,

IN ALL SENSES OF THE WORD.

EVERYWHERE YOU LOOKED THERE WOULD

BE ANOTHER SET OF EYES

GAZING HUNGRILY BACK. IT WAS RATHER

UNSETTLING.”

e learned in Koh Samui to never underestimate the value of a buffet breakfast. On our second day, Heather sunbathed for several hours without sunscreen: from about 9:30 till 12:30. She claimed: (at 9:45 am) “I don’t think you get burnt in Thailand.” I disagreed. She spent the afternoon indoors. Pink and remorseful. I said, “I told you so.” She accepted her foolishness with dignity and poise. We hired a scooter one day to explore Koh Samui and do a little shopping. Heather found some running shoes that she liked, but she didn’t buy them because we had already overloaded the scooter with food. The next day I raced off on the scooter to get them for her. I told her before I left to wait in the room so I could ring her if there were any troubles. She went down to the pool. I got to the shop and tried to ring the resort to confirm the right size. No one was in the room. I bought the wrong size. Unsurprisingly, I got grumpy when I returned from an hour long scooter expedition only to buy the wrong size. The only positive was when I reached 95kph on the scooter. It started shaking and I got scared and slowed down. One evening we walked from the resort to a restaurant we spotted earlier on a neighbouring beach. We ordered large Singhas that cost $3 (NZD) and ate Pad Thai while the sun set. It was great. Afterwards, we walked back along the beach and that was nice too. I went for a couple smallish runs and an accidental massive one when I got lost. Heather went for a run and was attacked by dogs. Which may have had something to do with her brand new, oversized, bright pink, running shoes. We made a friend in the barman Ned – who loved movies. He and I bonded over our shared love of Melanie Laurent. She’s the gorgeous Jewish/French one in Inglorious Basterds. Ned talked and looked a little like Mr Tumnus from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. Goaty. He also was unable to make eye contact with Heather. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. The other barman, Phol, was a little older and spoke very little English, but he had a great smile and attitude. He probably messed up half of our orders, but he did it with such a genuine attempt to get it right that we just smiled and went along with it. He would list the ingredients of the cocktails in broken English under his breath as if reassuring himself that the task ahead was both understood and manageable. After a particularly weak drink on the second day, I ask the next one to be ‘strong’ so for the next three days: ‘strown,’ ‘mayibu,’ ‘pineyapple,’ ‘wodka’… ‘strown’ become a litany to prevent our dissatisfaction.

THE STR

A PEOPLE 14

REETS WERE BUSY AND

O LO U R F U L

EVERY THING &EVERYONE DEMANDED

TTENTION

WAT C H E R S

PA R A D I S E 15

he ferry to Koh Pha Ngan was awful. It arrived late and discharged deathly white children clutching their parents’ hands in traumatised silence. This was observed in horror by Heather and I, as we get motion sickness in the passenger seats of cars. After boarding, we sat in mute concentration as our sickness built and built in waves. It remains the worst experience we have had on the trip so far.

at a single beach. My navigation skills were useless. Heather’s patience was admirable. Anyway, the waterfall was a bit of a fizzer: a slight rocky incline which may or may not have had water traveling over it at one point in history. Day four on Koh Pha Ngan found us back on the scooter, once again hunting for the ‘perfect’ beach. This time we thought we’d try the remote, east facing beach of Than Sadat. After checking the map and seeing there was a road the whole way there, we set off.

Heather fanned herself manically with a brochure. I fixed my eyes on the horizon while we lurched up and down over the swell. The attendants brought around plastic bags and throughout the cabin fellow travellers silently emptied their stomachs.

I’m not sure when exactly I realised that we weren’t really properly equipped for the ‘road’ we were traveling on, but it was too late to turn back. So we continued. The two of us on a 50cc scooter with smooth rubber wheels. The road turned into a watercourse. It was veined with deep clay gashes down slopes that would have been awkward on a goat trail. Our only saving grace was that it hadn’t rained in the last couple of days and aside from a few wet patches, the clay was generally solid.

When we disembarked, traumatised and holding each other’s hands, I noted with perverse pleasure the hundreds of tourists lining the dock. They stood waiting in sleepy ignorance for their return ferry following the Island’s notorious full moon party. We deliberately chose to avoid this night of drunken debauchery, deciding instead to arrive the day after. I can only imagine the horror of that trip. On our second day on the island we hired a scooter for the week and decided to check out some of the beaches. I grabbed a map from a nearby restaurant and we took off, heading aimlessly around the island hoping to find a sheltered spot. The swell, unusually large for Koh Pha Ngan, seemed to be coming from every direction and it discouraged us from stopping anywhere.

We crashed once when a rock the size of a baseball flipped out from under the wheel and ended up caught in the spokes. This caused a very sudden stop as Heather slid forward into me and I slid into the bike, both us just managing to get our feet out in time. Arriving back at the bungalows each day, after yet another futile attempt to find the perfect beach, we realised that the beach outside our door ticked all our boxes. Our last two days we spent at ‘home’ and we had no accidents, injuries, nor gave or received pained looks over navigational failure.

After several unsuccessful attempts to find beaches that we had passed 30 minutes before, we stopped at a waterfall and I realised that we had traveled the drivable perimeter of the island without stopping

HEATHER FLIPPED HER LID WHEN WE DROVE PAST SOME ELEPHANTS, SO WE

WENT BACK AND HAD OUR PHOTO TAKEN WITH THEM. I PAID THREE DOLLARS FOR SOME BANANAS ONLY TO HAVE THE GREEDY BASTARD STEAL THE WHOLE BASKET FROM ME, LEAVING HEATHER WITH TWO BANANAS AND ME WITH THE CAMERA TRYING TO GET A PHOTO OF HEATHER FEEDING A DISINTERESTED ELEPHANT. THEN WE BOTH GOT BUMMED OUT WHEN WE SAW THE CLEVERLY CONCEALED CHAINS AROUND THEIR CANKLES. 20

ARRIVING BACK AT THE BUNGALOWS EA ATTEMPT TO FIND THE PERFECT BEA OUTSIDE OUR DOOR TI

ACH DAY,AFTER YET ANOTHER FUTILE ACH, WE REALISED THAT THE BEACH ICKED ALL OUR BOXES

INATION T S #2 DE

PARIS bonjour . adieu

PARIS OLD & DECADENT. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD CERTAINLY FIND A HOBO WITH A DOG. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND A CHURCH BEING A CHURCH.

fter a ridiculously early overnight flight into Paris, we met our good friends Elliot Collins and Jamie and Charlotte Lloyd at the apartment that was to be our home for the next week. Elliot had been making art and making out with the continent for the previous seven months and was sweet enough to act as our tour guide for the first couple of days. Jamie and Charlotte were on their “big OE” and we invited ourselves along for the Paris/Spain leg of their trip.

