Of all the places we have been to on this trip, Prague has probably been the one to elicit the 'oh my gosh, you'll LOVE it there' response with the greatest frequency. It is, as far as cities go, the It City (or one of them ... anyone read how Sydney has been voted the number 1 city by the Conde Nast Traveller magazine?). The two words that cropped up time and time again, were 'cheap' (music to the budget travellers ears) and 'beautiful' and so the expectation bar was set rather high.
When I wrote earlier of certain themes of the trip, like late night welcomes and freak weather, I neglected to mention a third, rather significant one - The Staying in a Ghetto Theme. As our cab cheerfully sailed out of the city and continued on, showing no signs of stopping at any point, it seemed we had done it again. Later, as a homeless alcoholic pressed me up against the freezer in the miniscule grocery store behind our apartment, regaling with me tales of his alleged stint in Australia and calling me baby every second word, it became patently clear that we had.
Ghetto aside, our apartment was brilliant, and a welcome respite from hostels. There is nothing quite like having your own space to return to at the end of the day, and a bathroom not occupied by 30 other grubby backpackers, or a kitchen not vulnerable to the sticky fingers of sangria thieves. We even had cable which, admittedly, was all in czech with the exception of MTV Austria - but the tentacles of American MTV reach far and wide, and so the whole world can be privy to such gems as Date My Mom. Including English deprived Australians in Prague.
Of course, Prague is beautiful. Cobbled streets lined with tiny stores, winding their way to St Christopher's bridge, quaint cafes in the historic city centre, watched over by the astronomical clock, ... the city is a postcard, no matter what angle you look at it. And then there is Prague Castle where the guards will laugh if you try hard enough and are not averse to self takes (see photo album). Prague turned on its lone sunny day for our visit to the castle - Autumn was eveywhere, in the clear sky, in the leaves we tried to catch from the balcony and in the colours of the garden overlooking the city.
The constant refrain of how cheap Prague is, finally came to fruition when we went out for some traditional Czech cuisine to farewell Gee. And when I say traditional, I mean within the realms of good tatse - no roasted pig's knee was consumed. For AUD$20 each, we all had an American sized main meal, 3 bottles of wine between us and an assortment of czech spirits that were, in a word, our unravelling. As we filed out of the restaurant, throats burnt from various vile concoctions the waiter (in a perturbingly knowing fashion) saw fit to serve us, said waiter had the temerity (granted we were inexplicably shaking his hand at this point and promising to return) to say we 'didn't drink like Czech people'. Perhaps that could be because we still have our throat linings, whereas Czech babies have their's stripped at birth.
As a sidenote, Eastern Europeans have revealed themselves to be the strangest race of people encountered so far. There is something intrinsically eerie about them all (ok, ok, since watching Hostel I am completely bias) however the homeless man in the grocery store only preceeded other, more bizarre encounters. One more notable one occurred when we were walking towards the old square, on a bitingly chilly day, arms wrapped around ourselves, heads down against the rain. Suddenly, a dapperly dressed gentleman, perhaps in his early 50s, was upon me, bundling me up in his coat and ferrying me to the shelter of a nearby cafe before I even had time to draw breath. Like the homeless man before him, his term of endearment choice was 'baby' and so I found myself being addressed in feverishly intimate tones, 'isn't it cold baby, or are you cold baby? Would you like a massage?' Satie, my walking companion at the time, did not bat an eyelash. Merely drifted away so as to give enough distance to suggest no prior knowledge of who I was. She watched on, with the same perverted interest as everyone else, as I wrestled free from his binding coat and politely declined the massage offer.
We farewelled Gee, in an emotional display, the next evening. She boarded a rickety train at our local station (without a doubt a location for a Hostel scene)and sailed out of view, Frankfurt bound. We were not to know that hours later we would fly into Frankfurt in an unplanned detour and be strolling the halls of Frankfurt airport simultaneously. So close, yet so far away.
This unplanned detour to Frankfurt airport was all part of the most ridiculous of Travel Days to occur thus far. More ridiculous than Seattle-New York via Vegas, arriving at 3am. Nearly on par with Rome-Santorini via Athens, arriving at 6.30am (although nowhere near as torturous). But, it was only a matter of time before we ran into some form of airport trouble, it had all been going far too smoothly with our tickets. Upon arrival at Prague airport (lovely, and in our top 5 favourite airports) at 1.30pm, for our scheduled 3pm flight, we found said flight to be missing from the departures board. Futher investigation revealed it to be, inexplicably, cancelled. And so we were put on a 5.30pm flight to Frankfurt. Hello four hours to kill. At 6.30pm, we landed in Frankfurt airport for the third time to find our flight to Copenhagen had been delayed. Douse self in Sarah Jessica Parker's new fragrance to pass the time. 8pm, board plane to Copenhagen, which proceeds to taxi for half an hour, before we finally take off and land in Copenhagen at 10pm. Three countries in one day. No, make three countries in 4.5 hours.
