In the end I went to Barcelona because the tickets were cheap (30euros return) and by that point (in January, when I was planning the trip), I really didn’t feel like spending the rest of my holidays in France. I’m so glad I did, because it was one of the best parts of the trip.

Mambo Tango Hostel

Actually I didn’t do much while in Barcelona: most of the time I slept or sat around the hostel. In truth, I was exhausted; but also the atmosphere in the hostel was good. It was all long term travellers and experienced backpackers (with the exception of the two Canadians I’d met, who were on their first trip out); there was a group of Slovenian skater-boys with their boards, bmxes and video cameras who were always good for a laugh. No Australians. I was glad of this, as, due to it’s reputation and fame, Villa St. Exupery (in Nice) was full of first-time-travellers aged around 18 to 21, who I generally don’t have much in common with, anymore. They did manage to break me out of my solitude and drag me out to bars (which are pretty decent in Barcelona; the only problem being the cigarette smoke); though I drew the line at going dancing. Certainly when I travel, as when I’m at home, I prefer to buy a bottle of something and get quietly and nonsensically drunk at home (or at the hostel bar) amongst good company – I did do this too, with $3AUD bottles of wine, with Kaila, a well-travelled Brazilian.

The atmosphere in the hostel was created and maintained by the hostel’s owners, two lifelong backpackers who decided to turn their house into a hostel. They offer free meals, learn every guest’s name (I was told off for not saying ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Toti in the morning, frequently: people who know me know I tend to pretend I’m not there rather than greet people), organise group walks, and make guests agree to a code that encourages striking conversations with other travellers (It’s all about the ‘Hi, how are you, where are you from?’). It’s the kind of hostel that L’Imbarcadero in Venice desperately wants to be, but actually succeeds: the hostel was full, the atmosphere was great the entire time, and you’re made to feel welcome (instead of a source of cash). However, one complaint: breakfast was Melba toast and sugary conflakes. Nasty.

Mambo Tangoers

Gaudi

Anyway, the original idea of going to Barcelona was to see the works of Gaudi – we studied Gaudi in year 12 Art, for the architecture section. Ever since, I’ve always wanted to see the Sa Grada Familia. If you’ve never heard of Gaudi, well, he lived 1852-1926, he’s one of the world’s most individualistic and brilliant architects, who used the forms, geometrics, and structures of nature in his buildings. There’s not much in modern architecture, for me, that is spectacular; I can appreciate the technical and historical significance of Frank Lloyd Wrights’s buildings, for example, but they still look like concrete boxes: it’s been copied and copied so much that it has lost it’s uniqueness. However, Gaudi is Gaudi and I assure there is nothing like his work anywhere in the world. Gaudi is Barcelona.

So I’ll shut up and show you what I’m talking about:

Park Guell

Astro Boy at Park Guell.

One place is Park Guell – a gorgeous failure in urban development, it was intended to be a walled community for the wealthy, and was a spectacular economic failure. More recently, the local government of Barcelona bought the property and opened it as a public park – they now use part of the premises as a school.

It is magnificient and bizarre, and I loved the place.

Gardens in Park Guell.

Everything has a link to nature, from concrete formed grottos to the curving cieling of the terraces.

Sitting on Park Guell's lizard, very comfortable and adorable.

The lizard is a fountain: he’s gorgeous and so cute. Everyone queued up to get their photos taken. I took extensive photos because I really would like to make a replica at home – I’ve been mosaically inspired by the park.

Another Mambo Tangoer, Brit Darren loves this lizard fountain.

The lizard of Park Guell!

Cieling of the Park Guell terrace.

Notice the ‘natural’ feel of the architecture, and the marvellous mosaics, created from cracked pottery and crockery.

Looking out towards the gates, at the top of the stairs.

Cieling rose made from crushed crockery, magnificent.

Mambo Tangoers rest on the terrace.

The one pink pigeon in the village.

We weren’t sure about this pigeon – whether he was a different breed from the others, or if some fool had caught him and coloured him in. Either way, it was quite funny – though, actually, he was ostracised from the other pigeons, and now I feel sad for it – someone’s ‘harmless’ prank will probably lead to it’s death.

Gaudi's house in Park Guell - not designed by Gaudi, but one of his mates.

Casa Batlo

The Bone house is an apartment building renovated by Gaudi for the Batlo family. It’s absolutely incredible. I hummed and hahed all week about whether or not I could afford the $27AUD entrance fee (! – and that’s the reduced price, too); in the end, I decided I could. It was magnificent inside (though nothing is worth paying such a ridiculous entrance), especially when you consider there are a) no corners, and b) no straight lines in most parts of the building.

The bone-like exterior of Casa Batlo.

The interiors are supposed to represent the sea or the ocean – they give you the same swooping feeling of the ocean without one sign of kitschy fish, marine colours, or boats.

Windows leading into the parlour. The glass is lovely, and changes colour in different lights. Notice, no corners around the doors - each piece was handcarved.

The cieling and chandelier of the parlour, representing a whirlpool.

The handles on the windows were designed in clay to be ergonomic - fitting the handc comfortably.

The back yard patio.

Specially made glass, made to look like you're looking through water, into the central courtyard.

The 'chimneys', covered in crushed crockery mosaics.

More chimneys.

The attic, modelled on the ribcage of a whale.

There is also Casa Pedrera, another famous Gaudi building which I couldn’t afford to enter. The pictures seemed unreal – and apparently it has an amazing roof, where there are more bizarrely sculptural chimneys.

Casa Pedrera, another famous Gaudi building.

