Red Boots

What Happened in April (don't worry, I am still alive, I was just too lazy to write.)

bronhinton — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 06:30:00 GMT

After my Irish adventure finished I headed to Scotland, where I spent several days in Glasgow and then Edinburgh before beginning a tour of the highlands with the Haggis Tour company. My tour was five days long and I spent most of the time staring open-mouthed at the scenery - the mountains of the Highlands were snow-capped and each one just looked more amazing than the last. The tour took me to the Isle of Skye, Oban, Culloden Battlefield, Inverness (which is apparently the home of the ugliest Scots, although from what I could gather they weren't that bad) and Loch Ness. My highlights for that trip was the beauty of Skye and staying in a castle in the North. The castle had been converted into a hostel and was supposedly haunted. Didn't see any evidence of ghosts and I must have been in every room of the castle, as I was playing an awesome game of Sardines with the rest of my tour group. Sardines is like Hide and Seek, but in reverse, for one person hides and everyone else searches and when you find the first person you hide with them, so as more people find you, more people hide and get squashed together like sardines. We played for over two hours and we were giggling messes by the end of it. This was mainly from the fun of the game, but also because we kept getting told off by these two old bats in the dining room. It was hilarious - a dozen men and women, ranging from 20 - 35 years old, getting a dressing down by two biddies, ah good times!

After my tour ended I went back to Glasgow (home of Scotland's largest Borders bookstore, much to my delight) and then I flew to Budapest. Despite the fact that it was a ridiculously expensive city ($3 Aus for a bag of pasta - Outrageous!) and the Hungarians clearly didn't like me (I am generally quite personable when I am a tourist, so I don't know what happened), I still loved Budapest. It was just so photogenic, the architecture, the river, the people - everything was just interesting to look at and photograph. I stayed in a very small hostel in Budapest which was run by a young Hungarian woman called Olga, it was more like staying at someone's house rather than a hostel. I was constantly on the move while I was in the city, as there was so much I wanted to see, but the highlights were the cruise on the Danube and seeing La Boheme at the Hungarian Opera House for only $4! I also spent a brilliant three hours on the banks of the Danube at sunset, I borrowed Olga's tripod and took long exposure shots of the river and the Buda side of the Danube.

From Budapest I flew to Berlin, which has been my ultimate European destination since last year. Berlin was brilliant, exceeding my expectations on every level. It rained nearly the whole time I was there, but that didn't dampen my enthusiasm for seeing as many of the sights as possible. I followed my own walking tour plan of the city, but everything there is so easy to negotiate and the Germans are so friendly that it is easy to explore and have a great time. I tried as many different variations of the wurst (kurrywurst was my fave) as possible and I bought a massive pretzel from a bicycle seller outside the Reichstag. The shopping in Berlin was great, everything was so quirky and different and the markets were brilliant too, I bought a beautiful green amber ring that is, by far, my best ring purchase EVER - yes, a big call, I know! I loved my time in Berlin and I am looking forward to the Summer when I go there again.

After Berlin I flew to Copenhagen. Hm, Copenhagen. How should I describe it? It was kind of, well, bland. It lacked zest, that zing that makes a city interesting. It was nice, sure, and I loved all of that royal family stuff (you won't believe the number of Mary & Frederik magnets I bought!) but, for me, it was definitely zest-less. I spent a lot of time wandering around the city, checking out the sights (Little Mermaid, changing of the guard, Tivoli, museums) and it all just made me go 'Meh!' and shrug my shoulders. I'm not entirely sure why Copenhagen didn't do for me, I know plenty of people who really like the city, but I just didn't like it. I shouldn't fill this paragraph with just complaints, as my entire stay wasn't all blandness. I went on a great day trip to Malmö, Sweden (I love how pretentious it sounds to say you went on a day trip to another country - brilliant!), where I ate Swedish meatballs and lusted after all of those knick-knacks and furniture that the Swedish are so good at designing. I also went on a day trip north of Copenhagen to the Louisiana Art Gallery, which was an amazingly beautiful gallery on the coast in a town called Humlebaek. The setting was lovely (you could see the coast of Sweden from the gallery) and the gallery had a great exhibition of Cezanne and Giacometti works.

So there you have it, this was a condensed version of what I did for that mystery month of April. Sorry it has been so long in coming!

Gallery: Scotland

bronhinton — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 02:34:00 GMT

Gallery: Ireland

bronhinton — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 07:49:00 GMT

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

bronhinton — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 05:20:00 GMT

It was nighttime when I arrived in Dublin, and while the layer of darkness gave the city a romantic, mysterious feel, it did nothing to disguise the stench of stale beer and vomit that seemed to envelope me like a noxious cloud. It was clear to me even from the beginning, everyone in Dublin was pissed.