We arrived at our hostel in Copenhagen at 11.30 to find Satie's booking (separate to ours due to her earlier departure) had been cancelled. Half an hour later, some other poor, late soul's bed was cancelled, and Satie was checked into a dorm of 9. Eight of them were 19 year old male backpackers. The floor was sticky and a bucket sat by one of the bunks, in preparation. Satie partied by proxy that night.
The next morning the papers bore news of Scandinavian Airlines having to ground a whole fleet of the planes we were scheduled to catch from Prague to Copenhagen, following a crash landing where a propeller had sliced through the plane taking out 3 rows of seats. And presumably the people sitting in them.
It has to be said, Denmark is the over achiever of countries. They are beautiful. Eternally happy. Enjoy a high standard of living (and inflict the consequences of this wealth on the not so wealthy tourists) are environmentally conscious, incredibly polite, so well dressed as to induce inferiority complexes in the non Danish mortals and prance around in aforementioned good fashion, pushing prams containing insanely beautiful children. I am even going to go so far as to say Denmark is one giant science experiment that has been successfully kept under wraps and Copenhagen will soon, in a sudden and peaceful movement, take over the world. We found ourselves longing for Germany where at least they were open about their attempts at racial engineering.
We farewelled Satie in Copenhagen, another loss to our troops, leaving just Dee and I. Our final full day was spent in Tivoli Gardens where we momentarily lost each other and it seemed Satie would be farewelling herself from Copenhagen, and our last supper was pizza and red wine. We may have been in Copenhagen, but our taste buds were in Italy. We put Satie and her backpack on the 9.33am bus the following morning. The Trio had been broken. It was time for Dee and I to continue on alone.
And when I say alone, I mean with our German family, who we set out to reunite with the following day. Once again, we found ourselves in Copenhagen airport, killing time by running around frantically changing flight schedules following the snap decision to extend our 3 week stint in Münster to a month. This may have had something to do with our bags being 6 kg over the limit and us not having to pay for this if we were spending a month in Germany ... that, and where better to spend a month than in beautiful Münster?
Again, our flight was delayed, thank God Copenhagen airport is, fittingly, superb (number 1 on the list of faves) with endless food and shopping options. If we had any kroner, which we didn't, except for the 15 we had received selling our souls on the street (non Danish souls do not sell as well as pure Danish souls). In Berlin it was delayed again and, finally, delirious and ready to jump off the next plane we had to get on, we arrived in Münster.
All was right in the world again.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Cold Shock
And so we were back in the land of the comfortingly strapping Germanic people. Large of face, gutteral of tongue, sturdy of jeans and boot, it felt good to be back amongst them all. Once again, processed meat was a food group and people looked at thongs like they were dirty, and the people wearing them, equally so.
Vienna managed to successfully incoporate two major themes of the trip - late night welcomes, and freak weather. We met Satie at JFK at 3am, ushered Amber into our hostel in New York at 2.30am, and so it was only fitting that we found Miss Gee Ross at the train station at midnight, asking a conductor how to get to our hostel. Said conductor backed away at the sight of Dee, Satie and myself running towards Gee, our shrieks falling only on the ears of the shady characters who populate Vienna's main station at midnight. We inexplicably robbed Münster of its Summer in June, took the rain to Paris, the winds to Santorini and then the freak cold snap to Vienna (which followed us all the way to Münster where, hitherto, the sun had been shining). And when I say freak cold snap, I mean 12 degree days and icy rain storms. We flew out of 40 degree Athens and, upon our arrival in Athens, the temperature dropped and the heavens opened. No weather channel could explain it, but we knew. It was the simple fact of our presence.
And so our sightseeing was hampered somewhat. It was freezing, we had bags full of linen and summer dresses, and it was raining nonstop. The Imperial Palace is beautiful, but not when your face is about to snap off. Thus we found ourselves in the most favoured store of the Australian traveller (because we don't have it back home, despite the fact we severely need it,) H&M, perusing the sale racks and buying such necessities as beanies, scarves, enclosed shoes and gloves. Admittedly my cream knit gloves have not been worn yet and were probably overkill. However, when I do wear them, they will look fantastic.
Rugged up, we attempted to assault the cultural hotspots of Vienna, only to seek refuge in Starbucks at around the same time everyday because, at around the same time everyday, the rain would start as soon as we set foot outside our hostel. And, as much as we would persevere through the biting drops, as soon as the familiar green sign came into sight, we would run in, and then glare bitterly at the suave Europeans to whom rain is but a blip on the fashion radar. They, no matter the weather, remain chic in knee high boots and tailored trenches. Life is unjust.
