Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 08 september 2002
Manesh was glued to cricket-on-TV again this morning. As Gisela, Lee and I prepared to head out, Manesh claimed to be busy with some reports from work and declined our invitation to join us.
We walked around the town square and visited a bookshop. As I was heading to South America soon, I was keen to find a book from a South American or at least a Latin American writer and finally settled on 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.
As Gisela and Lee walked together hand-in-hand in a world of their own and smooched frequently, I was happy to trail behind them and admire the contrasting modern and old architecture of Manchester. Many times a very space-age, glass-and-metal building would be right next to a Baroque-style building. Interesting juxtaposition.
We found time to visit an art gallery. This was what was great about the UK - frequently, the museums and art galleries were free-of-charge. It had an excellent exhibition which I enjoyed thoroughly.
By 3pm, Gisela’s baby of a boyfriend complained of fatigue and moped around unhappily. So, we returned home. Manesh’s eyes were still glued to cricket-on-TV.
That evening, Gisela was finally on her own because Lee had collapsed in bed due to extreme fatigue from the very tiring day today hiking around Manchester, visiting one bookshop and one art gallery. I could chat with her a little. I had met her previously in Egypt in 2000, where she went to study Arabic.
Soon, the conversation turned to why she took up Arabic in university. What inspired her to take up this difficult language? She pondered for a moment and explained that when she was young, she was thoroughly fascinated by Tintin and his adventures, including some to the Middle East. So, one thing led to another. Hmmm… Tintin Tintin Tintin. Now, who did I say yesterday was a dead-ringer for Tintin?
Manchester to London, UNITED KINGDOM - 09 september 2002
I arrived in London at around 4pm, the last hour of which was a tedious crawl across the huge city in the horrible London traffic.
The friends that I would be staying with - Nick and Denise - were supposed to be back from their Scottish holiday the day before yesterday but last night, I had not managed to contact them. I only managed to leave a message with a lady (whom I learnt later to be Nick’s sister) who picked up the phone late in the night. So, I was quite lucky now to get Denise on the mobile phone on my first try and she gave directions on where I should take a train to to meet her.
I had met Nick and Denise in Peru in 1999 when they were on their first day of their RTW. When they came by Singapore the following year as part of the RTW, I had put them up at my place and showed them around. Actually, Nick and Denise were huge inspirations for my own RTW. It was really fantastic to meet Denise again.
As it turned out, after their trip to Scotland, they went to Paris yesterday and Nick was still in Paris for work and would be back only in few days’ time.
All over their house, they had put up enlarged photographs of their RTW trip. Gosh, they were incredible… I spent some time examining them and guessing their locations. I was not bad at this. We caught up with each other on the past events. As our interests were very similar, we could not run out of topics to talk about.
I also gave Robin a call. Robin and Louise were a couple I went on the horse-trek in Songpan, China, with. They had been really friendly and funny. We kept in contact via emails and we had looked forward to catching up in London. We agreed to meet on 11 September to visit the Natural History Museum.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 10 september 2002
I made a photo-card and bought a 7-day travel pass usable in the London tubes, buses and trains. Excellent. Now, I feel a tad like a local.
Remember my application for the Bolivian visa in the Bolivian Consulate at Beijing? I had submitted my application for visa authorisation on 1 July. Now, more than two months later, I headed to the Bolivian Consulate in London to see if they could help inquire about my authorisation status.
I waited for about 2 hours before finally meeting the Consular. He was very understanding and helpful. He promised to fax to the Consulate in Beijing to inquire. I was to call back two days later.
I strolled down Charing Cross Road and gosh, to my surprise, this whole area was simply lined with charming second-hand bookstores. I did not know this previously. It was wonderful. I love books. I spent the entire day, just browsing in them and walking up and down the area. Books were dangerous stuff for me. I was really tempted to buy many of them. As I could not carry them all, I would have to send them back. They were not terribly cheap either. Through huge self-control and much pity, I did not buy any in the end. Sigh…
From a free magazine I picked up, I read that the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition by Yannar Arthus Bertrand was now being exhibited outside the Natural History Museum. What a coincidence! I had first seen the exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and now, it would be exhibited at the museum that I was going to visit tomorrow with Robin and Louise.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 11 september 2002
OK, today was THE SPECIAL day. All over Victoria station, everyone was on high alert. There were announcements repeating that all unattended items would be removed and destroyed. I was not sure if it was my imagination but there seemed to be loads of policemen crawling all over London today.
Robin had agreed to visit the Natural History Museum because according to him, that was the nearest to Central London he would allow himself to go today. I waited for them at South Kensington tube station. Louise came first. She informed me that Robin had just cut his hair and was suffering from hair trauma now. He would join us later.
After about an hour, Robin, with a really bad hair-cut, arrived. We sat at a café and exchanged hilarious stories about our trips and what was going on in their lives now. These guys were just great. We finally dragged ourselves to visit the Natural History Museum which had a rather original way of presenting their displays, thereby making them really easy to follow and interesting. We browsed through the Dinosaur and Human sections and barely had time for the Mammal section before the announcement came to ask us to scram. I was delighted at the exhibits at the Mammal section because I recognised many animals I saw in my past trips to Africa, Mongolia… Excellent museum. Free too.
We bought some bread, salad, cheese, etc… and ate dinner at Hyde Park. Soon, it got nippy and Robin flipped through the London A-Z that I had brought along and decided on the spot to run to Royal Albert Hall to try and catch a PROMS performance. £4 for a standing ticket.
Gosh, Royal Albert Hall! I never imagined I would ever live to see the interior of it. This was turning out such a wonderful day, experiencing London. Just before we reached there, Louise received a call from her mom. She explained where she was going. Then, she added, “No, mom. I don’t think the Royal Albert Hall will be bombed today. OK, mom… Bye.”
And when the brilliant concert was over, we had about half an hour to browse the ‘Earth from Above’ exhibition at the Natural History Museum before it closed. I had a thoroughly good time today.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 12 september 2002
I had a flight ticket from British Midlands to Paris and another from Varig flying from Paris to Rio. I decided to go to Brazil on 14 September.
I futilely tried to call the two airlines to arrange my flight. I was put on hold forever. I also could not reach Denise who had told me to call her at work as she could get off work at lunch and meet me. I was on the phone for about an hour, trying all three numbers and finally, I gave up.
I calculated the time in Singapore. It was about 5pm. OK, I decided to give it a shot. I called my travel agent in Singapore. And surprisingly, I could get my trusty travel agent Samir. Hah… All the London numbers failed but a Singapore number worked. He booked the flights for me right away. Really sweet of him. He would definitely be getting a souvenir from me.
I met up with Denise near her work-place for lunch. This was the banking district, the ‘Manhattan’ of London. But even in the business part of London, it was very cozy and charming. We visited Old Spitalfield’s Market, the Millenium Bridge, Tate Modern and came by The Globe Theatre.
Robin had recommended me to watch ‘Twelfth Night’ at The Globe. We inquired and there were standing tickets for the matinee tomorrow for £5. Alright. I paid up. This would really be a quintessential English experience, I told myself - watching a Shakespearean play in a reconstructed Shakespearean theatre.
We walked along the southern banks of the Thames and when we got home, we met up with Nick (who had arrived last night) and they took me to another typical English experience - the pub. It was a traditional pub with broad wooden tables and benches. Fish and chips, the epitome of English cuisine, were served, wrapped in newspaper here.
London, UNITED KINGDOM - 13 september 2002
I had called the Bolivian Consular yesterday and the Consular explained he had heard nothing from Beijing yet. I was to call him again today. Well, again, nothing. Sigh… I guess I would have to follow up on this issue when I reach Rio de Janeiro.
The ‘Twelfth Night’ play was put up by men only, like how it was done during Shakespeare’s times. What can I say? It was excellent. It was absolutely hilarious. We laughed all the time. I did not feel tired standing for 3 hours in the yard at all. The sun cast a shadow on the yard for the entire matinee so it was really very pleasant weather. For £5, this was a cheap and fantastic entertainment in London. The actor playing the Lady’s Maid was superb with his acute comic timing. The Lady was played by a ghastly ugly man with a heavily-powdered face. He was hilarious too. My favourite was the guy playing Malvolio. I highly recommend this to anyone coming to London.
That evening, Nick and Denise showed me photographs of their trips to Bolivia, Chile and Argentina and described many stories to me. Sheesh… from their graphic narratives of the harsh weather conditions, I felt I would really need good rain-wear and warm clothes. What I had with me was not adequate.
London, UNITED KINGDOM to Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 14 september 2002
Nick took me to the Borough Market in the morning. This is London’s version of a wet-market. But unlike the kind of wet-market I was used to in Singapore, the attendants here wore spiffy uniforms and everything was very classy and food items could be tried for taste. Nick bought loads of cheese, vegetables, fruits…
Just before I left for the airport, I sped through Wimbledon where Nick and Denise stayed, to see if I could buy myself some suitable warm clothes for South America. Shopping in London must be the worst idea! Things here were terribly expensive. But I did not foresee being able to buy warm gear in Brazil (skimpy bikini, yes, but warm fleece?) or good rain-wear in Bolivia. Surprisingly, I found a nice warm jumper for £9 and a water-proof, rain-proof, breathable jacket for £20. Bargains!
At the airport, I checked my backpack in and waited for my London-Paris flight patiently. Then, I noticed on the display that it had been delayed for an hour. That would cause me to miss my connection to Rio de Janeiro! I found a British Midlands counter and explained my situation.
The lady put me on the London-Sao Paulo-Rio de Janeiro Varig flight leaving later that evening. Oh, this was even better. She directed me to retrieve my backpack at the arrival hall and make my way to Terminal 3. Strange that I had to ‘arrive’ in London even before I left it. I even had to fill up the Landing Form and ‘clear customs’ before I could go hunt for my backpack.
At the Varig counter in Terminal 3, the check-in guy inquired if my backpack had ever left my side. Well, yeah… I checked it in earlier and then, because of the flight-changes, I had to retrieve it to bring it here. I found it lying abandoned near Belt 7 on a trolley, as a matter of fact. He paused a while and decided not to pursue it. It was odd, they were trained to ask these security questions and yet, did not know how to handle it if the answer was other than the usual.
Saturday, September 14, 2002
Saturday, September 7, 2002
12 - Books, Cod and Two Smoky Bars (Belfast, Carlingford, Newgrange)
Giant’s Causeway, NORTHERN IRELAND - 01 september 2002
I figured Belfast would be a dead town as well on a Sunday and when I spotted a notice for a tour of the Giant’s Causeway posted at my hostel, I decided to join it.
The weather was excellent and we were first driven to a place with a rope bridge called Carrick-a-Rede. Hmmm… an example of how the authorities would and could milk tourist money out of a construction, which would have otherwise been an ordinary rope bridge across any other chasm.
Why did some fishermen sling a rope bridge across this chasm? To get to the other side. Ingenious. The road down to the bridge had spectacular coastal scenery, crashing waves, swooping seagulls and all. I registered that this was my first coastal scene since I started on my trip. Yeah, I had been meandering inland all this time, hadn’t I?
The bridge was not that scary but perhaps, someone with crossed eyes or was afraid of heights would shiver in fright and yelp for their boyfriends. This being Ireland, things would be fixed up with proper safety features (e.g. no fraying ropes and you could not put a hole through the boards like what usually happened to Indiana Jones) to ensure no tourists died. They, however, did not extend their guarantee to dogs. So, do not bring Rover along.
After an inexplicable stop at a castle, we finally arrived at the Giant’s Causeway. This unique and breathtaking structure had hexagonal-shaped rock columns packed tightly along a section of the coastline. The heights of the rock columns varied and looked like giant organ pipes or stepping stones. It was truly an incredible sight.
The story has it that Finn McCool, a giant warrior, fell in love with a giant babe, who lived on an island, and built this bridge to bring her across. Something like that, at least…
Or, you could believe the other hocus-pocus story that this structure was a mass of basalt columns formed from solidified lava. Bollocks, if you ask me.
I spent a long time at the edge, admiring the crashing waves on the unique rocks and contemplating the universe. Despite being swarmed with tourists, one could still find quiet spots to sit and stare. This place had the awesome energy to make one feel small and at peace.
I made my way to the top of the cliff for a bird’s eye view of the rock columns. The strong wind was howling away. A few times, I felt myself nearly blown off. Indeed, when I returned to the tourist centre, there was a sign saying that due to cross-winds, one should not take the cliff road today. Ooops. A bit too late for that.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 02 september 2002
Some semblance of life finally stirred in Belfast today, after two days of rest. The town actually looked quite pretty. There were some areas that seemed a little worn-down but still, I quite liked it here. I seriously had to ask Jane which buildings had been blown away before. I merrily hopped in and out of second-hand bookstores. Ah, scores of English books! Wonderful wonderful wonderful. I spent hours browsing in them.
By late afternoon, as agreed via emails with Jane, I took a bus down to Newry where she worked and waited for her until she knocked off from work at 5pm.
There, reunited again! We hugged. It was such a delight to see her again. We had really gotten along well during the three weeks in China. I had missed her very much.
She drove me down to the Republic of Ireland where she was living now. When we crossed the border, I did not notice… the price signs posted at the petrol stations were similar in numeric values, except that in Northern Ireland, the prices were in Pounds and in Republic of Ireland, they were in Euros.
After her China trip, Jane had rented a cottage in a charming little village called Carlingford right by a lough. We twisted and turned precariously up very narrow and steep stoned roads lined with rocky walls and finally stopped in front of her cottage.
OK, she had not had time to decorate the cottage to her own taste. So the cottage still retained the old-fashioned country-style atmosphere with pine-wood kitchen set, green-yellow checked curtains, velvet-upholstered sofa and ugly brown carpet. She was terribly embarrassed by the decorations.
I spied chili-light bulbs, fake fruits and plastic flamingos not yet set out in the garden and agreed. I thought these latter items belonged to the landlady as well but as it turned out, Jane later confessed they were hers. Gosh, she herself would have quite kitsch kitchen and garden too! Was she into gnomes as well? I feared.
The village was so tiny that for her postal address, it was just her name, the street name (and there was no road sign indicating this either… the locals just knew what the street was called), ‘Carlingford’, and ‘Ireland’. No street number or postal code. She had gone down to the post office and described where she lived and asked for a postal code. “Postal code? We don’t have that sort of thing here, love.”
Down by the harbour, some boys were plunging into the icy-cold water. “Now, boys, why do you do this?” A concerned Jane called out to them. “Good craic,” they brrred away. And here, I was introduced to an Irish word previously unbeknownst to me – ‘craic’ which means ‘fun’.
Jane wanted to introduce me to another typical Irish experience - the pub. Naturally, we had to head for some ‘good craic’ while in Carlingford. The pub was crowded, smoky and rowdy. A guy in Superman T-shirt was shouting over the counter. Ruddy-cheeked farmers and their wives sat in the corner, probably with visiting relatives, guffawed away. Lots of Irish slangs and ‘forf*#ksake’s were tossed around. Many half-pissed and very happy Carlingforders boozed away. The ‘traditional’ music, as advertised, did not turn out to be the fiddler-Riverdance-sort. It was just Irish songs sung with electric guitars plugged into amplifiers.
I was standing next to a typical, rotund Irish bloke with a crew-cut. He spoke with a huge accent and an unfortunate lisp. On learning that I just arrived from Belfast today, he immediately congratulated me for surviving it without being bombed away. He kept going ‘Woah woah’ about the recent gaellic football matches. Nope, between the mêlée created from the music, the people in the pub, his lisp and his accent, I did not understand what he was talking about half the time. Still, I put up a good bimbo show by merely smiling and nodding away.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 03 september 2002
I woke up late. Jane had to work. She could not take time off as she had just started on this job. No problem. I pottered around the kitchen, doing the dishes and laundry – ah, country-living. In a week, one might find me making my own bread and jam. Nah… Maybe one might find Jane making her own bread and jam in a couple of years’ time.
The weather was splendid but I was very lazy and merely lounged around, reading books I dug out from Jane’s yet- unpacked boxes.
When I finally decided to head out for a walk, using a guide that Jane had given me, the sky had turned cloudy. A pity.
As I meandered up and along the country roads, I really admired the beautiful homesteads and gardens these Irish proud home-owners lived in. The houses were all perfectly painted. The gardens were taken care of immaculately. Multi-coloured flowers bloomed in every charming garden. Some had pairs of stone eagles standing in the gardens. They seemed to like to set eagles in their gardens, I did not know why but I had already noticed 5 or 6 pairs. Instead of flower-beds outside windows that I saw quite often in Austria, here, they hung lovely flower baskets near the top of their doors. I noticed a family actually left their key in the key-hole of their front door. How trusting.
I was greeted by friendly Irish folks who strolled by. An elderly man even stopped his car to wish me a pleasant walk up in the mountains. Gosh, these people were really friendly.
