In and out of focus

It occurs that I have not updated the blog in almost a month. How shameful. Clearly I must have been extremely busy doing exciting and important things, right? Hey, actually, I have!

Things I have done this month that I have not done before:
- Started Spanish conversation classes. I am almost at the end of this course, and absolutely loving it. I'm hoping to continue Spanish next year.
- Become a volunteer mentor. I meet my new young friend next Tuesday, and am really excited about it!
- Accepted a job for 2008 at Samaritan College. Not sure yet what I'll be teaching, but I'm excited about this too.
- Attended the Walk Against Warming. Very exciting to be part of such a huge crowd, and such a positive march.
- Went to see my friend's band, Johnny Rock and the Limits. And they were fab :)
- Saw The Killers in concert; a concert full of lights, and loud, and dancing, and sparkles, and happy. And a giant corn and a giant pig, but that's a whole other story.
- Celebrated Nick's birthday with a cocktail party.
- Discovered Scrabulous on facebook. So much of my free time at work (which is not very much, admittedly) now is spent teasing my brain into producing sneaky letter combinations.

Things I have done this month that I have done before:
- Worked at beyondblue. I'm back here in an ongoing role, doing generally random fabulous stuff. Some would call this office admin.
- Eaten at lots of restaurants. 80 meals keeps me fed.
- Looked into re-starting bellydance and kickboxing classes. But not at the same time.
- Had a Melbourne Cup Day lunch. Thanks for dressing up, guys!

See? Busy. There's a reason for my absence.

Get a move on

It's often difficult to leave a job. No matter how shitty/ draining/ underpaid/ boring your job was, or how exciting your future prospects are, you;re bound to feel some sting of nostalgia at moving on. At the very least, we tend to feel a camaraderie with our work colleagues; a friendship born of a shared misery.

What's weird about teaching is that that feeling of kinship relates not just to your work fellows, but to your students. The responsibility you have for them; the extensive effort you devote over a period of time; the potential you're privy to; the moment you realise you've cracked the shell of one of the toughest nuts in the classroom. Teaching means you are REALLY invested in your work, in a way it is hard to be with accounts, or insurance, or stocks.

I'm leaving my school at the end of the week, and I'm finding this quite hard to cope with. I teach VCAL, which means I teach kids who are on the outer within the school community. Non VCAL teachers reject them because they can be damned hard work; fellow students dismiss them as 'dumb'. As a result, the VCAL boys are a tight knit group, and as a teacher it is incredibly rewarding to crack them, and feel you've made it 'in' with them.

In my school, I am very much on the VCAL team. I am defensive of VCAL to other students, I am protective of my boys to other teachers, I am proud as punch when they achieve success, and I am damn pissed off that VCAL is not represented at a Student Leadership level. This only makes it harder to be leaving. It seems a lot harder than when I left Kew, which is odd, as I taught there for a year, and here for not even a term.

The boys have been saying they want me to stay, and that they'll go on strike to demand my reinstatement. They also asked what I wanted as a present (which may well never ACTUALLY eventuate, but nice thought) and want to have a farewell lunch for me (which the cynic in me scoffs at as time out of class!). There's a very good chance that the boys will have forgotten me in a few weeks, after their regular teacher comes back. But right now, it's pretty saddening to be moving on.

P.S. I had an utterly shitful day at school today. All of my classes were absolute brats, and my yard duty was rotten. And I am STILL sentimental about leaving. Imagine the gush if I'd actually had a GOOD day!

My various guises

There's a version of this on facebook, called "Hello, my name is..." but I think this is more fun. Considering I am trying to come up with my 'Bond name' for Nick's birthday, I consider this to be a perfectly cromulent procrastinatory exercise!

1. My rock star name (first pet and current car)
Tasha Pulsar

2. My gangsta name (ice cream flavour plus cookie, or biscuit)
Macadamia Mania Monte Carlo (I am CLEARLY a Mafia Gangsta)

3. My fly girl name (first letter of first name, first three letters of last name)
N Mae

4. My detective name (favourite colour, favourite animal)
Pink Tiger (sounds like a stripped name to me...)

5. My soap opera name (middle name, city of birth)
Rana Murwillumbah (Bollywood soap starlet)

6. My Star Wars name (first three letters of your last name, first two of your first name)
Mae-Na

7. My superhero name (second favourite colour, favourite drink, add “the”)
The Black Tea (I think this is more villainous. It's probably the 'Black' part... but I see a very 'proper' middle aged villain who poisons people mid cucumber sandwich at high tea...)

8. My Nascar name (first two names of my two grandfathers)
Robert James (or James Robert, I guess. Or Bob Jim, as both used abbreviations more than their full names. Or Jim Bob! Hee hee, having fun with this one...)

9. My stripper name (favourite perfume, favourite sweet)
Stella Valrhona- oh YEAH. Hott.

10. My witness protection name (mother’s and father’s middle names)
Shirley Donaldson

11. My weather anchor name (fifth grade teacher’s name, a major city beginning with the same letter)
Hutchins Hobart

12. My spy name (favourite season/flower)
Autumn Lily (aw, pretty)

13. Cartoon name (favourite fruit plus garment you’re wearing, with an “ie” or “y” added)
Nectarine Cardie (Cardy-ie or Cardigan-y just sounds SILLY!)

14 Hippie name (what you ate for breakfast plus favourite tree)
Muffin Flame Tree

15. Your rockstar tour name (favourite hobby plus weather element, with “the”)The Dancing Thunder (sounds like another hippie name)

Well that was fun :) I expect a whole stack of these in my comments field, so I know the best way to address you at Nick's party. I'll either be my rock star name, stripper name, or spy name. Oh hang on. Bond name may = spy name. I guess you can call me Autumn Lily.

Apathetically hip

I marvel at the way people in dreary jobs funk themselves up; as though having a wacky hairstyle (an odd angle here, a splash of outrageous colour there), or super groovy accessories (BRIGHT glasses frames, jewellery made exclusively of buttons and the skulls of small animals) or a slightly offbeat dress sense will make up for the drudgery of their workaday life. This phenomenon seems to be especially present in government jobs. If you don't have to suit it up, it seems, the dress code is instead to go a bit visually kooky.

Now I probably sound like a mega bitch right now. With an asymmetrical haircut, I also sound a bit like a hypocrite. And many of my friends reading this may well be looking at their outfits and thinking, shocked, 'Does she mean me?' No. I don't. I swear! I LOVE your outfits, and you. I'm not actually sniping at the way these people look; often I am in fact coveting various items.

I am temping at the moment (oh bane of my life), and have once again found myself recept-ing for a Minister's office. Now it seems that some of the most achingly quirky people I have seen work in senior government; they are also bitingly rude and dismissive. I guess my problem is seeing these outfits that scream 'Personality' on people who won't even look me in the eye as I do something for them, let alone smile or throw me a stray word. I can't help but suspect they may wear exciting clothes to make up for their lack of character, or to desperately inject some colour into their lacklustre worlds.

Of course, I may be completely wrong. If one of them would speak to me, they could well prove how fascinating they are in their own right. But until then, I shall sit alone at my boring reception desk, imagining how I too can make my work life a little more exciting. Maybe pink streaks in my hair?

Presenting ME! In all my lameness

This is Lisa's fault.

List five things that other people may consider to be 'totally lame,' but you are, despite the possible stigma, totally proud of. Own it. Tag five others.

1. I find brushing my teeth therapeutic.
Yeah, this is weird, I know. I can't exactly explain it. Maybe the vigorous motion helps to expel my frustration. Maybe it's the shiny clean feeling of my molars afterwards. Maybe it's the promise of a clean start to the day (or the pretense of restarting a day, if I am brushing my teeth mid-day). I hate to leave the house without brushing, and I am such a vigorous brusher that my dentist has banned me from having an electric toothbrush or even a hard bristled brush, for fear of the damage I may do.

2. I have an ongoing obsession with Safeway roast chickens.
Any time I go past the roast chickens at the deli, or the newfangled hot chicken counters, I feel a compulsion to buy a chicken. It's my main impulse buy (well, except for chocolate). I think it's because the other tempters don't have a scent... And it's got to be Safeway chickens. Coles chickens are too dry. Leo's do very yummy organic chickens, but that's only for days I feel rich.

3. I lo-o-o-o-ve tea.
At the height of my tea collection, I had over 70 different types of tea. This is more than some tea stores exhibit! I'm quite finicky about tea and its preparation; for example, you must use water off the boil to prepare green tea (Boiling water burns the delicate green leaves). I have different tea pots for different purposes, and different cups for different types of beverage. I have to avoid the tea aisle in the supermarket, I cross the road away from specialty tea stores to avoid spending all my money on an absolute glut of tea. I have no shame in driving all the way to the Dandenongs just to visit my favourite tea store, Tea Leaves.

4. I am a word nerd.
I am an English teacher, a spelling pedant, a grammar Nazi. I read blogs by book people. I watch Book Club tv shows. I am fascinated by word origins, and loved studying Old English, as it taught me the roots of our language. I am intrigued by linguistics and base languages; while I'd love to learn Portuguese and Spanish, and improve my Indonesian, my real desire is to learn Latin. And yet, for all my word-nerdiness, I am shocking at Scrabble...

5. I secretly want to be on Idol.
I know that Idol is not cool. I know that the contracts you have to sign suppress any musical independence. I know that being on Idol doesn't guarantee you a career (I'm not even sure I want a music career). But damn it, it looks like fun, and I am sure I could do it. Then again, that's probably what all the tragics humiliated on those embarrassing grabs thought before they went on and screeched, I mean sang their little hearts out. But I doubt I'll ever get around to auditioning- Years of music lessons simply don't equip you with the skills to stand in line all day, trying to stand out from the crowd of other desperate hopefuls.

I don't actually know many people who blog, so I'll be tagging people through email. Hayley, Jackie, Dom, Paul, Nick.

