Not the end, just a pause. Until the next adventure beckons.

merrily merrily merrily merrily

When you step into an art nouveau painting, anything can happen. Life size puppets can come alive making you jump and your heart skip a beat as you walk down the steps that lead to Prague Castle. When you are in this painting you look around and everything is so beautiful you could almost cry. The sea of red tiled roofs, the trees with branches filled with pink blossoms that sing in the first true days of spring. In the painting there are no tourists or the multitudes of marionette shops or the cheap miniature astronomical clocks in the windows. Instead there is a glass of wine at the castle vineyards overlooking the city as the sun goes down.

With one foot out of the painting I can see wide blue skies, sunrises over the sea and familiar faces on the other side. But first a dash to Koln, a day trip to visit an alternative art gallery. Who would have thought it would be so interesting. Who would have thought the sun would be shining and the air filled with such a warm summeresque breeze that hundreds would lounge near the River Rhine from morning till night, when the groups of teenagers would then make bonfires on the beach and start to drink their cheap wine. It seems that one minute I am in the art nouveau painting, swanning around in a magic peaceful land, and the next minute I am swanning around naked in a luxurious German spa, sweating it out in the scented spas and bathing in the private lawns, the Rhine just over the hedge and beyond the public park. Bizarre is backpacking.

There was chocolate hail on bread and real hail in the streets and in my hair; snow and sangria; kids who had swapped mundane life to be balls in a pinball machine; goblin rock in basements in Prague and crazy New Orleans musicians who call themselves Sick and work for the freak show; stroop waffles and crepes and pizza and an extra five kilos to join me home; Americans, Argentineans, Germans, Slovenians, control freaks, obnoxious teenagers, spaced out potheads, daydreamers and gypsies. We are tourists and backpackers and visitors and travelers and guests and sometimes we finally feel like locals. We are all a little bit strange and we are all a little bit the same.

I find inspiration in a peeling burgundy wall in Budapest and then in a plastic bag blowing on the tram tracks in Prague and then, of course, in the art galleries that are hidden down side alleys in every city and in the people on the streets singing or the squatters selling their wares with the Alhambra standing grand behind them.

Days on trains with the world passing by. Nights in hostels playing obscure card games, let's make up the rules as we go along. Worm - Shoe – Milky Way – Parade… "Parade??" they ask. "The worm, in the shoe, in the milky way; you, me, the stars, the planets, we're all in one big cosmic parade dude." "Anyone that says anything that hippy has to win the point." Perhaps I really did get lost in the depths of Bohemia!

Three months is filled with friends and solitude and wonder. I want more. It is a lucky thing now, that my wing fell off in Barcelona.

xxx

from pest to buda and back

Built in the 16^th century the Rudas bath in Budapest not only has history seeped into the walls, you can smell it is old. The water that streams from the mouth of the statue and into the bath is warm and luxurious but smells too much like curried eggs to stand near for long. Drifting over to the other side of the 30 degree indoor bath, that today on Tuesday is open only to women, it is easy to be lulled into a state of calm. Although after almost three months of picturesque wanderings through a handful of European cities I find I am in a state of calm most days.

And so you bathe in the water of the centuries old Turkish bath, in an octagonal stone room with beams of mottled coloured light filtering through the stars in the domed roof. With the friendly French woman you try the steam room where conversation is replaced with trying to breathe, then the dry sauna, then you plunge into the small cool water bath and then into the 40 degree bath. Warmed to the core the drizzle following you from Buda back to Pest is barely noticeable.

Back in Pest they carry posies of daffodils and escape the rain in cafes where the walls are decorated with pop art and red paint and chairs are displayed in the top window sill. At night they drink and dance in bars that are inside but outside with plants and wall paper, graffiti and games of kicker, cartoons projected on the walls and an old car for a DJ booth.

Over the bridge and across the Danube River is Buda. With the buildings surrounded by leafy green trees and a castle and cathedral standing amongst it all. Buda is beautiful. Beautiful is Buda.

And everyone at The Groove is having a grand time in Budapest. And then the Iceland volcano erupts and everyone is happy to be stranded in Budapest. And then I take my last lap of the streets, I take my last photo from Margaret Bridge, and I wish that I too were stranded in Budapest.

the tragedy in irony

She catches my eye, the old beggar woman. There are beggars everywhere of course. Beggars on the streets of Prague, in the parks of Paris, in the metro stations of Barcelona. But in Budapest they seem to carry a particular sadness. Like the young women cradling her son, a paper cup next to her dress, her stare distant and forlorn.

The old Hungarian women, or maybe she is from Russia or Poland, is hunched over, almost as though bowing at the passersby who walk past without so much as a glance. Her wrinkled face is half hidden under the traditional blue and white patterned scarf she wears over her head and tied under her chin. She is tucked into a big brown jacket. Behind her the two story tall polished windows show suits with price tags in the thousands. There she stands, in front of Hugo Boss, her small hand outstretched.

Maybe she is someone's grandma.

hats and coincidences

A day in Prague…

There is much more to say, and I say this before I have said anything at all.

But for now I can share one day in Prague. I went wandering, there was no plan. Is there ever?

I find a café bookstore, my favourite no matter where the city. I write and read and eat a breakfast burrito and peruse through the books that between their covers I know will delight and inspire. Secondhand books obviously being the best – words and an unknown past all rolled into one. I go wandering again in the cold cold cold. In and out of art galleries under Charles Bridge where I find presents for everyone yet buy nothing. Walking across Charles Bridge in the rain I can't help laughing out loud followed by wearing a crazyman's grin at my umbrella and everyone else's being blown uncontrollably by the wind. Amidst this craze of wind and light rain and laughing I stop on the bridge to check out some prints. The Russian says "the weather is crazy". It is. "You know why it is crazy? It is crazy because the Polish president was just killed in a plane crash. He is here no more". Then he pulls a bottle of spirits from his jacket and I am drinking chilli whisky on Prague's famous bridge.

