Maria & Brett's HUGE Trip 06-07-08-09-?

The Obamas come to visit us in Prague

maria_brett — Sun, 5 Apr 2009 20:14:00 GMT

Waking up early this morning we felt something abuzz: 'there's something happening around the corner and we should go an check it out', we thought.

So we walked down the road and bumped into Barack and Michelle Obama...
Not exactly how it happened, but we feel privileged all the same.

The Obamas flew into Prague for a 24 hour dash of meet the Czech President (who has the distinguished honour of representing a country who recently sacked its government), have a gossip with the leaders of the EU states (even more ironic because the Cz Rep currently holds the presidency of the EU) and to chat with 20,000 fans and spectators who turned out on a hazy but bright Sunday morning to hear his message of hope and future change.

Even though we queued from before 7am and stood and waited til he appeared after 10am, we left feeling inspired and that we'd witnessed something great and powerful in the making. This one guy had come to Prague and lifted everyone's spirits by the message that he and his government are going to tackle the nuclear renegades: states and terrorists who put the public at risk and don't play by the rules; and that it's time to get tough on climate change and energy reform.

The fact that he paid homage to a statue of Tomas Masaryk, founding father of (then) Czechoslovakia, which looked over Obama's podium outside Prague Castle - and the diaspora of Czechs living in Obama's Philadelphia / Chicago - touched the crowd by its sentimentality and the way that Obama 'gets it', that he knew the crowd he was addressing and he would not forget the Czech people. They only hope he's true to his word.

Winter ball in Kobyli - deep, deep heart of Czech kul-cha!

maria_brett — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 20:20:00 GMT

So we accepted Ales' invite to trundle down the D1 from Prague to Brno and head to his wee town of 2000 people for the once annual winter ball. Held inside because... well work it out for yourself... too bloody cold in the snow and ice outside, the townfolk and 2 little Aussies dressed up in their Moravian finest (the townfolk did, not the okkers - "what's traditional Aussie?" we asked ourselves? Too chilly for a pair of stubbies and thongs, we excused ourselves by thinking. "If it were summer...." Nope, still wouldn't fly. Sorry, I got nothing? You???).

So back to Kobyli, we knew there'd be a touch of dancing, a bit more drinking, and more than a splash of local colour. But we weren't prepared for the full scale of all three! By night's end we were both paired off with locals for a few spins round the dancefloor (Maria: when it came time for us to dance together, Brett insisted his steps were right and mine were too slow!); I quickly found out that the local boys were plotting to get me absolutely smashed - the vodka chaser with every pint of beer, wine and spirit kind of gave that away!; and the sheer intricate beauty and screams of colour in the locals' costumes simply defied belief. It's one place where being caught staring at a woman's bosom is entirely appropriate and indeed complimentary!

With our fill of the local ingredients we slipped away sometime after 1am, with the party continuing well past 3am. We were invited back to meet Ales' family the following day for a quick hello before returning to Prague, and the whole family was there - thrusting bottles of their homemade wine into our hands, pictures of his siblings from the late 80s all dressed up in traditional garb at other festivals, and a DVD of last year's town "hody" - where the locals parade through the streets giving toasts to their womenfolk and their wine, and take Monday off from work.

We barely scratched under the surface of Kobyli, where the residents are proud to not hail from the big smoke, Prague - or even Brno. This is a sleepy looking town on the surface that you'd drive through in an eyeblink, yet for its 2000 residents there are over 700 private wine cellars - almost 1 per 3 people. That's a lotta cheer!! Guess where we're going this June!

More photos from THE BALL!! http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/15963.aspx

Videos!!!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXkJpHA_Lw4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5lGFSrqXug

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NOQ5X4ETXM

There's blood on the streets: must be Xmas in Cz Rep

maria_brett — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 17:51:00 GMT

Spent our time dodging flying scales and bloody innards from freshly decapitated and debowelled carp on every other street corner; fathers with their kiddies picking out the best Christmas tree to take home to mum, who's no doubt enslaved by the kitchen sink chopping up potatoes (traditional cold potatoe salad mmm!) and further filleting the carp to make carp schnitzel (mmm) for a traditional chrissy dinner - which all happens on the 24th just after "Jezisek" visits (little Jesus) who's obviously santa's little helper (no santa here) because santa can't be everywhere at once.

Welcome to the retail peak of the year - we mean, festive season!

By the way, it's a logistical nightmare for parents, this Jesizek tradition: he arrives after the first star appears in the sky (signalled usually by one of the parents out on the balcony with a lantern or torch, waving it around) then all of a sudden the presents appear under the tree - so the trick is to distract the kids long enough (not by an overnight sleep, as in the west!) to be able to put the pressies under the tree. Ask any kid what jezisek looks like and they'll be stumped, or they'll draw a cloud on a piece of paper, or they'll just smile and say they don't know. Yet the mystery surrounding the christmas visitor is enough to keep kids looking forward to the evening of the 24th... or is it just the promise of more pressies (the bigger day for kids is 5th Dec when St Mikulas comes, and if they've misbehaved they get dragged down to h... best not go there!).

Here, just as in many other countries and places round the world, Christmas week is spent dashing madly round the place buying up gifts and hiding them from loved ones; coming home late-ish after work parties; enjoying the odd indulgent spiced wine or dessert or even a whole slab of cake; and gearing up for some quality time spent with family.

So for those of you who read this, have a very happy festive season and a wonderful 2009. Enjoy your families 'cos we're looking forward to seeing ours in the new year.

Brett and Maria xx

ALL THE PICs here: http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/15011.aspx

C'est la vie à Paris!

maria_brett — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 16:13:00 GMT

With the global economy doing what it is, we jumped on a cheapy SkyEurope flight to Paris to see what mischief we could get up to before budget airlines start packing it in.

Of course that meant being at the airport for a 05:45am check-in followed by an extortionate onboard hot-choccy but no matter because we were strolling through the Orly Sud arrival terminal at a time that most Parisiens were thinking about arriving at their offices - what a way to spend a Friday!

Dumping our bags at the St Martin apartments near gare de l'est (got a great deal: 60 EUR per night for 1-bed apartment for three nights. Wouldn't pay more though!), then saunted down Magenta Blvd in search of another overpriced cafe o-lait (4.20 EURO each!!!) before deciding that our budget limited us to baguette-n-cheese, grocery store style, for the rest of the day. No matter again - we're in f#$%ing Paris and it's quintessentially Parisian all around us: French terraces all of the same height; boulevards with patisseries, boulangeries and of course bistrots every other shopfront with their daily specials and menus on chalkboards out the front, all written with the same French hand it seems. And the people! from every corner of the globe and of every skin colour, but more French than you and I will ever be... One thriving metropolis that just buzzes, day in day out.

The only way to experience the real Paris (we reckon anyway - given our extensive *ahem* experience over 4 days!) is to buy a metro ticket for a little over a euro and just ride the different metro lines. Each of the many hundreds of stations has its own local colour - with vibrant billboards for upcoming local acts, rabbit-warren access tunnels that you walk seemingly miles through to get to connecting lines and platforms, and a new set of people queuing up for the regular trains every couple of minutes, briefcases or shopping bags in hand after a day of toil or retail therapy - everyone going somewhere or about to see someone or moving about the city with regular stresses, hopes and fears, expectations and imaginings. Not everyone in Paris is queuing up for the Eiffel Tower or waiting patiently in line to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre...

So we loved what we saw and heard and smelled (ok maybe not the last bit) in this ever-pumping underground artery system that keeps the real grit of Paris going every day.

And walk and walk we did! Our tip: never buy a 24-hour or 3-day travel pass when you visit a new place (and that includes museum passes!) because you never get the full value out of it. Even though we were on and off metros and buses all day, we still only used the equivalent of half the value of a 24-hour pass - and by the time we spent 4 hours at the fantastic Pompidou centre (museum of contemporary arts) we knew we'd had enough museum hopping for the weekend. Time to chill!

And chill we also did in equal measure. Gathering up a picnic hamper-worthy selection of hams, cheeses and wine from the local weekend markets we headed home for an arvo indulgence in the comfort and heating of our own apartment (why pay x amount per night for accommodation if you never enjoy it!). And all-French television of course. The only country we've visited so far that doesn't have even one foreign station (usually BBC or CNN is our friend!). So we quickly became addicted to America's Most Smartest Model (yep, apparently the double superlative title is INTENDED to be ironic, but something tells us the irony would be lost on the high IQ viewers).

Paris is a city that will open itself up to you in many ways:

you'll never have the same experience twice (we've both been there separately before, and it could have been a completely different city)
you'll never ever ever see it all in a weekend or a week, or more, so you've just gotta pick a few sights (museum, historic, popular) and just go with the flow
each quarter - or arrondissement - has its own history, minorities and local flavour and therefore has its own town feel to it. So choose wisely and go with an open mind - outside the city centre you'll find that it's real life and not glossed over with a heavy tourist brush.
Contrary to the stereotype of the arrogant Frenchman who pretends not to speak your language, you may actually find people who are embarrassed that they don't speak English or another language, and that they genuinely want to communicate with you but feel limited. Very humbling experience, whatever the country you're in.
Go to the supermarkets: buy that 4 euro bottle of red; indulge in that block of cheese and grab that stick of baguette and ask the deli for 100g or so of prosciutto... all the ingredients of a simple but cheap and delicious meal - whatever the time of day!
walk up that quiet alley away from the landmark, go a few more blocks right or left and open the door to that quiet cafe or noisy wine bar. You'll have the best coffee, friendliest encounters and thud in your stomach that you'll never want to leave!
Try anything on the menu that you've never tried or heard of before. After an exhausting day of walking and new sights we were trudging back to our hotel and not in the mood to talk to each other (Maria: ahem...). At 10pm we still hadn't eaten so we walked into the first bistrot we could find (near the gare de l'est station, so our expectations weren't high!) and found THE MOST DEPRESSING SCENE ever. We're talking dreary muzak that'd bring you to blood-infused tears, a downstairs bathroom that hadn't seen the light of day or disinfectant for centuries (and the kitchen keyhole was right next door!) and our sole waiter and fellow diners were like extras out of a road-to-nowhere-roadside diner where no-one's going anywhere and have no lives to go home to. Get the picture?? Well... the 7 euro beef bourguignon was the most delectable thing we'd ever tasted. So French yet SO WELL DONE and tender and full of flavour... and so NOT expected from a place like the one we found ourselves destined to die in. It instantly transformed our mood and made us look into each other's eyes and confess eternal undying love for each other... blah !!!

... but only if you go there with the right balance of wanting to experience something different through a foreigner's eyes with the limited time at your fingertips. Cos you don't want to spend your whole time above ground yet if you're another lemming in the metro underground every day then you're probably not interested in what's sitting metres above you day by day.

Our flight home was late on Monday night but at least we had the novelty of trying to disguise the pungent smelling cheese we'd bought and hid in our carry-ons. We've perfected the art of the "it's not us, what are you looking at us for?" look.

** Check out our sen-bloody-sational photos here: http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/14356.aspx

Gettin' down 'n' dirty in Berlin

maria_brett — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 20:29:00 GMT

What better way to show off the wonderful city of Prague and its beautiful, nice-smelling people (especially at gyms, squash courts and on any public transport vehicle) than by comparing it all with their brethren up the road in Deutschland who... are so ... different? Having the privilege of opening up our home to guests doesn't come along very often, so when it does we relish it - and that's why we got outta town to Berlin when Dan & Rob came for a visit.

So a continental train trip was in order, and therefore enough refreshments to say goodbye to the working week and officially kick-start the weekend with D&R. At least it helped our karaoke skills as we barrelled down the mountain and sought to make international relations with other fare-paying passengers.

Berlin greeted us with a big hug - the kind you get when you arrive at a huge multi-leveled central station after a six-pack of beer and some delicious cab sav from down under. Before too long we were settled in the hotel and pounding the pavement for a late night pizza in some suitably themed mexican cantina with painted senoritas and blokes in cowboy hats on the walls. Jager bombs all round, mister!

Dan set the standard pretty early on as we sat down to a cruisy Saturday morning brekky of lattes and paninis and muffins in a local cafe. "So what do you guys want to see?" we asked the boys. "Is there a G-Star shop in Berlin?" Rob replied. So we paid the nice lady, jumped on a tram and made our way across town - past the Berlin Wall Documentation Centre on Bernauer Strasse (opposite part of the remaining intact sections of the wall) down to the centre of town to the infamous Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe) - like a huge David Jones but bigger and better. Like a bee to honey, Rob wasted no time in locating with G-Star section with pinpoint accuracy...

With the retail therapy bug abated for the time being, we followed our noses up to the 6th floor where we found the most sumptuous gourmet offerings on the planet - well so it seemed at the time. Foodies beware! We strolled past freshly shucked oysters (the shuckers were hard at it!), whole tuna and salmon being filleted on demand for foodies sipping on a crisp sauv blanc, a steak and grill bar pummelling the floor with whiff after whiff of mouth watering smells, a pasta bar with the freshest parcels of ravioli just waiting to be cooked up, a seafood bar with a queue out the door, and.... a coffee bar with the aroma of something that was just too good to be true. So we stretched our 2.50 euros and enjoyed a latte while we ogled and salivated at what was going on around us.

With bellies warmed up by tastebuds that wouldn't take no for an answer, our mission that night was to head out in Prenzlauer Berg area (north-east Berlin) for a nice meal and a load of laughs. The laughs wouldn't be a problem, but we felt a little daunted at the task of finding a rare gem in this bustling city of thousands of taste-tempting eateries offering delicious menus from all over the globe, this international city being as eclectic and magnetic as it is. Oh well, we thought, let's just head out and see what we find.

It didn't take long before we stopped in front of one place and stood there peering in through the window, speechless. Not that the couple we were staring at minded at all. In front of them were two steaming bowls of tender pieces of beef and lamb, each sitting in pools of the most deliciously thickly curried sauces - and garnished by simply stunning arrangements of vegetables that had been painstakingly carved to form swans or or some other birds that were about to fly through the window and nip off our noses for being so nosey... Well it worked. We didn't dare look at the prices as we strolled through the already packed restaurant, gorgeous thai waitresses flitting in between tables carrying ever more of these steamy dishes that were doing more to our sense of smell than our watering palates could handle.

We were told by one of these smiling waitresses that unfortunately the restaurant was full that night (cue: collective sigh - awwww), but that if we wanted to wait 5 minutes she would be happy to show us to the bar, where she offered to take our coats. Before we turned around again there were 4 cocktails sitting on the bar in front of us: surely this isn't intended as punishment for not making a reservation, we thought. And then devised a scam where we'd crawl through Berlin from packed restaurant to packed restaurant getting loaded up on free cocktails before moving to the next... "Your table is ready", she urged us, as we snapped out of our collective scheme and followed her to our table surrounded by a throng of other guests devouring heady dishes and washing it all down with cool whites or spicy reds - but leaving the intricately carved feathered things untouched as a sign of respect to the apprentice's skill or just not knowing where the hell to start or what to do with it.

'Goodtime' was unanimously voted as THE best thai restaurant on the planet - or at least in Berlin, or anyway at least for all 4 of us on that night. It set the bar extremely high and we reckon you should just book a flight and challenge your senses - just DON'T book ahead: http://goodtime-berlin.de/goodtime_main.html

The rest of the weekend's antics just can't compare, though they're definitely worth a mention for their randomness:

(1) Maria and Dan rewriting the history of the Brandenburg Gate as the place where a KaDeWe bag with unspecified items inside withstood the force of Maria's hand in a retaliatory blow to Dan's cheek (in more ways than one!)

(2)Dan turning his nose up at just about everything:

(3) D&R not missing any opportunity to pose for the camera, regardless of the where and the when:

So it was all over far, far to soon when we boarded the Prague-bound train after a weekend of fab food, fab fun and we can't forget to mention a fab bike ride round the city that offers Praguers a fab opportunity to showcase what they've got - if you know what we mean :)

We miss you Dan and Rob! Come back for a visit anytime.

See our gallery for the rest of our photos: http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/14321.aspx

San Marino MotoGP - one year on!

maria_brett — Tue, 9 Sep 2008 20:07:00 GMT

How quickly does a year go! We returned to Italy at the end of August for the 2nd San Marino MotoGP - which happened to fall on the same day as my b'day (could celebrate it in worse ways!).

True to form, Italy again served up delicious meal after meal (I'm homesick for the food already!) soaked in Adriatic olive oil and complemented by home grown chillies and wine, and bathed us all in balmy sunshine and 35-degree blue skies.

I was expecting a carbon copy of last year (you know, same hotels, same circuit etc) but we enjoyed a different race result - this time it was Casey Stoner who crashed out and allowed Valentino Rossi to take the checkered flag, a complete role reversal from last year - and instead of visiting the Ducati factory (closed for summer break!) we took a drive up to the Most Serene Republic of San Marino (real name) which gives its namesake to the San Marino MotoGP which actually takes place down the road in Italy.

San Marino is perched high up on a rocky crag which overlooks the coastline as if keeping an eye on the happenings down below. Although it was settled by an outlawed Croatian stonemason and his 'mate' in 300AD or so, its humble beginnings have given rise to one of the wealthiest nations - no doubt due to its tax-free status (bargains galore) and gorgeous narrow streets lined by old-style villas and state buildings - all of which now sprout a boutique shop or cafe or even a place where you can buy guns or cross-bows or AK-47 replicas... mental!

Of course I saw it all through a clouded zambucca-induced haze from b'day celebrations the night before, after the GP race. All thanks to a couple of aussie cousins from Perth who now work in mines in Karratha WA - who thought it would be a good idea to not only buy me a drink over dinner but a whole bottle of the stuff which tasted just oh-so good! Thankfully I was lucky to have shared the night and the bottle with a whole bunch of wonderful people we'd just met over the GP weekend: a newly-wed couple, Steve and Annie from Las Vegas, who are now on our map of must-visit friends across the world; a couple of Scottish lads who took rooms in the schmickest 5* hotel in town (lamborghinis and Rolls' out the front) and spent the whole weekend paying off the hotel staff to play tricks on each other - including emptying out the other's room of all his stuff while he took a shower so he'd have to come down to reception in a bathrobe. The staff made a fortune in 50 EUR bribes...

By the time we boarded our pane back to Prague on Monday night at 9pm we were walking zombies but full of that post-GP glow which you only get after being a part of the highest-level of motorcycle racing, all in a place and with other people that you can't experience every other day.

PS, check out this video of Eugene Laverty breaking in his leathers Irish-style (and look out for British GP winner, Scott Redding) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKQ6rMWYKDw

Our photos: http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/12943.aspx

A short return to Zadar, Croatia

maria_brett — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 20:33:00 GMT

Wanting to escape a poor Prague summer, Brett and I headed for the pristine waters of Zadar, Croatia for 10 days. Zadar is my home away from home but this time it was even better as my parents and cousin Klaudia were going to be there to greet us.

I hadn’t seen my parents for 6 months and even though I knew it wouldn’t take long for dad to get on my nerves – I was very excited!

I’ve always had mixed feelings going back to Zadar. I don’t know whether it’s the short fuse of the people (živčani), the respect for women and the great public transport (note sarcasm), the thousands of tourists (was there a special airfare from Australia this year?) that pack the streets, the old grannies (Babé) spotting you from 100 metres away and shouting at/ordering you to buy their home-grown produce… and don’t even get me started on the subject of customer service.

Having experienced the above on more than one visit, in addition to the frenzy that comes along with being obligated to visit every relative known to man, Klaudia, Brett and I made sure this time things were going to be different. And they were. The secret – pretend you’re a local and just go with the flow!