I would like to entirely blame the weather, however it cannot be denied our own laziness played a small part, for the fact that our night life consisted of the hostel bar and a deck of Greek playing cards. And yes there is a difference between a normal deck and a Greek deck given the Greek penchant for sexual deviancy and alternate orientations. Aaaanyway. Of course, the WomBar was full of Australians, Germans, Poms and Americans, served rancid red wine for 2 euros and the barstaff, inexplicably, wore hawaiian shirts and spoke with some sort of ghetto twang. Our evenings were whiled away playing Arsehole, and teaching it to various nationalities, whilst watching CNN's seemingly endless coverage on the passing of Pavarotti and the imminent arrival of the Pope. One blight on this blissful schedule was the thieving of our sangria from the hostel's communal fridge. I mean, really, who does that? And worse, it was done under our very noses, most probably as we shuffled the offensive deck 2 metres away. Photographic evidence was taken and word disseminated throughout the hostel, to no avail. The sangria was never recovered.
In the name of psychology, did get to two important sites, the Sisi Museum and the Freud Musuem. Sisi first, to warm us up - this extraordinary woman had an eating disorder and depression (both undiagnosed, but us shrewd psych students discerned it with ease) lost a son to suicide and then, just to top it off, was assassinated in Switzerland by a knife through the breast. Sisi's dresses, preserved in glass cases, revealed the thinnest woman of Nicole Ritchie proportions, with placards beneath photos reading, on alternate occasions, 'Sisi displayed concern for retaining her extremely trim figure' and 'but Sisi did love her food, she often bought large amounts of pastries from the bakery.' It doesn't take a scientist to see an unhealthy relationship with food happening with a woman who wrote incredibly dark poetry in an effort to express her all encompassing unhappiness (depression). It was three smug girls who sat in the old offices of Freud, nodding sagely at each other, soaking up the pervasive atmosphere of world changing knowledge.
A visit to Vienna isn't complete without seeing the Naschmarkt. And when I say seeing, I do mean eating yourself into a coma. Olives, nuts, stuffed peppers, cheeses, baklava, dried fruits, lollies - every conceivable type of treat is sold by this long line of fresh food stalls and, every conceivable type of treat is able to be sampled ... so the belly ache you walk away with will most likely not be a result something you actually purchased, instead a result of over exuberant sampling. Well, it was in my case anyway.
Vienna is absolutely beautiful, the people are lovely and, when it isn't raining, the Imperial Palace gardens are extraordinary. The WomBar isn't half bad either and there is an english cinema if you run out of things to do. Which you shouldn't. But if a movie happens to open (Hairspray) when you are in Vienna, keep it in mind.
We left our hostel at 5.45am on Sunday, after frantic packing, bound for Prague. Vienna farewelled us with a telling off by a cafe owner at the airport, a telling-off being a farewell custom we long ago resigned ourselves to.
Vienna managed to successfully incoporate two major themes of the trip - late night welcomes, and freak weather. We met Satie at JFK at 3am, ushered Amber into our hostel in New York at 2.30am, and so it was only fitting that we found Miss Gee Ross at the train station at midnight, asking a conductor how to get to our hostel. Said conductor backed away at the sight of Dee, Satie and myself running towards Gee, our shrieks falling only on the ears of the shady characters who populate Vienna's main station at midnight. We inexplicably robbed Münster of its Summer in June, took the rain to Paris, the winds to Santorini and then the freak cold snap to Vienna (which followed us all the way to Münster where, hitherto, the sun had been shining). And when I say freak cold snap, I mean 12 degree days and icy rain storms. We flew out of 40 degree Athens and, upon our arrival in Athens, the temperature dropped and the heavens opened. No weather channel could explain it, but we knew. It was the simple fact of our presence.
And so our sightseeing was hampered somewhat. It was freezing, we had bags full of linen and summer dresses, and it was raining nonstop. The Imperial Palace is beautiful, but not when your face is about to snap off. Thus we found ourselves in the most favoured store of the Australian traveller (because we don't have it back home, despite the fact we severely need it,) H&M, perusing the sale racks and buying such necessities as beanies, scarves, enclosed shoes and gloves. Admittedly my cream knit gloves have not been worn yet and were probably overkill. However, when I do wear them, they will look fantastic.
Rugged up, we attempted to assault the cultural hotspots of Vienna, only to seek refuge in Starbucks at around the same time everyday because, at around the same time everyday, the rain would start as soon as we set foot outside our hostel. And, as much as we would persevere through the biting drops, as soon as the familiar green sign came into sight, we would run in, and then glare bitterly at the suave Europeans to whom rain is but a blip on the fashion radar. They, no matter the weather, remain chic in knee high boots and tailored trenches. Life is unjust.