According to the guide, I had to turn right after I came upon ‘a stone cottage with evergreen trees’. Indeed, I came upon what appeared to be a stone cottage. But the owner had recently chopped down his trees, I supposed, as I could only see the stumps now. This guide was printed probably ten years ago. Still, with descriptions like this, it was amazing how accurate the rest stayed.
That night, it was nippy (Irish/English for ‘cold’) in the cottage. Jane tried to start the fire in her fire-place. Believe it or not, if the fire really got started, it would be my first fire in a fire-place. But she did not manage to start it. She blamed the coal and the old-fashioned fire-place. Of course.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to NEWCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND - 04 september 2002
Unlike yesterday morning, this morning was foggy. I tried a different route suggested in the guide and walked through ‘ferny paths’and opened ‘a wooden gate’ and went up the slope to the ‘slate rocks’. I tried to be creative and used different routes but all led to nothing except thorny bushes. I pricked myself several times. So, I obediently stayed on the suggested path.
I reached the pass and like all passes, it was windy and freezing cold. There was a big rock there, so I lay there and closed my eyes. The cloud had started to close in on the peak of the mountain called Slieve Fog. It was wonderful up here, especially alone. The mountain, the wild flowers like heather and gorse, the wind, the view of lough and the village, ah…
Before frostbite set in, I opened my eyes, took one last sweeping look around and headed down. Such was my luck that by the time I returned to the cottage, the sky had turned bright blue and sunny, the mountain peak showed its glory, and birds started to chirp.
Jane managed to escape from her office earlier today. She drove me up through the Mourne Mountains opposite the lough all the way to Newcastle, a typical Irish coastal resort.
Along the way, we stopped by a park which had a dam and a reservoir. We took a walk through the paths and woods and came upon a freshly-cut grassy slope near the dam.
Being the mature women that we are, when faced with a grassy slope, we knew we had to do something - roll down the slope. Jane took off her jacket and went down first. I placed my arms across my chest, Egyptian-mummy style and rolled down next. I did a better job than her. I changed directions mid-way and more than doubled her distance before I came to a frantic, dizzy stop.
At Newcastle, she explained that typical Irish vacations were spent in tacky coastal towns such as this, with their grannies and embarrassing family members. She showed me an arcade games gallery which was essential to coastal resorts in case of bad weather, such was the unpredictability of Irish weather. We even found a traditional old-fashioned 1970s-style chippie and ordered fish (cod or plaice, love?) and chips.
NEWGRANGE, REP. OF IRELAND - 05 september 2002
I read about a nearby sight called Newgrange and decided to loosen my lazy bones and venture out in Ireland on my own today.
I caught the bus from Newry to Drogheda. From the bus window, I knew I was already in Drogheda and waited for the driver to stop by the bus-station. But the driver kept spinning around town and when we were back on the highway, I knew something was wrong. In answer to my query, he explained that I should have told him to stop at the bus station. Well, I was actually waiting for him to stop there as I figured he would have passengers to pick up. Now, he could not stop until he got to a bus-stop further out on the highway. He suggested that I try and catch a bus back to Drogheda.
I waited patiently for 10 seconds at the bus-stop and spotted no bus. I wrote ‘NEWGRANGE’ on a piece of paper and held it out, hoping some tourists in camper-vans were heading the same way. Almost immediately, an elderly gentleman stopped and asked me to hop in. He apologized to me that he was not going to Newgrange but he drove me back to Drogheda, right to the bus station. Terribly sweet of him. I caught a bus to Newgrange right away.
There were many Megalithic Passage Tombs here in the Boyne Valley. The two main ones here were Newgrange and Knowth. Both required different admission fees. The sights were very properly restored, almost too restored. And as there were no records, the megalithic art was never deciphered. The guides kept saying your guess was as good as mine. Built by Neolithic communities 5000 years ago, they were even older than the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt.
If I had gone to one and not the other, I would have been disappointed. Both had something to offer that the other did not. At Knowth, the stone-art on the stones at the bottom of the passage tomb mound were varied and interesting but one could not visit the interior of the passage tomb. At Newgrange, there was only one stone with artwork but one could enter the passage tomb. The authorities had artificially simulated the sun-rise on Winter Solstice which would illuminate the passage tomb for 17 minutes. Intriguing.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND - 06 september 2002
I had yet another day to potter around the cottage and go for mountain walks. This was the year of living differently. How else could I live like a country girl?
I made a 4-hour walk around the mountains, woods and country roads today. Greeted ‘Hiya’ to ruddy-cheeked, missing-a-tooth farmers and home-owners lounging in their gardens or porches. Exchanged a few mumbles with hunky construction workers fixing windows, fences, whatever. Waved to drivers who passed by in their cars.
During the walk, the sky alternated between rainy and sunshine-blue at least three times. Towards the end when I was heading back, the sky really opened up and poured. I was soaked to the skin. I had thought I would be walking in the heavy rain until I reached the doorstep of the cottage. But nope, by the time I got to the steep mountain road leading to the cottage, birds were chirping and the sky was cobalt blue again. Strange Irish weather.
I had a bus-cum-ferry-cum-bus trip tomorrow to Manchester, leaving at 6:45am from Belfast. Jane made arrangements with her friend in Belfast so that we could spend the night at her flat there.
When we arrived at Belfast, Jane decided to make a spin around the Protestant area to show me how the Protestants had painted the sides of the pavements ‘blue’, ‘white’ and ‘red’ - British colours - and how they waved British flags from their windows. We stopped by a mural showing King Billy in triumphant glory, with a dying, bleeding Catholic by the bottom. Some kids were playing in that area. Jane quickly drove away, fearing they might stone her. Then, we passed by some men in brass-band uniforms. I normally would think these were just guys getting ready for a band practice. But Jane explained that they were getting ready for an anti-Catholic march down the streets. She panicked further and nervously drove off.
Later, when she thought the coast was clear, we returned to the King Billy mural and I sneaked out to take a picture. Just then, some kids came by. To take control of the situation, Jane called out to them, “Kids, do you want to have your photos taken?” “Aye!!!” They ran forward eagerly and stood proudly in front of the mural, MARCHING on the spot. I snapped a frame furtively and we left. We were miraculously not stoned.
Jane’s friend, Roisin, had gotten a fire going at her fire-place and so NOW was my first fire ever at a fire-place. She was also the hostess-mostest, lighting candles around the house, making a wonderful pasta dinner and rounding it off with a delicious apple pie dessert.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 07 september 2002
I was placed in the attic for the night. I opened my eyes and stared at the sky-light. It was already light-blue. I continued to admire the sky sleepily. Then, out of curiosity, I decided to check the time.
My alarm clock read 6:05am. Huh?? I had set the alarm to ring at 6:00am. But it did not ring. I just happened to wake up and happened to check the time. I double-checked the clock and to my horrors, I had set it for 6:00pm! Sheesh… I was usually more sensible. In a way, how lucky I was!
A very groggy Jane put me on the bus and waved me goodbye. I transferred to a huge ferry for the ride across the Irish channel to Scotland.
There, I travelled south to Manchester. I was to visit another friend, Gisela, there. When I arrived, she was there at the bus station to meet me. She introduced me to her boyfriend, Lee, who looked a tad younger than her. I figured he was perhaps 24 or 25 years old. He was a dead-ringer for Tintin, with the curly hair in front and the mouth twisted to the side.
Back at the flat, I was introduced to her flatmate Manesh who was of Indian nationality and who was busy watching the most exciting TV programme ever - cricket.
We headed out for Indian curry that night. Due to the cosmopolitan culture of United Kingdom, one could get rather good curry here. I enjoyed the familiar smell and taste very much. Yeah, I really missed spicy food from home.
During dinner, Gisela and Lee kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, snogged endlessly and kept conversations to themselves. I believed Manesh felt a bit embarrassed by them ignoring me and made valiant efforts to converse with me. It was very nice of him. Somewhere in the conversation when the lovey-dovey couple was briefly interested to join in, I found Lee to be just 19 years old. That was a whole 9 years younger than Gisela. Gee… the age gap was a little large, I thought.
I figured Belfast would be a dead town as well on a Sunday and when I spotted a notice for a tour of the Giant’s Causeway posted at my hostel, I decided to join it.
The weather was excellent and we were first driven to a place with a rope bridge called Carrick-a-Rede. Hmmm… an example of how the authorities would and could milk tourist money out of a construction, which would have otherwise been an ordinary rope bridge across any other chasm.
Why did some fishermen sling a rope bridge across this chasm? To get to the other side. Ingenious. The road down to the bridge had spectacular coastal scenery, crashing waves, swooping seagulls and all. I registered that this was my first coastal scene since I started on my trip. Yeah, I had been meandering inland all this time, hadn’t I?
The bridge was not that scary but perhaps, someone with crossed eyes or was afraid of heights would shiver in fright and yelp for their boyfriends. This being Ireland, things would be fixed up with proper safety features (e.g. no fraying ropes and you could not put a hole through the boards like what usually happened to Indiana Jones) to ensure no tourists died. They, however, did not extend their guarantee to dogs. So, do not bring Rover along.
After an inexplicable stop at a castle, we finally arrived at the Giant’s Causeway. This unique and breathtaking structure had hexagonal-shaped rock columns packed tightly along a section of the coastline. The heights of the rock columns varied and looked like giant organ pipes or stepping stones. It was truly an incredible sight.
The story has it that Finn McCool, a giant warrior, fell in love with a giant babe, who lived on an island, and built this bridge to bring her across. Something like that, at least…
Or, you could believe the other hocus-pocus story that this structure was a mass of basalt columns formed from solidified lava. Bollocks, if you ask me.
I spent a long time at the edge, admiring the crashing waves on the unique rocks and contemplating the universe. Despite being swarmed with tourists, one could still find quiet spots to sit and stare. This place had the awesome energy to make one feel small and at peace.
I made my way to the top of the cliff for a bird’s eye view of the rock columns. The strong wind was howling away. A few times, I felt myself nearly blown off. Indeed, when I returned to the tourist centre, there was a sign saying that due to cross-winds, one should not take the cliff road today. Ooops. A bit too late for that.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 02 september 2002
Some semblance of life finally stirred in Belfast today, after two days of rest. The town actually looked quite pretty. There were some areas that seemed a little worn-down but still, I quite liked it here. I seriously had to ask Jane which buildings had been blown away before. I merrily hopped in and out of second-hand bookstores. Ah, scores of English books! Wonderful wonderful wonderful. I spent hours browsing in them.
By late afternoon, as agreed via emails with Jane, I took a bus down to Newry where she worked and waited for her until she knocked off from work at 5pm.
There, reunited again! We hugged. It was such a delight to see her again. We had really gotten along well during the three weeks in China. I had missed her very much.
She drove me down to the Republic of Ireland where she was living now. When we crossed the border, I did not notice… the price signs posted at the petrol stations were similar in numeric values, except that in Northern Ireland, the prices were in Pounds and in Republic of Ireland, they were in Euros.
After her China trip, Jane had rented a cottage in a charming little village called Carlingford right by a lough. We twisted and turned precariously up very narrow and steep stoned roads lined with rocky walls and finally stopped in front of her cottage.
OK, she had not had time to decorate the cottage to her own taste. So the cottage still retained the old-fashioned country-style atmosphere with pine-wood kitchen set, green-yellow checked curtains, velvet-upholstered sofa and ugly brown carpet. She was terribly embarrassed by the decorations.
I spied chili-light bulbs, fake fruits and plastic flamingos not yet set out in the garden and agreed. I thought these latter items belonged to the landlady as well but as it turned out, Jane later confessed they were hers. Gosh, she herself would have quite kitsch kitchen and garden too! Was she into gnomes as well? I feared.
The village was so tiny that for her postal address, it was just her name, the street name (and there was no road sign indicating this either… the locals just knew what the street was called), ‘Carlingford’, and ‘Ireland’. No street number or postal code. She had gone down to the post office and described where she lived and asked for a postal code. “Postal code? We don’t have that sort of thing here, love.”
Down by the harbour, some boys were plunging into the icy-cold water. “Now, boys, why do you do this?” A concerned Jane called out to them. “Good craic,” they brrred away. And here, I was introduced to an Irish word previously unbeknownst to me – ‘craic’ which means ‘fun’.
Jane wanted to introduce me to another typical Irish experience - the pub. Naturally, we had to head for some ‘good craic’ while in Carlingford. The pub was crowded, smoky and rowdy. A guy in Superman T-shirt was shouting over the counter. Ruddy-cheeked farmers and their wives sat in the corner, probably with visiting relatives, guffawed away. Lots of Irish slangs and ‘forf*#ksake’s were tossed around. Many half-pissed and very happy Carlingforders boozed away. The ‘traditional’ music, as advertised, did not turn out to be the fiddler-Riverdance-sort. It was just Irish songs sung with electric guitars plugged into amplifiers.
I was standing next to a typical, rotund Irish bloke with a crew-cut. He spoke with a huge accent and an unfortunate lisp. On learning that I just arrived from Belfast today, he immediately congratulated me for surviving it without being bombed away. He kept going ‘Woah woah’ about the recent gaellic football matches. Nope, between the mêlée created from the music, the people in the pub, his lisp and his accent, I did not understand what he was talking about half the time. Still, I put up a good bimbo show by merely smiling and nodding away.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND - 03 september 2002
I woke up late. Jane had to work. She could not take time off as she had just started on this job. No problem. I pottered around the kitchen, doing the dishes and laundry – ah, country-living. In a week, one might find me making my own bread and jam. Nah… Maybe one might find Jane making her own bread and jam in a couple of years’ time.
The weather was splendid but I was very lazy and merely lounged around, reading books I dug out from Jane’s yet- unpacked boxes.
When I finally decided to head out for a walk, using a guide that Jane had given me, the sky had turned cloudy. A pity.
As I meandered up and along the country roads, I really admired the beautiful homesteads and gardens these Irish proud home-owners lived in. The houses were all perfectly painted. The gardens were taken care of immaculately. Multi-coloured flowers bloomed in every charming garden. Some had pairs of stone eagles standing in the gardens. They seemed to like to set eagles in their gardens, I did not know why but I had already noticed 5 or 6 pairs. Instead of flower-beds outside windows that I saw quite often in Austria, here, they hung lovely flower baskets near the top of their doors. I noticed a family actually left their key in the key-hole of their front door. How trusting.
I was greeted by friendly Irish folks who strolled by. An elderly man even stopped his car to wish me a pleasant walk up in the mountains. Gosh, these people were really friendly.
According to the guide, I had to turn right after I came upon ‘a stone cottage with evergreen trees’. Indeed, I came upon what appeared to be a stone cottage. But the owner had recently chopped down his trees, I supposed, as I could only see the stumps now. This guide was printed probably ten years ago. Still, with descriptions like this, it was amazing how accurate the rest stayed.
That night, it was nippy (Irish/English for ‘cold’) in the cottage. Jane tried to start the fire in her fire-place. Believe it or not, if the fire really got started, it would be my first fire in a fire-place. But she did not manage to start it. She blamed the coal and the old-fashioned fire-place. Of course.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to NEWCASTLE, NORTHERN IRELAND - 04 september 2002
Unlike yesterday morning, this morning was foggy. I tried a different route suggested in the guide and walked through ‘ferny paths’and opened ‘a wooden gate’ and went up the slope to the ‘slate rocks’. I tried to be creative and used different routes but all led to nothing except thorny bushes. I pricked myself several times. So, I obediently stayed on the suggested path.
I reached the pass and like all passes, it was windy and freezing cold. There was a big rock there, so I lay there and closed my eyes. The cloud had started to close in on the peak of the mountain called Slieve Fog. It was wonderful up here, especially alone. The mountain, the wild flowers like heather and gorse, the wind, the view of lough and the village, ah…
Before frostbite set in, I opened my eyes, took one last sweeping look around and headed down. Such was my luck that by the time I returned to the cottage, the sky had turned bright blue and sunny, the mountain peak showed its glory, and birds started to chirp.
Jane managed to escape from her office earlier today. She drove me up through the Mourne Mountains opposite the lough all the way to Newcastle, a typical Irish coastal resort.
Along the way, we stopped by a park which had a dam and a reservoir. We took a walk through the paths and woods and came upon a freshly-cut grassy slope near the dam.
Being the mature women that we are, when faced with a grassy slope, we knew we had to do something - roll down the slope. Jane took off her jacket and went down first. I placed my arms across my chest, Egyptian-mummy style and rolled down next. I did a better job than her. I changed directions mid-way and more than doubled her distance before I came to a frantic, dizzy stop.
At Newcastle, she explained that typical Irish vacations were spent in tacky coastal towns such as this, with their grannies and embarrassing family members. She showed me an arcade games gallery which was essential to coastal resorts in case of bad weather, such was the unpredictability of Irish weather. We even found a traditional old-fashioned 1970s-style chippie and ordered fish (cod or plaice, love?) and chips.
NEWGRANGE, REP. OF IRELAND - 05 september 2002
I read about a nearby sight called Newgrange and decided to loosen my lazy bones and venture out in Ireland on my own today.