Zadar’s history and surroundings are breathtakingly beautiful and if the opportunity comes up to get your butt there, take it. However, go on the off season and perhaps take a friend to keep you sane (Klauds – bring on 2010!).

To sum it up, the highlights:

- The sunsets from the Kolovare

- Walking along the Riva and sitting by the sea organ

- The aesthetic history of the city – over 3000 years old

- Hiring a scooter and exploring the surrounding islands

- Catching up with my wonderful cousins

- Finding a gastronomic jewel, Kaleta, on the island Preko

- Not giving a #$%&! and being able to experience the real Croatia

Btw – it took my dad 4 days, a record.

Maria

The Absinthe Tour of Cyprus

maria_brett — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 18:54:00 GMT

(See our photos here: http://journals.worldnomads.com/maria_brett/gallery/11201.aspx )

What to do with a week of your life and a visit from your good mate from Oz? You activate your Out of Office reply on your work emails and head off to sunny, dusty Cyprus. Tim stopped by our humble place in Prague on his whirlwind bachelor tour of Europe - not a bad destination for a young man full of sprite and enough charm to get your grandmother into... a lot of trouble! I was just stoked to have him here, to share a piece of our little world, and to have a part of back-home with us for a wee bit.

So it was off to Cyprus for a bit of action, dust, history and good ol' kul-cha! What did we know before getting there? Not a lot: it's a small island which is governed by two countries (Cyprus on the south and Turkey on the north, with only the Greek-influenced southern side in the EU); it's a small island (did we mention that already?) and a popular tennis player by the name of Marcos Baghdatis calls this place home.

We couldn't leave Prague without stocking up our duty free supplies, clinking our way onto the midnight flight with absinthe, baileys, cigars and a wee dram of Czech slivovice (like rakija or grappa). Ouch. And this was all just to help us to cope with the 3:30am arrival in Larnaca!

Picking up our rented 4WD at 4 in the morning, there was something not quite right about the grittiness under my bum, on my fingertips, and the mysterious but pungent odour emanating out of the seat covers: it was dust, dust and sweat. Lots of it. Thinking we'd been ripped off, it wasn't til we woke up in the bright heat the next morning that we realised this place is defined by the dust and you just invite it into your heart unconditionally - or else risk making an enemy out of it.

We quickly found our groove, shirking the main highway and heading up into the hills on our road to nowhere - actually, to Lefkara, a small village known for its traditional lace. And we were in search of a good feed and some cool beers. We got it all: old women who would try every trick in the book to make us buy something we really didn't need ("something for your mama's cousin's gardener, perhaps?"); a crock-pot of spiced lamb and couscous (yum! after months of no lamb in Prague); and MONSTER beers, the good old Big Bot served in its full glory to the table with a shot glass-sized tumbler to wash it all down civilly. Welcome to Cyprus!

Winding our way down towards the coast, we stopped by Choirokoitia to walk amongst neolithic-age ruins (up to 7000+ BC!! Crazy!), before winding our way into Lemesos on the southern tip - part fortress town; other part modern metropolis buzzing with youngsters josting for a seat at outdoor bars to watch the finals of the 2008 Eurovision Song Contest on huge outdoor TV screens (the cafes all playing the game "Mine's bigger than yours!" - well it worked for us). As we downed ouzo-on-ice and watched young blokes fly past us on latest model sportsbikes without helmets or other protective gear, we definitely had the feeling this was a unique place on earth: a cosmopolitan island in europe.

Our trusty 4wd seemed to know exactly where to take us: first to the southernmost tip which hosts a 'monastery for cats' (Agios Nikolaos), where furry friends seemed to laze around unthreatened by caretakers shooing them away. Continuing along the salt pan which oozes with life at other times of the year we called in at Kourion - a site of worship from as far back as 6000BC which was prominent during the Greco-Roman times. This place with its ruins of forums, stadiums, baths, houses, laneways, columns and private houses sits atop some pretty dominating cliffs that stare almost all the way to Egypt - and you could imagine the Egyptians cruising past 3000 years ago wondering whether to stop in for a bit of Egyptian diplomacy.

Cyprus seems to remind you all the time of its long-chequered past. Almost everyone's been here and called this place their own, most of it by force: we're talking Greeks, Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, early English, Venetians and Ottomans. More recently the Brits came back and set up military bases here and there (bringing English Brekky tea and driving-on-the-left which still exists), and the Turks got a piece of the action when they decided to occupy the northern half in 1974.

Pafos took us in for a couple of nights while we set out on day trips and explored the huge archaeological parks that seem to creep up on the town from all directions and threaten to swallow up the Pommy bars, tattoo parlours and scooter rental shops. We were blown away by the Tombs of the Kings - built entirely into bedrock right by the seaside - talk about prime location.

Looking at the map of Cyprus we spotted a road that hugged the rugged shoreline in the northwest, all the way up into the Akamas peninsular. Thinking it would make for a cruisy arvo drive we set off the next day in search for a lunch spot, a swim and some chilled sea vibes. What we got instead was a free spinal shake-down worthy of a theme park and enough dust in every orifice to allow customs officers to question us about illegally exporting natural resources. We will never trust a Cypriot map again! We were a-bumping and a-grinding through some of the most desolate and no-man's-land terrain we'd ever seen, and we reckon our 4wd's shocks hadn't been changed in years. What looked like 45 minutes on paper probably took us about 3 hours and a lot of frayed tempers.

However.... the scenery from no-man's-land was in some places breathtaking (because we were chocking from the dust), calling into Lara beach for a well earned swim and snooze - not before negotiating a track that had been overcome by grazing goats. This is where we really let the Med soak our bodies clean from all the grit, and it was pure bliss to stretch out on a bench under a thatched hut and just snooze off with the sound of the sea calling from distant parts of Asia.

The worst of the bumpies behind us, we couldn't resist pulling off the track at Avakas Gorge, and luckily we had a geomorphologist with us (Tim) who was able to explain the behaviour of the river which, once a trickle, turned deadly as it carved layer upon layer out of the soft layers of rocks. As we trekked and scrambled our way up through the cool and moist gorge we were seemingly miles from the dusty scrub that had tortured us earlier. We only had to dodge the falling rocks set loose from the wild mountain goats above us... cheeky buggers!

Our fling with the Republic of Cyprus was coming to an end and it was time to point the 4wd north through the Troodos mountain range and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus in the north.

The mountains took Cyprus to a whole new level: thick Cyprus pines, gorgeous wildflowers that we'd not seen down by the sea, winding roads through the greenery that lulled us into a dreamy mountainous vibe - must be all that fresh air! Drunk with all of this we thought it'd be cool to stake out a 11th c. monastery in the hills that houses some amazing frescoes. We wound our way through mountain-perched villages and around narrow windy bends until we crossed a river where the sign pointed out the way to "Agios Ioannis Lampadistis". We arrived too late in the day to expect any kind of civil welcome, but bugger that - we've come too far for niceties - so we asked the first girl we saw (sitting in the rosegarden tapping away on her laptop, hmmmm) if we could take a peek inside. "I'll see if I can find the keys" she said with a well-educated euro-english accent, returning after a few minutes with the priest's keys and opened up the church.

Moving aside huge sheets of protective plastic hanging from scaffolding to reveal vast panels of ancient frescoes, she explained that the church and its frescoes were undergoing restoration by a team of academics, scientists and artists - basically anyone who has an educated interest in winding back centuries from the clock and all the damage over time: some crusaders had even gouged the eyes from some of the icons and left the rest of the frescoes untouched. We felt like we had crept inside someone's house and they were due home any minute. After a very generous amount of her time (she had been working on the restoration all day and it was now quite late) we thanked her and left the volunteers to catch up on their Facebook or write emails home to mum. Bizarre.

We shacked up in a mountain village called Pedoulas and had only one request: we wanted to try the multi-course meal called mezze. So when we asked the owner (who we supected owned the whole street)how much it was, he said "no problem, you enjoy it tonight - you see". Yeah, but how much? "I also give you homemade wine, no problem". Yeah, but we don't want you to rip us off, you hear? "What time you like? Eight o'clock? Ok". Arrrgh!!! ....

So we cleaned up and came downstairs where several little plates greeted us: olives, cheeses, hommus, dips, breads, more cheese, little meaty things, some fish, chips (mmm!) then large plates of meats (pork, chicken, more fish, lamb, beef - all marinated or curried or bbq'd)... it was just one endless procession of torture by the end of it. Thank god we'd ordered some ouzo to help it digest!!! The local wine was pleasant but not memorable apart from the fact we sculled it at the end to finish off the meal - and then passed out for the night.

Maria was violently sick the next day - I reckon it was the WILD CHERRIES she ate from a roadside tree, she reckons it was the water from the taps. We'll never know; but we'll also never forget how sick she was. All through the day (we were on the move again in the 4WD) and into the following night AND next day, she was sick, sick, sick. Ask her what she remembers about it and she'll be able to describe different ceilings in intimate detail, passing from one place to the next.

In that time we hit up the capital, Lefkosia/Nicosia, but on the northern or Turkish side. Taking a couple of trips in the daytime we climbed the ancient fort at Keryneia (Agios Ilarion) and had a gorgeous last supper at the benedictine Belapais Abbey which sits atop a mountain range above the coast. What I remember most about the north is the constant reminder that you're in a part of Turkey (Turkish flags proudly flying everywhere, even a giant version is cut into a mountainside, possibly a km long); with this came tasty foods, spices, loads of barber shops, men walking the streets everywhere or playing backgammon on the footpaths, smoking, people taking their tea on chairs outside their shops, cars that were either left- or right-hand drive (shipped over from mainland Turkey vs driven across from EU Cyprus), and most of all the friendliness of people we met.

We could have easily stayed another few weeks to soak up more of this tiny place of which we only scratched the surface.

Motorbike trip around Ireland for charity

maria_brett — Sun, 4 May 2008 20:12:00 GMT

Maria: Back in November last year we had the pleasure of meeting Aidan and Noel from Ireland at the Valencia MotoGP. Not only did the guys (a) get me drunk before having to meet Brett for dinner, (b) raise a lot of money for Down Syndrome Ireland (DSI), and (c) drink the hotel bar dry (I guess you wouldn’t expect anything less from a couple of lads from the emerald isle!), but they also invited Brett and me along for the annual DSI 1000km ride around Ireland in May. Before we knew it May had arrived and all we can say is that we had an absolute craic!

Brett: Ok, so I was attending on behalf of my company as we had donated the major prize for the weekend and riders who raised over 3000 EUR were in the running, but it wasn't all work.

We managed to sneak away to Dublin for a couple of days before the ride began, to hang out with some of our friends from our TESOL teaching course that we did in Sydney. Citizens of the world, Majella and Alys are known to us as Global Professional Housesitters and it was only pure luck that we met them on a stint in Sydney as they prepared to head to Canada (for a spot of teaching and IT work) and then onto Ireland.

Hugs all round as we said goodbye and donned leather suits (well, I did) and headed off the next day to meet a bunch of burly blokes at Joe Duffy's 2-storey BMW shop to pick out our bikes for the weekend. Talk about kids in a candy shop on Christmas Eve - Paddy style!!! One by one, 8 of the men (most of them marshals for the weekend) were handed the keys to beautiful BMW bikes that would be their ride for the weekend. Let's see how much rubber's left by the end of it!

Maria: What happened next was one of the highlights of the trip for me - it took all of two seconds for Brett to appear at Joe Duffy's before the scream (Nice one Dayglo) "look at the yellow power ranger" rang out across the showroom. Poor Brett was now stuck with the power ranger nickname for the rest of the trip. It was hilarious! Ahhh the quick wit of the Irish.

We were lucky enough to be given a BMW 1200 RT for the weekend thanks to the never ending generosity of Aidan and Joe Duffy's. I personally would've preferred a Ducati (next year Aidan?!) but I guess beggars can't be choosers! ;) I must add however, that as a pillion the BMW was bliss. Comfortable..ahem..heated seats, side handles and a back rest. All that was missing was the espresso machine. Some might say that we should've just hired a car but by the way Brett was riding I can tell you it felt like I was on the back of a Suzuki 1000 GSXR!

Over the course of the weekend I began to understand the passion these guys have for their bikes. It's such an exhilarating feeling that can't be matched and to do it for a great cause makes it that much better.

For anyone out there contemplating a bike trip - DO IT! It's a great way to see a country (or countries) and to meet its people. The DSI run 08 will stay with me for a very long time not only for the ride but for the amazingly wonderful people we befriended.

A big thank you to Aidan for organising such a memorable weekend and to Noel and Gemma for welcoming us into their home.

Brett: I was especially keen to get to ride around Ireland on this trip. Not only would we get the chance to ride through some of the most spectacular scenery on stretches of road (and a lot of twisty bits!) that you could only dream about, but we were privileged to be in such good company of charitable souls who just love their motorcycling to bits.

Of all the riding that I did in Australia the most memorable part of it was the camaraderie. This is by no means unique to Australia, but transplanted in countries all over the world. I just knew it would be special to be part of the Irish riding community for just a weekend. And the Irish invented what’s known around the world as road racing – where races take place on real roads that are closed for the weekend, not in specially designed private circuits.

So it was a tragic blow to the whole Irish road racing community – and to the group I was riding with – when we learned that racer Martin Finnegan (#45) was killed in a road race at Tandragee at the same time that we were riding along the coast nearby. His bike had seized, throwing him off into the crowd. Although the mood was dampened when we all pulled in for drinks that night, it changed to one of solidarity 2 days later when we joined the 80km procession which followed the hearse that took his body from Armagh (north-east coast, Northern Ireland) to his parents’ home in Lusk, north Dublin. Riding 2-abreast and escorted by motorcycle gardai (police), the column of bikes stretched back over 8km as we traveled at speeds of about 80km/h. You can’t imagine the number of bikes that turned out to commemorate Martin’s achievements – or simply to try and come to terms with his passing.

We were also privileged to meet Robert Dunlop on this trip – brother of race champion, the late Joey Dunlop. Here's a video of us arriving in huge numbers with police escort: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jumohE6Rv5Q

However two weeks after we shook his hand and felt the genuine modesty radiating from his wide-grinned smile at his late-brother’s “Joey’s Bar” at Ballymoney, he too was killed in a spookily similar way.

Clip from BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/motorsport/motorbikes/7405075.stm

It was a serious reminder about the risks involved in road racing – but you can’t take away from these guys how much passion they have for the sport. We certainly felt this when we got off our bikes after flying through some twisties with Dermott and Arthur, putting the BMWs through their paces in supersport conditions in the far north-west of the Republic on some amaaaazing country roads. Dermott summed it up as we gathered in the bar for 3 pints of Guinness, one after the other – with the same pace we’d had on the bikes that afternoon: “that was quite possible the best ride I’ve had – in over 25 years of motorcycling”.

It was hard to hang up the leathers, say good bye to our newfound friends and return to Prague – and work – the next day.

We’ll be back.

Why does Scandinavia get it right?

maria_brett — Tue, 8 Apr 2008 14:54:00 GMT

Is it their high cheekbones or obsession with a funky, modern monarchy? Or is it the dry salted fish that improves their diet and overall wellbeing? Or perhaps their penchant for clean, tidy, modern orderliness, as embodied by little-known lifestyle brand 'Ikea'? Or maybe it's their refined civilisation, honed and honed after all the years breeding vikings and then defending their tiny civilisations against the Brits and each other?

We reckon it's because they're all so good looking, they've made bicycling a sexy sport (and practical way of getting round town) and they know how to make a caffe latte to please the soul. That's gotta be it: the latte-o-meter. If we could judge euro countries against each other, Denmark and Zurich would come out on top (see our other report on Zurich: although Zurich's only a city, it deserves to stand up against other countries). To give you something to compare against, it's pretty hard to find a good latte in Prague, and if you ride a bicycle round the streets here you might as well wear a neon target on your back for all the homicidal drivers!

Our trip to Denmark started on a whim (Maria found a cheap airfare) and ended with a reunion worthy of Oprah. Connecting 'Denmark' with a distant memory of an exchange student that stayed with us (the Murphy's) back in 1990, when I was about 10 years old, instantly led us down a path of global private investigations. Stefan spent 10 months with us as a 15 year old, and I recalled him to be very shy but very happy. where is he now, and what is he up to?

We quickly rang mum who had the phone number of his family from 1990. No email address. (It was pre-internet when he was in Oz!). Well, it's worth a shot - we rang the number and his Dad answered on the third ring, telling us that Stefan was in South American climbing some mountains! Jeezus! Cut to the chase: we made it to Copenhagen, met Stefan and had a wonderful, wonderful time both catching up on 17 years and also getting to know this city that is modest in size but big on colour, smiles and just civilised living - and a gorgeous canal network modelled on Amsterdam.

Stefan was the perfect host, driving us up and down the coast to get a feel of Denmark outside the big city, and to some castles and fortresses that reminded us of the history of a country that has always had to look over its shoulder, yet remain happy with itself and its people.

After hugs all round, several dinners and coffees and of course Danish beers, we said our goodbyes and vowed to return: although it was early April it was cold enough to be winter. Spring was just around the corner and we could just feel the life starting to emerge from a long Scandinavian hibernation.

It was such a beautiful city to explore, but so inspiring to meet up with Stefan again after 17 years. I recalled how I used to tell people he was like my new brother. He still is!

Budapest: dental makeover capital of eastern europe

maria_brett — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 21:06:00 GMT

If Prague is popular for women (and possibly men?) wanting a cheap boob job, why is it that Budapest is the Prague of dental jobs? Any googler looking to have their crowns tipped or canals rooted might find comfort in such places as the Fortuna Hotel which offers not only breakfast as a standard inclusion but also a composite filling or even a "Cast Partial Upper Or Lower (complete with teeth)". One would hope so!

So we skipped all that, dodged all the neon signs that lured us into the web of unknown 24hour dental delights, and cut to the chase: we had only 36 hours in Budapest.

It started with a free weekend (rare these days), continued with a train timetable and a hint of nostalgia for a great trans-european overnight trip. Instead of hitting the pubs in Prague after work on Friday we darted to the squash court for our thrice-weekly fix (Maria: 2 games, Brett: 47 (ahem, i think it's the other way around Brett!)) before tram-hopping to the main station for our 10pm departure. By the skin of our teeth we made it (and those of you who know "Brett and Maria Time" are laughing right now (ahem...Brett time. I told you we should've taken the metro Brett ;) )) but wasn't helped by the fact that half the station had been ripped up under construction and the signs to platform 5 led us up onto platform 2 with nowhere else to go. Go figure!

So we found our couchette compartment and were gobsmacked to find that we'd checked-in to a moving 3-star hotel, complete with a multi-lingual concierge who fastidiously made our beds and ensured our handtowels were folded just neatly over the basin racks and advised us that he'd wake us up half an hour before arriving into Budapest in the morning - with our breakfast, if we'd care to fill out the menu now...

So the breakfast was a pre-packed nutella-filled croissant accompanied by an equally pre-packed deep-fried salami stick (Brett was in brekky heaven and Maria in brekky hell!) but the coffee and tea were just what we needed and the service was first class.

And we hit the streets of Budapest at 7:30 in the morning!

By the time lunch had rolled around, we'd induldged in some gourmet food shopping at the markets (actually, thick Hungarian salami that would stink out our cabin on the way home!! Actually, that was Brett's beer burps); walked over one of the spectacular bridges that span the wide expanse of water that is the Danube (or 'Duna' in local lingo - which reminds me: which idiot had the ludicrous thought last year of canoeing from source in Passau to the sea in Moldova?!(That would be you Brett dear) Thank God that was canned!); then onwards up the "Pest" side of the river via a tram to some random stop; up the hill to the castle overlooking the "Buda" side (wow, what a view fit for a king or queen!); nearly wind-blown OFF the castle-top across the other side of the river - but instead we had our boots of lead on and took the underground instead (thank God we got the trams and buses without inspectors up to here, because we'd not been able to find a working ticket machine that DIDN'T swallow up our cash).