Apologies for the gothic novel-esque opening to this entry but it was the nicest way I could describe the piss-poor first impression I received of Ireland's capital. I arrived on what I soon discovered was the biggest night out in Dublin after St Paddy's Day. I had arrived smack-bang in the middle of the Six Nations tournament and Ireland was playing Wales that night at Croke Park. The game was finished by the time I landed, but the drunken revelry was only just beginning. It seemed as though every Irishman, Welshman and, well, basically anyone who had the ability to raise a glass to their lips was either drunk or vomiting into a gutter on the streets of the Temple Bar.

It may sound as though I am exaggerating, but let me assure you that it was easy for me to see that apart from my Airport Shuttle driver, I was the only sober person in Dublin (although from the way the driver was heavily leaning on the wheel, I suspected he had had a quiet tipple before his shift began.)

I gingerly weaved my way through the chanting crowds and stepped over slumped bodies, successfully arriving at my hostel. My hostel was right above the most popular pub in the Temple Bar, but I was so relieved to be out of the cold that this didn't bother me. Nor was I bothered by the hostel receptionist's glassy gaze as he booked me in. At this point I was just grateful that he was lucid enough to give me the right room key. I went straight to bed that night and when I woke up I got a much better introduction to Ireland.

Dublin was okay, but to me, it was just another city. Ireland really became interesting when I left the capital. I spent a few days there before starting a Paddywagon 10 Day All-Ireland tour. Now, before you hunch your shoulders and start a full-body cringe, let me assure you that this wasn't like a Contiki tour. It was a small tour and a small bus and they actually let you get off the bus and look at sights rather than keep you trapped on the coach like Contiki do, with your face pressed longingly against the window. The tour took me into Northern Ireland, where I stayed in Derry and Belfast and then down along the coastlines, seeing places like Galway, County Kerry, Killarney and Cork. It was a great tour but instead of detailing everything, I thought I would utilise my old friend the dot point and summarise the highlights of my travels through Ireland.

HIGHLIGHTS

- Seeing the amazing Giant's Causeway and basically just staring open-mouthed in wonder at every coastline. Everything is so dramatically beautiful that you often can't believe your eyes and do what I did, which was keep saying, 'No, no, THIS cliff is the most beautiful so far. Much better than that last cliff.' 'This lushly green hill with the sheep and the waterfall is stunning, oh yes, far superior to that previous lush, green hill that also had sheep and a waterfall.'

- Learning about the 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland. I went on a walking tour of Derry and that was excellent, as I saw the murals to commemorate Bloody Sunday and saw the locked fence that the Protestants still choose to live within. I also took a Black Taxi tour of Belfast. These cab drivers take you to the Catholic and Protestant areas and you see more murals and they tell you about the Troubles and what life was like before the Good Friday agreement and still is like in Belfast. I was shocked by how limited my knowledge was of the situation. I had no idea that there are still gates that are locked each night to stop any violence. In Belfast, even though Protestants and Catholics catch the same bus they have to use different bus stops. If they were waiting in the same spots, then that is when fights break out.

- Trying a Guiness for the first time in a pub in Derry, while listening to traditional Irish music. Guiness - not so good, music - very good. In fact, I have come to like Irish music so much (and I don't mean The Corrs) that I used to go into the souvenir shops and listen to 'Lord of the Dance' again and again.

- Seeing another great set of cliffs, the Cliffs of Moher. They were amazing, but once again, I was buffeted by hail as I edged my way along the clifftops. Sightseeing is dangerous stuff.

- Drinking a punch that Eric the Busdriver made in a tiny town called Cong. He put god knows what in there, but we all drank it and then stumbled the 30 minutes into town so that we could go to the one pub in Cong. True to form, I rolled my ankle AGAIN (yes, I am into double digits now) and a couple of girls were helping me get back, but we lost our way and we were so drunk that we figured it would be easier to go to the pub then go back to our accomodation. The punch was making my ankle feel like it could take on the world and so we headed to the pub. Glad we did, as there was more Irish music on offer and the locals let us play some of their instruments.