I caught the bus from Newry to Drogheda. From the bus window, I knew I was already in Drogheda and waited for the driver to stop by the bus-station. But the driver kept spinning around town and when we were back on the highway, I knew something was wrong. In answer to my query, he explained that I should have told him to stop at the bus station. Well, I was actually waiting for him to stop there as I figured he would have passengers to pick up. Now, he could not stop until he got to a bus-stop further out on the highway. He suggested that I try and catch a bus back to Drogheda.
I waited patiently for 10 seconds at the bus-stop and spotted no bus. I wrote ‘NEWGRANGE’ on a piece of paper and held it out, hoping some tourists in camper-vans were heading the same way. Almost immediately, an elderly gentleman stopped and asked me to hop in. He apologized to me that he was not going to Newgrange but he drove me back to Drogheda, right to the bus station. Terribly sweet of him. I caught a bus to Newgrange right away.
There were many Megalithic Passage Tombs here in the Boyne Valley. The two main ones here were Newgrange and Knowth. Both required different admission fees. The sights were very properly restored, almost too restored. And as there were no records, the megalithic art was never deciphered. The guides kept saying your guess was as good as mine. Built by Neolithic communities 5000 years ago, they were even older than the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt.
If I had gone to one and not the other, I would have been disappointed. Both had something to offer that the other did not. At Knowth, the stone-art on the stones at the bottom of the passage tomb mound were varied and interesting but one could not visit the interior of the passage tomb. At Newgrange, there was only one stone with artwork but one could enter the passage tomb. The authorities had artificially simulated the sun-rise on Winter Solstice which would illuminate the passage tomb for 17 minutes. Intriguing.
Carlingford, REP. OF IRELAND to Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND - 06 september 2002
I had yet another day to potter around the cottage and go for mountain walks. This was the year of living differently. How else could I live like a country girl?
I made a 4-hour walk around the mountains, woods and country roads today. Greeted ‘Hiya’ to ruddy-cheeked, missing-a-tooth farmers and home-owners lounging in their gardens or porches. Exchanged a few mumbles with hunky construction workers fixing windows, fences, whatever. Waved to drivers who passed by in their cars.
During the walk, the sky alternated between rainy and sunshine-blue at least three times. Towards the end when I was heading back, the sky really opened up and poured. I was soaked to the skin. I had thought I would be walking in the heavy rain until I reached the doorstep of the cottage. But nope, by the time I got to the steep mountain road leading to the cottage, birds were chirping and the sky was cobalt blue again. Strange Irish weather.
I had a bus-cum-ferry-cum-bus trip tomorrow to Manchester, leaving at 6:45am from Belfast. Jane made arrangements with her friend in Belfast so that we could spend the night at her flat there.
When we arrived at Belfast, Jane decided to make a spin around the Protestant area to show me how the Protestants had painted the sides of the pavements ‘blue’, ‘white’ and ‘red’ - British colours - and how they waved British flags from their windows. We stopped by a mural showing King Billy in triumphant glory, with a dying, bleeding Catholic by the bottom. Some kids were playing in that area. Jane quickly drove away, fearing they might stone her. Then, we passed by some men in brass-band uniforms. I normally would think these were just guys getting ready for a band practice. But Jane explained that they were getting ready for an anti-Catholic march down the streets. She panicked further and nervously drove off.
Later, when she thought the coast was clear, we returned to the King Billy mural and I sneaked out to take a picture. Just then, some kids came by. To take control of the situation, Jane called out to them, “Kids, do you want to have your photos taken?” “Aye!!!” They ran forward eagerly and stood proudly in front of the mural, MARCHING on the spot. I snapped a frame furtively and we left. We were miraculously not stoned.
Jane’s friend, Roisin, had gotten a fire going at her fire-place and so NOW was my first fire ever at a fire-place. She was also the hostess-mostest, lighting candles around the house, making a wonderful pasta dinner and rounding it off with a delicious apple pie dessert.
Belfast, NORTHERN IRELAND to Manchester, UNITED KINGDOM - 07 september 2002
I was placed in the attic for the night. I opened my eyes and stared at the sky-light. It was already light-blue. I continued to admire the sky sleepily. Then, out of curiosity, I decided to check the time.
My alarm clock read 6:05am. Huh?? I had set the alarm to ring at 6:00am. But it did not ring. I just happened to wake up and happened to check the time. I double-checked the clock and to my horrors, I had set it for 6:00pm! Sheesh… I was usually more sensible. In a way, how lucky I was!
A very groggy Jane put me on the bus and waved me goodbye. I transferred to a huge ferry for the ride across the Irish channel to Scotland.
There, I travelled south to Manchester. I was to visit another friend, Gisela, there. When I arrived, she was there at the bus station to meet me. She introduced me to her boyfriend, Lee, who looked a tad younger than her. I figured he was perhaps 24 or 25 years old. He was a dead-ringer for Tintin, with the curly hair in front and the mouth twisted to the side.
Back at the flat, I was introduced to her flatmate Manesh who was of Indian nationality and who was busy watching the most exciting TV programme ever - cricket.
We headed out for Indian curry that night. Due to the cosmopolitan culture of United Kingdom, one could get rather good curry here. I enjoyed the familiar smell and taste very much. Yeah, I really missed spicy food from home.
During dinner, Gisela and Lee kept making goo-goo eyes at each other, snogged endlessly and kept conversations to themselves. I believed Manesh felt a bit embarrassed by them ignoring me and made valiant efforts to converse with me. It was very nice of him. Somewhere in the conversation when the lovey-dovey couple was briefly interested to join in, I found Lee to be just 19 years old. That was a whole 9 years younger than Gisela. Gee… the age gap was a little large, I thought.
Saturday, August 31, 2002
11 - For Butter or For Wurst (Amsterdam, Beverwijk, Brugge)
Amsterdam, NETHERLANDS - 26 august 2002
Amsterdam is a very pretty city to walk around. There is a very cozy feel about the place. And there are loads on the streets to see. I need not elaborate on the merits of Amsterdam. I am sure everyone knows… about the beautiful canal houses. Ha. And yeah, not to forget the sex-shops, the weed…
I must say, from the postcards I saw around Amsterdam, the locals made great puns. The video-shops here carried interesting titles too, not usually found in the regular video-shops, I supposed - titles such as ‘Sexy and Cheeky Young Guns’.
But food here was atrociously expensive. Thank goodness, I was heading back to Maria’s house for home-cooked food tonight.
Rotterdam, NETHERLANDS - 27 august 2002
While Amsterdam is cozy and charming, Rotterdam is one huge modern city. I went there to apply for my Brazilian visa and took the chance to wander around the city, admiring its modernist architecture.
Rotterdam has a cluster of houses shaped like cubes standing on their points. I visited the inside of one of them and gosh, I felt claustrophobic and a little giddy. I wondered how it was like to live there. I understood from Maria that some people who bought the houses had to move out after a while.
Well, staying with a typical Dutch family, naturally, I got the chance to sample various types of cheese, dairy products and desserts found in Maria’s refrigerator that she offered me everyday. It was great to experience these choices.
I remembered the other time in Mongolia, when Goretti (another Dutch) and I were talking about how the Mongolians smelled of boiled mutton. She suddenly grabbed my forearm and inhaled, trying to see if I smelled of rice. I grabbed her forearm and inhaled and I just about detected the smell of butter, I thought.
Zaanse Schans & Beverwijk, NETHERLANDS - 28 august 2002
Frank, Maria’s husband, felt it really necessary to expose me to the most famous symbol of The Netherlands – the wind-mill. We visited the interior of a working wind-mill in Zaanse Schans and observed the grinding and pounding of saw-dust and such from wind power. In the nearby stores, there were chunks of traditional crafts, cheese, mustard and colourful wooden clogs on display and for sale. Your token Dutch experience and well worth the visit to appreciate how traditional wind-mills work.
Maria then left her son, Andre, with me while she went with Frank to visit a mortgage agent. They were buying a new house.
Andre and I were left at a park near their house. I was a little apprehensive about baby-sitting Andre but he turned out to be quite an angel. He was really well-behaved, as long as I kept pushing the stroller along. He would not be bored if he had new things to look at.
I pointed out different items and went, “Flower”… “Bower”, he repeated. “Duck” – “Duck”, “Grass” – “Glass”, “Rock” – “Bock” “Spider” – “Spider”, “River” – “Riber”
Not bad, not bad. I reckoned at the end of this baby-sitting session, his English was way better than my Dutch.
Beverwijk to Utrecht, NETHERLANDS - 29 august 2002
Maria and her family were leaving for Bulgaria on a holiday today. Yeah, I had actually come at a wrong time. They were very busy the past few days with the sale of their current house, planning the mortgage thing for their new house and preparing for this trip. Yet, despite their lack of time, they made me feel more than welcome staying with them. The bed was really soft and comfortable. The food was great. They were absolutely hospitable. It was really nice to meet up with them again after all these years.
I had another Dutch friend, Peter. I had contacted him to ask if I could stay with him from today onwards. No problem. It was great that Netherlands is relatively small so travelling to any city was not too much of a hassle.
I returned to Rotterdam to pick up my passport and Peter picked me up from there.
While my Europe trip was not turning out terribly exciting, I really wanted to visit my friends here. I mean, we could forever stay in touch via emails or… I could put in the extra effort to travel to the places they live in and catch up a little in person. That way, the friendship can grow deeper.
As it turned out, Peter has a beautiful, tastefully decorated apartment. He is a great photographer and we spent hours that evening going through his slides from his past trips. I learnt a lot from his narratives. Gosh, there are so many places to visit, aren’t there? When can one stop?
Brugge, BELGIUM - 30 august 2002
For want of somewhere to go, Peter and I drove to Brugge in Belgium for a look-see. Europe is great. Tiny and compact. Just think of a place reasonably nearby, and why not, we could drive there in a couple of hours… and off we go.
The drive there was not very interesting. After all, The Netherlands and Belgium are flat with no background scenery to admire.
Brugge is indeed a very picturesque town. It is thoroughly touristy as well. Like Amsterdam, the town had pretty canals and canal-houses but with slightly different designs. We spent a pleasant afternoon getting lost among the photogenic streets and alleys.
However, the return trip took us a whooping 4 hours because of traffic jam due to road-works. We were terribly cross when we finally crossed into Netherlands.
Utrecht, NETHERLANDS to Belfast, IRELAND - 31 august 2002
I flew to London and onwards to Belfast today. I planned to visit Jane, an Irish lady whom I met earlier in my trip in China and travelled together for three weeks. As she was away in London this weekend, I would spend two nights in Belfast at a youth hostel first.
Fantastic. Everything is written in English now. I could be understood wherever I went. But the Belfast accent was a little thick.
When I thought of Belfast, what came to mind were those terrible reports about ‘The Troubles’. I walked around the streets, wondering if this was a building previously blown up before. Loads of ‘TO LET’ signs were spotted everywhere near the centre.
The weather was freezing cold too. I had to remember I was now at a higher latitude again and would need my jumper if I went out. Belfast was a dead town after 6pm. I did not do much and stayed in the hostel to read. Internet access was a whopping £4 an hour! Imagine that.
Amsterdam is a very pretty city to walk around. There is a very cozy feel about the place. And there are loads on the streets to see. I need not elaborate on the merits of Amsterdam. I am sure everyone knows… about the beautiful canal houses. Ha. And yeah, not to forget the sex-shops, the weed…
I must say, from the postcards I saw around Amsterdam, the locals made great puns. The video-shops here carried interesting titles too, not usually found in the regular video-shops, I supposed - titles such as ‘Sexy and Cheeky Young Guns’.
But food here was atrociously expensive. Thank goodness, I was heading back to Maria’s house for home-cooked food tonight.
Rotterdam, NETHERLANDS - 27 august 2002
While Amsterdam is cozy and charming, Rotterdam is one huge modern city. I went there to apply for my Brazilian visa and took the chance to wander around the city, admiring its modernist architecture.
Rotterdam has a cluster of houses shaped like cubes standing on their points. I visited the inside of one of them and gosh, I felt claustrophobic and a little giddy. I wondered how it was like to live there. I understood from Maria that some people who bought the houses had to move out after a while.
Well, staying with a typical Dutch family, naturally, I got the chance to sample various types of cheese, dairy products and desserts found in Maria’s refrigerator that she offered me everyday. It was great to experience these choices.
I remembered the other time in Mongolia, when Goretti (another Dutch) and I were talking about how the Mongolians smelled of boiled mutton. She suddenly grabbed my forearm and inhaled, trying to see if I smelled of rice. I grabbed her forearm and inhaled and I just about detected the smell of butter, I thought.
Zaanse Schans & Beverwijk, NETHERLANDS - 28 august 2002
Frank, Maria’s husband, felt it really necessary to expose me to the most famous symbol of The Netherlands – the wind-mill. We visited the interior of a working wind-mill in Zaanse Schans and observed the grinding and pounding of saw-dust and such from wind power. In the nearby stores, there were chunks of traditional crafts, cheese, mustard and colourful wooden clogs on display and for sale. Your token Dutch experience and well worth the visit to appreciate how traditional wind-mills work.
Maria then left her son, Andre, with me while she went with Frank to visit a mortgage agent. They were buying a new house.
Andre and I were left at a park near their house. I was a little apprehensive about baby-sitting Andre but he turned out to be quite an angel. He was really well-behaved, as long as I kept pushing the stroller along. He would not be bored if he had new things to look at.
I pointed out different items and went, “Flower”… “Bower”, he repeated. “Duck” – “Duck”, “Grass” – “Glass”, “Rock” – “Bock” “Spider” – “Spider”, “River” – “Riber”
Not bad, not bad. I reckoned at the end of this baby-sitting session, his English was way better than my Dutch.
Beverwijk to Utrecht, NETHERLANDS - 29 august 2002
Maria and her family were leaving for Bulgaria on a holiday today. Yeah, I had actually come at a wrong time. They were very busy the past few days with the sale of their current house, planning the mortgage thing for their new house and preparing for this trip. Yet, despite their lack of time, they made me feel more than welcome staying with them. The bed was really soft and comfortable. The food was great. They were absolutely hospitable. It was really nice to meet up with them again after all these years.
I had another Dutch friend, Peter. I had contacted him to ask if I could stay with him from today onwards. No problem. It was great that Netherlands is relatively small so travelling to any city was not too much of a hassle.
I returned to Rotterdam to pick up my passport and Peter picked me up from there.
While my Europe trip was not turning out terribly exciting, I really wanted to visit my friends here. I mean, we could forever stay in touch via emails or… I could put in the extra effort to travel to the places they live in and catch up a little in person. That way, the friendship can grow deeper.
As it turned out, Peter has a beautiful, tastefully decorated apartment. He is a great photographer and we spent hours that evening going through his slides from his past trips. I learnt a lot from his narratives. Gosh, there are so many places to visit, aren’t there? When can one stop?
Brugge, BELGIUM - 30 august 2002
For want of somewhere to go, Peter and I drove to Brugge in Belgium for a look-see. Europe is great. Tiny and compact. Just think of a place reasonably nearby, and why not, we could drive there in a couple of hours… and off we go.
The drive there was not very interesting. After all, The Netherlands and Belgium are flat with no background scenery to admire.
Brugge is indeed a very picturesque town. It is thoroughly touristy as well. Like Amsterdam, the town had pretty canals and canal-houses but with slightly different designs. We spent a pleasant afternoon getting lost among the photogenic streets and alleys.
However, the return trip took us a whooping 4 hours because of traffic jam due to road-works. We were terribly cross when we finally crossed into Netherlands.
Utrecht, NETHERLANDS to Belfast, IRELAND - 31 august 2002
I flew to London and onwards to Belfast today. I planned to visit Jane, an Irish lady whom I met earlier in my trip in China and travelled together for three weeks. As she was away in London this weekend, I would spend two nights in Belfast at a youth hostel first.
Fantastic. Everything is written in English now. I could be understood wherever I went. But the Belfast accent was a little thick.
When I thought of Belfast, what came to mind were those terrible reports about ‘The Troubles’. I walked around the streets, wondering if this was a building previously blown up before. Loads of ‘TO LET’ signs were spotted everywhere near the centre.
The weather was freezing cold too. I had to remember I was now at a higher latitude again and would need my jumper if I went out. Belfast was a dead town after 6pm. I did not do much and stayed in the hostel to read. Internet access was a whopping £4 an hour! Imagine that.
Sunday, August 25, 2002
11 - For Butter or For Wurst (Witten)
Enns, AUSTRIA to Witten, GERMANY - 19 august 2002
I journeyed from Enns to Linz and onwards to Bochum in Germany by train.
Sheesh… The price for transportation in Western Europe was really shocking. My 4-day-3-night train ride from Irkutsk to Moscow in Russia cost me around US$80. But this 9-hour train ride from Enns to Bochum was a whooping US$130.
And why Bochum? I have an email friend who lives in nearby Witten whom I have been in contact for five years or so. He recently invited me to his wedding which I could not attend. So, I decided to visit him and his wife during my RTW. After all, this was the closest I would get to Europe in a long while.