Take a breath...

... then on to St Steven's cathedral which, although we found it instantly spectacular or distinct from the other thousands of similar-looking cathedrals in Europe for the reason that it had reams of gorgeous blood-red marble blocks and gold-gilded ornaments lining its interior, we were also like the other mortal souls who wanted to see a real human hand that had been cut off and put on display for hundreds of years.

And by this time it was... only 1pm!

So a snooze was in order back at our fantastic last minute hotel find after all those miles (and something to do with a rickety train trip), and of course you have to test the comfy-ness of the bed, so into a deep sleep we went....

... until the night-time Budapest (and stomach rumblings!) lured us out again.

Have you ever visited a place and then tried to recall all your romanticised pictures of that place before you got there? Apart from being a city on a river, I pictured Budapest to be a slow-paced, grand old-buildinged metropolis where brown and reds would be the order of the day, goulashes were being dished out left, right and centre, and spas and thermal centres were dotted here and there - oh and a little bit 'disinfected' as a thriving tourist centre. I even had my "Prague eyes" on: where you expect that other places in the region just don't cut it compared to where you live.

Well, strike it all out and replace it with a down-to-earth, modern, funky, friendly place to rival Prague. Closer to the Dead Sea than most other European capitals, we felt like we were more connected to the West - or something modern and Now - than in Prague where it's only a stone's throw away from Germany. The locals seemed more comfortable in their own skin (even when parading around naked under their thermal=spa gowns!) or is such a short trip too brief to scratch under the enamel and get to the veneer?

Take Menza, for example. Stepping into this packed-out restaurant we knew we were in for something special when we were told we had to wait at least half an hour for a table. Making a bee-line to the bar was a tricky affair dodging the waiters as they criss-crossed the room under the sharp watchful eye of the maitre d', all of them dressed schmickly in waistcoats and matching funky runners - and they bloody smiled as though they were enjoying themselves and were happy to have you there.

We won't recreate the sumputous meal course-by-course but let's say this neo-70s restaurant, where we expected James Bond to walk into at any moment, had the best soup and most mouth-watering boar goulash (with blueberry sauce, yum!, with more than the standard 'three pieces of meat only' that are served at other ahem places in Central Europe. Brett: I've actually sworn off goulash until I return to that same place! Maria: Thank God for Menza!) was a more than memorable discovery in Budapest. And did we mention how cheap it was?

Sunday - or our 'last day' in Budapest - greeted us with a kiss of blue sky, but not before we took part in a buffet breakfast to end all brekkies. Gotta love last-minute value!

Our goal was to traipse along the grand Andrassy avenue (picture: long, straight, tree lined, dramatic old manor houses) towards Heroes' Park, stopping in to some of the old metro stations that follow the avenue underground. At the grand centrepiece (obelisk guarded with bronzed horses etc) we laughed at a kitschy music-clip being filmed, before heading into the park for a wee-wander. Spring was here, as hundreds of families and people of all ages and walks of life did whatever they wanted to enjoy the first gorgeous weather of the year, even though all the trees in the park looked as bleak as a lunar landscape without their new leaves.

Peeking in at the outdoor thermal bathhouse we saw a picture of summer activity, with suntanners, swimmers and of course the oldies taking a stroll around the perimeter. Opposite, the zoo was back in fashion with a queue down the street almost stopping traffic. We were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the elephants and Hippos as they backed onto the street. Back in the park, the edge of the lake (which probably didn't even freeze over during winter) was swarming with fisherfolk (what on earth would you catch in there, apart from a stomache bug?!), with preztel sellers peddling their wares (of course accompanied by the dodgiest of "pop" music blaring from gaudy mini stereos).

Our day was nearly at an end, but not before wandering back into town to discover that shops were actually closed on Sundays - even in Budapest (probably the reason for all the activity at the park!). Looking at a map to see where we were, an odd looking couple approached us and asked us something in Hungarian ("do you have money?" was the first thing we thought) then when they saw we didn't understand, they asked in English "Do you want some help? Are you lost?" and we were gobsmacked. Where else in a big city would you find this hospitality? And when we tried to say the odd word in Hungarian, like 'thank you', 'hello' or 'please', their faces would light up with a huge smile - but then we'd be left stranded after a string of more Hungarian words came splashing forth - the smile still painted hugely the whole time.

So it was off to the station to our awaiting couchette for the overnight ride back to Prague. Unfortunately, our expectations were set quite high due to the unexpected 5 star couchette on our way to Budapest so you can imagine our disappointment when we rocked up to find an old Eastern European train, decked out with thin foam matresses, smelly communal WC, and a conductor who had obviously downed a bottle of vodka in his 30min break between arriving and departing.

I guess you just have to laugh and see it as an experience!

Our personal favourite was when he showed us to our compartment, tried to force the lock, couldn't lock it therefore showed us to another all whilst a fag was hanging out of his mouth and squinting due to the smoke. So much for the non-smoking signs on the door! And we wondered why we were the only people on board that carriage. And THEN he came back later to show us how to lock the doors...again.

Actually, we have another favourite - on our arrival into Prague, at 3.30am, Brett knocked on the conductor's door as we needed to collect our tickets (he had told us the night before that he'd wake US up!). He apparently staggered to get up in what looked like one of those smokers rooms at the airport so we decided to just let him be and left.

So we didn't get the dental makeover but what we did get was a sweet taste of what Budapest has to offer. If you have 36 hours to spare you won't be disappointed by a city that is a "fusion" of laid-backness and coolness with an Eastern European twist.

Firing up for freeezetown

maria_brett — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 21:38:00 GMT

"Waaaaa... waaaahhhhh...", not the screaming of a newborn but the perfect harmonic of a fine-tuned rally car as it came straight THROUGH OUR WINDOW - well that's what it felt like as we tried to prise our eyes from a deep Sunday morning sleep. Hang on - rally cars outside our apartment block - in Prague??? We're used to stepping on dog crap outside our apartment door, yes, and maybe step over the comatose and snoring lumps of local winos as we make our way to the tram stop, yes, or maybe even try not to gawk at the young (and old) couple getting it on as if they were making their own porn movie. But wait - there's a car rally going on there too, with race-prepared cars flying around corners below the castle walls!

Just another one of the Czech Republic's little mysteries that have filled our daily lives since the last time Christmas rolled around.

Although at the same time last year miniskirts were clearly still being flaunted - this year we're almost exhaling icicles, and we still stop to look at puddles on footpaths and in gutters to see if they've ACTUALLY really frozen over. (We have to pretend we're looking for a lost coin though.)

Yes, everyone's Christmas rolls around quicker and quicker every year.

"What the f#$@ am I doing, sitting at the wheel in a fully-looaded transporter van with 2 colleagues next to me bouncing along the cobblestoned roads that will eventually turn into freeways, with the destination "Birmingham" plotted into the GPS navigator?" mused Brett one Sunday morning as he headed off on a 2+ week motorshow campaign for his MotoGP events company. It makes total sense, that you come to central europe to do a spot of teaching to ‘immerse’ yourself in the culture, you know, put on a tweed jacket and sit in a smoky bookshop cradling a pipe that you don’t actually know how to use (it happens!). What happened to take Brett away from Prague and on an international journey involving his MotoGP and travel dreams (and yes, leaving his girlfriend behind when he goes away).

When December rolled around Brett returned exhausted but with a complete racing outfit (no he didn’t sleep in it), and hibernated for days. Thank God for outdoor ice rinks in the center of town, so we were off like penguins, putting on our relaxed faces as we struggled to hold hands and glide effortlessly (so we thought) our anti-clockwise way around the rink full of expert tiny-tots diving in and out of our legs. Ahhh, time for some hot wine. And another one, please!

Winter a time for hibernation? Yeah right. If anything, all the shenanigans happen indoors out of sight. The girls showed Maria how to realllly let her hair down (don’t mention Becherovka to her – on fear of your life!), and we showed Russian Angela inside a real rocker’s bar: men thumping their chests, swinging from the lampshades, bartenders stripping their vests off, blowing fireballs with such ferocity we thought the whole wall of spirits behind them were going to spontaneously combust...

With one of our great mates, Sarah, leaving for home in the U.S. soon, December also brings its melancholy sadness. So we all upped and went off to the hockey stadium to see Czech Rep finally get one up over Sweden (another anniversary, we saw the same match last year). Now thoroughly experts in all things ice hockey, the sadness has been put on hold for now...

We’ve got a festive season to prepare for! Huge pools of live carp are already appearing on every other street corner and we’re on the hunt for the biggest turkey and leg of pork to roast for an Orphans’ Christmas lunch on the 25^th. With Christmas falling on the evening of the 24^th in Europe, we’ll be gathering with a bunch of other stranded ‘others’ for a feast of food, festivity...

... and a toast to all of you on the other side of the world, without whom Christmas just won’t be the same. Our friends here will help us to make it a special day in our own way – almost as good as the real thing which we’ll miss dearly.

So Veselé Vánocé a Stasné Nový Rok!

MotoGP riders raise funds for charity

maria_brett — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 19:47:00 GMT

Fast bikes, gorgeous women, colour, glitz and glamour. It's no wonder sports celebs can earn a reputation for living in the fast lane, distanced from real life and real people in their luxury european hideaways and multi-million dollar helicopters and private jets. So what do you think are the chances of getting a few MotoGP riders to support a little-known charity that will probably never impact their life?

We found out, and were very suprised with the result...

The Valencia MotoGP being the last in the season, fans and riders alike flock to this seaside Spanish principality to ward off the early winter blues and see out the end of a season's racing (though with Casey triumphing all year it was more like a constant procession and game of Follow the Leader). We made our usual mad dash from the office on the wednesday and spent the first couple of days settling the guests into hotels around Valencia and gearing up for the race weekend (parties, transport, chaperoning, and generally being the instant expert that everyone expects).

At all GPs we kick off the weekend with a huge party for all the guests and sometimes we run a charity fundraiser or auction in conjunction with the party. Down Syndrome Ireland is run by a couple of salt-of-the-earth men and women who just love their bikes and bike racing, so it was a perfect fit.

On Thursday and Friday before the race I had the chance to trawl through the paddock and ask riders to sign various items that were to go up for auction. Among other things, I took around the 2006 year in review book written by MotoGP commentator, Julian Ryder. Most riders stop to sign autographs at the best of times (with one notable exception being Casey Stoner) but there are times during race weekend when the focus is at utlimate extremes and there's every justification for a rider or team manager to politely refuse - for the moment. So it comes down to luck and timing (the latter depending of course on the former).

After nabbing Julian Ryder and Randy Mamola (a GP legend), I was lucky enough to pin down Mattia Passini (125 world champ) and his teammate Joan Olive. Colin Edwards strolled by at just the right time for me to blurt out "Colin, could you please sign this book for charity Down Syndrome Ireland?" and thrust a permanent marker into his hand before he disappeared into a press van. Wandering between race team trucks I came out into the main drag and bumped almost literally into Alex Criville and luckily had the pen handy. Then it was time for a bit more of a strategic approach: start at the end of the line and work back. In this way I met Kawasaki rider and Aussie, Anthony West (who admits to "just being an idiot riding around on a motorbike; I still don't get it when people ask me for my autograph"); and fellow Kawasaki rider Randy de Puniet. Japanese and friendliest-guy-in-the-paddock, Shinya Nakano was next, before we then stalked down Suzuki rider, Chris Vermeulen.

Fellow Suzuki rider, John Hopkins was sharing the garage with Vermeulen, but there was no sign of the American. After waiting patiently for about 15 minutes we realised there'd be no chance of pinning him in the book. So I asked a team member if he could take the book inside the garage and find John and ask him to sign it (expecting the guy to spit out something in Spanish or French or... whatever language would have the best impact for "piss off!") but the friendly soul returned a few minutes later with a gorgeous thick black signature across the full-page photo I'd selected of John doing a triumphant wheelstand. "That's gotta be worth 100 euro right there" I said.

With the riders disappearing onto the circuit at various times during the day for warm up and practice sessions, time was running short. But we still hadn't pinned the star of the paddock: Valentino Rossi. Although the book was feeling weightier in my hands already, we just had to meet Valentino and get his signature on his page. Retracing our steps we managed to come by fellow Italian, Loris Capirossi, gentleman personified - which eased our anxiety somewhat - but the greediness was starting to take over. I decided to go back to Valentino's Yamaha truck one last time and BINGO! Valentino was leaving his garage with a smile on his face - a good sign! At the right place at the right time, I asked Vale if he could sign the book for charity and he gave us a big fat signature which instantly doubled the value of the book - not only in terms of funds to be raised but the overall picture of generosity and goodwill of these superstars. I thanked him several times over and drove straight to the fundraising party.

You'll be pleased to know that the book raised over 1550 euro itself, with more than 6000 euro in total raised for DSI during the evening.

Gothic castles and ex-Soviet airbases

maria_brett — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 18:17:00 GMT

“We have prepared a special programme for you” greeted us at 7:30 in the morning as we met our friends, Daša and Přemysl at the spot by the railway crossing.

As we slithered into the back seat of their car, as honey finds its way from a spoon, we peered up at our hosts in the front and tried to locate the source of all this cheerfulness – which should be completely outlawed at this time on a Sunday morning.

Driving through the completely dead streets of Prague on our way north out of town, bits of evidence started to make their presence known in our understanding: last night was the final Jack’s Birthday promotion that Maria was involved in (and I went along to make sure the produce was indeed fit for consumption); I remember getting home a little after 3am; we’d agreed the day earlier to head out for a mystery day…. The missing link is WHY THE F#$@ did we agree to a Sunday day trip that started so early. I hoped to find out.

Just as Qantas keeps idle passengers occupied with little knick-knacks of edible stuff, Daša thrust into our hands a huge bottle of pear and apple ‘morst’ (juice) made from fresh fruit pickings the weekend before. They’d even visited a man on the outskirts of town who operates an archaic wooden crusher built specifically for all the Czechs that do exactly this – for about 2 weeks of the year.

Making our way north through beautifully scenic lakes and rivers, Maria and I both agreed that we’d never seen such beautiful parts of the Czech countryside before. We felt like we’d travelled through Slovenia, Germany, Switzerland… all in one day.

I could tell Přemysl was up to something the minute I saw a smirk enter the creases of his mouth. “I have this friend, and sometimes you can find him at this old Russian airbase, but I’m not sure if he’s there, and I’m not sure if we can get there…” but sure enough, we left the country lane we were on, passed through a rusty old gate amongst bushes and rubble and drove down a gravel track – before a motorbike appeared from behind us and thundered past us on one wheel down the narrow gravel track….

The bushes gave way to a wide open clearing, and smoother concrete – which later revealed itself as the tarmac of an old Soviet airbase near Mimoň in the north. What I couldn’t comprehend was the vast space that completely surrounded us, the spiderweb network of taxiways that darted in and out underneath our wheels, the amount of people skating, cycling or just flying kites on the main runway – and the fact that we were now driving on it.

Before we knew it, Přemysl had navigated his way to the disused bunkers, which were in full use by entrepreneurial pilots of light aircraft. It was very much the post-Soviet version of the backyard shed!! Only this time there were 1000s of dollars’ worth of modern technology poking out of the sheds.

With a brief word in Czech by Přemysl, a young pilot waved to us and said in perfect English “You want to go up for a flight?” Přemysl negotiated a price (total about $60AU per hour) and within minutes I was strapping myself in and doing the pre-flight checks with the pilot, now known to be Jan.

Although I’d agreed to go up for 15 minutes, the view over a nearby gothic castle on top of a high mountain peak was simply too breathtaking to even consider returning to base after the agreed time. So we continued back over the base at about 3,000ft… to an equally impressive peak on which perched a gorgeous Romanesque castle complex (see photo). As if reading my thoughts (unless I was rambling without knowing), Jan made a tight pass around the castle as if pirouetting on a 5-cent coin, close enough that we could peer down into the ample cleavages if we’d not been more occupied by the gorgeous view of the complex and the heart-thumping G-forces that were pushing against the plane as we tightened the pass and went round again for a closer look.

One of the best travel guides-come-pilots I’ve met (haven’t you met a lot too?!), Jan told me that it was absolutely illegal to climb these two peaks during the Soviet era for fear that you might actually be able to peer into the airbase complex that is nestled amongst the surrounding hills.

At this point I decided to put the camera down and just soak it all up instead. Jan, meanwhile, straightened up and headed back to the base – making a very sharp final turn and landing on grass beside the 2000m runway “to preserve the tyres”.

After the month of traipsing around the country in honour of a well-known man by the name of Daniel’s, Maria had already found a snug spot in the back seat of the car, and couldn’t be persuaded the trust her life in the hands of a Czech we’d just met. Don’t blame her!

After bidding farewell to our weekend pilot, we made directly for a nearby pub (passing the eerily deserted soviet-style apartment blocks – streets and streets of discarded and rotting concrete towers). For about $7.50 we were rewarded with delicious sauerkraut-and-klobasa (sausage) soup, a pint of beer, a main meal of beef, rice and veggies, and coffee. We weren’t even charged extra for the raised eyebrows that the waitress gave Maria when the latte was ordered (we felt like we were Sydneysiders in a country NSW town!!).

Of course what Czech adventure would be complete without a trip “to the nature”, an expression that never fails to prompt a smile every time we hear it. “The Nature” is a catch-all for everything like: countryside; forest; hills; mountains; rivers; lakes; meadows; farms; valleys; rocky outcrops etc etc. But the funny thing is that when one Czech says to another “I went to the Nature on the weekend”, it’s not uncommon to hear the response “Ahh, so you went rockclimbing before sailing on the lake and then canoeing down the river in the valley?” (slight exaggeration, but it’s close!).

So our Nature trip involved a trek into a forest, following a stream back to its source up the hill – which we couldn’t locate because the source appeared from nowhere in the middle of a flat section in the forest, creating one of the longest rivers from a natural spring in the whole of central Europe.

Of course, at this time of year (as if we knew!) we had to also go mushroom picking. At first we had no idea what to look for (not your Coles variety) but after a while we began spotting them, before Přemysl or Daša would cut us down with a simple “No, they’re not the right ones”, but sure enough we got the bug, and Maria and I were off with our eyes to the ground, disappearing in random directions up the mountain.

Like Hansel and Gretel we got lost in the woods (nothing to do with the Czech version of the fairytale Daša had told us as we entered the dark canopy), but luckily our random wanderings led us directly back to the car with a booty-load of mushrooms – which actually looked ugly as anything. (We’re not going to eat them, are we??!!)

Our trip to the nature ended with a drive through the hills, while inumerous hangliders, gliders and ultralight-ers soared above us like kites, confirming our long-held suspicion that Czechs are the most active outdoorists on the planet!, passing pastureland with real cows grazing with mountains rising up behind them… felt like a little slice of Slovenia! (must be the one spot in the Czech Rep where cows are actually bred!! All menus in restaurants typically have pork, chicken and a few expensive beef dishes)

Of course we stopped the car to pick apples by the roadside on our way back to Prague filling our shirt fronts with bundles of fresh stuff – thinking we’d never eat so many apples in a lifetime (but we surely did).

As we drove back into Prague alongside the multitudes of Czechs that leave Prague for the weekend, we couldn’t believe that we’d only been gone for a day. It’s amazing what you can do and see in one day, especially if you have friends that prepare mystery “programmes” for you. Now we really feel like the active Czechs that we’ve been trying to understand for a long time now.