Festival of Fringe

Of late, I have been sporting a fringe. Straight down, straight across, and hanging anywhere from just above my eyebrows to poking me in the eye, depending on whether I'd trimmed it lately.

"I'd trimmed it." These are the fateful words which trigger our sad tale. Being a penny-pincher right now, I refuse to go to a hairdresser just to pay them to make three broad snips along my eyebrows. I have been trimming my own fringe, and most of the time, doing an ok job. But once, just once, my hairdressing skills clearly absented me. It was a dark day on which I decided to employ creativity into my shearing routine.

I'd been feeling bored with my hair. I'd been feeling confident about my snipping skills. I'd been watching far too many back episodes of 'Love My Way'. And so, when I picked up the scissors, I was certain I had the skills to emulate Claudia Karvan's fringe.

I did not.

Do you know how difficult it is to swallow your pride, call around hairdressers, explain your 'fringe emergency', and hope they can fix it for a reasonable budget price? It's not easy, I can assure you. I was so glad I went to Nick's hairdresser. There a lovely European lady reassured me that everyone cuts their own hair at some point in their lives (sure, but they're normally about five years old), and that I actually hadn't done too bad a job of it. She talked me through all my (two) options, advised what she thought was the best, and patiently snipped away, explaining all the time what she was doing and why.

When she stepped back (after a free blow dry!), I was amazed. My mission had been achieved. I had a choppy asymmetrical fringe, and wispy layers around my face. Sadly, I hadn't become a gorgeous, respected actress (a la Claudia) or a kooky, damaged yet talented artist ( a la Frankie, Claudia's LMW character), but I did have some very funky hair which I REALLY liked.

And all it cost me was $33, a night of panic, and a chunk of self-respect.

Insufferable intolerance

As a child, I remember hearing of the most horrible allergy I could imagine; a friend of mine could not eat chocolate! At eleven, I was aghast. Not eat chocolate? Why bother living? At twenty-five, my feelings on the matter have, if anything, probably intensified.

When I returned to France having spent six weeks travelling other parts of Europe, I experienced stomach pains I hadn't suffered since I was last in Paris. Trying to pinpoint what could be wrong (I mean, I know I'd always insisted I wasn't interested in Paris, but surely I couldn't be allergic to it???), I realised that something had been added to my diet when I joined my friend Lisa in her second home; cheese feasts.

Living in France, Lisa had discovered the joy that is French cheese, and had developed somewhat of an addiction. In fact, she suffered severe cheese withdrawals as we travelled further away from French fromage. Upon return to Paris, we enjoyed a picnic on the Champs du Mars, sampling saucisson, wine and a variety of delicious cheeses. Since her return to Melbourne, Lisa and I generally meet over a newly discovered cheese, in the hope it may live up to the lofty heights of its French cousin. I'm coming to suspect that the feeling in my stomach is not disappointment, but perhaps something far more sinister.

Lactose intolerance is a fairly common development as humans age. It occurs when the body stops producing lactase, the enzyme which breaks down lactose (milk sugars). In fact, most mammals stop producing lactase once they are weaned, making humans quite unique in the prolonged dairy consumption. However, societies with a low dairy consumption, such as Asian or Aboriginal communities, have a greater tendency towards lactose intolerance. In Caucasians or those of European descent, lactose intolerance occurs in about 5% of people.

Now I have a confession to make. I am a dairy tart. I get around in the dairy section of the supermarket; my beloved chocolate, yoghurt, cheese, icecream, milk, sour cream, and what's a cake without a dollop of cream? I love dairy. So this niggling thought has been ignored for a long time. But the stomach pain after each dairy binge is a little too coincidental.

The easiest way to test for lactose intolerance is to cut out all dairy products from the diet for a few weeks, and then slowly reintroduce items to establish which cause the biggest problems. With best intentions, I poured soy milk onto my Vita Brits and began my first lactose free day.

I'd fallen off the wagon by recess. I reasoned with myself that I didn't get stomach pain after yoghurt, so maybe the bacteria in it was countering the lactose? At lunchtime, I just HAD to eat the rest of that Mars Bar. And when we went out for pizza, well it would have been unfair of me to deny Nick a pizza with cheese. And that one with mascarpone, fetta and mozzarella did look good...

Today I started again. Fruit for breakfast. I discovered that one of my tea blends was perfectly complemented by soy milk. Then a bagel topped with... um... does goat's cheese contain lactose? After a tantrum at the realisation that I couldn't even have jam and butter (have to buy some Nuttelex), I decided to throw today's race, and ate the chevre goat cheese (yum). Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll cut out dairy. But I can't help wondering if such painful self-denial will really be worth it...

Soft and clean and excitingly new

Recently, I had a conversation with my osteopath about fabric softener. OK, let's get a few things clear: yes, I have my own osteopath. His name is Aaron, and he is fabulous; he fixes my back, my neck, my knees, my wrists, my feet, my hips (apparently I'm his only patient who needs a full body adjustment EVERY SESSION). And no, I am not 70. But when I AM 70, my back will be feeling pretty good, thanks.

I don't exactly know how the fabric softener thing came up, but for some weird reason, washing detergent does seem to be something people randomly discuss. I know that one of my friends uses special detergent for her black clothes, and I know that another is allergic to most brands, except the one he now uses. Some of this I know from random conversation, some because which brand detergent you use is frequently a question on those 'get to know you' quiz emails. (By the way, I use an environmentally friendly liquid detergent, and the cheapest brand fabric softener available that is apple scented).

So yeah, we had a chat about fabric softener, and how good it makes towels feel. But more importantly, we got very excited by fabric softener because it was an adult discovery for both of us. Our parents hadn't used fabric softener when we were kids, and there was this pure thrill when we made the choice to create our own washing ritual.

There are a number of things I have discovered as an adult. Tea. Wine (and I'm getting snobbier about this by the day). That deli meat can be so much better than what they sell at Coles. Anchovies (but only the expensive ones). Pickles. INTERESTING Vegetarian food. Tofu. Chilli. Real pizza. Good Asian food (especially moving past White Person dishes, like Lemon Chicken). Even as a kid I was fussy about chocolate, but now I have very expensive taste (quality over quantity). Mustard. Hydroponic tomatoes. Expensive ice-cream (and NEVER Neapolitan).

It's funny that most things on this list are food; I am a LITTLE food focused. As I've gotten older, I've realized that we really didn't have much money when I was young. It's funny, you don't notice when you're little. But I know my parents worked really hard to look after us, and keep us happy, safe and fed. But it meant there wasn't any money for luxuries. Now I'm lucky enough to make my own choices, and spend a little more on some things, and developing my tastes in new directions not available to me as a child.

Cheese is a perfect example of this. When I was young, we bought processed, pre-sliced cheddar. I always thought the individually wrapped cheddar slices were the absolute height of luxury. Occasionally I would try a bit of brie or Camembert at an adult party, and I thought Coon was pretty good too. Now I only buy individually wrapped slices if I am looking for a childhood flashback (it normally needs to be served on saladas, with honey or vegemite). My regular cheese is a colby or a vintage cheddar (and NEVER Coon), and I regularly have a 'fancy' cheese in my fridge, but it's rarely brie. I've come to love blue cheeses (thanks to Sai for coaxing me towards Roquefort, and Lisa for living in Paris and giving me the chance to try the AMAZING range of French cheese), and I know that a soft cheese is better when it's runny. I love goat cheese, sheep cheese, even buffalo cheese. And all this from a kid who used to dream of having a Cheese Stick in her lunch box...

Crazy little thing called life

Ok, since my last 'woe is me' post, things have been quite crazy. I sent out a lot of job applications, including around ten for emergency or short term teaching. From that, I was offered three short teaching jobs, and four emergency teaching jobs. I went to Queensland for my cousin's eighteenth, and this is when things start to go loopy.

FIRST, I was offered a longish short term contract (around ten weeks). I accepted, and quit my Old Job. Simple? Nuh-uh.

THEN My Old Boss rang me to offer me a stable wage, if I returned to Old Job. I wavered. I considered. I called New Job advising I was unsure. I decided to stick with New Job.

NEXT my Old Boss called again, offering me more money to return to Old Job. I refused.

FINALLY on my first day of New Job, Old Boss calls to tell me that the staff member who had to pick up the (minimal, considering I had no work) slack from me leaving had quit, and Old Boss was desperate. So now I work New Job nine days a fortnight, Old Job one day a fortnight, and will probably return to Old Job for a term or so once New Job is finished. PHEW.

Meanwhile, my brief sojourn in Queensland was lovely. I think I should get me a winter home; it is SO nice to be able to sit on the beach, in 27 degree heat, in the middle of winter. Lovely, even though it is eerily wrong. Spent a few days exploring Brisbane, and a few days sitting on the beaches of Sunshine Coast and hanging out with my newly legal cousin.

I've forgotten the excitement of being 18. I'd also forgotten the energy you have when you're 18. My cousin turned 18 on the Tuesday, and went out Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. I was invited Friday and Saturday, but backed out Friday due to a massive headache. Saturday I drank and danced at the official birthday party (held at a bowls club, SUCH CHEAP DRINKS!), but felt far too old and fearful of hangovers to go out clubbing afterwards.

The surprise point for me was my cousin's freshness on Saturday morning. Having been out the previous two nights, she called me at around nine am and was appalled to learn that we had gone to the beach without her. "Why didn't you invite me?" she demanded. "I thought you'd be sleeping, or hung over!" Ah, yes. Partying in the time of BHO- Before Hang Overs. I remember those days... Now I'm too tired to even get drunk! *sigh*

Job Instability is Contagious

I have been stressing out about my job situation for weeks. Before I went to Europe (oh, care-free days of holidaying), I had been under the impression that I had a stable job back home. Upon my return, I discovered the company had been sold, and that the two other staff in Melbourne (including a new recruit) were now on a salary, rather than casual wages like myself. I, however, was to remain casual, which didn't worry me too much at first, as I'd been casual before and making ample amounts in that fashion.

