the alibi, by ally | tales of a twenty-something travel consultant

In praise of Budapest

2012-02-17T09:00:00.000+11:00

Although I'm rapturously in love with my home city of Sydney, I do spend 99% of my time deliberating on where else I could be. It's great to satisfy curiosity by visiting new places, but it's also particularly special going back to somewhere you've been before. You recall things that had unceremoniously slipped from your memory - both to do with the place and with your experiences there - and you note how things have changed and how they've stayed the same. Not to mention the kick you get out of remembering how to get around! The whole deal is a bit more multi-dimensional than going somewhere for the first time (though firsts are magical in their own special way too).

While I muse on all the many (many) places I'd love to revisit, I figure I should let you in on all the fuss. First cab off the rank: beautiful Budapest.

Budapest was the last place I went to on my 7-and-a-half month journey last year. By that point I was thoroughly exhausted in just about every way possible and itching to get back home to my family, friends, pet Golden Retrievers and perhaps best of all, my own bedroom (there's only so much hostelling one can take!). But Budapest managed to elicit one last round of heartfelt traveller's relish out of me. It's been on my mind a lot lately because my cousin Shannon has been spending so much time there; she's been backpacking around Europe for quite a few months now and Budapest seems to have stolen her heart, the way it quite possibly would have hijacked mine had I not already booked a flight back to Sydney.

The basics:

The capital city of Hungary, Budapest is the combination of two formerly separate cities - Buda and Pest - which lie either side of the Danube River. (It also incorporates the former city of Óbuda.) The city's history goes back to, well, prehistory... but the Romans arrived in 1AD.

What's to love:

What really captured my admiring attention was the architecture and atmosphere of the streets of Pest. The buildings exude a particularly intense kind of dated grandeur, but it's not gaudy or pretentious. You really get a sense that this is a place whose glory days were of a different era (it held most sway as a capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire), and you also pick up hints of the difficult days that followed (during WWII and the subsequent, long-stretching communist years). Budapest isn't uber-modernised, which is great. It struck me, in a word, as authentic.

Then there's the ruin bars. A local explained the social and historical grounding of these fascinating places to me, but I had a fair few drinks that night and I'm not sure I understood the impromptu lesson too well to begin with. In the most basic sense, ruin bars are ridiculously creative drinking establishments which spring up out of old abandoned buildings earmarked for demolition. Decorated by enterprising students, they follow weird and wacky themes and look deceptively unassuming from the outside. Without a local to show you around, you'd stand the slimmest of chance of even recognising them as bars.

The dream-like decor of Instant

One of the ruin bars that I visited was Instant. Its tagline is "Art. Bar. Wood.", and it bills itself as a "Babylonian forest". Click on the link, and then try to comprehend this: the website isn't half as trippy as the real thing.

Instant can be found in the Oktogon area of Pest

It may seem a little odd, but the cherry on top of Budapest for me was its metro system. It's Europe's second-oldest; the yellow line was built in 1896. The stations are small, just like the trains, and it's all very unsophisticated-looking but it runs perfectly. The sounds accompanying announcements are also adorable. Have a glimpse at this video to see what I mean:

What's not to love:
In my dreams I will one day speak Magyar (Hungarian), but in reality I probably won't. A staff member at my hostel laughingly commented that anglophones who endeavour to learn the language are "idiots" (and it was a nice guy saying this). It's notoriously difficult. Just take a glance at some Budapest street names: Andrássy utca, Nagymező utca, Nagykörút. Yeah.

Where to go:
I didn't have enough time in Budapest to check everything out properly, so if you decide to visit there, definitely give it a decent number of days! My ventures were sadly limited to fairly run-of-the-mill tourist places, but the experience was nonetheless fantastic. Probably the most obvious attraction is Buda Castle, and you can spend a very pleasant afternoon wandering its locale and walking over to the Matthias Church, which is close-by and has the most fabulous mosaic roof ever.

The Romans first settled in Budapest due to its thermal waters, and the Turks much appreciated this quality too when they came along over a thousand years later. There are some baths in Buda dating back to Turkish times, but I went for the newer Széchenyi baths (it's pronounced kind of like 'say Jenny'). My hostel was able to call up and get a great entrance price for me, and the complex is just jaw-dropping; it contains 18 different spas or pools. Next year it'll turn 100 years old, but as it's designed to replicate traditional Turkish baths, it looks much older - in a good way. Some insider info: if you're a girl and you're going to opt for a package with a massage, as I did, you may want to request a female masseuse. Otherwise you'll end up with a pot-bellied, balding, gruff and grunting Hungarian man running his oily hands all over your back, and you don't want that. Trust me; I found out the hard way.

You shouldn't miss the House of Terror, a museum detailing the atrocities of Hungary's fascist regime during the 20th century. Growing up in faraway Australia, I never really learned what the Eastern bloc countries went through after WWII. This museum was an eye-opener. A word of warning: prepare to leave heavy-hearted.

Where to stay:
You're spoiled for choice in Budapest - the briefest of Hostelworld.com browsing sessions will show you that the place is rife with cheap, highly-recommended hostels. As I'm a sucker for small, independent hostels and older buildings, I opted for Home-Made Hostel. It's been voted as best hostel worldwide a couple of times, and it's easy to see why: phenomenal staff, a friendly family-like atmosphere (I became friends with almost everyone staying there without even having to try), a fantastic bar tour, Hungarian cooking lessons and a free home-made dinner, a full shelf of DVDs (I watched The Motorcycle Diaries in my dorm), comfy beds which have a lot of privacy even in an 8-bed dorm, and great decorating. Seriously, guys. I loved it.

Something to make you smile: Valentine cards

2012-02-15T19:26:00.004+11:00

I've decided to post 'something to make you smile' every Wednesday to liven up that mid-week lag. This could perhaps be considered a day late, but I didn't come across it on Facebook until a few hours ago. It miraculously broke through the many compounding and competing layers of travel training info currently bombarding my mind (bombarding, I tell you!) and made me laugh aloud. Hopefully it'll do the same for you.

Sourced from http://benkling.com/.

Happy Wednesday, friends!

You are wonderful

2012-02-14T07:05:00.000+11:00

This will be the briefest of Valentine's posts - it's before 7am so my ability to form coherent sentences is significantly reduced, and I have to leave for work soon. (I also feel terribly sick and am not sure I'll make it to work at all, but that's a sob story that I'll spare my blog.)

In short, happy Valentine's Day everyone! Putting aside all the criticisms of Hallmark holidays and the depressing images of old spinsters surrounded by cats, I'm going to remind myself today of all the love in my life and all the many myriad ways in which it presents itself. Today may traditionally be about romantic love, but that doesn't mean that it can't be used as an opportunity to be more mindful of the love of friends and family. We're capable of feeling so many different kinds of love that it seems silly and restrictive to focus on solely the 'coupley stuff'. What about the love you feel when you're doing something you really enjoy, something that fulfils you - for example, in my case, the feeling I get when I manage to play a beautiful song perfectly? What about the love you have for yourself - you're the only one you wake up to day in and day out, the last person you exchange thoughts with before you go to sleep each night. (That sounds a bit schizophrenic, but you know what I mean.) You know those good days when you look in the mirror and you think, I really like myself? That's love too. It's not generally referred to as such, but that doesn't matter. The love you have for yourself is probably the most important love of all, and the most deserved. Because you are wonderful.

So whether you have a partner or not, don't forget how much you are loved and how much you should be loved, today and every day. And don't stop giving love out, because it has a way of coming back to you.

Are women allowed to freely flaunt their bodies?

2012-02-12T23:01:00.001+11:00

The Twittersphere has been quite in a flutter at this op-ed by Bettina Arndt, published by The Sydney Morning Herald yesterday. In a nutshell, the piece is about the dilemmas faced by men when pursuing women - in particular, 'provocatively'-dressed women - and the gender politics of when it is or isn't okay to look at or comment on a woman's attractiveness. Arndt argues, through a series of interviewees (all of whom say pretty much the same thing), that if women put their bodies on display then they need to accept that men will take notice. They should graciously deal with the advances of even men deemed undesirable.

I don't know about you, but that sounds fair enough to me. Girls size up guys in terms of physical attraction all the time; it's standard and fair that guys will do the same. Sure, there are more important characteristics on which to weigh up a potential partner, but the fact of the matter is that we all sometimes fall slaves to our hormones. That's fine.

Here's what's not fine: hidden under a thin veneer of twenty-first century political correctness, the assumption forming the baseline of the entire article is this: women may be legally able to wear whatever they want, but they still shouldn't 'abuse' this entitlement. When women show off their bodies, they are asking for sex, and they should be grateful when the offers come rolling in. Women dress for men's eyes; when they peruse their wardrobes each morning, they're looking to garnish themselves like a prime piece of meat. Responsible, intelligent and mature women don't go showing their cleavage or too much leg. That's what 'bad' girls do. It's trashy. It is not fair for a woman to 'flaunt herself' (that word - "flaunt" - was actually used in the article more than once) and then not put out. After all, that's sending a mixed message, isn't it? You can't put something on a shelf and then refuse to let it pass through the cash register.

Chances are that any half-decent person would find the above statements offensive. Arndt's article isn't phrased so abrasively, but the core sentiments are the same. Check out these snippets:

That mighty chasm is indeed wide and growing, with so many women now feeling absolutely entitled to dress as they like - bare tits, enticing flesh squeezed into the shortest, tightest clothing.
And there are angry men, the beta males who lack the looks, the trappings of success to tick these women's boxes. They know the goodies on display are not for them ... For them, the whole thing is a tease. They know it and resent it.
While there are women who claim they dress sluttishly just to make themselves feel good, the fact remains that, like the protesters, the main message sent is about flaunting women's sexual power.
[Giovanni Dannato] argues women exposing themselves without intending to reciprocate the attention they attract is impolite and inconsiderate - which, he bizarrely suggests, is rather like schoolchildren who bring something tasty to class that they are not prepared to share.
Some men, particularly successful, attractive men, enjoy the show - confident that they are in the target audience.
"At 43 years old, I no longer wear revealing outfits as I don't have the body for it, I think women my age look silly flaunting themselves."

See a pattern there? Yep, it's the timeless, immortal formula of objectification of women. Don't get me wrong, I know that men are often objectified too (particularly by women's magazines). But as far as I'm concerned, the treatment of men in the media comes nowhere close to this framing of women as goods in a market, dressed up for the sole purpose of promotion to the opposite sex.

And then, another boring old concept that one would've hoped would be buried with the previous century: that of the 'slut', the female who has the gall and the nerve to pursue sex according to her wishes and to not express some kind of uniquely feminine shame for it. One quote included in Arndt's article is from an American psychology professor named Roy F. Baumeister, who claims "'the tragedy of the male sex drive' is men's state of perpetual readiness, which so rarely meets its match". I'm not a psychologist or scientist, so I can't make any accurate claims as to the comparison of male and female sex drives, but it seems to me that the placement of this quote is again perpetuating a myth that the natural state of affairs is for men to want sex and women to not want it. If women do want it, they're sluts. If they show too much of their bodies and then knock back sex, then they're cruel, teasing sluts.

It all comes down to one thing: women being defined by men and by sex. Why, pray tell, can't we dress the way that we want to for our own reasons? One woman might dress in a certain way to please men on some days, and that's fine. You know why? Because it's her body, they're her clothes, and frankly, she can do whatever the fuck she likes. Another woman might wear a short skirt because, you know what, she really likes her legs, or maybe it's a warm day and she just wants to feel the breeze hitting her skin. It might have nothing to do with a man, and again, that's fine. It's her decision, and rightly so. Some women will have lots of sex with lots of people, and others will abstain entirely. Again: it's all okay, and furthermore, it's all irrelevant to anybody who is not that one woman making that one decision.

I understand the point that Arndt is trying to put across, and to a certain extent, I do think it's valid; I just think it's expressed very poorly. If a girl overtly and intentionally leads a guy on with no intention of going through on the actions she's implying, then sure, that's not particularly nice. And it's got to be frustrating for guys. Some girls do it; I know girls who take pleasure in stringing guys along and teasing them, and in this regard, I think they treat men like objects. It's not cool, but still, they're allowed to do it. Maybe guys should be wary of it, the way that girls are wary of guys who employ similarly demeaning tactics.

Unfortunately, this rather obvious assertion gets lost in the mire of sexism polluting the majority of the article. And, personally, I'm fed up. I understand that when I wear a low-cut top, some guys will steal glances at my breasts, and I don't really care (if there's a shirtless guy near me, chances are I'll steal glances at his abs - so we're even). What does bother me is the idea that people who have nothing to do with me, both men and women, want to tell me what I can and cannot wear and what sexual or gender-based behaviours I can and cannot ascribe to.

I can and will make my own choices, because I am a free agent. I am a woman, not a sex object.

Diary: New frontiers

2012-02-12T01:05:00.001+11:00

Dear lovely readers,

Wow, have I got news for you! It's been less than a month since I returned from the fair shores of the USA and now here I am with a new job, a (kind of) new blog, and a whole lot of accompanying excitement. One thing that I feel has been lacking from The Alibi in the past is reader engagement, so this year I'm going to view my blog a lot more like a community. You can expect to see more open-ended posts, asking for your opinions - because I'm interested! - and also a diary letter every weekend, just like this entry here, letting you in on the twists and turns of my life and hoping that you might let me in on yours too. I won't lie, I like gossip. Have you got gossip? Good.

I know you guys are an observant bunch, so you've probably noticed from the massive glaring text at the top of the page that I'm now a travel consultant (or at least training to be one). I first came across the idea of becoming a travel agent while I was travelling last year - funny that. The original master plan was to finish my degree in journalism, spend a year off the leash and see the world, and then come back, buckle down and get serious - namely, by getting some sort of a kick-arse journalism job. And let me tell you, I did so much work over the life of my degree to make the master plan a contending reality. I did six work experience stints or internships, and when I got my final one at The Sydney Morning Herald, I must admit I felt set. It was the final part of the initial plan and its objective was to put the finishing touches on my awesome graduate file, ready to become an awesome full-time journalist. Yep, that was the plan.

But, alas, hopping all over several countries isn't something that you can just do and have done with. Everything I saw, everyone I met, every new town I wandered wide-eyed into the midst of just made me hungry for more. With every picture postcard in my mind, I became acutely aware of all those pictures I hadn't yet seen with my own eyes, and the insatiable need to see them rose to a fever pitch. By late October, when I finally flew back home to Australia, it was pretty evident that I couldn't leave the concept of travelling behind and couldn't even shift it into a second-priority place. It had grandly and conclusively usurped the position of first priority, and it wasn't letting go.

Cue identity crisis. Immediately upon arriving home from my family trip to America in January, I began applying for travel agent positions. Inevitably, the questions came from friends, family and arbitrary acquaintances: "So, now that you're back from being a professional work-dodger, what are you doing with yourself exactly?". Some of their reactions were, frankly, a little heart-breaking. Everyone who knows me expected me to pick up work as a journalist, and it was abundantly clear that some regarded my decision to veer off the intended path as a failure, or even worse, some kind of cowardice. There seems to be this idea in our modern, developed society that you can't just do what you want - there has to be some element of duty or a forced quality to your career. You have to plan, plan, plan, and you have to be serious. You have to put in the hard yards or later on, you'll find that everybody else has beaten you, and you'll end up in one of those gigantic animal costumes spruiking discounts for a department store by a busy highway.

I don't buy into that, but nonetheless I found myself gripped by acute panic. I'm obsessed with success and I've always indulged the unhealthy habit of judging myself by marks, grades, awards, performance. Letting go of that inclination and letting go of my illogical, dysfunctional fear that I will somehow 'fail' is not easy. By the time I got a job offer to work as a travel consultant at Escape Travel, I was on the verge of giving up my grandiose ideals of freedom and exploration and applying for some bland entry-level journalist positions. But I took a deep breath, accepted the offer and accepted the maxim of 'come what may'. I think differently when I'm at home to when I'm away, but in this case, I decided to trust the version of myself who went fearlessly running around Europe all by herself, without an itinerary. Because I like that version of me a lot more than I like the one tearing out her hair and poring over a CV. I know that she would want me to take the job, take a chance, give it a shot and not play by the done-to-death rulebook. I know that she doesn't want an ordinary life.

So far, so good - in fact, so great. My first week at my new job was nothing short of fantastic. I've got a hell of a lot to learn - so many computer programs! - but I honestly couldn't have asked for more amazing colleagues, and the job itself looks like it'll be wonderful once I get the hang of how to do everything. I'll be in training lessons for all of next week, getting my head around coding systems, travel insurance conditions and the like. It'll be intense - but hopefully in a good way! I'll let you know how it goes.

And that's my life as of late. How are you guys?

Much love,

Ally

Keep it going, k-keep it going.

2012-01-25T22:41:00.000+11:00

Hola amigos! So it's a new year, I have a new hair cut, I will soon have a new job, and I am newly facing up to the fact that while my bank account looks the way it does, I will be chillin' in Sydney (literally chillin' - this is summer?) for a long time to come. My life is changing and my blog will be too - keep a look out in the next few weeks for some tweaking. In the meantime, I give you a pointless video. Because in this big serious world of ours, everyone needs something small and frivolous now and then.

An overly opinionated American love letter

2012-01-10T17:34:00.001+11:00

Dear Washington, District of Columbia,

I’m unsure what your position is on love letters – after all, you’re a pragmatic sort of a place, far more immune to hype and hysteria than the country-at-large over which you preside. You may recoil at my fawning, but so help me Washington, I cannot help it. You are wonderful.

Like any good love letter, this volume includes a confession and an apology. I admit that the blurring, cheapening effect of dwindling memory painted you in a rather simplistic light; my last sojourn in your confines having been six years ago, I recalled you as little more than a city of white, temple-like buildings. I remembered quite keenly my fancy hotel lobby and the delightful fudge shop which it sheltered, as I did a great little vintage store in neighbouring Arlington, Virginia; but my recollections halted about there. Washington, it appears that at the age of fifteen, I was simply too young to appreciate you. But lo, Washington, lo! I have changed! I beseech you to not judge me too quickly, for now I am as enamored as I was formerly ambivalent.

Here I was, thinking that lofty inspiration was to be found primarily in the ancient cities of Europe; in their grand cathedrals built by hard-toiling worshipers centuries ago, in the temples pre-dating Christianity, in the magnificent castles, the oldest universities, the books written by people wise before their time, people who changed the world and its way of seeing itself. I’ve always loved America, but I see it in a purely modern light, starkly juxtaposed with my habitual way of seeing Europe as a continent of winding cobblestone histories. I thought of America almost like a theme park or a TV show; largely fabricated, saturated in commercial pop culture, but fascinating in its own amplified, off-the-hook consumerist way. I never comprehensively studied American history in school; apart from studying JFK in Extension History, the only insights I got into the US were from the wars: World War I, World War II, the wars in Indochina, the Cold War. And then, the dominating aspects of American history-in-the-making in my time have been the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. So while I viewed America as a kind of glittery DollarLand domestically, where its foreign impact was concerned I overwhelmingly saw it as a combative nation, one that repeatedly conducts questionable operations – Guantanamo Bay, anyone? The entire Vietnam War? The nuclear bombing of Hiroshima? – but repeatedly gets away with it because of its power.

I never really understood all the adoring references to the Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights in American movies. Tired as I and, I daresay, much of the non-American world are of disaster films where the noble and righteous US president and army save the entire planet, I cringed at the fluttering of the flag, the soaring of the eagle, the long-shots of the White House and most infuriating of all, the slogan “God bless America” (nevermind, say, Somalia – just concentrate on America, okay, God?). But Washington, for the first time, with your help, I am getting a grasp on the potency of all this stuff. Climbing the steps up into the marble Lincoln Memorial – the size of which you cannot appreciate until you’re actually there, gazing up at its magnitude – I imagine the America in which it was built, the America of the early 1920s, before the Great Depression, before the atomic bomb, before Wall Street became occupied. A more idealistic America, perhaps; an America before the death of the American Dream. And I place myself in Abraham Lincoln’s America, right after the conclusion of the Civil War, when so much had been lost but the Union was redefining itself under certain inscrutable principles: the ending of slavery, the preservation of a unified nation, and the right of all its citizens to peace and prosperity. Inscribed inside the Lincoln Memorial is the Gettysburg Address: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”. What better proposition could any nation be built upon? What higher ideal?

Then, all around you, Washington, are monuments, museums and murals that call my attention to the founding fathers of whom Lincoln spoke and their great document: the Declaration of Independence. These were the words on which a new America, an America freed from British imperial tyranny and “taxation without representation” were founded: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. What a glorious start to a nation! At a time when most of the world was still caught firmly in the paradigms of colonialism, monarchy, even the feudal system; when equality was by no means assumed; when the natural societal order was seen as hierarchical – here was this bold people who dared to assert their rights, who believed in a place in which everyone could succeed. This was revolutionary. This was inspirational. This would be the beginning of a new world order, at which America stood brave and free at the forefront.