However, my first impression of him was rather unpleasant. I know, I am being such a horrible person now. Here was someone who let me stay at his place for free and I was being critical. But hear me out, bitte…
Names had been changed to protect the guilty. He shall henceforth be known as… Patrick.
During our dinner, Patrick’s conversation was full of slaggings and slammings of all nationalities surrounding his country and countrymen not from his region were also not spared. Words in capital letters were done with an especially nasty sneer.
“Oh… THAT is SO TYPical… those ENGlish!”
“Well, what do you expect from those CHEEse-ROLLers? That’s why THEY are the DUTch and WE are the GERmans…”
“Argh!! They are the EAST GERmans, you see…”
“Oh, that is SO BAVARian!!”
“Austrians? We never think about them…”
Feeling a little awkward about it all, I went to bed wondering what the rest of my stay here with them would be like.
Hagen, GERMANY - 20 august 2002
Today, Patrick took me to an outdoor museum in Hagen showcasing the traditional crafts of the Ruhr river region. The crafts mainly made use of water-wheel technology and river power to cast iron into chains, axles, scythes, nails, etc… The old traditional black-and-white timber houses had been taken down and rebuilt at this site so as to show how and ‘where’ the original crafts were made. It was a rather interesting open-air museum.
The morning when we left, I had observed Patrick fill up two litres of iced tea in his bottles. Then, after he prepared a sandwich, he put everything back into the refrigerator and cupboard. He stood staring at me. Finally, he asked, “Aren’t you preparing anything for lunch?”
“Er… Oh. There is no chance for lunch there?”
“No.” he replied.
Oh. OK. I started dragging everything out from the fridge and cupboard again to make my own sandwich. I thought it was strange. He could have suggested it earlier before he chucked everything back in. And to think he prepared only for himself.
Then, I wondered about the two litres of iced tea. When Alex and I went visiting around Enns, our drinks were always for sharing, without question.
“Er… you prepared two litres of iced tea…” I queried.
“What’s wrong? It’s hot today. I’m a big guy…”
“OK…” So, that was for him only. Guess that was the way it was going to be.
I still had half a litre of syrup from Alex and decided not to waste it. Later, when I finished it, I asked Patrick for some iced tea and did not think much about it.
However, when we got back that evening, he told his wife in a smirking way, “Trisha LAUGHED at me this morning when she saw me preparing two litres of iced tea. And then, what happened later at the museum??? She HAD TO ASK me for some drinks… Hahaha…”
What the???
Bochum, GERMANY - 21 august 2002
The region of Ruhr had a coal-mining history. In fact, many places around here are now a little unstable (they might collapse anytime) due to past coal-mining activities. Coal-mining had now spread further north of this region.
We went to a coal-mining museum and it was thoroughly fascinating. Most tourists visited art or history museums in Europe, but an industry museum important to the local region was equally interesting too, I thought. I learnt a lot on this visit because Patrick is an engineer and he was perfect in explaining to me how the mechanics of shafts, tunnels, drilling, whatever, worked and the evolution of the various designs.
Insult for today, you ask? Well, Patrick brought me to a local kiosk in Bochum selling the original curry-wurst – that is sausage in curry sauce. There is even a song about it by a folk singer. Gosh, it was delicious. I bought another one when I was done.
That evening, he told his wife, “Trisha will not be able to have dinner tonight. She was SO GREEDY she ate TWO curry-wursts!! Hahahaa…”
Yeah yeah yeah… whatever… I had started to develop a layer of thicker skin by today.
Köln, GERMANY - 22 august 2002
To be very frank, I was a little relieved I headed out to Köln by myself today, without Patrick.
I mean, I was sure he did not mean those insults personally. He simply had to report to his wife whatever ‘interesting’ event that happened that day and I figured that was his way of enlivening things up with a little joke. Still, it was done in front of me, and they were in rather bad taste. But, what could I do? I was staying at his place. I had to be nice.
I thought, without him around today, there would be no chance for an insult but no…
I had taken a train that ended at a stop earlier than what was stated on the board. I could not understand why the train stopped. I was told to take a bus to Essen. As I could not understand German, I thought I needed a bus-ticket for the bus to Essen. I spent about 1 puzzling hour wandering around, trying to find out information and looking for a ticket dispenser or whatever before I realised my train ticket allowed me free access to the bus.
In the end, I figured perhaps the train stopped prematurely because of rail-works and passengers were transported to the next available train station for onward travel.
So, the whole journey home took me 3 hours and I arrived at 9:30pm or so.
“Trisha was SO STUPID. She could have taken this train to XXX and then, changed to YYY. But, instead she…”
Yadda yadda yadda.
Hattingen, GERMANY - 23 august 2002
By now, I was very wary of the things I did or said. I was just not a happy-camper anymore.
We got into the car after visiting the Steelworks Museum in Hattingen. Patrick spotted the open window at my side. He asked me if I had left the window open before we went into the museum or if I had just wound it down. I replied, “Of course, I just wound it down. I did not leave it open earlier. I’m not stupid.”
“Why not? You’re Chinese.”
Argh! Will this never end?
By dinner, due to something which I could not even remember now, he concluded with a flourish, “Well. This is ALL TRIsha’s Fault… like EVERYthing ELSe”.
When I heard this last one, I felt really hurt. I was very tempted to ask him if he wanted me to leave. I took a deep breath but said nothing. This was what I could not understand. He took leave from work and took great pride in showing me around and explaining things in details to me. Yet, I got slagged everyday. I fought within myself to remain silent. I still had one more night to go, I told myself.
Iserlohn & Altena, GERMANY - 24 august 2002
It was my birthday today. Surprisingly, Patrick and his wife remembered it and got me a cake and even gave me a video of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’. I was really thankful I did not confront him about his remarks yesterday. It would have been made today terribly awkward. Frankly, I was now really touched by their sweet gestures. Yeah, they are nice people. They just had weird ways of treating their guests.
He treated me for the entrance fees of Dechenhohle cave in Iserlohn and Brug Altena. While not world-famous, the cave and the medieval castle were really very interesting in their own ways. I enjoyed them very much. And I am happy to report, there was no insult today.
Witten, GERMANY to Beverwijk, NETHERLANDS - 25 august 2002
Due to a misjudge of distance, I had to travel to Frankfurt to fly to Amsterdam, Netherlands. This would go down as one of the most stupid decisions I made. Witten is probably closer to Amsterdam by train, than it is to Frankfurt.
When I got my RTW tickets, I had assumed that being in Germany, I could travel to Frankfurt easily and fly to Amsterdam. The cost of flying FRA-AMS would already be included in the price.
But now, looking at the map, I realised I was wrong. Yet due to some complications, my travel agent suggested against cancelling the ticket.
So, I travelled 3½ hours to Frankfurt, waited 4 hours at the airport and took 1 hour to fly to Amsterdam. I could have reached Amsterdam in 2½ hours’ time this morning.
Anyway, I was greeted with a wide smile by Maria at the airport, a friend I made in my trip to Southern Africa in 1998. It was wonderful to see her again and now she has a 2-year-old son and is pregnant with another.
I journeyed from Enns to Linz and onwards to Bochum in Germany by train.
Sheesh… The price for transportation in Western Europe was really shocking. My 4-day-3-night train ride from Irkutsk to Moscow in Russia cost me around US$80. But this 9-hour train ride from Enns to Bochum was a whooping US$130.
And why Bochum? I have an email friend who lives in nearby Witten whom I have been in contact for five years or so. He recently invited me to his wedding which I could not attend. So, I decided to visit him and his wife during my RTW. After all, this was the closest I would get to Europe in a long while.
However, my first impression of him was rather unpleasant. I know, I am being such a horrible person now. Here was someone who let me stay at his place for free and I was being critical. But hear me out, bitte…
Names had been changed to protect the guilty. He shall henceforth be known as… Patrick.
During our dinner, Patrick’s conversation was full of slaggings and slammings of all nationalities surrounding his country and countrymen not from his region were also not spared. Words in capital letters were done with an especially nasty sneer.
“Oh… THAT is SO TYPical… those ENGlish!”
“Well, what do you expect from those CHEEse-ROLLers? That’s why THEY are the DUTch and WE are the GERmans…”
“Argh!! They are the EAST GERmans, you see…”
“Oh, that is SO BAVARian!!”
“Austrians? We never think about them…”
Feeling a little awkward about it all, I went to bed wondering what the rest of my stay here with them would be like.
Hagen, GERMANY - 20 august 2002
Today, Patrick took me to an outdoor museum in Hagen showcasing the traditional crafts of the Ruhr river region. The crafts mainly made use of water-wheel technology and river power to cast iron into chains, axles, scythes, nails, etc… The old traditional black-and-white timber houses had been taken down and rebuilt at this site so as to show how and ‘where’ the original crafts were made. It was a rather interesting open-air museum.
The morning when we left, I had observed Patrick fill up two litres of iced tea in his bottles. Then, after he prepared a sandwich, he put everything back into the refrigerator and cupboard. He stood staring at me. Finally, he asked, “Aren’t you preparing anything for lunch?”
“Er… Oh. There is no chance for lunch there?”
“No.” he replied.
Oh. OK. I started dragging everything out from the fridge and cupboard again to make my own sandwich. I thought it was strange. He could have suggested it earlier before he chucked everything back in. And to think he prepared only for himself.
Then, I wondered about the two litres of iced tea. When Alex and I went visiting around Enns, our drinks were always for sharing, without question.
“Er… you prepared two litres of iced tea…” I queried.
“What’s wrong? It’s hot today. I’m a big guy…”
“OK…” So, that was for him only. Guess that was the way it was going to be.
I still had half a litre of syrup from Alex and decided not to waste it. Later, when I finished it, I asked Patrick for some iced tea and did not think much about it.
However, when we got back that evening, he told his wife in a smirking way, “Trisha LAUGHED at me this morning when she saw me preparing two litres of iced tea. And then, what happened later at the museum??? She HAD TO ASK me for some drinks… Hahaha…”
What the???
Bochum, GERMANY - 21 august 2002
The region of Ruhr had a coal-mining history. In fact, many places around here are now a little unstable (they might collapse anytime) due to past coal-mining activities. Coal-mining had now spread further north of this region.
We went to a coal-mining museum and it was thoroughly fascinating. Most tourists visited art or history museums in Europe, but an industry museum important to the local region was equally interesting too, I thought. I learnt a lot on this visit because Patrick is an engineer and he was perfect in explaining to me how the mechanics of shafts, tunnels, drilling, whatever, worked and the evolution of the various designs.
Insult for today, you ask? Well, Patrick brought me to a local kiosk in Bochum selling the original curry-wurst – that is sausage in curry sauce. There is even a song about it by a folk singer. Gosh, it was delicious. I bought another one when I was done.
That evening, he told his wife, “Trisha will not be able to have dinner tonight. She was SO GREEDY she ate TWO curry-wursts!! Hahahaa…”
Yeah yeah yeah… whatever… I had started to develop a layer of thicker skin by today.
Köln, GERMANY - 22 august 2002
To be very frank, I was a little relieved I headed out to Köln by myself today, without Patrick.
I mean, I was sure he did not mean those insults personally. He simply had to report to his wife whatever ‘interesting’ event that happened that day and I figured that was his way of enlivening things up with a little joke. Still, it was done in front of me, and they were in rather bad taste. But, what could I do? I was staying at his place. I had to be nice.
I thought, without him around today, there would be no chance for an insult but no…
I had taken a train that ended at a stop earlier than what was stated on the board. I could not understand why the train stopped. I was told to take a bus to Essen. As I could not understand German, I thought I needed a bus-ticket for the bus to Essen. I spent about 1 puzzling hour wandering around, trying to find out information and looking for a ticket dispenser or whatever before I realised my train ticket allowed me free access to the bus.
In the end, I figured perhaps the train stopped prematurely because of rail-works and passengers were transported to the next available train station for onward travel.
So, the whole journey home took me 3 hours and I arrived at 9:30pm or so.
“Trisha was SO STUPID. She could have taken this train to XXX and then, changed to YYY. But, instead she…”
Yadda yadda yadda.
Hattingen, GERMANY - 23 august 2002
By now, I was very wary of the things I did or said. I was just not a happy-camper anymore.
We got into the car after visiting the Steelworks Museum in Hattingen. Patrick spotted the open window at my side. He asked me if I had left the window open before we went into the museum or if I had just wound it down. I replied, “Of course, I just wound it down. I did not leave it open earlier. I’m not stupid.”
“Why not? You’re Chinese.”
Argh! Will this never end?
By dinner, due to something which I could not even remember now, he concluded with a flourish, “Well. This is ALL TRIsha’s Fault… like EVERYthing ELSe”.
When I heard this last one, I felt really hurt. I was very tempted to ask him if he wanted me to leave. I took a deep breath but said nothing. This was what I could not understand. He took leave from work and took great pride in showing me around and explaining things in details to me. Yet, I got slagged everyday. I fought within myself to remain silent. I still had one more night to go, I told myself.
Iserlohn & Altena, GERMANY - 24 august 2002
It was my birthday today. Surprisingly, Patrick and his wife remembered it and got me a cake and even gave me a video of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’. I was really thankful I did not confront him about his remarks yesterday. It would have been made today terribly awkward. Frankly, I was now really touched by their sweet gestures. Yeah, they are nice people. They just had weird ways of treating their guests.
He treated me for the entrance fees of Dechenhohle cave in Iserlohn and Brug Altena. While not world-famous, the cave and the medieval castle were really very interesting in their own ways. I enjoyed them very much. And I am happy to report, there was no insult today.
Witten, GERMANY to Beverwijk, NETHERLANDS - 25 august 2002
Due to a misjudge of distance, I had to travel to Frankfurt to fly to Amsterdam, Netherlands. This would go down as one of the most stupid decisions I made. Witten is probably closer to Amsterdam by train, than it is to Frankfurt.
When I got my RTW tickets, I had assumed that being in Germany, I could travel to Frankfurt easily and fly to Amsterdam. The cost of flying FRA-AMS would already be included in the price.
But now, looking at the map, I realised I was wrong. Yet due to some complications, my travel agent suggested against cancelling the ticket.
So, I travelled 3½ hours to Frankfurt, waited 4 hours at the airport and took 1 hour to fly to Amsterdam. I could have reached Amsterdam in 2½ hours’ time this morning.
Anyway, I was greeted with a wide smile by Maria at the airport, a friend I made in my trip to Southern Africa in 1998. It was wonderful to see her again and now she has a 2-year-old son and is pregnant with another.
Sunday, August 18, 2002
10 - The Rainy Horror Picture Show (Vienna, Enns, Salzburg)
Vienna to Enns, AUSTRIA - 15 august 2002
I was too cheap to buy a sleeper ticket and had paid for a seat for the night train to Vienna last night. After the wonderful and, now I realised, wonderfully cheap sleeper trains in China and Russia, sleeping 8 or so hours curled up on two seats was not nice, although I admit that I was lucky I had two seats to curl up on.
I arrived in Vienna, not in the best of mood. I made my way to Enns, a small town and waited for Alex. I had travelled with Alex for the first ten days of my trip, around Dali and Lijiang in China. He had mentioned that I should go visit him in Austria, since I was heading to Europe. So, I took him up on his offer.
It was great to meet him again! Alex quickly updated me on the latest news. Unbeknownst to me, the rain that I had been whining and whinging about in Poland, had apparently caused massive floods in Czech Republic, Eastern Germany, Austria, Northern Italy, etc… In fact, I had most likely just missed the floods in Enns by a day or two. I was totally clueless about this when in Poland. I was absolutely cut off from world news. That was the problem when you chose to study Trigonometry instead of Polish in school.
I interrogated him for more details. States of emergency had been declared in some towns in Eastern Germany and Western Czech Republic. He said it was amazing that I even crossed the border through Czech Republic and onwards to Austria this morning. He thought I would be stuck in Czech Republic. I had fixed this date to meet Alex. But before I went to Zakopane, I was actually tempted to go to Prague for a visit instead. Just before I reserved the ticket, I was still thinking - Prague or Zakopane? Prague or Zakopane? So, in a way, I was lucky I went to Zakopane. I heard Prague was thoroughly flooded now.
Alex told me the roads to Salzburg and Czech Republic had been closed for a couple of days. Everyone knew someone whose house was flooded; some houses were flooded up to 10cm below the ceiling! 40,000 new cars that had just arrived at a factory now needed to be written off the accounts, it seemed. It was just today that the flood appeared to have receded.
Enns is a small town, with nothing going on. Today was a public holiday in Austria. That meant dead towns everywhere anyway. Alex brought me up to the clock tower and showed me bits of his town - the Danube river, the Enns river, where the rivers met, a church, where he went through his horrible army experience, another church, a concentration camp, etc… What I remembered more was, of course, the lovely home-cooked meal courtesy of Alex’s mom - schnitzel and salad! Boy, I had been so looking forward to this since… yeah, Russia! Lovely, yummy, warm, nutritious food.