San Marino MotoGP

maria_brett — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 18:35:00 GMT

Following the storm that was Brno MotoGP, we packed up the mini-office-in-brewery that served us well over the weekend, returned hotel keys and dropped off scooters to their rightful rental owners. We all fell asleep on the 3 hour trip back to Prague. Thankfully we arrived at a civilised time in the afternoon, not 5:30am as it was when we went the other direction before the GP.

The next week and a half passed in a blur of a huge sleep deficit and the kind of post-party blues that hits hard after Australia Day. The weekend couldn’t come soon enough, and was spent cashing in a huge chunk of sleep and chilling out at home big time…

… before packing my bags again for my next trip to the San Marino GP the following weekend.

Thank God there’s one reliable taxi service in Prague (you can believe all the other rumours!), because if they hadn’t called at 6am on Friday to say “sir, your taxi’s waiting for you” I would’ve slept all the way to December. Setting a new lap time for dressing and flying down the 4 storeys of our apartment block I was sitting in the passenger seat before I had a chance to realise what I was doing and why exactly I was sitting in a cab. I was sure there was a good explanation, but it took some time for the fog to lift.

The San Marino GP is a bit of a misnomer. The Most Serene Republic of San Marino (it’s real name, no joke!) is a self-governed republic up in the hills near the east coast of Italy. As the oldest constitutional republic in the world still existing, it was founded on 3 September in the year 301 by Marinus of Rab, a Christian stonemason fleeing the religious persecution of Roman Emperor Diocletian. (San Marino has the oldest written constitution still in effect, dating back to 1600).

In its more recent bizarre history, San Marino boasts one of the 18 MotoGPs of the calendar without actually hosting it: the GP itself takes place down the road in Misano, Italy but for reasons of politics, marketing and the fact that there’s already an Italian GP (Mugello), the event is branded San Marino even though its 29,000 inhabitants are busy keeping their autonomous distance from the Italians – with one notable exception being the San Marinese, Alex de Angelis, who was busy winning the 250cc class until his engine blew and Spanish Jorge Lorenzo took the race.

Landing at Rimini airport on Friday I was greeted with colossal buckets of rain that not only flooded the whole coast but also put the circuit under 30cm of water – effectively cancelling the afternoon free practice session. While the fans (and I!) headed for espresso bars, pizzerias and piadinoteca’s (more later!), the race teams were faced with starting the following day’s qualifying session on cold tyres and untested setups. Valentino Rossi would especially curse his own rain clouds.

With blue skies greeting us on Saturday, accompanied by sunburn and crazy flies, you’d never think that the circuit was under a foot of water the previous day – except for the fact that you sank that far down into mud if you tried to sit your lazy bum down.

The fans were rewarded with a 2-hour warm-up session for the MotoGP class (usually 1 hour) and plenty of opportunities to check out the dodgy umbrella girls in the general admission area. Always hard to tell who enjoys these spectacles more: the beer-fuelled yobbos or the girls themselves!

Returning from the circuit after a day of sun an exhaust fumes, a small group of us headed for a micro brewery (beer not as good as the micro-brewery in the monastery near our place in Prague!) before we split up for the night and I walked back to my hotel along the looooooooong promenade that serves as the main reason why Italians go on holidays. Let me explain…

The coast along Rimini, Riccione and Misano (all separate coastal towns) is seamlessly flat and as straight as the main straight at Shanghai. Lazing about on the equally seamless, long and straight beach are beach clubs full of deck chairs, volleyball courts, changing huts, pools, bars, kiddies corners and every other permutation of resort-fuelled distraction you can imagine (and with hundreds of these clubs the competition, and therefore tackiness, is fierce!).

Running parallel to this strip of madness, but a block further back from the beach, is an equally seamless, long and straight street which connects all the towns and serves as the main artery between them and indeed of the tourists that come here to simply walk up and down for hours along the endless stretch of shops, shoppers and people watching the shoppers shop. For some glammed-up Italians, their day starts after sun-down, donning glamourous summerwear which consists of bling-bling upon bling-bling and not much else. Walking several times between my hotel and the other hotels where our guests were staying at (a few ks away) I was glad to have this constant stream of stimulus in front of me.

Arriving home late on Saturday night / Sunday morning after saying goodnight to the last of our guests, I met with the owner of my small family-run hotel, Eduaro. I took an instant liking to Eduardo as he stood proudly behind his bar at 2am, a small selection of Italian and other aperitifs arranged in rows of neat bottles up to the ceiling. Among these were grainy photos of times past – Eduardo standing next to a guy perched on a 1957 Ducati in full race leathers (the world champion in his time); Eduardo among all of his smiling children and grandchildren; the very same hotel bar full of dancing smiling teenagers at a recent hotel party. As he told me about his time working on boats off Brisbane’s coast many years ago (where he spent time improving his English), he proudly described how he went to school with Loris Capirossi’s father (current MotoGP rider), which made my mind spin because Valentino Rossi is also a local legend. Where am I???

As I stopped wow-ing at his modest stories and admiring the genuine pleasure this guy had in life (even though he himself was covering another staff member’s graveyard shift in the dead of night), he offered me an espresso from his machine that took pride of place on top of the bar in front of me. Such delicious nectar can only be found in Italy, I’m convinced. I can’t explain why I always turn into an espresso drinker only when I’m in Italy, and lose all taste for lattes, cappuccinos and other delicious drinks I adore at the best of times. To seal the deal, Eduardo’s espresso was the best that had ever passed my lips… “What’s your secret?” I asked. “I never turn the machine off, never. It spoils the crema of the coffee”. From a real Italian.

As I bid my goodnight, he turned around and pulled out a bottle of Limoncello, a specialty digestif from the Sorrento / Amalfi region down south on the other coast, and poured me a shot. Delcious. It’s no wonder that warm hospitality tastes so good.

Race day Sunday began with a 7:15am early departure to the circuit to try and avoid the crazy Italian traffic. Sitting in the Tribune A grandstand – on the last corner of the circuit before the finish line (the 90-degree left-hander) – the building anticipation was palpable. Would Casey clinch it with another clean victory? Would Rossi find his form on his home circuit and stamp his signature back on the championship again? Would a dark horse come out of nowhere (even better if it were either of the Aussies, Chris Vermeulen or Anthony West!). With one less session because of the wet Friday, it could be anyone’s race.

As race days always do, it was seemingly over before it began, however the shorter track distance meant there were more laps and therefore more chances to enjoy the action as the riders came past and fought against their wild machines and each other.

It came as no surprise that Casey Stoner won, assisted by a 3-rider pile up at the start that took out some of his challengers, and Valentino Rossi’s bike deciding it wanted to head in for an early shower. (Rumours circulating he was on a test bike…).

We stormed the track after the race and enjoyed being as close to the race that we’d ever get.

Dinner that night was blessed by an appearance by 250cc rider, Jules Cluzel, who is sponsored by Pole Position Travel, and an all-round nice guy who will pose for any photo and answer any question. At the end of the day he’s a typical 18 year-old French guy who just likes to enjoy life. So when I asked if he was up for heading out to a club he said “Yez, of course, zer iz zis club near ze serkwit zat all ze riders are going to”.

So a bunch of us piled into a few cabs and headed away from the coast and up into the hills, arriving at midnight a deserted villa in the middle of nowhere, with chandeliers dripping from ever horizontal surface. Maybe we’d missed it – it was Sunday night after all. Then we were told to come back at 1am when the club opened. “Geezus!” we said. We waited for half an hour, bumped into MotoGP rider Alex Hoffman and his Parts Manager, Liam, who were keen for some post-race action but not so keen to wait around til it appeared. We called it a night and jumped back into cabs for a few drinks back in town.

The icing on the cake came with a 2 hour drive to Bologna the following day, and a trip to the Ducati Factory. Hard to believe every one of the world’s finest machines on two wheels comes from this hallowed ground. As we walked in and around the assembly lines we saw how un-production-line the system was: each engine is assembled completely by one person alone, taking anywhere from 45 minutes for simpler engines (eg Monsters) to 3 hours for the latest race model. Once the engine is complete, it’s passed on to the next guy or girl (there seemed to be equal numbers of both) who inserts it into the frame and so on. Henry Ford would be bitterly disappointed that this system works so well!

Getting out of the factory as quickly as we could, so as not to do too much damage to the credit card, we headed back to Misano and up to Valentino Rossi’s home town, Tavullia, which is the most idyllic village-in-the-hills you can imagine. I was a little disappointed only by the fact that I’d expected this colourful character – or “God on Two Wheels” as some die hards have tattooed into their skins – to have come from a buzzing, traffic-fuelled metropolis. Instead we were strolling around quiet streets, up long paths that lead beneath the grand entrance of the town hall, amongst pomegranate trees, and past windows from where we could hear and smell afternoon meals being prepared.

The official Valentino Rossi Fanclub takes pride of place in the centre of the square, a kind of mecca to this demi-god. I don’t know how it happened but inside I found myself straddling one of Rossi’s old bikes before I knew what I was doing. Luckily I’d taken off my Casey Stoner shirt before I committed outrageous sacrilege of the worst kind!

This weekend had to come to a close, so it was a quiet night ahead of us before being stranded at the airport the next day in the same way that I was greeted when I arrived on Friday – by mountains of water and lightning that had this time put the airport underwater and threatened to cancel our flight altogether, leaving us in Italy for another 5 days before the next one appeared. Thank god for luck – with our SkyEurope plane appearing like a shining star from the far reaches of the clouded sky, and taking me home to Maria and our life in Prague.

The MotoGP madness is over, for now…

Running away with the MotoGP circus

maria_brett — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 13:06:00 GMT

I’ve run away with the circus…

Although only one month has passed since we returned to the Czech Republic, I feel like I've lived several lifetimes in that very space.

Without even unpacking our stuff (all those Tim Tams, sakata bickies, bushells tea, the phantom vegemite that was confiscated at Sydney airport because it was clearly a "liquid", and a bottle of full-bodied red), I was again packing a new bag and running for the next train to Dresden.

My first day on the job began on a Friday morning with my self-called initiation at the Sachsenring MotoGP. Within minutes of arriving at the hotel I was supposedly entertaining/hosting/spinning all sorts of local 'truths' to people who'd paid obscene amounts to hear this very stuff. (Ahh, my consulting skills were handy). And then our managing director announced to all the guests that they'd have to try hard to keep up with us guides - and any more than 3 hours of sleep a night is not cool. Great, I thought, no chance to sneak off and enjoy a cuppa bushells and catch up on the letters to the editor. The fact that the night ended with all our guests trying to fit as many beer coasters into their mouths in between tequila shots as their god-given jaws would allow was only testament to this madness.

Luckily motorsport was the winner on the day, as they say in rugby, and that guy called Rossi discovered that he had even more work to do at the next round in Laguna Seca. Oh, and guys - standing around all day drinking beer in the steaming sun whilst wearing your leathers is NOT cool - no matter how many times you've seen it on a Chiko Roll poster. (Gotta love the Germans).

I was pleased to get home at 11pm on Sunday night - having abandoned Maria since arriving back in our home away from home - and look forward to starting the desk phase of my new job at 8am the next day. Am I still trying to kid myself that this is what 'opportunity' looks like??

If that weren't enough motorsport and relationship suicide for one week, I was sent off to the Brno round of the world superbike championship the next weekend to host a bunch of Aussies (adorable) and again be the expert in a city I'd heard about from a Trivial Pursuit question, but not before I insisted on Maria coming with. Gotta put the foot down sometimes!

After working out a way to get Maria past the security guards and brolly dollys and into the VIP suites over the pits (with a lot of stealthy teamwork from some very helpful Aussies) we set off to find some riders and after a while found ourselves trying to avoid bumping into Troy Bayliss for the 17th time - we'd walk around a corner and found him strolling along: thongs, boardies, Ducati shirt and a cheesy grin that I'm sure he put in a safe place somewhere 5 minutes later when he was taking the last corner at 225km/h. The guy's pure salt of the earth.

Back in Prague again, my second full week began and I found myself approving ad campaigns, securing hotels for next year's recently announced Indianapolis round, researching the circuit in Motegi, Japan, emailing the Spanish guys and girls at MotoGP, planning a fundraising event in a brewery in Brno and finding out where the bathrooms are and how the coffee machine works. I started looking forward to the weekend until I realised that this job doesn't include weekends - it's all the same thing.

The MotoGP circus came to town this weekend in Brno - bringing with it 245,000 fans from all over the world, most of them from Poland, Germany, UK, Slovakia, Italy, Spain, Romania, Croatia, and even Serbia and a young kid from Venezuela. Having invested many midnight hours at the office and even a 2am drive from Prague to Brno, we saw every measure of madness, chaos, dissapointment, utter happiness and many tears as our 22-member team were put through their paces (900 guests staying at 13 hotels, with buses, trackside parties and of course the pissup in the brewery!).

When the circus left town on Sunday afternoon, I scooted up to the track with a workmate to catch a squiz of the testing that the bike teams do before/after races. At that point in time I felt I'd never been closer to a circus tent in my life.

Just need to learn how to fly the trapeze!

Here's a quick sample...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfKjcNPYS-o

Disaster finally strikes!

maria_brett — Thu, 24 May 2007 17:02:00 GMT

Now I know what it feels like to be a phantom writer, as Brett is typing this as I speak. I'm currently incapacitated, as you can plainly see.

How did it happen you ask??? This is your guess. Use your imagination and I'll get back to you in a week when I've got the two-finger typing down pat.

Roadtrip with the Oldies through Central Europe

maria_brett — Mon, 21 May 2007 17:40:00 GMT

We've just returned from a breathless yet wonderful two weeks with Sue, David and Sue. Before they touched down we asked ourselves "how the hell do we show them our life here in the Czech Republic in just fours days?"

It was a whistlestop tour indeed, leaving a web of dots on our Prague map according to the cafes, historic attractions, winding old streets and quirky Prague features we visited (and dawn marriage proposals we witnessed on Charles Bridge!).

From Prague the web stretched outwards to Karlštejn Castle in the south, and the further to Česky Krumlov, the historic gem of South Bohemia. You must visit this place at least once in your life. Pure magic. Nothing less. Nestled in a 180-degree bend in the Vltava River which flows north and dissects Prague down the middle, the UNESCO-listed walled town of Česky Krumlov has survived floods, fires and incursions and is one of the few places in this part of europe to have buildings that have remained intact since the gothic period - the building we stayed in even had original gothic wooden beams.

We were enchanted by the understated charm that the place had, which exuded from its many quiet cobblestoned alleys, wooden bridges across the rapidly flowing Vltava, towers, castles high above us (which can be seen from most points in the town - so sunken in the valley is the place compared to surrounding areas, including the castle) and the personality of a town that has survived so many centuries, yet is still in a development and restoration phase after years of neglect and idleness.

After celebrating David's birthday in a gypsy restaurant following an aussie picnic accompanied with Vegemite and a bottle of cheap but delicious French white, we left this magical place and followed the river south to Austria, where we accidentally missed an exit from the autobahn and ended up in Germany. We had barely blinked! Back in Austria, we found the right road again and entered Slovenia via a tunnel cut directly through the natural frontier. Having visited four countries in the time it takes one to travel from Chatswood to Cherrybrook it was time to call it a day.

Lake Bled captured us with its beauty and idyllic lakeside charm for the next 3 nights. Known for the church that sits on an island in the middle of the lake and the medieval castle that overlooks it from a steep cliff abutting the lake, Bled immediately offered us more than any Lonely Planet guide would describe in its pages: we found accommodation with the loveliest soul called Andrea (Sue’s, if you read this could you put her contact details here!) who, after telling us we could stay in two separate apartments for €17 each person, sat us down and explained every in-and-out of the whole district, including which pub had the best food, which cakeshop had the best kremšnita – like a vanilla slice, but a specialty of Lake Bled – where to go for the best mountain views, which village to visit to take in the renown white spring flowers that were now in bloom… She even invited us to have a coffee with her on the morning we left. What an ambassador for Slovenia!

During our time here we:

* got lost up a mountain on the Bohinj national park and nearly fell off it as we wound our way up gravel hairpin roads and under rocky overhangs (“don’t notice the rocks that have found their way, courtesy of gravity, to the road that we’re now travelling on”), and were rewarded with breathtaking views across alpine fields to the piercing snow-capped peaks on the other side of the lake.

* stumbled almost literally across one of the most important WWI PoW memorial sites in the area, where the remains of Austro-Hungarian soldiers lie side-by-side in a small patch of mountainous forest, the plaques on their graves decorated by ribbons that now represent either Austria, Hungary, Italy and the Czech Republic. (It was moving to note that typically Czech names such as ‘Karel Marek’ were accompanied by the words “Austro-Hungär”).

* turned off the main road and instantly found ourselves in villages where tractors, hand-carts and farmers made up the majority, villagers tending their fields by hand – bent over double – and old women in printed pinafores chatting with each other outside their houses.

* whiled away a very relaxing afternoon on the shores of Lake Bled as the sun dipped through the last arc of the golden afternoon and we watched the gondoliers dodging the Olympic rowers doing their 2km laps up and down the lake, while they in turn dodged the swans and ducks that seem to be right at home here.

We eventually prised Lake Bled’s grip open and made a break for Vipava to visit Maria’s relatives – who are now 2 more in number thanks to the arrival of Mateuš and Živa, both born within 2 weeks of each other to sisters Barbara and Anka. With homemade wine, grilled chicken, fresh tomatoes (paradies), an asparagus dish to die for and a čevapčići dish borrowed from Bosnia we spent a wonderful afternoon with the family making new introductions, catching up on the news since we last visited at Christmas, and made new plans to return again sometime soon. Why is there never enough time?

By nightfall we were on the road again and heading straight for the Istrian region of Croatia, in the north-west. Arriving at 8pm we had to find accommodation at an agency attached to a local bar but it wasn’t a problem as the peak season was still a few weeks away. For about €10 each we stayed in a large, ultra clean two-bedroom apartment with sea views, sat tv and modern kitchen, the perfect location to explore up and down the Istrian coast and countryside, including the peninsular and roman-era towns of Poreč and Piran (back over the border in Slovenia), the roman amphitheatre at Pula and of course the Bikers Fest at Umag!!!

Border crossing tip #1 – if you want to save time at border crossings, don’t ask for a stamp, as we did. With traffic moving at breakneck speed in the opposite direction we caused a mini-jam as the guard on duty looked around his cabin, found the stamp, looked again around his cabin – this time for a piece of paper – tested it, looked at the date on the stamp, fixed it, took our passports, asked us where we were going, entered the details of four passports, one-by-one, into his computer, found the stamp page in each passport, stamped them successively, handed them back and waved us through with a look of focused curiosity on his face.

Returning to the apartment one night we decided to find a typical Croatian ‘Grill’ restaurant, which are often set up in houses by the side of the road and unmistakeable for the huge shedded rotisserie out the front, often with a pig, lamb or both already roasting horizontally on it. Any decent grill will have a host of people sitting at outside tables. We were on a search for the ultimate grill.

We found a restaurant in the middle of a tiny village off the main road and were instantly transported to a land of rural tranquillity. Sitting on the verandah of a ranch-style house converted to a modern-day restaurant we licked up every morsel of roasted lamb, veal or fish that we’d ordered, listening to the sound of a trickling water feature in the front yard, bathing in the ambience of mediterranean lights that were placed here and there. And, to use one of Sue H’s phrases we had “one of the best” coffees ever, there.