The next memorial I visited was one I hadn’t seen before, built only recently – the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial. It provoked the same proud pounding in my chest as the other sights I’d seen, the same hope, but not the same sense of victory. MLK’s America was one which had started to crumble; slavery had been abolished, but segregation ensured that black people were not seen or treated as equal citizens. America was getting involved in Indochina (in MLK’s words: “I oppose the war in Vietnam because I love America. I speak out against it not in anger but with anxiety and sorrow in my heart, and above all with a passionate desire to see our beloved country stand as a moral example of the world.”). The nation was swept by a hate-mongering, irrational fear of communism. The economic divide was growing. Yet still, as before, America had inspirational and forward-thinking leaders; I see Dr. King in the same vein as Lincoln and the founding fathers. Positioned around the memorial are fourteen of his quotes, several of which I would have eagerly scrawled down had I brought my notebook with me. It’s hard to pick favourites out of such a stellar collection of words, but these I can’t bypass: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” And then, these: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Dr King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, not cited in the memorial, was and remains so powerful not solely because of his singular gift for oration; it’s because he describes the American Dream, the same one that the nation was founded on, the same belief that acted as fuel to obtain independence and then to struggle through the Civil War, to endure death and unspeakable difficulty. And the American Dream, whilst given particular recognition in that country, isn’t American alone; it’s the dream of all peoples everywhere. And that, I think, is how America became almost more legend than reality; how Hollywood was borne, how our screens and radios and books came to be filled with Americana, how it became some sort of cultural pillow for the entire western world to cushion their heads into, however reluctantly. It’s a sad irony that these same things dragged America down and crushed its dream; how Hollywood diverged from art into artifice, how money came to be a means to its own end. America really was once the “home of the brave”, but now, as far as I can see, it’s governed by fear. The fear of the ‘commies’ passed, and now fear of terrorism, too often expressed as a latent Islamophobia, carries far too much weight. This is understandable; the entire objective of terrorism is to cause such an effect, and I’ll freely admit that I felt uncomfortable at times riding on the New York subway. But Washington, I walk through your wide avenues and into all those beautiful white buildings, and I am reminded that the true America – the America of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and co., Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr. – is one that would never bow down to fear. It is motivated by hope alone. It saddens me to read Lincoln’s words and know that they are true: “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

Washington, I don’t know if the America of dreams is already destroyed beyond repair, but you give me hope that it may still be salvageable. Most of all, it gives me hope to know that the country’s politicians – those who make the biggest calls – do so in your confines. I hope they leave the Capitol from time to time and take a look at the bigger picture – the picture which you paint in such glorious colours. You’ve made me see things differently; yesterday, at the Arlington National Cemetery – a place so sadly evocative with its endless rows of identical white graves of servicemen and women – I came across the Iwo Jima memorial, a statue of American soldiers struggling to raise their country’s flag amongst the rubble of a Japanese battleground. A large part of me flinches at the flag-raising ritual. I can’t help but see the desire to raise your country’s flag on another country’s land as cultural imperialism, and subsequently despair that it’s so similar to the British imperialism that America itself once shook free from with such gusto. But if I view the American flag not as a symbol of modern America per se, but as a mark of the principles on which America was built – as a herald of freedom, justice and equality – then I think twice. I’m still not completely reconciled with the image, but I can understand that it can be approached from multiple angles. The day before yesterday I went to Newseum, an absolutely amazing museum of news and journalism. In its Pulitzer Prize photography section was displayed the Joe Rosenthal photograph on which the Iwo Jima statue was modelled. The information plaque underneath noted that three of the six soldiers in the photo had died in further battles during World War II. It called to mind another quotation, imprinted upon the World War II memorial across from the Lincoln Memorial: “Freedom is not free”. Including Australia’s freedom. As Dad pointed out while we walked through all these sombre tributes to human sacrifice, if not for America’s interference in the Second World War, much of the world might be ruled by Nazi Germany. Australia would almost certainly have been invaded by Japan. It’s another reminder that whatever my disdain for the current state of affairs in the US, I owe an enormous debt to this country. And America can indeed be great – as great as the flag-raising movies make out.

Oh, Washington, I do love you, I do – but you make my head so very sore. There’s so much conflict, so much to ponder on. So many questions that I wish America’s great historical figures could float down from the sky and answer for us all.

A few short videos from the last few days

2011-12-19T19:19:00.001+11:00

Recently I made my fourth trip to the Grand Canyon - though it was more like my third, because the first time I ever went there was in the midst of a snowstorm and I couldn't see a metre in front of me, let alone into the canyon. Back then I was sixteen and had skewed priorities, so when we ventured out there again a couple of days later - the canyon being about four hours from Mesa, Arizona, where I was staying on an exchange program - it hardly seemed worth it. But as soon as I approached the edge and caught my first glimpse of the layered rocks creeping out to the horizon, the depths compounding upon each other, the tiniest glimpse of the Colorado River at the bottom - as soon as the understanding dawned upon me of why they call it 'grand' - I became an instant convert. I've been a Grand Canyon devotee ever since. There are few things you'll come across that are so impressive, so magestic. This is my paltry attempt at sharing the wonder:

In other news, we've absorbed an interesting addition into our travelling party (which consists of my parents, my brother, my sister, my aunt, my uncle and I - a rather sizable crew). I've been attempting to teach my brother Jacob the odd Spanish word here and there, and he's taken to the exercise so much that an hombre mexicano has emerged from inside of him. It's all rather politically incorrect, but so help me God, it's hilarious.

Earlier this evening we all went to Phoenix Zoo, which puts on a spectacular light display in honour of the festive season. Christmas lights shaped like animals: who wouldn't delight in such a thing? After indulging in the glee provoked by all the many twinkling lights, we had a gander in the zoo's gift shop, where my sister Annie found some sort of a wolf novelty which reminded her of a certain woeful book/movie franchise.

And that's it for now - the current road-trip portion of our holiday has me constantly exhausted and constantly strapped for time. Tomorrow we're meeting a family friend for breakfast at 6:30 and then driving six hours from Scottsdale, Arizona to San Diego, California - upon which we're checking into our hotel and then hopping across the border to Tijuana, Mexico for the early evening. Can anybody say 'hectic'?

San Francisco with a side of gusto

2011-12-12T12:32:00.003+11:00

Charles is about sixty years old, but he looks much younger. He's a native Texan and a slow southern drawl slips from his mouth with pride, although he's been living in San Francisco for years. As he tells a tour bus full of strangers about the year that his wife died and his ensuing depression, about this year's Fourth of July family gathering back at the ranch, and about the time his good friend's wife left him so the friend went out and bought a brand new Mercedes, his radio-esque and melodic voice says it upfront and clear: "In San Francisco, we all live on the San Andreas fault line, and those scientists have been tellin' us for ye-ars that any day now half our city could be snapped up by the Pacific Ocean. So that's why here, we live every day with gusto." And that they do.

This is my fourth time in San Fran, or, as my mind has incessantly dubbed it since reading Jack Kerouac's On the Road, 'Frisco'. But the last time was six years ago now (I'm getting old), and back then I fear I was too young to appreciate this city's off-beat brilliance; indeed, I confess I remembered it as a city of insane people. Well, my sixteen-year-old self was not mistaken. San Francisco is replete with crazies, but they're happy to be that way. And who isn't a little crazy, really?

Union Square at Christmas time

Yesterday, on the tour bus circuit, we passed a guy walking down the street carrying a "Jesus loves you" sign. I have never been to this city without seeing one such person. I prepared to take a stealthy photo of him, but just as I was about to lift my camera to the window, he looked up at the bus and saw me gazing straight at him. Well, he just broke into a genuinely cheerful smile, and it was all I could do to genuinely smile back. And you know what? I felt like Jesus loved me, and I thought, so be it. This morning, I had a fifteen-minute chat with a lovely photographer named Bo who was running a market stall opposite the Ferry Building at the Embarcadero (which is perfect for a wander, by the way - there's some great food inside!). One moment Bo was inviting me to browse his stall, and the next he was telling me that you can get away with illegally kayaking to Alcatraz by claiming that it's an 'emergency', informing me where I can find Amazonian parrots in the CBD, and showing me his most recent photographs of the Occupy San Francisco protests directly off his camera.

My family and I couldn't help but note that the city seemed to be overrun with people in Santa Claus costumes yesterday; an overly festive inclination, seeing as two weeks still remain before Christmas. Eventually we discovered that the Santas were converging for an annual march through the city, and this year they're trying to set a record. This was craziness at its finest.

Taking the innocence of out Christmas: my siblings pose with some drunken Santas and elves

A proliferation of Santas outside City Hall

As for the tour guides, Charles from Tower Tours was just the tip of the eccentric iceberg; check out the delightful ramblings of 'The Magic Man', an employee of Super Sightseeing Tours.

I would certainly say that as a whole, America is a friendly country, and that's why I enjoy coming here so much. San Francisco is so overly outgoing and welcoming that it stands ahead of the average. And not only that: it's straight-up interesting, too. Originally settled by the native American Miwok people, this city has stood under three flags in its history - that of Spain, Mexico and finally, the United States. It went from being a Spanish Catholic missionary centre to a hotbed of Gold Rush-era corruption and debauchery, to a strategic shipyard and army base for the United States during World War II, to the epicentre of 1967's 'Summer of Love' to arguably the modern gay capital of the world.

San Francisco's cable cars have been running since 1873

For nostalgia gluttons such as myself, there's no shortage of amusement; you have only to ride one of the city's famed cable cars to feel a connection to yesteryear right in the midst of the twenty-first century CBD. Some of the hotels are simply beautiful; my family are staying in the Queen Anne Hotel, where I'm perched on a vintage chaise by the fireplace right this moment sipping on the free sherry provided for afternoon tea. The city is dotted with sumptuous Victorian and Edwardian architecture, such as the 'Painted Ladies' - the most famous row of houses in the city.

The Painted Ladies, located opposite Alamo Square Park

The lovely parlour of Queen Anne Hotel - yes, that's a piano, and yes, guests can play it!

If you're a science appreciator, look no further than the Golden Gate Bridge. When it opened in 1937 it was the longest suspension bridge in the world. It's designed to flex in response to the high winds that often pass through the Golden Gate (as the stretch of water beneath is known), and can move up and down and from side to side depending on the stresses laid upon it. Moreover, it's absolutely stunning to look at, especially with the mountains on the other side and the oft-occuring mist that tends to gently shroud the entire scene. The city's Exploratorium also seems to be highly esteemed as a science and discovery museum, although I haven't yet been there myself.

The Golden Gate Bridge of a winter's morning

A fan of the multicultural? San Francisco boasts the world's largest Chinatown outside of Asia, and it also has a smaller Japantown. North Beach is largely Italian, and I've given up counting how many different types of cuisine I've spotted around the place. Just looking for something a little outside the ordinary? Head to Haight-Ashbury, former headquarters of the hippie movement. It's more upmarket now, but still shows off its bohemian roots with a range of second-hand stores, 'smoke shops' and general oddities. And if you just want to enjoy being a tourist, then I defy anyone not to get a grin out of Pier 39. Barking sea lions, gigantic seagulls (seriously - they're twice the size here that they are in Sydney), fresh sourdough and brightly decorated shops along the pier - I've only ever been here in winter, but every time it seems summery.

In Little Italy, street signs appear in both English and Italian

So it may lie on a fault line, but San Francisco does so very much right. For the record, I'd much prefer if the Pacific Ocean didn't take it.

N.B.: I include the names of tour operators and my hotel because I genuinely and impartially recommend them. I've received no payment or reward from my mentioning of these companies.

I don't like aeroplanes.

2011-12-09T11:22:00.000+11:00

5 things to do in Amsterdam

2011-10-03T04:09:00.002+11:00

Let's get this straight: in Amsterdam, everything is twisted. The conventions of the outside world are thrown haphazardly into the air like confetti; but while all is decidedly left-of-centre, somehow the city's compass is never thrown off-track and it stridently carries on without a care. This is where everything 'bad' comes to get good, or better yet, to shake off its moralist labelling along with any apologist rhetoric. In a word, Amsterdam is brave.

1. Go to a coffeeshop - or three. The city's violently-beating heart is liberally smattered with them - they're usually small and cosy-looking, crammed with couches, seats and little tables. The only thing is that you may not be able to see this decor, what with the thick shroud of smoke permanently hanging in the air. That's because in Amsterdam, coffeeshops (always one word) aren't for coffee - they're for pot. Since marijuana is legal here, it's all a very casual and no-frills business; in fact, the entire city smells vaguely like it's been growing in a greenhouse. Amsterdam is also rife with cafés, but these are almost as much a misnomer as the preceding example; here, the order of business is alcohol. If you actually want coffee, you're better off frequenting a koffiehuis. Try to step into all three institutions, just to absorb how very 'Amsterdam' they all are. And if you're extra curious, check out a 'Smart Shop', where magic mushrooms (or 'truffles' - mushrooms are illegal, and apparently there's some minute distinction which makes this variety legal) are dispensed.

This adorned the door of an Amsterdam bar.

2. Work yourself into a tulip frenzy at the flower market, then wind down with some choice cheese. Unsurprisingly - considering that after all, this is Amsterdam - the city's bloemenmarkt is situated by the side of a canal. This simple fact adds to the loveliness of all the bright floral colours and the general upbeat hustle and bustle, making the whole thing almost too postcard-perfect to bear. The pure prettiness of the many, many tulips may be countered ever so slightly by the tacky bordering souvenir shops, but since they're there, why not check out some cringe-tacular 'cultural' items - like clog slippers? (Come on, souvenir shops can be fun.) When the pollen and the tackiness become too much, start hopping between all the cheese merchants' stores along the canal. Dutch cheese is so good it could make a cow cry, and if that's not enough, check out these three words: They. Have. Samples.

Just one canal among many.

Tulip bulbs for sale in the famed flower market.

3. Get a cultural fix at one of the city's many museums. Word on the street is that the Stedelijk (the city's principal art museum) and the Van Gogh Museum are both spectacular, but museum fatigue and stinginess meant that I only made it to one such attraction: FOAM, the photography museum. I couldn't have been happier that I went there; the diversity between the exhibitions meant that there was something for everyone, and the fact that it's a relatively small space means that it's not overwhelming - you don't get that trekking-the-artistic-Himalayas feeling that you encounter in places like the British Museum or the Louvre. The only disappointing exhibition, ironically enough, was the one devoted to young Dutch artists; it was the foreigners who really stood out. I'll long remember seeing the work of Raphaël Dallaporta, who photographed subjects as varied as the organs of autopsy subjects, unexploded land mines, and French buildings where immigrant women were held as domestic slaves. This isn't the sort of art you come by every day.

The Stedelijk.

4. Pay your dues to acknowledging a dark chapter of history at the Anne Frank Huis. I thought this venture would be absolutely misery-inducing, and while there were times when I did choke up a little - in particular, when Mr Frank spoke in a video of how fathers never entirely know their daughters - overall it was more thought-provoking than spirit-crushing. It's amazing, upon walking through the secret annexe that the Frank family and their friends lived in for two years, to think that these quarters were the extent of their accessible world at that time. In a sombre but surprising way, it's a little uplifting: to think that the human spirit is so indomitable that it will endure this, endure anything, for a chance at freedom and life. In the final section of the house are a group of screens where modern-day scenarios relating to human rights are aired and visitors can vote on their point of view. You walk out with the impression that as long as there are places like this, atrocities like those seen during the Nazi era will remain firmly in the past (in Europe, anyway - unfortunately it's hard to vouch for some other parts of the world).

Graffiti outside the Anne Frank Huis: "It's never too late to change time". Not sure I entirely agree, but it's thought-provoking.

5. Wander through the red light district and get lost in the maze of canals. No matter what time of day, the rows upon winding rows of Amsterdam's liquid laneways are enough to make any visitor stop in their tracks for a moment and sigh with appreciation. You'll want to get out your camera at every single junction. To combine canal-admiration with a little something extra, go exploring in the red light district, where scantily-clad women will make 'come hither' motions at you from behind transparent doorways. Many shops or 'other establishments' in the vicinity bespeak the same themes, including the famed Condomerie, which has every type of condom imaginable. Not your typical attraction - but after you've spent months trawling churches and art galleries, anything out of the ordinary is a godsend.

Bikes and canals: quintessential Amsterdam.

The view from my hostel window; a main street near the central train station at sunset.

Dorm detective

2011-09-24T18:30:00.003+10:00

Firstly, I feel I should apologise for the fact that this has become more a magazine than a blog in that it is updated roughly once per month, except with the small discriminating factor that it contains maybe one-fiftieth of a magazine’s content (make that one-fifth if you exclude advertising). I would say that I’ve tried to post more often, but ‘try’ is such a strong verb and not at all a prescriptive one; for instance, my definition of trying may be, well, your definition of vaguely thinking approximately once per week ‘wow, I should probably update my blog’ and then going about life as per usual, sans blog update.

Last time the blogosphere saw me I was in England. I have now frog-hopped across the Channel and am in – you guessed it – France. I touched down – from a train, that is (some of these European trains feature rather steep steps from carriage to platform, you know) – in the charming town of Annecy late this afternoon. I’ve spent my evening wandering glittering canals, gazing lustrously up at white-stone mountains, schlepping around chateaux and making clucking sounds at serene swans upon the lake (which they probably found highly offensive – ‘what does she think we are, ducks?’). Annecy is nestled into the southern end of the French alps and is très près to Switzerland – a fact I plan to take advantage of when I go on a lovely little day-trip to Geneva tomorrow. (Side note: must Switzerland really have its own currency? I mean, who does it think it is? Just because it makes nice chocolate and fancy watches and hosts the UN and is a perennial fence-sitter does not mean that I should be forced to make an extra ATM transaction.)

Annecy by night - "Little Venice in the French Alps", as one souvenir calendar called it.

Being a new arrival at this hostel – oh-so-creatively named ‘Annecy Hostel’ (seriously, A+ guys) – I am yet to meet my roommates. I’m in a four-bed dorm, three beds of which are occupied and one of which is mine. Now for the weird part. Every time I reach a new hostel, I try to suss out my companions-to-be before I meet them. I call it a bit of healthy human curiosity; others have called it creepy. I have a rule: that rule is that bags should not be opened. And that’s why it’s so fantastic when people leave their bags open so I can just innocently wander over to their side of the room and hover over all their stuff, using it to compile a mental database of Unknown Roommate #1. I’m forever afraid of being caught in the act one day; some stealthy light-footed person will open the door unnoticed, and there I’ll be in plain view, bent over double above their backpack, inspecting their belongings, notepad in hand (no, I’m joking, there’s no notepad). They’ll be all like, “what the fuck are you writing?” (seriously, there’s no notepad!). At best they’ll think I’m a thief and at worst they’ll think I’m a total stark-raving psychopath, and next thing you know they’ll go searching my bag for a machete. (Machete-inspired side note: at my hostel in Newcastle they had the DVD case for the horror movie Hostel propped up upon the bookshelf, with its own little proper-upper device and everything. That was self-reflexive in a thoroughly unsettling way. [Bonus side-note within side-note: Newcastle itself is thoroughly unsettling in many ways – don’t go there!]) Now, where was I?

Did you ever get one of those worksheet activities in school where you have to play detective and figure out as many things as possible about a person from a picture of their bedroom? (My school was a bit left-of-centre, so chances are that these worksheets aren’t widespread.) Playing dorm detective provokes a similar sense of glee to what I felt when completing those activities instead of doing real work, like algebra or chemistry or heaven forbid, physical education. The first question and often the easiest one to answer is: male or female? A pair of shoes is the jackpot when it comes to figuring this one out; things like beauty products or clothes are a massive assistance also, but these are rarely left out all over the place for prying eyes to prey upon. If the bed is unmade and food is lying around it, chances are it’s a boy. If there is a jacket hung up somewhere around the room, chances are it’s a girl (especially if it’s upon a coat hanger). I generally hope for more male roommates than females, not so much because of the obvious reason that I’m single and waiting to meet my soulmate (Ricardo the Spanish artist and after-hours humanitarian worker who just happens to be heir to a massive fortune and a healthy smattering of casas on playas), but also because I’ve found that guys are generally easier to get along with. I’ll admit that girls also invite self-reflection and a certain measure of insecurity; I compare myself to other girls both in terms of personality and physicality, which can get exhausting. I won’t feel particularly self-conscious around a guy unless I’m attracted to him (instances of which have been dishearteningly few and far between on this trip), so altogether it’s a lot more hassle-free.

As for my two current roommates, I’m completely sure that one is male, and I’m reasonably sure that the other one is too. There are some items of clothing hanging around the window and in the shelves beside it – a big leather jacket, a pair of shorts, a sweater, and some folded paraphernalia including socks. These definitely belong to a guy, age ambiguous; and they suggest that this person has been lodging here for a while, because otherwise, why would they unpack their stuff? These types intrigue me, and not in a particularly good way. I’ve stayed in a few dorm rooms featuring what I mentally refer to as ‘transients’ (which is kind of a stupid name for me to have given them, because they’re not transferring anywhere and that’s the problem).

I met my first transient in Cologne, Germany; he was a friendly guy, probably in his late thirties, a bit rugged-looking. I asked him where he was from and he said “actually, here”. Before tact had time to knock me hammer-like on the head, I asked why he would stay in a hostel in his own city, and that’s when he told me his wife had kicked him out. He seemed a good guy; I felt for him. Another transient was in the Hostel-featuring hostel in Newcastle, and occupied the bed behind mine. He looked to be well past his best-before date, and let’s say, ‘rough around the edges’. He answered his mobile phone a couple of times and spoke with a Geordie accent; I’m willing to bet he was a local. When I woke up in the mornings, I would turn around and shudder; he had a habit of sleeping shirtless and pulling the blankets down. Like most twenty-one-year-old girls, I have no particular desire to see the body of a sixty-year-old man, let alone first thing in the morning. It’s not the nicest way of being brought to consciousness.