We drove out to Linz, the major town nearby, and checked out the river level. The river was flowing strongly and very dangerously near the top of the banks, threatening to flood over anytime. But he believed the worst was over for Austria. Not for the Czech Republic and Germany though.
We then drove out to a spot near a dam of Enns river where he usually went swimming. We walked across the dam and to his horrors, the pavement leading to where he went for his swims was totally carved out by the floods. We could see fragments of the tarred road jutting out way across in the river, near the opposite bank. How did they get there? The force needed to gouge out the paved road and then fling the twisted bitumen across to the opposite bank and lodge there in the raging river must had been immense! He was almost in tears. His beloved tiny little spot! The trees used to line about 1.5 metres from the bank. But now, they were all uprooted and cleared, leaving a 5 metre or so gap between the bank and the remaining trees.
Alex’s mom was obsessed about the floods and kept switching channels to the news, reporting about the floods. It looked really bad.
Salzburg, AUSTRIA - 16 august 2002
Amazingly, it was sunny and blue today. I had not seen this sort of weather for many days now. The road to Salzburg was clear, Alex learnt from the internet. We could head to Salzburg today.
I had loved the movie ‘The Sound of Music’ and must have watched it ten times or so. It would be nice to visit the town where it was filmed. Not that I could remember the scenes, I was not that obsessed. But I found it strange that Alex had never watched this movie before.
Salzburg looked really grand just as we approached it. There was a huge mountain in the middle of the town, seemingly getting in the way of everything. But the authorities had converted the mountain into a city car-park. How ingenious. We expected to see many Mozart imposters but spotted only one. The rest must had taken time off in view of the floods.
This must be the most touristy town in Austria, I figured. Everywhere were souvenir stalls and milling tourists checking out souvenirs. One tacky souvenir read: ‘THERE ARE NO KANGAROOS IN AUSTRIA’. Well, we could guess which nationality of tourists that was written for.
I was told that all shops along the streets in the main square had to have their decorations in line with the town council’s requirements to keep the authentic style and maintain the charm. Lovely, intricate, Baroque-style (I may be wrong about the style here but it looked Baroque to me) wrought-iron sign-boards stuck out from the shop-fronts. It was picture-perfect everywhere. And I had not even started on the mountain scenery around.
Up at the castle on the hill, Alex pointed out “All this lovely mountain area is Austria. Beautiful, huh? The flat boring bit over there is Germany.”
On the way back to Enns, we stopped by Lake Traunsee in Gmunden briefly and admired the castle. Upon reaching home, we received more news about the flood catastrophe on the news channels. Cars were swept away, entire towns went under, chemical leak from factories, etc… Gosh!
Windischgarsten, AUSTRIA - 17 august 2002
We decided to head out for a drive around the mountains today. We had no particular destination in mind. I was not really keen on visiting the famous sights in Europe. I had come to Europe to drop by and visit the friends I have here. It would be nice to see where they live, how it is like to hang out in a regular town. It was also chilling-out time for me before I embarked on my trip to South America.
The road, at first, was curvy and it cut through undulating farm-lands and meadows. There was nothing much to see out there, and yet everything looked really pretty. Soon, rolling hills graduated to alpine heights. Houses and cattle lined the valley, with the Alps to the left and right of us. It was very peaceful and scenic. The air was crystal clear. Of the five years most likely shaven off from my lifetime for inhaling copious amount of second-hand smoke in China, I probably earned back about half a year or so just by breathing in Austrian air.
We turned up a mountain road and stopped by a lovely little restaurant. It had started to rain, unfortunately. The fog covered up the mountains around us and clouds slowly rolled in.
The variety of dairy products here in Austria was mind-boggling. At the restaurant, I puzzled over ‘topfen’ in the menu. Alex had looked up his Deutsch-Englisch dictionary to try and describe ‘topfen’ to me. It was curd cheese or cream cheese. Whatever. That meant absolutely nothing to me. The only cheese my mom bothered to buy from the supermarket came sliced and individually wrapped. He ordered butter-milk. Sourish and not bad. But the name put me off.
We stopped by Windischgarsten on the way back. This is a beautiful, quiet little town with gorgeous houses, complete with tiny, colourful flowers sticking out of most windows, lining the winding alleys. The buildings were all from 1700 / 1800 or so, lovingly restored, with descriptions on what they were used for since they were built – tailor, bakery, shop, etc… Charming.
Another traditional culture of Austria to sample is the confectionary-café culture. There were all these lavishly-decorated cakes staring at you from the counters. One would order the cakes and some coffee and sit on the lovely seats and table and while away the time, like what the immaculately-dressed elderly ladies around us were doing. This was definitely NOT Starbucks.
Alex spotted in the newspaper a picture of Cesky Krumlov, an old town in Czech Republic just across the border where he frequently went with his friends. It was also hit badly by the floods, he sighed.
Cesky Krumlov & Ceske Budejovice, CZECH REPUBLIC - 18 august 2002
Despite news about the floods in Cesky Krumlov, we were curious to head out there to survey the flooded regions.
“OK, if we leave at 9am, we could get there by 12 noon or so, in time for lunch.” I had explained last night, when planning the time to go to Czech Republic.
“3 hours?!?! Where do you think we are going? I-T-A-L-Y?? It’s just 1 hour to the border!” This was Alex’s way of telling me he refused to wake up early.
Oh, OK… Austria is small, unlike Russia. I needed to think SMALL now.
We parked our car somewhere and walked towards the gate that led to the city centre. There was a soldier stationed there with a barrier across to block people from entering. Apparently, Cesky Krumlov was now closed and only residents could go in. Alex muttered something vague to soldier in German and we strode in. He did not even bother to challenge us.
The road just around the bridge was gone. The bitumen was twisted and broken into pieces, revealing the rocks underneath. At the bridge, I watched in horrors the sheer force of the water crashing along. It was frightening. The water level was just a hint below the banks now. But one could make out the wet lines on the side of the buildings and it was really high.
All the shops were closed, of course. Gloomy residents were tossing out boxes, cardboards, cupboards. I tried to imagine if my home was flooded all the way up to three-quarters of the height of the room. EVERYTHING but EVERYTHING would be destroyed. The residents all looked harassed and solemn. The smell of cleaning detergent was in the air. Many were wiping down furniture and cookers and cleaning the floor. We dared not look into the cellars.
The town is still pretty although the air hanging around was quiet and sad. Then, a group of chatting Taiwanese tourists arrived and merrily snapped pictures of the fortress, etc…
On the way back to Austria after a late lunch, we drove through windy roads with the forest on either side. The ladies with bad eye make-up, messed-up hair and tight skimpy dresses you saw standing along the side of the road were NOT hitch-hikers looking for a ride. Well, they WERE looking for a ride, in a sense… if you know what I mean, at a price. Gosh, they looked terrible. Alex wanted to stop by the side to trick them. Once she came running, we would speed off again. We spotted a couple in the woods. Further on, a car was parked by the side. We zoomed by too fast to see if the car was rocking side to side. It had an ‘A’ Euro plate. ‘A’ for ‘Austria’. I had been trained so far by Alex on how to recognise where the European cars were registered to.
“Hmmm… Why ‘A’ for ‘Austria’? And not ‘Ö’ for ‘Österreich’?”, I wondered.
“Because we spell it in English that way,” Alex replied promptly.
“Yeah? Then, explain ‘D’ for ‘Deutschland’ and ‘E’ for ‘España’.”
Silence…
“Sh*t!! W-H-Y???” he barked now.
I was too cheap to buy a sleeper ticket and had paid for a seat for the night train to Vienna last night. After the wonderful and, now I realised, wonderfully cheap sleeper trains in China and Russia, sleeping 8 or so hours curled up on two seats was not nice, although I admit that I was lucky I had two seats to curl up on.
I arrived in Vienna, not in the best of mood. I made my way to Enns, a small town and waited for Alex. I had travelled with Alex for the first ten days of my trip, around Dali and Lijiang in China. He had mentioned that I should go visit him in Austria, since I was heading to Europe. So, I took him up on his offer.
It was great to meet him again! Alex quickly updated me on the latest news. Unbeknownst to me, the rain that I had been whining and whinging about in Poland, had apparently caused massive floods in Czech Republic, Eastern Germany, Austria, Northern Italy, etc… In fact, I had most likely just missed the floods in Enns by a day or two. I was totally clueless about this when in Poland. I was absolutely cut off from world news. That was the problem when you chose to study Trigonometry instead of Polish in school.
I interrogated him for more details. States of emergency had been declared in some towns in Eastern Germany and Western Czech Republic. He said it was amazing that I even crossed the border through Czech Republic and onwards to Austria this morning. He thought I would be stuck in Czech Republic. I had fixed this date to meet Alex. But before I went to Zakopane, I was actually tempted to go to Prague for a visit instead. Just before I reserved the ticket, I was still thinking - Prague or Zakopane? Prague or Zakopane? So, in a way, I was lucky I went to Zakopane. I heard Prague was thoroughly flooded now.
Alex told me the roads to Salzburg and Czech Republic had been closed for a couple of days. Everyone knew someone whose house was flooded; some houses were flooded up to 10cm below the ceiling! 40,000 new cars that had just arrived at a factory now needed to be written off the accounts, it seemed. It was just today that the flood appeared to have receded.
Enns is a small town, with nothing going on. Today was a public holiday in Austria. That meant dead towns everywhere anyway. Alex brought me up to the clock tower and showed me bits of his town - the Danube river, the Enns river, where the rivers met, a church, where he went through his horrible army experience, another church, a concentration camp, etc… What I remembered more was, of course, the lovely home-cooked meal courtesy of Alex’s mom - schnitzel and salad! Boy, I had been so looking forward to this since… yeah, Russia! Lovely, yummy, warm, nutritious food.
We drove out to Linz, the major town nearby, and checked out the river level. The river was flowing strongly and very dangerously near the top of the banks, threatening to flood over anytime. But he believed the worst was over for Austria. Not for the Czech Republic and Germany though.
We then drove out to a spot near a dam of Enns river where he usually went swimming. We walked across the dam and to his horrors, the pavement leading to where he went for his swims was totally carved out by the floods. We could see fragments of the tarred road jutting out way across in the river, near the opposite bank. How did they get there? The force needed to gouge out the paved road and then fling the twisted bitumen across to the opposite bank and lodge there in the raging river must had been immense! He was almost in tears. His beloved tiny little spot! The trees used to line about 1.5 metres from the bank. But now, they were all uprooted and cleared, leaving a 5 metre or so gap between the bank and the remaining trees.
Alex’s mom was obsessed about the floods and kept switching channels to the news, reporting about the floods. It looked really bad.
Salzburg, AUSTRIA - 16 august 2002
Amazingly, it was sunny and blue today. I had not seen this sort of weather for many days now. The road to Salzburg was clear, Alex learnt from the internet. We could head to Salzburg today.
I had loved the movie ‘The Sound of Music’ and must have watched it ten times or so. It would be nice to visit the town where it was filmed. Not that I could remember the scenes, I was not that obsessed. But I found it strange that Alex had never watched this movie before.
Salzburg looked really grand just as we approached it. There was a huge mountain in the middle of the town, seemingly getting in the way of everything. But the authorities had converted the mountain into a city car-park. How ingenious. We expected to see many Mozart imposters but spotted only one. The rest must had taken time off in view of the floods.
This must be the most touristy town in Austria, I figured. Everywhere were souvenir stalls and milling tourists checking out souvenirs. One tacky souvenir read: ‘THERE ARE NO KANGAROOS IN AUSTRIA’. Well, we could guess which nationality of tourists that was written for.
I was told that all shops along the streets in the main square had to have their decorations in line with the town council’s requirements to keep the authentic style and maintain the charm. Lovely, intricate, Baroque-style (I may be wrong about the style here but it looked Baroque to me) wrought-iron sign-boards stuck out from the shop-fronts. It was picture-perfect everywhere. And I had not even started on the mountain scenery around.
Up at the castle on the hill, Alex pointed out “All this lovely mountain area is Austria. Beautiful, huh? The flat boring bit over there is Germany.”
On the way back to Enns, we stopped by Lake Traunsee in Gmunden briefly and admired the castle. Upon reaching home, we received more news about the flood catastrophe on the news channels. Cars were swept away, entire towns went under, chemical leak from factories, etc… Gosh!
Windischgarsten, AUSTRIA - 17 august 2002
We decided to head out for a drive around the mountains today. We had no particular destination in mind. I was not really keen on visiting the famous sights in Europe. I had come to Europe to drop by and visit the friends I have here. It would be nice to see where they live, how it is like to hang out in a regular town. It was also chilling-out time for me before I embarked on my trip to South America.
The road, at first, was curvy and it cut through undulating farm-lands and meadows. There was nothing much to see out there, and yet everything looked really pretty. Soon, rolling hills graduated to alpine heights. Houses and cattle lined the valley, with the Alps to the left and right of us. It was very peaceful and scenic. The air was crystal clear. Of the five years most likely shaven off from my lifetime for inhaling copious amount of second-hand smoke in China, I probably earned back about half a year or so just by breathing in Austrian air.
We turned up a mountain road and stopped by a lovely little restaurant. It had started to rain, unfortunately. The fog covered up the mountains around us and clouds slowly rolled in.
The variety of dairy products here in Austria was mind-boggling. At the restaurant, I puzzled over ‘topfen’ in the menu. Alex had looked up his Deutsch-Englisch dictionary to try and describe ‘topfen’ to me. It was curd cheese or cream cheese. Whatever. That meant absolutely nothing to me. The only cheese my mom bothered to buy from the supermarket came sliced and individually wrapped. He ordered butter-milk. Sourish and not bad. But the name put me off.
We stopped by Windischgarsten on the way back. This is a beautiful, quiet little town with gorgeous houses, complete with tiny, colourful flowers sticking out of most windows, lining the winding alleys. The buildings were all from 1700 / 1800 or so, lovingly restored, with descriptions on what they were used for since they were built – tailor, bakery, shop, etc… Charming.
Another traditional culture of Austria to sample is the confectionary-café culture. There were all these lavishly-decorated cakes staring at you from the counters. One would order the cakes and some coffee and sit on the lovely seats and table and while away the time, like what the immaculately-dressed elderly ladies around us were doing. This was definitely NOT Starbucks.
Alex spotted in the newspaper a picture of Cesky Krumlov, an old town in Czech Republic just across the border where he frequently went with his friends. It was also hit badly by the floods, he sighed.
Cesky Krumlov & Ceske Budejovice, CZECH REPUBLIC - 18 august 2002
Despite news about the floods in Cesky Krumlov, we were curious to head out there to survey the flooded regions.
“OK, if we leave at 9am, we could get there by 12 noon or so, in time for lunch.” I had explained last night, when planning the time to go to Czech Republic.
“3 hours?!?! Where do you think we are going? I-T-A-L-Y?? It’s just 1 hour to the border!” This was Alex’s way of telling me he refused to wake up early.
Oh, OK… Austria is small, unlike Russia. I needed to think SMALL now.
We parked our car somewhere and walked towards the gate that led to the city centre. There was a soldier stationed there with a barrier across to block people from entering. Apparently, Cesky Krumlov was now closed and only residents could go in. Alex muttered something vague to soldier in German and we strode in. He did not even bother to challenge us.
The road just around the bridge was gone. The bitumen was twisted and broken into pieces, revealing the rocks underneath. At the bridge, I watched in horrors the sheer force of the water crashing along. It was frightening. The water level was just a hint below the banks now. But one could make out the wet lines on the side of the buildings and it was really high.
All the shops were closed, of course. Gloomy residents were tossing out boxes, cardboards, cupboards. I tried to imagine if my home was flooded all the way up to three-quarters of the height of the room. EVERYTHING but EVERYTHING would be destroyed. The residents all looked harassed and solemn. The smell of cleaning detergent was in the air. Many were wiping down furniture and cookers and cleaning the floor. We dared not look into the cellars.
The town is still pretty although the air hanging around was quiet and sad. Then, a group of chatting Taiwanese tourists arrived and merrily snapped pictures of the fortress, etc…
On the way back to Austria after a late lunch, we drove through windy roads with the forest on either side. The ladies with bad eye make-up, messed-up hair and tight skimpy dresses you saw standing along the side of the road were NOT hitch-hikers looking for a ride. Well, they WERE looking for a ride, in a sense… if you know what I mean, at a price. Gosh, they looked terrible. Alex wanted to stop by the side to trick them. Once she came running, we would speed off again. We spotted a couple in the woods. Further on, a car was parked by the side. We zoomed by too fast to see if the car was rocking side to side. It had an ‘A’ Euro plate. ‘A’ for ‘Austria’. I had been trained so far by Alex on how to recognise where the European cars were registered to.
“Hmmm… Why ‘A’ for ‘Austria’? And not ‘Ö’ for ‘Österreich’?”, I wondered.
“Because we spell it in English that way,” Alex replied promptly.
“Yeah? Then, explain ‘D’ for ‘Deutschland’ and ‘E’ for ‘España’.”
Silence…
“Sh*t!! W-H-Y???” he barked now.