Sa Grada Familia

The main event is the pinnacle of Gaudi’s life: the unfinished 120 year old temple, the Sa Grada Familia. Commissioned for a particular group of nuns, Gaudi died before it could be finished: thanks to facism, most of his models and plans were destroyed, so current construction continues along interpretations of Gaudi’s work. The current architect is doing a good job, although he does have his own style. It’s due to be finished in 2025 – fingers crossed – and I can’t wait to return.

I did, again, hum and ha about the entrance fee – unfortunately, there’s not much to see on the inside because of ongoing construction: but I had to go in. The museums and extra areas (which are not clearly signposted, so if you do go, really look around before leaving, to find them) were interesting, but only because I knew a little about the significance of his architectural style – otherwise, most people wouldn’t find entrance worth it.

Sa Grada Familia - with crane.

Nativity facade - the side completed during Gaudi's time. It's intense.

The interior - sweeping tree trunks, leading up to a cieling higher than the Koln Cathedral.

You can’t tell in the photos, but the church is massive. It’s going to be huge. The tallest towers haven’t even been begun yet. Currently, the workers are focusing on the interiors – the immense weight of the towers will be supported by tree like geometric towers.

The forest inside Sa Grada Familia.

Model of the mosaic work on the inside of each tree.

Model showing the geometrics behind the design of the cieling. Gaudi was a leader in using nature and geometry to inspire new building structures.

Model showing the intended final product: only the facade to the lower right and the opposing facade on the other side have been built. The hall, and remaining eight towers have yet to be built.

Scale model of the intended interiors, like a forest. Can you see the tiny people walking around inside? Getting an idea of the scale, yet?

The numerogram, which the new architect has worked into several parts of the building. Every combination adds to 33, the age of Christ when he died.

Light peeking through the scaffolding.

The Passion facade, which is by the new architect.

The newer facade is pretty spectacular, and quite retro: once I learned the idea behind it, it’s actually quite fascinating. What the sculptures represent – in a sweeping S – is the story of the passion, finally finishing in Christ’s ascension – which is represented by a little gold Christ figure sitting happily on a ledge near the top of the towers (see him the above picture, at the top?)

Diagram explaining the Passion facade, stolen from another website. Note: the ascended Christ hadn't been finished when this pick was taken - he's supposed to be about halfway up the two central towers, on a ledge which connects them.

So, I thought that was really clever, even for a non-religioso like me.

Other cool stuff in Barcelona

Okay, quickly now:

There’s a lot of wicked public spaces in Barcelona. For example:

City structures, graffiti and public spaces are cool in Barcelona.

Font Magica, Art museum, in the day.

Space near the train station.

Font Magica at night.

Font Magica.

Font Magica.

Looking down towards the Font Magica.

Font Magica. The light in the distance is the cathedral atop Tibidabo.

Fontain at the base of the art museum.

Atop Mont Juic.

Across the rooftops from the art museum, with the Sagrada Familia in the distance.

Street art on the pavement.

Fruit in the Las Ramblas market.

There is an awesome though touristy market worth seeing, just off the Las Rambla mall – I forget the name but it was something like Boqueria. The fruit is piled up for display, you can buy fruit packs and fruit smoothies for relatively cheap, and see some bizarre foods.

Fruit packs.

Fruit packs.

Chocolates.

Smoothies for $2AUD.

Ex-pat bar's sense of humour.

There’s a lot of foreigners living in Barcelona – I went out with a German and two Canadians, and we somehow ran into a group which included several other Germans, Kiwis and Frenchies. So the ex-pat bars were pretty awesome too. Barcelona has that ‘young but old’ city feel, like Berlin does – less old school architecture, more spirit and street cred.

Great city.

So sadly, I flew home again …

… going via Marseille, and spending the night in Marseille-Provence airport. It’s now halfway through my last 6 week term at Baggio – 3 and a bit weeks to go, before I begin my next big trip (which will be blogged about 2 months after it’s over, going by my usual blogging punctuality record).

I was supposed to be going to Sevilla, southern Spain, for Easter, to join in on the crazy Semana Santa (spell check) celebrations: but, much to my frustration, my passport (currently getting stamped with a Syrian visa – well, hopefully, at least) may not be returned in time – oh well, just $300 in flights flushed down the drain. If I can’t go, I’m going to try to use the flights to make a trip in early July – I’m real keen to see Cordoba and Granada (and the Islamic buildings there – which are apparently awesome and unusual). Madrid, however, has no interest for me.

Thanks for reading, more soon.

Fete de Citrus

Menton is a one hour bus ride (15min train ride; but for four times the cost) from Nice, along the beautiful coastline. It’s incredibly dull and has nothing going for it except as a stopover point on the way to Italy (it’s near the border), and this bizarre festival, the Fete de Citrus.

They take hundreds of thousands of citrus fruits and rubber band them to lame floats and replicas of historical buildings. I didn’t pay to see the ‘historical buildings’ – I could see a windmill in the shape of the Moulin Rouge over the top of the fence, and thought it would be, well, tacky, and instead paid to see the parade, hoping to see more interesting performers.

The theme was Music of the World, represented in lemons and oranges.

Music of the World! Yeah!

The float representing Spanish music. Yep. It's a shoe made from Lemons and Oranges.

How the Lemons are attached.

I just couldn’t bring myself to take more photos of the citrus floats.

Okay, so the parade was good because there were fewer people; however, I knew it was going to be dicey as soon as Isaw the generally grey-haired crowd spilling from tour coaches. So, no surprise I left early.

There were some cool performers, though: mostly Brazilian and South American performers who were noticeably a) cold, and b) underappreciated. One couple of performers enjoyed getting noticeably risque, playing off the disgust of the audience (they were, therefore, my favourites). I took a lot of footage of them, and when I put together my You Tube clips, you’ll get to see some of the best performances. For now, here are some blurry photos.

Gorgeous dancers.

South American dancer, with awesome costume.