A third transient was in Bath; this guy was really interesting. He had no discernible possessions (always a sign of danger) and would make his bed every morning to absolute perfection; not a crease in the sheets. A post-it note would be propped upon the pillow: “I’m now staying until Monday – thanks”. This was odd but not what you’d call concerning. What was concerning were his unconscious outbursts in the dead of night. For three nights in a row I was woken up by progressively weirder sleep-talk. The first night it was an unprecedented outburst of “FUCK FUCK FUCKIN’ FUCK!” (which understandably sent me along a similar thought strain, seeing as this lunatic’s bed was right beside my own). The second night he dreamily stated, “memories fade”. I laid stock-still, waiting for more, but that was it. Poignant psycho, I thought. I’ve now forgotten what he said on Night Three, but evidently after this point I developed immunity, as I achieved a sound night’s sleep the following evening. As I checked out on the final day, my newest dorm mates, two Australians, approached me and asked if he always spoke in his sleep. I just smiled and told them to have fun and keep a knife under their pillows.

Though I am currently a bit uneasy over my potential-transient roommate, the other cohabiter shows much promise for one key reason: a Harvard hoodie. (Perhaps that doesn’t excite everyone the way it does me. Perhaps I should explain that I’m the girl who practically fell in love with a guy at a previous hostel for the mere fact that he was playing Scrabble on his phone.) I was trying to decide a little earlier whether I would rather Harvard roomie be a law student – meaning he’d be a wanker, but a bloody smart wanker – or something redundant but delightful, like a literature major. If he’s the latter option, I’d like it to be all-the-way redundantly delightful; let’s say, an 18^th-century Russian fiction literature major. There. That’d do it. And then I’d finally have someone to impress by pulling out my copy of Anna Karenina (which I’m a mere two hundred pages off finishing!) rather than getting the usual are you a glutton for literary punishment? and that thing is so heavy it could be a murder weapon looks.

Of course, girls go to Harvard too. If I was American, you can bet your arse that I would’ve busted mine to get into the Ivy League. But Unknown Roommate #2’s other clothes – a pair of jeans and some sort of a cardiganish thing – look boyish. (It’s hard to tell, though, while they’re rolled up; and although my conception of boundaries is blurry, it’s clear enough to state that I can’t unroll another person’s clothes just to determine their gender.) I’ll be disappointed if it’s a girl, but the alternative disappointment is almost too bitter to even consider; my roomie could be one of those tacky, tasteless people who buys insignia-laden clothing for institutions that they don’t attend. By now I’m an aficionado of souvenir shopping, and I can tell you that no matter what city you go to – Paris, Barcelona, London – there will be a shirt or hoodie in each souvenir joint with some token crest and big block lettering saying “Paris University”, “Barcelona University” or “London University”. Who buys this shit?

Hopefully not my roommate – that’s all I can say.

A Brit's guide to Britain

2011-09-24T18:27:00.000+10:00

During my month in England, I had the utmost pleasure of staying in the Northamptonshire countryside with my friend Lucy. It wasn't the first time Lucy and I had lived under the same roof - we met whilst volunteering in Peru earlier this year, so it was extra lovely to see her in her natural habitat! On one particularly bright and beautiful day, we went out to the National Trust property Lyvedon New Bield - a house that has remained unfinished for four hundred years. Its builder, Thomas Tresham, was a staunch Catholic from a noble family. As he devoted his wealth to building his dream country estate, his fortunes began to dwindle in more ways than one; he was persecuted in his career due to his religion, and his finances took a severe hit. Soon after Tresham passed away, his son and heir became involved in the Gunpowder Plot, and it wasn't long before he died (supposedly of natural causes) in the Tower of London. Realising that payday wasn't coming anytime soon, Tresham's hired builders at Lyvedon New Bield put down their tools and walked away. The property remains more or less unchanged since that day, due to its remote location and the care of the National Trust.

After wandering the site and reaping the benefits of the replanted orchard (there's nothing like eating apples and plums straight off their trees!), Lucy and I sat down in the field to share some tips on travelling England with the blogosphere. Enjoy - and try not to be too annoyed by the sound of the wind throughout the video (think of it as 'atmospheric').

Weird and Wonderful: Shopping in York

2011-09-05T08:14:00.001+10:00

On a recent white, drizzly day - so typical of an English 'summer' - I went for an unguided wander through the centuries-old streets of York. I was on a consumerist mission to find the best places in which to peel away my pounds. Here's how it went. (Apologies for inconsistent volume and such in the video; my excuse is the same as always - Windows Movie Maker.)

Shop directory:

Duttons For Buttons

32 Coppergate

Whittard Teas & Coffees
46 Parliament St

Mr Sandwich
37 Shambles

Sweet Treasures
5 Shambles

Millie's Cookies
6 King's Square

The Milkshack
14 Church St

The Gift Company
14A Church St

Christmas Angels
47 Low Petergate

Lace Magic
47 Low Petergate

The Cat Gallery
45 Low Petergate

The Antiques Centre York
41 Stonegate

Haunted and Eye of Newt
35 Stonegate

The Armoury
29 Stonegate

Rosie Muggles
27 Stonegate

The Teddy Bear Shop
13 Stonegate

Peter Rabbit and Friends
47 Stonegate

Octopus
26 Coney St

A rainy day in London

2011-08-08T06:13:00.000+10:00

One of these days I'll go to Elephant and Castle just to locate the elephant and the castle.

"I'm afraid that I'm lost,
could you give me a sign?
Tell me sir, which way
is the Bakerloo line?
I must get this parcel
to Elephant and Castle
Then reach Tower Hill
going through Pudding Mill [Lane] (... except "lane" didn't rhyme so I conveniently omitted it)
And I might eat a frankfurt
on my way to Embankment
Or perhaps I'll just cook
when I reach Stamford Brook."

The importance of earnestly searching for good accommodation

2011-08-08T05:52:00.005+10:00

Not all hostels were made alike. Oh, no. Especially not when it comes to the city of London, where one bed amongst several in a mixed-sex dorm without an ensuite can cost seventy pounds. In the old days this was known as highway robbery; now it's known as the tourism industry. In any case, it can go do you-know-what to itself in you-know-which fashion because I think that's a complete load of you-know-what-else.

I first arrived in London two weeks ago. It was incredibly lucky that I was staying the first night at a friend of a friend's apartment, because if I hadn't been, the mere crossing-of-the-border experience probably would've made me flee back to Belgium. Being the unfailingly organised person I am, I somehow neglected to get the address of the apartment I would be staying in that night; I didn't need it, I reasoned, since I was getting picked up from the bus station. The British customs officer didn't quite share my view of things, but after the ten most gruelling minutes of my life, he let me through with about a third of my previous will-to-live intact. Unbeknownst to me as I sat desperately downing a bottle of wine in the apartment with my friends, that one remaining ounce of life-force would be destroyed in just twenty-four hours' time at my first location of accommodated doom: Brazen Backpackers.

Well, the bed bugs were brazen, alright. I had been lying on my millimetre-thick mattress on the bottom of a three-tiered bunk for all of a minute when I first became oddly itchy. They probably haven't washed the sheets, I thought. Bastards. Oh, if only I knew that unwashed sheets would be the least of my problems.

After two hours it was as clear as the numerous welts covering every inch of my body: I was not the only one seeking refuge in that bed. I tried to look on the bright side: apparently I'm tasty! I got up, walked around a bit, went back to bed; surely they're full by now; they'll pause their dining experience just for a while so I can get some sleep. If only. I was a buffet restaurant and they were the greedy Americans of the rodent kingdom.

The next night was no different, except that this time I gave up after an hour (which I spent fully-clothed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, lying on top of the doona and out of direct contact with the mattress, to no avail). I may be a Facebook addict, but even I don't want to spend the hours of midnight to seven online; but desperate times call for desperate Facebooking measures. I did a lot of virtual socialising that night. Another bright side, perhaps? I'm tasty and uber-social!

I would have done a victory dance on exiting London if I'd had any energy; alas, I had none after forty-eight hours without sleep. London had rained on me continually, emptied my wallet and made me want to wear sneakers in the shower rather than just thongs (which no longer seemed sufficient). The bus to Paris felt like the bus to salvation.

My friend Matt and I checked into our hotel; miraculously we had found a place (Hipotel Paris Printania) with a twin room and private bathroom for just fifty euros per night. They let us check in early; there was an elevator (albeit the size of a coffin); our room had not one but two windows and a television set. It was perfect! I moved towards the bathroom to celebrate the perfection with a scorching hot shower, and then I saw it: a sheet of inconspicuous white paper taped to the bathroom door. It was from the regional health department. It was an advisory. And it said that there was Legionnaires Disease in the hotel's hot water system. "If you experience shortness of breath, coughing or any unexplained respiratory problems after leaving this hotel, please consult a doctor immediately," it said - just one golden nugget of advice amongst several. Well, this is lovely, I thought. My body is scabbed and swollen from being feasted upon and now I get to soothe the sores in diseased water. Oh, goody!

Let me tell you, five days of cold showers really brought me back to my time in South America. Generally I prefer being reminded of those days by, say, an empanada or some sangria or some hip-swayingly sexy Spanish music, but cold showers do the trick also. And stepping into a cascade of ice each morning is definitely an effective method of waking oneself up, though with the unfortunate side-effect of making one want to cross to the nearest window and launch oneself out of it.

The bathroom of the six-bed female dorm at Magnolia Hostel, Porto, Portugal.

After Paris I went to Spain and Portugal, where the hostels were nothing short of brilliant - I stayed in Diagonal Home in Barcelona, Jardim de Santos in Lisbon and Magnolia in Porto (the last one was the best - the bathroom walls were decorated with poetry rather than grease!). Then, two fateful nights ago, I did what no decent person should ever have to do: I returned to London. My flight was delayed and I didn't perform too brilliantly at finding the best transport out of the airport, so I didn't reach my hostel - Arsenal Tavern - until two in the morning. After the metro ride to Porto airport, the plane ride (I don't deal too well with flying), the train from Gatwick Airport to Victoria Station, the night bus to somewhere in the vicinity of Camden and the taxi the remainder of the distance, I was more than ready to crawl self-pityingly into a comfortable bed. But London remembered me from last time. Evidently it recalled the way I had cursed its very creation whilst scratching my bed bug welts in the dead of night, and it thought I could curse in the dead of night some more.

And that's exactly what I was doing an hour or so later, after attempting to sleep on the top level of another three-tiered bunk set in a nine-bed dorm the size of a closet. I had to leave my suitcase out in the hallway due to lack of space, and the one window was doing absolutely nothing for the room's air circulation; it smelled like alcohol and sweat and shoes and mustiness and the dregs of human society. When I finally crawled down from the bed and dashed for the door, I honestly thought I was going to vomit. It was better once I was out of the room; from there I turned on my laptop and sent out an overwrought SOS to my parents. I have to go to a hotel, I said, or I will die. In London. There could be nothing worse than dying in London. I'd probably end up in the hands of some suburban Sweeney Todd and be mixed with spinach and cheese into a pasty. The bed bugs would go wild.

After waiting out the night, I grabbed my suitcase and went to what the hostel staff told me was the nearest tube station. After walking ten minutes, as I reached the final block, a postman passed by me and kindly informed me that the station was closed, and that I should walk back in the opposite direction. I mentally used the kind of language towards London-at-large that would get a film kicked out of mainstream cinemas. When I reached the next station, I found out that there was maintenance work on my line. I would have to go a longer route and change lines. This will be funny later, I thought. Much, much later.

At long last I reached Benny's B&B in South Ealing, where I was graciously allowed to check in two hours before the usual starting time, and where I have a private room with a kitchenette and bathroom (with bath! WITH BATH!) for forty-two pounds a night. That's less than many hostels, with their bed bugs and airless closet spaces. Here, I've realised that London does have some redeeming features: cute suburban streets with colourfully-painted doors, Marks and Spencer stores with amazing ready-made meals, those old-fashioned black taxi cabs, an English breakfast. It really is quaint out in the suburbs.

But alas, tomorrow it's back to the real world and out of the B&B. Before then, I intend to spend a large proportion of my time luxuriating in the bath tub - starting now.

5 things to do in Berlin

2011-07-31T19:43:00.001+10:00

So I wanted to make a video like I did for my Madrid entry, but I've run out of face cleanser, therefore no one gets to see much of my face anytime soon. (Either that, or I'm just strapped for time and lazy... or perhaps a little bit from both columns.) Luckily, you can enjoy my words without having to see me speak them - a win for all involved! So here, without further ado, are five things (in no particular order) to happily occupy your time in the crazy, convivial city of Berlin, Germany.

1. Climb to the top of the Berliner Dom, or Berlin Cathedral, to enjoy a panoramic view of the metropolis from up-on-high. On the ascent you'll pass by the mini-museum of the cathedral, which gives some insight into its evolution and architects, and you'll wind through a lot of skinny little corridors (which I think is pretty cool - you don't often get to see the 'backstage' areas of such structures). I won't lie, it's a bit exhausting to reach the dome, but you'll be glad you did it - and you get bonus exercise!
Entrance: 7 euro / 4 euro concession

Gazing upon Berlin from the cathedral dome

2. Scrounge together a couple of spare euro to try some local specialties, such as a bratwurst bread roll or currywurst. The latter is a particularly ingenious creation involving chopped-up sausage, curry sauce and curry powder, usually accompanied by a crusty roll or potatoes. Both are available cheaply (from €1.50 or so for a bratwurst and roughly €3 for currywurst) and both are deceptively simple but undeniably good. If you're willing to spend a little bit more and want to try lots of German delights in one place, try the gourmet food hall on Level 6 of the high-end department store, Kaufhaus des Westens.

3. Don't you love places with parks big enough to need a map? In the Tiergarten, you'll find statues, ponds, trees, fields, and a particularly odd stone project involving a bunch of rocks collected from each continent on earth and randomly plunked on a field. You can walk from the Reichstag (former parliament building) to the Brandenburg Gate (or vice versa) through the Tiergarten - it makes for a pleasant wander.

Tiergarten: Slinking and silent in some parts, open and buzzing in others

The Brandenburg Gate: the last remaining city gate of Berlin

4. Who can mention Berlin without thinking of the wall? The first thing I did upon reaching Berlin was to go gape at what's left of the enormous ring of concrete that once divided a people and a city; over the course of a single night, neighbours became trapped citizens of separate nations. City officials are currently working on developing a walking trail for tourists that links all the parts of the former wall together, but for now, I suggest walking along the East Side Gallery - the longest single stretch of wall that's left. It was painted by artists from several different countries back in 1999, and some of the murals are quite inspiring. Go at night time - there'll be less tourists and you can grab a drink afterwards in nearby Friedrichshain, one of the city's best nightlife hubs.

5. Mill through the city's many museums. You'll have to be picky about which ones you choose, though; if you don't select just a few from the bunch, you could be in Berlin for weeks (not that that would be a bad thing). Options include the German History Museum and a Musical Instrument Museum. My picks were the Jewish Museum, which contained bounds of information on Jewish life all throughout European history, and the Topographie des Terrors, which documents the history of Hitler's SS. Neither were light subject material, but both very much worth visiting.
Jewish Museum Berlin: 5 euros
Topographie des Terrors: free

The saga of the bus to Belgium

2011-07-17T07:50:00.004+10:00

On a map it looked so simple: Cologne to Brussels. Yes, there’s a border and a language change involved, but there are trains, buses and planes that make the connection. Easy as.

But not quite. After balking at the exorbitant prices and multiple changeovers involved in a Deutsche Bahn train trip, I decided to settle with the cheaper and seemingly easier option: a Eurolines bus. It turns out there’s a reason that people take trains instead, no matter how many euros or platform changes are needed.

The complications started when I went to buy my ticket online. The website refused to accept my credit card – probably something to do with it not requiring to know the name displayed on the credit card, or indeed what type of credit card it was, and not giving me the chance to supply this information. As a cherry on top of impeccable web service, each time it would reject my card, it would revert from English back to the default German language option. Danke, so much danke.

Eventually I managed to pay for my ticket through Paypal. I considered this a coup over the bus company and thought that would be the end of our disagreements, now that I’d put Eurolines in their rightful place (or rather, myself in my rightful place: in a seat on their bus). Nein.

I arrived at the bus interchange outside Köln Hauptbahnhof – Cologne Central Station – an hour before my bus was scheduled to leave, and like the buzzing stressball of a solo traveller I am, I went straight to the information booth to double-check that I had all the right information and was in the right place. “The bus will come to station number five,” the bored-looking and lisping man at the booth informed me. Well, this was interesting, considering that my printed-out web ticket clearly indicated station number four; but very well, then – I dragged my bags to Five and settled in for my hour’s wait. See, things are meant to be simple when you buy a ticket in advance and arrive an hour before departure. These measures are what I like to call safeguarding, and they’re what I like to do to prevent myself from undergoing undue stress.

Eurolines, however, has little regard for safeguarding. 1:30pm rolled around and there was no Köln-Bruxelles Nord-Paris service to be seen. In and out churned several buses bound for Eastern Europe, featuring gruff and vaguely ogre-like drivers who snarled “nein” when asked if they spoke any English and showed about as much interest in giving me information as they might in undergoing any kind of personal grooming. My concern grew with every passing vehicle; could I have missed my bus? No, surely not; I’d been there this whole time, even casting by-the-minute glances to station four to ensure that my bus didn’t show up there after all. Finally, forty-five minutes after the expected arrival time, I went back to my friend at the information booth, hoping to partake of his abundance of bureaucratic knowledge. However, upon my arrival at the desk, the windows were shut; he stood behind one, pointing to his watch as if to say, “I am off-duty. Begone with thee, demanding stressball wretch”. I obstinately demanded through the window to know if my bus had come yet. “No,” he said, “it’s running late.” A stellar explanation if ever there was one.

I returned to my waiting post and approached a man who looked perhaps even more confused and agitated than I did (which is an achievement, I assure you). I ascertained that he was waiting for the same bus as I was, and we struggled through a mini-conversation in French. He was from Morocco. He asked where I was from, and I said Australia. “Oh, Osterreich!” he said, pointing to our left at an imaginary border. “No, no, Australie,” I corrected, pointing over my head at an imaginary ocean followed by some land followed by some more ocean. “Plus loin – further away.” Just slightly.

As we awkwardly chuckled off our epic fail at small-talk, a bus pulled up down the driveway (but away from the platform) with the golden destination – PARIS – displayed in its window. Out stumbled a haggard crew of weather-beaten passengers along with a guy who looked like he had been pulled from a 1970s porno-gangster film crossover. He was dressed all in black, complete with some leather and studs, and had a grey handlebar moustache that can only be described as an utter triumph of facial hair over any kind of taste, or indeed, any kind of face that may or may not have lain beneath. This gentleman was accompanied by two tiny, fluffy dogs fastened upon black leather leashes. This gentleman was our driver.

The Moroccan and I stood stationary in our spots, assuming that if this were our ride, it would approach us; and not exactly brimming with enthusiasm to approach Porno-Gangster to make enquiries. Ten minutes passed, and the herd of half-dead passengers piled back onto the bus. At this point I bit the bullet and went to show the driver my ticket, assuming that he’d shake his head and point me back towards the platform like all the others had. But no – he nodded, took the ticket, and ushered me onto the bus. This was our bus! I ran back to retrieve my suitcase and get the Moroccan, who looked half overjoyed and half petrified that we would be trapped upon a highway with these people for the next four hours.

After hurriedly shoving my suitcase into the square millimeter of space left in the luggage compartment – with no help from our driver – I clambered onboard and met two rows of deadbeat stares. Welcoming. The aisle looked like it hadn’t been vacuumed in approximately forever. There was dirt and grease everywhere. The air conveyed the delightful scents of sweat, urine and stale food. I’m going to die here, the voice inside my head whimpered. The bus lurched into motion and I scrambled to find a seat. I then looked up into the rearview mirror, through which I could see our driver scratching his armpits as he drove one-handed. On came the radio, blaring out the sort of higgledy-jiggledy banjos-and-chattering-voices music that one tends to associate with exactly such cross-my-heart-and-hope-not-to-die bus rides through godforsaken land. Except that this was Germany. These things aren’t meant to happen in Germany. Bulgaria, perhaps; Serbia, perhaps; Ukraine or Russia, definitely. But mein Got, not Germany.

As we made a scheduled stop in Liège, the driver – who knew only German – got totally lost and stopped the bus in the middle of a street, enlisting the help of the Moroccan to ask a passing car for directions in French and then translate them. The same thing happened on our approach to Brussels’ North Station, except this time the driver just turned off the bus, smack in the centre of a busy city thoroughfare, and sprang out into the street to flag down a would-be helper. Understandably, no cars stopped until a red light forced them to (and even then, they probably considered braving a fine and/or a crash in preference to halting at 70s Porno-Gangster’s mercy). Also memorable were our screeching halt by the side of the freeway for no apparent reason – the driver disembarked, looked at the side of the bus, then hopped back on and recommenced driving – and our swinging U-turn, fanfared by the honking of many a horn, right outside the European Parliament buildings in Brussels. Oh, and it was also fun when the driver’s precious little dogs tried to wrench off the head of a boarding passenger in Liège. I’m sure the passenger in question really appreciated the gesture, especially in light of their wait in the rain for the two-hours-overdue bus.

Upon safely disembarking in Belgium with all limbs intact and sanity only moderately bruised, I was seized by an intense desire to kneel to the Belgian ground and kiss it tenderly. Instead, I retained my composure and headed into the North Station, where I stared at a series of subway maps for ten minutes before finally figuring out how to get to my guesthouse. While stepping off the train, I had the particular pleasure of dropping my notebook, which contained all directions to the guesthouse, including such handy information as its address. So I knelt upon the train platform and reached down to the tracks to pick up my book, then switched to another train line, then at last walked ten minutes through the drizzling rain to reach Sleephere Guesthouse – and that brings me to where I am now.