Things started to seem shakier when I was told our company cars were being sold (I LOVE my car) and our props downsized (and no longer anywhere NEAR as cool as they used to be). Soon I realised there wasn't as much work as before, and I started to stress about my finances (a common preoccupation for me, I must admit. I like security).

I was a bit resentful of the New Girl, who had a salary right from the start of her job, but it training her I got to know her, and she's great. We chatted heaps about the changes in the company, and our uncertainty about the security of our jobs, and our other career options. I told her I was considering going back to classroom teaching next year, and when I started looking for work last week, she was really supportive and positive.

I've now gotten one post as an emergency teacher, and applied for a stack more. This is work that could complement my current casual schedule. But I've also applied for full time teaching work for later in the year and next year, and an awesome education position at the RSPCA, which I would snap up if offered. So I'm definitely looking outside of The Company, because they simply can't offer me security.

My Boss has been promising for weeks to call and discuss 'my future with The Company'. That call FINALLY came today, and she announced that, while she couldn't offer me permanency right now (!), she wanted me to stay. In fact, as an indication of how much she loves me, she offered the information that she had to get rid of a full timer. New Girl is the Sacrificial Lamb. The new ownership wants one full timer and one casual in Melbs, and I have been 'selected' as I am soooo reliable (yeah, and dumb enough to stay on a casual wage, which New Girl would be unable to do...).

So here's my quandary. I told The Boss that I have applied for supplementary casual work, and was also looking into full time teaching next year. I didn't tell her I was considering full time work this year. If I had, would she have kept New Girl on staff? Am I costing someone a job? And should I tell New Girl (soon to be Old Girl) that the axe is dropping? I know she'll be called tonight, but I feel so bad *knowing* and not being able to affect the result...

Such a chore

Everyone has at least one form of housework they really despise. Not the general feeling of annoyance related to cleaning tasks; I mean really, actively loathing a particular chore. For me, this is the cleaning the floors. I will scrub the shower, wash the clothes and quite cheerfully plunge my hand into soapy dishwater (sans washing up gloves. Gloves are for nancies). But sweeping? Mopping? Do I HAVE TO????

Even vacuuming. Most people, forced into household tasks, will jump onto the vacuuming. Not me. The only reason I vacuum at all is because we have a particularly cool vacuum cleaner with lots of flashy lights and super strong suck function.

In every house I have lived, it has been someone else's job to clean the floor. I will take on all sorts of disgusting jobs, such as cleaning the toilet and the grouting in the shower, as long as it is not my job to mop. In our present house, it's normally Nick's job, as he's more sensitive to the dust than I (oh, dusting, that's another job I hate. WHY do people give nick-nacks? They serve no purpose EXCEPT TO COLLECT DUST! I hate ornaments almost as much as I hate mopping).

Having grudgingly noticed the increasing disgrace into which my house has sunk since Nick went away last week, I set aside today for cleaning. Not that I got anything done before 3pm. Far more important to finish my book, watch a few episodes of 'Love my Way' while eating toast and drinking tea. At this point I dressed myself in clothes far too tragic to be seen by the general public. After bashing out a few emails, I got myself organised and somewhat motivated, and am proud to announce that (punctuated by stints reading the paper, contacting schools, eating popcorn (gosh those microwave bags of popcorn are rip offs. What kind of idiot would pay $1.50 for 10cents worth of popcorn kernels? Oh yeah, me...) and looking for new jobs) I have swept, mopped and/ or vacuumed every room in the house. Except my bedroom, that's got too many clothes arranged artfully upon the floor...

Heaven on Burke Rd

Last night I died and went to Naomi-heaven. Nick and I attended a Winter Indulgence Evening at Koko Black, in Camberwell, which was AWESOME.

Koko Black founder Shane Hills originally began life as a rock-candy devotee. Having joined the throngs engrossed by the sweet making demonstrations at rock candy store Suga, Shane opened his own branch of Suga at Chadstone. After a few years of success, he turned his thoughts to other areas of confectionery, and specifically a sweet traditionally more popular than rock candy; chocolate. He spent a long time pondering his ultimate chocolate experience, and through training, tasting and searching the world for master chocolatiers, Shane set out to create that ultimate experience.

Koko Black stores aim for a level of quality in their products (resulting in some of the most exquisite hot chocolate available in Melbourne). This standard is raised in the decor and general ambience of the stores, which create a sense of an old style salon. Sinking into a chocolate coloured leather chair, gazing out onto picturesque Royal Arcade, or simply admiring art nouveau inspired wallpaper evokes a sense of luxury and indulgence, raising the experience of a drink at Koko Black well above a latte at your local.

The Winter Evening of Chocolate maintained a friendly, casual atmosphere, with questions and jokes encouraged, so long as they did not undermine the real focus of the night; chocolate. Attendees were generally chocolate aficionados, who appreciated the experience of being guided through a tasting session of high quality chocolate blends, and viewing and assisting in the process of hand making chocolates.

Koko Black's 44% blend is a true chocolate lover's perfect milk chocolate. With a higher percentage of cocoa mass than many commercial milk chocolate blends, the 44% affords a fuller bodied taste and an extra smoothness, capped with a bittersweet tinge of an aftertaste.

The 60% sports more of a 'snap' than the milk blend, and is less likely to melt in the mouth. With a proportion of more cocoa mass than cocoa butter, this blend is close to the blend of many standard dark chocolates available on the shelf, but the high quality of the ingredients is emphasised in the smoothness of the chocolate as it dissolves.

The 74% blend revels in it's bittersweet shock as it enters the mouth, melting to produce a full bodied roasted bean aftertaste which lingers well after the chocolate has dissolved. For me, this is fairly perfect in what I look for in a dark chocolate; the heavy cocoa mass is noticeably present in the bitterness of the initial taste, but the rich aroma retained in the mouth balances any desire for a sweeter flavour.

The evening continued with demonstrations of bailey's truffles, piped by the attendees, highly alcoholic, addictive and delicious. After decorating individualised blocks of 44% to take home with us, it was time to indulge in a Koko Black high tea; hot chocolate served with an ice-cream or mousse martini. Koko Black make all their own ice creams, mousses and sauces. The chocolate mousse martini was topped with crunchy hazelnuts roasted by the KB kitchens, while the delicious vanilla bean ice cream was heightened by the rich hand made caramel sauce.

Prior to this evening, I'd enjoyed KB's hot chocolate (made from melted chocolate, not powder) and their excellent coffee, but this was my first chance to try one of their chocolate spice blends. The cinnamon blend balanced perfectly the bitter and sweet elements of both cinnamon and chocolate, resulting in a sweet flavour which was not overpowering. The standout drink for me was the chili chocolate, b far the best I have tried anywhere. The chili is visible on top of the foam as well as in the reddish tinge to the depths of the drink, but most noticeable as a kick to the back of the throat. The sweetness of the initial chocolate mouthful is boosted by the jolt of the chili, and ensures the chocolate does not overpower in sweetness.

The evening was a huge success (and by success I mean I ate stacks of yummy chocolates, AND got to take some home!). If this is what is meant by 'death by chocolate' I'm in.

P.S. I wrote this last week, I just hadn't found a way to finish it! Slack, much. I need some chocolate to console myself...

Home among the gum trees

Three and a half days after I arrived back in Melbourne, I embarked upon a three hour drive. In a manual van (making the jet-lagged trip that much more complicated). A van which does not belong to me (making the prospect of a jet-lag induced accident that much scarier). Work had advised that the only shift available pre-school holidays was a three day stint in Echuca. My credit card urged me to take the job. My credit card is wise, and so I heeded its advice.

The trip up was tough. Echuca isn't anywhere near as far as I thought it was, but it could have been on another planet. One urgent coffee stop, three frantic map checks and a U-turn later, I arrived at my B&B in the middle of the country. To quote my sister, "I hate the country". Having spent a few years growing up surrounded by dairy farms, paddocks (with high snake potential), hay sheds (with higher snake potential), chook sheds (with definite snakes. I really don't like snakes) and far more than openness and *quiet* than I am comfortable with, we hold somewhat of an aversion to the country. Sure, it's nice to visit, and I like the way drivers always wave, even if they don't know you, but fairly quickly I get sick of it, and miss the burbs.

Having spent eleven weeks out of Australia, though, and of course comparing it with the various European landscapes through which I was trekking, I found visiting the country really quite soothing. I mean, it didn't hurt that I was FORCED to recuperate from jet lag in a town with little else to do but eat and chill out, and get paid for it. But it was more than that. In Europe, I kept trying to put a finger on why our country-side is different to the European countryside. I came to the conclusion that ours was just bigger. European country areas are fairly strictly delineated, field after carefully bordered field. A Belgian farmer might have a coronary at the sight of an Australian paddock stretching off into the distance.

But that still wasn't it. It wasn't until sunset that it struck me; one thing I had really missed, and a defining aspect of our countryside, are the gum trees. I love the smell, the mottled bark, the feuding birds in the high branches. But my favourite thing about the gum tree is its silhouette. Stark against a lurid Australian country sunset, or ghostly in the early morning fog (and my goodness it was cold and foggy in the country. Brrr), this is an essential image of home for me. Even though I don't identify with the countryside, I feel grounded by gum trees. This might be why I feel so overwhelmed by Melbourne patriotism (is it patriotism if you're thinking of a city rather than a country?) when I near the Yarra; there are gumtrees lining the Yarra all the way from the city to the valley. For me, it's a sign of home. And it's nice to be back.

Czech, Kafka, Kundera

Czech writers share certain similarities in their work. Take the two most famous Czech writers, Franz Kafka (Metamorphosis) and Milan Kundera (The Incredible Lightness of Being). Kafka's work is dark, philosophical and, well, kinda weird but beautiful; in 'Metamorphosis' he writes about a man transformed into a cockroach in his sleep. Kundera's intensely beautiful work is philosophical, often gloomy and self reflective and, well, weird; in 'Identity' he ponders whether someone loses their identity if you fail to recognise them; in 'The Incredible Lightness of Being' he tackles the topic of Being through an exploration of (mostly adulterous) relationships.