I find a second hand store and think I hear Australia accents. But no, New Zealand, I often can't tell. I chat with the New Zealand girl who came to Prague for a five week course and fell in love with the fairytale city so stayed and set up a vintage store. I buy a green bowlers hat from her, the style you may remember was worn by Charlie Chaplin or in the paintings by Belgian surrealist artist Rene Magritte. I wear the green hat to keep the rain off my head and head to the old town square which is filled with coloured streamers and giant eggs to celebrate Easter. A bookstore called Kafka catches my eye, and in Franz Kafka. It catches my eye not because he is one of Prague's famous literary sons but because he was a favourite author of my dad's. And in there I find a book that I had been looking for this whole trip. So uncanny this life can be. The original cover of The Unbearable Lightness of Being features a hat on the cover, just like that on my head only brown. A coincidence will always make my day. More than one and there can be no doubt, if not for just for that moment, everything is as it should be.

making the world smaller, just for a moment

And then there were more. More wonderful, caring, welcoming family members to be found on the other side of the world.

They showered us in chocolate, it was Easter after all. It seems by now the croissants and crepes and cream and now chocolate has caught up with me and I sport a new European winter coat. Oh dear.

Easter breakfast with cousin Viola, Easter lunch with beautiful Aunty Fanny and Uncle Rudy, and then we meet our cousin Iris for the first time.

We stay with Viola who feeds us more chocolate and chips and lollies and grapefruit flavoured beer. We go swimming and take a Sunday drive.

We know it has been too long between visits. But maybe we have just made that huge divide from little Port Lincoln to little Werne a little easier to cross.

of windmills and tulips and little girls in clogs

When I was a little girl I dreamed of far off places. I dreamed of The Netherlands.

What was it like where my grandpa had grown up?

In my dreams I conjured up fields of tulips with Dutch windmills in the distance and little girls like myself running through the fields wearing little wooden clogs.

Two grown up little Dutch girls we stop the bus at Wassenaar Oldenbarneveltweg and with our suitcases safely in tow walk down the street Hugo de Grootestraat. The street where our great-grandfather built half the houses Uncle Tom later will tell us.

We peer eagerly in the windows. "Do you remember what they look like?" Sigrid asks. And there at number 1 is Aunty Nelly waving somewhat frantically.

How peculiar yet wonderfully familiar to be with family on the other side of the world. They speak to us in English but sometimes forget and speak to us instead in Dutch, thinking that we understand. Not wanting to be rude we smile and nod.

An amazing meal is prepared, which reminds us of Pup and Oma and that amazing pot roast gravy we have never come to master. We steal glances over the table as to whether we should lick our plates clean, but decide it's probably best not to make ourselves look like little Aussie ferals.

Through the streets of Wassenaar we stroll, through "the village", past the house where Pup and Uncle Tom grew up, past the florists selling rows of tulips, past the old Dutch windmill that has been converted into an art gallery.

The little girls in wooden clogs however, were nowhere to be seen.

three days in the city of bikes

It is Europe's epicenter of cool, Amsterdam is. Canals, bikes – not just any bikes but the divine old school Dutch bicycles – houseboats decorated with potplants and colourful windmills, terrace houses lining the canals that are slightly askew leaning this way and that. Wafts of sweet smoke drifting from the coffee shops. Mere shards of glass that separate you from the rows of women sitting under red lights in skimpy underwear. And what is this? A vintage store you are after? Well look no further my friend. It is a vintage lover's heaven. Hours we spend trawling through the hoards of clothes and shoes and bags and belts. If only an inch of room remained in my suitcase.

"It always rains in Amsterdam" we are told by a random local. And rain it does. We hide from the rain in the pubs and clubs of Leidseplein. The next day we hide from the rain in bed nursing severe, yet completely worthwhile, hangovers.

A chocolate craving leads to the all important question… "Is this normal cake?" asked oh-so-innocently while pointing at the tray of cake and cookies on the counter that sit amidst hash lollipops... "It's space cake" is the patient, albeit painfully obvious, reply. But of course it is space cake, it is being asked for in a coffee shop in Amsterdam. And when you begin to worry about the bunk above collapsing and wonder, if it does, will it lead to a broken nose, or worse?, you can be certain it is not 'normal cake' at all…

In Amsterdam they have vintage covers, like a shower cap, for the bike seats. When it comes down to it this really says it all. Amsterdam is cool.
 

in an oil painting we travel

We travel through the German countryside. Even if I had been blindfolded and on a magical mystery tour only to wake up on this train I believe I would have known I was travelling through the German countryside. Tall alpine forests, green fields, grey skies, a light drizzle of rain. It is however the brown brick houses with white window frames and steeply slanted tiled roofs that give it away. A child jumping on a trampoline out the front of one of these cottage homes reminds me that this is real and I am not travelling through a landscape painting.

But the painting continues as I order some snacks on the train only to be served by a man in a red pin-striped shirt with shoulder length artificially waved hair and a bushy moustache. I buy Pringles; the Germans buy trays of currywurst and huge pints of beer.

Then out the window the bicycles give it away. Hundreds of them. Bicycle parking lots. Every second person on a bike.

With nostalgia in my heart I like to think we have arrived home for the first time.

We are in Holland.

in the land of grunge and chewed-back nails

They way they walk upside-down is more graceful than my right side up walking. With elegant poise they hover above the audience. They slide headfirst down fabric and ropes, heads landing inches from the stage. They twirl in hoops and defy gravity on swings. The male dancers answer them climbing up poles and bounding over one another's shoulders. A story of first love, of those butterflies in the stomach and laughter in the air; a story of love that is broken, intense yet insatiable; and finally a story of finding the love that fits like a glove. The dance production Versus, at the Chamaleon Theatre in Berlin's trendy Mitte quarter is gravity-defying magic.

We eat sausages, potatoes and sauerkraut for dinner before the show.

The next day we get inside the dirty grungy city that is Berlin. The art squat which is at once covered with murals, surrounded by sculptures, filled with living artists and also has a stench of stale urine from the vagabonds who use it as a toilet. The street art, a recent fascination of mine after the stunning works of El nino de las Pinturas in Granada. In Berlin you could say that the walls talk. In a city where only two decades ago a wall divided the capitalist west and the communist east, today the walls tell a different story. A painting by one artist is answered by another. Art on the walls change a neighbourhood. The building of one hundred faces brings hope to a community. The number 6 is found on pavements, a rock here or there, Banksy makes an appearance with his spaceman and meanwhile how will little lucy kill her cat?

Berlin when I think of you I picture chewed back nails, leg warmers and a recycled beanie… confident but not cocky, grey but not miserable, we but scratched at the surface.

you fall in love

In Paris you fall in love. In love with the pastry shops no less.