Aside from eating chocolate pastries, the other treat was that I saw quite a lot of French babes. There is something in their nose/eye area that is really attractive. I can’t think of a better way to describe it. There is also probably something to be said for a good coat. I became a big fan of cheap French wine, drinking more red wine in the week than I had in a couple years. One day, I’ll make a graph illustrating my theory I developed after extensive research. There are, however, some limitations to this data – I didn’t buy any bottles that were over 6 Euro.

Basically, our eight days in Paris were spent in the depths of the metro, looking at buildings, looking at art and shopping.

Paris has some beautiful churches that were tourist destinations instead of places of worship, while fellow tourists overlooked beautiful churches that actually felt like places of worship.

During our stay, Jamie and I have had a couple conversations about what we felt was ‘wrong’ about Paris. I’m paraphrasing, but Jamie reckons it didn’t really have a soul. I kinda agree, but it was the indifference, the lack of collective feeling and community that weirded us all out. Sure, we were outsiders/tourists, but there seemed to be no human warmth from the people we encountered. Not towards us or even really towards each other. There were also hardly any kids and very few old people. It actually creeped me out a little.

We quickly learned that Paris is best when you don’t drop your eyes below your waist. The litter and dog shit everywhere is an embarrassment.

It might be different in summer, but I feel like I’ve ‘done’ Paris and have no real intention or desire to return.

None of those things are particularly exciting. In fact, I was more bored in Paris than I have been for a long while. Sure, the buildings are beautiful, the paintings and sculptures exceptional, but after a while, it all becomes a bit same-same.

WE ARRIVE

NOTRE

WHEN TH

WIND S

T O

G E T

BITINGLY COLD 30

E D AT T H E

DA M E

S TA R T E D T 31

“The nearby SHAKESPEARE AND CO bookstore was a treat, with lots of cool books that I would have loved to buy if I my pockets weren’t so empty and my suitcase so full.”

VERSAILLES INSIDE THE PALACE, I QUICKLY REALISED WHY THERE WAS A

REVOLUTION. THE DECADENCE AND OPULENCE OF THE INTERIOR WAS REVOLTING. THE GOLD ON GOLD ON GOLD BEGAN HAD A DIZZYING EFFECT, AND THE HALL OF MIRRORS WAS REMINISCENT OF A CARNIVAL ATTRACTION. WOULD NOT TRADE AGAIN. 34

PERE LACHAISE WAS A CEMETERY WE VISITED ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

JIM MORRISON WAS BURIED THERE. I DON’T KNOW WHO THAT IS BECAUSE MUM ONLY LET US LISTEN TO 80’S WORSHIP MUSIC AND MESSIANIC ISRAELI FOLK WHILE WE WERE GROWING UP. IN TERMS OF CEMETERIES, IT’S THE BEST ONE I’VE BEEN TO. IT HAD: CROWS CAWING, BROKEN HEADSTONES, SMALL MEDIUM AND LARGE MONUMENTS. HEATHER TOOK PHOTOS ON HER FILM CAMERA SO THEY’D LOOK REAL MOODY. 37

THE EIFFEL TOWER

LIKE MOST UGLY THINGS, LOOKS BETTER AT NIGHT THAN IN DAYLIGHT. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN ROMANTIC IF WE WEREN’T IN THE MIDDLE OF A TIFF. THERE WAS AN HOUR WAIT TO GO UP A CROWDED ELEVATOR, ONLY TO HAVE TO QUEUE AGAIN TO TAKE ANOTHER ELEVATOR TO THE TOP. SNEAKY FRENCH.

INATION T S #3 DE

SPAIN hola . adi贸s

SPAIN VIBRANT & ECCENTRIC. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD FIND PORK SERVED TEN DIFFERENT WAYS. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND A CHEAPER BOTTLE OF BALLENTINES.

an Sebastian/Donostia is a small city on the northern coast of Spain. Technically, it’s a part of a separate ‘nation’ within Spain called Basque. But all that really meant to us was crazy signs that hogged the less popular consonants. For example: k, x and z. They must have high scoring scrabble games.

in. Tragically, there was no towel ‘available’ for me to dry off. Freezing my booty off, I holed up in a bar on the beach and watched as the sun came down and the incoming tide changed the point to a beach break. Huddling in a state of pre-pneumonia, I saw some pretty talented locals popping airs off super fast and heavy waves. It was good to be out of the water, but I took a long time to warm up.

On our first day the weather was perfect. We meet up with Jamie and Charlotte and walked up the ‘Jesus’ hill. The summit had incredible views of the city and surrounding beaches. After eight days of being landlocked in pancake flat Paris, the mountains, the ocean, and the beaches reminded me of being home and inspired a change in my temperament. On our way down we noticed swell rolling in and spotted a pod of surfers congregating on a decent point break.

On the second day we hired push bikes. The city has cycling lane and a cycling culture devoid of lycra, which is something I can happily get behind. The beach area of the city itself is pretty small so it became a fun way to explore the area. Anyway, after a night on the town we all decided to head back to our hotel to have a nip of whisky. The girls took the two bikes and left Jamie and I walking back in the drizzle. This was fine, as we happily discussed our new found love for San Sebastian while strolling down the picturesque street running parallel to the canal. It was quite bromantic.