I would like to entirely blame the weather, however it cannot be denied our own laziness played a small part, for the fact that our night life consisted of the hostel bar and a deck of Greek playing cards. And yes there is a difference between a normal deck and a Greek deck given the Greek penchant for sexual deviancy and alternate orientations. Aaaanyway. Of course, the WomBar was full of Australians, Germans, Poms and Americans, served rancid red wine for 2 euros and the barstaff, inexplicably, wore hawaiian shirts and spoke with some sort of ghetto twang. Our evenings were whiled away playing Arsehole, and teaching it to various nationalities, whilst watching CNN's seemingly endless coverage on the passing of Pavarotti and the imminent arrival of the Pope. One blight on this blissful schedule was the thieving of our sangria from the hostel's communal fridge. I mean, really, who does that? And worse, it was done under our very noses, most probably as we shuffled the offensive deck 2 metres away. Photographic evidence was taken and word disseminated throughout the hostel, to no avail. The sangria was never recovered.
In the name of psychology, did get to two important sites, the Sisi Museum and the Freud Musuem. Sisi first, to warm us up - this extraordinary woman had an eating disorder and depression (both undiagnosed, but us shrewd psych students discerned it with ease) lost a son to suicide and then, just to top it off, was assassinated in Switzerland by a knife through the breast. Sisi's dresses, preserved in glass cases, revealed the thinnest woman of Nicole Ritchie proportions, with placards beneath photos reading, on alternate occasions, 'Sisi displayed concern for retaining her extremely trim figure' and 'but Sisi did love her food, she often bought large amounts of pastries from the bakery.' It doesn't take a scientist to see an unhealthy relationship with food happening with a woman who wrote incredibly dark poetry in an effort to express her all encompassing unhappiness (depression). It was three smug girls who sat in the old offices of Freud, nodding sagely at each other, soaking up the pervasive atmosphere of world changing knowledge.
A visit to Vienna isn't complete without seeing the Naschmarkt. And when I say seeing, I do mean eating yourself into a coma. Olives, nuts, stuffed peppers, cheeses, baklava, dried fruits, lollies - every conceivable type of treat is sold by this long line of fresh food stalls and, every conceivable type of treat is able to be sampled ... so the belly ache you walk away with will most likely not be a result something you actually purchased, instead a result of over exuberant sampling. Well, it was in my case anyway.
Vienna is absolutely beautiful, the people are lovely and, when it isn't raining, the Imperial Palace gardens are extraordinary. The WomBar isn't half bad either and there is an english cinema if you run out of things to do. Which you shouldn't. But if a movie happens to open (Hairspray) when you are in Vienna, keep it in mind.
We left our hostel at 5.45am on Sunday, after frantic packing, bound for Prague. Vienna farewelled us with a telling off by a cafe owner at the airport, a telling-off being a farewell custom we long ago resigned ourselves to.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
A Week in the Cradle
'Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.'
John Milton.
'Athens is gross and really dirty, you only need to go there for 2 days.'
Every seasoned backpacker we encountered on our travels, who has been to Athens for 2 days.
The thing is, we had a week to spend in Athens. And to everyone else, this seemed an inordinate amount of time to spend in a city that's 'only thing going for it is the acropolis.' And the other thing is, I loved Athens. I loved everything about it. The weather (searingly hot) the food (fresh, cheap and delicious) the shopping (markets, boutiques) and the fact that overlooking the entire city, visible from where you might be having your morning coffee, is the world's preeminent symbol of antiquity, The (astounding, beautiful, jaw droppingly incredible) Acropolis.
We were staying in Hostel Zeus. Yep. Hostel Zeus. Perhaps the most spartan of all hostels thus far (and that was completely unintentional ancient history reference,I promise)Hostel Zeus provided its guests with a mattress cover, and the option of a terrace bar ... that was boarded up in 1986. So, all in all, extremely pleasant. We were, for the first night, alone in our 4 bedroom dorm. And then, the next morning, as I dropped my towel and went about putting together a suitably cool and floaty Athenian outfit, our fourth dorm mate walked in. Satie flung herself at the door, he reversed out apologising profusely and I clothed myself. A few days later, I would walk in on Forrest having an intimate moment with himself and the visual stimulation provided by his laptop. I feel like Forrest and I got to know each other on an intensely personal level, despite the fact he was gay, 40 and we slept in opposite bunks.
Athens has long dominated my education landscape - from year 12 Ancient History when we were forced to watch videos of a woman in white linen super imposed against all the big monuments, saying 'dis is deee A-crop-o-lissss' all the way through uni where professors in sandals and billowing haiwaiian shirts waxed lyrical about all things Greek and Roman. And so when our Ancient Ruins Day dawned, I felt the nerd blood begin to pump. It was a suffocatingly hot day and there is little respite offered by any of the monuments, except thimbles of lemonade for 6 euros outside the Acropolis. Which, by the time you have walked up there, is a bloody enticing offer because any bottled water you may have brought with you will undoubtedly have boiled en route and your are about to start licking the ground for some sort of moisture. Not that the ground would have any moisture.