Let the cream, crepes and croissants begin.

"Every bite just gets better" she croons with a mouthful of what can only be described as the best dessert we have sampled in this sugar and cream-fuelled dream. It is a tart like construction, with diced and sugared apple lining the biscuit base, topped with the lightest and fluffiest custard meringue, finished with a light caramelising. In Paris we have a picnic by the river.

In Pars you fall in love. In love with Montmartre where Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso and Claude Monet used to hang out. In love with the chic style. In love with the Eiffel tower at night; with Charlotte's friend's bar; and with Parisian vintage clothing.

In Paris I am once again inspired. Once again I am filled with ideas to take up my days when I venture back home. We walk past a building covered in streamers. An art squat we have found. Bohemian artists took over the abandoned building in the eighties and now have opened it to the public. We walk amidst living art. Artists are busy putting paint to canvas, welding, filing and making sculptures out of folded used subway tickets. The walls breathe art. Whole rooms become art installations. The doorways are painted, coloured flags fill the spiral stairwell. I am inspired.

Spud baby, I'm turning the shed into an art studio x

 

 

the driver is on strike

France is on strike. At least our train driver that was going to take us from Spain to Paris is on strike. This we know for sure as we are led down to an empty train in the Spain Franca border town of Hendaye at 11pm and plonked in a tiny couchette to sleep for the night … on a train going nowhere. And the next day when the darling Charlotte takes us on our Parisian tour, it is perhaps our absent train driver we spy, on a public strike marching past the July Column in centre of the Place de la Bastille.

sweet gelati on a Sunday

What did you do today? "Just a quick trip to France and back actually…without even meaning to". We had jumped on a train to book our overnight journey from San Sebastian to Paris and had ended up in a little town where I noticed they answered my broken Spanish in a completely different language. Well oh my, it seems we are in a completely different country. Little do we know that tomorrow night we will spent the night in this small French border town called Hendaye, on a train going nowhere.

Back in San Sebastian the weather is warm and the dresses are on as we check out the surf. Boasted as Basque Country's most stylish city it feels much smaller than its 183,000. I guess you could call it stylish, you could also call it swanky, or maybe sophisticated with its upscale apartments lining the promenade and designer clothing stores dotted down the shopping strips. The waiter gives us a free serve of San Sebastian's signature Pintxos… which is much like tapas… because we clearly have no idea what is going on. The old town is jammed packed with pintxos bars. Peek in the doorway and you spy plates and plates of cute creations on baby baguettes…and just as many people standing and chatting while nibbling on these mini meals and drinking glasses of wine.

We make the most of the muggy breeze with sweet gelati. Giggling like children in a playground we skip to the pastel-coloured carrousel and race for the best ponies, Sigrid glaring at the little girl that scored the good ones before us. Round and round and round and we turn the ride into a photo shoot on a warm Sunday afternoon.

and so we walk

We have created a walking monster. Every day five maybe six hours. The wining and dining has waned and is replaced with walking, sightseeing and window shopping. Sigrid, Claire and I walk; and so we walk. Walking along Las Ramblas, through the winding streets of el Raval, into the funky barri gothic quarter where artists work in their half hidden studios tucked behind painted doors. Walking past another of Gaudi's impressive yet unfinished churches and then into the hip Born quarter. We meander through the zoo, past the very human-looking apes and chimpanzees, back out into Barcelona city again, past the park, around the art gallery, back to las Ramblas and round and round the markets slurping on the 1 Euro fresh juices of strawberry and kiwi, banana and raspberry, coconut and mango – heaven in a plastic cup.

At night we walk in circles to find the cheap cava bar recommended by RyanAir. In a little alley that we had already walked past, behind another unnamed door is a crammed bar filled with locals eating their cheap burgers and drinking their cheap champagne getting ready for a night on the town. There is little chance of us getting served in the next ten minutes so we test our Irish luck on St Patrick's day and the 6 euro jugs of sangria and the soccer game with Barcelona vs Germany on the television amidst a bunch of cheering supporters it seems a good fit. A chance encounter, a friendly conversation, another walk and a reggae, funk and hip hop jam session sees our walking shoes off and our dancing shoes on.

As we walk home, past the quarters, past the port, I watch the locals cruising past on their hired red bikes. For 24 euro a year you use these bikes to get around the city at any time of day or night. Walking is good, but dare I say it, cycling is superior for sure. I daydream on the way back to the hostel… I am living in Barcelona, an after-work cerveza in Born and I ride my bike home, no helmet of course, basket filled with fresh market food, a bread stick and a bottle of wine, of course.

joining the gypsies in parc guell

I arrive at Parc Guell ready to go. Armed with a few pieces of my jewellery, maybe seven pendants and two necklaces, a little napkin (stolen from the restaurant in Morocco that charged a fortune for some dips and a chicken pie) to put everything on and some price signs my eyes scan the area for a good selling spot. But there's something missing. Where yesterday it was filled with people selling rows of cheap sunglasses, jewellery, paintings today there is not one seller in sight. Then we spy the police in the corner. This confirms it, it's obviously illegal. But it is a gorgeous day and with a picnic of cheese, mettwurst, strawberries and oranges there really is no better place to be than sitting on a grassy hill in this weird and wonderful Alice-in-Wonderlandish park overlooking Barcelona. Sure enough an hour or so later the police are gone and the hawkers are back out. I join in the fun, pick a spot and lay out my slim pickings. Forty-five minutes with a few glances and I am rather bored. I think the fact that everyone else has about 100 items on offer stands me a slight disadvantage. Time to try a new spot and liven things up with some Spanish guitar playing by Gabriel. The two angels, Raffael and Gabriel, busk in the park. The music doesn't entice the customers and I am about ready to through my napkin over my shoulder and call it a day. But one more spot we try. And success! As I lay out my little napkin and position stones and an orange to hold it in place some tourists check out my wares. I tell them how I make them and a sale… oh yeah. She asks if I study art in Barcelona, oh if only! I tell her "you have come all the way to Spain from Romania and have bought a necklace handmade in Australia from an Australian travelling through Barcelona." Clearly the winning sales pitch as her friend snaps up the other necklace straight away. So I sell my jewellery in Parc Guell. Such a novelty. The other sellers have their eyes on me, the new girl. They come over and check out the competition and warn me to watch for police and to pack up by 4. The risk makes it all the more fun. But pretty elated by the sales I call it a day. Sigrid, Claire and I set off for Gaudi's Sagrada Familia.

in the lost and found box

As a payment of sorts, in exchange for the many unforgettable experiences, I decided to leave a small gift in various locations along the way. I, in this case refers not to the sensible, caring-for-her-things me, but the frivolous, fun-loving and 'oh it doesn't really matter' me.