I got pretty excited about hiring a board and going surfing, so I got siked when the first surf shop we passed hired boards. I hired a monster of a mal and a steamer (thick wetsuit) while the shop assistant apologetically stated they didn’t have any booties. I didn’t think this would be too much of a problem, as I’ve never needed them at home in the winter. However, my lack of booty (and booties) turned out to be my Achilles heel for my mid-winter Atlantic surf.

The drizzle and bikes had a different result for two tipsy girls in the spiraling entry to the painted concrete car park. In a story relayed to us in the hotel room with much wincing and laughter, we heard as Charlotte gently crashed into the wall on the first level. Heather, seizing the opportunity to lead, demonstrated proper cycling technique by also crashing. She landed hard on her tailbone. An injury that made her wiggle and grimace on hard seats for the rest of the trip.

The surf was epic. Three to five foot, clean and heavy. Actually, maybe the best surf I had ever been in. The problem was it was packed with local surfing ninjas who were clad in rubber from head to toe and claimed waves as they appeared on the horizon. The other problem was they walled up super steep, making it hard for a beginner surfer like me to take off on the thick mal. Undeterred, I headed over to the left of the break and managed to get a couple big waves before a renegade set pounded me back to the shore.

San Sebastian is famous for it’s Pintxos (16 points). These are basically bar snacks which consist of some kind of meat attached to some kind of bread. This made eating in San Sebastian hard for us ‘fussy vegetarians.’ Added to this was the impossible task of actually locating the vegetarian restaurants that we had found on the net. The only one we finally managed to find (my fault) was deserted and offered us: cereal, tofu and dried fruits. We ended up eating a lot of Pizza.

In the water I saw some of the best longboard surfing I had seen in my life, but after an hour and a half my feet turned to blocks of ice and I headed

“The MOUNTAINS, the OCEAN, and the BEACHES reminded me of being home and inspired a change in my temperament”

adrid was an… experience. We ended up staying an extra night in San Sebastian because I stuffed up the booking. It turned out to be a brilliant mistake.

a month and you step confidently into the abundance that the New Year has for you. I was enjoying the grapes, so I ate about twenty. Heather ate about six. It’s a shame that she’s gunna have a stink year, but I was peckish.

It wasn’t so much that our apartment in Madrid was horrible, it was the infused stench of cigarette smoke and the lack of fresh air that destroyed me. Imagine that someone had decided to paint their house with a mixture of white paint and stale ashtray water. In addition, the friendly neighbourhood drug dealers at the doorstep just added to the charm.

Jamie provided the intoxicated entertainment for the night. This included making some videos that probably should never see the light of day. Needless to say, the next day was a bit of a disaster for me. Jamie didn’t get knocked around as much, but that’s to be expected as he’s from a different generation. A generation of men who never feel hungover.

We celebrated the New Year in the middle of the city at Plaza de Sol. It was jammed with tourists and locals: literally thousands of people carrying small bags of grapes and bottles of Spanish champagne, called Cava. It was super packed but there was no organised music or entertainment. Crowds gathered in circles and sung Spanish songs while jumping and throwing their hands in the air. Feeling like we were missing out on something significant, we made our own circle and sung what we could remember of Loyal, and that Why Does Love Do This To Me song. I’m not sure if we were being ironic or not. I initially sung that song 500 miles. Apparently, it’s Scottish.

The city itself was a bit like Paris: if Paris dyed its hair green for Parachute, decided to learn parkour and be really zany. This also included a lot of bizarre street performers and pesky South Americans who tried to sell you whistles. Those guys were everywhere and the whistle noise was more annoying than when you got your first recorder and walked around the house hyperventilating through it. We didn’t really hit the sights except for going to Madrid’s Cathedral and walking through the Parque del Retiro. Both those activities were nice. Oh yeah, Jamie and I found shoes that we liked for pretty cheap. We brought them thinking we were getting a sweet deal. Afterwards we saw them in descending prices in almost every shoe shop we passed.

The tradition is to eat twelve grapes when the clock strikes twelve with your right foot forward while drinking champagne. Each grape represents

eville is a beautiful city in the south of Spain, famous for its flamenco dancing and bullfighting. While we were there we had 21 degrees and sun. Auckland had 19 degrees and rain. It was the middle of winter for us. I think I got a little bit of a tan. Well, maybe another freckle or two.

hedging, roses and citrus. There were also some beautiful spaces where established oaks and various deciduous trees clung to their final autumn leaves. The palace itself was a mish-mash of styles and influences. The construction began over a millennium ago and was initially an Islamic fort. Walking through the castle was like walking through different eras of Spanish history, as successive occupants continued its construction in the latest style. Sure it was decadent, but it didn’t have the nauseating effect I experienced at Versailles. Every room was a little different and a delight in its own right.

We stayed at the Hostel de Dona Lina: a two star hotel perfectly placed in the middle of the old city. The interior was designed by a over-enthusiastic tiler, clashing mosaics lines the floors and wall and made the transition from inside to outside confuddling. The hotel was located in the ‘walking’ part of the old city, where narrow cobblestone streets and alleys intersected each other at random. This created a difficult maze for my aforementioned poor navigational abilities.

Our vegetarian dilemma was finally granted a reprieve in Seville. We were treated to delicious Spanish food at Huelva Ocho and Habanita. Both restaurants had huge portions and were well priced. If you are ever in Seville, good luck finding Habanita, but it’s worth every wrong turn. Anyway, with Madrid out of my system, I got into the spirit of the citrus harvest and enjoyed sharing some delicious Sangria jugs with Hef.

The streets were lined with orange trees laden with fruit. There were plazas and courtyards around most corners. These unexpected nooks offered us blue and white mosaic benches with cute terracotta fountains bubbling under the shade of ancient citrus.