Having visited the Czech Republic, I know understand why these writers share such commonalities. Czech is a dark, gloomy, weird and intensely beautiful place, which inspires philosophical introspection.

Dark and Gloomy: Czech architecture is the stuff of vampire movies. It's a combination of Art Nouveau, pointed spires, castles and water stained, dark stone. Unlike neighbouring countries, Czech doesn't seem to have suffered too badly from WWII bombings, thus Praha evokes an older era; one in which people believe in horrors and superstitions. The castle looming on the other side of the river looks as though it could house all sorts of nasty creatures, while the church dominating Wenceslas square has the aura of a stern, Gothic watchtower. Doors and windows sport carved details, such as screaming faces within fanged mouths, or rats climbing frames. The blackened statues of the Charles Bridge bear testimony to the climate of Praha- rainy. A sudden and unbelievably intense downpour seems standard for Czech.

Weird: Kutna Hora, an hour out of Praha, is visited for its one tourist attraction. No, I don't mean the exhibition at the cigarette manufacturer. Kutna Hora is home to an ossuary; a bone church. Following massive deaths from the plague, the area had far more bodies than they could bury. So they didn't. Instead the bones were cleaned and used to create decoration inside the church. Yes, decoration. Some of the bones (mostly skulls and femurs) were piled into four enormous pyramids, with candles burning within. Others were used for to more delicate decoration: a coat of arms sporting a bird (made of human bones) pecking the eye out of a skull; crosses reminiscent of pirate flags; the signature of the 'artist'; and a giant candelabra, which dominates the interior of the building and uses every bone in the human body. Gross. But really, really cool.

Introspective: Czech Republic, Czechoslovakia, Bohemia. Whatever you choose to call the area, it is one which has been fought over and dominated by many powers throughout history. Czech Bohemia was part of the Austrian Empire for ages, despite attempts to gain Independence. Once the Empire fell, Czechoslovakia put up little resistance to the invading German army, having learned from failed war efforts in the past. This passivity led to their submission to the Soviet Union, and resulted in Czechoslovakia being hidden behind the Communist Iron Curtain for quite some time. Now liberated, Czech Republic still bears the philosophical and self-reflective air inspired by the dark years of oppression, and the weight of a cloud-heavy sky bearing upon grim Gothic buildings. When looking around can be dangerous or terrifying, people are often led to look within themselves, and their fellow man.

Beautiful: Everywhere you look in Praha, an amazing sight greets your eyes. It might be the sparkle and gleam of a Swarovski store, the modern counterpart of traditional Bohemian crystal-smiths. It might be the sun setting over the river, and setting the spires of the churches, castles, bridge gates alight. It might be the intricate detail in a building only just noticed, although you've passed it frequently. Despite attempts to tread them down, the Czech's have stubbornly clung to their language, their traditions, their identity, and have created beauty reflective of their world. Their world may have metamorphosed for a time into something dark and unpleasant, but it's clear that here is a nation unwilling to give up on the incredible lightness of being.

East and west

Having seen the effect of post WWII capitalist Bavaria, Berlin seemed to shine with the promise of contrast. I expected to see remnants of Walled West Berlin, surrounded by a uniform post-communist East city. However, travellers I'd met had advised me that there was almost no difference now between East and West, and that apart from the line of bricks marking the road, one couldn't recognise the divide.

Even my Berlin tour guide re-iterated this. Originally Welsh, she'd lived in West Berlin for two years. She told horror stories of friends' apartments in the East with shared toilets on the landing and shower in the kitchen, but this was really the only difference she knew of. Except for Ampelman, the communist traffic light symbol, different from the standard traffic warning image. And the fact that "There's nothing in West Berlin, really. East Berlin got all the cool stuff". But apart from THAT, East and West are exactly the same, she feels.

I stayed with friends in East Berlin, in a two room apartment. With a shower in the kitchen, and a shared toilet on the landing, quite normal in Europe, really. One of the couple works casually, while the other works 25 hours a week. Some of their neighbours are surprised that they have work at all, as 1 in 4 Berliners of working age are unemployed. Both of my friends earn far less than their counterparts working on the West side of town do. They advise that the best situation one can achieve in Berlin is to work in the West and live in the East, as food and rents are more expensive in the West. An East Berlin loaf of bread costing 1euro may cost 3euro in the West. Clearly the differences between the 'Two cities' are in existence if you look for them.

The fall of the wall clearly spelled a lot of changes for the socialist East Berlin. Conditions in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) had been difficult, with under supply of goods, lack of freedom of speech, and long, demanding working hours. An exhibition at the German History Museum on life in the GDR demonstrated the constant double speak (replicated in many East German jokes about the GDR), inequality and frustrations people lived with every day. So surely now that they'd joined their rich neighbours of the West in the land of Capitalism, all would be happy, right? The exhibition ended with a series of photographs and interviews with East Berliners directly after the fall, and in present day. Most of them found themselves worse off, rather than better. Their qualifications were not valid in the new world, their jobs unstable or non-existent, and their homes no longer a certainty. Most seemed diplomatic ("I was lucky to be allowed to work at all"), but some comments really resonate; "They could have left the wall standing and allowed greater travel allowances". For many, the move into the promised land has not been as expected.

Most of my time was spent in East Berlin, which comes across as an area fast becoming gentrified; but the spirit of many communities is still very friendly, a bit bohemian, creative. Market sellers happily barter the cost of their goods, and waiters will deliver complementary fruit as a dessert. Squats and communal kitchens, located in buildings emptied when their inhabitants departed for West Berlin, are identified by the colourful and socialist graffiti adorning the outer walls.

The inner city mixes remnants of the old city, replicas of old buildings and stunning modern architecture. And while Nazism is certainly not dead in Berlin, the city is determined to remember the tragedy of the Holocaust, in the hope it will not be replicated. Several controversial memorial dot the city: one features a mother cradling a dying boy, while beneath are buried a German soldier and a Holocaust victim, illustrating that War and Racism hurts everyone. Far more blatant is the Memorial for Murdered Jews, some 2700 concrete blocks erected to mark the deaths of millions of European Jews cover a large city block. While the interpretation of the striking memorial lies solely with the viewer, its main purpose is simply to be noticeable; the starkness, and the blocks which rise until they tower above you make the memorial difficult to ignore. Surely it stands as a reminder, and warning, that those things we turn a blind eye toward can come to overwhelm, and through apathy of bystanders become too powerful to counteract. Plans to erect a similar memorial for the other victims of the Holocaust (Roma, Sinta, homosexuals, Jehovah's Witnesses, etc) are underway.

Some people say there are still two cities, maybe even two countries. Others say this is ridiculous. Yet people still live who remember the division; who are still discriminated against in wages and jobs; who still find the shift to capitalism difficult and disillusioning. Thus surely these two cities MUST still exist. And as the whole reason for the division of Berlin was the notion that "whoever rules Berlin rules Germany", then it stands to reason that Germany is yet to become truly whole again.

The hills are alive

I've never really been much of a mountain person; I like the beach. Mountains have snakes and steep inclines and other such unpleasantness. But I have discovered that I REALLY like the Bavarian and Austrian Alps. Part of this might be linked my childhood love of 'The Sound of Music', which I indulged yesterday.

My sometimes travel buddy Dave (who I met in Berlin, and saw for drinks in Barcelona) managed to get to Salzburg the day before I was due to leave for Berlin, so I planned my daytrip to Salzburg to coincide, so that we could do the Sound of Music tour together. This is a cheesy bus trip, in which you visit a number of sites where filming took place, and where the real Von Trapp family live. There was also enforced group singing and tacky photo taking, and extremely funny jokes from our dead pan, liederhosen-clad tour guide, Gunter. It was SO MUCH FUN! Although I did scrape my legs climbing trees to pose for photos- those trees have grown a lot taller in the last forty years.

Salzburg itself was kind of whacky. Overlooked by the biggest fortress in Europe, it harbors weird gnome statues in its main gardens, and last night was hosting the Night of Milk, a festival displaying modern performance art. Entrance was free if you wore all white, so there were ghost people all over town, which was disconcerting until you learned the reason.

This whole area has kooky things going on. I think it's all the beer. Here are a few beer fuelled stories from Munich's past.

The opera house in Munich was made with a concave roof, with the intention to collect water to be used in case of fire. Unfortunately, the opera house caught fire in January, when the water was all frozen, so the people thought of the liquid they had in greatest abundance; beer. They dashed to the Hofbrauhaus, the nearest beer hall, and advised the drunken Bavarians within that they would form a chain of buckets from the Hofbrauhaus to the opera house. Strangely, the buckets, full at the brewery, were always half empty by the time they reached the opera house. One for the opera house, one for me. The opera house burned down.

Germany has a long history of maypoles, but there's also a history of maypole theft. Other towns would steal a rival town's pole and hold it for ransom- for beer, of course. In the 90s, the maypole at Munich airport was stolen in the middle of the night, a huge ten metre tale pole. Concerned about the implications of this theft for the quality of airport security, the airport decided to keep the issue on the quiet, and called the police to report the theft *hush hush*. The police, however, were laughing their heads off; it had actually been the Munch police force who had stolen the pole. As tradition demanded, they held the pole to ransom, and the airport security had to pay the Munich police force in beer.

Speaking of the police, crime is very low in Munich, so the police get bored and thus enforce a lot of odd rules. There are specific places dogs must be parked outside stores. There is a 50euro fine for spitting (but it's only 40 euroes if spitting out gum). It's an offence to vomit in the Hofbrauhaus. And there are a plethora of offences related to bikes, including a 10euro fine for not having a bell (yet you don't have to wear a helmet).