In Barcelona – My wing from my necklace is somewhere in Gracia (which if you are wondering is the more alternative suburb ). My wing is one of the cool kids for sure. My ipod complete with a few thousands songs eager to join me on my travels is either with a little thief from the hostel or some nimble-fingered cat from the city. My new black jacket from Barcelona is still somewhere in Barcelona. And a shawl, red and embroidered and oh-so-lovely…gone...also in Barcelona.

In Valencia – my shampoo… dreads here I come. Also, not lost but shrunk to the size of dolls clothes, was my woolen black dress. The shrunken dress was so funny however that I shipped it home for the memories.

In Alicante – my facewash… why did I insist on buying the good stuff?

In Cadiz – my green silk scarf purchased the day before from Granada, my fabric dragonfly brooch which I made myself, and maybe also a necklace. I can't be too sure though.

In Tarifa – my burgundy tie-dye metalicus wrap. This loss was rather disappointing as it could be layered very well for much needed extra warmth.

In Torremolinos – I gladly said goodbye to the baby blanket I had been carrying around for almost five weeks and a pair of stockings and, rather stupidly, also decided to leave my travel pillow?

In Lisbon – my phone. Uh oh, now it's the big stuff. But wait, so sure I was that it had slipped down behind a locker I emailed twice and it is found and on its way back to Australia.

In Paris and Berlin – nothing to report so far, however I fear it is the end of days for my leather boots; devastated.

merry-go-round delight

Mushy travelers brain. For seven months all my friend has had to worry about is what to eat, where to sleep, what sights to see, where to travel to next. I have only been travelling for two months but I fear the condition is contagious. After a night of no sleep on the seedy overnight bus trip from Seville it appears as though the symptoms have intensified. Feeling like a space cadet myself I am finding nonsensical conversations we have quite fun. We get lost and then find ourselves in a church being led into the crypt by a little old nun. No idea what to expect we are faced with a cabinet filled with hundreds of tiny figurines. We find another old school tram, head the other direction and decide the best option is clearly to stop at a look out area and drink beer in the Lisbon sun. We wander through a flea market and have a burger and chips in a little café, again with an amazing view over the whitewash and orange-tiled houses and the water in the distance. Oh the sea.

So far the food is good…good until we try the local cuisine. I go for the grilled fish, which is served with a few boiled potatoes and salad and tastes pretty good if not a little plain. Claire orders the salted cod, a specialty. A specialty for your cat perhaps. But what Lisbon lacks in culinary delights it certainly makes up for in charm. The steep hills with old school trams running up and down all day; the craft markets and flea markets; its houses, its parks; and one the weekend streets crammed with little bars and people spilling out onto the pavers.

This merry-go-round…this mini-overseas adventure… it has suddenly picked up pace. A few nights here, a few nights there - a new town for but a night - a night time bus trip, another country - a plane flight, a new city. Round and round and round it goes and each circle is just as fun and colourful and exciting as the last. I do love a good merry-go-round.

did i mention... In Sevilla I found the best sangria i have had the delight of sampling since being in Spain. Yep, I called it.

and so we wine and dine

In Granada, at the bar in the Oasis, I meet Hannah. A gorgeous girl from Germany who is traveling alone and on route to Seville. So I ask her to join us. All too soon she realizes that Aussies are quite different travelers than Germans. There was no way we could stick to our plan of getting up at 8am after a night out eating tapas and drinking Sangria! So we she leaves ahead of us and we meet in Seville.

By now Claire and I have a pretty good thing going on traveling wise… we casually get up, eat the free breakfast, wander around gazing up at the gothic churches and ancient buildings, and from there basically café and bar hop. Sangria, food, wine, food, beer, tapas, sangria, tapas… shoud we check out the church, sure, wander around slightly dazed after the jug of sangria and in awe of the history behind the buildings. There's certainly not a great deal of planning going on. Somehow I think this could have been somewhat frustrating for Hannah who was up in the morning for a jog before breakfast and eagerly waiting for us to finish our sangria to check out the cathedral (which we never did make it to, sorry Hannah!)

We dawdle back to the hostel after wine on the river and miss out on the cheap paella. Then we sit on the terrace drinking wine and cheering on the young guy playing guitar and not really worrying about the time. Thank goodness for the Germans and Austrians. They keep us in line. At 11am we hear from across the table "calling all Australians, last bus to Lisbon. Last calls to the Australians"… shit that's us! Laughing like maniacs and running through the hostel we give tipsy farewells to everyone we see and race up the road for the station. Of course we make it with plenty of time and eat chocolate while we wait, unaware of the hell overnight bus trip ahead.

…and of Sevilla: gorgeous (after I stopped pining for Granada). More refined than Granada, but also with a rich history of Arabic influence. Bullfighting, grand buildings in yellows, pinks, pastel oranges, and blues. Streets that sometimes carry the unfortunate smell of horse piss from the many horse and buggys that cart the tourists around. Days could easily drift off sitting by the river and while we stayed not quite long enough to see, I am sure there is a great contemporary art scene bubbling away. At noon a pedestrian street fills with Sevillans who relish their beer, sangria and chips in the sun. Maybe two hundred people stand in the street, drinking chatting. Who said work needed to be done in Spain? One night is really not enough.

Aside from the pending return trip to Barcelona I realize I am saying goodbye to Andalucia and the delights of Spain's southern coast. Six weeks…?... give me six months!

because it’s sunny in Granada

Life on the road … Morocco seems like months ago. Memories of getting scrubbed down in a Turkish bath amidst a steam room full of other naked women spring up now and then. But every day since then it has been a new town, a new city, new sites and more friends. Back to Tarifa, back to Spain and the creature comforts we were used to. Flamenco shows and the all important bottle of wine. Bus to Torremolinos. It is somewhat different from the hippy sanctuary visited by my dad in the 70s. However, it was really nice to make it there, to be at a Spanish seaside city where 30 years before me my dad had eaten artichokes and slept on the beach.