Very cool Italian group, which had instruments made from found objects - including this dummy's butt.

One of the more 'risque' performers. I loved her costume, though the grey-haired audience didn't really appreciate it.

The Brazilian dancers - seriously hot, and out of place in Menton.

Native American inspired performers.

Okay, so after escaping France once again, I took a nightmarish bus trip to Barcelona. Where I had a great time. Next entry, coming soon.

Nice Flower Parade

I had to pay $20AUD for entrance to the standing section of the Flower Parade – I came to understand, sort of, why: the traditional parade involves floats full of displays of fresh flowers. At the end of the parade, the flowers are flung to the crowd, and people leave with huge bouquets of fresh flowers.

There were three seperate kinds of parade at the Carnaval, but I came to understand quickly that the performers in each were the same; only some small elements (floats, lights), were different. So after I’d seen the flower parade, and part of the night parade, I didn’t bother with the others.

The costumes were awesome; they were more colourful and fantastical than those in Venice (which were orientated towards themes like the 18th century, masquerade and lions), and were heavily influence by South American carnevales. Let’s just say that, despite the family orientated atmosphere, the imported Brazilian performers looked a little … out of place (and hence, were the highlight of the entire festival).

Here’s the best of the photos I took:

Flower Parade

Flower Parade - one of the Brazilian imports.

Flower Parade

How awesome is this costume?

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade. I really liked these girls, they danced well and seemed more into it than some of the other dancers, who were bored out of their brains.

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Cool monster.

Carnaval Dragon

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Flower Parade

Very cool mermaid costume.

I loved this group of costumes - mad Da Vinci scientists.

Another from the same series.

Dragon dancers. Cool costumes, lame performance.

Gypsy dancers.

I didn’t take many photos at the other parades as they were at nights. I did, however, go to a nearby town for their festival – Menton’s Fete de Citrus, which was blessedly less crowded … see the next entry.

Nice beaches

Nice

… is a nice little resort town on the Cote d’Azur, in Southern France. For a backpacker, it’s absolutely dull, however – there’s not much to see, besides yet another gothic cathedral, yet another old town, and yet another ruined chateau. It has a beautiful blue ocean, dreadful pebbled beaches and nice weather, though, and the bizarre advantage of being within day trip distance to everywhere of interest nearby: Monaco, Cannes, ski slopes in the Southern Alps.

Bizarrely, this is where France’s best hostel is (not a particularly difficult achievement, given the low standard of hostels in France in general), the Villa St. Exupery, which trips over itself to provide services and facilities. After my dreadful time at L’Imbarcadero, it was a nice break.

Stained glass window in the common room at St. Exupery.

St. Exupery used to be a convent or something like that – the chapel has been converted into a bar and net cafe. It seems to be the done thing with hostels these days: old religious rooms used for alcohol consumption.

Different kinds of salt available in the old town of Nice.

The old town is pretty much like the old town in most places. There’s much more of an international feel there than the mono-cultural Lille old town – and some more interesting foodstuffs available. Like different kinds of salts. All of it far too expensive for my poor budget.

Actually, besides accommodation and the occasional bag of groceries, I didn’t spend much money in Nice. Most attractions are free, and as the hostel is too far from the town centre, I cooked and ate there most days.

Top of the chateau, view towards Monaco.

Provence and Cote d’Azur are all very pretty, but a cheap bus ride (1euro) is all it takes to see most of it). Here I am, holding the flowers I caught in the Flower Parade (will say more about that later). It was nice to be in permanent sun once again.

The one ’sight’ worth seeing was Eze – a mountain village. If you go there, I advise not taking the path from Eze-sur-Mer (Eze on the Sea) – it took me a good hour and a half to get down a steep, rough, pebbly, dangerous path that killed my knees. God knows how long it would to go up, and what the physical cost would be. Anyway, Eze is a very cute preserved medieval walled village, ludicrously gorgeous and photogenic. The view from the very top is lovely, as is the garden of cactus and exotic plants.

Eze

Eze

Eze

Eze

Eze

Eze

Eze

I did actually like the statues in the garden the best – terracotta female figures, sloping and elegant.

Decorations for the Carnevale.

So, anyway, I was in Nice for the Carnevale. I had high expectations after the Venice Carnevale, and while it was spectacular, I was a little disappointed. This one was very kid-orientated: cute floats, clowns, that sort of thing. And also, I had to do battle with rude French people to secure good photography spots along the float routes. I was pissed off again and again by tall blokes standing in front of everyone else, parents pushing through crying out ‘les petits! les petits!’ (the little ones, the little ones!) when in reality it was them who wanted a better view, grandmas screaming at me if I leant out to take a photo. By the end I was exhausted of people, and ended up watching the fireworks from the safety (and isolation) of the street near the hostel. I seriously was on a warpath, ready to kill someone by that point. It didn’t help that when I went to buy a train ticket, I was served by a bitchy snot who ignored my French instructions, issued the wrong ticket, then was shitty with me because I pointed out her mistake and made her reissue it. And people wonder why I usually prefer to use vending machines rather than talk to the locals.

Fireworks, seen from the hill.

But, despite the rude French people, the lame-childish orientation, and the banality of the city, the parades and costumes were pretty excellent.

Kids getting their hair Carnivalled.

The performance and street art in France is of an incredibly high standard of art and originality: I have yet to not be floored by some of the amazing things I’ve seen here. The Fringe Festival organisers from back home need to spend a year festival-hopping in France or Europe in general (actually, a lot of good festival street performers come from the Czech Republic). It’s a pity about the arrogance that comes with it.

Above is one of those street performances: two bizarrely dressed hairdressers armed with coloured hairspray and gel, turning children into devils and rock stars. Another performer I saw showed groups of people how to make funky hats out of paper bags. There was also free face painting.

