Maria & Brett's Big Trip 06-07

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 Prague 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)