I can see why Munich wants to remember their traditional past, rather than their WWII history. Munich is a really friendly, interesting place, and I am excited to see how it compares with Berlin, my next stop.

Munich's hidden past

When you think of Munich, you probably think of beer, and Oktoberfest. Or maybe, if you're a little more historically or geographically minded, you might think of Bavaria, and Munich being the seat of Bavarian rule. You probably don't immediately think of Hitler, or of the birth of the Nazi party. And that's exactly how Munich likes it.

Some cities chose to rebuild their cities in new styles after WWII bombing. Not Munich; it rebuilt everything exactly the same, to the point that it didn't even put up any new war memorials. That might remind people that Munich was somehow involved in the war; Munich prefers to evoke a happy, beer inspired time past.

Munich is definitely first and foremost about beer. There are numerous beer tours, ridiculous numbers of beer shops and the famous Hofbrauhaus (court brewery). Once upon a time, the Hofbrauhaus was a men only establishment, with a bottom level smelling of urine, as getting up to use the facilites might mean losing your seat or, even worse, your beer. These days the Hof is a noisy establishment, packed to the rafters with tourists and locals alike enjoying the oompah-pah music, the pretzels and of course, the beer in LITRE mahs jugs. Yup, you have to drink it by the litre. Sobriety is not an option.

In fact, it was on the top floor of the Hofbrauhaus that Hitler first began trying to sway Munich citizens to join the Munich political party of which he had become leader, the Nationals (or Nazis). It was in Munich that Hitler first attempted to overthrow a government, resulting in the deaths of 16 and the imprisonment of Hitler for eleven months; on FIVE charges, each of which carried a death sentence, he got a measly 5 months. Imagine how history could have been different if the judge had not been a Nazi sympathiser. It was in Munich that he perfected his 'charismatic' puplic speaking, filling the first five rows of any public presentation with planted Nazis, to create a mob mentality conducive to his cause.

Munich is a city that is steeped in proud history, but finds it hard to resign itself to its recent past. Except for tour companies, there isn't even mention of nearby Dachau, the concentration camp bearing the famous gate slogan, 'Arbeit Mach Frei' (Work will make you free). However, information for Neuschwanstein Castle, on which Disney's Sleeping Beauty Castle is modelled, is all over. You can actually buy liederhosen in modern department stores. It's a lovely, friendly, interesting place... you just have to dig a little deep to scratch the most recent surface of Munich's history.

A nation divided

While post WWII Germany displayed a very tangible country division, Austria has also long been a nation divided. At some point in time, Austria's Hapsburg family have been rulers of mosy parts of Western Europe, so it always comes as shock when they lose ground; either through wars (Prussian), invasions (Napoleon), uprisings (Hungary's insistence on equality, creating the Austro-Hunagrian Empire, rather than the Austrian Empire) or diplomatic decision (Austria's most dramatic division following WWI, in which the empire was carved into independant countries and Austria became the tiny country we know today).

Austria was declared by Stalin the first 'victim' of Germany's atrocities, and thus for many years felt itself clear of any blame for war crimes, but in the 80s questions began to surface about how deeply involved Austria was in anti-semitic behaviour. Their actions in the past cast further doubt onto Austria's claims of innocence. Austria has had a Jewish population for a thousand years, and never really had an enforced ghetto as some European cities did (such as Venice, the original ghetto). But in the 14th century the Emporer herded most of the Jewish community into boats on the Danube, without oars, and let them float downstream.They landed in Hungary, beginning the large Hungarian Jewish population. The remaining Jews in Vienna, for fear of forced conversion, committed a mass suicide in the synagogue, which was burned down. When Jews were allowed to live in Vienna again (along with Protestants, and non Roman Catholic- Christians), they had to live by strict rules, including not presenting any aspect of their religion to the street.

When Hitler invaded Vienna, a referendum heralded a 98.5% vote in favour of him. However, if you see pictures of the referendum, it's quite clear that there was little choice but to vote yes. A picture of Hitler looks down on voters, and burly guards stand on either side, watching your vote. The yes box is huge, while the no box is tiny, and the 'how to vote' example is clearly marked yes. Apparently anyone who voted no was marched off in chains. However, recent investigation has found that probably 50% of the Austrian public genuinely supported being annexed to Germany; Austria having been such a dominant empire for so long, they simply didn't believe in it's ability to thrive as a tiny state.

Interestingly, one of the post WWII conditions was that Austria could not enter into any organisation of which Germany was a part. This means that, although Austria has been a demontsrably neutral country for fifty years, and is a successful member of the European community, they could not join the European Union until the Soviet Union collapsed, as this heralded the dissolution of the conditions.

Vienna is often described as a classical or old fashioned city; the Hapsburgs' support of the arts meant that creative types, especially musicians, flocked to Vienna (you may have heard of a few... Mozart, Strauss, Brahms). Yet despite the touts strolling the streets in get up of Mozart's times, Vienna is often devastatingly modern. 30% of Vienna was hit by bombing in WWII and had to be rebuilt. Otto Wagner and Hunderwasser erected buildings of controversially striking style, and Gustav Klimt redefined modern art standards, shocking people with his idealied female nudes.

I've seen modern art museums, and Mozart concerts in the Golden Hall (where the Vienna New Year's concert is performed each year). I've drunk far more coffee than is good for me, and I've listened to the most amazing choir perform in a church. And I'm loving it all :)

Finding my roots

I was a late bloomer in the whole 'dreaming of overseas' stakes. I never really knew where I wanted to go, except for Vienna. I've always been drawn to Vienna: partially due to an interest in classical music; partially because I thought I was Austrian. Not in a 'maybe I'm secretly a Hapsburg princess' kind of way, but that my father's background might have been Austrian.

My ancestry is complicated. I have multiple families, as my biological dad didn't hang around for long. I know the background of my mum's family, and my other dad's family, but the non-existent dad has been harder to trace, especially as my mum never spoke about him. I knew of a grandmother in Berlin, and a vague memory of being told my dad was Austrian. Then I got my full birth certificate, which stated he was born in Cheb, Czechoslavakia (now Czech Republic). Research (ok, Google) advised that Cheb was a very German town, despite being within Czech borders, so I decided I must have misremembered the whole Austrian lineage thing and let it go. Until today.

Today I took a walking tour, and as I was the only person on the tour, I got chatting with the guide. Turns out that Czech was all part of the Austro- Hungarian Empire pre WW1, and that the area of Cheb was Austrian. So the town was a German speaking town, not a German town. However, when Czechoslovakia was granted independence, the German speaking people were ostracised by the Czechs.presented the chance of becoming part of Germany during WWII, they supported the Germans, thus the impression that Cheb is a German town.

So anyway, I'm probably Austrian, not German (as well as Spanish, French, English, Irish and Scottish). Which makes me like Vienna even more.Not that I need much encouragement, it's such a nice place. With such good food. And such good coffee (oh, Vienna coffee. Coffee should ALWAYS come with cream on top).

Anyway, that's all for now. I'm going to see the Spanish Riding School tomorrow, and to log off this blog post before my computer times out.

Water, weather and wandering

Apparently, I should have also included in my 'tally' email the number of Italians who have hit on me. On my final day in Firenze, it was two (one random guy in the area where I was sheltering from torrential rain, one the chef at the place I had lunch). On my first day in Venezia, according to Lisa it was three; I say one and a half. The guy on the train was just making conversation, and the guy who asked us for coffee was hitting on us both. The waiter who brought me a free coffee with a heart drawn in the foam, I accept was attempting a pick up.

Anyway, when I'm not being hit on in Venezia, I am wandering aimlessly. The Venetian labyrinth can be challenging, as streets suddenly hit a canal, or make unexpected turns, meaning neither your direction or arrival time are guaranteed. I have decided to view this as representative of the slow pace of Venetian life, which highlights people watching as a major pastime. For example, in Teatro La Fenice (recently rebuilt in replica after a tragic fire in 1996), the most expensive boxes primarily face the audience, rather than the stage, as the REAL reason one goes to the opera in Venice is to see and be seen. Other Venetian arts, such as amazing glass blowing (mostly done on Murano Island, following fires caused by the practice) and theatrical arts (Carnavale, puppeteering, playing music on wine glasses) all capitalise on the flexibility of Venetian time. You can relax and wander in Venice. If you do anything else, you are CLEARLY a tourist.

The again, most of us ARE tourists in Venice. Only 68,000 actually live in Venice nowadays, compared to 250,000 of 100 years ago, and 70% of the economy depends on tourist trade. Tourist outnumber pigeons, impressive if you've ever seen the vast swarms of birds in Piazza San Marco. And yet, Venice has the worst tourist office I've come across... go figure.

Any 'direction' I've had in Venice has been towards food, churches and glass stores. If one, theoretically, liked Venetian glass, I, I mean THEY could spend a lot of time and money wandering the numerous stores that dot every street. Churches are almost as prolific, many houses artworks by Titian, Tintoretto, Rubens and Veronese.

But the cream on the Catholic cake is clearly the Basilica San Marco. Demonstrating Venezia's early links with the East, it is designed in the style of Greek Catholic churches; in fact a facsimile of the now demolished Church of the Twelve Apostles in Istanbul. St Mark's houses the body of St Mark, stolen by two wily Venetian merchants who smuggled it through Muslim areas under layers of pork! The facade of the church is amazing enough; between the facade and the floor, 60 different types of coloured marble have been used, and four (replica, the originals are inside, protected from weather) horses crowning the church date back over 200 years. But the truly stupendous aspect of the Basilica is inside; every wall and ceiling inch is covered in glass and gold leaf mosaic. This building is enormous, so the scale of this project is stunning. Aside from this, though, my personal favourite is the floor. You may know that, wooden support by wooden support, Venice is sinking. This is evident in the floor of the Basilica, which undulates, resembling a petrification of the lagoon outside. Only sometimes the lagoon isn't just outside; it likes to come inside too. Strong winds frequently cause acqua alta, high water, when the canals overreach their boundaries and join the pedestrians on the streets.