So, I have plenty of photos from the Carnival parades, but I have to put them in a seperate entry, so keep on reading.

18th century … on mescaline

So, yeah, no surprises for my friends back home, my favourite part of the Venice Carnevale was the costumes. They … were … a w e s o m e !

Rich Venetians buy incredibly expensive and magnificient costumes to wear throughout the carnevale. Especially on Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, the crowd was full of bizarre figures, simply strolling and showing off; they were stopped every few minutes by tourists desperate for a photo.

The main event of the Carnevale is a huge costume competition, which draws competitors from around the world. I’d seen several of the competitors strolling the Piazza over the previous few days: it was thrilling to see that one of my favourite costumes won the top prize.

I took so many bloody photos, that I’ve just got to do a gallery page here. I’ll have to say something about my favourites.

Gorgeous little girl throwing round confetti.

I caught a photo with the gorgeous Lion guy.

This is definitely one of my favourite costumes: the guy inside it was very slight and feline, and had the lion movements and snarls down pat. However, he was hounded a lot for photos, and got quite grumpy, turning down people by the third day. Mia (fellow hosteller) and I were lucky enough to catch a photo with him.

Many costumes were inspired by lions, as San Marco’s symbol is the lion.

Here is on stage during the costume competition:

The San Marco Lion guy, strutting his feline stuff.

The other costumes I really took notice of, walking around the piazza, was a group of Germans (as I later found out), who’d worked on a theme of Marco Polo (a famous Venetian) and the Oriental. They were structurally ingenious and gorgeous. To my delight, the group won the top prize.

Marco Polo group: awesome!

One of the Marco Polo group. Her headress was incredible.

There was also Balloon Man – yes, he walked around in a hot air balloon. He won an award also.

One of the winners - Balloon Man.

Balloon man was kind enough to pose with Astro Boy.

Another of my favourites was one of the finalists: the Theatre of Venice lady. Her dress represents the sadly destroyed (and rebuilt) Venice Opera House.

Theatre Lady was kind enough to pose with Astro Boy.

Okay, here’s the best of the several hundred photos I took: I was in heaven with all this marvellous craziness. Have a good look, tell me your favourites.

Venice

… was awesome. The Italians who live in the same house as I do all get glassy eyed and swoon when they think of Venice. It’s a secret beautiful world hidden from the rest of Italy, protected by a shallow lagoon and accessible only by a single road. There are no cars, no bicycles; really, there are no streets, either. Everywhere is accessible only by foot through dark, claustrophobic alleys and stone bridges. The only form of public transport is the vaporettos (boat buses), which is only marginally quicker than walking. It’s deliberately kept dank, dirty and old but magnificent all the same. The place had a feeling that was hard for me to identify at first: it felt like a theme park, a hyper reality, except far more genuine and with more street cred than Disneyland. It felt fake but real, at the same time.

I made a You Tube clip in an attempt to convey what it was like staying in Venice; it doesn’t quite do it, but you get the idea:

About the Per San Marco vid:

In Venice, every street is a dark dank backstreet – yet these are the main thoroughfares though the city. One of the staff at the hostel advised me to forget maps: it’s impossible to navigate Venice with a map, and any other previous visitor will tell you the same. The done thing in Venice is to get lost, after all. Rather, rely on the signs pointing the way to the main attractions: the Rialto bridge, the Accademia bridge, Ferrovia (train station) and Piazza Roma (the bus station), and of course, the centre of everything, Piazza San Marco. Officially, the signs are yellow, with black writing; but often the signs are hand drawn, graffitied, or painted on the walls (probably, I discovered, by irate shopkeepers and residents sick of tourists asking for directions). It was surreal, taking corner after corner, seemingly randomly, completely losing all sense of direction, then going through yet another tunnel and emerging suddenly into the Rialto bridge thoroughfare or into San Marco itself.

L’Imbarcadero

If you’re planning a trip to Venice, read on, but if not, don’t bother with my rant about L’Imbarcadero – just skip to the next section.

I stayed in L’Imbarcadero Hostel, chosen mostly because everywhere else was fully booked, and it was a new hostel (I thought I’d give it a chance). Usually I won’t go on about hostels I stay in, but I was so annoyed by this place that I wrote a 500 word rant about it on this blog (I ended up deleting it) when I left the city.

It was the most expensive accomodation I’ve ever stayed in ($80 AUD a night), understandable due to Carnevale, perhaps, but far too much for the facilities provided. I stayed 7 nights – if I hadn’t paid up front, however, I would have tried to get room at either of the other two hostels on Venice island. My major gripe with the place is the general air of stinginess: internet cost 3euro ($6 AUD) an hour or 10euro ($20AUD) for WiFi for your whole stay. When guests expressed their amazement at the high cost (standard in Europe is 1euro an hour, if it isn’t provided free), the Manager griped about the high cost of everything in Venice, particularly internet access (“You’ll pay 8euros ($16AUD) an hour at an internet cafe, here!” he told us). This argument, of course, is full of it: all the other hostels on Venice island offer free WiFi for guests.

Stinginess extended to the “breakfasts”: stale unidentifiable cereals, no-name-brand Nutella, rice crackers, not enough milk, and ‘Melba’ toast**. In otherwords, a whole lot of cheap, processed carbohydrates. Nothing fresh: even the milk was UHT***. The coffee, though brewed properly***, was nasty (!), and to boil water for tea, we had to use a saucepan (with no handle) or a dangerous tea pot (with no lid). I think they sensed my disapproval over the breakfasts as cornflakes miraculously appeared (and miraculously disappeared as that was all anyone ate). For their credit, one of the staff tried to get creative with the un-eaten-stale-weird-cereal things that nobody was eating and make baked goods, so the random cookies and tart-things were lovely.