We said to farewell Jamie and Charlotte in Serville. After two and a half years as neighbours and almost three weeks of travel through France and Spain, it was sad to see them head off into the sunset (metaphorically – it was 11am). I should probably also acknowledge their patience in accommodating our specialist diet and various injuries.

We hit the major sights: a crazy palace called Alcazar and an impressive cathedral dubbed St Mary of the See. I loved the mix of formal and informal in Alcazar’s grounds. A walled garden of that size inspired the dormant gardener in me. There was a lot of structure in the topiary and buxus

ST MARY OF THE SEE LIKE MOST CATHOLIC BUILDINGS, LOOKS BET

THE POINT OF THE REFORMATION. DESPITE THE BEAUTY OF THE CONSTRUCTION, THE IN THE BUILDING ITSELF IS THE RESULT OF CENTURIES OF CONSTRUCTION, A CO-OPTED MO I THINK I LIKED THE COURTYARD MORE THAN THE CATHEDRAL.

TTER FROM THE OUTSIDE THAN INSIDE. WHILE WE WERE THERE, I FINALLY REALISED NTERIOR AND DECOR SPOKE TO ME ONLY OF WEALTH, EXCESS AND DISCONNECT. OSQUE, AND AN ORANGE TREE COURTYARD

NARROW COBBLESTONE

INTERSECTED AT R A N D O M — M A K

FULL OF SURPRI AND GL

WOND

E STREETS AND ALLEYS

D EACH OTHER ING A LABYRINTH

SE ENCOUNTERS IMPSED

DERS

INATION T S #4 DE

TURKEY merhaba . g端le g端le

TURKEY UNFAMILIAR & ENCHANTING. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD FIND A PLETHORA OF CHAIN SMOKING LOCALS. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND A PACKET OF TOFU.

stanbul - first impressions. We arrived at Ataturk Airport at 5pm on Friday afternoon and were greeted by a representative from my new job, the Seventh Grade Dean, Oya. She informed us that because we arrived on a Friday afternoon the traffic can be very bad – explaining that it can take up to five hours to get from the airport to the school. I paled at the news: we had been traveling or in transit for the last twelve hours. Neither of us were enthusiastic about the hours ahead.

Oya rang him again, asking him where he was. Meanwhile, the taxi had taken off and we were left waiting in the biting, pre-storm wind until another cab came past that we could hail down. The game of cat and mouse was not over yet. In the next cab, we overtook our driver again. Yet another wait in the cold finally eventuated with the mobster finding us and we settled in for a long, uncomfortable ride. Heather, in one of her rare fits of humour, joked that the driver had ‘some business to attend to,’ and had ‘sent someone to sleep with the fishes’ between our cab rides.

With this in mind, our plan was to drive to the nearest ferry, take it across the harbour to the ‘Asian side’ and take a separate cab to the school. The first leg of the journey went relatively smoothly. An accident free, epileptic crawl to the pier in just 30 minutes. The car, a black sedan with black tinted windows, confirming our running joke that we were working for the Turkish mafia, deposited us on the edge of a frantic highway and continued to the school with our luggage.

In the end we only spent three and a half hours in traffic. Highlights of this trip included; six lanes of traffic on a four lane motorway; Heather whispering 5-0 to the driver every time a cop car went past; and Turkish geezers walking the lanes of the motorway selling everything from bottled water to bows and arrows. Noting the similarities in the landscape and infrastructure, I had dire premonitions of Auckland’s traffic in ten years.

We walked down to the ferry terminal, shuddering in the cold wind. Arriving, we found that all ferries had stopped running because of an incoming storm. Oya hummed and harred for a bit, then rang the driver and told him to wait where he was. We walked back to the highway, hailed a cab, and proceeded to drive straight past the mob car. The cab pulled over for him to catch up. He drove straight past.

We bunny hopped for two of those three and a half hours. The only rational explanation I can provide for this is that the mobster driver had Parkinson’s. This itself is cause for both celebration and concern.

THE AYA SOFYA IS THE MOST INCREDIBLE BUILDING I HAVE ENCOUNTERED. TH

LESSON, THE CHURCH / MOSQUE / MUSEUM IS ENORMOUS, STANDING ON ORNATELY CARVED MARBLE PIL EXPERIENCE, THE COLOURS, SOUNDS AND SMELL OF THE RELIC LEFT ME GOBSMACKED. THE CHRISTIA FROM AN ANCIENT PAST LIFE.

HE ARTEFACT IS WELL OVER 1400 YEARS OLD AND STILL STANDING. LEAVING BEHIND THE HISTORY LLARS RUBBED SMOOTHER BY INQUISITIVE PALMS FOR OVER A MILLENNIUM. THE VISIT WAS A SENSORY AN CROSSES HID IN THE ARCHES, PEEKING THROUGH THE MUSLIM GOLD PAINT LIKE BURIED MEMORIES

THE SPICE MARKETS WE

SMELLED THEM BEFORE WE SAW THEM. A THICK, MUSKY

SWEETNESS THAT LINGERED IN THE AIR LIKE THE MIST CHARACTER IN THE EPIC DRAMA: GORILLAS IN THE MIST. INSIDE THE MARKETS WE STOOD OUT LIKE WHITE PEOPLE AT A LAURYN HILL CONCERT. UN-

“Where you from Germany” QUESTION, THERE WAS SOME PRETTY FUNNY LINES THROWN OUR WAY. A YOUNG MAN WHO STOOD WATCHING US APPROACH AND SLOW NEAR HIS STALL EARNESTLY SAID: “We have everything except customers.” OTHERS, SMELLING US THROUGH THE THICK HAZE OF CINNAMON JOINED IN WITH: “Are you ready to spend your money?” “You are going the wrong way!” AND “hellohowareyouI’mfinethanks.” WE LAUGHED AND KEPT WALKING BECAUSE I DEVELOPED FORTUNATELY, WE DID ACTUALLY WANT TO BUY SOME SPICES. SO, IGNORING THE STANDARD:

XENOPHOBIA AT A YOUNG AGE: NOT THE WINSTON PETERS TYPE THAT IS PRESENT IN ALL HUMANS YET DREADFULLY UNFASHIONABLE, BUT ONE OF THE MORE AUTHENTIC EARLIER INCARNATIONS.