That's another nice thing about Venice; streets are only for pedestrians. There are NO CARS, which is so peaceful. Venice is traversed by foot, or by boat. Add peacefulness to the lapping of the water, always nearby, and you'll relax a little just at the thought. If you're not relaxed enough, try a Venetian beverage. Prosecco is a sparkling white Venetian wine; bellini combines prosecco and peach syrup; sprizze is prosecco, bitters and soda; and sgroppino is prosecco, vodka and lemon sorbet. Delicious!

While several things have happened which could have made Venice pretty stressful, such as mistakes with our hotel booking meaning we only had one bed, and thus having to change hotels; or the torrential rain on our first night herding us back to the safety of our hotel (which sported rude, racist staff and broken facilities), this hasn't resonated through my Venetian experience. It's clear why Venice is such a tourist hub, and has been for hundreds of years; the unique beauty of this place, cushioned in a culture perhaps more tourist orientated, but still fairly well preserved, makes it an absolute must.

Prior to choosing Venice as a destination, I had read an amazing book set in Venice, 'The City of Falling Angels'. Walking around, many things felt familiar. I'm fairly certain I also encountered some of the (local) characters featured i the book, which was exciting. Venice has this fairy tale vibe about it; it really feels like extraordinary tings can happen here. In fact, crossing a bridge I bumped into someone I had met in Milan. I've waded through main public squares, I've had random meetings, I've heard glasses sing symphonies, seen wooden puppets come to life, and I've had two of the most brilliant travel days doing nothing but wandering. Who says life can't be a fairy tale?

Neglected masterpieces

Tomorrow we leave for Venice, and I must make a confession; I didn't go to see David. I know, I know, I should have... but instead I:

-Went to the Uffizzi (having waited 1.5 hours to get in). It was ok. I'd kind of expected more, really liked some of the rooms (such as the Niobi room, which has pictures and sculptures relating to the Greek (?) myth in which Niobi declares her children more beautiful than some of the gods, who retaliate by raining arrows on her family from winged chariots.

-Went to Pentecostal Mass at the Duomo. One of the girls in my dorm was going (she goes to Mass every dazy, though), and was encouraging me to come along. I had no other plans, was intrigued by what it would be like, and loved the idea of hearing services in Italian. Very beautiful, even though I didn't always know what was going on- combination of not speaking the language and having rarely been to church. Another bonus was that I got to see the dome and stained windows, which you can't really see from the tourist entrance. Wish I'd been to the earlier Mass, though, which was in Latin and featured Gregorian chanting and a cardinal. Oh well. Still a nice experience.

- Went to Pallazzo Pitti, a former Medici mansion now used as a gallery. I liked this because many of the pictures were originally displayed in certain gallery rooms by the Medici's themselves. You also get to check out the state apartments. It would have been better had an audioguide been available. However I LOVED the costume gallery. Often a costume gallery refers to dress customs of an area, or an era. Here it actually referred to theatre costumes, and was supplemented by set plans and models for a range of plays, some of which were AMAZING. I theatre-geeked out for a while, it was perhaps my favourite thing I've seen in Florence!

And so, it's on to Venice. I have eaten gelati 6 times in 4 days, pizza twice, and pasta 5 times. I have lost count of the coffees. Florence was good.

The gelati that saved Italy

Oh what a week we have had! As the predicted travel time from Barcelona to Firenze was 24 hours, we decided to do this in a few long-ish legs, with fly by stops in Avignon and Milan. Why? Why????

I was super-keen for Avignon. This is because it a) is a walled medieval city, but more importantly b) was the papal seat for a while, as the papacy was being argued over by several countries (and indeed, at times there were two vying popes, each being backed by their own country). So this struck me as very cool. My excitement struck Lisa as very old-person, and it struck variuos Avignon dwellers as bizarre.

Walled Avignon seems very pretty- windy streets, cobblestones, the usual hallmarks of medieval towns. But we also saw much more of Avignon on our scenic route to our hotel- several buses, highways, the river very briefly, and BOTH the train stations. We arrived at one, and directions to our hotel indicated it was close to the other. Only it wasn't. Bad directions. Confusion finding the bus we needed. Two hours to find our hotel. Need for immediate beer. Thus, no visit to the Palais de Pape :( However, I got to look at the outside very quickly before we caught our next train, and it was super-cool. Really big, with cross shaped arrow slots which match those in the town walls, remnants of coloured paint on the main wall, crazy bosses above the doors, and TWO space invaders on the back wall. I am so going back.

Milan had less going for it. When we first catching the metro towards our hostel and the train filled with excited Milanese singing football songs, we thought it was kind of cute and funny. When we couldn't get to sleep because Milan won the Champions League Final, and the Milanese wanted to shout and toot their horns and, I don't know, BANG KETTLES til all hours of the morning, it was less charming. Very little sleep, teamed with surly service and crappy facilities leads me to warn you all against the HI hostel in Milan. Actually, don't go to Milan at all. It's dirty, noisy, sweaty, and people expose themselves as they run past you on the street. Ugh.

After a pleasant, air conditioned trip to Firenze, the twenty minute crowded, sweaty bus ride, with very little knowledge of where we were to actually alight, came as a bit of a shock. The trudge up the 400m long driveway, on a very hot and humid day with our bags was also pretty unpleasant, although the greenery surrounding us, surprising in the midst of a city, did temper this a little. But then we arrived at our hostel and were a little impressed. It's an old Villa, an quite a bit of land now used for vines and camping. The building boasts frescoes, statues and a stunning view of 'rural' Firenze. It's a bit noisy, because it hosts so many guests, but the general area is a haven of quiet and green in an otherwise busy, tourist-packed city with little garden area.

Tomorrow (or maybe the next day) I plan to visit the Uffizi Gallery. Today was my churchy day- I visited the Duomo (amazing from the outside, and pretty impressive from the inside. Luckily it was free, but it was a 40 minute wait), the associated baptistry (amazing gold mosaic-work on the roof. This site has been used as a baptistry since the 4th century, and was where Dante was baptised. It's said to have been the site of a Roman temple to Mars before it was converted to Christian use) and the Basilica San Lorenzo (quite a bit of Donatello work, and a very cool medieval reading room/ library). It also turned out to be my David- replica- visiting day; I saw one in Piazzale Della Signorina, and another at Piazzale Michaelangelo, a square quite a hike up the hill, but affording amazing views of Firenze.

But the defining moment at which my faith in Italy was restored occurred on our first day, after Lisa was briefly lost (turned out that when she said 'Meet me at the roundabout', it was not the roundabout near the hostel... but it wasn't far away at all. Phew!). Her exploration of our immediate surroundings had led her to a glorious gelato store, whose flavours included Chocolate and Earl Grey Tea, Pear William, and the best Lemon gelati I have ever had. Simply amazing. And whose brilliant idea was it to combine chocolate and tea into a gelato flavour? It should have been mine... And if I ate this on a pancake, it would combine almost all of my favourite foods :) Viva Italia!

Catalan pride and moderniste design

How do people possibly just visit Barcelona for a day or two? We're spending five nights, and it's just not enough. Everything I see makes me want to see more, and spend more time (and money...) here. The atmosphere is lovely, very relaxed (although this might be due to the huge numbers of tourists, who, being on holiday, are generally relaxed!) and the city is so very walkable.

The thing that most people probably know about in Barcelona is Gaudi- and so they should, he is amazing. The next thing they might think of is Dali or Picasso, who both spent time painting here. It seems odd at first that an area would produce three such surrealist creators in different periods of time, but this is linked to the Catalan pride. Catalunya has long seen itself as a distinct area (since the twelfth century), and has been fiercely proud of its language, culture and sense of self. Despite numerous attempts to repress or dispel Catalunya as an autonomous area, the pride of this area means that it refuses to lie down.

Signs in Catalunya are all in Catalan (generally with a Spanish version, and often an English translation too), even though public use of Catalan has been outlawed or seriously frowned upon at three separate points in the last century. Catalonians see their language as integral to their
regional identity.

This pride in Catalonian identity also goes some way to explaining the public celebration of artists and architects such as Gaudi, as they were practicing at time when the Catlonian nationalist movements were particularly strong. It also means that public works, which in many cities may have fallen into disrepair, or have been altered, are preserved in glorious condition and proudly displayed.

Gaudi falls into a group of architects practicing 'moderniste' design, known elsewhere as Art Nouveau. Gaudi embraces many of the ideals of Art Nouveau: that all items should be of use to humanity (meaning that design principles are enhanced to make items and places more people friendly); that functional items should still be beautiful; and beautification which has is primarily inspired by the natural world. Gaudi's work includes a lot of colour, and often ¡curved, organic lines which make some of his works appear very odd form the outside, but inside create a sinuous, comforting space.

I have fallen utterly in love with Gaudi's work. It is almost fairy-tale: the Casa Battlo reminds me of a witch's house with it's unusual colours, crooked roof and balustrades reminiscent of bones. But having visited the inside of La Pedrera and seen the result of his design, I can see how his ideas make so much sense, and create a beautiful living space. Gaudi focuses strongly on light and a feeling of space, created through large doorways between rooms fitted with sliding doors which are designed to remain open most of the time, light wells strategically positioned in apartment blocks, and curving walls which trick the eye and encourage non-traditional arrangement of room fittings.

Other than this, I've checked out other moderniste buildings (also beautiful, although not as strikingly original as Gaudi's work), wandered the Gothic Quarter and the ports, learned about Catlunyan history, visited fabulous markets and watched a very passionate protest. I still want to visit Picasso and Dali artworks, a museum of sacred art, more of Gaudi's works (Sagrada Familia, Palau Gruell, Parc Gruell), visit Montjuic Parc and Parc Cituidade and a whole lot more. I can guarantee I won't get to it all. Which means I can guarantee I'll be back in Barcelona at some time.