A day later it is the bus again. Back to Granada. Probably a silly move to double back when your schedule is as short as mine, but what can I say, Granada truly captured me once and there is no doubt it will do it again. Also I make the excuse of missing out on the street art tour and "Claire, you haven't been there, I honestly don't mind if I go back again…"

As the bus nears the city I pull back my curtain to see the stunning Sierra Nevada in the background, thick white snow covering the peaks.
We walk through the old quarter to get to our hostel, passing the Moroccan tea and hookah bars with their spicy aromas spilling out. The backpackers is the best I have stayed at yet and an hour later we are trudging through the city checking out the art that covers not only the walls of alley ways but of staircases, houses, public walls. I have never seen anything like it and I am now a massive street art fan and a fan of artist 'El nino de las pinturas'. We climb staircases and look up to see more amazing art, look down to see right across beautiful Granada, look out to the hill to see the hundreds of house fronts with the rest nestled deep inside the hill. There are mansions built into the Granada hills. On the other hill tucked away beneath the mystical Alhambra are hidden squats, obviously no mansions but comfortable enough caves for hundreds of hippies from all over the world to live.

The Pupa Tattoo Art Gallery has a cute story about written in tiles about a little girl with a big nose and beady eyes and her new friend Pupa. It has funky paintings, handmade dolls, brooches and regular exhibitions. You wouldn't find this baby down Hindley Street. Her tattoo studio room is filled wall to ceiling with her drawings, paintings and bookcases full of art reference material. Claire morphs into photographer extraordinare and attempts to district me with questions and stories. Then to celebrate she buys us vino and we eat the free tapas in the sunshine which until now has evaded us. Life is good, I adore Granada… and now I have my very own piece of Granada ink, a knot for my dad.

brainwashed by a swig of mint

Oh dear. Like moths to a flame. We were easy suckers to spot. Ridiculously easy. We assured ourselves before the tour, fully aware that we would be taken into friends' stores and be convinced to buy their wares, that there would be no shopping. Our guide led us through a labyrinth of streets, some so narrow you had to walk sideways to get to the doors that apparently opened into mansions. We checked out the oldest university in the world (started by a female no less!) and stepped inside unmarked doorways where we found opulent Arabic architecture – mosaic, carvings, fountains and marble. Then another unmarked doors, up a flight of stairs and we are hit by a stench of leather followed oh so quickly by a lovely swig of fresh mint. Led past rows upon rows of handbags, shoes, jackets, belts, purses. All colours, all styles… thousands! "Claire look at this, omigod I lloooovvvee it"…"Raff look at these bags" "oh that one is so gorgeous"…. On and on we went, eyes falling out of our heads. We hadn't even seen the tannery yet. And then over the balcony we see these hundreds on vats, filled with deep reds, maroons, turquoise and yellow. And further off white ones that we learn are filled with some concoction off pigeon droppings that get the fur of the skins. In these ponds there are men with their pants pulled up to their thighs, stomping and working the fabric. It is awe-inspiring. This tannery is one of the oldest in the medina, begun in the 12^th century and still in operation today as it was back then. Well, that basically sold us. Clever buggers…woo us with this history and colour and overwhelm us with this smell and the rather glamorous look of swanning around with a mint leave under our nose … and then lead us to the shoes. And then to the handbags. And then, are you joking, we actually ask to see the leather jackets. Suckers. The evidence is in the justifying we have had to do every day since "the tannery". The first few days were "yeah, we bargained really well, this is good quality stuff", "Hey we are like paying about seven people with those purchases, that's a great good thing, almost a good deed?", "And these are really beautiful, and we have a great story to go with our purchases…"

In the meantime, well straight after the tannery, we are taken to the carpet salesman. But of course! And we are quite impressed with his offer for us to pay nothing for one month on a one thousand dollar carpet, sell it at supposed Australian art auction, make thirteen thousand, pay for our trip and then pay him the original one thousand. This sounds good. Claire considers calling her parents to cut a deal with them. I, on the other hand, get snappy. "No. I don't want a carpet," and with a rather rude stare and all but stop talking. The carpet salesmen stops talking to me about carpet, but he does suggest trying the best Moroccan food, their chicken pies, 'Bisteeya'. Soon enough we are whisked off, back into the Medina labyrinth which is home to 300,000 people. Into another unmarked door and it is a gorgeous authentic restaurant. We order the chicken pies but are first presented with perhaps 20 dishes, small portions of this and that. Spinach that tastes too sweet, spicy mash eggplant (very good), chickpeas, dahl, marinated vegetables, fresh flat bread… so many and it was impressive. Some tasty, some just a bit too strange for our western taste buds. Photos with Claire, the blondie, photos in dress ups complete with little red hat and staff. Then finally what we actually ordered, the chicken pies. So tasty. It is baked in a flaky pastry and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Good thing we liked it as once again, after a plate of sliced orange and a cup of green tea for dessert, we realize it was the tannery all over again… we had finally asked for the bill.

That night we find the cutest, beautifully decorated little pension to stay at right on the edge of the medina. And for a moment we forget how much cash we have blown in a single day. How in one day in Fes we have spent more than any time in Europe. Instead we sit on the balcony, sip on mint tea, watch the action down below and breathe in the exotic air.

Fes' medina is amazing. Even though it seems our awe could be sniffed out a mile away, the leather is still beautiful albeit shockingly expensive; the maze of streets filed with people, stalls, fabrics, pastries and donkeys still claim hours of wide-eyed wandering; the bisteeyas with their combination of sweet and savoury is definitely a dish to try at home, as is the tagines and couscous; and behind yet another unmarked door, the Turkish bath is another story altogether, a true highlight.

 

perils of public transport

Luxury. We are about to catch the luxury bus, saying goodbye to Chaouen and heading to a Moroccan city, the Fes frenzy is the next stop. With a good night sleep behind us we are ready to stay awake the whole six hours and check out the scenery of another country. A country already so foreign to us. As we walked down the hill of the mountain town, passing Café Come Back and a little donkey, we pat ourselves on the back for catching the local bus on the way here. Now we are lashing out an extra four euro and catching the luxury liner. It pulls up in the bus stop looking rather impressive compared to the school bus that we had caught before. It's also looking pretty full. Yep, it is. We struggle to find to aisle seats opposite one another and none of the locals seems to impressed to be sharing. The motor cranks up and it puts up the hill constantly honking the horn through the streets jammed with people. But then the luxury really begins, our extra four euros have paid for a delightful addition. The stench of fresh vomit. I cover my face with my shawl for the first 10 minutes, but it is just delaying the inevitable. Instead I concentrate on light breathing through my nose, hoping those little nose hairs will filter out some of the smell.