It hasn’t been the most delightful of days, but it has proven that good things come to those who wait: this house, where I’m paying thirty euro per night for a bed in a four-person room, is something else entirely. The owner, Karel, is positively lovely; my room is huge and bright and has a balcony; and the old-fashioned parlour features an absolutely gorgeous grand piano. Karel also has a pet Labrador, and to pat a warm and friendly dog was just what I needed when I walked into the house, dripping wet and slightly desolate. It just goes to show that weather can always change quickly.

Digging Deutschland

2011-07-14T03:43:00.005+10:00

I've been in Germany for fifteen days now and am sorry to say that after another two, I'll be leaving for Belgium. Despite my almost total lack of lingual ability (Sprechen sie inglisch? ... Nein?) and serious difficulty just pronouncing the names of cities (I spent the entirety of my time in Würzburg trying to correctly state where I was), and despite the fact that before this lovely little stint I hadn't given this country too much thought, I've come to think of Germany as the under-appreciated gem of Europe.

Let's compare it for a moment with the next country I'll be spending a considerable amount of time in: France. When I was in high school I had Eiffel Towers in my eyes. I was folle for France. I've been there twice and loved it both times, and am definitely looking forward to returning, but I don't understand why Germany doesn't receive the same reverence from people-like-me as its beret-bearing neighbour. While people in France can sometimes be unforgiving to those who don't parlent français, in Germany I've witnessed locals light up with glee at the chance to practise their English. I might approach someone on the street and apologetically ask, "Do you speak English?". "Oh," they'll reply, blushing a bit, "I speak only a little." Then I ask for directions from A to B. "Well," they begin, "first you'll be wanting to follow this winding street towards the bridge approximately five hundred metres ahead, then after turning left, take an immediate right past the sandstone bank building..."

The bottom line: Germans overwhelmingly speak English, and they do it overwhelmingly well. I'm not saying that people should always speak English - part of the fun and challenge of travelling is having to pull out some charades every once in a while - but the ease of communication in Germany makes it an exceedingly welcoming and easy country to travel.

Lake Constance at Lindau.

But, my inner Francophile protests, what about your love of patisseries? Well, Germany can pull a few tricks of its own with an oven and some dough. Apple strudel and cherry pastries are particular triumphs of German baking, while the savoury options - pretzels and the most delicious brown seeded bread you've ever tasted - are worthy of serious salivation. And on the subject of food, did somebody say sausages? The sausages here are huge (laugh as you will at that statement). One delightful German meal is currywurst, which consists of a chopped-up bratwurst covered with spicy sauce and curry powder. Simple but so, so satisfying.

Chateaux? Germany is teeming with them (though here, it's a schloss). Driving across Bavaria with my German friend Vanessa, I pointed out one castle and she said, "Hmm, I'm not sure if that's really a castle. It's more like... a fortress." No matter what you call it, even if it's just called a Town Hall (because Germany's town halls are stupendous), it's pretty damn brilliant in my eyes.

Speaking of town halls - the word for such a structure in German is rathaus. I suspect that from here on in, whenever I hear of any town hall anywhere, I will picture a magnificent medieval building bursting with dancing rats wearing dirndls and lederhosen. (I'm not sure why they're dancing - I think my imagination just threw in that detail for good measure. Nice work, imagination.) Just another reason to love this country.

Bamberg: Just a little bit charming.

Everything just works in Germany; cities have multiple modes of transport (H-bahn buses, S-bahn overground trains, U-bahn underground trains, inter-city regional trains...) and they all come on time. When I accidentally ended up in the wrong U-bahn station upon my arrival in Hamburg, I approached a woman on the platform wearing a vest emblazoned with an "i" for "information". I asked if she spoke English, and she responded cheerfully, "no, but my colleague does!" and then pointed me down the platform to more vest-wearing beacons of helpful happiness. The colleague gave me simple and effective directions, then topped them off with an "enjoy your stay in Hamburg!". This reminded me of two separate occasions in Munich and in Bamberg, where women had seen me looking at my map and voluntarily offered to help, regardless of the fact that they were in the minority who don't speak English. People here are so friendly and bright that you can't help but feel the same way yourself.

And that's why I'm sitting here rhapsodising about this beautiful country. You can get from one city to the next with such ease (though admittedly, not too cheaply), and you can be assured that there will be gorgeous churches, parks and other delightful paraphernalia just about everywhere. Even the environment loves Germany - the countryside is dotted with energy-generating windmills and everybody recycles, thanks to a well-operated plastics refund system.

Old meets new in Dresden.

In case you need any more convincing, you can buy a 500 millilitre bottle of Coca-Cola Light for about €1.50 here - that's less than anywhere else in Europe that I've been to. Ist gut, Deutschland, ist gut.

A cry of despair and a warning to humanity

2011-07-09T07:45:00.002+10:00

I’m on a bus rolling inconsequentially from the Czech Republic into Germany. It’s all blue skies and green pastures, and I didn’t even notice the sign for the border (that’s assuming there was one). It seems poignant considering that borders in this part of the world meant so very much seventy-odd years ago.

My route to Germany has wound through Russia, Belarus, Poland and the former Czechoslovakia. These places were all tormented and irreversibly changed by the Third Reich’s mercilessness during the Second World War. Newly imbued with a sense of these countries’ enormous loss of life and innocence, I marvel at how the descendents of Europe’s victims can now easily border-cross and mingle with the descendents of Germany’s aggressors. Just the other day I met a 20-year-old German boy at a club in Krakow, Poland. He said that visiting Auschwitz had been a major psychological struggle as a German citizen. He’d needed the few (or more) drinks he’d had that night to process all the information running into his consciousness. But there he was, a drunk and chatty uber-Aryan, hobnobbing in the local scene with Poles and bumming a cigarette off two American guys and their Australian friend (that would be me). This, amidst so much distress, gives me hope. I can’t imagine what it takes to put something like the crimes of the Second World War behind you – not just on a personal level, but for an entire nation’s psyche. The fact that Europe does now more or less coexist peacefully – that Poland and the Czech Republic are joined by Germany in the European Union – is impressive and inspiring.

It’s by no mistake that I begin my account of touring the Auschwitz concentration camps in this way. It is quite potentially the most depressing place on earth, a place where a huddle of quiet Polish towns once stood, where they were razed and electric fences were erected, and now where despair is etched into the well-trodden ground. As my tour guide put it, it’s “the world’s biggest graveyard without graves”. If you let go of your hope in this place, it would be swallowed up in an instant and you may never get it back. Too many people have lost their lives and light and love here – that’s why no matter how distressed you may get as a tourist to Auschwitz, you have to keep your hope burning.

On the hour-and-a-half minibus ride from Krakow to Oświęcim, I tried to temper myself into somberness. I brought myself back to high school history textbooks and films I only ever saw once because they were just too damaging – Schindler’s List, The Pianist, Life is Beautiful. But looking out the window, I couldn’t touch any of it – any of those unfathomable facts, words or images – in light of the scene rolling by outside. It was beautiful, undulating countryside and towns that looked like they’d never borne a scar in their entire existence. How could this have happened here?

But it did happen. The first throat-clogging, chest-weighing echoes of realisation came when we pulled up to the entrance of Auschwitz I. Entering the grounds, there was the gate: “arbeit macht frei” – “work brings freedom”. The first deception. Walking by that gate was like walking into a horror film where you already know the ending. Like a movie, you can’t enter the screen and save anyone or change anything. You can only watch on with mounting dread.

And that was exactly what I felt – dread. Though I knew it was all over long ago, as I entered each new room in the prison complexes, I paused for a second outside to brace myself for whatever I might be about to see. The worst was the hair – an entire wall of a big, hollow room, taken up by a massive cabinet filled with tangled, sepia-shaded human hair. The colours had drained out after all the elapsed time. Another cabinet showed a kind of tapestry material made of the hair. The Nazis harvested it, like you would harvest parts of an animal. There’s no possible way I could evoke in a blog entry the kind of deep, profound unsettlement and the pure disgust I experienced when I entered that room. The sheer amount of the hair was staggering, and for me, that brought the Holocaust home much more starkly than anything else I’ve seen or read. It electrified me right down to my spine and made me leave the room shaking.

There were other artefacts too, and they equally had me staring wordlessly through a glass cabinet screen and almost detesting something inside myself for being human, for having that in common with the people who did this to other people, for being of a species capable of such… well, such inhumanity. There were children’s clothes and children’s shoes. There were full-size shoes as well – easily thousands of them. There were suitcases, carefully marked with the names of their bearers – intended to kick-start a new life in this formerly-quiet quarter of Poland. The suitcases had come from far and wide – some Auschwitz prisoners even came from the Greek islands. For many of their bearers – particularly the Jewish women and children – they never even opened their suitcases once they stumbled out of the train and onto the railway field at Birkenau. They were promised a shower and they were led to the gas chambers, where panic would only break out once it was far too late.

Our tour guide pointed out one of the suitcases to us and said that its owner had visited Auschwitz a few years ago and recognised her old, battered luggage in the display case. It would take such unyielding strength to survive an SS concentration camp; I’m astounded that this old woman had so much more strength left to revisit the scene of all that horror, so many years down the track. People are amazing. But after the tour guide finished that story, I spotted one suitcase with the name ‘Jakob’ on it – the same as my brother’s name (though with different spelling). After that, when I looked at the children’s shirts and little shorts, I looked at them a little differently; remembering the time that I too was a child and remembering my siblings when they were younger. Superimposing the objects with names and faces and histories. For me, what’s most heartbreaking about touring Auschwitz is feeling that inherent need to protect your own (in my case, essentially my little brother and sister), and knowing that if you had been here – if you had been Jewish in the early 1940s, or even just an unfortunate Pole or Russian or several other prescriptors – such protection would be an impossibility.

The tour went on, past a courtyard wall where people were executed en masse in Auschwitz’s early days; past Building 10, where Doctor Mengele performed his sadistic experiments; past torture chambers where people were forced to stand up all night and deprived of sleep until they died, or where they were kept in total darkness or packed into airless spaces. We saw lines of notated mugshots upon a hallway from the beginning days of the camp, when each new prisoner was photographed for the SS records. This practice was quickly abandoned because after a few months, the inmates would cease to resemble their former selves – and because there were simply too many people. Our tour guide told another story about a man on a previous tour who had stopped to ask her a question at this point. He wanted to know if he could get a copy of one of the mugshots on the wall. It was a picture of his mother, and it was the first image of her he’d ever seen.

From there it was onto the gas chambers, where signs ask guests to maintain silence as a tribute to the many people who died in these nondescript concrete blocks. At Birkenau, where the majority of victims were gassed, the retreating Nazis made an attempt to conceal the evidence of what they’d done; the chambers were blown up and are now a mass of broken stone. But at Auschwitz you can enter and walk through a gas chamber. I looked up and saw the few tiny vents in the roof where SS officers would pour Cyclone B gas into the enclosed room. After a few minutes, when the officers reopened the chamber to collect the corpses, they would find them in pyramid-shaped piles – people had scrambled upon others’ bodies in an attempt to reach the vents and the fresh air outside. Exiting the gas chamber, I was overcome with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. Gratitude that through pure luck, my time and region is Australia in the 21^st century, not Europe in the 1930s to 1940s; and that this fact, over which I have no power and no choice, means that I can have faith in the safety and happiness of myself and my family. And guilt that the millions of people who died at concentration camps were not so lucky, through no wrong of their own and through no right of mine.

After Auschwitz we took a short bus ride to Birkenau, just down the road. There, amongst the rows of stable-like dormitories (which were designed for horses, not the masses of people crammed into them), we saw the end of the train line – the main and most indispensible tool used in keeping Auschwitz-Birkenau running. This is where thousands of people would arrive with each ‘transport’, and where many would be led directly to where the conjoined gas chambers and crematoria awaited. A memorial to the camp’s victims is now located beside these destroyed structures. In a line of plaques displaying the same message in several languages, it reads: “For ever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million women, men and children, mainly Jews from various countries of Europe”. I think this message sums up why every tourist to Europe should try to visit Auschwitz – we all need to heed that warning and make sure that it stays just as loud and clear with each generation to come. And by the simple fact that we are human, we need to share in that “cry of despair” as well. What happened in that patch of Polish countryside isn’t just textbook history; it’s a terrifying part of human history, of human psychology. It is evidence of the capacity for evil in our species.

As I walked from the memorial to where the minibus waited to take me from Auschwitz-Birkenau back to adorable and welcoming Krakow, I realised that I would probably never return here. When I leave most places, I refuse to say goodbye; I like to believe that I’ll be back someday. Not so for Auschwitz. The weather had been stunningly beautiful for most of the day, but as I walked away, storm clouds invaded the sky and everything turned a particularly threatening shade of dark blue and grey. As we boarded the bus there was a deafening crack of thunder and a lightning bolt that made two fully-grown boys jump and scream. They were frightened, but I was glad to be reminded of nature’s tremendous power. After everything I’d seen and learned that day, I realised that I would never want to live in a world where people are all-powerful. That thunder reminded me that humans don’t call the shots and that there are greater forces out there. I hope those forces are more just than us.

5 things to do in Madrid

2011-06-09T09:26:00.002+10:00

For every European city that I get to know to a decent degree, I'll be posting up a very no-frills video listing my top five recommendations (completely subjective, also completely unpaid and unsolicited) of its offerings for travellers. I've spent the last week of my life in Madrid, España. Should you - my lovely and treasured readers - ever find yourselves there, I strongly suggest you do the following.

A bit of bonus information:

Mercado de San Miguel is in a building in Plaza San Miguel, just a couple of blocks away from Madrid's main square. Don't be expecting an honest-to-God produce market - this is a classy place. It's all indoors and shiny and new. Its clientele are mostly tourists, but once that food hits your tastebuds, you won't care whether any locals are present.
Palacio Real costs 10 euros to enter (standard adult fare; doesn't include entrance to temporary exhibitions). If you're into that sort of thing - you know, regalia and antique furniture - then it's worth it.
Centro de Arte Reina Sofia (opposite Atocha Station) also charges for entrance, but like many of Madrid's museums, it's free for a couple of hours each day. Check the website or at the museum when you go to Madrid - might as well save a few euros, right? Make sure you see all the works by Picasso and Dalí.
Panta Rhei bookstore can be found at C/ Hernán Cortés, 7. It specialises in art volumes (but treats the subject broadly - you can find anything from graphic novels to fashion compendiums).

The South America wrap-up

2011-06-07T21:38:00.002+10:00

My eighty-three days in South America were nothing short of incredible and I'm still coming to grips with the fact that they're over. There were things that made me laugh...

Reading delightfully mistranslated restaurant menus – my favourite menu item, from a café on the pedestrian street Francisco Pizarro in Trujillo, was the extremely appetising ‘language cow’.
Going by butcheries and seeing their signs out front, featuring nice fat cows peacefully grazing in fields. Well, at least they were, until…
When one of my students, who usually struggles with pronunciation, said the word ‘face’ like a born-and-bred Anglophone. I was equal measures of proud and amazed – then she told me it was all because of Facebook. See? Facebook is worthwhile.
The same student helped me out with my Spanish – she told me I was putting stress on the wrong syllable when saying the word ‘papa’, so instead of talking about travelling with my dad, I was talking about travelling with my potato.

And there was no shortage of things to make me cringe.

On my weekend trip to Cajamarca, I walked by a streetside stall where a woman was skinning and gutting freshly-slaughtered guinea pigs. They’re not very attractive without their fur.
Two words: trying ceviche. Raw fish consumption isn’t really my deal.
Dancing with Peruvian guys. I’m not even going to say any more on that. Just take my word for it.
When Kin, a volunteer friend, arrived at the Horizon House, the Peruvians seemed a bit surprised. Although from England, he has a Chinese background. Whenever they were talking about him – even to him – they would pull the skin beside their eyes to make squinty faces. We were horrified!

Sometimes I came up against things that made me cry.

Around Week 2 or 3 in Trujillo, a homeless (or so-seeming) man followed me from the street where my Spanish school is located to a fruit market where I ducked in to try to lose him. When I emerged, he was still there, waiting for me… and as I continued walking, he came up behind me and reached his hand up my skirt. I didn’t want anyone at all to touch me for a couple of days afterwards.
On a normal afternoon in the house in La Esperanza, I was scrolling through my Facebook notifications when I saw that my cousin had become engaged to his girlfriend. My reaction took me entirely by surprise – I was so happy for them that I burst into tears.
Boarding the bus that would take me from Trujillo to Lima, and parting ways with the other volunteers and Luz and Manuel – who had all come to see me off – was a true challenge of composure. Rarely have I so, so very much wanted to explode into a crying heap. Sitting in that bus seat and being alone for the first time in weeks was one of the most alien and melancholy moments I’ve experienced.

And I learned a lot too...

Alpaca meat is ridiculously delicious.
Spanish. I learned Spanish. Enough to manage day-to-day communication, including a decent conversation. And I learned all that in a bit more than two months – immersion is incredible.
Peruvian politics are like Peruvian soap operas: unbelievably dramatic and over-the-top. Quite possibly even more so than American politics, and we all know the Americans are bat-shit crazy. [Expecting abuse/protest in 3, 2, 1…]

There are too many things that made me smile to list, but here's a sample:

As I was leaving Trujillo, a student and friend, Florangel, gave me her own set of rosary beads for protection. It was one of the most meaningful and touching things that has ever happened to me and it took every bit of strength within me to hold back the tears.
On a similar note, Estela told me that I was the most ‘tranquila’ volunteer in the Horizon House, and she hugged me so tight as we said goodbye. There were tears in her eyes. She was as close to a mother as I could ever have wanted in Peru.
Soon after I had left home, one of my best friends told me over Facebook chat that “things are very different here without you”. There’s nothing like leaving everyone you love to make you realise how much they love you back.
The egoist in me adores compliments on my Spanish. But it was rather embarrassing (and self-refuting) when one lady at a store in Iquitos said that I must be very intelligent to learn a language in two months, and misunderstanding what she had said, I agreed.
A monkey stole my earring in the Amazon. A monkey stole my earring. It just sat on my shoulder and unscrewed the stud in one deft, unstoppable movement. It's almost as awesome a story as it is a memory.
Certain Peruvian idioms made me smile – the tendency to catch people’s attention not by saying “señor” or “señora”, but “amigo” or “amiga”. I loved when people asked about “my country” and told me about “their country”. And perhaps the best one – when someone asks me in English why I’m travelling, I give the answer in a few sentences – to see things, to meet people, to have fun – that sort of thing. But when they ask me in Spanish and I start trying to explain, they get it right away. “Oh,” they say, nodding their heads in comprehension. “Conocer.” That’s just it – I'm travelling ‘to know’. No further explanation needed.

But alas, I've now been in Europe for exactly one week (seriously - my plane landed in Madrid at this time last Tuesday), so I guess it's time I moved out of South America and back into the present. Europe blogging soon to come!

Going gringa

2011-06-03T07:50:00.001+10:00

Here I am in Madrid – where I can be mistaken for a local, where I can walk around at leisure, unnoticed, indistinguishable. Although I’ve never been to Spain before now, I went to Europe twice as a teenager. It’s familiar in a happily-foreign way; different enough, but also comfortable enough. On the contrary, the last two-and-a-half months comprised my very first glimpse of South America. Buenos Aires practically seemed like it was Europe, to be honest, but Peru was entirely different. I went there, at least in part, to get a taste of something unfamiliar. I certainly got what I came for.

Peru held no shortage of challenges. In the widespread absence of English, I found that I had to learn Spanish, and fast; and teaching English wasn’t exactly a walk in the park when I lacked the reciprocal lingual ability to converse with my students. It got tough to stay positive at times when I saw the squalor that some people lived in, when I saw hard-working and young wives apologise for their older and alcoholic husbands (not to say that it’s the rule, but it’s definitely no exception either), and when high school kids who could barely utter ‘hello’ would ask for our help with their English homework – essays on Asian politics or the agricultural consequences of water shortages (no, really). But my biggest challenge was one that I didn’t see coming – it was being a ‘gringa’, a white girl.

Me with Horizon Peru's housekeeper, cook and resident saint, Estela and her daughter, Karla

In Trujillo particularly, a lot of locals are rather brown-skinned, rather short, and have rather dark hair. It’s the only place where I’ve ever felt tall. I had never been anywhere before where it only took a glance for others to know that I was a foreigner. And the thing with Peruvians is that they don’t just glance; they stare. Upon my arrival to Trujillo, my skin would burn as I walked down a street and felt several pairs of eyes fix upon me. I felt like a museum object in a glass cabinet, and much like a museum object, I was paralysed by it. Not only did I lack the words in Spanish to say anything about how I felt, but I lacked the conviction and confidence – the way they looked at me almost drained my identity; I became the faceless race-radiator that they seemingly saw me as. Sometimes I got on buses and heard people say aloud, “gringa”. Sometimes that’s how people caught my attention – by yelling that word. I’ve never been assigned such a basic, such an unmanoeuvrable label before.

Although I became close to many Peruvians and found them to be an exceptionally welcoming and generous people, to those who didn’t know me, I got the impression that I wasn’t a person – I was just a moving mass of whiteness. It seemed like moving through the city in a bubble, a spotlighted bubble, which would only burst with a sigh of relief as I stepped through the door of my house and joined my gringo friends. I won’t lie – for the first few weeks, it really got me down. I didn’t want to walk alone in the city; I couldn’t deal with all the over-amorous men who would come too close and whisper indecipherable Spanish phrases in seductive tones. Once, walking down my own street, I smiled and said good afternoon to a family sitting outside their house. None of them replied, and none of them tore their eyes away from me. I felt like they hated me for some unspecified crime, and in turn, I felt guilty.