After a walking visit to the Byzantine-era chapel at Poreč we headed for Zadar via Rijeka and some of the most dramatic scenery changes we could ever imagine. We went from soaring heights up in shrubby mountains down to coastal seas-side towns where the glasslike ripple-less water of the Adriatic Sea would’ve lapped against our car doors had there been any breath at all on the water. We passed through affluent suburbs that would put the French Riviera to shame, and drove past a motorscooter that was zinging up the hill in the opposite direction ON ONE WHEEL and remained so for several hundred metres until we lost sight of him. At times we felt like we were on the moon – so stark, barren and rocky was the land, as it took us on a winding path through hairpin turns, along sweeping plateaus (and roadhouse coffee stops so thoroughly enjoyable that we stayed for a second round, including apple strudels!) and across precipices so high that the charred and twisted remains of doomed car chassis were only just visible far below.

We finally made it to the car ferry that would take us across to the island of Pag – known for its delicious sheep cheese that we’d eaten for lunch, and home to some amazing scenery. It would also deposit us in Zadar after making the 80km trip down the spine of the island, through tiny rural towns that left us wondering what industry would sustain them other than bloody good cheese, and past the seaside resort town of Pag itself, which is surrounded on all sides by white, barren rock. Beauty in the extreme!

The whole island is divided into plots of farmland, marked out by rows upon rows of fences made up by the one resource that is ever present – rock. There was not a tree in sight so it wasn’t hard to see how the resources had shaped the industrial landscape itself. Sue decided to test the time-tested effectiveness of one of these fences by climbing on it to take a photo, only to find the fence coming off second best – or was that her coming off second best? Either way her jigsaw puzzle skills came in handy as she put it back together, ancient piece by ancient piece.

Finally arriving in Zadar we set out to explore the village where Maria’s parents grew up in and introduce them to Maria’s Baba whom we stayed with last summer. Baba had just shorn 6 sheep that morning and took the oldies on a tour of her part of the village.

The old town – or “open-air museum” of Zadar called us, with its 3000 year-old history still being unearthed by excavations that are on foot in one of the town’s squares. There we met up with Maria’s cousins, Tome and Bobo, who are both very much the archetypical cosmopolitan students. On our last night together we all made our way to Hotel Zagreb by the waterfront, a landmark made famous when Alfred Hitchcock decided that sunsets in Zadar are more beautiful than anywhere else. More recently the hotel housed refugees during the conflict that so violently was waged there.

Spending time wandering through the ancient streets of this peninsular city connected by man-made land was the perfect close to a tour with the oldies. They continued on their tour of a land blessed with unrivalled beauty, fortified with a better understanding of the troubles the nation has experienced, towards a boat that would take them on a week of sailing adventure.

We came back to Prague and rain!

A Whippin' Good Czech Easter

maria_brett — Sun, 15 Apr 2007 09:51:00 GMT

What do horse-hoofed devils, crossbows, medieval feasts and the whipping of women have to do with Easter? Everything - in the Czech Republic anyway. With a predominantly atheist/agnostic population and no overriding influence by any religion, Easter, or Velikonoce, is more a celebration of Spring and the life that springs from it.

All around us during the week before Easter, as we hunted down a reliable car to travel to the far reaches of the Republic, painted eggs could be seen on just about every street corner; the trees and flower gardens couldn't contain their excitement, and defiantly burst open their buds in a united explosion of hypercoloured life: Spring is here (not that the european winter really came this year - it felt more like a balmy Sydney one!).

The Plan - drive out of Prague for the long weekend and track down some traditional velikonoce celebrations. The downfall of living in a non-religious state is that Good Friday isn't recognised, so Friday was another crazy workday for the Czechs, and gave 70,000 tourists from neighbouring states a headstart on their descent into Prague. The Result - "Get Out If You Can!", most Praguers told us. This weekend would be no different for many Praguers, as most leave town on Friday afternoons anyway, heading to their weekend cottages, or chalupas, to escape the city cluttered with its soviet-style apartments, or panelaks.

As we signed away a dodgy looking car from a woman who looked like she eats kids for breakfast we should've known we'd have some trouble when we returned again on Monday evening. The fact that the tank was only half full didn't seem too strange, nor the fact that the car was pretty filthy - afterall, the Republic had recently been blanketed by a dusty hangover of a dust storm in Africa - or even the fact that the rental depot was actually based in the second-floor apartment of an elderly couple, with peeling prints of famous Czech castles stuck all over the place with some kind of predecessor to Blu Tac.

It was perhaps the fact that one of the waiting room chairs would be held above our heads by the same crazed woman in three days' time, in a fit of toothless spit-firing ranting, that should've told us to go back to Nymburk. But how could we have foreseen such a moment in time?

Blissfully ignorant of our sealed fate we pointed our half-full tank of a car into the crazy Prague traffic and began to negotiate the Friday afternoon frenzy on the roads, weaving in and out of trams on our way out of town...

... to the beautiful Krivoklat Castle. Ahh, take us back in time, please!

Just outside of Prague there is a castle which transports you back into medieval times. Here you will find performances, craftsmen, bakers, blacksmiths and pubs all with a medieval twist. A team of locals who are keen on keeping the ways of the past alive…or it could just be driven by the tourist dollar! Hey, it works. (There have also been a number of films that have been shot here.)

As we made our way through the square past the gypsy performer, past the sheep being cut up by the shearer (I’ve never seen so many nicks in our life!), past the kids firing real crossbows in an open area (not even going to go there), past the devils wearing cow’s hooves (not going there either) Brett was quick to notice a little door which lead to a little room and in the room stood a little man at work. No we were not in the Shire (LOTR), but in a place where men were free to whip or pour water over women in exchange for eggs, alcohol and presumably sex. The little man was making a pomlazka which is a whip made from willow reeds. This whip is used on Easter Monday by men to perpetuate a pagan tradition that looks never to disappear (ask any woman what they think of it and they shrug their shoulders in indifference or resignation; ask any man and his eyes will light up!). The look on Brett’s face was as if he was a little boy in a candy shop. How unfortunate that he is with a girl from the western world who would rather crack a raw egg on his forehead than give a colourfully painted one as a gift.

After Brett’s purchase of the biggest pomlazka you could buy we roamed back into the courtyard where the smell of lunch was in the air. We decided on pig’s leg-off-the-spit garnished with pickled peppers, mustard and a slice of Šumava bread. With satisfied bellies we had had our fill of medieval times so it was off to our next rendezvous with renaissance.

Telč is a UNESCO-listed town in the south of the Czech Republic and it’s easy to see why. The town square is surrounded on all sides by quaint buildings with pastel coloured facades. The buildings house cafes, pubs, bakeries, boutiques and about four Vietnamese-run stores that sell anything and everything. Yep, the cheap and nasty $2 stores have made their way to bum-f@#$ nowhere! Walking around the square you are in awe of just how adorable the town is, that is until you catch a glimpse in your peripheral vision of the fluorescent workers vests that are hanging out the front of the two-dollar shops.

Thought: why anyone would travel to unassuming Telč for a reflector vest is beyond our reasoning. We couldn’t work it out, but then again nothing surprises us anymore.

Stepping out of the square you find yourself wandering the little cobble-stoned alley-ways which lead you to the grounds of Telč Castle. A beautiful park and pond surrounding the castle that I’m sure would be a good representation of how the Garden of Eden would look like. The great thing was that there were no people around so we really got to enjoy our own version of the Castle’s ‘serenity’ (there could be an Aussie flick in that!). That was until we started to hear what sounded like the Bee Gees, Czech style. Curiosity got the better of us and as we got closer to the music we realised that it wasn’t the Bee Gees singing Stayin’ Alive but a Czech translation, tight pants and all. As we looked around we found that we had stepped into an 80’s white trailer trash fair. We felt like we were back in Nymburk so it was time to go. Telč is too gorgeous to have the memory tarnished by the Bee Gees, reflector vests and trailer trash.

Back in the car the next morning after a breakfast attended by mostly under-two’s (or so it seemed!) our car only wanted to continue towards the south-east in the direction of Austria and the Slovak Republic. With a gorgeous sky overhead we couldn’t argue, so we switched on the radio (Stayin’ Alive again!) and took to the street. “Hang on, is it the right-hand side or left-hand side that we drive on?”….

Using our map that has lifesize images of fortresses (hrady) and castles (zamky) dotted all over it we sought out Bítov, a zamek that sits high atop a hilly peak on the bend of a meandering river that cuts through a deep valley. Not in the mood to nod for 45 minutes and pretend to understand what the guide was saying we didn’t find Bítov all that interesting except for the wind horns that sat on top of the castle in lines along the apex, giving the whole scene an eerie feel every time the wind blew – it seemed like a ghost choir was warming up in some disused back room somewhere in the bowels of the complex, but when the wind blew the sound continued unbroken for an eternity… sending spine-tingling shivers up and down the body.

Have you heard of Liechtenstein? The small provincial country nestled in between Switzerland and Austria? Well the dynasty once had a tentacle in the south of the Czech Republic where it acquired land and plonked gorgeous chateaux and gardens there.

The zamek at Lednice is a gorgeous example of absolutely stupefying wealth. Standing in front of the building, with hedged gardens and sprouting tulips all fighting for your attention you’ll notice two distinct wings staring back at you from the front: one is from the renaissance era, with squared angles and decorative motifs; while the other is neo-gothic (after the gothic period but drawing heavily on the style later on) with knobbed spires, high, narrow windows and external framework. This is not at all unusual, except the fact that you’re looking at a single building. So, split personalities occur in buildings too!

Without being tempted to wander across the park to the trained Hunting Birds exhibition, where we could have witnessed the mastery of man over his fellow creatures (why do such arcane practices still exist?) we headed out of the complex in search of a pub for lunch. Alas, the sole ATM in this sole-ATM town was out of action so it was onwards east for us…

… into the heart of South Moravia, a region in the Czech Republic whose fertile grounds produce much of the Republic’s wine – often from family-run cellars that can be seen built into the front yards of houses bunker-style. Czechs will tell you “There is Prague, and then there is the rest of the Republic”, however most Czechs who are from this area will proudly announce “I’m from Moravia” or “All good Czechs come from Moravia”.

It is a lovely part of the world indeed. Traditional dress is worn not for the tourists but out of a deep connection with cultural tradition. Traditional dancing, crafts, arts and of course wine dominate the cultural landscape, which is in turn surrounded by grapevines, chalupas, garden huts, pastel-coloured low-set row houses and yet more UNESCO-listed heritage sites.

How we arrived in Strážnice, almost on the Slovak border, we have no idea, but it’s possible that the road which flows along the banks of the Morava River lulled us into a mesmerising state of tranquillity which refused to let us escape…

… until we realised it was 7:30pm and we hadn’t found a single hotel or pension that was open and with free rooms (you know, the ones that you don’t pay for?!). With the holiday weekend in town we were dumbfounded at one hotel which was empty and had a sign on the front door which read “Closed on Saturday and Sunday for technical problems”. That’s a good one!

With no luck in Strážnice we passed through several charming but eerily ghost towns – some of them with huge yet ancient town halls, churches or breweries that had fallen into disrepair without financial investment to keep them going (there are breweries in most small towns!).

The gods of good fortune smiled upon us when we worked out their coded messages to try our luck in Uherské Hradiště to the north. We found a hotel – converted from a nightclub – but had to wait 10 minutes for owner to arrive and unlock the whole place. Except for another young couple also waiting on the doorstep we were the only ones in the whole building, which strangely still had the smell of old cigarette smoke (and those of you who have worked in a bar before would know what it’s like to arrive the next day and smell the smoke reeking out of the carpet!). A few minutes later we heard a knock at our door and the young couple – both of them from this town – introduced themselves and wondered if we’d like to hit the town with them.

Ajda and Vít were the kind of hosts you want to meet in every town you’re a stranger in. Young, energetic and citizens of the world, they took us through the immaculately clean and restored old town to possibly the best pizza we’ve ever had – and that’s a call and a half! Over a couple of drinks they told us that they’ve been together for 3 years and once a month they have “their” weekend, where they do something special together. This weekend they found themselves in a hotel room next to us. Pity!

Ajda is an ethnology student and Vít transforms from young student by day into a co-owner of a corporate branding business by night. He took us to the local business centre where he proudly showed us his suite of offices, meeting rooms and reception area which displays some modern paintings he’s tried his hand at. We put his age at about 22 and are still in awe at his determination, down-to-earthness and overall Good Guy nature. The fact that he’s got people in Prague and China working for him from their homes and offices is testament to fact that entrepreneurship is alive in this part of the world.

After a few beers in Bar Nemo (complete with a fake submarine suspended from the ceiling!) which Vít insisted on paying for, we called it a night at 1:30am and headed back to the hotel, ready for a day of pomlazka-whipping spectating. Vít told us that on this night some men spend half the night in bars before going straight out to play at 5am with their whips, going from door to door to pay visits on unsuspecting womenfolk who, quite understandably, often stay indoors all day on Easter Monday.

It was no surprise the next day that the main square was totally empty – not a woman in sight – but for a few bands of men who were wandering about cradling their pomlazkas, which ranged from decorative to downright primitive (branches that had been snapped off trees with leaves still intact!).

As we drove home towards Prague, via Brno, we glanced back at our meticulously woven pomlazka lying across the back seat of the car and wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into.

Cultural confusion in a corner of Europe - Dolomiti/Austrian Alps

maria_brett — Mon, 2 Apr 2007 10:45:00 GMT

"What is it?" we asked Pavel. "Slivovice, go ahead, take a swig" and with that, Maria had the hipflask to her lips quicker than you could ask what the hell this potent smelling stuff was. Luckily we'd tasted this wonderful Czech liqueur before - made from plums - and grown to look forward to its crisp taste on the tongue and deeeeep, deeeeep afterburn as it travels down your insides and awakens the fire that lurks within.

We'd signed up to a Czech-run ski trip in the Dolomiti/Austrian Alps with Pavel and Pavlina, friends of ours and two of the nicest Czechs you could ever hope to meet. (And we're only saying this because we know they'll check this out to see if we've embarrassed them with the photos we've put up of them. Just kidding, guys!). Maria met Pavlina when she taught her as an English student but the relationship quickly became one of friendship more than teacher-student. And the fact that Pavel is a witty, intelligent archaeologist and thoroughly charming bloke quickly extended the circle to include the guys (not that I could claim ownership to any of these qualities!). Oh, and their English skills put us completely to shame, especially when we realise that between them they speak Czech, English, German and Italian - especially given that Pavel has spent many a day digging in archaeological trenches beneath the fearsome Mt Vesuvius at Pompeii in Italy, slowly uncovering one of the world's best-kept ruins.

Boarding the bus in Prague that would deliver us overnight directly into the heart of the Alps, we could only begin our trip with a slug of slivovice to mark 5 days of alpine adventure. Waking up several hours later with the early morning light bathing the surrounding peaks in a gorgeous pink-white dawn, we knew we'd arrived in Italy but didn't remember being woken up to produce our passports at the Czech-Austrian border. "The driver told them we were all Czechs" someone said. Anything for convenience, we supposed. We were now in the land of oom-pah-pah, apple strudel, huge schnitzels, “Gruß Gott!” welcomes and big juicy sausages (even though you can find all but the oom-pah-pah in the Czech Republic).

Day one of four was going to be at Sillian, a resort in Austria with a peak of about 2400m. Our optimism was dashed when we got off the coach in the early morning only to be greeted by a cloudless blue sky and a balmy spring air. Nothing to complain about any other day of the year, except the fact that there was absolutely no snow in sight. What had we signed up for?! There were grass, flowers and cycling tracks where the home run from the mountain to the carpark should have been. However we were assured that once we take the cable car up to the top there’d be a white winter wonderland waiting for us to play in.

And there was. What a difference a couple of hundred metres makes! Instantly we recalled a recent finding that ski resorts the world over are facing dire reductions in snow cover as a result of warming temperatures, and resorts under 1500m would have to find alternative forms of attractions if they want to keep their dollars in the black – and traditional skiing activities would become secondary to other new pursuits like cycling, trekking, backgammon, knitting etc.

We found our snowlegs – and tasted the snow a few times when we hit it – and felt like pigs in sh… you know it!

After a day’s skiing, sweating, drinking beer and traveling overnight we were definitely a right sight and smell when we all boarded the bus again to make our way to our resting place for four days. Just think: body odour, smelly socks, unbrushed teeth, wet gloves (something about that smell that I’ll never get used to!) and all manner of burped-up remnants of lunch, brekky and last night’s fast food that we all grabbed at fastfood petrol stations on the way here. Nice!

After a compulsory snooze we found ourselves in a gorgeous little pension, recently renovated, in the small town of Natz which perched quietly atop a small hill at the bottom of a valley in the Dolomiti …“Hang on, Dolomiti? But that’s in Italy. We’re in Austria, aren’t we?” “No, we crossed the border shortly after leaving Sillian”. “But we didn’t have our passports checked”. “Yeah, the driver said….”. You know the rest.

It was also known as Naz in Italian and we would soon find out that we were in a very peculiar cultural corner of Europe. For we were officially in Italy, yet it seemed we were for all intents and purposes still in Austria: buildings were emblazoned with names like “Mittel Schüle” and “Gäste Hütte” and only official buildings like the post office had the infamous “PosteItaliane” signage on them. As a compromise, street names and town signs like Natz/Naz had the schizophrenic pleasure of announcing themselves by both names.

Day two greeted us with a short drive to Plose, a well-groomed resort at the top of a mighty valley which opened up below us and then reared up again on the other side at eye level. All day when we weren’t testing the aerodynamics of our gear or plopping into a rest hut for a Beck’s or knuckle of pork (yum!) we gazed at the paragliders who took to the skies like ducklings to water and spent most of the day drifting high above the valley floor in thermal currents that definitely had a springy lift in them. Luckily the home run to the carpark was also well groomed with snow that had been pushed down the mountain overnight, and the couple of runs we had were full of long turns and of course the advertising head plant that you’ll see in our photos.

A visit to Brixen/Bressanone was a perfect “après ski” where we spent an hour wandering inside this walled city that was both Italian and, you guessed it, Austrian in equal measures. Walking into a shop we’d announce “bongiorno!” and be welcomed with “Gruß Gott!” or vice versa. Only in the pizzeria and the gelataria did we have more of a clue, but we wouldn’t have been surprised if we got it wrong there too. Our bus visited Brixen for its legendary place in Czech political history – it’s where an infamous Czech writer, poet, journalist and critic, Karel Havlíček Borovský, spent four years in exile unable to return to his homeland. When he finally did he learned that his wife had died only a few days earlier. While Maria and I couldn’t connect with Brixen’s connection with a tragic event in history, we certainly felt its life and charm – a small town full of fashionistas, colour, and beautiful surroundings.

Day three saw us travelling to Kronplatz, a resort in the Dolomiti that spans several peaks and offers the discerning skier more runs than you could possibly experience. At times we were certainly the only skiers plying our turns on its wide runs and narrow lanes through the European forests. Another day of sun, laughs, suncream, Beck’s and… well it’s all starting to sound the same as the other days!

Fuelled by three wonderful days of action unmarred by any inclement weather or injury, we popped open a bottle of grappa that we’d sourced in town, and toasted our good time and equally good luck. Makes you sick, really, doesn’t it!

Day four was certainly an experience to savour til the end. We packed our things up and left Natz for the last time as we headed across into Austria (no passport control either) and high into a glacier called Stubaier, where you can ski even in the summer if you’re that way inclined. With 3000m peaks surrounding us all day it was easy to feel like we were in another world, on another planet or even on the moon – so dwarfed were we by these monstrous peaks. Hey, it’s nice to be a Lemming for a day! The highlight was setting off on the 13km home run from high up in the glacier to the carpark far below – which twisted, turned and plunged through valleys and around peaks until it finally spat us out into civilisation at the rear of the diesel fume-belching coaches waiting to pluck us up and take us back to Prague at the end of a couldn’t-have-been-more-successful ski trip.