THE TURKS

PAT R I O T I C

A P PA L L I N G D W H O , LIKE MOS HUMANS AROUN THE WORLD,

PUT ON A

WHEN YOU S

‘MERHAB 78

WERE

D R I V E R S, ST ND

SMILE

S AY

A’

fter four months of living in Turkey and holidaying elsewhere, we thought we had better make the effort and actually leave Istanbul. I jumped online and hastily booked tickets to two popular tourist destinations: Cappodocia and Antayla. Honestly, we never planned on straying off the beaten track. We wanted to see different parts of Turkey, but we didn’t want to experience a different Turkey. We are creatures of comfort Heather and I.

he asked for 10 lira. I unforgave him and tried to explain my annoyance. Insisting I would pay besh (five lira) for both, I gave him a twenty expecting 15 to be returned. He gave me back 10 lira. Infuriated, I gave up and learnt my lesson: never trust a man in a top hat. After riding the tram around the city for a bit, we decided to head home and swim and blob on the hotel beach. The ‘beach’ was a giant platformed pontoon that sat at the bottom of the cliffs. Some fat Turkish teens tried to do bombs off the pontoon and I laughed, not cause I’m better than them at bombs, but because I’m friends with the world bombing champion. And cause they were fat. Fat kids who can’t make a splash when they jump in water deserve to be mocked. It’s the only good thing they’ve got going for them.

Antalya is a seaside city; small in terms of where we have been, but large in comparison to where we come from. I think the Apostle Paul stopped there at some point, so it’s been around for quite a while. We were there to swim in the Mediterranean and brag about it to friends back home who had the worst summer in history. This we did without shame, knowing that we were basically getting three winters in a row.

We spent another relaxed evening dining at yet another sweet restaurant opposite the hotel. Later on that night, we watched a Turkish wedding from our deck; the music dancing through the night frantically like a mosquito. It was awesome. I know this because Heather kept telling me this while I was lying on the bed trying to read an important science fiction novel with all that annoying noise in the background.

Friday night was spent trawling the streets around the hotel trying to find somewhere that served food that at no stage of its life had a pulse. After an hour of walking, we gave up and marched back only to find a restaurant literally opposite the hotel. Following our well-earned meal, we returned to our room with beers and blobbed. On Saturday we thought we had better make the effort and check out the Old City. It was alright I guess. Honestly, more memorable was that on our way to the bus station, we found a chaotic Saturday market and bought a half kilo of perfect cherries for 2.50 NZD. Oh man they were good.

Sunday sucked. Remember how I had hastily booked tickets? I had booked them for 5pm, so after we checked out of the hotel and made it to the airport we had four hours to kill. At the counter to check in, two hours and the world’s most expensive and smallest vegetarian pizza later, the operator looked stumped. I couldn’t understand why. Then she showed me the ticket. We were early: a day early. Both Heather and I had work the next day so we scrambled to check if we could move it forward to the Sunday flight. No dice, it was sold out. Then we darted around the carriers looking for the cheapest flight back to Istanbul. Turkish airlines, 560 TL. All up, each dip in the Mediterranean cost us about $500 NZD. Who’s laughing now? Probably those chubby Turkish teens.

In the old city, Heather had a craving for iced coffee so we went in search of a cafe that would deliver. We asked around but didn’t have any luck. Heather approached a waiter milling about in a top hat. More importantly, I asked ‘neh cardaar?’ (how much) and he said ‘iky’ (two lira each). That sounded about right, until he brought out watered down tea with ice in it. We forgave him because of the language barrier and we should have known better to trust a waiter in a top hat. Later, when I went to pay,

ust off the coast of Istanbul, huddled to the east of the Bosphorus are the Princes’ Islands: nine islands, known for the rogue Princes that were exiled there during the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires. These days they are covered with the summer homes of the wealthy and ruling elite of Istanbul.

It’s an aniseedy spirit, 45% proof that you cut with water. This place didn’t really leave any room for you to add water. I had an interesting night. It was food poisoning. It had nothing at all to do with the Raki. The next day started with a very tentative breakfast of plain simit (Turkish bagel) and water. Heather, untouched by the food poisoning that afflicted me, attacked the hotel breakfast buffet like a veteran. It was another stupidly hot day. We trekked up the hill to investigate an abandoned orphanage, which, according to the map, is the largest wooden framed building in the Northern Hemisphere. If there was ever a perfect set for a horror film it would be there.

Despite being a rich man’s retreat, the islands are a popular picnic destination for Istanbulites. They are inundated every weekend of spring and summer with visitors from the mainland. Like most public transport in Turkey, the ferries we took to get there were cheap but ridiculously overcrowded. We followed the herds on Saturday morning, cramming onto an ancient ferry that slowly chugged its way to the largest of the islands: Büyükada.

Büyükada has amazing architecture. The island is filled with Ottoman villas, beautifully maintained and nestled in tree-lined streets. In contrast, there were many dilapidated mansions sitting abandoned in the very same streets. They were the empty jewel settings of the island’s crown. Apparently, everything Ottoman became unfashionable following the establishment of the Turkish Republic. Luckily, some survived the fever of revolution. On Büyükada, decay and decadence sit side by side.

It was stinking hot. 30 degrees or more. So after checking into the hotel, we headed out to wander the shady areas of the town. Apart from emergency services, vehicles are forbidden on the islands. You would think that a pedestrian town would make for a relaxing break from the chaos of Turkish traffic. As it turns out, Turks are more maniacal on bikes and horse carriages than they are in cars. The key difference is that you can’t get trampled to death by a car.

Some overlooked highlights include: a rugged Turkish farmer on an old bike casually cradling a scythe in his arms; Turkish kids going feral in the first days of their holidays; and carriage drivers, cigarettes in mouths, gunning down cyclists in a gladiatorial demonstration of muscle and sweat.