Anyway.
Ancient Ruins Day was the culmination of hours spent with my nose in Thucydides and listening to my uni tutors get so excited about Pericles they literally foamed at the mouth. It was a day that I promised myself would happen all those years ago, in ancient history class with Leni when the now infamous phrase of 'disss is deee A-CROP-O-LISSS' was first uttered. That day, one I will never forget, I stood atop the Areopagus and surveyed a shimmering Athens, walked through the propylaea and sashayed around the Acropolis, stood in front of the Parthenon and stared, did it again with the Erechtheion, sat in the audience of Dionysus' theatre, and, as the sun set, took a turn about the Ancient Agora. I had conquered Rome and now, finally, Athens.
(It must also be noted that Athens boasts the most incredible Starbucks. In the world. A testament to the Athenian architectural eminence, it is three levels of Starbucks heaven.)
We farewelled Athens with a payment dispute with the oily haired youth who manned the desk at Zeus. His parting words were 'I was going to give discount on air conditioning. Not now.' The discount comprised of 2 euros, and clearly out concern that we had booked the hostel under one amount per night yet were being charged for an entirely different amount altogether, was grounds to negate an act of such generosity.
And so Greece was over. My list of Ancient Ruins had been ticked, my list of Foods to Eat had been ticked three times over, and I had finally tracked down what all cool Mediterranean girls were wearing that Summer, Aladdin pants. It was time to move on. Time for the tans to fade, for Satie to get her wish for cold weather and time to trade dolmades and moussaka for cake and chocolate. That night, after a brief interlude with one of life's constants, Athens Airport, we were in Vienna. It was 13 degrees and raining. There was not a dolmade nor a cocktail in sight.
Our Mediterranean Summer was over.
Monday, October 8, 2007
A Constant State of Repose
Whenever I think of the Greek Islands, apart from envisioning gay men writhing around on various Mykonos dance floors, and Australian Topdeckers singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat through alcohol and coconut oil consumption, I see those little white houses attached precariously to cliff faces, looking out over endless stretches of beach and the flat, sparkling Mediterranean Sea. Something like this: http://www.4321.co.il/greeceweddings/wedding-in-santorini.jpg ...
And so, when faced with the tough decision of what Greek island we would most like to visit, I based my vote almost entirely on those little white houses. It was My Greece, just like Granada was My Spain - I had to go to these places in my mind's eye, if for no other reason than to settle it with myself that they exist and are as beautiful as they are in travel magazines and my head.
We were staying in Perissa Beach, which is situated at the Southeastern part of the island. It is a black beach, thus the sand is mostly made of lava, and it stretches for nearly 7km, dotted with straw umbrellas and watched over by the massive Mesa Vouno, the site of ancient Thira. Our first introduction to this beach was when we passed out on the sunloungers at about 9am on the day we arrived. But first, let me take you back to Santorini Airport, 7am ...
We actually flew in closer to 6.30am, but had erroneously informed our shuttle bus it was 7.30. Cut to us waiting outside the airport, sitting on our bags, pale faced and desperate to close our eyes anywhere that wasn't the stone floor of Athens Airport. At 7.30am, Roberto roared into the carpark, manning the mini van like it was some sort of Aston Martin-esque vehicle, not a white 1994 mini van often seen at Catholic school events. He leapt out, threw our bags into the boot and then, in stilted English, proclaimed 'I be back. I need,' and he wielded his index finger in our face for emphasis, 'ONE coffee. Ok?'
Ok. We fell asleep sitting up in the back of the van.
And then we feel asleep on the sunloungers whilst waiting for our room to be ready.
And thus we were welcomed to Santorini. Wild driving, patent need for coffee (just one)and lying in the sun. A succinct summation of the lifestlye, if ever there was one. And, to be honest, nothing much changed. Wild driving continued on quad bikes (not ours, we appropriated them from our English friends) the patent need for coffee is a constant state for me, regardless of the city, and lying in the sun was only ever not happening if we were lying in bed, or lounging on our favourite couch at our favourite bar. In fact, I would hazard a guess I spent most of the week in some sort of reclining position, moving only to shove food in my face. And when I say shove food in my face, I mean consume some of the most delicious food in the world because, in my mind, Greek and Italian food are in a constant tussle for superiority in the food stakes. Greece also excels in the canned food department. Dolmades, giant beans, okra ... even moussaka (but I didn't go that far ... tempted as I was). Not to mention the non canned goods Greece also excels in (Leni and Jojo feel free to correct my spelling), fetta, loukumi, spanikopita (sold at the 24 hour bakery which was singlehandedly run by an octogenerian woman who, hair in a severe bun, permanently be-aproned, ran every store on the bloody island) halva, baklava, eggplant, taramasalata, tzatziki etc etc. Yes, this entire blog could very easily become about food.
Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the beach (and me lying on it, having cocktails brought to me from the Beach Bar) from which we only moved to go to Dorian's pub for sweet red wine and then onto Fusion for cheap cocktails, where we befriended the owner and unofficially became spruikers for this fledgling bar. And when I say spruikers, I mean the main part of our job required sitting on the same couch every night and drinking until the early hours of the morning. So good were we at enticing people to this bar (and when I say enticing, I mean sitting and drinking) that a job was offered for next summer. Come and live in Santorini, there is a room above the bar for you, and we will pay you to stand outside and smile at people. And all drinks are free. Mum and Dad, if I disappear around next July, you know where to find me.
Fusion turned out to be a hotbed of social activity that week. It also introduced us to a vast and varied cast of colourful characters who border on fictional. There was Mark who we met one night sitting on the wall of someone's house. He not once dismounted his scooter, even when needing to minimalise the metre distance between us to shake hands ... he, instead, scooted over. The metre. On his scooter. There was Harry who genuinely did not speak one word of English, so opted for an eternally benevolent expression regardless of the conversation subject matter. The perpetually shirtless DJ who mistakenly invited me into his box to 'spin some records' ... an offer I, regretfully, didn't end up taking him up on. There was the owner, Allison, whose life is what Under The Tuscan Sun esque novels are made of; fed up with her dreary London life, one way ticket to Greece, meets Albanian lover in Athens (aforementioned DJ), opens bar in Santorini. It was also at Fusion that we encountered the dubious company of two Norweigans who consequently and indeed simultaneously, fell in love with Satie. She won them over with her sparkling wit and ability to conceal her repulsion at them smearing tobacco over their gums every fifteen minutes. Now, there are times when removing oneself from cloying conversations is nearly impossible. And, to her credit, Satie really did pull out all stops. However, it came to be that the most viable option was to simply find a new conversation circle to enter elsewhere in the bar, seeing as ours was proving impossible to enjoy and impossible to exit. Our knights in shining armour came in the form of an English family - Dad, his best mate Big Phil, and the three sons. The Norweigans joined in, leaving only when Krister literally couldn't see anymore. To this day, Satie shudders when her phone beeps, lest it should herald a lovelorn text from one of her two Scandinavian lovers.
And so Santorini passed on a Summer breeze, a haze of cocktails, black sand and sweet red wine. By day we lay sprawled on the beach sun loungers, by night we reclined on Fusion's loungers. Little bronzed children kicked the soccer ball in the street our balcony looked over, Roberto coaching his own little 3 year old bambino with the vigour reserved only for Europeans (Greeks no less) and football. Our hair became wild with saltwater and our skin got darker and darker until we blended in with the sand.
It was a little slice of heaven as Europe's autumn closed in on our Mediterranean Summer.
And so, when faced with the tough decision of what Greek island we would most like to visit, I based my vote almost entirely on those little white houses. It was My Greece, just like Granada was My Spain - I had to go to these places in my mind's eye, if for no other reason than to settle it with myself that they exist and are as beautiful as they are in travel magazines and my head.
We were staying in Perissa Beach, which is situated at the Southeastern part of the island. It is a black beach, thus the sand is mostly made of lava, and it stretches for nearly 7km, dotted with straw umbrellas and watched over by the massive Mesa Vouno, the site of ancient Thira. Our first introduction to this beach was when we passed out on the sunloungers at about 9am on the day we arrived. But first, let me take you back to Santorini Airport, 7am ...
We actually flew in closer to 6.30am, but had erroneously informed our shuttle bus it was 7.30. Cut to us waiting outside the airport, sitting on our bags, pale faced and desperate to close our eyes anywhere that wasn't the stone floor of Athens Airport. At 7.30am, Roberto roared into the carpark, manning the mini van like it was some sort of Aston Martin-esque vehicle, not a white 1994 mini van often seen at Catholic school events. He leapt out, threw our bags into the boot and then, in stilted English, proclaimed 'I be back. I need,' and he wielded his index finger in our face for emphasis, 'ONE coffee. Ok?'
Ok. We fell asleep sitting up in the back of the van.
And then we feel asleep on the sunloungers whilst waiting for our room to be ready.