Crossing back into the Czech Republic we were awake this time, passports ready, but the words of the bus driver to the border guards were unmistakeable “Česky!” he said, “They’re all Czechs”, and he was waved through.

Pavlina turned to us and smiled, “you’re both now officially Czech”.

East Meets West & West Eats Meat in Berlin

maria_brett — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 19:32:00 GMT

"Brett and Maria, your work visa's ready for collection. Oh, but there's one more thing - you have to travel to Berlin to get it and then have it stamped by the border guards on your return to the Czech Republic. Unfortunately there's no way round this".

This translated to meeting 'a guy called Premysl' downstairs at Nadrazi Holesovice metro station at 5:00am so that he could drive us 4 1/2 hours to the Czech consulate in Berlin, and then back again in time for dessert. Only this screamed 'Opportunity' in capital letters to see a bit of Berlin for a long weekend (it was conveniently Friday, after all!) and we told our friendly Premysl we'd only need his services one-way. Actually, we would've been idiots not to. Berlin is a city that can't be done in a toilet stop. We knew we'd need a month to get into the grit of it, but at least a long weekend would be a decent nudge to give us half a chance to taste the sights and... you know the deal.

We must've cashed our standing-in-line-for-hours-at-government-offices credits on this trip because the visa thing was done in a jiffy, letting us loose on the streets by about 11am, with two and a half days of open-ended exploration ahead. Knowing that Berlin had so much to offer we felt like kids in a candy store at an amusement park on the night before Christmas. It was going to be an ecclectically cultural mix of Berlin Wall and communist history, museums, galleries, shopping, people watching, and generally getting lost in the modern suburbs that have sprung into life around this bustling and multicultural town.

With the Checkpoint Charlie site out of the way (this was the third checkpoint "C" in the Wall that kept the Americans away from the Russians and vice versa), we gravitated towards Prenzlauer Berg for most of the weekend - an area in the N/E of Berlin filled with cafes, restaurants, modern art galleries, street art (eg guys taking photos of apple cores on their mobile phones - see photo), grit, breweries-cum-theatres and cinemas, sunday markets, beautiful people, and of course beautiful people (guess who!) watching the beautiful people. It was Newton and Surry Hills all mixed into one.

We had a truly sobering experience when we visited the Documentation Centre at Bernauer Strasse, which provides an in-depth pictorial account of the lead-up to the construction of the Wall and the propaganda used to convince East Germans of its merit (presumably to stop the workforce leaving in droves to take advantage of better opportunities in the freer market of West Berlin). Climbing up about 4 flights of stairs onto the roof of the centre we peered out over intact sections of the wall with the "Death Strip" between east and west still clearly visible. A must see for any person visiting Berlin, although truly unbelievable that this took place in our recent lifetime.

Berlin's full of historic and tragic past - with museums and monuments every other block and sometimes taking up the full block itself, bristling side by side with a modern multicultural vibrance, and quite possibly the best Turkish restaurant in the region - and cheap too! (See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Memorial_to_the_Murdered_Jews_of_Europe)

We found a gorgeous little unnamed bar for a late-night glass of red, with fresh tulips placed thoughtfully on every table. Ahhh, the perfect cruisy wind-down from a busy day of non-stop wall chasing and trekking 10s of ks around town. This area's apparently full of unauthorised bars - here one minute and gone the next. We could easily spend weekend after weekend checking out these little holes-in-the-walls and not even get close to seeing all of them.

On our way back home to Prague the next day on the train we found ourselves sharing a cabin with a young Czech couple who had spent a week in Berlin doing the cultural thing, checking out the museums and galleries. They told us about this cute little unnamed bar in Prenzlauer Berg with nice tulips on the table. "Hang on, let us show you the picture we took", they said. Instantly we found ourselves gazing back at the exact same tulip, and suddenly felt more connected to the 6 billion other people in the world.

Oddities and curiosities of life in the Czech Republic - Part II

maria_brett — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 18:20:00 GMT

Imagine what you know about communism. Then try to think of the opposite. In the past 17 years Czechs have not only adopted free-market concepts but they also go nuts for the stuff.

Communism was abolished following the Velvet Revolution of 1989 – so called because of the relatively peaceful manner in which university students and academics successfully campaigned to end the communist regime. You could say that the fall of the Berlin wall had a flow-on effect. Czechoslovakia later divided into the Czech and Slovak republics in 1993.

Most Praguers tell us “There is Prague, and then there is the rest of the republic”. We haven’t seen most of the Republic but it’s clear that communistic principles would have very little support amongst Praguers, who enjoy all the mod cons found anywhere in the rest of the West, including:

* an endless supply of flash late-model Ferraris, Porsches, countless Hummers, and even the odd Lamborghini here and there. It seems Praguers (of the ‘illegitimate’ kind. If we go missing after posting this, mum/dad, we love you) like to drive cars that promise to knock your lights out should you dare step off the footpath.

When Maria asked one of her students why Czechs drive so dangerously he told her “we sit in our offices all day and all week, so we like to just get in our cars and get the adrenaline going”. Great news for pedestrians! Last week from my tram window I saw an old lady who had been literally squashed to her fateful end by a truck, and she had been crossing at a zebra crossing. It was a vivid reminder to cross the road carefully (and for Aussies to look left first, not right!) and to appreciate every minute we have on this Earth with our family and friends.

* hypermarkets and shopping centres like Tesco that are open until 11pm even on weekends. Staff at Tesco use rollerblades to get around the super-stores, very impressively demonstrating their skills weaving in and out of queuing customers. Public liability – what’s that?!

Unfortunately with the hypermarkets also comes hyper trolley rage. We find that people haven’t realised that road rules directly apply to shopping trolley driving (ie, stick to the right). We’ve witnessed double- and triple-parking; speeding; overtaking 3-wide; not watching while driving; abandoning the trolley; trolley rage (ie shouting of abuse, sticking the finger up, even approaching someone else’s trolley) and even collisions. The strongest personalities – usually the old women – win out. We stick to the aisle sidewalks and use a basket instead. Maria- I even had someone put something in my trolley because, I’m presuming, they couldn’t be bothered returning it to its rightful home on the shelf! I had no time to react as I was completely flabbergasted at what I had just witnessed, doing a double take and then a triple take. The person continued with his shopping.

* fashion to die for and die in (see our entry under “Fashion Crimes”)

* cutting-edge modern telecommunications (except in one little area in Prague where we just happen to live!!! Murphy’s Law I say, hence, no internet at home) – free Wi-Fi in any self-respecting trendy café (there’s no shortage of these), and a mobile penetration rate of more than 100% (at least one sim card per person, based on the total population of approximately 10 million).

The Czech Republic’s military history still has an imprint on Prague today. I nearly dove for cover head first into the nearest rubbish bin when I heard my first air raid siren fire up across town. Looking around nervously I saw that little old ladies carried on their conversations and the police on patrol continued to smoke their cigarettes. Thinking there must be an explanation for this indifferent behaviour I found out later that this drill happens every Wednesday at noon – giving me the chance to gawk at all the tourists having their turn ducking for the nearest rubbish bin!

Queuing up is a strange phenomenon, but a reminder of communist times when queuing for hours was the norm. For us the thought of standing in a line of 40-50 people in front of a sole metro ticket office window while 4 others remain closed is ludicrous, and worthy of loud complaining. Here it doesn’t raise a single Czech eyebrow. We’re toughing up – and carry a spare set of specs with us to put on in these emergencies when we need to see things through Czech eyes. Maria – This phenomenon seems to be getting worse. A bank with only one teller – EVER! A supermarket with 15 registers yet only three working at one time, hence, the line up of 20 people at one register.

It’s even funnier when the longer-than-usual escalators down to the metro system stop working; people just stand on their step and wait for it to start moving again. (Tourists usually sit down to enjoy the long rides up or down from far beneath the earth’s surface). Be warned, however, as the escalators move so quickly that you need a long run-up to mount and dismount safely.

We were shocked to hear that a popular communist party is making a comeback in the far east of the Republic where thousands of mining jobs have been taken away and unemployment is on the rise. Apparently the locals would prefer a system of government that assures income, reasonable social conditions, education, health and other fundamental necessities. Maria – Brett you make it sound appealing! I’m sold!

We enjoy asking students what they remember from the communist times. As we teach in businesses most students are in their early to late twenties and thirties. One character was telling me one morning at 7:30am about his memorable experience of trying Western chocolate for the first time. Having put up for his whole teenage years with chocolate made by the state-owned company, he proudly recalled that he had a “mini orgasm” the first time he tried smarties.

Shortly after moving in we agreed to meet our landlord at our apartment at a particular time so that he could deliver some furniture. When we arrived home we found his shoes in the hallway, his coat hanging on the rack and him in the living room on all fours assembling a kitchen table. While Maria and I looked on in dumbstruck amazement, trying to find the right way to say “what the %$# are you doing in our apartment”, he found the words to ask me for private English tuition – every week, in our apartment.

Hmmmm, let me see…. Letting your landlord come over once a week, to your house, for private tuition, and receive peanuts and a weekly inspection in return. I very quickly found the right words to convey “f*$# off”. When I asked some students whether it’s always been common for landlords to do this, they simply reminded me that landlords have only existed here for the past 17 years – they didn’t exist during communist times so the concept is relatively new. It’s all clear now!

Beer, Politics, Beer

Walking home one night we noticed a man a few paces ahead of us walking down the street with a pint in his hand – full of beer fresh from the keg. We worked out that he must’ve walked up to the pub on the corner, topped his beer up from the tap to then head home to down it in front of the telly. Hang on, this is the land whose synonym is “beer” so I guess that does make sense.

Thank God the restrictive licensing laws of Oz haven’t reached this far yet. Actually, you can buy a beer anywhere, anytime, even at Macca’s or the large chainstore Tesco – there’s a section dedicated to hot meals and drinks you can buy and have on the spot. It’s quite a sight to see older men strolling around the store with a plastic schooey of beer in hand as their wives dart around the store committing trolley rage. If Tesco installed a big screen tv and broadcasted the football or ice hockey this would certainly be the equivalent of the “hubby chairs” you can find in clothes or shoe shops.

Politics goes literally hand-in-hand with beer here. As at the end of December the Czech Government is currently not yet “formed”. Following general elections in June when members were elected to their seats by their electorates, there were as many seats held by the opposition as the ruling party (ie, 100 on each side). This has led in effect to a deadlock, grinding the effective function of the government to a halt.

What is needed is one member to basically swap sides to give the ruling party the majority number of seats (eg 101-99). This is a bizarre requirement for a democratic government because the member who crosses over would most likely abandon their constituency in doing so.

So what’s this got to do with beer? It is now December and the government still hasn’t formed – so of course every second newspaper and billboard is somehow related to this stalemate. And, yes, the Czechs are as over it as we are. To try to encourage Czechs to stay interested in politics election campaign booths have even resorted to giving out free beer instead of the usual two-tone flyer. I still don’t know what party I voted for!

Following recent newspapers reports on EU regulations that would push the price of beer up, every second word on the street was “mutiny” or “suicide” or “lost their mind” (according to our, ahem, advanced Czech!). When you can buy a pint of beer for less than an aussie dollar you realise this stuff’s more than in the local blood – it’s cheaper than water! Of course when Finland successfully rallied with the Czech Republic against these proposals the Czech Finance Minister presented his Finnish counterpart with …. a keg of beer – and this made front page news.

What will happen in Part III?

Will we witness Brett gathering enough courage to go for a mullet haircut after 5 months of avoiding the shears? Will Maria commit the ultimate act of shopping rage and exact revenge on all the unwitting trolley ragers? Or will we finally step in one of the many steaming, smouldering dog poops that line our footpaths like rosepetals laid out for a maharaja's princess... Only time will tell. (And you can vote for your favourite ending - email us)

Winter Wonderland

maria_brett — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 12:34:00 GMT

Walking around Prague last week we were blessed with crisp 14 degree days, gorgeous blue skies, clean air and miniskirts. Wait a minute! What?! Miniskirts? Someone tell me what month it is again? January. Oh ok, summertime. That makes sense: Australian Open, 40 degree days, fresh fish ‘n’ chips on the beach, sticky humidity, beers ‘n’ barbie’s and Triple J’s Hottest One Hundred blaring on someone’s radio in the backyard, lazy lethargic days, long balmy nights, festivals…. Hang on….. What’s that? Oh, apparently it’s actually winter. (Can someone check that, please?) We have to take into account the whole other-side-of-the-world thing. We’re not in the Southern Hemisphere anymore, Toto.

The full-body all-weather feather down jackets were put away last week after a false start to the winter a couple of weeks ago, replaced by as much clothing that would reveal as little flesh. Miniskirts – no, actually microskirts – in the middle of what should-be Central European winter. This is hardcore evidence that global warming is here, folks. (Maria: Can I just add that even when it has been 5 degrees the women were still wearing their micro-mini skirts! I think I am the most covered woman in Prague with about 10 layers on at least! Comfort over fashion ladies!)

The visual feast was accompanied by a soundtrack played mostly by our students that went something like “This winter is soooo unusual. There’s no snow, and it looks like winter won’t come at all. We’re so depressed. We have cottages (and most Czechs have access to some kind of family cottage) and there’s no point going there unless there’s snow.” I started putting it to students that the Czechs only tell us that the temperature can get down to minus 20 during winter just so they can have Prague to themselves for a month or two without tourists – and of course foreign teachers from downunda who run for cover at the mention of “minus something”.

Every day we’d find photos in the daily street press of whole beds of flowers that were actually flowering. Never mind the fact that they should’ve been sleeping for at least another three months. And ski resorts with barely a pinch of snow cover – and these were supposed to be hosting championship cross-country skiing competitions. One of my lawyer students was disheartened when he realised he wouldn’t be getting his cross-country skis out, for at least another weekend. We’ve said before that the Czechs are a sporty bunch, and this is true in all seasons, as long as there’s snow.

But it would last as briefly as the miniskirts were long. By Tuesday the first snowflakes began to fall from…. well, nowhere. You looked up and there they were. Actually if you looked up you copped an eyeful of snowflake. What surprised me was the fact that it didn’t last only a couple of seconds – like the snow that you see when you change between channels on the television – but went on for hours, and hours, and… well everything was bloody white and cold the next day. Within a few days the mercury dropped from 14 to -5. Forecasters (who had been predicting minus temperatures for months now) began confidently predicting we’d be getting -13 by the end of the week.

For all the complaining that we heard during the “where’s the snow” time, it was odd to turn to the papers again and discover that one of the most used words to describe the sudden downfall was ‘kalamita’. Why was the snow now a calamity? Weren’t people jumping for joy? We did a quick vox pop on the streets and found out that, yes, everyone was happy. If we weren’t convinced we only needed to look at our attendance records and discover that about 20% of our students had actually taken off for the weekend to go skiing, hiking, ice sculpting, igloo building or trekking to the North Pole with a team of trained Huskies (it’s a national sport here).

Instead we turned to the picture page again and found that ‘kalamita’ referred to the downright chaos that ensued across this part of Europe after the snow fell quicker than the snow-clearing teams (in their modern machines) could clear the roads of the stuff. As a result, semi-trailers jacknifed in the middle of the night on highways that serve as important arteries through much of Central Europe, trams couldn’t deliver people to work (see our comments on the efficient transport system in Prague – it’s amazing!), people in their cars were driving as usual. That is, as if they were racing in a Formula One race with pedal to the metal but coming to a halt as soon as they hit another car. And it was just downright cold and slushy outside.

A whole new world of winter living suddenly opened up to us. People, young and the very old, came out onto the streets carrying huge snow shovels and began immediately carving out paths between door and tram stop for all the busy worker ants to follow on their way into town. Huge vehicles with flashing orange lights and attached snowploughs would groom street after street, spraying a fine layer of salt over the ground as they passed. Within 24 hours, 2800 tonnes of salt had been sprayed over Prague. Of course the melting snow caused havoc with crashing cars and off-balance pedestrians, and of course their designer shoes which were now encased in multiple layers of dirty, slushy melting snow.

We quickly discovered our talent for skidding along sheets of ice without proper skates, and the fact that snow just doesn’t hermetically seal off all the thousands of dog presents that line footpaths all over Prague. Not even a patch of brown coloured snow would appear to alert the would-be poo-stepper-in-erer that he or she is approaching an impending dog deposit bomb.

All in all, the falling temperatures haven’t decreased our spirits. If anything we’re renewed by this magical fairytale that’s playing itself out right outside our window in real-time and we are waiting to see who wins our bet of being the first to slip on the ice and fall on their bum. Bonus points for landing on brown snow, half a point for yellow!

(Maria: Given that I’ve just bought a pair of super grip boots, Brett’s on his way to losing and the odds are 2-5 in favour of him falling first).

With almost every news broadcast and headline increasingly reminding us of the stark realities we face as a result of global warming, it’s nice to see that the world has remembered how to cool itself down again. Interestingly, after an unusually warm start to the winter we discovered that the hottest recorded temperature for this time of year was in 1834 – a balmy 13.3 degrees. Could we just be witnessing the natural fluctuations of our Earth’s weather systems, or are we staring Global Warming right in the deadly eye?

As the snow continues to fall outside we’re happy to tune out of this debate for now as we go back to steaming mugs of hot Milo and Anzac biscuits.

Happy New Year - 2007!

maria_brett — Mon, 1 Jan 2007 14:49:00 GMT

We would like to wish everyone a happy new year (or 'stastne novy rok'). May all your dreams come true in 2007 and beyond.

We look forward to seeing many or all of you either in this part of the world or back at home in Australia - sometime!

x Maria and Brett

1 January, 2007, Prague

In search of a white Xmas - Pt II

maria_brett — Wed, 27 Dec 2006 13:48:00 GMT

Slovenia welcomed us back for the second time with open arms. Or rather, Maria’s cousin Gregor and his girlfriend Anja did this on behalf of the city when we arrived in Ljubljana. The town mayor was probably called away unexpectedly to attend to some urgent matter or something…

We stopped by this gorgeous land of a mere 2 million in August on our way from Croatia to Italy on the premise that we should visit Maria’s relatives there. Having had the time of our lives then, due to both the warmth of the family and the breathtaking scenery, it was a no-issue decision to return again to spend Christmas there.

Armed with a bottle of Czech Becherovka – a liquor that has been brewed from various spices for over 200 years and is in fact more an export of national Czech identity than economic commodity – and a couple of gifts from the land of Oz, we headed to Gregor’s home town in Vipava, a small village nestled deep in the chasm formed by the Vipava Valley which runs from the heights of the Slovenian alps towards the warm currents of the 14km-long Slovenian coast about 40km away. It is this unique geography and the fact that a fast-flowing freshwater spring surfaces from the mountains directly in the middle of the village that gives the place a head start in the production of fine wine.

Oh, and the fact that warm air rising from the sea meets chilly air from the alps directly at this location means that wind speeds can reach 180km an hour, causing all residents to strategically place large stones all over their roof tiles to prevent them from being ripped off.

So here we were, a couple of Aussies arriving in Slovenia laden with gifts ready to celebrate Christmas as we knew it. Reaching Vipava just in time for Christmas Eve celebrations we quickly found out that all the Christmas gift-giving had already taken place back on 6 December, St Nicholas’ Day, which was also celebrated in the Czech Republic. What we experienced instead was a wonderful time where immediate family gathered at the family home on Christmas Eve to decorate the Christmas tree and dine together on traditional foods and the company of each other.