One of my English students, Florangel, and I

My Spanish teacher, Erick, became my window of sorts onto Peruvian culture. Our classes largely centred on conversation, and in supremely broken Spanish, I would ask him questions like why white people are apparently so fascinating. His theory is that it’s all about money. People are intrigued by what they don’t have, and the appearance of the unattainable provokes a range of emotions. Erick more or less said that my being white is a tangible symbol of the unreachable; I’m a living, breathing dollar sign. Peruvian men approach me in their droves, even on days when I’m looking like hell, because I’m perceived as a ticket to prosperity. Poor Erick seemed embarrassed when he explained the whole money thing, and at first I was offended and wanted to protest – just because I’m white doesn’t mean that I’m rich. I’m not rich. But I caught myself in time. Simply my ability to happily hop over to a faraway country means that I was born into a far more privileged existence than most Peruvians could realistically aspire to. That’s heart-breakingly unfair, and it makes me understand why some of them would look at me the way they do.

But the way gringos are perceived in Peru is far more complicated than that. I was bewildered by the fact that most billboard advertisements feature glossy models who obviously are not Peruvian. During the 2011 election campaign, I puzzled at how most of the politicians looked, well, not so brown (I don’t know whether that means they’ve been Photoshopped, or perhaps they have more culturally-mixed backgrounds). The reigning king and queen of pop culture are Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus respectively – both very white, middle-class, middle-culture – and again, definitely not Peruvian. There may be disdain for white people in some quarters, but there’s also hero-worship. It’s all very confusing and strange, and in my view, disheartening. The nice thing is that most people I met and spoke to were curious and didn’t hesitate to ask questions about my life and ‘my country’, and with every sentence I spoke, I felt like more of a person and less of an object. In general, Peruvians are very friendly – they’re just not exposed to many cultures beyond their own.

Another of my lovely students, Marines

I didn’t even realise it when one day I started to disregard the stares and walk down streets with my head held high. After a while, I even got a kick out of all the unrequited male attention I received, however sleazy it may have been. It was a moment of triumph when, a bit more than halfway through my time in Trujillo, I walked through the city with Erick and he laughingly informed me that everyone around was looking at me. What had caused me so much distress weeks earlier had almost overnight become something unnoticeable. I took that opportunity to ask Erick another of my many questions – why people stare so unabashedly. Interestingly, he told me that it’s not thought to be rude; in Peru, if people want to see something, they stare at it. That’s all there is to it, and it’s not an insult. He was surprised when I told him that people prefer to stare surreptitiously in Australia. It’s also not rude to call someone a gringo or gringa. When kids at the primary school would call me gringa as an adjective, I’d just shrug, but if they used it as a noun – “hey, gringa!” – I’d tell them to use my name instead. They seemed surprised; they never meant to cause any offence, as I’m sure the general population don’t mean to.

A student from the Peruvian primary school where I embarked upon my teaching stint

Being gringa’d, as I half-jokingly like to put it, made me a lot more secure within myself, and a lot less apologetic about anything I may or may not be. I have no power over where I come from, but I do have power over where I’m going and what I make of the upbringing I’ve had. It also made my heart ache for the way immigrants and non-Caucasian people in Australia are sometimes treated. To feel alienated as a tourist is one thing, but to be subjected to that feeling in your own home would be horribly demoralising. I love that Sydney has so many different faces and influences; I really missed multiculturalism when I lived in Trujillo (international cuisine is a godsend). My experiences in Peru highlighted that in reality, there is much less difference in the world than there is misunderstanding. The more you understand of someone, the more familiar they become. It’s an obvious statement but it’s one that many Australians could take stock of more whole-heartedly.

In Ezeiza

2011-06-01T01:41:00.004+10:00

So here I sit in the airport lounge, the sound of rustling newspapers and quiet conversations and a coffee maker permeating the stale, airporty air. It just occurred to me how excited most of us should be – we’re going to Madrid! – but no adult ever looks excited in an airport. Airports are the designated location in every reasonably-sized city where fun comes to die.

I, for one, am just a little taken-aback to be here in the first place. What happened to the last two weeks? They went by in a flash, but somehow a very drawn-out flash. Another of travel’s ironies – when you have the time of your life it goes so fast, yet it lasts forever. I won’t try to explain it further. Travel isn’t a science (that’s why it’s fun).

What a pity that the last place we see of many destinations is the airport. Beautiful, brazen Buenos Aires; how I love it. But I do not love its international airport, Ezeiza. For one thing, Ezeiza isn’t even its real name – it’s called Ministro Pistarini. But nobody calls it that (including street signs). This, as far as I can tell, is just to piss off confused tourists. Airports somehow manage to be both sterile and chaotic. They rarely reflect the place they represent in any more than a superficial, gimmicky way. They sell food at the sort of prices that would spark a revolution anywhere else in the country. And worst of all, they unfailingly sport horrible décor.

Airports bring out the dark side in people. Children throw terrible tantrums and adults throw even worse ones. The quiet, unassuming people just sit around looking like their hearts have been flattened by a Boeing 747, while the self-assured and self-important storm from staff member to staff member demanding to know why they weren’t assigned a window seat and why they can’t carry five items of hand luggage onboard. There’s always that one woman in knee-high stiletto boots, skin-tight jeans, see-through singlet and Monet masterpiece of makeup, brandishing her flight pass with what can only be described as metre-long talons. Why does this woman exist? Who wants to wear boots on a plane? These questions haunt me on every flight I take.

Airports also bring out the stupidity in people. The phenomenon of the premature queue never ceases to fascinate me. Someone who likes standing up and staring at a door will post themselves at the gate, and suddenly scores of people with flashing, hungry eyes will scramble out of their seats and position themselves behind Over-Eager Passenger A. Then they will all stand there, doing absolutely nothing and getting absolutely nowhere, for half an hour before the plane actually really truly starts boarding and the normal people reluctantly haul themselves up from their seats. I think I can say with reasonable certainty that the forerunners of the queue reach their destination no faster than the stragglers.

But I shouldn’t complain. I should be excited. After all, I’m going to Madrid – and its airport!

A hotel and a half

2011-06-01T01:28:00.003+10:00

I'm hardly one for making my blog into a free advertisement (my goods and services don't come free, you know), but you simply must know that I stayed at the most incredible hotel in Lima. It was like I stepped out of the polluted, bustling city and into a colonial palace of yesteryear. I took more photos of the hotel than I did of the city!

Welcome to Hotel España, just opposite the San Francisco church and monastery in Lima's historical centre.

The place was a veritable museum. For someone who has an unhealthy obsession with old-fashioned furnishings - read: me - it was paradise.

Art adorning the hallways; beautifully tiled floors; chandeliers and sculpted statues around every corner. The bedrooms had French doors. Walk down the stairs to reception, pictured below, and you'll be met by a glass cabinet holding antiques of every kind - and I mean every kind. There were skulls in there.

My accommodations were the simplest and cheapest; a bed in a dormitory for twenty soles per night. That's just seven dollars. The room was basic, but even it had a tangible charm; I contentedly imagined it as some manner of nineteenth-century boarding house, and me the bright-eyed campesina, freshly arrived into a new city and new life.

And, just in case all of this isn't enough to make you fall in love with this hotel the way that I did, there's more. The hotel has animal guests - and not the usual, microscopic and crawly-legged kind that like to reside in bedsheets. I'm talking turtles, peacocks and a talking parrot. They all resided in the rooftop garden through which I had to walk to enter the dormitory.

I got the fright of my life when I woke up after a peaceful night's sleep in the dorm, swung my legs over the side of the mattress and almost stepped on one of the turtles, who was happily chilling beside my bed. I can safely say that's never happened to me before!

I can only hope I'll find another hostel/hotel with Hotel España's antique awesomeness. Maybe somewhere along my journeys I'll stumble across another treasure - who knows?

Into the Amazon

2011-05-20T12:47:00.004+10:00

This time last week I was in the Amazon rainforest, or as the Peruvians call it, the Amazon jungle. It’s not every day I get to say that, now, is it?

My journey to Iquitos was a deviation from previous plans. I was meant to continue volunteering in Trujillo for one week longer and then head straight to Lima to begin travelling with my dad. The thing is, you never really know about a place and all it has to offer until you go there. Perhaps I’m just a little ignorant, but I never had any inkling of how incredibly diverse a country Peru is; the naïve preconception painted in my imagination was something involving a hill and a llama and a woman with plaited hair in a hand-knitted skirt. That mental image has been affirmed here and there, in Cajamarca and Cusco – but when Peruvians tell you about their country, they’ll proudly invoke the slogan of ‘costa, sierra y selva’. That means ‘coast, mountain and jungle’. I’d only ever really considered the mountain aspect of Peru, but after spending eight weeks volunteering on the coast and knowing that later in May I’d be going to the mountains, a spark of curiosity was lit as to what the jungle might be like. That spark grew into a fully-fledged flame, and eventually I knew I’d have to indulge it, even if it meant breaking my budget.

And a better budget-breaking decision was never made. Money is completely immaterial when you suddenly find yourself in a canoe on the immense, brown Amazon River, staring into the eyes of a monkey seated across from you as it inquisitively looks back. I ‘met’ many animals on my two-day, one-night venture to a jungle lodge (Amazon King Lodge) – a tarantula, two anacondas, a few sloths, some turtles, frogs, jaguars, a baby puma, toucans and macaws and more – but the monkeys easily stole the prize for my heart. The breath literally caught in my chest as one of them coiled its fingers around mine, and as I watched them play with each other and communicate with us (one tapping my shoe to get me to lift it and reveal a spider which was, unbeknownst to me, underneath). They’re so humanlike; you look at them and you know you’re connecting with another self-conscious creature.

What struck me most about the Amazon is its diversity, and implied within that, its perfection. I’m accustomed to the dry and harsh Australian bush. The Amazon was different; it was teeming with water – I went in the rainy season and my lodge, built on ground, appeared to be floating on the river – and bursting with colour. There was so much life that it was difficult to comprehend it; more exotic fruits than you could catalogue, the sorts of animals I’ve only ever seen in books and films, and a new and different-looking plant around every river bend. It’s not sensationalism to say that this is the cradle of life. This is the sort of landscape that makes you whole-heartedly believe in God, or some form of him/her/it. It fills you with awe and admiration for how exquisitely genius, how incomprehensibly perfect nature is, and how lucky we are to live in such a world. I went on a night-time canoe ride through the jungle, shining a torch around to look for nocturnal wildlife. I took a video with my camera purely to have a record of the sounds around the boat. The jungle never sleeps and it’s never silent. The noises of all the different animals were best described as harmonic, just like the area itself. Everything is so complementary of everything else; sadly, I suppose humans are the odd one out of that mix.

That fact was made quite clear by the Belén Market in Iquitos. The city, capital of the sprawling department of Loreto, is Peru’s main launching-pad for jungle tours. It's also the biggest city in the world that’s unreachable by road. Being a market enthusiast, Belén was one of the persuading factors that led me to Iquitos. I wasn’t disappointed. I checked my judgement and my queasiness at the battered-up section of street that lay between the city-at-large and a labyrinth of tarpaulin, and into the market I went. I weaved my way past every type of meat imaginable (notably, the types of meat you wouldn’t want to imagine), mysterious jungle remedies for every malady in (or not in) the book, animal skins, hand-rolled cigarettes containing anything from bush honey to coca leaves, freshly-made fruit juice, unidentifiable but delicious-smelling foods, and absolutely anything in-between. It was intimidating for sure (when I took out my camera to take a photo, a stall-keeper widened her eyes and immediately warned I should hide it from thieves), but it was nothing short of fascinating. It was like stepping into another world – a very gnarly, but totally unpretentious and unglorified one. I find that that’s the value in markets; they show you life stripped bare. If you want to see how the average local lives, watch them shopping for meat and vegetables.

There are several more things I could describe to characterise Iquitos and its surrounds; the intense and enveloping humidity, the locals who will see you sitting alone at a café and unhesitatingly approach and ask where you’re from, the mystical allure of shamanism and spiritual ayahausca (a jungle hallucinogen) ceremonies, the ubiquitous and unruly reign of mototaxis over the roads. But the fact is, you’d have to go there to have any idea of what I’m talking about. This is a place with undiluted atmosphere – I’ve only been to a couple of other places with that quality, the most memorable being New Orleans. I felt like a different and definitely more adventurous version of myself in Iquitos – there I was, unflinchingly bending over cut-open turtles in the market and fearlessly draping two different anacondas over my shoulders. Friends and family, I tell you this because I love you – go there and experience it for yourselves.

A bittersweet ending and a new chapter

2011-05-09T02:31:00.001+10:00

Last night I left the place where I've been living for the last two months - Trujillo. It felt like leaving home all over again, except even harder in some ways, because I may not see some of my Trujillano friends again (though I don't like to think about it that way). I promised I'll be back to visit in five years' time, and I'm already looking forward to it. By that time, I'll be twenty-six and the students I'm closest to will be emerging from their teenage years. It'll be very interesting to see where they're at, how they've changed and how they've stayed the same. I definitely intend to keep my promise to return.

As I boarded my late-night bus, I fought back tears and thought, "why am I leaving?". Volunteering for almost two months was definitely the best thing I could've done in that time, and possibly the best decision I've ever made in my life. I gained so much more than I gave; and I've found that the act of giving in itself is innately rewarding (as much of a cliche as that may be). It's so affirming to do something without money as an incentive, because directly or indirectly, money is an incentive behind so much of what I do normally. It's liberating.

The night before I left, I stayed in a hostel near the beach at Huanchaco with my volunteer friends. We went to a rumoured reggae party that turned out to be... well... more rumour than reggae party. But it was still so nice to spend my final morning in Huanchaco, a place that has become the quintessence of that wind-in-hair free feeling that I've treasured so much lately. After lying on the beach for a couple of hours, soaking up the bright South American sun, I got a taxi to Chan Chan, a nearby Chimu archaeological site that I'd been meaning to visit since I first arrived. (How do these things always get left to the last minute?) It was amazing. I find it the most incredible feeling to stand in significant places of times gone by. It's like reaching out and touching your distant ancestors in some way.

When I got back to La Esperanza, it was all a mad dash to hop around to friends' houses - saying goodbye to people, holding back my desire to bawl uncontrollably and wishing I could express my gratitude in some more adequate way than a "muchas gracias". One student gave me her rosary beads "for protection"; another gave me a farewell present of a framed picture of Jesus. I'm wearing the rosary beads around my neck now, and I feel so totally safe and blessed. The friends I have made here have such a special place in my heart.

Last night, all the volunteers as well as the owners of the organisation, Manuel and Luz, took me out for dinner to a really nice Italian restaurant. They made toasts to me and said some of the sweetest things. Then they all walked me to the bus station and one by one, I hugged them and said my goodbyes - or rather, "see you later"s - and joined the queue. Rarely have I struggled so much to hold back an emotional meltdown. There just aren't words to express how incredibly grateful and gifted I feel to have had this experience and met these people.

I'm so excited to be going to the Amazon, but I don't think that the excitement will properly dawn on me until I'm actually there. Right now I'm in a stage of quiet mourning for the end of my perfect two months of volunteering and having met some of the most inspiring, amazing and beautiful people to walk this earth.

Te echo de menos, Trujillo.

Why Wednesday, 4th of May, was a very bad day

2011-05-06T09:20:00.003+10:00

Travel teaches you things about yourself. One thing I've learned is that my body hates me. Sickness to my body is as sketchy politicians, box-car taxis and sugary consumables are to Peru. In other words, it's prevalent.

I'm quite aware that this all seems a bit much after my recent rant on being unwell in Cajamarca, but give me a moment to explain myself. It's been eight weeks since I left home. I first became ill with allergies on the first leg of the plane journey from Sydney to Auckland - I didn't even make it to New Zealand healthily! New Zealand! In the eight weeks or so that I've been away, I believe I've had six disparate colds. And yesterday, I came down with what was either food poisoning or some sort of stomach bug (I'm thinking it was the second option). This was by far the sickest I've ever been whilst away from home.

I woke up feeling immediately queasy in the stomach. After spending all morning feeling on the verge of vomiting, I asked Estela, our housekeeper, if she knew of any medication that could improve matters; I was desperate not to miss work that afternoon, as this is my last week of teaching and some of my favourite students are in my Wednesday classes. Estela went down the road to the pharmacy and came back with an anti-vomiting pill. And, as luck would have it, it took about two minutes after taking the pill before I started vomiting. Just call it the miracle of modern medicine.

However, after that joyous event, I felt considerably better and figured the cause could probably be traced to the previous night's dinner. I've got it all out of my system now, I thought. Although I was weak from losing fluids and not having eaten all day, I decided to force myself down the street to the school. I knew I'd regret it if I couldn't see the kids one last time. The ten-minute walk felt like a ten-kilometre marathon. My feet felt like bricks. Upon reaching the class, I could only sit at a desk and watch as my teaching partner, Erhick, taught the lesson. I didn't move from that desk for the whole class; kids came up to me and I marked their work, but I could barely even talk to them. I felt terrible; I didn't want them to think I was angry or disappointed with them. Kids are so enthusiastic, and I feel guilty when I can't return that enthusiasm.

When the class ended, I was rushed at by children on my walk across the courtyard to the school gate. Again I was struck by guilt; by this point I felt truly ill, and could only gently brush them away with my hands and keep walking. I just had to get out of the school. I barely made it across the road before I started throwing up into the sand, in full view of everyone standing outside the school. Fun. Ellie, another volunteer, brought me a bottle of water from a nearby bodega. She was definitely my favourite person in the world at that moment. Once I'd sat down on the rock and sipped my water for a good five minutes, I hauled myself up and walked back to the house alone. At one point on the walk back, one of the street's many resident rottweilers approached and stationed itself about a metre away from me, barking fiercely. Oh, great, I thought. Now I can vomit all over it as it ravages me. Luckily, an elderly lady came rushing towards us and ordered the dog away. I thanked her profusely. "It's just my naughty dog," she responded. Oh, yes, naughty is the new word for utterly vicious, I said to myself as I hastily walked away.

Things weren't much better once I got home. The rest of my day was consumed by vomiting and sleeping, until, around 11pm, Luz (the coordinator of the organisation) heard me throwing up again. She came downstairs to check on me and became worried because there was no food in my stomach, so it was dangerous for me to keep losing fluids. She discussed it with Manuel (her husband and co-founder of Horizon), and they recommended that I get an injection to stop the vomiting. Although I'm needle-phobic, by this point I was so thoroughly exhausted that all I wanted was for it to stop. Manuel went down the road to get a nurse, and fifteen minutes later, I was squeezing Luz's hand and listening to her speak distractions as a long needle went into my upper thigh. Manuel explained that the drug in the syringe was "oily", therefore it would hurt; and it was painful, but Luz's reassurances made all the difference. I almost fainted as the needle came out. Luz and the nurse hastened to shove a pure alcohol-soaked cotton ball under my nose, which, to be honest, only made me feel like vomiting again. But another twenty minutes later, I was in my bed and falling asleep. Luz sat beside me until I drifted off.

Thankfully, today has been much better. I'm feeling pretty weak and have spent most of the day in bed, but at least my stomach has settled and at least I have the energy to talk to people. Estela made me a special chicken soup and I'm under orders to consume it and nothing else until tomorrow. I also had a bit of lemonade at lunch, and I've been sipping on water with rehydration salts, which is utterly repulsive but good for me, so I'll suck it up.

What's a bit difficult to get over is the issue of timing. I've missed five classes yesterday and today, containing my best students. I'm not sure if I'll get to say goodbye to them, or take photos with them, which I was really hoping to do. But I guess it doesn't make any significant difference; it doesn't change the fact that I've taught them for these past seven weeks and that they've made me laugh and smile on so many occasions. I just have to remind myself of that - even if I don't have it in a photo.

Reaction in time: The death of Osama bin Laden

2011-05-02T16:03:00.005+10:00

I was eating dinner in a Peruvian backyard when the news broke. I turned on my laptop and coincidentally checked the Sydney Morning Herald about thirty-seven minutes after Obama began his announcement. This greeted me:

I went outside and told my housemates. There was a flurry of action as one by one, they rushed inside, we crammed up on the couch, and flicked past the Spanish-language reports of "la muerte" of bin Laden until we reached CNN.

Peter Bergen on CNN: "Killing bin Laden is the end of the war on terror. We can just sort of announce that right now." This comment is being widely attacked on Twitter (including by myself) as I type.

I found The New York Times' decision to post a picture of Obama, not Osama, very interesting. The headline and the photo together spell a message of victory, of power and peace restored to the United States.

Barack Obama: "We can say to those families who have lost loved ones to Al- Qaeda's terror, justice has been done."

An American friend of mine was proud and patriotic in his reaction on Facebook: "Great Sacrifices have been made to lead us to this day. Let us remember and celebrate them as well as the joy we feel at Bin Laden's demise. God bless the United States of America."

John McCain: "The world is a better and more just place now that Osama bin Laden is no longer in it ... We finally got him, justice has been done."

But both Obama and McCain noted that al-Qaeda remains a threat and that vigilance in security can't be reduced. Amid the proclamations of victory, some warning voices emerged. And some dissented entirely.

Julia Gillard: "Our war on terrorism must continue ... al-Qaeda is not finished."