The kitchen was barely a kitchen: a sink and a stove top not a kitchen make, at least in a hostel. They desperately need an electric kettle and/or a microwave; cheap items to buy, but eternally useful, especially when the only pots and pans are missing handles, lids and Teflon. You could also get the manager to cook for you – basic risottos for a premium 10euro price each, mind. Compared with the 5,50euro price for a custom made pizza at Villa St. Exupery in Nice, or 4pound steak or hamburger with a glass of wine at Palmer’s Lodge in London (both exceptionally expensive cities), this seemed ridiculous, especially for a hostel meal.

My final gripe is, I’m sorry to say, about the staff. Several mornings, there would be newly arrived guests waiting outside, for the ‘reception’ to open; other guests would be waiting in the kitchen for the ‘breakfast’; other guests would be hanging around, waiting to check out. The staff would be sleeping off the previous night’s party. Those guests who’d stayed long enough to know the deal would get out the breakfast things for the others, open the door for the new guests (‘All the staff are asleep, just come and wait upstairs for them’), and those checking out would just leave their keys and a note and go. Often I came back around 8pm (‘reception’ is supposed to stay open until midnight) and would find the hostel empty, no staff, nobody around.

On behalf of the staff, though, I will say I now think they were working under pressure of the owners. They did try to make the best of things. Gustavo, the manager, is exceptionally friendly, and makes an effort to make guests feel at home (although his manner is abrasive and sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was insulting someone or not). Perhaps, though, he is too inexperienced and too young to be managing a business. Jayme, the baker, seemed aware of the problems with the hostel, but was resigned to staying out of it, in the way that people who are accustomed to working hard do when forced to work under dodgy management (Wilderness Boarding School, hey girls?).

I will also say that I know L’Imbarcadero is going for a friendly, homey atmosphere; this kind of hostel are usually very sociable and great to stay in. They’re usually run by former backpackers, out to spread the love, or by families, who enjoy what they do. But at this one, I was reminded frequently that they were out to take my money: Sure, the manager will cook everyone a lovely dinner, treat you like his friend, and pour you a glass of wine; but you’ll pay 10euros for the privilege. Compare this with Mambo Tango in Barcelona, a hostel run by a young backpacker couple, where they dish out a free meal every three nights, are genuinely friendly, and put effort into the ‘community’ atmosphere****.

I guess that was my main complaint; L’Imbarcadero felt like I was staying at my mate’s sharehouse, with dozens of other squatters, coming and going as I pleased and doing everything myself: except I was paying $80AUD a night for the privilege. If I’d wanted to squat, I would have couchsurfed or stayed with a mate on the mainland: for free.

So ends my gripe about L’Imbarcadero. I had to do it: it was the third worst place I’ve ever stayed in (pretty serious thing to say, given the amount of hostels I’ve stayed at, and considering it’s beaten only by Coco in Okinawa – sleeping on foam mattresses on the floor, grotty showers, and no facilities at all – and the Boomerang in Antwerp – vomit in the sink in the morning, bed bugs, and smelly drunk homeless guy yelling out and farting in his sleep, in the dorm bed next to me) and it is officially the most expensive, more expensive even than my occasional hotel stays (so far the record was $55AUD for a single room in a Berlin hostel, followed by $35AUD for a twin in a Melbourne hotel). Similarly, it was followed by a stay at Villa St. Exupery in Nice, one of the top 10 hostels in the world (16euro a night, by the way), and the aforementioned Mambo Tango.

______________________

* Given I would stay for a week, I agreed to pay the 10euros for WiFi access (though smarting at having to pay the same amount for a week, that I’d normally pay for a month’s access back in Australia). However, they then had the cheek to say that I would have to continue to pay 3euro per hour on the hostels computer! I managed to convince the manager that was unbelievable – he let me use the hostel’s computer, but told me to not tell the owners. I suspect the stinginess is at the instigation of the owners – I won’t be staying in their sister-hostel in Florence, the Five Star Hostel, either.

** Melba Toast is a new level of processed nastiness. When I first arrived in Europe, I was drawn to this item in the supermarkets, because, as most Europeans don’t know, Dame Nellie Melba was an Australian opera singer, and I was curious why a bread product would be named after her (there’s some story about a chef at the London Savoy Hotel called Auguste Escoffier who created it for Dame Melba, who was on a diet). It’s basically toasted bread, processed and packaged. Some brands, like the Van der Meulen product I found in Belgium, make it a gourmet alternative to crackers – most of the time it’s cheap and nasty.

*** Admittedly, fresh milk is a gourmet novelty in Europe (!), so I’ll excuse them for that. And while we can lay claim to fresh milk, the Europeans have us on coffee brewed at home: instant coffee is unheard of here, home perculators, coffee beans and brew pots are common. However, mind, the coffee in Adelaide’s cafes (god I miss Cibo) is far superior to that in most European cafes – except those in Italy, of course.

**** Although the breakfast at Mambo Tango was also Melba Toast and sugared-cornflakes, I will forgive them because it genuinely was a great place to stay.

Ah! Italy. Ah! Venice.

Seriously cool things about Italy:

1. Pizza.

If you avoid the Dominos/Pizza Hut style pizza that is mass marketed to the tourists around San Marco, you can get real Italian style, thin crispy pizza oven style pizza for around 2-3euros a slice. Everytime I walked from San Marco to Accademia or back again, I would stop at Pizzeria San Sovino (in Sestier San Marco) for a slice of whatever pizza it was. It’s the kind of place that has no signs, no advertising, and only a piece of paper with ‘2,50′ to denote the price: yet it was full of Italians everytime I went in.