It's going to be a long trip. Claire is listening to her iPod. I'm secretly smacking myself in the head for being such a scatter-brain and losing my iPod within three days of arriving in Europe. So when Claire reaches across the aisle to show me the music she is listening to, I put the earphone in for a second and remark, "sounds like some crap Russian pop to me", I decide the vomit and lack of fresh air has momentarily turned me into a spiteful little cow. She takes back her music and I continue to concentrate on my light nostril breathing and daydreams. It keeps me occupied until the roadside stop where fresh meat hangs whole with a little barbecue next by and cuts of meat are prepared and cooked while you wait. I really think we need some of these in Australia. Business was cranking! I opted to fill up on fresh air, a wise choice I think. A few hours later and we are in Fes…eating off little street stalls soup, tagine and the best hot potato chips. We also indulged in a little luxury…An actual hotel and like giggling teenagers ordered beer and chips from room service and sat up watching movies all night. So it took a stinky, cramped, painful bus ride but the luxury arrived after all.

blue buildings, maroc mountains

"You're not in Spain anymore" … I say to myself as I squat over a porcelain hole in the toilets at Tangier's bus stop.

The bus ride to Chefchaouen in the Moroccan mountains is hilarious really. We pay the equivalent of $4 for a three hour bus ride on a local bus. It fills up to the point of people standing in the aisles as the bus lurches along the road.

Then from above lies the captivating mountain town you are walking into; where all the buildings are painted blue.

Water and hash and wool; they are what Chefchaouen is known for says the friendly Australian after I use the tap water to clean my teeth.

Tagine for dinner, couscous for lunch, at least two fresh mint teas a day. Sitting in a café in the centre of the medina; the café is a tent, its walls and roof lined with red and orange woven mats. The colours had drawn us in. We watch the passersby, the women in their full length gowns covered head to toe, we watch the old men in a similar costume and I feel as if I am in a page of 'Where's Wally' Moroccan style. We watch the donkey carrying hundreds of refilled coke bottles and then returning up the hill with clinking empty bottles, back and forth, again and again. We watch the man who sits on the steps all day selling his Marlborough Reds. We didn't see any customers.

People are friendly here. There's no hassle. I adore wandering through the blue, taking photos of doorways and bumping into wide eyed Moroccan children who play in the narrow alleys.

Back in Pension Souika, the German starts a mini campfire in between four bricks on the coffee table and we shelter from the rain. Stoner conversations, the earthquake in Chile has changed the axis of the earth and time will never be the same again. Then the Englishman notices that the ashtray had a baby. The ashtray had a baby??

same same…just the other side of the world

Tarifa. You come halfway across the world to be in a place that reminds you of home.
I arrive in the last week of winter.

The town is still sleepy and it immediately feels like home. A couple of main streets, a tuna fishing town, looking across the sea to land (I'm thinking Boston Island, just go with me on this one), surfers, surf shops; located on a peninsula on the south of the country, beaches and a just a few more people with the population coming in at 17,000. You get my drift perhaps?

So I have travelled to the other side of the world to find home. I knew I would get along well with Tarifa. And of course, I'm in Spain, so there is much added allure.
So...The main street, it winds its way through the old town, which is about 1000 years old. The tuna boats are about one tenth of those in Port Lincoln and rather cute.

! Looking across the sea it is not a small island that houses the mayor but, alas, it is Morocco, Africa.........Africa!

The surfers are mostly kitesurfers and as the wind whirls past at speeds up to 40 knots the beach fills with hundreds.

And the peninsula, it looks over the Mediterranean Sea on the left, take a stroll around the corner and dip your feet in the Atlantic Ocean.

Tarifa is stylishly simple. It is refreshing and relaxed and the first day of spring the cafes open their doors and we sit at Café Del Mar with a freshly squeezed orange juice after a morning of sunshine.

Did I mention – the best patisserie I have ever been to in my life - 'la Tarifina'. Handmade chocolates and a chocolate donut that oozed chocolate sauce upon the first bite… I was in heaven as I wandered the old town with chocolate smothered hands and most probably face.

But even after this… this gushing you could say… there is still a dash of Lincoln; here and there at least.

colours and craze…welcome to carnival cadiz

The closer the train to the city of Cadiz, the more costumed folk jump aboard. We think about the possible costume ingredients we will be able to find in our limited backpacker selection. Getting off at the Cadiz station and suddenly we are in a different world… it is carnival time! People everywhere in the train station, on the street, in the street, are changing into wacky costumes. There are clans of sailors and bunches of sunflower men, fairies and elves, Vikings and giant babies, and plastic bags filled with bottles of wine ready for the festivities. With some scarves, plastic jewellery, a clown nose, orange sunglasses, black and green eyeliner and some strategically placed hairstyles we transform ourselves into a clown of sorts, a hippy of sorts, a pirate of sorts and a cat (of sorts of course). Whisky whisky whisky, music music, chips and chatting and my new friends could very well be the most fun I have met on this excursion. From Holland and Estonia, the travelling duo has been living life as a ball in a pinball machine. Launching off and just being thrown at random around Spain, never knowing where they will end next. Will it be a squat in Barcelona, a villa on the east coast complete with a car to drive, a backpackers or someone's couch? Fun; these kids are fun. And for this weekend I play pinball.

So we launch and land in a square of costumes. I follow my ears in the direction of the music. A stage is filled with men in skin coloured costumes with strange apparatus hanging at all directions. No idea what they are meant to be but I stand amidst the crowd and hide under some umbrellas and watch and cheer along. Like the balls we bounce from one group of people to the next, chatting and drinking with them and a huge concert suddenly appears in what must be the centre square. It is a blur of colour and activity which could be due to the persistent (soon to be torrential) rain or from a few too many drinks…

For me the carnival ends sometime in the morning, when it is still the thick of night and the wind and rain make it impossible to walk more than five metres before hiding behind a pillar of some kind. I cling to the hope that sun will come out. I dabble in some couch surfing and when the sun finally rises and I walk along the main street I see that Cadiz has a great beach running parallel to the town.