Mamdouh Habib: "What, you think with Osama bin Laden dying there won't be war anymore? ... The war will never stop."

Another of my friends posted on Facebook: "Am I the only one who is skeptical about Bin Laden being killed? Election stunt much Obama?"

And more prominent sources echoed her sentiment, at least in part. Mark Halperin for TIME: "This is a great day for America, but make no mistake: this is a great day for Obama's re-election effort."

In an automatically scrolling slideshow of pictures, the BBC delivered once more that image imprinted on so many memories: the Twin Towers in flames. This year, the memorial park at Ground Zero will be opened. It's interesting that 2011 is now also the year of bin Laden's capture.

I posted a question to the Twitterverse at large as to their thoughts on it all. One response: "[Some New Yorkers have] said this gives them some closure & to let them have that moment."

Bitterness definitely came across the web reactions too. Another friend pointed out that we have no conclusive evidence of bin Laden being directly behind the September 11 attacks. "He was obviously a dangerous criminal/crazed militant but I see the blithe declarations of his being behind the attacks, and of "justice being done" and I think, for what? Surely justice should be served in a court of law backed by evidence and conclusive proof of criminality - we don't live in the days of the wild west where Americans can shoot dead whomsoever they please if they believe it "justified"."

And someone else on my Facebook feed was just troubled by the whole spectacle. "The sheer glee and righteousness pouring out right now is disturbing. It's almost like a ritual stoning."

But amidst all the news headlines, robust debate, opinion-mongering and general seriousness, the humorists are having their day too. In particular, jokes about the Playstation Network are abounding - whether U.S. intelligence found Osama's address through the network security breach, or whether they just got back to real work because their Playstations were down.

On Facebook, "RIP Osama bin Laden - World Hide & Go Seek Champion (2001-2011)" popped up faster than you could get the names 'Osama' and 'Obama' confused.

Twitter user @TheRealEShug: "Donald Trump better not ask to see Osama's death certificate."

And along the same lines, @comicjester: "Osama may be dead, but Obama is still a half-breed muslin who was born in Kenyanistan right?"

The Internet is abuzz and in Washington, crowds are cheering and waving flags outside the White House. I'm sure the scene is even more passionate in New York. But here in Trujillo, Peru, it's 1 a.m. and the streets are quiet. I'm sure there will be much excitement and shock come morning when the general populace finds out the news, but for now, there's only sleep.

Sometimes it sucks

2011-04-30T01:29:00.002+10:00

I think you'll find that even sunshine and rainbows lose their shine after a while. It doesn't mean they won't regain it, or that you're not appropriately grateful for their presence in your life - it just means that it's only human to get tired once in a while. That's how I am at the moment.

Nearing the 2-month mark since leaving home, I'm settling into the feeling of being away. What seemed the epitome of 'foreign' seven weeks ago - living in the poorest district of a Peruvian city and teaching English to its children - has become my norm. As detailed in my previous blog post, I love it (and I wouldn't claim to if I didn't)... but I don't have the same enthusiasm that I had at the beginning. Truth be told, I'm restless. I'm a traveller itching to travel. The biggest blessing about this place - the fact that it feels just like a second home - has paradoxically become its curse. I'm too comfortable. I need to be challenged. I want to be overwhelmed by places and people and cultures that rush at me and leave me feeling dizzy.

Sometimes the life that you've dreamed of can suck - even if it's everything you wanted (and more). When you get a new cold every second week (I blame it on the kids, who are clearly disease incubators in cute packaging); when you feel like you need to sleep for days just because the food or the weather or something isn't coexisting with your body; when you realise there's no possible way you can adhere to your budget and continue to eat. When, wearing yesterday's underwear, you wash your entire backpack's worth of clothes and leave a tissue in a pocket. When your credit card inexplicably refuses to let you withdraw money and you have a grand total of five soles in your wallet - this on the day that you were planning to buy your plane and bus tickets to your next destination. When the mango man ceases to sell mangoes. Sometimes the karmic universe seems like a vindictive, pimply-faced and metal-listening McDonalds cashier, sneering out "would you like to upsize that misfortune meal? It'll only be a bucketful of tears extra". Sure, I'll upsize. Why not.

So here are my petty woes, poured out in the only effective way I know: in writing. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss Vegemite, kebabs, and driving my car to the supermarket. I miss the simple, unquestioning love of my two pet dogs. I miss wandering through Newtown or Glebe and soaking up that feeling of beautiful, diverse and quintessential Sydneyness, and feeling that I belong there. So help me God, I even miss hearing Julia Gillard's voice on the TV and radio. I miss having a hot shower in my own bathroom, blow-drying and straightening my hair, putting on enough makeup to clog my pores for a year and feeling done-up and pretty. I see status updates from my close friends on Facebook and begrudgingly I let a couple of lonely tears roll from my eyes, because although I love meeting new people and I love being alone too, there's times I would do anything for a hug from someone back home. I have left so much behind - but on the flip side, I have so much to return to.

On that note, here's a little vlog snippet that I recorded last weekend, in mountainous Cajamarca, six hours from where I'm living. At the time of filming I was feeling pretty wretched, cooped up in a hotel room while my friends went exploring. What I didn't know as I spoke to the camera was that two hours and a much-needed nap later, I would be back out the door and on my way to see a new city with a smile on my face.

Loves and loathes of a volunteer teacher

2011-04-27T03:07:00.003+10:00

When I think about it, I can narrow my favourite aspects of teaching at the local primary school down to three things.

The first is when the kids know my name. It gives me a little kick when I hear "Al-eeee-sa!" called across the school courtyard or from the other side of a classroom. It makes me feel like I'm not just a dispensable anglophone filling a role - that I've made an impact on them not just by what I'm doing, but also by who I am. Of course, their knowing my name also has its detractors. Yesterday I was teaching a Year 1 class (notoriously difficult due to the fact that most of them can't write their own names, let alone write anything in English) when one call of "Al-eee-sa!" rapidly multiplied into a Mexican wave of little screams throughout the room. I don't know if it's the children of San Francisco de Asis, La Esperanza, or if it's kids in general, but these people do not understand the concept of patience. Whether it's Grade 1 or Grade 6, it seems beyond them why I don't appear at their side immediately after that distressed three-syllable yell leaves their lips. And it's a little stressful to have a whole classroom repeatedly calling your name all at once. (I just close my eyes and pretend they're chanting my name out of love and support.)

My second favourite aspect of teaching is getting more hugs in one day than I would usually receive in an entire year. Upon entering a classroom, it's normal for most of the girls to rush to the front and kiss you on the cheek as a greeting. Many of the boys do it too, as do some of the teachers (though some opt for a handshake instead). Sometimes the first five minutes of a class are occupied entirely by kissing thirty little cheeks and then coaxing the flock back to their seats. But even more touching than the kisses are the tight, tiny-armed hugs. I have a few students who will hug me at the beginning of a class and not let go until I have to tell them to sit down. Also problematic, but equally adorable, is when one niño (or niña) rushes up to cuddle me on my way to a classroom, and suddenly a tidal wave of children are appearing out of nowhere and doing the same. It's happened a few times - I literally get caught in a boa constrictor of tiny little arms and am unable to move an inch. I can only look down helplessly at the hordes of cheeky grins directed up at me. Upon finishing a Year 3 class last week, two little girls grabbed each of my hands and walked me across the courtyard towards the school gate. "Don't you have class now?" I asked them as we strolled along. "We're on a bathroom break!" they responded delightedly. Ah, the 'bathroom break' euphemism. I remember it well from my own school days.

The third thing that I love most about my current 'job' is that so many of the children remind me of myself. Primary school feels like centuries ago to me, and I've never been much of a 'kid person'; to tell the truth, children often seem like little aliens to me. I simply don't know how to relate to someone who has Hannah Montana (or Justin Bieber, who is some sort of demigod here) on her pencil case and eats glue. But the last six weeks have brought a flood of memories back to me of what it was like to be young (like, really young), and I've realised that some of these kids are just like I was - even though they're on a different continent and in a very different environment. I particularly love the neat-freaks; the ones who will have a mild panic attack if you ask them to write something on a sheet of paper without specifying an exact line on which to write, or the ones who will direct where on the page they would like you to place your ticks and proclamations of "very good", and give you the pen with which to mark their work. There's also the ones (interestingly, mostly boys) who will obviously practise English vocab between classes and teach themselves a word here or there, and then proudly perform their lingual abilities for you. Some open up a perfectly-tended little notebook containing lines of English for you to gasp and fawn over. These things are genuinely impressive; the majority of kids seem to forget what we've taught them from week to week (which isn't surprising, given that their English folders are kept at school and they only have one 45-minute class per week). I was a teacher's pet in primary school, and I also straddled a line between healthy eagerness and obsession when it came to keeping my books in order and getting good marks. So these kids touch my heart in all their youthful earnestness.

There are definitely moments when teaching makes me want to cry; when I have to yell "silencio!" at the top of my lungs about five times per minute, or when the younger kids start bawling for no apparent reason, or the boys fight in the middle of a lesson, or an insensitive kid mimics and laughs at me for my bad Spanish. But then you have students like my favourite (ssh, don't tell!), Abigail of Year 3 in her ever-present blue-and-white bauble hair tie, who was absent one week and came straight up to me the following lesson and explained matter-of-factly, "You didn't see me last week because I was sick, but I'm here now". In one of my first weeks teaching, I chatted on the playground with a group of three girls who disappeared for a minute and returned with an ice block for me. And many of the girls love asking you about your life - how old you are, what country you're from, and if you're married, have children or are pregnant. The first time I was asked if I was pregnant I was inwardly horrified, but apparently everyone gets asked at one point or another. Talking with one of my one-on-one students, a sixteen-year-old, I said "Of course I don't have children - I'm only twenty-one!" It seemed to be a moot point for her. I feel like I'm still in my youth, but here, twenty-one-year-olds are undoubtedly adults. My host mother of sorts, Luz, is twenty-five and has two children.

There's no way I could teach long-term, and I know that my personality and patience level just isn't cut out for routinely dealing with children. But I have genuinely loved meeting and interacting with these children, and I have no doubt that I'm going to miss them dearly when I leave. And some, like little Abigail, I will never forget.

Of serviettes and sleaziness

2011-04-18T08:12:00.002+10:00

Allow me to paint the scene. You're sitting in an open-air club, surrounded by Latin American dance music, some friends and the token Peruvian guy who was asked to provide a light for someone's cigarette and interpreted that as an invitation to join the table. The guy - who happens to be married with children, but eagerly informs your party that you're all more beautiful than his wife - really gets his chance to impress when you announce that you're going to the bathroom, and he procures a couple of serviettes, passing them over like tall-stemmed red roses.

When you plan for a night out in Peru, there are only three things you really need to take: money, keys, and toilet paper. (Hand sanitiser and patience with ridiculously amorous manboys could quite possibly be added to that list.) I now determine the fanciness of establishments by whether or not they provide toilet paper in their bathrooms... and sadly, the non-fancy far outnumber the fancy. Last night, I went with two of my housemates to a local club called Punto Cero. We were surprised to find that it was quite a chilled-out, fun place, even though it's located in one of the dodgiest parts of Trujillo (the part where we live) and even though all the Peruvians who were informed of our destination responded with raised eyebrows and an incredulous "You're going to Punto Cero?". Luz, our boss-slash-foster-mother, rattled off a list of attractive alternative destinations and made sure she had a number to contact us on before we left the house. But when we arrived we found a perfectly decent place - except for the bathrooms.

These were the worst I've come across so far. And you may think it's odd to blog about toilets, but in my experience it's always such supposedly inconsequential, unremarkable things that define your memories of a place. Peruvian toilets make me laugh - probably because the only alternative is to cry. Bathroom doors: optional. (Curtains are considered sufficient.) Toilet seats: even more optional. Basic cleanliness: que? The Punto Cero toilets took usual squeamishness a few steps further by having suspiciously flooded floors, toilets that wouldn't flush (adding to the suspicion over the flooded floors), and no bins in which to put your brought-from-home toilet paper - meaning that serviettes, tissues and other arse-wiping miscellania were scattered around the ground, soaking up the ubiquitous floor-water. Thank God I was drunk... there's no way I could've handled those toilets sober.

Other classic Peruvian moments last night (memory permitting): being asked if we wanted our drinks cold or not - this is always asked here. It seems many locals like drinking room-temperature beverages. The catch-22 in ordering cold drinks at a bar, though, is that you never know whether to trust their ice (it should be made from bottled or boiled water, but I strongly suspect some venues wouldn't bother going to the effort). Being excessively protected by an overly friendly security guard, who posed with one of us for some photos and continuously asked if the nearby men were bothering us, or if we'd like him to kick some people off their table so our delicate white bodies could assume the sitting position. Dancing with a guy in his thirties who was wearing his work uniform - a T-shirt for some kind of franchise named "The Chicken Coop". Enduring his repeated, frenzied pointing to the shirt, seemingly insinuating that I must want what's beneath it because it is clothed in a language I understand. Being hit on by an old sleazebag, complete with wandering hands, as his wife stood by and pouted. However, his wife was evidently more in love with their dog - which they had taken to the bar. The poor thing was clearly traumatised, especially when the woman proceeded to make out with it. (That's not an exaggeration. It happened.) And finally, upon arrival at our house at the end of the night, dodging the tongue of the taxi driver who hoped for payment in both cash and services.

Men here take sleaziness to maximum capacity - there's no doubting that. But provided you come armed with toilet paper and a sense of humour, you can have a lot of fun.

(NB to my mother: Don't worry - I didn't have too much fun.)

A guide to Peruvian food

2011-04-09T08:05:00.003+10:00

Today I'm being a very good chica peruana - by which I mean that I'm stuffing my face with authentic, local comida. If you know me well, you will know that I generally prefer not to eat anything that has come out of the sea. I like my animals to come from fields. I'm not afraid of spicy food (in fact, it's not an exaggeration to say that I've developed tastebuds of steel since arriving here), but when it comes to meat I abide by the holy trinity of chicken-beef-ham. On occasion I'll eat turkey or pork, and sometimes tuna or the good ol' fish-and-chips formula, but at that point I pretty much hit the border of edible territory.

It is a testament to my love and respect for Peru that approximately two hours ago I inserted raw fish into my mouth. I did what everyone must do when they visit Peru (that's a catchy phrase - the local tourism industry should pay me for this stuff): I tried ceviche.

Photo taken by fellow volunteer and blogger, Daniel Baylis - check out Estela's ceviche recipe on his blog!

Ceviche (pronounced se-beech-ey) is Peru's national dish and a subject of immense pride for just about every local I've discussed it with. It is a citrus-based, spicy stew made of uncooked, heavily-marinated seafood with Spanish onion and seaweed, often accompanied by lettuce, sweet potato, beans or corn. The ceviche I ate at lunch today was made of a generic, fishy fish (as you can no doubt tell, I'm an expert on sea creatures), but I often see kids at the colegio holding ceviche cups with octopus legs and assorted other maritime paraphernalia poking out the top. (A 'fun' game at school consists of avoiding ceviche-munching kids' attempts to kiss me on the cheek - I artfully dodge their fishy lips at the last minute, making them settle for an air kiss. The particularly obstinate ones grab my neck with their octopussy little hands and pull my cheek back in, but most of the time I get away with it.)

I didn't mind ceviche (honestly, I'll eat anything prepared by Estela, our lovely and amazingly talented cook and housekeeper), but I couldn't stomach an entire bowl. I much preferred today's second venture into Peruvian food: the humble maracuya, in all its wrinkly and yellow glory. The unassuming little fruit isn't much to look at, but when you cut it open it's full of sour passionfruity goodness.

Estela makes fruit juice to accompany our lunch every day, and maracuya juice is always one of my favourites. Occasionally we drink chicha, a substance of either faint yellow or dark purple hue, made from maize. Its taste is sweet (probably due to tonnes of added sugar) and slightly - for want of a better word - starchy. It has a more savoury aftertaste. It's one of those things that evades an adequate description. Some of the other volunteers aren't feeling the chicha, but I love it.

Journeys into the central mercado in Trujillo aren't for vegetarians or the faint-hearted; meat is everywhere, and no pretenses are made as to the fact that yes, these are animals. Raw (but plucked) chickens are sold whole, wings and feet awkwardly stuffed into a clear plastic bag. I've stared with equal repulsion and fascination at the stomach section of unidentified animals with kidneys and various other organs unashamedly on display. This morning I walked past a butchery with a big picture of a cow out the front. It made me both laugh and cringe; having always lived with the privilege of having someone else to carve my meat, I prefer to disassociate beef from its source.

As far as meat choice goes, there's no doubting the fact that Peruvians are in a serious love affair with chicken. A few blocks from our house is La Esperanza's 'chicken alley' - a strip of road reminiscent of Las Vegas, all neon lights screaming polleria!. They only really serve one thing - a portion of charcoal chicken served with chips and a basic salad. (If you choose take-away, they shove it all into clear plastic bags like the ones at the market.) A highly-recommended plato criollo is pollo con arroz (translation: chicken with rice). Gourmet-sounding, no? The majority of food here (along with its presentation) is basic - the staples of rice, lentils, potatoes and beans appear time and time again - but the spices used to prepare meals, along with the ever-present picante sauce, renders it all nothing short of delicious.

One classic Peruvian favourite that I haven't yet tried is... wait for it... guinea pig. Yes, locals prefer their furry little friends in roasted form. In an outdoor area suspiciously located right beside the kitchen at my Spanish school lies a big guinea pig pen. My curiosity got the better of me one day, and I flipped through my dictionary to the word 'pet', beginning my question with "Are the guinea pigs pets...?". The woman I was speaking to nodded enthusiastically, proclaiming, "yes! They're pets!" Here she paused. Then: "For eating!" A little bewildered, I asked if they taste good. This threw her into a positive rapture of culinary worship.

Beyond the chicken, capsicum omelettes, tamales and supposedly scrumptious guinea pig, you have more fruit than you can poke a stick at. On our walk down the street to the colegio each day we pass an older gentleman who we lovingly refer to as 'the mango man'. He sits at a little wooden table outside his doorstep, nursing a box of fresh avocadoes and mangoes which he daily assures us are "muy rico, muy rico!" (very delicious). A massive mango costs 50 centimos - less than 20 Australian or U.S. cents. Avocadoes are 1 nuevo sol - roughly 35 cents. Countless stores and individual vendors in the city sell freshly-squeezed fruit juice or cremoladas - a tasty cross between a gelato, smoothie and frappe (eaten with a spoon).

Overall, though, the key to Peruvian happiness would have to be sugar. Smack in the middle of the fresh produce section of the supermarket, amongst the broccoli and apples, are gigantic vats of grainy sugar - several types, complete with scoops for easy bagging. The national soft drink of choice is the bright yellow, bubblegum-tasting Inca Kola - reputedly banned in Britain for its high caffeine content (though I'm sure the sugar content is higher). It's said to be much like crack. Personally, I've never managed more than one glass at a time; it's gag-worthy. Diet soft drinks are an anomaly here; they're only found in the big supermarkets, and even then tucked into some sad reject's corner of the soft drink aisle. Diet Coke, as far as I'm aware, is not imported into Peru at all. I'm warming to Diet Pepsi, but a sizable chunk of my heart still lies in countries more favoured by the Coca-Cola company. However in most other ways, Peruvian fare occupies a warm and fuzzy place in my chest - or is that just the effect of all the picante?

Travelling around Trujillo

2011-04-03T09:29:00.001+10:00

One aspect of travelling that makes me inwardly weep is lack of access to a car. My poor bourgeois white arse doesn't like being hauled onto kombis and taxis and generally braving the elements of local transportation. I'm yet to decide whether it's comforting or annoying that Trujillo at large's arse is hauled into the taxis and kombis with me - car ownership seems to be a privilege of very few here. But for all my whingeing, getting around without a car is just about the best opportunity out there when it comes to learning about my surroundings and practising Spanish.

Buses do exist in Trujillo, but they're gravely outnumbered by alternative transport options, and more problematically, I have no idea how they work. This city isn't what you'd call entirely tourist-friendly. There isn't a route map or timetable to be seen; it's difficult enough to find a map of the city itself. Navigation is ever so slightly impeded by the fact that most streets lack any kind of signage indicating names or numbers. Helpful, right?

To get to my Spanish classes on weekdays, I walk five minutes from my house to the main highway running through La Esperanza, which is called Panamerica. I don't know if Panamerica is a "calle" or an "avenida" or something entirely different - it's hard to tell such things with the lack of street signs. I typically walk by a couple of trucks right before I attempt the life-threatening traversal of the highway, so my mad dash each morning is accompanied by the sweet sounds of wolf-whistles from truckies. Once I'm precariously stationed upon the highway-side dirtsand (if it's not a legitimate word, it should be), I wait for a kombi displaying the letter "B" to roll along, at which point I raise my arm and look half eager and half desperate. When the kombi pulls over, I ask if it goes to the right (right of where, I don't really know - the extent of my knowledge is that my Spanish school lies somewhere in this mysterious "right"). When the door opener-slash-money collector guy mechanically yells "si! DERECHA, DERECHA!", I scramble onboard, almost concuss myself on the ridiculously low roof (Peruvians are uniformly short - I am tall here, tall!) and take a cramped kombi seat. Every time the bus goes over a speed hump, I forget to duck and almost concuss myself again. No wonder I'm always foggy-brained in my Spanish classes.