And thus we were welcomed to Santorini. Wild driving, patent need for coffee (just one)and lying in the sun. A succinct summation of the lifestlye, if ever there was one. And, to be honest, nothing much changed. Wild driving continued on quad bikes (not ours, we appropriated them from our English friends) the patent need for coffee is a constant state for me, regardless of the city, and lying in the sun was only ever not happening if we were lying in bed, or lounging on our favourite couch at our favourite bar. In fact, I would hazard a guess I spent most of the week in some sort of reclining position, moving only to shove food in my face. And when I say shove food in my face, I mean consume some of the most delicious food in the world because, in my mind, Greek and Italian food are in a constant tussle for superiority in the food stakes. Greece also excels in the canned food department. Dolmades, giant beans, okra ... even moussaka (but I didn't go that far ... tempted as I was). Not to mention the non canned goods Greece also excels in (Leni and Jojo feel free to correct my spelling), fetta, loukumi, spanikopita (sold at the 24 hour bakery which was singlehandedly run by an octogenerian woman who, hair in a severe bun, permanently be-aproned, ran every store on the bloody island) halva, baklava, eggplant, taramasalata, tzatziki etc etc. Yes, this entire blog could very easily become about food.
Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the beach (and me lying on it, having cocktails brought to me from the Beach Bar) from which we only moved to go to Dorian's pub for sweet red wine and then onto Fusion for cheap cocktails, where we befriended the owner and unofficially became spruikers for this fledgling bar. And when I say spruikers, I mean the main part of our job required sitting on the same couch every night and drinking until the early hours of the morning. So good were we at enticing people to this bar (and when I say enticing, I mean sitting and drinking) that a job was offered for next summer. Come and live in Santorini, there is a room above the bar for you, and we will pay you to stand outside and smile at people. And all drinks are free. Mum and Dad, if I disappear around next July, you know where to find me.
Fusion turned out to be a hotbed of social activity that week. It also introduced us to a vast and varied cast of colourful characters who border on fictional. There was Mark who we met one night sitting on the wall of someone's house. He not once dismounted his scooter, even when needing to minimalise the metre distance between us to shake hands ... he, instead, scooted over. The metre. On his scooter. There was Harry who genuinely did not speak one word of English, so opted for an eternally benevolent expression regardless of the conversation subject matter. The perpetually shirtless DJ who mistakenly invited me into his box to 'spin some records' ... an offer I, regretfully, didn't end up taking him up on. There was the owner, Allison, whose life is what Under The Tuscan Sun esque novels are made of; fed up with her dreary London life, one way ticket to Greece, meets Albanian lover in Athens (aforementioned DJ), opens bar in Santorini. It was also at Fusion that we encountered the dubious company of two Norweigans who consequently and indeed simultaneously, fell in love with Satie. She won them over with her sparkling wit and ability to conceal her repulsion at them smearing tobacco over their gums every fifteen minutes. Now, there are times when removing oneself from cloying conversations is nearly impossible. And, to her credit, Satie really did pull out all stops. However, it came to be that the most viable option was to simply find a new conversation circle to enter elsewhere in the bar, seeing as ours was proving impossible to enjoy and impossible to exit. Our knights in shining armour came in the form of an English family - Dad, his best mate Big Phil, and the three sons. The Norweigans joined in, leaving only when Krister literally couldn't see anymore. To this day, Satie shudders when her phone beeps, lest it should herald a lovelorn text from one of her two Scandinavian lovers.
And so Santorini passed on a Summer breeze, a haze of cocktails, black sand and sweet red wine. By day we lay sprawled on the beach sun loungers, by night we reclined on Fusion's loungers. Little bronzed children kicked the soccer ball in the street our balcony looked over, Roberto coaching his own little 3 year old bambino with the vigour reserved only for Europeans (Greeks no less) and football. Our hair became wild with saltwater and our skin got darker and darker until we blended in with the sand.
It was a little slice of heaven as Europe's autumn closed in on our Mediterranean Summer.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Airports. Soul Suckers.
Over the course of the past 5 or so months, we have become intimate with many airports ... I think the number is something nearing 20 with 3 more countries to get in and out of before we get home. Take Frankfurt airport, for example; three times we have strolled those hallowed halls, without ever actually having been into the city itself. No mean feat. Copenhagen; we have whiled away many hours on two separate occasions, with a third impending. And Athens airport. Ahhh Athens airport. We have flown into it from Rome, out of it to Santorini, back into it from Santorini and back out of it into Vienna. We have slept in it, shopped in it, become delirious with fatigue and hunger in it, marvelled at the diversity of things to do within it, grown resentful of it for not having enough to do in it, accusatory of its security levels (let it be known cans of dolmades are not even CHECKED to be sure they are indeed dolmades)- ultimately, a deep and complex relationship has been forged, through the highs (discovery of shopping haven) and lows (horror at McDonalds inexplicably closing at 2am).
But, before we could get to Athens airport, in all its glory, we had to get out of Rome. And before we could get out of Rome, we had to kill 4 hours in our campsite (check out being at 10, airport shuttle bus booked for 2pm). In fact, the entire period of time that was getting ourselves out of one ancient city into another, was defined by elongated periods of Time. Five Legs to be exact.
The Five Legs
1) Campsite Wait. 10am-2pm. Hungover. Desperate for a burger. None in sight.