What would a Christmas in Slovenia be without the ‘jaslice’ (yarz-lit-se)? You’ve probably heard of or seen a nativity scene before – plastic animals and figures of baby Jesus and Joseph and Mary, all caught in frozen action under a shelter or barn made of Paddle Pop sticks or twigs from the garden. The jaslice is this and so much more. Without notice a team of gents were dispatched into the wintry night to gather baskets full of large rocks and live moss to then build a scaled countryside setting that would nearly fill the size of a kitchen table – no kidding! This countryside would later see flocks of sheep, shepherds, farm boys and rivers and bridges all existing in harmony, leading to the central theme that is the traditional nativity.

But in so many jaslices the nativity was relegated to a minor detail. At a neighbour’s house we were invited to his back porch only to find it completely taken over by a 20^th century nativity scene: the sacred scene of the nativity was hidden somewhere inside a replica of a modern hotel beside a modern 4-lane roadbridge, over which cars and trucks were obviously heading somewhere in peak hour, unaware of the baby Jesus in room 404, and not a single pot plant on the porch was left virgin by a flock of sheep or a gathering of shepherds…

It didn’t stop there. The next day we headed to one of Slovenia’s premier tourist attractions: Postojnska Jama (caves), one of the most impressive naturally occurring phenomena we’d ever seen. If you’ve been to Jenolan Caves you’d know the difference between stalagmites and stalactites (hint: the ones that hang down from the roof of the cave rhyme with “tights”). At the entrance we jumped on a cute little train that would meander deep into the caves. However only seconds after putting bum to wooden seat the train lurched into action Indiana Jones style (think Temple of Doom and you’re almost there) and plunged deep into darkness, around bends, through tunnels centimetres above our unprotected heads and through cavities that could best be described as ballrooms in parts (one was so huge and grand that it was actually lit by chandeliers) and Satan’s waiting room in others – with grotesquely beautiful ‘mite and ‘tite formations beyond description and depths so deep that they ended only in eery darkness.

And the jaslice? Yep, it was here too, more than 2km deep into the Earth’s crust. Only it was real live people, not plastic cereal-box figurines that made up the scene. After alighting from the Train of Death we would walk from cavern to cavern and be jolted to life with blaring music timed to the equally blaring of bright lights that would focus on a clutch of characters perched up high on some ledge, acting out a scene from the nativity. This would go on for a couple of ks, and if it weren’t for the comically overzealous snapping of cameras and gossiping of the Italian tour group that had synchronised their steps to ours, we would’ve certainly been completely taken by the sanctity of the message and be swept away to the heights of the ‘tites, or drawn down to the depths of the ‘mites – depending on whether we’d been good or bad of course!

After being jaslice’d out we relished in the opportunity to climb the mountain, in a heated car of course, to the top of the Vipava Valley to see villages locked in an alpine time of yesteryear. Here we climbed down into an ice cave – a natural cave from which large ice blocks had been carved out all year round in times before refrigeration – and visited Anja’s relatives who sat in their living room surrounded by possibly 100s of stuffed animals and reindeer antlers as if it’s the done thing all round the world, and watched as Anja’s aunt ladled milk fresh from the morning’s milking of their cow into our equally fresh coffees, before demonstrating the traditional art of patterned lace making which surprisingly is not fading away with the older generations but making a comeback with the young as they pride themselves on carrying on Slovene traditions.

After driving through wind gales, snow and icy roads to buy goats cheese from a man deep in the alpine mountains we headed home to more family gatherings and lots of stories of this land that, through all time, has managed to keep its Slovenian language, customs, culture and food and wine in tact in spite of occupation or influence by its Austrian, Hungarian, Italian and Croatian (and formerly Yugoslavian) neighbours. It gave us faith that globalisation wouldn’t homogenise the world but perhaps serve as a catalyst to proudly keep customary practices going – from generation to generation.

Hearing Maria’s 3 year old niece speak fluent Slovenian was testament to our wonder that, after so many cultural battles, Slovenia lives on in its young.

In search of a white Xmas - Pt I

maria_brett — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 13:44:00 GMT

A stop-off in wintry Vienna to liberate cafes of their delicious coffee and gluhwein stores of their fancily decorated mugs, followed by a festive season in Slovenia signposted by local wine, prosciutto, overly-generous local hospitality and nativity scenes in all sizes – from the miniature-under-the-Christmas-tree variety to the life-size-in-a-4km-long cave variety…

With the festive season rapidly approaching and no family in sight to celebrate with (except for a bunch of newfound Czech friends – our North American expat friends had already jumped 7 hours across the Atlantic to be with their families), we booked ourselves some time off and a couple of rail tickets to Vienna and Ljubljana.

Arriving in a Vienna chilled at refrigerator temperature we kicked into gear and did what we do in every other new place – head straight for the hostel, dump our bags and head out to explore the town. Only this time we’d decided to doll ourselves up and head straight to the Vienna Opera House to see Romeo & Juliette (gotta love cheap tickets!). Although we couldn’t see past the balding guy’s head in front of us in our little booth high in the sky, we were there for the sound and to experience one of Vienna’s infamous institutions – and it didn’t disappoint. It had been a long time since we’d dressed up for anything and for a moment we were transported back to a time of flowing ballgowns, red velvet curtains, moustaches that curl up at the tips and espionage, murder and mystery… Wait, I think I’m talking about the movie The Illusionist which we saw recently.

Back into the cold night our bus climbed the hill to our hostel which overlooked the city from a nearby forest-covered hill. Actually it was the Wilhelminenberg Palace, in whose shadow the little hostel was nestled, that majestically kept watch over the city, but the hostel did its bit too – snowing even as we arrived home that night.

We marvelled at how spontaneously we would start singing our own soundtrack (and this has been going on for months now, depending on where we are). As we walked through the falling snow we instantly broke into our very own renditions of “walking in the winter wonderland” or even the “goodbye” song from The Sound of Music as we strolled through the courtyards of grand buildings in Vienna. Often the tunes appear subconsciously, turning into a whistle or a hum before metamorphosing into a karaoke (read: tone-deaf and drunken sounding) version before the stares from onlookers or fellow commuters in our carriage waken us (or Brett, mostly) from our spirit-channelling trance.

We did in Vienna what most tourists wouldn’t: marking our travels around the city not by famous sights, museums and tourist attractions, but by the many little old and new coffee shops that Vienna is famous for. After all, this place gives us the ‘Vienna’ coffee and Viener schnitzel, and the Café Melange which we mostly settled on – a cappuccino-styled flat white without the choc dusted froth. Outside it was cold and sometimes snowing so the interior backdrop that the cafes provided were perfect for relaxing and people-watching. Maria especially loved spotting girls that had succumbed to the latest fashion crime – eyes circled by deathly thick black eyeliner that would make Estee Lauder rub her hands with glee, and not just from the cold. It was 80s FlashBack City yet again, and we were again questioning our assumption that we weren’t the ones committing the crimes (even Brett too, as this crime wasn’t limited to girls only!). Incidentally the Czech tendency to go mullet had also trickled south, increasing our concerns that the Earth had stopped at some point and we forgot to get off.

After literally stumbling head first into the Vienna Christkindlmarkt, the Christmas markets of all markets in front of the statuesquely imposing Rathaus, or Town Hall, we knew we’d arrived at our destination – experiencing Christmas in one of Europe’s most romantically beautiful cities, and something we’d never in our right minds consider doing as a short holiday from Australia in the balmy summer. The aroma wafting through the air was spiced by the cinnamon, star anise, cardamom, clove and oranges that went into gluhwein cauldrons everywhere and fresh pastries, gingerbread, smoked meats and of course cigarettes that the total population of Europe was smoking at that moment. Adding another gluhwein mug to our collection (they don’t beat roadsigns for the ‘lifting’ factor but hey, at least they have a multi-use value – especially when we’re still furnishing our place in Prague!), we headed on to Slovenia with the completely relaxed satisfaction that we’d let this place open itself to us in measured tones in small relaxed doses and we hadn’t run ragged through tourist itineraries that would make Contiki jealous.

We can’t wait to return to have more of the same!

Oddities and curiosities of life in the Czech Republic - Part I

maria_brett — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 13:17:00 GMT

“Have you got any Kangaroos in your car?”

What do you say to a German border guard who’s holding your passport in one hand, an entry stamp with the other, smiling like a half-cut madman waiting for your response?

Sometimes you just have to take your chances and confess that you’re a professional ‘roo breeder – and we had a whole herd of them in the boot of the Smart car we’d hired for the weekend.

Luckily he was itching for a laugh that afternoon, and he stamped us through, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to tell you all about the quirky things we’ve experienced since arriving in the Czech Republic 3 months ago.

Dive with us into a world of army fashion, fragrant body odour, landlords who let themselves in, air-raid sirens and the ever friendly nature of Czech people. We bet you’ll never want to leave.

Planes, Trains and …. Metros and Trams

The public transport (PT) here is second to none: you can get on and off a bus, tram or metro everywhere; it runs often – even in the middle of night; and it’s on-time. Actually, we don’t even know if the latter part is true because we’ve rarely needed to look at a timetable. It is not uncommon that if you miss a metro or tram, the next one will arrive about 1 to 3 minutes later. All this for about $AU27 per month – bargain! (Unless you’re on the Czech Korun, that is. After the first month it was no longer a bargain for us!) You will NEVER see an article or letter in the newspaper complaining about the public transport. Strange, isn’t it?

Peeking into the buses, trams and metros there’s a hive of activity going on in there…

The buses are usually equipped with about 4 or 5 doors that can load about 100 people simultaneously in about 60 seconds – the bus barely stops at all. It comes on time, picks the passengers up and then goes. There is no need to wave the bus down either as the buses stop at every stop. So if you are glued to the latest New Idea, rest assured that you will never miss your bus. However, this does not apply to the metro. See below.

Boarding a full bus with arms full of groceries (yes in the frenzied sub-minute it takes!), it’s quite common for an older sitting passenger to insist that you put your groceries on their lap, distributing the comfort of riding a bus amongst other passengers who don’t have a seat. This has happened to both of us on separate occasions so we know it’s not just a case of an old man trying to win the heart of a younger woman (Maria: This does not apply to good looking older men!). Actually, when it happened to me I do recall the sparkle in the old man’s eyes…

The life of a pedestrian on a street in Prague is a short-lived one – you’re bound to suffer a near-death experience nearly every time you step off the footpath to cross the street.

This is in stark contrast to what we experienced in Zurich, where drivers with hawk-eye vision will jump on their brakes from 500m away if they even suspect you’re standing next to a pedestrian crossing, burning a set of tyres in the process. Sometimes in Zurich we half expected drivers to stop their cars, pull out a rolled up red carpet from their boots and roll it out in front of you to walk over – that was the level of courtesy, or punitive nature of the penalties for not stopping. This concept has yet to catch on in Prague, or the rest of Central and Eastern Europe for that matter.

Ride the PT and you’ll likely be sitting next to a well-behaved dog. Apparently 1 in 3 Praguers own a dog, and when you consider that most live in apartment complexes this is a strange phenomenon. Some sections of trains are dedicated solely to dogs and their two-legged friends. Actually, it isn’t uncommon to find yourself sitting next to cats, rabbits, rats, ferrets or guinea pigs or a cross-breed of both (we’re still not sure!) and even…. bats. No exaggeration either!

We’re constantly astounded by the helpfulness of people here – if only we could bottle the spirit and bring it home with us: people literally fall over each other to assist the elderly, mothers with prams, people with impaired vision and other physical disabilities.

Maria: When I saw a couple of guys carry a woman with a physical disability down the escalators, I automatically assumed that they were her friends. When I passed them two steps at a time (I was in a rush! I had no time to help the needy at this time) I noticed that they were just helping her get down the escalator and that they weren’t friends at all. They left her at the bottom of the escalators and they went on their merry way. As I was waiting for the train the woman came in my direction. Even though I couldn’t understand her I heard the word ‘Pomoc’ which means ‘help’. The train approached and I pretended to be deaf (in a Chris Mac-inspired performance). Just kidding, I helped the young lass onto the train and felt a wonderful sense of tax deductible charity sweep over me.

Chivalry is well and truly alive here, with men vacating their seats for women of all ages. This gets a bit ridiculous sometimes when you try to squeeze onto a full tram or bus only to notice that men have clogged up the aisles next to empty seats. Come on!

Maria: Another moment of Czechness was when I was coming home on Thomas and a car had broken down on the tram line (Thomas is our friendly #23 tram. We’ve named the other local tram (#22) ‘enry in honour of Thomas & Friends). Instead of a moment of tram rage, the driver simply hopped out of his cabin and asked a couple of passengers to help. They did this without any hesitation, and within 2 minutes the car was moved, the driver and passengers were sitting back in their seats quietly without expecting any praise or medals of commendation and Thomas was rolling again.

One of the classic PT moments was when we were watching a woman with a small toddler who was fixated on an elderly man who boarded the bus with two huge baskets of red wine grapes, and had a distinctly sweet muscaty smell on his breath as he sat down next to me. While the bus bobbed along the road he held out his finger to amuse the little girl, who grabbed onto it and wouldn’t let go. She sat there, holding his finger as contentedly as another toddler might suck on their thumb. When the man held out both arms as if to say “give her to me, I’ll hold her for a while”, we thought he was mad but the woman promptly passed her daughter over as if she gives her girl to strangers all day long. The old man played and cooed with the girl for the rest of the trip and the mother’s face told us she hadn’t a care in the world. Clearly I was the mad one taking a photo of the scene. Perhaps this is a remnant of communist/socialist culture with the effect that everyone looks after each other.

One of the bizarrest moments was hearing someone’s ringtone play “Waltzing Matilda” on a bus, only to hear the guy answer with “Ano” (‘yes’) and have the whole conversation in Czech. Strange. Never got to the bottom of that one.

Something we’ll never get over is the stench that comes from some of the homeless that ride the PT – whether at 2am or early in the morning. You know it as soon as you step into a carriage that there is a homeless person inside.

The added bonus for morning commuters is the smell of alcohol that seeps through the pores and stale urine that comes from… somewhere. We’re slowly finding out that the smell is worse in winter because not only are the carriages heated, but the windows are also shut tight AND…. people think they can get away with not showering every day! We still can’t work out how someone can have a B.O. rating of 8 out of 10 at 7 in the morning. We’re on the verge of breaking the world record for holding our breath.

One of the nicest things you’ll experience on PT is people holding a metro door open for you if they see you running towards the train – and those doors are heavy! – without expecting a thankyou or even acknowledgment in return, and others pushing the ‘open’ button for you if they see you trying to get off through the crowded carriage. People actually care about each other.

Maria: A personal favourite, catching the public transport provides a great opportunity for not only people but fashion watching. It can be an absolute delight at 7 in the morning! See “Fashion Crimes” in Part Two (to come).

Friendly nature of Czechs

Czech people aren’t only friendly commuters, but they’re genuinely one of the nicest bunches of people in the world. Within the first week of teaching we’d been invited away to students’ chalupas, asked to play tennis (after the first lesson), invited skiing (which we’ll definitely take up!) and asked over to students’ houses to have dinner with them and their partners or families. Put simply, we feel fully embraced by the Czechs in our lives.

Recently our friend, Michaela invited us to have a traditional meal called Svickova with her grandmother and family. We learned that Svickova is the name of a very special sauce served with meat and homemade bread dumplings that must be homemade to be fully enjoyed – and it’s unlikely that two Svickovas would taste the same. One theory suggests that it’s so called because it’s traditionally eaten by candlelight (Svicka) and another theory is that it’s named after the cut of meat – sirloin. Either way – it’s delicious! After an afternoon full of homemade soup, svickova, dumplings and cakes we literally rolled all the way home!

One of the nicest aspects of Czech culture is the way that everyone greets each other, friends and strangers alike. Get in any lift and the other person will greet you with “dobry den” (good day), without exception. Even if you ride in silence, you’ll leave each other with “Na shledanou” (goodbye and see you again). Similarly, office workers leaving the building for the day will always say “na shledanou” to security guards that have now assumed their positions at the reception desk – often too lowly an effort to consider in other western countries. It’s nice to see that courtesy extends to all people here. Maria: Might I add that the men will ALWAYS hold the door for a woman and let the woman out first from a lift or room. Something I rarely experienced back home.

“No” means “yes”

When does no mean yes? Yes in Czech is ‘ano’, which is usually shortened to ‘no’ and causes confusion in more circumstances that we’d expected. For example, if you are asked whether you’d like cream with your hot chocolate, answering ‘No no no no!!’ enthusiastically several times (eg “give me cream and you’ll die”) translates to “yes, yes, yes!” and will usually ensure that you’ll get a double dose of the stuff.

It becomes more interesting on the phone where you can’t see the person on the other end. You ask, “Dobry den, mluviste anglicky?” (Good day, do you speak English?). What do you do when the response is a simple “no”? Is the person actually saying “yes, my friend, I do speak English. Now what can I do for you today?”, or are they saying “No. Now can I hang up now”? A couple of minutes of consulting our small phrasebook accompanied with enough hand gestures to give someone an epileptic fit usually gets us there – in most cases.

When a Czech wants to wholeheartedly tell you that they fully understand what you’re telling them during a conversation you’ll often be surprised to hear them say something that sounds like “Fuk yu” (translates to “oh really?”). It takes a while to get used to, especially when it sounds like they’re telling you where to go and smiling at you at the same time.

We knew that the word “jazy” has something to do with languages because language schools are often self-called jazykova skolas. But while shopping in the meat aisle we found out it also literally means tongue – this was the word on the label of the massive pig tongue, next to the fresh pigs hooves complete with nails, hair and the dirt from the Moravian countryside.

It’s Maria here: When I was quizzing a student about prepositions (do I sound like an English teacher yet?) I pointed to a poster showing a girl with a pierced tongue and asked “Where is the piercing?” He answered with “On…” and then pointed to his tongue. I encouraged him to go on, and he continued with “ahhhh…language”. I love these little teaching moments.

Food – a world of goulashes, dumplings and…. you’ll see!

What’s the first thing that comes to mind with the phrase “Russian Roulette”?

Probably nothing to do with food, however I unwittingly seem to play this game in restaurants all the time. Maria insists she has nothing to do with this game. Maria: Correct, and you will see why.

Ordering food at authentic Czech restaurants is always fun when the menu is only in Czech and the words have absolutely no resemblance to their English equivalents – oh, and of course when you’re the only person who speaks English.

During one of our first excursions I picked something called Baštỳřská roštĕná v trjobalu – vejce nakonec and it turned out to be a good old fashioned schnitty with rice for about $4.50. And boy was it delicious. Incidentally Maria ordered some kind of Chinese stir fry and ended up with … chopped schnitzel pieces cooked in stir fry sauces. Talk about production efficiency.

It was such a relief especially after doing the same thing in Italy and ending up with raw horsemeat on my plate – yes, horsemeat – yes, raw – presented like a huge slab of mincemeat you’d expect to see in a butcher’s display window. With even parsley as the garnish! Can you believe that somewhere in the world it’s actually ok to eat horsemeat?

It reminded me of a beef curry I’d ordered years earlier in a restaurant in Vietnam that really didn’t have the taste, complexion or texture of real beef. After later confiding in a local that I suspected I’d been ‘given’ dogmeat passed off as beef, I was told matter-of-factly that it is impossible to unknowingly eat dogmeat in Vietnam as it is considered such a delicacy there that you need to specifically order it.