After ten or fifteen minutes, when the kombi passes Avenida 29 de Diciembre (this street is very special in that it has a street sign), I fumblingly say that I'd like to get off the bus here. When the door/money guy inevitably doesn't understand me, I make a fun charade performance of pointing and repeating the word "aqui" (here). Then I give myself one last head-bump upon exit (for good measure), pass a sol to the door guy, and gratefully disembark onto solid ground.

There is an alternative to kombis: cars. I have no idea how they're run or organised, let alone who by (government? Private business? Who knows?), but there are lots of cars which display the same letters as the kombis and run the same routes. I made the mistake of taking one to La Esperanza once, thinking a car would have to be more comfortable than a kombi. Indeed, perhaps it would be if there was any concept of maximum capacity. As the car piled up, we ended up with three people in the front and four in the back. In my three centimetres-squared of back seat, I silently held a mournful memorial service for my deceased personal space.

At once the most comfortable and anxiety-inducing option is a taxi. They cost on average five times more than the alternatives, but this amount is still cheaper than most Sydney train fares - about $2 Australian. Taxis here don't have meters, so you negotiate the cost with the driver before you get in.

It's a well-known fact that taxis aren't always safe, but there's no exact science to avoiding the bad ones - as with most travelling ventures, it all depends on a murky formula of common sense and luck. As I got into a taxi yesterday, a police officer standing nearby raised his eyebrows and said "good luck" - that, to be blunt, freaked me the fuck out. But I've been lucky so far - the most I've encountered in a taxi is unabashed flirting and attempts at overcharging. Taxi drivers are often chatty - particularly the male ones who seem to jump at the chance to have a discussion with a white girl (it sounds like a racial over-simplification, but it's actually like that here). The conversations are excellent language practice - one driver even commented that I "more or less speak Spanish". However he may have had an ulterior motive, as he got out of the car after dropping me at my house five minutes later and wouldn't leave until he'd given me his number, written "SABADO" (Saturday) in block letters beneath his name (I have no idea what he expected me to do or yield to on Saturday), and listened to me say in no uncertain terms, three times over, that I have no free time to meet him and must go now because I am late for lunch. But such flirting is hardly rare - two other female volunteers recently had their taxi pulled over by police so that the officers could chat them up. True story.

Getting around here is sometimes confusing, often slightly stressful and always bumpy, but it can also be heaps of fun - like when we crammed six passengers into one taxi to go out to a club (two in the boot), or in the growing number of interesting conversations I've had with drivers. It all makes Sydney transportation seem very subdued - and almost civilised. Never thought I'd use that adjective to describe Cityrail.

Home

2011-03-25T13:46:00.003+11:00

I’m an extreme homebody, so it’s always surprising when I successfully find a home away from home. I don’t like staying at friends’ places too long, and I much prefer to make the trek home at the end of a big night and wake up in my own bed. I’m a slave to the comfort of familiarity.

It’s puzzling, but sweetly so, that my Peruvian home feels so familiar when there are so many points of difference. I live on Calle Jose Marti, a long, straight street lacking road markings or signs. It’s lined by sand and intersected by a couple of unpaved roads, laden with dirt and dust. My street is typical of this area, La Esperanza – the poorest area of Peru’s third-largest city, Trujillo.

My house, the Horizon House (named for the volunteer organisation it plays headquarters to – Horizon Peru), is a two-storey concrete and brick affair. Dust is like oxygen here, so there’s no carpet – just hard floors, walls and ceilings, trusty material of the non-absorbent variety. The floors are swept daily but they still accumulate dust, just like we do; it sinks into every crevice and banishes any vague hope of keeping clean.

Our house is basic, I guess, but it doesn’t feel any less comfortable than home. We have a cosy little living room with a TV, computer, guitar and couch; the only drawback is that it’s located right by the bathroom, which unfortunately lacks any sound insulation whatsoever. This might not be such a problem in each of our home countries, but our weak western stomachs have issues dealing with Peruvian food. You can fill in the gaps.

It’s a little bit different eating at a table located actually in the kitchen (right next to the washing machine – which is also centrally located, right by the kitchen sink). Initially I wasn’t too thrilled about the sanitation system’s refusal to take toilet paper (and the resultant need to put said paper in a bin beside the toilet), but you get used to such things quickly – I suspect I’ll find it weird putting paper back in the toilet when I go to Europe. It’s also different walking down an outside corridor to get from my bedroom to the kitchen, living room and bathroom, and sharing a bedroom with three other girls (each from a different country – America, Germany and England).

I think what makes this all so oddly soothing is the presence of a family. We’re a makeshift family, to be sure - thrown together by chance rather than choice - but we must have at least something in common to have mutually ended up in this same dusty street. It was definitely overwhelming to arrive here around 10pm on a Sunday night, (not so) fresh off an eight-hour bus ride, and absorb whirlwind introductions to five chatty girls who all seemed to know each other so well. (The two boys had already gone to bed, so I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting them until the following morning – which was probably good for my sanity, because I had enough trouble remembering names as it was.) That first night, I felt unsure and tired; I grappled with that one thought that every traveller must occasionally get: “What the hell am I doing here?”

But here’s an exercise: try to remember how you became close to your closest friends. Try to dissect how you even go about the science of making friends in the first place. I, for one, have no idea how it’s done – it just happens. One minute you’re strangers, the next you’re family in some way. In less than two weeks I’ve become incredibly fond of all my housemates, and I’ve attained that precious, beautiful feeling – the feeling of belonging.

Although I’m still getting used to the neverending sun, sweat and sand of Trujillo – not to mention the isolation and novelty of being a ‘gringa’ (more blogging on that later) – a little piece of this place is mine now, and always will be. I’d like to hope that this city holds onto some part of me as well; whether that be as passing as a footstep in the sand or as resounding as new, English words in the minds of the many children I’m teaching here. I’m definitely grateful to have been touched by La Esperanza (Spanish for “hope”) – both on paper and, more meaningfully, in people.

Election fever

2011-03-20T13:42:00.002+11:00

Only today did it occur to me that I have less than a week left to place my absentee-vote for the New South Wales state election. It’s hard to remember such things from within a basic, concrete-walled and concrete-floored house, stationed upon a sand-lined street of La Esperanza, Trujillo, Peru. Besides, my immediate consciousness has been filled up with the local election fervour; Peru’s next federal election is happening next month, and by God, these people love politics like a fat kid loves cake. (I’m sorry, that joke got old about five years ago, didn’t it? Is it considered vintage-cool yet? …No?)

Here’s the thing: political slogans are everywhere. I know what you’re thinking – that’s nothing unusual, right? You can never escape politics at election time. It’s on the TV, on the radio, on the front page of every newspaper, in every conversation… yes. But that’s not everywhere. Everywhere is when you have political advertisements, admonitions and adulations painted on houses, painted on rocks.

In the big cities – of which I’ve seen Lima and Trujillo – the campaign billboards are nothing short of ubiquitous. They line the streets in rows; a blur of smiling, shiny people with groomed hairstyles and generic lines of text promising jobs and opportunity and undying love for Peru.

Surprisingly (to me, at least), it’s no different in the small towns. Myself and the other seven volunteers at Horizon School went to a village named Simbal today. As most of them hiked up a mountain, I ventured up a hill and into the centre of town alone, strolling along solitarily and happily. Even in sleepy Simbal, drowned in a peaceful Saturday afternoon hush save for the noises of farm animals (I almost got chased by a hog! A hog!), there were the same signs, the same faces. Everywhere.

There’s a few things that strike me about this phenomenon. First and most obvious is the volume of campaigns; it would appear that this is no two-party system. Instead, according to a volunteer who has been here much longer than I have, it’s a huddle of rich families all vying in some crooked race to the pot of gold over the rainbow. Also interesting is the politicians’ publicity images. In Australia, I imagine a publicity picture of Julia Gillard or Tony Abbott and I picture them in a smart suit. A head-and-shoulders shot would reveal them looking relaxed, yet poised, and smiling not too enthusiastically but knowingly, reassuringly. The politicians here don’t look so… professional. On the billboards, they wear campaign T-shirts. They smile broadly (in one case, almost menacingly – see: Luis Castaneda). One, GLORIA!, looks like your friendly neighbourhood soccer mum, her arms outstretched eagerly to the world.

Luis Castañeda

Most of all, what gets me is that people are happy to put up with this. That they would paint their houses with political support symbols. If I had to see Tony Abbott’s face this much, I would literally bury my head in the sand of Bondi Beach until voting was over and it was safe to emerge. And the mere shock of Julia Gillard’s hair would send motorists swerving on any highway. (I felt a token ranga joke was necessary. Again, old, I know. Someone donate me some new material?)

The only conclusion I can really make is that things here are simply different. Except that I’m the different one; I’m the ‘gringa’, the spectacle of unnatural whiteness that makes heads turn as I walk down the street. I’m getting my first taste of what it really feels like to be foreign. That’s got to be good for me, even if it feels bad at times.

Buenos dias, Buenos Aires

2011-03-18T14:45:00.001+11:00

It’s a funny feeling, stepping out of a plane and into a country you’ve never been to, that you know next-to-nothing about, and that you don’t speak the language of. It’s an especially funny feeling doing that alone. Dragging all your bags into a dingy airport toilet stall (and believe me – the toilets in Buenos Aires Arrivals are definitely dingy) because there’s no friend or family member to leave them with; standing alone at the baggage carousel waiting for your solitary backpack to drift along on the conveyor belt. Clearing customs and walking out of the sliding doors into a new city, a new country, a new continent, and thinking, “what do I do now?”.

It sounds depressing, but it isn’t. Mostly it’s just a little weird. The immediate need for logic holds back any emotional setbacks that might stand in your way; all inner dialogue is consumed by “where is my passport? Now I need to find an ATM. I need to exchange some currency. I need to buy a bus ticket. I need to confirm my hostel booking.” I noticed, right from that first afternoon that I flew into Argentina, that I had begun thinking of myself in plural form. “Okay, now we should find an information desk.” It’s a surprisingly effective coping mechanism – it’s like I unwittingly made myself into a little team, a cheering squad of “go Alyssa!”. Or I might be going crazy. (Crazier?)

On the bus that took me from the airport to my hostel, I kept my eyes glued to the window. Unbeknownst to me, I had arrived on the final day of Carnaval, which also coincided with International Women’s Day – so a double-public holiday in Argentina. (Don’t you love a country that makes a public holiday to celebrate women?) Littered along the sides of the busy freeway were cars, casually steered off the sides of the road and parked upon the green parklands surrounding the main thoroughfare into the city. And beside the cars were scores of people: families and couples stretched out on picnic blankets, and groups of friends playing soccer. The boots of the cars were open, revealing picnic baskets and piles of food. This, I thought, is my kind of city.

But then we got past the green lawns and reached the borders of the city, which sprawls out in a messy, expansively creeping heap. At the far reaches of that heap were a huddle of shack-like structures, bunches of boys playing sport out the front. Then, crawling further in, the concrete high-rises appeared, with their tiny windows and clothes hanging from cramped balconies. Shanty communities with crooked, wrought-iron sheets for roofs and chaotic, dirty roads littered the edges of the highway heading into central Buenos Aires.

But as is the way with big cities (and, I suppose, with life), once you reach your locality, it’s hard to see far beyond it. In the microcentro with its beautiful, classical architecture and its immaculately groomed parks, the slums seemed to be in another part of the country altogether. Out of sight, out of mind. Buenos Aires, in the eyes of an enraptured tourist, appears as a thoroughly livable city; a pocketful of boroughs, each with their own unique flavour, easy transport, and delicious food everywhere, from pizza to parillas (grilled meats) to helados (ice cream). There are areas with cosy little cafes, serving honey-drizzled medialunas (little South American croissants), and cobblestone streets lined with delightful boutique stores. There’s the most fantastic cemetery (don’t judge me for being a cemetery enthusiast) - a veritable village of ornate tombs, navigated by little laneways illuminated by perfectly-sculpted street lamps. Puerto Madero uncannily reminded me of Darling Harbour, and La Boca’s Caminito, a working-class street painted with left-over supplies from boats in the port, is best described simply as ‘sunshiney’ in its many splashes of colour.

‘Sunshiney’ is actually a good term for Buenos Aires on the whole, at least for the time I was there. Such was the heat that it was actually hard to play the tourist, walking around the city, when the sun was at its highest reach in the middle of the day. I definitely left with a redder skin hue than I arrived with. But on my final day in the city, clouds swamped the sky and it rained. I slipped out of the hostel for a few minutes to walk around the block in search of a sandwich (it’s funny the things you crave). While the rain lured everyone indoors, it also lured the darker side of Buenos Aires out of its shadow and into plain view. There, in several doorways and under central city awnings, were homeless people sleeping on mattresses, huddled in corners. Did they move there to take shelter from the rain, or did I simply not see them when my mind was preoccupied with sunshine and rainbows?

Rolling along in the rain, heading out of Buenos Aires in the same bus that had taken me into the city four days earlier, I again saw the shanty communities that envelope such a beautiful, blessed place. I wonder how these people feel – born into the edges of the city, delegated to the edges of opportunity. So close to prosperity, yet so far. BA is a remarkable city – there’s no doubt about that. The thing is, remarkableness comes in as many shades as the colours of the Caminito – and some aren’t so bright.

Cut your losses, but count your blessings... for they are many

2011-03-12T13:32:00.001+11:00

There is a difference between ‘travelling’ and ‘taking a holiday’, and I knew that before I left home. I told myself to expect to be robbed, expect things to go wrong, expect my patience to be tested. It turns out that Buenos Aires was a fantastic place to start my trip, because for the last three and a half days, very little has gone awry. Despite the fact that there isn’t an abundance of English spoken, it’s not hard to get by, and staying in an English language-friendly hostel makes a massive difference (this place is overrun with Australians!).

Of course, the danger in everything going so well is that you let down your guard and become a sitting duck. What I’m most proud of in my time in Buenos Aires is that I’ve mastered all forms of public transport – bus, subte (subway), taxi and train. This morning, catching the subte with three Brazilian girls from my dorm, I got the fright of my life. The train was packed and a woman was pressed up against my front, where my bag happened to be hanging from my shoulder. Feeling her brush against my bag, I became suspicious and took a step back. She moved with me. I took another step back. She moved again. And this is the part I’m really annoyed at – I knew that she was robbing me. But some defective cell in my brain told me I was just being paranoid and that it was a crowded train, so it was natural that people would be pressed against you. Then someone bumped the woman’s arm (which was covered by a denim jacket and very close to my bag) – and what should be revealed, nestled into the jacket, but my wallet? As soon as I saw it, I grabbed it back, not saying a word to her. In that first naïve moment of pure shock, I thought maybe I had left my zipper open and my wallet had fallen out of my bag and into her arm. Which, needless to say, makes no sense whatsoever. A guy standing next to me nudged me and said something in Spanish, then pointed to the woman and make a wandering-hands gesture. Then he said to me, in English, “be careful”. Oh, believe me, I will be much more careful.

We all like to think of ourselves as wise – I certainly do – but it took that incident to make me realise how stupid I’ve been for the last few days. I’ve been leaving my passport in the hostel locker – that’s a small saving grace - but all my cards and money are in my wallet. If that woman hadn’t been nudged, she would have easily made it out of the subway with my wallet and every means of my access to money. This, a grand total of one day before I’m due to fly to Peru. Wouldn’t that have been awesome?

I actually have been successfully robbed so far – of my shampoo and conditioner in the hostel shower. That I really don’t understand. They were in tiny containers and worth maybe AU$10 maximum. Really, now, people. Even I’m not that stingy. Other items in the ‘stuff that has gone wrong’ list include the fact that I left my sunglasses in a taxi this afternoon (but again, they were worth so little that it’s not worth worrying about it), and that my feet are suspiciously itchy (I’ve been showering barefoot – another count towards the “Alyssa is an idiot” tally). Also, I have gone through today with awful, seizing stomach pains. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve been drinking tap water or that I’ve just started on my anti-malarial pills – or perhaps that I took the anti-malarial pill with tap water – but it feels like my stomach is staging a mutiny against the rest of my body. Oh, and today I hung out with a guy who read all four Twilight books in the space of a week. That was dodgy too.

But even after dealing with the not-so-great aspects of travelling so far, my extraordinary luck in retrieving my wallet on the subte far outweighs the negatives. Seriously, I must’ve done something right at some point, because I’m preeeetty sure the God of the Buenos Aires subway was on my side today.

Sickly sweet and sentimental

2011-03-08T09:40:00.000+11:00

I've been doing a lot of saying goodbye over the past few days. I've lost track of how many people I've said it to. To tell the truth, it all feels a tad melodramatic; I won't see my friends and family for six to nine months, but I will be back, and I suspect not much will have changed by then. But this whole saying goodbye ritual is about more than separation. I actually quite appreciate it, because it's a chance to be reminded of how loved I am by those around me, and to show them how much I love them in return. It's nice to seize these opportunities when they arise, because too often I take my absolutely stellar relationships for granted.

In that spirit, I'd like to dedicate a little blog post to my friends. To all of you who came to my farewell party, thank you so much and I hope you had as good a night as I did. I'm sure when I'm in foreign bars with new-found friends, in the back of my mind I'll still be thinking of the big, happy bunch of us partying in Newtown back home. To the group of friends who I spend most of my time with (you know who you are), I feel more at home with you than I've ever felt anywhere else. Whenever I think of any of you, I can't keep the smile off my face. And to those of you who wrote notes to put in my little going-away photo album, I appreciate them so, so much. Thank you!

Now, I have a few parting words to a few of you:

Jane: You're beautiful. Don't ever doubt it, don't ever forget it.
Monika: Christmas lights at the end of this year (assuming I'll be back in Sydney by then)!
Cathryn: I'm relying on you to fill me in on the goss.
Morty: *Virtual hair ruffle*
Vouzy: Get some sleep! And drink tea. And tweet.
Helen: Mrow.
Mark: The world's tiniest violin will be playing in my head as I leave you.
Nicola: I'm so excited for you. I think this year is going to bring such great things!
Seanybabes: Try not to be lysstlyss. Just be awesome instead. You're good at it.
Emma: Have the most amazing time in London! I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you're so happy at the moment.

Everyone: I will genuinely miss you! Be safe, be kind to yourselves, laugh often, love much and all that jazz.

Found in translation

2011-03-01T02:30:00.000+11:00

Tuesday 1st March at 1am, exactly one week and twelve hours prior to departure, a friend brought to my attention that I do not recognise the Spanish phrase for "you are hot". In case you're interested, it's eres guapo (or so Kate says - I tricked her into thinking I was in a fake relationship earlier today, so it's entirely possible that she has just executed payback by making me recite "I have herpes" in the knowledge that I am too lazy to verify the phrase with a dictionary).

This lapse in necessary vocabulary demonstrates that I have probably been concentrating too much on the wrong areas of my phrasebook - namely, the "Practical" section. While I have been spending my time memorising numbers, days of the week and phrases such as "I don't speak English. I don't understand. Where is the embassy? Shit, shit, shit", I could have been perusing the far more interesting chapter entitled, simply, "Social".

If I find myself in a contextually suitable situation whilst in South America, I will now be able to flip through my phrasebook and inform those around me that "I am high" - estoy volada. Nevermind the fact that in such a state, the likelihood of successfully locating a phrasebook reference is extremely low. That's just an irrelevant detail.

When I'm not indulging in recreational drug use, it's pretty much a given that I'll be using my broken and near non-existent Spanish to pick up local guys. One way of doing this in a subtle and casual manner is through the indispensable pick-up line tienes unas manos preciosas - "you have beautiful hands".

My South American romantic escapades are sure to go marvellously with the help of the following phrases:

Con calma - Easy tiger!
No te preocupes, lo hago yo - Don't worry, I'll do it myself.
Se va a la cama con cualquiera - He gets around.
Ni aunque fueras la ultima persona en el mundo - Not if you were the last person on earth!
No me importa mirar, pero prefiero no participar - I don't mind watching, but I'd rather not join in (okay, fine, I lifted this one from the section on "cultural differences", therefore took it out of context - but I feel it has untapped potential).
Creo que estoy embarazada - I think I'm pregnant.

On the rare occasion that I won't be high or instructing tigers to go easy, it goes without saying that I will be attempting to discuss religion and/or politics in a language that I can neither speak nor understand. I feel that a great conversation starter would be esta a favor de aborto - "are you in favour of abortion?". If I'd like to make more of an impact, or just to troll them like I trolled Kate, I can come out with a simple estoy de acuerdo con terrorismo - "I agree with terrorism". For extra fun, I'll follow that up with quisiera ir a la iglesia - "I'd like to go to the church".

I can't wait to get over to Argentina and Peru and start putting my phrasebook to good use. I'm sure that together, we will make many amigos. And then we'll ask them to bed, or to the nearest mosque or something. It's all possible.

Roughing it the right way

2011-02-24T01:24:00.000+11:00

I am twelve days away from embarking on the adventure of my lifetime (so far, anyway). And I am utterly clueless.

This stage of proceedings basically involves me scurrying around buying stuff, making phone calls and writing emails to sort out things like credit cards and how I'll vote in the state election when I am far, far away from my home state (yay for the Internet!). I'm also spending much of my time compulsively making lists of all the stuff that is yet to be done. My list-making has reached such a point that I am considering adding "write lists" to my lists.

What is really an odd sensation is that I feel I've ceased to be an expert on my own life. For the next six months, I'm a total amateur at being me. I'll be doing things that I have no prior experience of doing (flying alone into non-English-speaking countries and negotiating life out of a backpack? This just screams 'foreign!'). In my recent quest to search for a backpack, I found store assistants asking me what sort of pack I wanted, what size I would be needing. All I could do was widen my eyes to about twice their normal diameter and make a few helpless squeaking sounds.