Wednesday, August 14, 2002
10 - The Rainy Horror Picture Show (Warsaw, Krakow, Zakopane)
Warsaw, POLAND - 07 august 2002
I did not sleep well because I kept imagining the border guards would come banging on the train compartment door any moment. But the first knocks came only at 5am, more than 12 hours after we left Moscow. Yeah, one needed to think BIG in Russia.
Hot-looking Red-head had helped me earlier with her ‘little’ English to fill up the customs declaration form, which was naturally printed entirely in Russian. So, through her help, I accurately ticked ‘NYET’ in the section which asked if I was in possession of firearms, drugs, antiques, bombs, ballet tutus… I should not have any problems leaving Russia.
The Belarussian border guards, however, took a long time to try and match my gorgeous photograph against my 5am face. He even gestured at me to tuck my 5am hair behind my ears for easier comparison. He gave up and handed my passport over to his colleague. This one, hopefully with a less stringent eye, eyeballed me for a long time, eyes flickering up-down-up-down. They must be thinking, “Darn, these Asians all look alike!! This could be Jackie Chan!” I decided to put on my dazzling smile much like what I did in the photo. That somehow did the trick and my passport was handed back.
The Polish border guard had to radio back to check whether I needed a visa to enter Poland. Again, I was eyed sternly with suspicion. After interrogating me and establishing that I only wanted to visit Warsaw and Krakow, in other words, I was not going to stay more than 30 days… I was released. Phew.
After Russia, Warsaw looked modern, civilised, efficient and smart. The streets looked clean, the trams looked new, the atmosphere felt friendlier. And then, I went and sprained my ankle on one of those cobbled-stoned streets. Great.
I had arranged to meet a friend whom I met over the internet, Kasia. Surprisingly, she could sneak out of her office during the day. She met up with me to show me a wee bit of Warsaw. Apparently, she said it had been raining for days before and today, I had brought sunshine. Oh, how lucky.
We wandered down to the Old Square of Warsaw. I was very impressed with the square, actually. It had a wonderful atmosphere and looked really pretty. I always love charming little lanes and cozy alleyways that twist and turn. I guess my impression of places was always better when the sun was shining and the day was beautiful. But still, to think the entire city of Warsaw was bombed to the ground during WWII and all these ‘old’ buildings were reconstructed based on paintings by an artist because the original floor-plans were all destroyed (naturally, Kasia filled me in on this), the whole town square looked pretty authentic.
Throughout the spin, I kept my eyes occasionally on the chests of Polish women and realised the Nipple-mania I had observed in Russia was apparently non-existent here. So, what I had thought was a European phenomenon was actually just a Russian one. Well, you could not say I was NOT being observant of the cultural differences between countries.
We skipped south to Łazienki Gardens. Well, I hobbled painfully because my ankle had swollen to the size of a pregnant ankle. There was a breathtaking photo exhibition called EARTH FROM ABOVE by aerial photographer Yann-Arthus Bertrand. The unbelievably stunning photos taken from around the world were lined around the entire park. The photographer had published a book recently. Please visit www.yannarthusbertrand.com to see what I mean. The photos are spectacular.
Warsaw to Krakow, POLAND - 08 august 2002
I left for Krakow with a room-mate, Doris from London. Once again, like Warsaw, there was a stupid hostel rule where one could not check-in when the hostel was ‘closed from 10am - 5pm’. We had to coax the receptionist to get out of her room, give us the luggage-room key so that we could store our backpacks in there. I bet she got rustled into action during the entire 10am - 5pm period as travellers came streaming in at all hours. So, one wondered why not just let us check-in during this period.
Krakow was even more charming and prettier than Warsaw. It was raining just slightly. Krakow had never been destroyed so most building and streets were the original ones. The Old Town was set in the town centre, encircled by a park called Planty. The square was very busy and, if one could believe the guide-book I borrowed from Doris, this square is the second-largest pigeon rearing farm after San Marco’s Square in Venice, Italy.
Yes, the pigeons were everywhere and I kept wondering when I would step on one of them and crrruush their tiny bones under my boot, or send one tumbling with a kick (preferably from my one good foot). Hmmm… actually, we were at risk as well. I should watch out for when to duck when they flew en masse blindly towards me and pray that they did not mistake me for the statue in the middle of the square where their favourite toilet appeared to be.
There was also Pope John Paul II mania going on here. He would be returning to his home town next week for a visit and everybody was looking forward to it. Well, many feared this might be his last chance to visit Krakow. There were posters and books about the Pope on sale everywhere. Penguin-like nuns, some wearing the stiff cardboard head-gears, had flocked to Krakow as well to await his visit.
I stumbled upon a cinema screening ‘Gosford Park’. I wanted to watch this. I had not watched a movie since the Mongollywood experience in Ulaan Baator. Sure, that left me panting for more. I bought the ticket for 8:30pm tonight. Then, I remembered the stupid hostel had a curfew at 11pm. I could not get used to these rules. I was not a party animal so I did not need to be out at night most of the time, but still, this was an annoyance.
Thankfully, I caught the last tram just when it was about to leave but I had risked my life dashing across the road to catch it. And I just slipped in before the clock struck 11pm.
Auschwitz, POLAND - 09 august 2002
Doris and I went to the Auschwitz Museum today because it would be her birthday tomorrow and she did not fancy visiting Auschwitz on her birthday. Auschwitz was one of the group of concentration camps set up during WWII by the Nazis.
We arrived just in time to watch the introductory movie and then, we went on the organised tour. As befitting the solemn mood, it started to drizzle. I would certainly recommend going on a tour here. The images and exhibits you see in the rooms of this ex-concentration camp will leave deeper impressions on you with explanations from the excellent tour-guide. Her for-you-to-ponder pauses, her grim descriptions, her drawing your attention to the details of the exhibits, left us thoughtful, sad and horrified.
I could not begin to explain this… but, one wonders about the extremely thin line between humans and monsters. Why? How? What went through their minds? How could they become like that? No answers, then or now. But the worst were the victims condemned to the camps. How they had suffered.
The lump of spectacles were not just a lump of twisted metal and broken glass. Each had belonged to an individual. The mountain of hair was not just a mountain of lopped-off curls. Each lock was shorn from a lady. The wall of suitcases was not just bags and luggage stacked up one on top of another. Each had belonged to a person, old or young, who had written his or her name, date of birth and address, meaning to retrieve it.
While the images and stories left us horrified, visiting Auschwitz was essential to me. One could attribute the practices of ‘those Aztec barbarians’, for example, who sacrificed thousands of people to their Gods, pierced into their chests to yank out their pumping hearts, etc… to ‘myths’ and ‘ancient practices’. Whatever. But the Holocaust had occurred in the 20th century. One could not turn a blind eye to it.
Wieliczka, POLAND - 10 august 2002
On a more cheerful note, in view of Doris’ birthday today, we visited the Wieliczka Salt Mine. Judging from the patient queue standing in the rain, it must be a very popular spot with the locals.
Descending 200+ steps down to 90+ metres below brought us to a series of tunnels and chambers. There were sculptures, mostly on the history, practices, even legends of salt-mining, carved out of salt. The salt was 90% pure, mixed with gravel and sand, giving it a greenish tinge. One section even had tacky gnomes!
The timber used to construct the shafts, stairs and tunnel-supports, were dated from 300+ years ago. The salt in the air had preserved the wood. Ironically, some of the salt sculptures themselves were ‘eroded’ away either by itchy fingers from tourists or moisture from the air. We were, however, allowed to touch the ceiling of a particular tunnel which had ‘cauliflower’ salt and scratch some out for a taste. Here, it was 100% salt.
The most impressive sight was the huge chamber-church which looked as big as a regular church. In fact, weddings could be held here. Everything was carved from salt. The chandeliers dangled 100% salt crystals. There was even a ‘The Last Supper’ 3-dimensional ‘painting’. It was only 10 cm thick but looked like the table was set in front of a deep room. A Pope John Paul II statue was there as well. I hope this time, he would have the chance to see it. This was apparently constructed for him before his last visit to Krakow but in the end, he had to cancel the trip, much to everyone’s disappointment.
Krakow to Zakopane, POLAND - 11 august 2002
Doris and I journeyed south to Zakopane, a mountain resort near the Tatra Mountains. We stayed in a charming hotel with wooden floor-boards and high beams and ceilings. Yes, finally, we could pop in and out of our room any time we liked.
The main thoroughfare had been pedestrianised and was filled with touristy stores. Another very obvious thing here in Poland was the large number of ice-cream and waffle stalls. The Polish seem to love sweets and desserts. In Warsaw and Krakow as well, there were signs for ‘LODY’ (‘ice-cream’ in Polish) at every other street. And they were not just any ice-cream. They were Poland’s own brands. I had the most phenomenal ice-cream here in Poland ever in my life. The Polish are so lucky! I am very sorry I had forgotten the name of the most delicious, heavenly brand but it was sold from ice-boxes with green letterings, starting with ‘Z’. Anyway, you would not miss it if you come to Poland. It is the best, the creamiest I had ever tasted. Despite my miserly ways, I willingly forked out money for lodys. My best memories of Poland were ice-cream-related.
Lake Morsie Oko, POLAND - 12 august 2002
It was drizzling miserably when we woke up. The weather had been rainy on and off these few days. Doris and I still wanted to go for a walk in the mountains and we prayed for good weather later. We took a bus to the Tatra Mountains region near the Slovakian border. There was a trek, we read, 9km long, that would take us to Lake Morsie Oko in the mountains.
This was not quite a trek in the mountains. It was a well-paved road meandering along the mountains and climbing gently to the lake. Kids and old people could do this trek without problems.
Misguided about how to treat a sprained ankle, I figured I should walk more in order to keep it flexible and get the blood circulating. The surrounding area was alpine and occasionally when the clouds broke, we could see the distant mountain peaks. Still, It was a lovely walk in the rain, though the trek was not quite what I had imagined.
However, by the time we arrived at the lake, the heavy clouds had closed in and rain starting to pelt down on us incessantly. Everyone hurried into the restaurant by the lake. What a shame. Instead of enjoying walks around the lake, everyone was cooped up in there. I refused to let this happen and when the sky seemed to clear a wee bit, I told Doris I wanted to circle the lake. She, however, preferred to stay in the stuffy restaurant.
It rained harder and harder as I walked around the lake. I did not care after a while. The scenery was mystical and serene. I walked right to the bottom of two waterfalls. My sprained ankle hurt every time I landed on it, but I still had a pleasant time.
The restaurant was packed to the max when I returned. More people had arrived at the lake and with no other shelter from the rain, everyone crammed in there. It was a miracle Doris even spotted me. But the trek back was tortuous. The rain was relentless. I am a flat-footer and after walking long distances, I tend to suffer desperately. Those darn arches… or rather, lack of arches. And now, coupled with a bad ankle that complained at every step, I was a wreck.
Somehow, although we took a shorter time to return, it felt much longer, like an eternity. “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I chanted in my mind. I figured I had walked a little less than 20km today. There better be no cellulite left on my thighs. We were thoroughly soaked, extremely miserable and exhausted when we arrived at the bus-stop. Everything was WET! Argh!!
That evening, after a nice hot shower and a nap, I had a good laugh while watching Polish TV. Movies screened in Poland were left in their original languages, with Polish subtitles added. But TV series suffered a terrible fate. They had their original language tuned to a lower volume and a guy… the most dead-panned, expressionless guy whose day job was probably doing make-up for the dearly-departed at the morgues, would do voice-overs for every single character in the programme - male or female, young or old. He actually just READ the script. No feelings, no exclamations, no surprises, nothing! Imagine when he did a love scene… It would sound like two humourless men making out. Eeeww!
Zakopane to Krakow, POLAND - 13 august 2002
I am sorry to report it was yet another wretchedly wet day today. I returned to Krakow and it rained for the rest of the day. I had no place to go during the 10am - 5pm lock-out period. I told you it was a stupid rule. So, I sat at the train station with homeless drunks milling around me, and wrote postcards.
Poland uses Latin alphabets. It was a nice change after the Cyrillic alphabets I had to mind-map while in Russia. Although I missed the good feeling I got when I could pronounce the Russian Cyrillic words, I was mighty pleased to be able to attempt to pronounce words at a glance now in Poland. Yet, my mind was still working overtime in this area.
I had known about the Polish alphabet which was an ‘l’ with a slanted line across – ‘ł’. Then, one day, I saw another new character and thought to myself, “Oh, they have another new ‘l’ that was similar to the ‘l’ with the slanted line. This one has a straight line across. OK, remember that.”
Stupid me. It took me 24 hours to realise a ‘l’ with a straight line across is good old ‘t’!!
Krakow, POLAND to Vienna, AUSTRIA - 14 august 2002
I had read from the guidebook that the Wawel Castle was free on a Wednesday. Well, it was not. With not enough złoty and unwilling to withdraw more, I simply walked around the castle grounds. The weather remained atrocious.
I would be taking the night train tonight to Vienna. Once again, I had nowhere to hide from the rain except at the train station and then, a quick dash to the Cloth Hall at the main square which had some seats. I spent the entire day, reading, updating my journal and freezing my butt off.
After dinner, I allowed myself a final ice-cream treat. But, of course.
Later, with 2.94zł left, I decided to head to the grocery shop and buy up the item that was priced at exactly 2.94zł. It would be fate, I told myself. I hunted high and low, and did not find fate. I decided to buy a few items that added up to 2.94zł or thereabouts. I must have looked really suspicious. I picked up a few items, did mental sums, walked around, returned them to the shelves, hesitated at the corner, could not decide what to buy, picked up other items, stopped by the cash register, decided not to buy these, went back to the shelves, etc… I noticed a staff member eyeing at me keenly. She was waiting for the chance to catch me red-handed at shop-lifting, I bet. Well, I had money… 2.94zł of it!
I did not sleep well because I kept imagining the border guards would come banging on the train compartment door any moment. But the first knocks came only at 5am, more than 12 hours after we left Moscow. Yeah, one needed to think BIG in Russia.
Hot-looking Red-head had helped me earlier with her ‘little’ English to fill up the customs declaration form, which was naturally printed entirely in Russian. So, through her help, I accurately ticked ‘NYET’ in the section which asked if I was in possession of firearms, drugs, antiques, bombs, ballet tutus… I should not have any problems leaving Russia.
The Belarussian border guards, however, took a long time to try and match my gorgeous photograph against my 5am face. He even gestured at me to tuck my 5am hair behind my ears for easier comparison. He gave up and handed my passport over to his colleague. This one, hopefully with a less stringent eye, eyeballed me for a long time, eyes flickering up-down-up-down. They must be thinking, “Darn, these Asians all look alike!! This could be Jackie Chan!” I decided to put on my dazzling smile much like what I did in the photo. That somehow did the trick and my passport was handed back.
The Polish border guard had to radio back to check whether I needed a visa to enter Poland. Again, I was eyed sternly with suspicion. After interrogating me and establishing that I only wanted to visit Warsaw and Krakow, in other words, I was not going to stay more than 30 days… I was released. Phew.
After Russia, Warsaw looked modern, civilised, efficient and smart. The streets looked clean, the trams looked new, the atmosphere felt friendlier. And then, I went and sprained my ankle on one of those cobbled-stoned streets. Great.
I had arranged to meet a friend whom I met over the internet, Kasia. Surprisingly, she could sneak out of her office during the day. She met up with me to show me a wee bit of Warsaw. Apparently, she said it had been raining for days before and today, I had brought sunshine. Oh, how lucky.
We wandered down to the Old Square of Warsaw. I was very impressed with the square, actually. It had a wonderful atmosphere and looked really pretty. I always love charming little lanes and cozy alleyways that twist and turn. I guess my impression of places was always better when the sun was shining and the day was beautiful. But still, to think the entire city of Warsaw was bombed to the ground during WWII and all these ‘old’ buildings were reconstructed based on paintings by an artist because the original floor-plans were all destroyed (naturally, Kasia filled me in on this), the whole town square looked pretty authentic.
Throughout the spin, I kept my eyes occasionally on the chests of Polish women and realised the Nipple-mania I had observed in Russia was apparently non-existent here. So, what I had thought was a European phenomenon was actually just a Russian one. Well, you could not say I was NOT being observant of the cultural differences between countries.
We skipped south to Łazienki Gardens. Well, I hobbled painfully because my ankle had swollen to the size of a pregnant ankle. There was a breathtaking photo exhibition called EARTH FROM ABOVE by aerial photographer Yann-Arthus Bertrand. The unbelievably stunning photos taken from around the world were lined around the entire park. The photographer had published a book recently. Please visit www.yannarthusbertrand.com to see what I mean. The photos are spectacular.
Warsaw to Krakow, POLAND - 08 august 2002
I left for Krakow with a room-mate, Doris from London. Once again, like Warsaw, there was a stupid hostel rule where one could not check-in when the hostel was ‘closed from 10am - 5pm’. We had to coax the receptionist to get out of her room, give us the luggage-room key so that we could store our backpacks in there. I bet she got rustled into action during the entire 10am - 5pm period as travellers came streaming in at all hours. So, one wondered why not just let us check-in during this period.