2. Gelati.

For Adelaideans, the wonder of homemade gelati is well known (Cibo! Gellatisimo! Oh, how I miss you). Here, it was 1euro ($2) for a single scoop, and I was reunited several times with one of my favourite foods of all time: pistachio gelati.

3. Goon in fruitbox containers

I had no bottleopener, no wine glasses, can’t stand alcho-pops, so how I could take some warming alcoholic drink with me on my wanders at night? The answer: goon* in fruit-box sized Tetra-Packs. Hell yes! I felt like a little kid drinking from them, but they did the job: I stayed nice and warm all night while watching the Carnevale shows. And the wine wasn’t bad, either.

4. Frittolle (or fritelles as they’re known outside Venice)

Venetian donuts, flavoured with ricotto or cream, and often with walnuts or fruit. There was a community family event happening in a square near L’Imbarcadero, and for a small donation, they gave out Fritolles and mulled wine. It was wonderful: I ended up becoming a frittolle junkie in the next few days.

Frittolle and mulled wine.

The mulled wine was one of the best I’d had, too.

5. Carnevale!

Absolutely friggin awesome. Talk more about that tomorrow.

Some not so good things about Italy:

1. Graffiti

There’s so much graffiti and generally not nice things everywhere. Every city here isn’t a particularly clean one.

Graffiti in Venice.

What person could graffiti a national treasure like Venice?

2. Clean streets.

Enough said:

Keep Venice Clean.

Okay, so I’m off to another festival (Wazemmes Carnaval in Lille). Have a good one, more tomorrow.

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* For the non-Adelaidean: Goon is cheap wine in Tetra-Packs, or, in Adelaide anyway, in foil bladders, dispensed from a box. It is the staple of the Adelaide bogan.

The ‘Crocus’ holidays have just ended; 16 days of hostelling, cramped Eurolines buses, and living out of my daypack. I had an awesome (and expensive) time, checking out a couple of Carnivals (of the Catholic kind) in a few Mediterranean cities.

I first started planning this trip when I caught sight of pics from the Limoux Carnaval, and began to learn what carnevale actually is: the celebration of excess, building up to Shrove Tuesday (otherwise known as ‘Mardi Gras’, literally  ‘Fat Tuesday’), before the period of fasting and reservation that is Lent (which, of course, culminates in Easter). All of this Catholic tradition is wonderfully new to me (never before have I understood what it meant to be descended from Protestants; and the irony behind the Sydney Mardi Gras).

Didn’t go to the Limoux Carnaval; in the end focused on Nice, apparently the biggest in France. Had the idea of touring around Southern France; by January, though, I’d started becoming less keen on travel in France in general (the expense!!!), and started looking for something else to do. So I decided on Venice, and it’s carnevale; and Barcelona, because the ticket was cheap! In the end, the highlights of my trip were Italy and Spain.

Complicated Transport

In a desperate attempt to save money and avoid using the French train system (which makes me faint with frustration every time I try to use the SCNF website), I did somewhat of a transport juggle; fly with Ryanair from Lille to Marseille, bus from Marseille to Milano, train Milano to Venice and return, bus back to Marseille, train to Nice, and return, bus Marseille to Barcelona, and return, then Ryanair back to Lille. Now I just wish I’d flown to Venice, skipped Nice and southern France entirely, and gone straight to Barcelona and return to Lille: might not have been cheaper, but I would’ve avoided some seriously rough nights on Eurolines buses, and taken a break from France in general.

On the plus side: clear skies and a direct flight path meant I caught sight of something interesting:

Snow covered city ...

Guess the city. Not sure?

I thought that was pretty cool.

Marseille

I was in Marseille purely on transit, but I had anticipated a little sightseeing to occupy the two days I’d be stuck there – I thought I’d get to see what the apparently wonderful south of France was like. That was before I found the luggage store at the trainstation was broken down and had to walk around the city with my pack; I was told off by a toilet assistant for washing my face and drying my hair in the bathroom; and was screamed by a cinema booth attendant because I didn’t understand her French (and she didn’t understand mine). So my Marseille experience wasn’t so overwhelming.

The city is, as I was told, grotty and falling apart; however, the Mediterranean there is lovely, and the Old Port is pretty. There’s only really two real tourist attractions: Chateau d’If, the prison island popularised in The Count of Monte Christo; and the Basilique Notre-Dame de la Garde, a pretty stripey church perched above the city with really lovely interiors. However, I am starting to tire of tourist attractions, and was somewhat bored very quickly in Marseille. On the last day of my trip, I ended up sitting in the local library for six hours, charging my iPod, playing solitaire and reading an Isabel Allende book*.

Marseille did have an extraordinary amount of discount stores: useful since I’d left my toothbrush and razor behind. And the sun was   w e l c o m e   after the grey of Lille; I’d forgotten how nice it was to sit in the sun .

Notre-Dame de la Garde, as seen from the Grand Escalier of the Saint Charles train station.

Saint Charles Grand Escalier (grand staircase).

Old Port - pleasant.

Another church - the city's Byzantinian styled cathedral, which I found more visually interesting than the Basilique.

View of Marseille from Chateau d'If.

Chateau d'If, where the Count of Monte Christo was apparently imprisoned.

View of Marseille from the Basilique Notre Dame de la Garde.

Interior of the Basilique - it's gorgeous, lots of gold mosaique and, slightly bizarrely, little boats hung everywhere.

Scars on the side of the Basilique.

Scars from the liberation of Marseille, 1944.

Sunset over the Basilique.

Night view over the Old Port, towards the Basilique.

Notably, a plus for Marseille: the airport was very nice to sleep in. Armed with 3M earplugs (awesome things: thanks Dad, for those), I had to spend the night there, and was completely safe and interrupted: had the best transport related sleep of the holiday there.