More recently I’ve encountered a plateful of chopped kidneys in a thick urea-smelling Hungarian sauce (Mmmmm!) and different variations of a traditional soup called “Drust’kova” with spiced chopped gut the main ingredient. You can buy the – errr – meat in any supermarket, usually next to the pigs’ hooves. Maria: All the while I was happily eating my caesar salad or veal schnitzel.

Although we’ve had some authentic culinary surprises we have to say that the food here is world class, delicious, plentiful and well priced. That is, you can enjoy a three course meal including drinks for between AU$12 - $25, all served with Czech hospitality and the odd boiled potato on the side.

In our next update...

Look out for our road test of Czech pubs; observations of a land rapidly developing after years of communism; inside details of fashion crimes (how long have you got?); interesting teaching moments; and the subtle things that make up Czech life and love - through our eyes of course!

If we don't catch you before then, have a wonderful Christmas and New Year and may the ice-cream on your hot apple pie melt even quicker in the Aussie summer. Pray for snow for us!

Brett and Maria

Czech Republic - Return from the Ghetto!

maria_brett — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 02:11:00 GMT

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to pack up all your worldly possessions and head off to an unknown little country town in the middle of Central Europe for nine months? We did, but our wondering lasted all of 24 hours. Here’s our story……

Arriving in Prague on 1 September 2006 after a short flight from Stuttgart, we felt an instant connection with the place as soon as we hopped on the bus from the airport – it already felt like a second home. After a brief but wonderful weekend doing the touristy thing in Prague we headed off to become locals in the place we will now always remember as ‘The Ghetto’.

With lumps in our throats and arms ladled with all our worldly possessions we left on a rickety train to a place called Nymburk, passing through towns built around factories, timberyards and smokestacks. (Maria: At this point I was getting a little worried – how could I possibly live in a town full of hicks where the only culinary delight they had were potatoes served 57 different ways?! Meanwhile I could see the joy in Brett’s face as I knew he wanted to experience the true Czech lifestyle: The things a girl does for love. Brett would soon find out he got more than he bargained for). Nymburk appeared after all of 50 minutes’ travelling time. We hopped off with our heavy luggage in tow and made our way to the deserted parking lot.

Travel tip #1 – Beware that Central and Eastern European train stations are highly unlikely to have escalators, so the luggage you take with you will be the luggage you carry up and down many stairs. Oh and the trains are NEVER level with the platform so you will also need to lug your luggage on and off the trains. Needless to say our biceps and traps have become extremely toned.

Arriving at the time we had agreed with the school a few weeks earlier, no-one was there at the station to meet us. When we rang the school director from the station we obviously surprised her that we were in town, and she made it clear that this was an interruption to her Sunday afternoon. “We thought you decided to go to a different school because we haven’t heard from you for some time” (It was about a week and all plans had been set and reconfirmed). It was at this moment we had one of those thoughts where you know things are just not right but you tend to ignore it and think everything is fine. Come to think of it, this was the second such thought we’d had in as many minutes! The first time was arriving to a deserted parking lot with no one to greet us. Was it wrong for us to secretly expect a red carpet arrival!?

She reluctantly came and picked us up from the station and drove us across town (which took all of 3.257 minutes!), to the other side of the tracks and pulled into a carpark with the tracks on two sides and a graffiti-riddled Soviet-style apartment on another – obviously our new home for the next nine months. Luckily we already knew we were going to be living in one of these so-called ‘panelak’ buildings – very common in the Czech Republic, and they can be really quite nice and homely inside – so we were somewhat prepared for the concrete jungle lifestyle.

Reality Check #1 Maria: Ok, at this point I was scared but Brett was continuing to be optimistic about the situation and thought that the graffiti and the crack smoking 13 year old out the front added character and grit to the situation. I looked at Brett and my expression said it all…what had we gotten ourselves into?! We had reduced ourselves to white-trash living :(

But inside…. first we saw walls covered in all sorts of stains where the wallpaper wasn’t crumbling away, then our gaze moved to the floor where layers of dust and pubic hairs littered the floor which was stained with every fluid imaginable, then through to the main bedroom of this ‘furnished’ flat which consisted of a couch-like mattress thing that was more something that you’d let your dog sleep on – well it looked like a dog had slept there because of all the brown marks in the middle! We asked if this really was the bedroom (“where is the bed?”) and she pointed to it and said “there it is” and we said “but we’re a couple – this is obviously for one person only.” She then took us through to the living room (our eyes were closed by now!) and showed us the other “bed” which apparently we could just join together with the other bed thing to make a double. We’re still puzzled.

By this stage Maria’s tears were welling up like Warragamba Dam holding back a raging flood… and the director was on her hands and knees cleaning the floor or the sink or something (Maria: I could’ve killed her at this point), and that’s when we saw the tins of pineapple propping up each leg of a rickety old school desk that was supposedly the dining table. Maria came out of the bathroom and her face was white as a ghost. The bath was stained beyond human usage, and all the cornices in the bathroom and toilet room were lacquered with about 50 years of moisture and human… stuff, interlaced with pubic hairs and crumbs. As for the washing machine, it was filled with vile brown water which I refused to let Maria near, considering she was about to commit homicide.

“If you think of anything extra you’d like, write it down and we can see if we can get it here” was the director’s not-so-sincere response to Maria’s tears and my random switching on and opening up of things like doors and windows. I said “can you give us a double bed, a couch, maybe a proper table, something to clean this place with – like a broom or something?” “Oh, I meant things like some cups, or plates or cutlery because we have these extra things at our place”.

So, in a bit of a daze Maria and I agreed to take a walk through town, have a meal, get some fresh air, and see if our minds cooled down enough to make a rational decision. Our minds couldn’t cool so the rational decision was to leave – confirmed by checking out the local fair that happened to be on that day. We felt like we’d time-warped back onto the set of Deliverance, alongside Jon Voight. As some critics might have observed, we were “lost in a place where few are seen or ever seen again, only brutal inhabitants in an unforgiving and intimidating rural locale…”. Picture a Hicksville town fair, people wearing denim tracksuits, with men women and kids sporting the latest in mullet hairstyles. We were officially in fashion crime hell. We didn’t want to be part of this movie anymore so we decided to leave the next day.

Travel Tip #2 – If you find yourself in a place where time is stuck perpetually in the 80s, GET OUT! Trust your instincts because before long you to will end up sporting the latest mullet and double-denim tracksuit, and singing along to any song by Foreigner.

To get us through the night in the ghetto we set up a little camp on the floor of the living room and have a meal of crackers, cheese and ham that we’d bought from the supermarket, and of course a bottle of red wine – after sweeping all the pubic hairs into the other room and locking the door, just in case a breeze whipped through the place. It was late and we hadn’t even heard from the director to see if we were ok (she’d even seen Maria’s tears that afternoon). So we were excited to be leaving the next day, even if we didn’t have any jobs to go to.

Excited but clouded with a foreboding sense of apprehension we arrived back in Prague at about 4pm the next day, and still needed to find some accommodation for the night. We finally googled a site called Aussie Apartments in Prague (http://www.foxapartmentsprague.com/) and we called the number straight away. (Maria: I never thought I’d say this, but Thank God for expats!). Michael, who owns and runs about 9 apartments in Prague answered and asked if we had anywhere to stay for the night. He told us to make our way to a particular metro station where he’d meet us and take care of the rest.

Michael has been our saviour and we owe so much to him. He’s 52, a builder, and has been in Prague for 15 years, married to a Czech woman. He describes himself as a Basil Fawlty and the likeness in character couldn’t be more identical – except they don’t look anything alike. He’ll sit and chat with us in his reception area and after a few minutes he’ll remember something and say “oh shit, what time is it? …. Oh shit, I’ve gotta go, here are the keys to the office. Just hang out on the computer and use the internet as long as you like.” Very erratic but so funny to talk with – and genuinely interested in making sure things work out for us.

So we stayed there for a few nights, while searching high and low for English jobs and researching the work/residency visa situation. On the last day of our stay with Mike we still hadn’t found anywhere to go to after checking out and we also had lined up an interview for that afternoon. Mike could see we were in a bit of a panic so being the aussie saviour that he jacked his already furiously spinning brain cogs into top gear and found the perfect temporary accommodation for us. We are now living with Mike’s housekeeper Jaka (‘yar-ka’), who is just the sweetest of old ladies. Jaka is in her mid 60s with osteoarthritis.

Our fondest memory of Jaka will be the night we found her sitting in her dressing gown and fluffy slippers, rollers in hair, laughing hysterically at the TV. Between fits of hyperventilation she was gasping in Czech “Look! Look!”. We turned around to see what it was. She was pointing at the tv “Miss XXL Czech Republic! Miss XXL…!” It’s good to see that reality tv really is for everyone, and that Big is Beautiful in the Czech Republic – especially after the winner was able to skull 2 pints of beer in 1 sitting.

We will stay with Jaka for the next couple of weeks until we finalise details on a rental apartment we found yesterday. I think she is really enjoying the company (Maria: and Brett’s dinners) as are we, so we are happy to hang out with her for a little while longer. She only speaks Czech and a little German and Croatian, so conversing with her has mainly been all in my high school German and tidbits of Maria’s Croatian that she understands. Language barriers aside, we’ve had some great laughs and fascinating conversations about life and history in the Czech Republic.

In the last three weeks we have had some very memorable and wonderful experiences and have formed some amazing friendships already. Without these people we most definitely wouldn’t have stayed in Prague. We are two very blessed souls who cherish every moment, even the testing ones, and the people that cross our paths.

Prague is a WONDERFUL place!

Maria and Brett

24 September 2006

Look out for our next updates coming soon:

Navigating the minefield of foreign cuisine using a foreign menu – how to digest meals that really should belong only in hotdogs
More Travel Tips and Reality Checks (no’s 3 to 597)
Surviving the compounding effects of a tram full of deodorant-less passengers – how to rank the BO factor from 1 to 10 (with 11 being reserved for extreme cases)
How to successfully get your hair cut in the Czech Republic – don’t!
How to master the art of walking on cobble stones wearing high-heeled shoes/boots.
How to test your repertoire of 80’s music. (Walk into any shop in Prague and you will be tested, trust me).
Sticky Situations #1 – How to ring a landlord for an iron when you’ve rented a flat, it’s 10pm, you’ve got a job interview the next morning and you don’t know how to speak Czech.

The road to Prague

maria_brett — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 09:00:00 GMT

Hi all!

We've just returned to Stuttgart, Germany, after 6 or 7 weeks of travelling around Croatia, Slovenia and Italy - and a weekend in Zurich to wrap it all up... and boy do we have some stories for you!

We're off to Prague tomorrow (Friday, 1 Sep) for the weekend before making our way to a little speck on the Czech Republic map called Nymburk. This is where we'll settle into an apartment and teach english for the next little while. We're told there are two rooms in the apartment so we look forward to welcoming visitors!

We've added some more photos to show you what we've been up to - look for Amsterdam and a couple of albums from Croatia. We've still lots to upload from the rest of our trip - we'll upload them as soon as we work out an internet connection in Czech. It should be an exciting few weeks!

Stay safe and stay tuned. Thinking of you all and miss you lots.

Brett and Maria.

The High Life in Amsterdam

maria_brett — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 13:28:00 GMT

“What should we do with miles of boggy wasteland, covered by water?”

Someone answered that one in the late 1500s with the brilliant idea of damming the Amstel River, draining the lowlands of most of their water, and then building on this land reclaimed from the sea to give us the modern-day Amsterdam (from ‘Amstel Dam’).

With about 20% of the Netherlands below sea-level the legacy of the Amstel dam has given us a vibrantly fascinating city of canals and sinking buildings where, if you scratch about 40cm under the surface anywhere in town, the chances of reaching water are near 100%. (We tried, but got bloody wet and feared me might have an early trip home through Middle Earth!)

You thought Amsterdam was in Holland? Well, it is too. Holland is the provincial region that Amsterdam is located in, and due to Amsterdam’s significance for such a long time (think about the old Dutch traders who settled lands all over the world, including modern day Dutch Guiana; and Australia even had a Dutchman, Dirk Hartog, visit in the 1600s), Holland became the informal name for the country, although its formal name is the Netherlands.

On our visit we found a city of more-than-friendly and perfect-English-speaking Dutch locals; settlers from all other parts of the world who now call this place their home and share their culture with the locals and visitors alike; colourful buildings – some of which date back to the 1600s and most of which have a certain slant away from vertical due to sinking into the soft earth underneath; markets and museums that outnumber the canals; and even rubbish everywhere – an image completely at odds with the pristine self-image and stereotype of the Dutch.

Our Dutch adventure began with finding an €18 special fare on the Deutsche Bahn network from Stuttgart, and arriving in a city defined by its canals yet overcrowded by tourists – but we escaped this madness soon after. By chance we had found a quirky yet comfortable B&B just outside of the city called The Collector. We didn’t need to ask why because every room and hallway was themed by tens or hundreds or even thousands of collectors’ items. The owner, Karel, was a self-described collector of all things… collectible.

The first thing I’d do in Amsterdam is get your butt onto a canal cruise to orient yourself with this city – which is exactly what we did. We walked away not only with wobbly sea legs but more disoriented than before as the canals consist of linked rings that spiral outwards from the city centre. I’d always imagined Amsterdam to consist of a New York style grid where the roads and canals run along long parallel lines. To give you an idea of the scale of madness we’re talking about we were a little more oriented after the third day, but not completely.

I bet you thought Amsterdam is a city people visit just to get high. This is true, but only partially; this is only one of the city’s real faces.

Venturing into Vondelpark, the city’s green lungs, to see how locals relaxed we found a densely packed park full of hippies from the 70s and all walks of life: students, vagrants, mid-life crisers and people just like us with eyes boggling out of their heads at the sight of the flagrant drug and alcohol indulgence.

Like in any other great European city we jumped on one of Amsterdam’s rickety trams to take in the city by night, including a coffee at a cool little Belgian bier café with an intoxicating atmosphere made up the sultry summer evening, the quietness and unpretentiousness of the café’s location in a rear lane, the smiles on the faces of the 5 or 6 others who were sipping on creamy lattes or Belgian Leffes there, and the feeling in your heart that you’re here – in one of Europe’s most colourful and vibrant cities, which has something for everyone.

We took a compulsory stroll through the old quarter including the red light district with its scantily clad night girls standing in curtain-less windows under the crimson hue of fluoro lights. We couldn’t put our fingers on it (not only because it was prohibited!) but this part of town didn’t have the seediness that its counterpart in Sydney’s Kings Cross or other Dodgy Town would have – although after our visit we had cause to debate the morality of one the world’s oldest professions for hours.

After dodging billions of bike missiles all weekend we decided it was our turn to give in to the craze and get pedalling. We set out to find bikes within our price range within the city limits (ie under the cost of a kidney!) to ride to rural areas on other side of the harbour, but instead decided to chance it and continue the search across the river, jumping aboard the free pede-bike ferries that run every 12 minutes to the other side.

After walking for an hour and only seeing housing commission-filled suburbs, we decided to call it a day with the bike search, head back to the city for some museums, and vow to return in the April-June season when Amsterdam and its rural areas blossom with the blooming of millions of spring tulips. On heading back to the boat we took a ‘wrong turn’ (which in my language means “I think there may be something to see down that road, but if there isn’t then I realize we’ll have to walk all the way back again – on our already exhausted legs – but let’s take that chance anyway” and in Maria’s language means “if we take a detour, we're gonna get lost, full stop.’).

On fear of not speaking to one another forever more, Maria was persuaded to take a chance - again! After several previous legit wrong turns, this one turned out to be very right (I was forgiven this time….), and led us down a peninsular along man-made canal dikes lined by old houses and a medieval-aged cathedral to T’Sluijce – a place known by locals for its entrance for small boats from the harbour to the low-lying networks of water systems and canals (about 1.5 metres lower). Luckily for us there was a pub-come-beergarden (we were in Holland afterall, and not in Germany, but the Dutch do good beergardens too!) which surrounded the lock from all angles, and a boat which passed through the locks while we were there. Working up some strength from refreshments, we picked ourselves up again and…. Walked back to the ferry.

Lonely Planet no doubt offers an entire edition on Amsterdam and The Netherlands. We're open to other suggestions but we reckon you only need to tick these things off your list when you go there, then spend the rest of your time wandering aimlessly around the place - which you will anyway:

heading to the restaurant called the Bazaar, the essence of the Middle East. We chatted with an Israeli waiter there for over an hour while he was meant to be working – one of the nicest people we’ve met on our trip
a trip to the Sex Museum – go and see it for yourself, but just don’t sit down anywhere. I did, and within microseconds the ordinary looking chair started pulsating with a frenzy. I can’t remember the last time I screamed like a girl!
Hire a bike – but you'll need to negotiate the multistorey bike parking stations, and of course remember where you park it.
Visit during tulip blooming season (April/May?), when literally millions of different coloured tulips light up the Dutch countryside in thousands upon thousands.

Return to Stuttgart via World Cup Final

Although we intended to stay in Amsterdam for 2 nights we extended it to 3 once we were there. This still wasn’t enough! Wrongly or not, we'd assumed the place would be full of tacky day tourists and would have little to offer others. Beginning its life as stop-off point for international traders, sailors, aristocrats, artists, and anyone drawn to the bright lights of the Big Smoke, Amsterdam has certainly built up a modern buzz on top of these old roots - so much that you could almost taste it coming off the seas, from all corners of the globe and laced with the dankness of a colourful, spicy, and multicultural history. We have vowed to return one day to try to bottle the rest of the essence that this place oozed.

On our return to Stuttgart we met a bunch of Mexicans on the train, all decked out in their national green, who were trying to find their way to Berlin on the other side of the country for the World Cup final that night. As the train was pulling into a connecting station one of them (now know as Hugo) asked whether we knew if this was the place to change trains for Berlin. Each of their eyes promised a night of unknown adventure and revelling with an unknown number of differnt different nationalities (and when was the last time we hung out with Mexicans?). We quickly scanned the timetable info that was lurking dogeared in the seat pocket and found that this was our only chance to change our plans. I looked at Maria and without having any time for words we quickly grabbed all our worlding things from under seats, above our heads and around our necks - and got off with the Mexicans.

We'd been chanting the tune "Berlin, Berlin, wir farhen nach Berlin" with Germans for weeks now, and this was one time we could sing our own theme song Sound of Music Style.

We were using ticket which would allow us unlimited travel on the Deutsche Bahn network for 24 hours after crossing over the German border from the Netherlands. On the Berlin train with the Mexicans (with a keg of beer that we'd bought to get us in the spirit to cheer on.... whatever team was playing in the final - most Aussies would prefer not to remember that Italy had made it all the way) Maria and I worked out that we'd have to be back in Stuttgart the following morning by 9am. Ouch. A seven hour trip from Berlin. Ouch. So we'd party with the mex'ns tile 1:30am then hotfoot it to the station.

With mixed emotion we watched Italy become 'campioni del mondo' in a controversial headbutting-Zidane-fueled final, but quickly got over it and looked beyond the Siegessaule monument along the Strasse des 17 Juni (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stra%C3%9Fe_des_17._Juni) which was lined with over a million revellers from all over the world. Wow! Colours, languages, alcohol, dancing, alcohol, fireworks, did we mention baaaaad 80s music? (What is it with music in Germany???). By the time we walked half of the strip and through 3 separate DJ towers, the small hand on our mobile phones clicked past 1 - time to go. We bid our fond farewells to the M'ns and began our long, upright journey back to Stuttgart. Upright because it was World Cup night and there were no unbooked seats on any train leaving Berlin that night. Somehow we devised a way to sleep perched against each other whilst standing up, arriving in Stuttgart at 9:30am with thousands of fresh commuters beginning their first monday after World Cup. Ahhhh, the hot apple tarts that awaited us....