While I am trying to 'rough it' to a decent degree, I've come across some Internet and guide-book suggestions that I can't help but chortle at. (Yes, I just said 'chortle'.) One book enthuses about using a bandanna as a towel, because it's compact and dries quickly and you can tie it around your neck while it's wet to keep your body temperature cool. My principal problem with this suggestion is not the concept of patting myself dry with a tiny square of fabric. It's not even the high likelihood of contracting a fungal infection by doing so. It's the fact that nobody wears bandannas in 2011. And while I'm all for starting trends, this one doesn't quite reach my standards.

I read through one Internet forum discussion where a bunch of self-appointed travel experts were stampeding all over some poor girl for suggesting that she might take three pairs of shoes on her travels (which happens to be the exact number that I'm planning on taking). Three! Oh, the humanity! According to these gods of the art of getting by (just barely), one pair of shoes should take you from hiking trail to beach to aeroplane to night club to the grotty hostel shower. That is both unfashionable and disgusting and I refuse to abide by it.

There's more. I should forsake sleeping with a pillow, because a rolled-up jumper is good enough for six months. (Okay, maybe I'm being a bit of a princess with that one. But really, can't I even take a tiny little inflatable cushion?) Some sources suggest packing some guitar string to use when fixing broken odds and ends. If anything (apart from a broken guitar string) is so far gone that it needs to be repaired by guitar string, then so help me God, I am forking out the money for a replacement. Besides, guitar strings are sharp. I'll stab myself.

Clothes are a whole other debate. According to some, I'd be utterly soft if I took any more than two T-shirts. According to me, I'd be utterly insane if I expected to spend six months in two outfits. Some may say that's difference of opinion but I'd be more inclined to label it as basic sanity. As in, I am sane, and those who disagree with me are not.

Suffice to say that this is a learning experience, and I'm probably not going to know whether I've made the right decisions and listened to the right sources until I'm actually on the road and roughing it (minus the bandanna and plus a pillow). As daunting as that is, I honestly can't wait.

My piano is my Valentine

2011-02-14T18:45:00.002+11:00

It occurred to me today that love is a little like the mafia. It's all a massive rush and very exciting and special while you're in it, but once you're out, everything turns decidedly sour. And you get pushed around by men and it's not particularly fun. (Hey, relax. I'm joking. Mostly.)

Anyway, here's a song for y'all. Happy V-Day, lovers.

Love is beautiful
It's just like a fairytale
The kind where the good guys always win
Love is fantastical
I'm not even being sarcastic...al
It's full of bright and right and lovely things

But love can be hideous
And just downright ridiculous
The good guys always meet a grisly fate
Love is a succubus
It may seem so innocuous
But really it's just lying in wait
'Til it can suck your soul

But love is merciful
You fear you're headed for the worst until
The perfect person comes along
Your heart resembles baby food
It's mushy and easily chewed
You're singing to bad Top 30 songs

But just as you're feeling right
Enter! Stage left! A parasite
Swoops in and steals your one true love away
It may be some bitch with massive boobs
Or an arsehole who knows all the moves
But they're undiluted evil either way

Love is like a drug
The kind preferred by mafia thugs
To make their tortured victims slowly die
Love is like a bird
That's separated from its herd
Because its wings fell off and now it can't fly

Love will make you want to rip your heart out
And feed it to your domestic pet
Love will make you want to cry your heart out
'Til the dehydration leaves you dead

Isn't it beautiful?
isn't it magical?

Fighting the fine

2011-02-06T03:26:00.001+11:00

Dear State Debt Recovery Office,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and rolling in good cash from good citizens who are perhaps not so good at parking legally. I am one such good citizen and I am writing to seek your sympathy in regards to my recent attainment of an $86 parking fine.

My story begins on a swelteringly hot summer day. I believe it was a Wednesday. In fact, I know it was a Wednesday - Wednesday the 2nd of February, 2011, to be exact - because the parking ranger who currently occupies top billing on my voodoo curse to-do list was so kind as to print the date on my parking ticket. Wasn't that helpful of him/her/it?

But I digress. On this witheringly warm Wednesday I had driven from the far northern reaches of Sydney's suburbs all the way up to the lower north shore to visit a dear friend of mine, who shall be referred to in this letter as Emma, for that is her name. I used to live with Emma, but recently I have seen frighteningly little of her, so you must understand that I was in an addled emotional state to begin with. I usually try not to compare my friends to illicit substances, but I was sincerely looking forward to receiving my long-awaited hit of E.

Unfortunately, upon arriving in her locale, I was confronted by a plethora of my sworn mortal enemy - metered parking. Painstakingly, I circled around for many minutes, vulture-like in my quest for a free place to deposit my car. You see, State Debt Recovery Office, I am of the opinion that living in Sydney is expensive enough without needing to dole out extra precious pennies for the privilege of being able to transport oneself around one's own city. If you ask me, State Debt Recovery Office, a residential environment is not particularly functional when one lacks the ability to experience it beyond the windows of one's motor vehicle.

Suffice to say that eventually my need for a hit of E(mma) overwhelmed my need to be stingy, so after twenty minutes of searching, I gave up and parked in a metered street. Upon approaching the meter, I was swamped by a kind of horror eclipsed only by the horror I feel when stepping onto a Cityrail train. Such was the audacity of Lane Cove Council that they considered it appropriate to charge $3.30 per hour to park on an ordinary street. Perhaps when Lane Cove Council start paving their streets in gold I will condone this exorbitant charge, but until then, I see no justification for this blatant wallet-rape.

Nevertheless, I emptied my poor purse to feed the insatiable greed of this parking meter. But alas, even after I had sacrificed every last one of my coins to the self-important altar of suburban bureaucracy, I had paid for merely an hour of parking. I planned to go somewhere nearby to switch my notes into coins, and I planned to return to the meter and feed it more of my hard-earned cash and the pledge of my first-born child - sincerely, I did - but once I entered Emma's air-conditioned abode, time simply escaped me, much like any kind of political or administrative ability has escaped your State Government bosses for the past however-many-years (I've lost count; it's been a while).

Upon returning to my car, I found a thin receipt-like strip of paper unartfully adorning its windscreen and I broke into an impromptu chorus of unabashed profanity. I would be much obliged if you would tell your friends at Lane Cove Council that the least they could do when delivering bad news is to do it by some better proxy than a paper receipt. A gilded envelope would be nice, but I'd even settle for coloured paper and a small trimming of ribbon.

As you can no doubt tell, State Debt Recovery Office, I have no valid excuse for overstretching my purchased time on the parking meter. However, I am going on an extended holiday soon and would really prefer not to give you eighty-six perfectly good dollars that I could otherwise spend on such things as entrance to the Louvre and a massive wheel of brie cheese. I'm sure that you good folks at the State Debt Recovery Office are sympathetic, easygoing and friendly human beings with a healthy sense of humour. I am sure that you are not sexually frustrated, uptight and terminally bored pockets of air propped up by discount-store brown suits who wouldn't recognise a joke if it slapped them in the face. This is to say that I'm sure you can see things my way and wish me a happy holiday filled with museum visits and cheese, while you sit at your dreary cubicles and pore through letters from other good citizens who are not so good at parking.

Kind regards,
Alyssa Robinson.

P.S. I don't actually expect you to let me off - I just wanted to make you jealous of my holiday, whilst wasting a good five minutes of your day with an unnecessarily long and baseless claim. Have fun at work this year! xoxo

You've got mail

2011-02-01T19:52:00.000+11:00

I am, you are, we are Australian.

2011-01-26T02:21:00.000+11:00

Today marks 223 years since the First Fleet arrived in Sydney and the land now known as Australia began to be colonised. I'll admit, Australia Day makes me wary for a few reasons. Seeing beachwear-clad people draped in the Australian flag triggers a mental slideshow of images from the Cronulla riots, and around this time of year, slogans such as "love it or leave it" become that bit more prominent. The thought that many of my fellow citizens look upon January 26th as a day of whiteness, homogeneity and insularity strikes a very acute kind of fear into me. This is especially because January 26 is a day of mourning for those to whom the concept of 'Australia' has not been so kind - our Indigenous population. Any version of Australia Day that doesn't take our original inhabitants into consideration, nor our history - because our entire history is founded upon what was essentially an invasion - is a very selective and not very honest or genuine commemoration. This isn't to say that Australia Day can't be a positive occasion and that we can't feel national pride; it's just to say that if we're to celebrate our heritage, then we should celebrate our real heritage, not an artificially-constructed, flawless, pick-and-choose pastiche. And while we shouldn't be proud of everything in our past, it's most important to take pride in where we're going.

So here's what Australia Day means to me: it means friends and family. It means blazing sun, light summery clothes, a backyard barbecue and possibly a dip in the swimming pool. Ideally it means listening to the Triple J Hottest 100 countdown with friends, and just chatting and wiling away the hours, being quietly grateful for what we have.

And what we have is this: absolutely breathtaking natural beauty, general prosperity (I know that this isn't evenly distributed, but the majority of Australians can count this amongst their blessings), extensive freedoms, many educational and career opportunities, stable government, open media, and the general ability to live our lives without fear. These things that we take for granted day by day are already more than many others can dream of. And on top of that, we have those more intangible but irreplaceable cultural aspects which are uniquely Australian: our multicultural population and influences, our ability to be carefree and fun-loving, our love of humour, and our determination to keep going and strive for our goals regardless of what life throws at us (just look at the steely resolve of Queenslanders during the floods).

The truth is, regardless of my attempts in this blog entry, it's impossible to put down in any exact wording what it means to be Australian. And that's a good thing, because definition implies exclusion, and no Australian should have the right to say to another person who lives here that they don't belong here. With the exception of Aboriginal Australians, none of us come from this part of the earth. Most of us are refugees to Australia in some sense, and this place should be as welcoming to a 'born-and-bred' citizen as to a recent immigrant. I love Australia for its openness, its diversity and the way that it's not only acceptable but encouraged in our culture to not just like something but to love it; to have a passionate love for the beach, or for your mates, or even for something more 'serious' like your job or university degree. In this sense, I am very proud to be Australian.

Golden Globes fashion fail

2011-01-17T14:14:00.002+11:00

Because I lead an extremely exciting and productive life, I'm currently glued to my laptop and scrolling through Golden Globes red carpet photographs. These photos are interesting in that they have two rather opposite, yet simultaneous, effects on my emotional state. Firstly, they make me depressed, because they feature several multi-millionaires - nay, not just rich people, but resplendently gorgeous rich people - wearing absolutely God-awful excuses for gowns. I can only assume that the so-called professional stylists to whom they pay exorbitant fees are themselves undeniably hideous, and so bitter at this fact that they insist on transforming their earth-borne goddess clients into bunched-up balls of discount-store fabric.

On the other hand, this whole ridiculous spectacle makes me feel considerably better about myself. I may be neither a gazillionaire nor a goddess, but at least I can dress myself with some degree of competence. That's important, right?

--

This is the part where I channel my inner Joan Rivers (ugh, let's forget I ever said that, shall we?) and regurgitate ruthless criticism in the faces of all the beautiful people. All photos taken from TMZ.

Hi, I'm Dominatrix Barbie. I mean, Halle Berry. Yes, Halle Berry. I come complete with a trailing cape-like curtain of black mesh, which would have been better put to use in covering a bit more of my legs.

So, you know when you walk by those really cheap stores in outer-city suburbs, the kind draped in signs saying "ALL DRESS TEN DOLLAR VERY CHEEP"? Well, this wouldn't meet their standards.

Jennifer Love Hewitt has never been married, so it's fair enough that she'd want to have her turn in a wedding dress. But as far as wedding dresses go (and come on, this undoubtedly is one), it's pretty woeful. Her breasts look like they're being encapsulated in some massive white seashell.

It's a little-known fact that for the last few months, Tilda Swinton has been hiding away in a cult - I mean, spiritual reformation centre - in the backwaters of Nevada. The Divine Providence Pastor allowed her a brief sojourn to attend the Golden Globes, but only on the condition that she remain in her spiritual garb.

Christina Aguilera obviously attempted to channel her role in Burlesque in this shipwreck of an outfit. Instead, she rather resembles a mermaid who raided the wardrobes of tasteless wealthy women on the Titanic and just, y'know, threw something together.

All that glitters is not gold. It's also Anne Hathaway! Anne Hathaway, shrouded in the dazzling gaudiness of a thousand sequins. It's like her eight-year-old self crawled on out and assumed the role of stylist.

--

Dishonourable mentions also go to Jennifer Lopez, Natalie Portman, Sandra Bullock and Olivia Wilde.

But I'll leave you with my hero, Helena Bonham Carter, who rises above the domain of us earthlings and thus evades my judgment entirely. (But if she were to be judged, she would win the ultimate fashion trolling award. You know it.)

Are you laughing yet?

2011-01-14T18:45:00.000+11:00

As you may have noticed, I've been getting more into vlogging lately. This is all working up to when I embark upon my travels, at which stage I hope to make many videos so you guys can share in my adventures! I'll be both vlogging and blogging as frequently as possible while I'm away from my beloved Sydney.

But until I can tell rapturously thrilling tales of faraway lands, content yourselves with this: a cautionary tale of the dangers of appropriating your friends' habits.

Muy bien

2011-01-08T17:26:00.001+11:00

I've wanted to learn some Spanish for a long time, and now that I've set my hopes on going to Peru in March, I have a very good reason to learn! Eager to work on my español pronto, today I consulted the great language teacher of the 21st century: YouTube. The results were... mixed.

With thanks to these YouTube Spanish tutorials:

The one with the phonetic spelling (mooch oh sgrah see arse)
The one with the friendly Kiwi-sounding Chilean guy
The one where she spoke... really... slowly.

For mature audiences only: contains sex scenes and extreme violence

2011-01-05T01:25:00.001+11:00

This is a story of friendship, fun and games. It is also a story of betrayal, revenge and murder. It is a story that takes place in my ensuite bathroom.

Once upon a time - approximately a month ago - a lone daddy long legs spider went traipsing through the summer heat. He was a nomad, a possessionless gypsy just wanting a safe place to rest his many spindly legs. After searching through the wilderness of a northern Sydney house for many a day, he came upon a tiny, tiled enclave. Racked with exhaustion, he lay his little oblong-shaped brown head against the ceiling and succumbed to the sure death that would befall him once he was discovered.

But lo and behold, the custodian of that northern Sydney bathroom was a kind and generous soul - incidentally, her name was Alyssa - and when she saw Daddy the daddy long legs spider unassumingly tucked away in a corner, her heart softened. Imbued with Christmas spirit (and spirits), she decided she could spare some room at the inn.

For a couple of weeks, Daddy and Alyssa shared a quiet but happy existence. Glad to have attained secure lodgings, Daddy slowly regained his energy and moved around his new home, relocating to a new little hiding spot every night. When Alyssa blearily stumbled into the bathroom each morning, she would take dorky delight in finding Daddy, and upon succeeding she would feel she had accomplished enough for the day and could spend the next twelve hours on Facebook, guilt-free. It was an ongoing, inter-species game of Hide and Seek, and it was a beautiful thing.

All that changed one dark and stormy morning, when Alyssa stumbled into the bathroom to find a shocking scene: Daddy had found a mummy. There the two spiders sat, smug in their cosy cobweb, blatantly taking advantage of the convenient and free accommodation which had so generously and unquestioningly been provided. The pain drove through Alyssa like a freshly-sharpened knife, but she refused to let Daddy see what he'd done to her. She went about her day, pretending that nothing at all had happened.

A week later, Alyssa walked once more into her bathroom, averting her eyes from the ceiling (as had become her custom, out of a desire to avoid making eye contact with the happy couple). But there was just no missing it - so populous was her ceiling that it was impossible not to look. There, in a veritable zoo of cobwebs, lingered Daddy, Mummy, and several newborn tangles of hair-thin legs and brown oblong bodies. Sparing room at the inn was one thing, but now the arachnid ensemble evidently intended to take over the entire hotel! Alyssa was infuriated. She was flabbergasted! The steely cold need for vengeance rushed through her, but taking a series of deep breaths, she told herself that it would be wrong to kill innocent babies. And so the inn remained open.

The final straw came two days later, when as Alyssa was attempting to take a shower, she had to duck out of the way of Mummy, who had come frantically running down the shower door. Daddy came charging after, catching up with his partner. The ensuing event can only be described as gratuitous, non-consensual spider pornography. Alyssa now added disgust to her long list of negative feelings towards her arachnid companions.

Later that day, in the peaceful stillness of mid-afternoon, Alyssa crept up behind the bathroom door, wielding a vacuum cleaner. In less than a minute, it was all over - the peace shattered, the loving promise of a safe and happy home dashed forever, an entire family sucked into the rumbling loins of a household cleaning device.

At least now I have my bathroom to myself again. Hooray!

The Self-Worth Scale

2010-12-30T01:26:00.002+11:00

DFAT dreams

2010-12-28T14:21:00.001+11:00

Yesterday's blog post on the reasons behind Afghanistan's "DO NOT TRAVEL" advisory by the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade had a rather nasty side effect - namely, the most God-awfully terrifying dream of my life.

If you have a nice browse of Afghanistan, you'll find that it's inadvisable to travel there for reasons including - but not limited to! - car-jackings, suicide bombings, random roadside ambushes, kidnappings, unpredictable outbreaks of street violence, and attacks on major establishments such as government and UN residences, airports, media centres, and hotels - particularly, as the Smart Traveller website warns, the Serena and InterContinental Hotels in Kabul.

This would be why, in my highly logical dream last night, my family decided to take a fun holiday to Kabul and stay in the InterContinental Hotel. I mean, why not?

My recollection of the dream starts from about the stage that we checked in at the hotel, and I saw the words "InterContinental" engraved upon a marble pillar in the lobby. There are a few problems with this. Firstly, does Kabul have the sort of architecture that involves marble pillars? Honestly, I don't quite know - I've never been there except in my dreams, you see - but I suspect not. Secondly, since when have I routinely been accommodated in places with marble pillars in their lobbies?

In any case, when I realised that we were at the InterContinental Hotel - as in, the InterContinental Hotel that mere hours before, in a state of consciousness, the internet had told me to stay the fuck away from - I nervously tapped my father on the arm and suggested we find lodgings elsewhere. He refused. Perhaps his refusal had something to do with the fact that there's not an abundance of tourist-friendly accommodation in Kabul, but really, who knows.

In any case, no sooner had we gotten settled into our conjoined rooms - one for Mum and Dad, one for my brother, sister and I - than the bombs started exploding and the gunfire started and the insurgents rushed in and I started wailing "oh my God, I knew this would happen!". My dad got shot - my dad got shot! - and for some reason, my siblings and I decided to place him in the bath tub while we ran around the room trying to devise an escape plan or gold medal-winning hide and seek spot. Mum had disappeared and we could only assume she'd been kidnapped and all hope was already lost. I tried hiding under a bed, but I figured the Taliban were probably smart enough to find me there, so I explored my other options. The three of us ended up charging towards the nearest elevator and moving down to the lobby. Again, a couple of logistical problems here. For starters, it was a glass elevator, and while I'm hardly an expert, I've heard that those don't fare very well when shot to pieces by Taliban insurgents. Also, why were we heading to the lobby when that was the entrance point for all the scary armed men?

It's a massive relief that this was the point at which I woke up, jolting from my turbulent sleep with a little whimper, much like that of an animal scared absolutely shitless. I'm not sure whether the moral of this story is to not read travel advisories right before bed, or to never ever stay in the InterContinental Kabul.

Interestingly, the InterContinental - as in, the real hotel (as opposed to the marble pillar- and glass elevator-boasting palace of my dreams) - refuses to give up the gig and is still marketing itself as a tourist destination. In fact, its tagline is "The Destination in Kabul". Perhaps that's because most of the other destinations are blown up...? It also promises "a breathtaking view of the city". Let's just hope it's not quite as breathtaking as my nightmare was.

Inviting... The InterContinental Hotel, Kabul, Afghanistan.

The trials and tribulations of making a blog

2009-03-05T23:49:00.000+11:00

I'm a perfectionist, and I've never been the sort of internet user who can readily accept a template or layout without fiddling around with it, making it uniquely mine.

Anyone remember this website? (It looks so different now!) Neopets was my first exposure to HTML, at the age of eleven. While it encouraged such unadvisable social habits as spending my lunchtimes on the computer (my neopets needed feeding), one gain came of my staggering loss of social skills - the ability to edit webpages.

My inner computer nerd, lying dormant for all these eleven years, suddenly blossomed. (I blame my father - he's a techie computer engineer. I can't explain exactly what he does because he's unable to describe his job in English [as opposed to Robot].) Using the handy Neopets web editor, and the webpage they so generously gave me, I built my own little virtual kingdom. The geeky satisfaction in bossing around a computer - in its own language, no less! - was incomparable.

This power-trip (and a love for the marquee function - this is what it does) led me straight into Year 9 and Year 10 Computing Studies, where I decided I didn't want to be a geekazon after all - I was so bored. Yet random fragments of HTML and CSS remained in my mind, laying in wait until they could seize upon another quest for divine control over the worldwide web, divine recognition for my supreme machine-like knowledge.

Yet they have failed me.

It would appear that blogger templates are encoded in XML, which looks similar to CSS (really I have no clue but all the acronyms sound fancy), but which I am finding utterly unworkable. My attempts to customise my blog (namely by applying a prettiful background which I custom photoshopped and everything) are disintegrating into shameful, hellish ruin.

My inner geek is so embarrassed.