2) Rome Airport Wait. 2.15pm-8pm. Hangover continues. Only pizza in sight, no burger. Burger preferable to pizza. Will hold out.
3) Rome-Athens Flight. 8pm-11pm. No comment. Flight was blur.
4)Athens Airport Wait. 11.30pm-6am. Airport littered with prone bodies of slumbering backpackers, many in sleeping bags. Alternate between inexplicable positivity 'this is going SO quickly' and maniacal patrolling of corridors for something to do.
5) Athens-Santorini flight. 6.30am-7am.
And, upon arrival, a 6th leg was added.
6) Wait For Room To Be Vacated & Cleaned So We Can Check In. 7am-11am.
Some journal entries of that part of my life that is now a pain filled blur:
5.46pm, Rome Airport ... the wait continues. Never found hamburger, was forced to plunder Lowest Point of Hangover without requisite hangover food. Am now much more chipper, not so delirious, but would STILL sell firstborn for a cheeseburger. And a vanilla latte. 1 sugar. Ahhh Americanisation.
11.50pm - Athens Airport - leg 3 of torture extravaganza is over. now, simply have 4-5 hours to kill in terminal before can check into Santorini flight. Passing time singing rousing renditions of Save Tonight and River Deep, Mountain High.
2.18am - Ahhh Athens Airport, how so very intimate we are.
4.35am - Things To Do Whilst Waiting in An Airport
* give yourself a migraine in the perfume department of duty free
* rationalise buying a bottle of pear vodka, then decide against due to all too fresh memory of hangover
* sleep on floor - try not to feel homeless/dirty, instead pass it off as homeless chic/resourceful
* stand dolefully at McDonalds entrance knowing you technically cannot buy a big mac because you are about to lie on the beach for a week in new swimmers, the pants of which are inexplicably and embarrassingly tiny.
3.15pm - Santorini - Princess Hostel - how is this day still continuing? Surely it is Friday, not still Wednesday the 22nd. Surely I am no longer human, instead bizarre alien beamed from one time zone to the other with no concept of rhythms usually considered inherent to being human.
I have to go and make myself a strong cup of tea before I tackle the blissful reward that was Santorini. The Five Leg Torture Extravaganza still gets me, even today.
But, before we could get to Athens airport, in all its glory, we had to get out of Rome. And before we could get out of Rome, we had to kill 4 hours in our campsite (check out being at 10, airport shuttle bus booked for 2pm). In fact, the entire period of time that was getting ourselves out of one ancient city into another, was defined by elongated periods of Time. Five Legs to be exact.
The Five Legs
1) Campsite Wait. 10am-2pm. Hungover. Desperate for a burger. None in sight.
2) Rome Airport Wait. 2.15pm-8pm. Hangover continues. Only pizza in sight, no burger. Burger preferable to pizza. Will hold out.
3) Rome-Athens Flight. 8pm-11pm. No comment. Flight was blur.
4)Athens Airport Wait. 11.30pm-6am. Airport littered with prone bodies of slumbering backpackers, many in sleeping bags. Alternate between inexplicable positivity 'this is going SO quickly' and maniacal patrolling of corridors for something to do.
5) Athens-Santorini flight. 6.30am-7am.
And, upon arrival, a 6th leg was added.
6) Wait For Room To Be Vacated & Cleaned So We Can Check In. 7am-11am.
Some journal entries of that part of my life that is now a pain filled blur:
5.46pm, Rome Airport ... the wait continues. Never found hamburger, was forced to plunder Lowest Point of Hangover without requisite hangover food. Am now much more chipper, not so delirious, but would STILL sell firstborn for a cheeseburger. And a vanilla latte. 1 sugar. Ahhh Americanisation.
11.50pm - Athens Airport - leg 3 of torture extravaganza is over. now, simply have 4-5 hours to kill in terminal before can check into Santorini flight. Passing time singing rousing renditions of Save Tonight and River Deep, Mountain High.
2.18am - Ahhh Athens Airport, how so very intimate we are.
4.35am - Things To Do Whilst Waiting in An Airport
* give yourself a migraine in the perfume department of duty free
* rationalise buying a bottle of pear vodka, then decide against due to all too fresh memory of hangover
* sleep on floor - try not to feel homeless/dirty, instead pass it off as homeless chic/resourceful
* stand dolefully at McDonalds entrance knowing you technically cannot buy a big mac because you are about to lie on the beach for a week in new swimmers, the pants of which are inexplicably and embarrassingly tiny.
3.15pm - Santorini - Princess Hostel - how is this day still continuing? Surely it is Friday, not still Wednesday the 22nd. Surely I am no longer human, instead bizarre alien beamed from one time zone to the other with no concept of rhythms usually considered inherent to being human.
I have to go and make myself a strong cup of tea before I tackle the blissful reward that was Santorini. The Five Leg Torture Extravaganza still gets me, even today.
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