Krakow was even more charming and prettier than Warsaw. It was raining just slightly. Krakow had never been destroyed so most building and streets were the original ones. The Old Town was set in the town centre, encircled by a park called Planty. The square was very busy and, if one could believe the guide-book I borrowed from Doris, this square is the second-largest pigeon rearing farm after San Marco’s Square in Venice, Italy.
Yes, the pigeons were everywhere and I kept wondering when I would step on one of them and crrruush their tiny bones under my boot, or send one tumbling with a kick (preferably from my one good foot). Hmmm… actually, we were at risk as well. I should watch out for when to duck when they flew en masse blindly towards me and pray that they did not mistake me for the statue in the middle of the square where their favourite toilet appeared to be.
There was also Pope John Paul II mania going on here. He would be returning to his home town next week for a visit and everybody was looking forward to it. Well, many feared this might be his last chance to visit Krakow. There were posters and books about the Pope on sale everywhere. Penguin-like nuns, some wearing the stiff cardboard head-gears, had flocked to Krakow as well to await his visit.
I stumbled upon a cinema screening ‘Gosford Park’. I wanted to watch this. I had not watched a movie since the Mongollywood experience in Ulaan Baator. Sure, that left me panting for more. I bought the ticket for 8:30pm tonight. Then, I remembered the stupid hostel had a curfew at 11pm. I could not get used to these rules. I was not a party animal so I did not need to be out at night most of the time, but still, this was an annoyance.
Thankfully, I caught the last tram just when it was about to leave but I had risked my life dashing across the road to catch it. And I just slipped in before the clock struck 11pm.
Auschwitz, POLAND - 09 august 2002
Doris and I went to the Auschwitz Museum today because it would be her birthday tomorrow and she did not fancy visiting Auschwitz on her birthday. Auschwitz was one of the group of concentration camps set up during WWII by the Nazis.
We arrived just in time to watch the introductory movie and then, we went on the organised tour. As befitting the solemn mood, it started to drizzle. I would certainly recommend going on a tour here. The images and exhibits you see in the rooms of this ex-concentration camp will leave deeper impressions on you with explanations from the excellent tour-guide. Her for-you-to-ponder pauses, her grim descriptions, her drawing your attention to the details of the exhibits, left us thoughtful, sad and horrified.
I could not begin to explain this… but, one wonders about the extremely thin line between humans and monsters. Why? How? What went through their minds? How could they become like that? No answers, then or now. But the worst were the victims condemned to the camps. How they had suffered.
The lump of spectacles were not just a lump of twisted metal and broken glass. Each had belonged to an individual. The mountain of hair was not just a mountain of lopped-off curls. Each lock was shorn from a lady. The wall of suitcases was not just bags and luggage stacked up one on top of another. Each had belonged to a person, old or young, who had written his or her name, date of birth and address, meaning to retrieve it.
While the images and stories left us horrified, visiting Auschwitz was essential to me. One could attribute the practices of ‘those Aztec barbarians’, for example, who sacrificed thousands of people to their Gods, pierced into their chests to yank out their pumping hearts, etc… to ‘myths’ and ‘ancient practices’. Whatever. But the Holocaust had occurred in the 20th century. One could not turn a blind eye to it.
Wieliczka, POLAND - 10 august 2002
On a more cheerful note, in view of Doris’ birthday today, we visited the Wieliczka Salt Mine. Judging from the patient queue standing in the rain, it must be a very popular spot with the locals.
Descending 200+ steps down to 90+ metres below brought us to a series of tunnels and chambers. There were sculptures, mostly on the history, practices, even legends of salt-mining, carved out of salt. The salt was 90% pure, mixed with gravel and sand, giving it a greenish tinge. One section even had tacky gnomes!
The timber used to construct the shafts, stairs and tunnel-supports, were dated from 300+ years ago. The salt in the air had preserved the wood. Ironically, some of the salt sculptures themselves were ‘eroded’ away either by itchy fingers from tourists or moisture from the air. We were, however, allowed to touch the ceiling of a particular tunnel which had ‘cauliflower’ salt and scratch some out for a taste. Here, it was 100% salt.
The most impressive sight was the huge chamber-church which looked as big as a regular church. In fact, weddings could be held here. Everything was carved from salt. The chandeliers dangled 100% salt crystals. There was even a ‘The Last Supper’ 3-dimensional ‘painting’. It was only 10 cm thick but looked like the table was set in front of a deep room. A Pope John Paul II statue was there as well. I hope this time, he would have the chance to see it. This was apparently constructed for him before his last visit to Krakow but in the end, he had to cancel the trip, much to everyone’s disappointment.
Krakow to Zakopane, POLAND - 11 august 2002
Doris and I journeyed south to Zakopane, a mountain resort near the Tatra Mountains. We stayed in a charming hotel with wooden floor-boards and high beams and ceilings. Yes, finally, we could pop in and out of our room any time we liked.
The main thoroughfare had been pedestrianised and was filled with touristy stores. Another very obvious thing here in Poland was the large number of ice-cream and waffle stalls. The Polish seem to love sweets and desserts. In Warsaw and Krakow as well, there were signs for ‘LODY’ (‘ice-cream’ in Polish) at every other street. And they were not just any ice-cream. They were Poland’s own brands. I had the most phenomenal ice-cream here in Poland ever in my life. The Polish are so lucky! I am very sorry I had forgotten the name of the most delicious, heavenly brand but it was sold from ice-boxes with green letterings, starting with ‘Z’. Anyway, you would not miss it if you come to Poland. It is the best, the creamiest I had ever tasted. Despite my miserly ways, I willingly forked out money for lodys. My best memories of Poland were ice-cream-related.
Lake Morsie Oko, POLAND - 12 august 2002
It was drizzling miserably when we woke up. The weather had been rainy on and off these few days. Doris and I still wanted to go for a walk in the mountains and we prayed for good weather later. We took a bus to the Tatra Mountains region near the Slovakian border. There was a trek, we read, 9km long, that would take us to Lake Morsie Oko in the mountains.
This was not quite a trek in the mountains. It was a well-paved road meandering along the mountains and climbing gently to the lake. Kids and old people could do this trek without problems.
Misguided about how to treat a sprained ankle, I figured I should walk more in order to keep it flexible and get the blood circulating. The surrounding area was alpine and occasionally when the clouds broke, we could see the distant mountain peaks. Still, It was a lovely walk in the rain, though the trek was not quite what I had imagined.
However, by the time we arrived at the lake, the heavy clouds had closed in and rain starting to pelt down on us incessantly. Everyone hurried into the restaurant by the lake. What a shame. Instead of enjoying walks around the lake, everyone was cooped up in there. I refused to let this happen and when the sky seemed to clear a wee bit, I told Doris I wanted to circle the lake. She, however, preferred to stay in the stuffy restaurant.
It rained harder and harder as I walked around the lake. I did not care after a while. The scenery was mystical and serene. I walked right to the bottom of two waterfalls. My sprained ankle hurt every time I landed on it, but I still had a pleasant time.
The restaurant was packed to the max when I returned. More people had arrived at the lake and with no other shelter from the rain, everyone crammed in there. It was a miracle Doris even spotted me. But the trek back was tortuous. The rain was relentless. I am a flat-footer and after walking long distances, I tend to suffer desperately. Those darn arches… or rather, lack of arches. And now, coupled with a bad ankle that complained at every step, I was a wreck.
Somehow, although we took a shorter time to return, it felt much longer, like an eternity. “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I chanted in my mind. I figured I had walked a little less than 20km today. There better be no cellulite left on my thighs. We were thoroughly soaked, extremely miserable and exhausted when we arrived at the bus-stop. Everything was WET! Argh!!
That evening, after a nice hot shower and a nap, I had a good laugh while watching Polish TV. Movies screened in Poland were left in their original languages, with Polish subtitles added. But TV series suffered a terrible fate. They had their original language tuned to a lower volume and a guy… the most dead-panned, expressionless guy whose day job was probably doing make-up for the dearly-departed at the morgues, would do voice-overs for every single character in the programme - male or female, young or old. He actually just READ the script. No feelings, no exclamations, no surprises, nothing! Imagine when he did a love scene… It would sound like two humourless men making out. Eeeww!
Zakopane to Krakow, POLAND - 13 august 2002
I am sorry to report it was yet another wretchedly wet day today. I returned to Krakow and it rained for the rest of the day. I had no place to go during the 10am - 5pm lock-out period. I told you it was a stupid rule. So, I sat at the train station with homeless drunks milling around me, and wrote postcards.
Poland uses Latin alphabets. It was a nice change after the Cyrillic alphabets I had to mind-map while in Russia. Although I missed the good feeling I got when I could pronounce the Russian Cyrillic words, I was mighty pleased to be able to attempt to pronounce words at a glance now in Poland. Yet, my mind was still working overtime in this area.
I had known about the Polish alphabet which was an ‘l’ with a slanted line across – ‘ł’. Then, one day, I saw another new character and thought to myself, “Oh, they have another new ‘l’ that was similar to the ‘l’ with the slanted line. This one has a straight line across. OK, remember that.”
Stupid me. It took me 24 hours to realise a ‘l’ with a straight line across is good old ‘t’!!
Krakow, POLAND to Vienna, AUSTRIA - 14 august 2002
I had read from the guidebook that the Wawel Castle was free on a Wednesday. Well, it was not. With not enough złoty and unwilling to withdraw more, I simply walked around the castle grounds. The weather remained atrocious.
I would be taking the night train tonight to Vienna. Once again, I had nowhere to hide from the rain except at the train station and then, a quick dash to the Cloth Hall at the main square which had some seats. I spent the entire day, reading, updating my journal and freezing my butt off.
After dinner, I allowed myself a final ice-cream treat. But, of course.
Later, with 2.94zł left, I decided to head to the grocery shop and buy up the item that was priced at exactly 2.94zł. It would be fate, I told myself. I hunted high and low, and did not find fate. I decided to buy a few items that added up to 2.94zł or thereabouts. I must have looked really suspicious. I picked up a few items, did mental sums, walked around, returned them to the shelves, hesitated at the corner, could not decide what to buy, picked up other items, stopped by the cash register, decided not to buy these, went back to the shelves, etc… I noticed a staff member eyeing at me keenly. She was waiting for the chance to catch me red-handed at shop-lifting, I bet. Well, I had money… 2.94zł of it!
Tuesday, August 6, 2002
9 - The Nyet (Moscow)
St. Petersburg to Moscow, RUSSIA - 30 July 2002
St. Petersburg is located at such a high latitude that by summer, it has, what they call, ‘White Nights’ where the sky seems to stay bright late into the night and turn dawn in the wee hours of the morning.
I was not really sure which days in summer they would consider the real ‘White Nights’ but even at 11pm now, the sky was still light blue. By midnight, I could then see the intense blue of ‘after sunset’.
Because of this, for the past days here in St. Petersburg, I had been thronging the streets, out there, on the move… for up to 14 hours a day. Although I felt physically tired, I sometimes got a surprise when I realised the time! Then, I felt it necessary to hurry home although it seemed to be still day-time.
Today, with the accumulation of five days of hard walking, I decided not to join Karla who was going on a Peter’s Walking Tour. Instead, I headed to the Botanic Gardens and sat there the entire day, feeding mosquitoes. Some days were meant for doing nothing…
The mosquitoes were sucking my blood from my feet ravenously. After reading St. Petersburg Times, I wrapped my feet up with the newspaper. I must have been quite a sight. Sitting on the bench, cross-legged, reading a book, and I had, what would appear to the Russians, smoked fish wrapped in newspaper (that was how they were done here) sticking out from under my pants.
Karla later told me that they went on a very interesting Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ Tour with the tour guide Peter. Peter had taken them to all the places mentioned in the book. Although Dostoevsky did not write down the street names or bridges or whatever, scholars had traipsed around St. Petersburg and figured out the places. Karla highly recommended Peter’s Walking Tour to all visitors. He would meet at 10:30am at the Youth Hostel everyday and ask the participants where they want to go, what they want to see. So far, I had heard rather good reviews from other participants as well.
Hmmm… now I was interested to read ‘Crime and Punishment’.
By the way, I took the night-train to Moscow tonight and I bought the ticket by myself.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 31 July 2002
While in St. Petersburg, I had obtained a contact for a Russian lady, Galina, who rented out beds in her Moscow flat. I had emailed her and she had replied that a bed was available for a few nights. Her flat was a tiny one. But it was much cheaper than any hostels in Moscow and very central. Galina is friendly and speaks some English.
I dropped my backpack and immediately headed out to the Belarussian Embassy, hoping to submit my passport and transit visa application before 12 noon. I realised the staff working at the visa section did not speak English as well. This seemed really strange to me. I mean, I could understand those women working at train ticket windows did not speak English. But people working at the visa section had to meet people from all over the world, hadn’t they? And they did not speak English too? I was lucky to be queuing behind an American who could speak Russian and he helped me with my various queries. I submitted it right at 12 noon. Phew.
There was a haze over Moscow. It seemed there was a bush fire nearby because of the intense summer heat. So, it was really hot and humid today.
Since Irkutsk, I had long noticed that the young, gorgeous Russian women here mostly went braless. Everywhere in Irkutsk, St. Petersburg and now Moscow, nipples were poking out from tight shirts and skimpy tops. I supposed in a country which was cold for three quarters of the year, the ONE quarter of the year where it was sunny, these confident ladies would want to toss out all jackets and woollies and bras… and strut their stuff.
Guess we were lucky to find ourselves in Russia in that one quarter of the year. In Irkutsk, Ben and I had permanently popped-out eyes, staring at the nipples which were very nearly poking at us. Even under pressure from the visa thing in Moscow earlier, Pablo and I were going, “¡Qué tetas!” at the perky ones.
I was not alone to note the Nipple Safari. I came across an article in the Moscow Times where the reporters went and snapped photos of the various kinds of nipples. They had classified them into Handfillerus Mediumus, Perkius Androgynous, Siliconus Perfectus, Startingus Saggius, Pimplus Prepubescentus, Thrustus Maximus, etc…
Moscow, RUSSIA - 01 august 2002
I trotted over to Pushkin Fine Arts Museum, Moscow’s premier foreign art museum to savour more European art. There were more portraits with insipid titles like ‘Portrait of a Woman and a Girl’ and ‘Portrait of a Lady in a Toilet’ (I am serious about the last one). I found that by now, in some cases, I could waltz into a room and declare, “Boy, this has got to be Gauguin.” Not bad, not bad…
Once again, I failed in locating charming and affordable little cafés here in Moscow. I was not even picky about the taste of the food.
I finally settled for lunch at the food court in Okhotny Ryad Shopping Mall which was charmless and extremely expensive. The problem was that food was charged by the weight, something which I was not used to. I hesitantly pointed to something behind the glass counter, the lady scooped out a portion, microwaved it, plonked it down at the weighing scale and proceeded to convert it to roubles. Bang, R195 (US$6.50+)! Now, you could not say that was too expensive and you did not want it anymore, could you?? Then, you had to try and swallow the awful food in order not to waste it.
In the tiny apartment of Galina’s, sharing the tiny room where Galina managed to coax five beds out of it, was this Norwegian guy. Searching through my Scandinavian database to try and give him a name… let’s see, Anders, Bjorn, Erik, Frode, Hans, Lars… ow about Lars? Lars made several phone calls that evening and I could not help overhearing his conversations which were peppered with “How old are you?”, “How tall are you?”, “Do you have any children?”
Hmmm… This must be the Russian Bride Marriage Agency thingie we had heard so much about. Lars had come to inspect the ladies. He claimed to be under pressure as his visa was running out by end of August and he MUST find his bride by then. I would not worry if I were him. I had a peek at his list and it included ladies from Estonia, Latvia, Ukraine…
Moscow, RUSSIA - 02 august 2002
As expected, the Kremlin was crawling with throngs of tourists early in the morning. There were a few interesting and very beautiful Russian Orthodox Churches and Cathedrals with the typical onion-shaped domes located in the Kremlin. But, to me, the place most worth visiting was the Armoury.
This required a special ticket, more expensive than the main entrance ticket and it was only open for a short time during our visit for crowd-control. I had already splurged on all the tickets and photo-charges, plus my baggage deposit, so why not toss in another R120 for the audio-tape explanation. But boy, was I glad I had the audio-tape with me, it surely made the Armoury exhibits come alive.
The Armoury contained a profanely extravagant collection of treasures hoarded over centuries by the Russian State and Church. The display cases were all glistening with diamonds, crystals, silver, gold designs for bible covers, icons covers, cutlery, vessels and all sorts of tableware. Then, there were fabulous jewellery, amazingly detailed Fabergé Easter eggs, weapons and armour, royal regalia, thrones, costumes (including the one worn by Catherine the Great during her coronation) and gold carriages. It was opulence in great abundance. My heart beat very fast throughout the visit. The Armoury was unbelievable. While the value of the treasure must already be overwhelming, the historical significance of these items had made them priceless.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 03 august 2002
I had a few friends to visit in Europe and I would be staying with some of them. I wanted to get them gifts. I had bought three snuff bottles in Beijing but I needed a few more for the rest of the friends.