Knowing we didn’t have many options, we ate at the first restaurant we found. The motherly chef piled our plates high with mezes and we ordered the local spirit: Raki. Raki is gnarly. Oh man, Raki is gnarly.

“They were the empty JEWEL settings of the ISLAND’S CROWN”

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n Friday night we waited patiently for our cab to arrive. Normally it takes a cab driver ten to fifteen minutes to get to our place, so after forty minutes, we started to get nervous. The cab finally arrived about an hour after the call was made; blaring house music and skidding to a stop outside our apartment.

room to catch up on the missing zzz’s. The heat of the day was spent by the hotel pool, where pink tourists converged for silent prayer and reflection. Next up on Saturday’s agenda was the Goreme Open Air Museum. This UNESCO protected site gave us a taste of the life of the Christians who made Cappadocia their home almost a millennium earlier. Like usual, photography was forbidden because of the handful of tourists who have no idea how to turn off their flashes. As a professional, Heather’s managed to figure out how to do that and was able to snap up a handful of surreptitious shots.

We left the campus only to find the Friday afternoon traffic reaching out to greet us. Observing our nervous glances at the dashboard clock, the driver responded like a champ. We spent at least a kilometre on the wrong side of the road - racing the wrong way down off ramps, weaving in and out of traffic, and traveling 145kph in a 90kph zone. For once, we didn’t mind. Maybe the house music lulled us into a false sense of 120bpm security, but I like to think that we were a part of something beautiful. The man was in his element. A trip that should have taken at least half an hour in that traffic took only ten minutes. Arriving safely at the airport I added a 50% tip and called him a wonderful man: “Chok gurcell beer adam.”

While we were there Heather was hit on by a teenage camel jockey. It was fun. He called her beautiful and said she looked like Angelina Jolie. While I know my wife is a fox, it was 32 degrees and Heather was simultaneously glowing and sweating. Don’t lay it on so thick my friend. Later, walking through town, Heather was trailing behind me when a middle aged Turkish man casually observed: “Frescos. Your friend is like a church. He has many Frescos.”

Our adventures in Goreme started early on Saturday morning with a 5:30am tramp through Pigeon Valley. We were shuttled to the hotel in darkness, so we had no idea what to expect when we woke. It was surreal. Forests of rock formations stretched out towards the horizon. Travel writers love to play on the unearthly feeling of the landscape. It’s an inevitable metaphor. Cappadocia is a writer’s wet dream.

We trudged back to Goreme, melting in the afternoon heat. Giving up on our legs, and after a little hunting and haggling, we managed to hire a quad bike without being roped into an adventure tour. Our first hour was spent charging around the Red and Rose Valleys, finding and exploring tracks and collecting dust. The second hour was spent watching from a vantage point as Maui finally gave up and headed in for a beer. The setting sun left the canyon exposed and blushing.

At exactly 5:45am we made a friend; an excitable young golden retriever. She decided quite independently to join us on our trek. We named her Cray. She was crazy, sprinting ahead of us, sprinting back, gulping up suspicious water, eating grass, bumping into our legs - the whole works. Cray had a glorious time both annoying and delighting us with her antics. On the way back Cray made another canine friend, making Heather and I spoilt for company. Fearing attachment and lacking creativity, we didn’t name dog number two.

For the first time in all our travels we had booked a guided tour. However, after such an epic day on Saturday, we cancelled it and decided fill Sunday with a lot of relaxing and a casual hike. This turned out to be a great move. The hike was basically the only remaining valley we had left in Goreme to explore; the aptly labeled “love valley.” Even nature’s got a sense of humour. As a purely tourist town, Goreme was filled with cute eateries and catered to the animal conscious eater. Every menu that we perused had a vegetarian section. This made life pretty easy for us. On Saturday night we strolled through the town and had options. Options! A Gypsy woman lured us in to check out her restaurant’s menu. We said we’d keep looking but didn’t make 100m before we were pulled back. They have strong magic, those Gypos. It was a tasty and cheap meal though, so I’m not complaining. For me it was easily our best weekend in Turkey. In fact, it was right up there in terms of best weekend ever.

The walk through the valley was fantastic. As we left the hotel almost a hundred hot air balloons, bloated with their sleepy rich tourists and their sleepy rich dreams, began to float like jellyfish adrift in the sky. Meanwhile, back on earth, Pigeon Valley was in bloom and the soft light, the caves, the balloons and the flowers made for an exceptional scene. At the Hotel almost three hours and several kilometres later, we were greeted with an exceptional breakfast. If you are ever in Goreme, we can’t recommend Kelebek Hotel enough. Eating far more than was appropriate, we returned to our stone

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THE SETTING SUN L E X P O S E D AN

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INATION T S #5 DE

STH.

CYPRUS yia sas . antío

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STH.CYPRUS WORN & PRESERVED. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD FIND THE GREEK ALPHABET IN ALL ITS CRYPTIC GLORY. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND A BOX OF TURKISH DELIGHT.

t the airport in Istanbul, we waited for two hours and fifteen minutes on the runway. It had been snowing heavily the night before and Heather and I were delighted to be trudging through the foot deep, powdery snow to the taxi. We crawled along the motorway towards the airport sinking deeper into our seats; transitioning from delight to despair.

In Paphos we ate at Hondras, a family restaurant that we both highly recommend. Upon arrival we asked if there were any vegetarian dishes. We were not handed a menu. Instead, we were told we would be served and led to our table. What we ‘ordered’ was perfect; a simple meal of home made pita and dips, fresh salad and Moussaka. Neither Heather or I are fans of aubergine, disliking its rubbery texture and leathery taste, but what we ate literally dissolved into delicious suggestions of what auby could be if he only applied himself a little more in class. To prove to you how good the food was I tipped willingly for the first time in two months.