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* On a positive for Marseille, the library is awesome! I sat in the music section: they had more CDs and DVDs for borrowing than all the JB HiFi’s combined. They also had a collection of English-language newspapers, so actually it was the best time I had in Marseille.

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Milano

My Milan experience was brief and I had my pack with me, so I mostly moved on from Milano as soon as I arrived. It’s not a particularly good city for tourism – especially since it is beset with the same scumbag scammers as Paris is, on every corner. I saw the Duomo (pretty, but I don’t think particuarly interesting – the interior was dull) and the Gallerie Vittorio Emmanuelle (the world’s first covered shopping mall), was nice to see, but not really all that different from any other old-school shopping mall (think Regent Arcade/Adelaide Arcade, back home, or the arcades of Brussels, or Melbourne).

Milano Duomo.

World's first shopping mall.

Dome in the Gallerie Vittorio Emmanuelle.

Of course, the main attraction in Milano is one of the best in Italy (and the hardest to get into). I did manage to get a ticket to see da Vinci’s Last Supper, though these days there isn’t much to see, and I had to pay double to go through an agency (to see it you need to make a reservation, and demand far outstrips supply, so travel agents make a fortune buying stacks of reservations months ahead and then sell them for a fee on the internet.) But it was awesome, and I’m glad I made the effort; it really is a masterpiece, and so incredibly bizarre and unlike any other depiction of the Last Supper out there. Dan Brown may be a twat, but he tapped into something really fascinating. I wish I knew more about the symbolism – what’s with the random extra hand? Who does it belong to?

I do wish the organisation that cares for the fresco would provide more information, however, on some of the background and theories about the painting, perhaps presenting current theologic study of it. And I would like to know more about the history of the church and how the fresco survived war (most of the compound – it originally was a convent – was destroyed by WWII. The painting had been protected by sandbagging and a scaffold, but was still damaged by vibration). It was interesting to see how much of the convent was rebuilt and how much was lost: inside the church, bare walls denote the damage, yet some walls and their frescos survived.

Cieling frescos in the Santa Maria del Grazie church, where the Last Supper was painted in the 1400s.

Santa Maria del Grazie again: much of the church was destroyed in WWII, and it is fascinating to see how well they restored it - you can tell by the plasterwork, cutting into masterpieces.

In Milan, too, I twisted my ankle in a pothole, and because of my pack, I fell down spectacularly hard. Not such a strange occurrence, I do that sort of thing every holidays – but what was bizarre was suddenly a man came running out of a shop, a woman came running across the road, and a girl on a bike stopped to see if I was alright. How nice! When you travel in big cities, you do sort of get used to being ignored by everyone, no matter how spectacular you fall down (and lately I fall a lot: since doing in my knee, I’ve been a bit jumpy about trying to suddenly catch my balance and re-popping my knee cap, so I just fall on my arse instead). Actually, the same thing happened in Barcelona: this time I fell because I wasn’t watching where I was going and missed a step, and an old lady helped me up. Perhaps I’ve just been in France too long: all that contempt wouldn’t allow a stranger to step forward and play good samaritan.

Okay, that’s the transit stops: the real deal up next: Venice, Nice and Barcelona. Check back soon.

Viking longboat sculpture.

Reykjavik

With a grand total of 5 hours of sunlight per day, the miserable weather, constant shop closures (due to the New Years public holidays) and the serious lack of anything really exciting to do, I didn’t spend much time in Reykjavik. There wasn’t really anything to buy, do, or see (besides the church, which was covered entirely in scaffolding.) Reykjavik  has a teeny tiny population – 202,000 in the greater metropolitan area, in a country of only around 300,000 people – so the ‘metropolitan’ area is no more built up than Noarlunga Centre.

I didn’t visit any ‘museums’ or ‘tourist attractions’ – I had intended to get to the Saga museum at some point, but there was always something better to do. They didn’t look particularly enlightening (lots of wax dummies and dioramas – cool to see when they’re historical and hundreds of years old, like in the Natural History Museum in New York, not cool when they’re made in the 80’s). Nor did I eat in any restaurants, drink in any bars, and buy from any shops other than souvenir kiosks and supermarkets.

I did walk around a bit, drink duty-free liquor at the hostel, and see the insane fireworks.

Murals in the grey capital.

However, Reykjavik is a pretty cool place – simply because Icelanders are cool people. It’s ludicrously clean, there’s hardly any graffiti, yet the people are quirky, individualist, pierced and dreadlocked. There’s very little of the capitalist angst we in the English-speaking West have. And they have a wicked sense of humour: take a t-shirt I saw, which had a picture of Britain’s PM, Gordon Brown, who recently used anti-terrorism laws in the UK to seize control of the assets and finances of Icelandic banks in England. The slogan reads: ‘Brown is the colour of poo’. Nice.

Speaking of financial meltdowns (and hey, I wouldn’t have been able to go to Iceland without it), the young of Iceland are not particularly fond of their finance ministers at the moment:

Protest over financial mismanagement by the government.

Shouting, screaming, flares and fire crackers. Wicked.

I lie: I did do one touristy thing. I had a Baejarius Beztu Pylsur – Icelandic hotdog, tragically Iceland’s national food. It was bizarrely nasty. Apparently Clinton bought one from this pylsur stand near the docks.

Pylsur!

Sunset lights up the snow capped mountains near Reykjavik.

I suppose the bonus of short days is you always see the sunrise and sunset. However, I actually only saw one (!) due to the cloud cover. Nevertheless it was stunning, and I wish I’d been on the other side of the city to see it.

Street in Reykjavik during sunset.

New Years in Reykjavik

Going to Reykjavik for New Years however, despite the weather, the lack of sunlight and lack of activities, was the best decision I could have ever made. The Icelanders do New Years celebrations properly. Their celebrations begin December 12 with the appearance of the first Yule Lad and end on the 6th of January. Between those times, fireworks begin to gradually appear more and more, with the peak the incredible craziness of New Years Eve.