I think what I like about Barcelona is similar to what I like about Lisbon- it seems to embrace difference rather than stamp it out. Spanish conquest generally seems to be about exploiting a country and enforcing a Spanish culture onto it- almost a 'We Woz Ere' sign. Barcelona has certainly profited from the American colonies, and had it's share of conquest attempts of neighbouring regions. But due to its economic and industrial success, it has also seen many emigrants arrive. These emigrants often find themselves swept up in Catalunyan culture, and campaigning for a Catalunyan autonomy as strongly as Catlunyan natives.

I'm finding myself swept up in Catalunyan culture already- last night I dreamed about Gaudi. In fact, I dreamed I was performing music on a cardboard tube as a didgeridoo. It was a basis for a thesis I wanted to write comparing my work to Gaudi's, and arguing that beauty and creativity from unusual sources should be celebrated. After all, a teacher of Gaudi's commented at the time of his graduation that he didn't know whether Gaudi was a genius or a madman. While time may have proven his work extraordinary, somehow I don't think the cardboard didgeridoo will take off...

Easy pickings

Man, my wallet is SO easy! I don't need to be pick-pocketed to lose all my money...

I remember Nick asking me earlier in my trip if I'd bought very much, to which I responded that I was here for the experience, not the shopping. Yeah, right. So far I have bought:

2 skirts (one in Bordeaux, one in Barcelona)
1 pair of pants
2 scarf/ shawls
1 bracelet
1 pair of earrings
1 bottle of ginja, a liquer made in Lisbon
5 books (I think- one on art 'isms', one on Art Nouveau, one on Lisbon pavement art, 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame', a modern Czech/ French novel... I think that's all, but I can't be certain).

And that's not including gifts I have bought, although I'm only doing a few of those- too much to carry. Although I'm hardly limiting myself anyway...

I'm not even being careful with how much I spend any more. Just bought a fantastic skirt, which I loved so much I just went 'Yes! I'll take it!' Then afterwards I thought about the price and went 'Oops.' But it's reversable, and orange, and fabulous. That's ok, isn't it??!! Sigh. I think I might need a second job...

Spain- saints, sangria and sleepless nights

It has been said that all roads in Spain lead to Madrid, which I'd believe; Madrid feels quite similar to many other large cities, gritty, busy, and filled with crazy crazy drivers on lots of large roads. It seems very modern architecturally, compared with a lot of places I've been which have retained their tradition and charm. Madrid feels to be mostly a functional city, not beautiful, but there are a lot of fascinating and pretty places to be discovered. Read Lisa's blog for more about that though, as she did far more organised sightseeing than I, and I'm certain she'll write about what she has learned of Madrid's history, art and architecture.

For me, the most exciting prospect of Madrid was May 15, San Isidro's Day. Saint Isidore is the patron saint of Madrid, and I was thrilled at the prospect of witnessing a Saint's festival! Perhaps years of studying religious celebrations had built it all up a little in my mind, but it was quite a fun day. For festival days, Spanish often don traditional dress, which is so cute to see. This was particularly prevalent in children and older couples, but plenty of younger adults were getting into the spirit too. San Isidro's Day seemed to have two separate camps- the religious celebrations centered around the San Isidro Cathedral, and the fiesta, essentially a very large street party, centered around San Isidro's church and meadow. I spent a fair bit of time at the fiesta, soaking up the atmosphere, taking photos of the fantastic dresses and eating rosquillas, traditional donut/ biscuit like pastries.

I also managed a day trip out to Toledo, in Castille- La Mancha (the regional setting of Don Quixote) despite the universe's best effort's to prevent me. I bought a ticket, but missed the train- in Spanish train stations EVERYTHING goes through x-ray machines, and you must board the train a certain time before it leaves (as opposed to say, Portugal, where the train stops briefly and you just jump on). So I could see my train, but not get on it. Then I needed to change my ticket to the next train two hours later, but the line was long and slow, so I decided to come back closer to the time. Only I lost my ticket! Grappled with whether or not I should buy ANOTHER ticket to Toledo, and eventually did, which I am glad of.

Toledo is a medieval walled city in beautiful, classic Spanish landscape (but not windmills in sight), and was the capital of the Visigoth region. Since then it has retained its Visigoth architecture, as well as gained Roman elements, and boasts ancient examples of the three main religions living harmoniously in the one city, with beautiful old synagogues, mosques and cathedrals and monasteries. I loved the cathedral, which was pure Spanish Gothic (unusual, as often Gothic cathedrals have elements of Rennaisance, which has less of a 'wedding cake' effect... but anyway, that detail's just for nerds like me). Fantastic cloisters with orange groves and birds were a highlight, as often cloisters are disused are bare nowadays. The cathedral in Madrid was also amazing, combining Gothic architecture with 20th century decoration and stained glass.

Once back in Madrid, I spent yet more time at the station, waiting over an hour to reserve a seat on the train to Madrid. Ugh. Lisa declares Spanish beuracracy to be slower than French, and the Madrilenians ruder than Parisians. At least beautiful details in Madrid make the waiting more tolerable- Atocha train station is probably the most beautiful transit area I have ever seen. It is in a semi hothouse, and uses the space to house a huge garden of tropical plants, right in the middle of the station! Best of all were the turtles, at least 50 of them, which poke their heads up between water plants and sun themselves on rocks.

Spain stays up late, not lunching until 2pm, and thus not dining until after 9pm. Maybe this is one of the reasons sleep seemed hard to come by. We caught the night train, on which we shared a coach with a buy who was tripping out on something... fun stuff. Then some Sydney number rang my phone at 3am Madrid time the next night (and the following, but I had the phone on silent). Then the next night a drunken chick who'd locked herself out of her room was bashing on doors demanding to be let it- it seeme4d she'd not only forgotten her key, but which room she was in too.

But wait, it wasn't all terrible. I haven't mentioned the best part about Madrid- Spanish chocolate is great! I had chocolate caliente (hot chocolate) and churros three times in two days. How can I stay angry at a city with amazing chocolate? They must be doing something right! Now we're in Barcelona, which has a much cruisier atmosphere, beautifully planned cityscapes, and much smilier waiters. Many people have told me that, despite being robbed here (on multiple occasions for some), Barcelona is their favourite city in the world. I hold high hopes :)

Oporto- not a Bondi burger in sight

"Welcome to Oporto!" This was called out to us on the street as we carried our backpacks to our hostel (well, actually, first we carried them AWAY from the hostel... but we got there in the end). You really notice how friendly people are in Portugal. Lisa especially notices it... today someone lifted her backpack (still on her back) while she climbed the stairs at the metro station! She's also had people lead her towards ticket machines that work better, and we've had stacks of directions offered up... all in Portuguese! One of my favourite stories happened to a Canadian girl at our hostel; she went to the market, and a vege stall holder started patting the girl's stomach and announcing in Portuguese that she was too skinny, and needed to stay in Portugal and eat more, then mimed the big stomach she ought to have!

Maybe it's just my fondness for Lisbon, but despite the lovely people, I didn't like Oporto (Porto) quite as much. It has a very different feel to Lisbon; wider streets and more modernised shopping districts, yet many houses look quite run down and tiling needs replacing. It's also a lot smaller, and built entirely around the trade of port wine, which actually also explains things like the wide boulevards; when the owners of wineries decided to build second homes in Porto, the city had to expand and the new districts suited the tastes of the richer residents. It may also reflect the long association with the English- Oporto was the official wine supplier for England back in the 1400s. It is still a very pretty city though, hugging one bank of the river Douro and connected to its twin city, Nova Vila de Geia (home to Oporto's port wine 'caves'), on the facing bank by many impressive (and very tall) bridges.

I did, of course, indulge in said port wine. A little too much. Many of the wine caves have free tastings, and cheap tours or tasting upgrades, so it's not too difficult to find you've had nine glasses of port in an afternoon (they were only little glasses, but port is STRONG! Phew). My favourite place was Croft, although I think this was because I bought some chocolate to be matched with my port... really good chocolate. Calem Port was also quite nice. I liked the port, but it's very sweet. My preference is for the other local drink, vinho verde (green wine), which is a young red wine, drunk before the skins have been pressed through the wine. This means the wine hasn't yet taken on the red colour of the skins, and is quite light and bubbly, resembling a white wine rather than a red. You can also get vinho verde tinto, green-red wine, which has had a single pressing of the skins and so has a pale red colour. I'm yet to try that.

Lisa's getting used to my sight-seeing tastes- when we first got the map of Oporto, she pointed out the twenty odd churches in the city. I didn't seek many out specifically, but stumbled across a lot by accident while wandering (and getting lost in) residential districts. In Portugal, and I especially noticed it in Oporto, houses are built up around the churches, so you can easily find a church in a row of houses. Many houses also sport their own shrines to saints, or pictures of them on the outer walls. The other thing that stood out for me in Oporto were the amazing azeluja tiles, tiles hand painted blue on a white back-ground. They have these in Lisbon, but not to the extent of Oporto (Lisbon's main extravagance is the beautiful decorative paved streets; I just HAD to buy a book on them). In Oporto azeluja tiles decorate houses, churches, important buildings, shops, stations; everything. They are also more likely to depict scenes, whereas in Lisbon they may just offer decorative patterns. There are tiled images of the Passion of the Christ; the Crusades; Royal scenes; sea faring scenes; it's just beautiful.

Speaking of tiles, I realised today, as we returned to Lisbon for an overnight stay, just how amazing the metro stations are here. Many of them are tiled beautifully, presenting a modern version of the traditional Portuguese ceramic craft. If I return to Lisbon again, I plan to take a day on the metro just photographing the station walls. Hey, I've already spent a week photographing the sidewalks!