South Cyprus was warm and charming: ancient ruins, Greek Orthodox churches, vineyards, olive groves and mountainous rubble. The people there went out of their way to make us feel at home. After being delayed on the plane, we arrived at the car rental office and found it closed. Our attempts at contact were unsuccessful. Observing our predicament, the beauty parlour staff next door invited us in, let us use their phone, made us coffee and ordered us food. This was but the first of several instances where we were looked after by people who could have easily ignored us.

Three of our five nights were spent at Niki’s house in Limassol. Niki’s is a cute old renovated farmhouse on the outskirts of the city. Limassol was a perfect base to explore South Cyprus. One morning we took off in the car to visit Lefkara: a tiny village in the foothills of the Trodos Mountains internationally renowned for its handmade lace. It should really be famous for its little old ladies and their unrelenting, emotionally-laden sales pitches. Sales reps should be sent there as a rite of passage and for research.

The car provided us with more flexibility and freedom than we had experienced since New Zealand. Having a car is truly a grand thing. So we lived it up, taking unknown roads along the coast and exploring deep into the mountains, knowing that we had no program, booking or meeting to make.

The following day we drove deep into the mountains hunting the nine tiny Byzantinian churches rumoured to exist in those hills. We found two and saw a lot of mountainside. The churches were incredible: rich, primitive colour poured onto the walls. The biblical characters were captured with a darkness and intensity, unmatched by most of what we saw in Europe. The mountains themselves were beautiful and cold and reminded me of my wife.

Before crossing over from North to South Cyprus, I went to a barber in the Turkish half of Nicosia. He was more than thorough. In addition to my standard cut, I had my nostrils and ears trimmed, my neck old fashioned, my facial hair singed with a burning ball of fire and my scalp massaged. He was the man.

It was both an experience and a shame to cross through a border dissecting a city. Crossing through ‘no mans land,’ we shared thoughts on the heartbreak and waste that was caused when Cyprus was ripped in two. Abandoned houses and barbed wire decorate the limbo of the split city of Nicosia. As we spent almost all of our time in South Cyprus, we only picked up on the feeling of the Greek Cypriots: they were biding their time, resentfully tolerating the unwelcome guests in their home.

While in Paphos, we visited the Tomb of Kings and explored an archaeological site, where mosaics, dulled from thousands of years of footprints, dust and dirt, rest amid the ruins of once decadent buildings. Unfortunately, my appreciation of ancient history was destroyed by Auckland University’s Ancient History 101, which featured a recently excavated Dr Jennifer Hellum as a living exhibition. Regardless, I am glad to have experienced and visited an active dig. 122

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INATION T S #6 DE

ITALY ciao . arrivederci

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ITALY SURREAL & BEGUILING. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD DISCOVER HIDDEN GEMS AND DELICIOUS HIDEOUTS. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND AN INCONSPICUOUS NATIVE.

t didn’t take long for me to fall for Florence. In fact, the only thing I didn’t like in Florence was the American College kids.The place was overrun with them. Despite these noisy dicks, our timing was perfect: we were treated with warm spring weather the entire weekend. On Palm Sunday, we admired the locals as they casually strolled through their old city; deftly dodging tourists, olive branches in their arms, bags, prams and bike-baskets.

came highly recommended by our host, Mario. We shared a table with another couple. It was a little awkward. The pizzas were simple and good. The house wine was excellent. With half a bottle remaining and feeling claustrophobic, we moved into the night to sit on the steps of some ancient building and people watch while drinking from plastic cups. I judged Italian hipsters dressed like faux skinheads and Heather judged me for judging them.

On our first night we happened across The Art Bar. We ordered happy hour cocktails and waited in the corner of a dimly lit room eating complimentary popcorn and olives. The drinks took their sweet time arriving. We thought the place was named the ‘art’ bar because of the museums and galleries that surrounded it. Turns out, it’s more likely named this because of the unhurried, jaded artists that work there as bartenders.

The highlights of Florence were Giardino di Boboli and The Duomo Cathedral. The Giardino di Boboli is a garden on the slopes of the Tuscan hills that backs onto the Palazzo Pitti. We were tired from a day of blitzing the sights, but I was keen to check out this world famous garden. We deathmarched through the grounds, stopping only for water and a couple of photos. The Duomo is yet another magnificent Catholic Cathedral covered in patterned marble. It’s right up there on my list of sweet buildings I’ve seen.

The next day, after tramping around the old city, we ate pizzas at Gusta: a popular pizzeria that

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“On PALM SUNDAY, we admired the locals as they casually strolled through their old city; deftly dodging tourists, OLIVE BRANCHES IN THEIR ARMS, bags, prams and bike-baskets” 145

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he Cinque Terre are five villages located on the northwestern coast of Italy. The name translates to the ‘five lands.’ Basically, they are famous because they are isolated, look pretty and are built on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. They adorn the coastline, squatting in the bays, coves and hills in a colourful connect-the-dots.

hills, appreciating the quaint and cozy lifestyle the villagers have. Their calls of ‘ciao’ and ‘ciao bella’ echoed through the narrow streets as they went about their business. For almost all our travels we have been blessed with good weather. Ideally, we would have walked the track connecting the villages, but on the second day the weather packed in. We instead took the train and continued our blitz of the Cinque Terre. The villages of Monterosso al Mare and Vernazza had been hit hard by flooding last autumn and the clean up was still underway. We stopped into a church in Monterosso and saw the flood line dirtying the nave: a stain that serves as reminder of the nine people who lost their lives in the flooding. We also hiked up the hills to Corniglia, had some great gnocchi and beer and slowly took the 330 something stairs back down to the railway line.

The bulk of our time was spent in Riomaggiore and Manarola. These villages are super picturesque and are connected by a short walk around the cliffs called Via Dell’Amore: the track of love. This turned out to be ironic, as both our expeditions included an argument. Actually, perhaps it’s more apt than ironic. Regardless, the track is great and we saw some pretty funny graffiti professing undying love. There were also literally thousands of love padlocks. It’s an appropriate symbol really. In Manarola we found terraced vineyards and gardens in a horseshoe climbing the hills above the village. As we were there in Easter, twelve wooden Stations of the Cross decorated the slopes. This village was honestly like a pastel coloured postcard. We hiked around the vineyards and

On our last night, we visited a great restaurant; ‘Trattoria Del Billy’ in Manarola. The pasta was great, the wine was great, our conversation was passable – but on the way back, I started doing the post meal math. Way to ruin the night Clancy.