The Right-Kitchen was the place to be (Germans, Belgians, Espanols, Icelanders, and I think there's a Norwegian or two).

Alice (English, but resident in Russia) and Fawn (China).

The solo travellers of Reykjavik City Hostel all banded together, mixed their vodka, and headed out to the nearby bonfire:

Bonfire near Reykjavik city Hostel.

Close up bonfire.

Kids with sparklers.

Fireworks over the bonfire.

Backpackers playing with sparklers on the Hostel roof.

We headed out to the church (the highest point in the centre of Reykjavik) at about 11:15 – at 11:30 the sky went crazy. The ‘official’ fireworks display was tiny – due to the financial difficulties. However, the insanity that we witnessed – three hours of continuous fireworks madness – came from private purchases all over the city. Seriously, it was a constant bang bang bang for that whole time, building up and then slowly petering out. It continued for the rest of my stay – every night there was someone somewhere setting them off. Apparently more was to come on the 6th (my last day was the 5th). Advice for anyone considering Iceland as a New Years destination: stay until the 6th, if at all possible.

Fireworks over the city.

It was bizarre to stand at the highest point in the city and look across the suburbs, at skies full of fireworks. I will never forget it.

Blue Lagoon and Golden Circle

'Recovery' - Blue Lagoon.

The two main tourist ‘must-do’s’ in Iceland are the Blue Lagoon, a lagoon created by the natural outflow of a geo-thermal power plant and is now a spa-resort, and the Golden Circle, a bus-loop taking you to Gullfoss (Golden Waterfall), Geysir (geysirs, duh) and Thingvellir (national park).

Blue Lagoon is as lovely as they say, only the day I went it was freezing and the wind was moving the water horizontally across the surface. It was terrible conditions – made worse by the obnoxious Australian tourists on holiday from London (why is it we have to export so many bogan racist fuck-heads to London instead of decent educated Australians?) I stayed 40 minutes and left. But the lagoon is bizarre and beautiful – naturally blue, yet surrounded by volcanic rock. Amazing.

Blue Lagoon, power plant in background, and bad weather.

Volcanic landscape surrounding blue lagoon.

Little Geysir

The last day, off I went on the Golden Circle tour, the most sterile and touristic part of the trip (compared with the glacier walk and dog sledding, for sure). Geysir’s the original geyser, and doesn’t do much these days – however, the other hot springs nearby, particularly Strokkur, put on plenty of little shows.

Strokkur, bubbling, ready to go. I took video to show you the eruption.

Seeing Strokkur makes me really keen to go see Old Faithful at Yellow Stone now.

Geysir, now only erupting once or twice a month.

Hot spring overflow.

Strokkur overflow.

Blue wishing pool of Blessi. The silver specks are coins.

I don’t know the history of Blessi, a beautiful pool hot springs, with a cold side pool that is a deep blue. There were a spattering of coins in the pond.

Blessi.

Under the (very very hot) water of Blessi (camera didn't like it); see the disintegrated coins?

Astro Boy at Strokkur.

Colours in the run off from Strokkur.

Gullfoss.

Next was Gullfoss – it was hard to see, due to the fog, but damn what a big waterfall.

Blue wishing stream at Thingvellir.

Thingvellir was the most interesting of the day, I thought – and it was here that I really wished I could’ve come here on my own – we were given only half an hour (due to the fading light) to explore. In the sunlight, the place would be spectacular. It’s the site of Iceland’s first parliament, so it has great historical value. It also sits along the fault line between the North American plate and the European plate – so technically, as you cross the bridge you are going from Europe to America.

The fracture between Europe (right) and America (left).

Volcanic rock formations.

Look closely - can you see the boardwalk ... that is missing a large chunk of boardwalk?

Oh, there's the rest of the boardwalk - swept down the river.

Apparently the boardwalks at Thingvellir have to be repaired every winter – and that is why. A few days earlier, the river had frozen over – in the thaw, the ice took out the boardwalk. Gotta love Iceland.

Ice chunks lay next to the river.

Coming home

First sunlight for eight days!

Coming home, the sunrise from the airplane was incredible. It was the first time I’d seen sun for eight days – seriously! – and I was delighted. Bizarrely, I left ICEland at 8 degrees, and arrived in Paris at -4 degrees. There was snow everywhere. Can’t win.

Condensation, and yellow engine of the Icelandic Air plane.

Snow! Outside Paris, instead of green fields, as you normally see from a plane, there was SNOW everywhere. I didn't see any snow in Iceland.

And where to now?

Well, now it’s six weeks since I came back from Iceland, and now it’s time for the next round of holidays (that abortive attempt to go to London was miserably insufficient to qualify as a holiday). I’ve been nowhere (except to Caro’s for a birthday party) and done nothing much; now, is the time, for some seriously fantastic things to come.

I’m headed to Venice, Nice and Barcelona over the ‘crocus’ holidays; when I return there’s only 6 weeks of work left before I throw in my Lille accommodation, and begin a pilgrimmage to Gallipoli for Anzac Day. From there, I’ve started booking travels through Syria and Jordan, culminating in Cairo. I really don’t know where I’ll go next from there. The idea is to go to Russia and Eastern Europe, ending up somehow at Heathrow by the end of June to come home (but, then, there’s the running of the bulls in Pamplona which would be wicked to go to … and another festival over there … ooh but there’s not enough money or time!) I will be broke when I return, but hey, the dole and Temporary Relief Teaching are profitable enough to get me back on my feet (I hope). The only major problem is I think I’m going to shrivel to nothing if I don’t get some sun soon!

Bye for two weeks.