Have come to the conclusion that Nando's-style chicken is a sham. We can't find it anywhere, and apparently the Portuguese use far less peri-peri in their cooking than the Spanish. If I were to open a Nando's in Portugal, I think I'd make a fortune. However, for some reason, I have NEVER had a better Magnum ice cream than that which I ate in Oporto. Ecuadorian dark chocolate, way thicker than on Magnums at home, and the icecream was creamier, like they used to be... Yeah, not exactly regional fare, but SO GOOD. I did also try Oportan specialities like francesinha, a carnivore's delight (sandwich consisting of melted cheese on the outside, then bread, then ham, then two different sorts of sausage, then a thin beef steak, then more ham, then more cheese, then the bottom slice of bread, all drowned in a tomato and beer sauce. I took photos!). I preferred the Queijadinha I had today, which was a cheese and egg yolk pastry which tasted of lemon. Yum.

And yes, my tour of Europe is almost entirely about food. And drink. And churches. What's wrong with that?

The Golden Age of Discovery

Great news: I have found Jesus. He´s overlooking the Rio Tejo, next to the bridge that resembles the Golden Gate.

A few days ago, I knew very little about Portugal. I knew that Lisa had studied a little of the language, which is a Romance language; I knew that the Spanish and Portuguese had divided te world between them and discovered many places; and I knew Nando´s. Now I know that the spoken Portuguese is tough for many Romance language speakers, and has been described as sounding like 'a drunken Frenchman trying to speak Spanish´; that, while discovering and trading with Africa, India and South America, Portugal took on elements of their cultures, rather than purely stamping Portuguese culture onto the new colonies; and I know that the Nando's symbol is based on a common Portuguese image recalling a tale about a roast chicken which crowed three times to signify a pilgrim's innocence. And I know that there is a big statue of Jesus, a la the Big Jesus in Rio De Janeiro.

Portugal is gorgeous. Due to a dictatorship during the 20th century, it was quite chut off from the outside world, and as such is still quite underdeveloped, but trying very hard to catch up. So it still retains the laidback attitude of an older community, and much of the technology is unreliable. In fact, innefficiency is said to be a defining factor of Portuguese life, the relaxed attitude often extending into tardiness. People here are very friendly and helpful, even if you speak only very hesitant, broken Portuguese. Í've decided to learn Portuguese when I go home.

On our first evening in Lisbon, we wandered around being amazed by the cheap prices of beer. The next day we discovered we'd been in the tourist strip, and that elsewhere it was cheaper! We quickly learned that the best places for price and taste are the little hole in the wall restaurants with no English translation, and preferably a handwritten list of 'Plats de dios', today's specials. The people here generally speak no English, but show enormous concern for you as a customer. And the food! And the prices! Sigh.

We've visited quite a few castles. Lisbon itself grew down the hill from the castle, originally Moorish, and extended along the Rio Tejo (Tajus River). The castle is really nice, it's now just walls and ramparts, no explanatory signs, no lavish interior decor. Just ancient walls and an amazing view.

Yesterday we contrasted this with our visit to Sintra, a small town on the outer suburbs of Lisbon. Nestled by hills/ mountains, Sintra is overlooked by Castelos Mouros and Palacio de Pena, which was the sometime residence of Portugal's 19th century kings, and is pure flight of fantasy. The foundations of the building were a monastery, which the King extended through his own specific design, which embraces Arabic towers, Anglo castellation and Portuguese tiling, creating a true fairy tale castle. It's amazing, and quite surprising. It's the sort of thing which would not be out of place in a theme park, yet somehow fits Portugal. Eccentric expressions of passion are de rigeur here.

Such as Giant Jesus (Cristo Rei). My biggest day so far has probably been my trip to Belém (Portuguese for Bethlehem). I knew from my guide book that it was a half hour trip from Altacara to Belém, and guessed maybe half an hour more from our hostel to Altacara. Ha! It took between one and a half and two hours to get to Belém, during which I took many photos of the Jesus. I'd headed to Belém to a) visit the Museum of Design; b) try pasteis de belém, special custard tarts; and c) check out the touristy things drawn on my map completely sans explanatory notes. Well, the Museum had closed down and was being relocated, due to open in 2009, and I couldn't locate the store Lonely PLanet recommended for the tearts. However, when I wandered into a random store, it turned out to be the right one, they just didn't display their name on the window! And I spent a gorgeous sunny afternoon exploring a crazy, lavish monastery, an enormous statue devoted to the Age of Discovery and the Tower of Belém, a defence balwark with amazingly beautiful architecture. This included a bust of a rhinoceros; apparently a rehinoceros was to be delivered to Lisbon, and the King immediately gave it to Pope Leo as a gift, even before the rhino had arrived. Big mistake; the boat sank, but the Portuguese found the rhino and stuffed it with straw, and then commemorated it in the Tower. See? Random expressions of passsion.

The final random moment of the day occurred as I amde my way back to the hostel. Lisa had texted me about a peaceful protest she'd witnessed. Walking back through town, I followed the sound of drums, thinking it might be this protest, to witness a bizarre parade of homemade costumes, asks and great music- drums, bells attached to costumes, bagpipes. When I returned to the hostel I asked the receptionist what the parade was, and she advised me it was to do with the legalisation of marijuana. Hmmm, weird costumes, it COULD be that. Later I learned that it was an Iberian mask parade, and that the marijuana parade had been the protest Lisa had witnessed. Portugal. So random. So extravagant. I just love it.

Loving Lisbon

Very quick post- free Internet but it´s time restricted, of course. I´m in Lisbon, Portugal and so far I LOVE it. So glad Lisa wanted to come to Portugal, I am now very seriously considering taking Portuguese classes when I get home.

Lisbon is great- very cheap, beautiful and so relaxed. So many of the houses are covered in these beautiful tiles- itº´s a bit like wall paper for the outside, and some are painted in amazing detail. There is also heaps of really detailed paving too, I keep taking photos of the ground!

Anyway, I am sure I´ll throw up another blog or two over the next few days- must take advantage of free net! Just wanted you to know that I love Lisbon. Yes, your lives are so enhanced now...!

A question of balance

What I am finding most difficult about Europe, and I forget if I have blogged about it yet (I have written in my journal about it, so it's hard to recall...) is the homelessness/ beggars. They are everywhere, and my heart breaks every time I pass one. Some are very aggressive (don't like them), but most are so, so grateful for every piece of shrapnel you can spare, and I feel awful to be so lavishly wasting money on travel. I keep telling myself that it's not my job to fix this, and that I can't help all of them; but then again, it never seems to be anyone's job, so how will it ever be fixed? And so, whether it makes me a sucker or not, I continue to give my small change to Bosnian women in headscarves, and men with the most forlorn and ashamed faces as they beg for change for food. It is so sad.

Yesterday was a holiday in France; but the European Parliament in Strasbourg (where I am right now) had an 'open door' day, so I went down to check it out. Was oping it might make me feel like everything would work out in the world, democratic union and all that. The impressions I got where thus: the European Parliament is meant to be a big round table of nations, signified by the big round building; I think it might actually be a bastion of red tape and never ending beuracracy, signified by the endless 'circuit' one had to follow, impossible to break or escape from, and feeling more and more like a hopeless Ikea route with every step; and it is highly politicised, which I learned from the metres of propoganda tables handing out freebies for their party. So I took free stationary, bought an Alsace sausage at the random canival without, and felt a little dejected.

Happily I ran into a Mexican guy who works at the hostel while waiting for the boat back to town; he convinced me and a New Zealand girl I'd run into to come to the hostel bar after dinner. We danced to Reggatonn (sp?), a Puerto Rican band, with a group of Ecuadorian school girls ( who knew how to shake their hips WAY too well for 15 year olds!) and it was heaps of fun.

Strasbourg is very pretty, but quiet. Especially on a public holiday. It is very German too, in its architecture and traditional dress and definitely the food. I got served an enormous plate of pork (not the holiday destination for the more Jewish of us!) and so much saurkraut. They need to learn about BALANCE; A mountain of saurkraut with a crown of pork is NOT balanced. If I never see cabbage again, it will be too soon. Not a good way to feel with Germany still to come...

I could have not liked Strasbourg: my train was delayed; the station was a chaos of renovation; I couldn't find trams, buses, my hostel in general; I got rained on, and then discovered my room had been rained in and the flor was a big puddle. But you just have to laugh. I got a new room, all to myself, I know now that the hostel is not far from town, and I made friends with the staff through my disasters. It's all part of travelling.

I LOVED Lyon though. Except for the few niggly things, like climbing a very lage hill with large bag, it was fantastic. A bold statement, but I think I liked it more than Paris. Not too big, great food and nightlife areas, beautiful old areas of town (around which I did a walking tour), and really interesting newer areas. I loved exploring the new(ish) area called Etas Unis, site of the Tony Garnier Urban Museum. Tony Garnier was a socialist architect in early 1900's who was an early proponent of town planning; he had ideas of planning an industrial city, with seperate working and living areas, and a big focus on acessibility for all to culture, recreation and education. He designed a number of projects in Lyon, but the museum focussed mosly on his work in Etas Unis, where he was asked to design worker's housing; essentially community housing. He had notions of green space, pools, statues, lots of light, great schools; all this for people overlooked by society.

The project started well, but budget constraints saw many ideas bein thrown out, such as restricting building height (for maximum light), new schools, libraries, pools. But his ideals are still held dear by the inhabitants, who requested that the museum be made; a series of 25 murals on the blind walls of apartment buildings celebrating Garnier's work and ideas, plus the notion of ideal cities. It was brilliant (as were the hundred or so other urals t be found around Lyon). There was also an apartment set up to show how life would have been when these apartments were first built, furnished by heirloom donations of the local community. One woman had given a tea set which had been her wedding gift, someone else an antique copy of Les Miserables. It really demonsrated how, although not all of Garnier's plans were adopted, his ideal of community pride and connection was created and fostered; a sense of belonging and balance was achieved here, after all.