My whiskers have long since washed away but I took a bunch of photos and danced some amazing salsa (it is true, Amazing salsa, we even had an audience circle). Carnaval Cadiz … was kaleidoscope crazy.

it is the moments, really

It is the moments. No; it is the unexpected moments. The conversations with people from all over the world. Talk of all-night parties in Croatia, of being a street performer in Malaga, of squats in Barcelona where they listen to 80s music and have house meetings. It is the café you accidently enter that happens to be the best café you have ever been too. Unusual landscape photography on the walls, books on a spiral staircase that leads to nowhere, the quirky seats and a swing for a chair. Food that tastes like it comes from my friend's kitchen and every drink served in a different mug - Café con Libros, big shout out to you. It is the travelers you meet that soon you will be joining. You suggest Cadiz, the carnaval, the carnaval! "yeah, sounds good, I have a friend there we can maybe leave our bags there and fiesta all night long".

Days drift by in Malaga in a bit of a haze. I treat myself to breakfast each morning and long languid dinners in the evening with a book and vino tinto in a charming red-walled tapas bar. The last night Flamenco steals my heart. Her singing rips your heart out and you are not watching, but feeling. The stomping, the clapping, the swirling and compelling dance – it is the fiery passion of flamenco.

Then the three of us are on the train to Cadiz. We make the train by about three minutes. It is true, if you don't worry about things then everything seems to fall into place, and if it doesn't we're not too worried so it doesn't matter any way.

Flow. Cruise. Groove. Be.

Bohemia

"This is what you wanted no?"

I had been sitting in the lounge room watching the conversation as if it was a game of tennis. Only in this game I had no idea of the rules and the racquets, court, net and ball were completely different.

But yes, it is exactly what I wanted. It was only a moment ago that I told Igor I was trying to learn and although I had no idea what everyone was saying I sometimes just made up the conversation using the few words that sounded familiar. It is how he learnt the language and since I am too stingy to pay for as many language courses as I had planned, it may well be the way I learn also.

Tonight it was a party in the lounge room of Casa Babylon. Bohemian life. Casa Babylon is Bohemia. People coming and going, a table full of food, travelers, gypsy, street performers. Art abounds as does the music and then musical instruments are pulled out of a magic music bag.

Songs with words I don't understand but it feels familiar and maybe, in fact, I do.

where myth and history merge

The tea bar is tiny, but beautiful. I have stepped off the narrow street, and I have left Spain. Arabian nights. Deep reds, plum purples, ornate detailing in each piece of fabric, every archway. Perched on embroidered cushions atop little cube stools and two hookahs are brought to the table. We order mixed fruit and strawberry flavoured shisha. Water bubbles against the glass and sweet smoke leaves us dreamy with Arabian music swirling in our heads.

We relish for a moment or two in our chilled state and then the others come bounding in clearly pumped. Whisked of the stools and back into the streets. Running through a labyrinth of paths with pockets full of cheap booze. Up the stairs. Stop. Turn. And see what gave the others their buzz. La Alhambra. The enchanted castle with its mystique and magic lit up against an overcast Spanish sky. Myth says this 12^th century Moorish castle appeared mysteriously one day and one day, it will vanish.

it snows in Granada but for less than two euros you get sangria and too much tapas

The bus arrives in the dark and there are no maps of Granada at the station. I refuse to catch a taxi and after trying in vain to understand the city bus route jump on the number 33 and hope for the best! I tap people on the shoulder, "Perdon, Donde esta Gran Via?" "Si, Si, es Gran Via" they reply. Clearly this doesn't really help me and I realize the whole road is Gran Via. Soon the whole bus is watching as I point to random names on my dodgy directions. No one seems to have any idea where I'm going and neither do I. But the old Spanish man in the corner smiles at me and I'm feeling okay. It may take a little a bit of wandering in the rain but I know that eventually I'll find my way. It's inevitable really. Some young girls help me out and point me in the right direction that is actually completely wrong. And then I am talking with some English speaking locals who walk me to Plaza de la Trinidad and I am on my way.

She told me that no one here speaks English. It is also pouring with rain. But the streets have a good feel to them and the next morning the chocolate con churros are absolutely amazing. Really… who eats five churros, each the size of a regular donut only straight, with a mug of thicker than thick hot chocolate? After ordering them in Spanish - I do. I eat five churros, dipping them in my mug of rich chocolate before each tasty bite, just like everyone else in the café.

And now I'll buy an umbrella.

trance music on the bus radio

I drive past cherry blossoms. Cacti stands tall, the same as those that lead the way to Elliston. Aleppo pines, the same as those that are a pest on Eyre Peninsula. Deserted stone houses. Chillout trance on the alsa bus radio. Sunshine lands on my cheek. The hills turn green and the sky blue and the bus driver tells the passengers something important in Spanish. White houses with tiled orange rooftops nestled in the hills. Snow. I see the snow. like a child I can't stop smiling and don't know how to walk properly (in the snow).

pause

Now it's packing and unpacking, moving and losing more belongings. Meeting more people and saying more goodbyes.

The train trip from Valenica to Alicante is beautiful. Thousands of orange trees start the journey. Tiny villages that simply ooze Spain. Then there's Alicante with its beautiful beach and alluring ancient castle on the hill. We climb to the top and stand at an old watchtower overlooking the Mediterranean sea. The castle stood the test of time until the mid 1800s. Not that long ago really.

It's icy cold at night and after the bike ride in Valencia - where in my oversized sunglasses, thin wool jumper and apricot shawl I was stylishly underprepared for the rain – I am now coughing and spluttering and rugged up in bed for the best part of my stay in Alicante.

I make it to the beach and in two pairs of stockings, boots, a jumper, jacket and beanie I roll a towel out on the beach and catch a moment of Spanish sun.

Dosed up on pseudoephedrine and I'm on my way to Granada.

Maybe we needed a little sun

Valencia. Valencia?

The obvious answer is oranges. Like the orange groves filled with juicy, bright fruit that stretched for miles as we caught the train toward Alicante. But for me, Valencia was paella, Spanish language school, irregular verbs that were oh so confusing, new friends from Sweden, bike riding in the rain, the America's Cup, my best friend Claire and the all important home cooked meals a la chefs Claire and Raff.