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THEY ADORN THE

COASTLINE SQUATTING IN THE

BAYS,COVES

&HILLS INA COLOURFUL CONNECT THE

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“Calls of ‘CIAO’ and ‘CIAO BELLA’ echoed through the narrow streets.”

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eather and I have different versions of Venice. I thought it was an over-hyped novelty. In the movies you don’t see the crowds, run-down down buildings and polluted water from endless traffic. Being in the northern half of Italy, we felt obligated to visit Venice. That obligation came with a price tag and I hate feeling like I didn’t get my money’s worth. I do remember a nice Venetian Spritz at Naranzaria, near the Rialto bridge. That’s about it. In truth, for me, the

best thing about Venice was our ferry bus out. Heather, however, has the ability to detach the price tag from memories. She remembers cute alleys, character buildings and handsome gondoliers, the colours of the San Marco Plaza, the stores of the Rialto bridge, and us walking for hours trying to find our apartment - but ending up on the complete other side of the island. These things I’ve overlooked. Oh well, my job is to write; hers is to take the photos. You can choose who to believe.

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fter Venice we moved on to Rome. To get there, we spent another half day on the train, racing across the countryside at speeds of 250kph. I was well over trains by this stage. If we ever visit Italy again, we are taking our time. I’d even look into prices for horse and cart hire for a month. Or Segways. I’d look badass on a Segway.

guy who is writing a travel book, but honestly, it seemed a little mindless. Before we left Istanbul, I downloaded a Rome GPS application for my phone. Theoretically, it meant that we should be able to navigate without a whole lot of drama. Instead, I had a very pertinent realisation that I put too much trust in technology. After walking around all day, I informed Heather that I had found a ‘short cut.’ It wasn’t a short cut. For the sake of our marriage, lets leave it at that.

Heather had organised another sweet B&B for us. It was a five minute walk from Vatican City. We experienced an incredible sunset at the Plaza Di San Pietro and on Easter Sunday, nuns and priests scurried around and talked on mobile phones and gossiped and laughed. Lent had just finished so I tried not to judge them too much for appearing normal. There is something funny about seeing a Bishop tuck into a gelato though.

As we were running out of money, we ate cheap pasta and drank cheap wine back at the B&B. This is also because on our first night we tracked down a vegetarian restaurant and it was gross. I tried to hype up the experience because it was my idea; but in reality, it was deserted and the food tasted awful. My heart wasn’t even in it: “man, that burnt lasagna really makes you work for the flavour… the bread looks delicious… the water is so… cold.”

We visited the Vatican Museum. It was full of amazing art and artifacts, censored statues and an impressive modern collection that most people ignored in the crush to get to the Sistine Chapel. For me the most interesting thing was the crowd. It seems that people weren’t interested in engaging with the exhibits, reading the write up, or even pausing to take in whatever they are looking at. The majority of people in the Vatican Museum were simply documenting their visit: they walked up to a piece of art, hastily lunged at it with their pointand-shoot camera and moved onto the next exhibit. This observation may seem a little ironic from the

I feel obligated to talk about the Coliseum. It was pretty colossal from the outside, but not worth the money you pay to get in. I’m also a little dark about it because Heather accidentally deleted this sweet photo of me pretending I’m Samson and making it all come toppling down. She says she’s sorry, but she didn’t accidentally delete any photos of her looking awesome, probably because there are none to delete.

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INATION T S #7 DE

CROATIA halo . zbogom

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CROATIA PURE BLUE & PINK-SKINNED. SOMEWHERE YOU WOULD FIND BEAUTIFUL UNOBTRUSIVE HISTORY. NOWHERE WOULD YOU FIND ATTRACTIVE TOPLESS SUNBATHERS.

etting to Split was a mission; a delayed flight from Istanbul; a missed connecting flight; an unscheduled, six hour bus ride through the night; and a 6am wander through the streets to find our accommodation. While asking for directions at a corner dairy, an unhurried local came and got his first beer of the day – it was 6:30 in the morning. This small act set the tone of our Croatian holiday.

a white pebble beach with luminous water and a small church and restaurant resting on the just off the high tide line. Heather made me take about a hundred photos of her in the water, so I’m sure you’ll see what I mean. Actually, as it turns out, a hundred wasn’t enough to get a good shot. On this trip sight-seeing was secondary, but the Diocleatian palace in Split and the old town of Trogir were pretty epic. One night, after a meal in the heart of the Diocleatian palace, we nestled up with a few hundred other people in the courtyard outside the church. A talented local with a guitar entertained the audience as toddlers danced around to the classics. It’s something we’d be hard pressed to find back home; a late night city culture, completely lacking macho drunks and attention seeking floozies.

Sure we hired boats and scooters, swam and sunbathed, but Croatia was our two weeks of summer crammed in between three consecutive winters. It was 11am GnTs and 2pm siestas. It was unhurried and alcoholic. It was great. Embracing the clichés of holidaying that had haunted our earlier travels, I sunbathed and got sunburnt. And, like white males all over the globe, I recovered with a John Grisham novel and cheap booze.

We knocked out Split, Hvar, Trogir and Zagreb in two, too-short weeks. After all our traveling, Croatia was just what we needed; a holiday.

We continued our search for the best beach, and came pretty close on Hvar Island with Dubovica:

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“a white pebble beach with luminous water”

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GANGLY, BRONZED GROMITS FLUNG THEMSELVES FR O M A N C IE NT S TONE PO NTO O NS IN TO

SHIMMERING SEAS

WITH A RECKLESS ABANDONTHAT IS FOUND ONLY INTHEYOUNG, MAKING SUMMER MEMORIES THAT THEY WILL PINE OVER

FOR A LIFETIME.

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