Izmalovsky Park apparently had a huge weekend crafts market and so I found myself wandering up and down the stalls determined to buy something.
I had long grouped my financial expenses into a few major needs - Food, Accommodation, Transport, Must-dos (Sights and Visa stuff) and Ice-cream. So, to fork out money for souvenirs felt really odd to me.
Unfortunately, there was not a wide choice of interesting and affordable Russian souvenirs around. In the end, I bought the typically Russian but very kitsch matryoshka dolls. I felt a little embarrassed by them. I guess I had to assure my friends it was the thought that counted.
I finally located Moscow’s Anglia British Bookshop in an impossible location. I stared at the price of ‘Crime and Punishment’ and did mental sums. Well, I had to get it. Now that I had been to St. Petersburg, I had to read something by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Enough of trashy novels I had been exchanging in China. I was going to read a good book. The purchase pleased me immeasurably.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 04 august 2002
I spent 4 hours today walking around the centre, trying to locate a bankomat that worked. 4 hours!
I wanted to buy my train ticket to Warsaw, Poland first thing tomorrow morning. I had the approximate price for the ticket and I just wanted to withdraw R1500. I started to have Beijing flashback as I tried bankomats after bankomats, and all claimed the service was unavailable for the moment. I even crashed a machine outside a supermarket. It took forever to reboot. I hurried away, thoroughly guilty. I finally changed US$50 in a hotel to save my sanity.
By the time I tiredly staggered into the moody Sculptures Park, I dropped on the grass and dozed off at once. The park contained a collection of Soviet statues - Stalin, Dzerzhinsky, Lenin, Brezhnev, etc… These were ripped from their pedestals in the wave of anti-Soviet feeling after 1991 and were now, placed here. When I regained consciousness later, I came upon some sculptors working on new works in the corner too. The Sculptures Park is a really nice little place to spend an evening.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 05 august 2002
After purchasing the Moscow-Warsaw train ticket, I had very few roubles left for today and tomorrow. I would not be changing any more money. I calculated that if I ate sharwmas from the kiosks outside metro stations and McFood, I would just have enough to pull through.
In fact, I had been eating sharwmas the past few days. They were cheap, could fill my stomach well and were usually served by dark, handsome men of Turkish origins.
As this was my last day in Moscow, I decided to make one last quick round of metro-hopping, in order to re-visit the Moscow metro stations famous for the exquisite art and designs. After all, the whole excursion would cost me the fare of one ride.
Some of the more famous metro stations are like grand ballrooms or theatres. Walking down the steps, I sometimes imagined myself gliding in a beautiful evening gown… and then, tripping over the gown and crashing to the bottom of the steps in the most ungracious fashion, breaking a tooth in the meantime, with my luck.
I will list the more stunning stations for the benefit of readers who might be inspired to come to Moscow in the future, despite my er… non-too-favourable updates (I’m sorry, but I really felt a tad defeated here).
Komsomolskaya on the circle line has chandeliers and mosiacs of past Russian military heroes. Kievskaya on the circle line is also very beautiful. Mayakovskaya won the 1938 World’s Fair in New York for its design apparently. I liked Belorusskaya and Arbatskaya as well. Park Kultury, although I did not get off, seemed to carry some interesting sculptures when I zoomed by.
Moscow, RUSSIA to Warsaw, POLAND - 06 august 2002
I went to McDonald’s and scanned the board. Apparently, the names for the burgers were transliterated from English into Russian. So, McChicken would be pronounced as ‘M-C--C-H-I-C-K-E-N’ in Russian Cyrillic. They did not replace the word for ‘chicken’ with ‘kuritsa’ [‘chicken’ – in Russian], for example.
So, I walked up to the counter and said, “Hamburger” which was the cheapest, of course. The sour-faced lady frowned and shook her head. Oh no, not another ‘Nyet’! She was working in McDonald’s and she did not know ‘Hamburger’? My eyes returned to the board. Oh OK, there is no ‘H’ sound in Russian. ‘H’ is always replaced by the Russian’s letter for ‘G’. “OK. GAM-Burger…” Then, she threw me an unforgiving look before demanding payment.
Yeah, I should have noticed the lack of ‘H’ by now. True, ‘Harry Potter’ was ‘Garry Potter’ everywhere. ‘Hercules’ would be ‘Gercules’. You get the idea…
For my Warsaw train ride, I originally shared a cabin with a middle-aged lady. When the train left the station, her friend kept popping over and eyeing me sternly. The train conductor was finally dragged over and he looked me over with a disturbed face. “Pa Russki? [You speak Russian?]” he tested. “Nyet.” My turn to use this word. “Pa Polski?” Y-e-a-h r-r-r-i-g-h-t, I can speak Polish. “Nyet.” I shrugged. Hey, I rather enjoyed this.
They furrowed their brows, consulted one another and muttered away disappointingly. OK, to put them out of their misery, I did a swapping gesture with my two index fingers dancing around. Their eyes lit up with delight. I was shown the new cabin. My new travel companion would be a hot-looking red-head. Sure, why not? Sometimes, they just thought it was impossible to communicate without Russian. They just did not try hard enough.
St. Petersburg is located at such a high latitude that by summer, it has, what they call, ‘White Nights’ where the sky seems to stay bright late into the night and turn dawn in the wee hours of the morning.
I was not really sure which days in summer they would consider the real ‘White Nights’ but even at 11pm now, the sky was still light blue. By midnight, I could then see the intense blue of ‘after sunset’.
Because of this, for the past days here in St. Petersburg, I had been thronging the streets, out there, on the move… for up to 14 hours a day. Although I felt physically tired, I sometimes got a surprise when I realised the time! Then, I felt it necessary to hurry home although it seemed to be still day-time.
Today, with the accumulation of five days of hard walking, I decided not to join Karla who was going on a Peter’s Walking Tour. Instead, I headed to the Botanic Gardens and sat there the entire day, feeding mosquitoes. Some days were meant for doing nothing…
The mosquitoes were sucking my blood from my feet ravenously. After reading St. Petersburg Times, I wrapped my feet up with the newspaper. I must have been quite a sight. Sitting on the bench, cross-legged, reading a book, and I had, what would appear to the Russians, smoked fish wrapped in newspaper (that was how they were done here) sticking out from under my pants.
Karla later told me that they went on a very interesting Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ Tour with the tour guide Peter. Peter had taken them to all the places mentioned in the book. Although Dostoevsky did not write down the street names or bridges or whatever, scholars had traipsed around St. Petersburg and figured out the places. Karla highly recommended Peter’s Walking Tour to all visitors. He would meet at 10:30am at the Youth Hostel everyday and ask the participants where they want to go, what they want to see. So far, I had heard rather good reviews from other participants as well.
Hmmm… now I was interested to read ‘Crime and Punishment’.
By the way, I took the night-train to Moscow tonight and I bought the ticket by myself.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 31 July 2002
While in St. Petersburg, I had obtained a contact for a Russian lady, Galina, who rented out beds in her Moscow flat. I had emailed her and she had replied that a bed was available for a few nights. Her flat was a tiny one. But it was much cheaper than any hostels in Moscow and very central. Galina is friendly and speaks some English.
I dropped my backpack and immediately headed out to the Belarussian Embassy, hoping to submit my passport and transit visa application before 12 noon. I realised the staff working at the visa section did not speak English as well. This seemed really strange to me. I mean, I could understand those women working at train ticket windows did not speak English. But people working at the visa section had to meet people from all over the world, hadn’t they? And they did not speak English too? I was lucky to be queuing behind an American who could speak Russian and he helped me with my various queries. I submitted it right at 12 noon. Phew.
There was a haze over Moscow. It seemed there was a bush fire nearby because of the intense summer heat. So, it was really hot and humid today.
Since Irkutsk, I had long noticed that the young, gorgeous Russian women here mostly went braless. Everywhere in Irkutsk, St. Petersburg and now Moscow, nipples were poking out from tight shirts and skimpy tops. I supposed in a country which was cold for three quarters of the year, the ONE quarter of the year where it was sunny, these confident ladies would want to toss out all jackets and woollies and bras… and strut their stuff.
Guess we were lucky to find ourselves in Russia in that one quarter of the year. In Irkutsk, Ben and I had permanently popped-out eyes, staring at the nipples which were very nearly poking at us. Even under pressure from the visa thing in Moscow earlier, Pablo and I were going, “¡Qué tetas!” at the perky ones.
I was not alone to note the Nipple Safari. I came across an article in the Moscow Times where the reporters went and snapped photos of the various kinds of nipples. They had classified them into Handfillerus Mediumus, Perkius Androgynous, Siliconus Perfectus, Startingus Saggius, Pimplus Prepubescentus, Thrustus Maximus, etc…
Moscow, RUSSIA - 01 august 2002
I trotted over to Pushkin Fine Arts Museum, Moscow’s premier foreign art museum to savour more European art. There were more portraits with insipid titles like ‘Portrait of a Woman and a Girl’ and ‘Portrait of a Lady in a Toilet’ (I am serious about the last one). I found that by now, in some cases, I could waltz into a room and declare, “Boy, this has got to be Gauguin.” Not bad, not bad…
Once again, I failed in locating charming and affordable little cafés here in Moscow. I was not even picky about the taste of the food.
I finally settled for lunch at the food court in Okhotny Ryad Shopping Mall which was charmless and extremely expensive. The problem was that food was charged by the weight, something which I was not used to. I hesitantly pointed to something behind the glass counter, the lady scooped out a portion, microwaved it, plonked it down at the weighing scale and proceeded to convert it to roubles. Bang, R195 (US$6.50+)! Now, you could not say that was too expensive and you did not want it anymore, could you?? Then, you had to try and swallow the awful food in order not to waste it.
In the tiny apartment of Galina’s, sharing the tiny room where Galina managed to coax five beds out of it, was this Norwegian guy. Searching through my Scandinavian database to try and give him a name… let’s see, Anders, Bjorn, Erik, Frode, Hans, Lars… ow about Lars? Lars made several phone calls that evening and I could not help overhearing his conversations which were peppered with “How old are you?”, “How tall are you?”, “Do you have any children?”
Hmmm… This must be the Russian Bride Marriage Agency thingie we had heard so much about. Lars had come to inspect the ladies. He claimed to be under pressure as his visa was running out by end of August and he MUST find his bride by then. I would not worry if I were him. I had a peek at his list and it included ladies from Estonia, Latvia, Ukraine…
Moscow, RUSSIA - 02 august 2002
As expected, the Kremlin was crawling with throngs of tourists early in the morning. There were a few interesting and very beautiful Russian Orthodox Churches and Cathedrals with the typical onion-shaped domes located in the Kremlin. But, to me, the place most worth visiting was the Armoury.
This required a special ticket, more expensive than the main entrance ticket and it was only open for a short time during our visit for crowd-control. I had already splurged on all the tickets and photo-charges, plus my baggage deposit, so why not toss in another R120 for the audio-tape explanation. But boy, was I glad I had the audio-tape with me, it surely made the Armoury exhibits come alive.
The Armoury contained a profanely extravagant collection of treasures hoarded over centuries by the Russian State and Church. The display cases were all glistening with diamonds, crystals, silver, gold designs for bible covers, icons covers, cutlery, vessels and all sorts of tableware. Then, there were fabulous jewellery, amazingly detailed Fabergé Easter eggs, weapons and armour, royal regalia, thrones, costumes (including the one worn by Catherine the Great during her coronation) and gold carriages. It was opulence in great abundance. My heart beat very fast throughout the visit. The Armoury was unbelievable. While the value of the treasure must already be overwhelming, the historical significance of these items had made them priceless.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 03 august 2002
I had a few friends to visit in Europe and I would be staying with some of them. I wanted to get them gifts. I had bought three snuff bottles in Beijing but I needed a few more for the rest of the friends.
Izmalovsky Park apparently had a huge weekend crafts market and so I found myself wandering up and down the stalls determined to buy something.
I had long grouped my financial expenses into a few major needs - Food, Accommodation, Transport, Must-dos (Sights and Visa stuff) and Ice-cream. So, to fork out money for souvenirs felt really odd to me.
Unfortunately, there was not a wide choice of interesting and affordable Russian souvenirs around. In the end, I bought the typically Russian but very kitsch matryoshka dolls. I felt a little embarrassed by them. I guess I had to assure my friends it was the thought that counted.
I finally located Moscow’s Anglia British Bookshop in an impossible location. I stared at the price of ‘Crime and Punishment’ and did mental sums. Well, I had to get it. Now that I had been to St. Petersburg, I had to read something by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Enough of trashy novels I had been exchanging in China. I was going to read a good book. The purchase pleased me immeasurably.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 04 august 2002
I spent 4 hours today walking around the centre, trying to locate a bankomat that worked. 4 hours!
I wanted to buy my train ticket to Warsaw, Poland first thing tomorrow morning. I had the approximate price for the ticket and I just wanted to withdraw R1500. I started to have Beijing flashback as I tried bankomats after bankomats, and all claimed the service was unavailable for the moment. I even crashed a machine outside a supermarket. It took forever to reboot. I hurried away, thoroughly guilty. I finally changed US$50 in a hotel to save my sanity.
By the time I tiredly staggered into the moody Sculptures Park, I dropped on the grass and dozed off at once. The park contained a collection of Soviet statues - Stalin, Dzerzhinsky, Lenin, Brezhnev, etc… These were ripped from their pedestals in the wave of anti-Soviet feeling after 1991 and were now, placed here. When I regained consciousness later, I came upon some sculptors working on new works in the corner too. The Sculptures Park is a really nice little place to spend an evening.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 05 august 2002
After purchasing the Moscow-Warsaw train ticket, I had very few roubles left for today and tomorrow. I would not be changing any more money. I calculated that if I ate sharwmas from the kiosks outside metro stations and McFood, I would just have enough to pull through.
In fact, I had been eating sharwmas the past few days. They were cheap, could fill my stomach well and were usually served by dark, handsome men of Turkish origins.
As this was my last day in Moscow, I decided to make one last quick round of metro-hopping, in order to re-visit the Moscow metro stations famous for the exquisite art and designs. After all, the whole excursion would cost me the fare of one ride.
Some of the more famous metro stations are like grand ballrooms or theatres. Walking down the steps, I sometimes imagined myself gliding in a beautiful evening gown… and then, tripping over the gown and crashing to the bottom of the steps in the most ungracious fashion, breaking a tooth in the meantime, with my luck.
I will list the more stunning stations for the benefit of readers who might be inspired to come to Moscow in the future, despite my er… non-too-favourable updates (I’m sorry, but I really felt a tad defeated here).
Komsomolskaya on the circle line has chandeliers and mosiacs of past Russian military heroes. Kievskaya on the circle line is also very beautiful. Mayakovskaya won the 1938 World’s Fair in New York for its design apparently. I liked Belorusskaya and Arbatskaya as well. Park Kultury, although I did not get off, seemed to carry some interesting sculptures when I zoomed by.
Moscow, RUSSIA to Warsaw, POLAND - 06 august 2002
I went to McDonald’s and scanned the board. Apparently, the names for the burgers were transliterated from English into Russian. So, McChicken would be pronounced as ‘M-C--C-H-I-C-K-E-N’ in Russian Cyrillic. They did not replace the word for ‘chicken’ with ‘kuritsa’ [‘chicken’ – in Russian], for example.
So, I walked up to the counter and said, “Hamburger” which was the cheapest, of course. The sour-faced lady frowned and shook her head. Oh no, not another ‘Nyet’! She was working in McDonald’s and she did not know ‘Hamburger’? My eyes returned to the board. Oh OK, there is no ‘H’ sound in Russian. ‘H’ is always replaced by the Russian’s letter for ‘G’. “OK. GAM-Burger…” Then, she threw me an unforgiving look before demanding payment.
Yeah, I should have noticed the lack of ‘H’ by now. True, ‘Harry Potter’ was ‘Garry Potter’ everywhere. ‘Hercules’ would be ‘Gercules’. You get the idea…
For my Warsaw train ride, I originally shared a cabin with a middle-aged lady. When the train left the station, her friend kept popping over and eyeing me sternly. The train conductor was finally dragged over and he looked me over with a disturbed face. “Pa Russki? [You speak Russian?]” he tested. “Nyet.” My turn to use this word. “Pa Polski?” Y-e-a-h r-r-r-i-g-h-t, I can speak Polish. “Nyet.” I shrugged. Hey, I rather enjoyed this.
They furrowed their brows, consulted one another and muttered away disappointingly. OK, to put them out of their misery, I did a swapping gesture with my two index fingers dancing around. Their eyes lit up with delight. I was shown the new cabin. My new travel companion would be a hot-looking red-head. Sure, why not? Sometimes, they just thought it was impossible to communicate without Russian. They just did not try hard enough.
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