After muchas las fiestas en Barcelona I was ready for a rest. Ready to chill out and learn some Espanol. Saving money was also a vague thought so I lived on Special K, yogurt, bananas and orange juice for not quite a week. This saving was all undone when it suddenly dawned on me that winter in Spain did not mean summer because, hello 'it's Spain'! No, no, no, one four degree day and I was straight in the department store to buy a winter jacket. The Barcelona-bought jacket had only lasted a few days before it decided to make a new home in a nightclub by the beach. Lucky this second one had the all important green stripes and big pockets (for the warming of my little hands).

The Swedes and I walk to the park and Matilda learns that she has the ability to speak bird. In class I almost cry when I can't manage to string a simple sentence together. Art museums inspire and delight. Contemporary museums with photography and a forward-thinking local street magazine … then underneath and I have found a new interest - modernist illustration (in magazines) circa 1920s. It is after this I find myself taking photos of street graffiti, paintings on the backs of chairs, detailed ceilings and more mosaic floors.

I finish my one week Spanish course and am embarrassed to be presented with a certificate when I was one of the worst in the class.

Sangria sangria, why have we not shared a Spain moment yet? I find my way to Claire and Tristan. How uncanny that my best friend from Australia so happens to be in Europe - in Spain - in Valencia, the very same time as me! I have only been one week away from home so the catch up, while not without its sentiment, feels not too out of the ordinary. But for my friend Claire it is six months. Not a moment too soon we are saying Salud and drinking a bottle of vino tinto. Then off to find a funky bar and alas, sangria my dear, there you are.

The trio that is Claire, Tristan and I hire bikes and cruise through the narrow streets and then down to the empty beach where I think my fingers my fall off from the cold. A café by the sea offers menu del dia of paella, fried seafood and cerveza.

There is nothing bad to say about you Valencia… you gave me sweet sangria and Swedish friends, funky earrings and live music, bike riding, colourful streets and interesting graffiti. Yet the bond is not quite there. Maybe if the sun was out my heart would have warmed to you more. Till next time hey, till summer…

Pablo sings the blues

Pablo wants to be a black man. Pablo wants to sing the blues.

He plays old blues classics on youTube and strums along at the hostel. Sebastian with a smattering of silver eyelashes against the black sings with a voice so delicate. Pablo’s passion for blues comes alive as we listen to his story of its beginnings.

“It is the mother, and the father, of everything.”

Blues, they say, was born out of repression and creative restriction of the African Americans and Chinese slaves. Their language forbidden and the drums no longer played. In the battlefields of civil war lay forgotten guitars…that soon had soul sung back into them.

“but the story, it is nothing if you don’t play the scales…”

And we listen as the story comes to life from the diatonic chords and then the extra chords and “then the devil that came into the strings”

Andy challenges the story, says he will find a different theory, but really its like Pablo said and this story is not a story at all without a guitar in hand and bluesy beats along the way.

The room fills. The guys from South American living in Barcelona are going to start a band. Shake the eggs and I think of Jes; guitars and bongo drums and a glass of red wine.

And we sing… “champagne don’t drive me crazy, cocaine don’t make me lazy, ain’t nobody’s business but my own/ Candy is dandy and liquor is quicker, You can drink all the liquor down in Costa Rica, Ain’t nobody’s business but my own…”
Taj Mahal sang that song.
And tonight I sang a little blues myself.

my wing landed in Gracia

So my wing fell off in Barcelona. It landed somewhere around Gracia. I think this means I should move there. My wing has also fallen off in my hands and at Café Del Giornos so if I’m going with this theory it could also mean that my life is in my hands or I eat at Del Giornos too often. But I’m sticking with the former: Barcelona. I didn’t expect to fall in love with Barcelona so quickly. In fact I didn’t even plan on starting in Barcelona (and I also didn’t plan to party in Barcelona…Honestly!).

The 12 hour flight from Singapore to Barcelona was stranded in Milan for a few hours as they melted ice of the engines and wings. It was at that moment I realized I should have packed a jacket. Also that when everyone was saying it was going to be cold I could have used this as advice instead of being a stubborn little shit, oh well. Aside from that, the interlude in Milan did give me time to make friends with the guy sitting behind me. Nacho was returning to Barcelona from a month in New Zealand with his girlfriend. International romance…airlines will make a fortune. Anyhow instead of wasting 30 euro on a taxi Nacho directed me onto the train and next thing I know I’m walking out of the metro station, looking up and staring at my favourite Gaudi creation in the city – Casa Batllo. A few doors down and I land in my hostel with not a wink of jet lag in sight.

The sight-seeing begins. A bike tour throughout the city. I feel like a local if only it weren’t for the bright orange flag of my guide in front of me. My disguise has been blown, clearly a tourist. Siesta time at the hostel stretches out until about 9. Slowly people emerge and the vino starts to flow. I didn’t plan to go out but an hour later I am in a small group walking through narrow streets in el raval and going into a tiny club where the beats are pumping. It fits maybe 30 people on the dance floor – packed. The drinks are expensive but the tunes are worth it and besides, I’m so excited to be dancing in Barcelona I hardly need a drink! I practiced my Spanish at the bar and told them their drinks were too expensive. A free shot of tequila and my Spanish is paying off.
I pull out Sigi’s golfing dance move and become the favourite of a few local punters who mimic the move and pass me some cerveza.

The next few days pass meandering through the cobbled streets, becoming lost in alleyways with washing hanging overhead, daydreaming in art museums, discovering astonishing architecture and cute tapas bars, siestas, Gaudi and Picasso, and making friends with the kids from South America who work at the hostel.
Partying starts at midnight and we don’t leave for the bars until 2. I get lost in Barcelona at six in the morning with no jacket and no amigos! I forget the rule about not talking to strangers, particularly when you are alone in a foreign city…but my new friend walks me to my street and asks only that I go out dancing the next night!
I do go dancing the next night but forgot about the helpful stranger. Actually, I think I forgot a little too much, such as my bus leaving at 10am for Valencia the next morning. Running through the metro, fumbling for my ticket, buying the wrong ticket, and then buying the wrong ticket again! ARGH! Dragging my suitcase behind me, “?Arc de Triompf?” “?Arc de Triompf?” I miss the bus by one minute so slept on the hostel couch for an hour and arrive in Valencia disoriented and lost, again! But the help of strangers is uncanny and I move into my new room ready for a week of serious studying and a rest from partying…

I miss Barcelona already. After all, my wing is still there.