- Spending St Patrick's Day in Killarney. Killarney was a cool little town and a great location for St Paddy's. We went out the night before and so we were a little rough for the actual day. The group got kitted out in our green tops, temporary tattoos and, in my case, a green flashing headband! We spent the morning on a horse and carriage ride around Killarney National Park and then we toured the Ring of Kerry. We made it back to the town for the afternoon parade, which wasn't that exciting, more like a low key Moomba parade, complete with Girl Guides and a local Karate club! That night we went back out on the town, still proudly decked out in our full St Paddy's regalia. This actually meant we were the only people in Killarney who were wearing green, but we had had so many Jagerbombs that night that we didn't really care. I also tried a Carbomb that night, a half shot of Jameson and a half shot of Bailey's dropped in a half pint of Guiness. Yes, it was as filthy as it sounds.

There were few lowlights on this tour, except for my usual rolled ankle troubles and my annoyance with this bogan from Albury called Sherryn, who unknowingly amused me with her tales of a bogan that she had met on her Scotland tour. Unfortunately, as everyone else was a stranger, I had no one to chuckle with about the irony of Sherryn's rants about this bogan. Had to smirk to myself with that one.

Camera vs. Flare Death Match (or 'The Inexplicable Decisions Made by Portuguese Security')

bronhinton — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 07:14:00 GMT

As mentioned in a previous blog, I was lucky to be in Lisbon when the city's two big futebol clubs, Sporting and Benfica were due to play each other. With the help of João, a guy who worked at the hostel and a huge Sporting fan, I forked out €30 for a ticket to the biggest game in town. I bought my bright green Sporting cap in preparation and checked on the website to see what I was allowed to bring to the game. The usual things were banned: flares, bottles and cans, and as you would imagine (and hope!) weapons were also frowned upon. The website also made it pretty clear that you were allowed to take cameras into the ground, so I eagerly swung my DSLR over my shoulder and headed off to the game.

I arrived at the stadium over an hour before it was due to begin and the crowd outside was mental. The match was taking place at Sporting's home ground and so you could only catch a glimpse of someone in Benfica's red amongst a sea of bright green. I was yet to put my new Sporting cap on, because I like to see who I am sitting next to before I declare allegiance to a club in a foreign country. Some might say this is wussy behaviour, but I like to think of it as prudently ensuring that I survive the entire year.

I joined a mass of people who were trying to push their way through the narrow barricades, so they could get through security and then into the ground. After twenty minutes of squirming my way through the throng, I triumphantly arrived at the front of the mass only to be informed by one of the security personnel that I was in the wrong section. I panicked slightly when I turned around to leave and was confronted by at least 1000 people trying to push their way past me. Thankfully, a kindly policeman escorted me out the other end and I made my way to the correct gate, where there was yet another mass of people trying to squeeze through.

At this point there was only forty minutes until the game began, but I figured that it wouldn't take me more than twenty minutes to get through security. My guess was right, because after twenty minutes of breathing in second-hand smoke I was finally at the front. I got my ticket scanned and then I was directed towards a female security guard so that I could have my bagged searched and be patted down. Unsurprisingly, she confiscated my bottle of water and she was about to send me through when she spotted the SLR camera case in my bag.

Security Guard: What's this?

B: My camera. Do you want to see it?

Security Guard: Yes. Take it out.

Bronwen lifts her SLR out and shows to the woman.

B: See? Just a camera.

Security Guard: No, only photography cameras allowed. You can’t bring in video cameras.

B: But this isn’t a video camera! It only takes photographs!

Security Guard: You can’t take this in.

Bronwen may or may not have turned red in the face, in any event her voice definitely got higher and a touch of hysteria coloured her tone.

B: What?! It’s just a camera.

The security lady calls over her supervisor and they both discuss Bronwen’s camera.

Supervisor: You can’t take this in. It’s too big.

B: Too big?! It’s just a camera.

Supervisor: You can’t take big things in, you might throw them.

B: THROW MY CAMERA?! I love it! And it’s expensive! Why would I throw it?!

Supervisor: You can’t take it in.

The Supervisor just shrugs his shoulders and Bronwen begins to hyperventilate, thinking to herself that this is definitely worse than the time that she got on the wrong bus in Granada.

B: (wailing tone) But what am I supposed to do?!

Supervisor: Take it the lockers at the other gate and then you can pick it up at the end of the match.

Bronwen looks at the huge number of people that are in the line behind her.

B: Do I have to line up again after I put it in the locker?

Supervisor: (smirking slightly) Yes.

END SCENE

I sprinted off to the lockers and checked my camera in and then raced back to the line. There was only fifteen minutes remaining until the start and I only just managed to get through security again and then climb the ten flights of stairs to the top of the stadium, just as the siren sounded for the game to begin.

The atmosphere was amazing, every fan was screaming and singing and the crowd actually clapped and cheered each time their team missed a goal, like they were encouraging them or something. What I found most interesting was the ridiculous number of flares that were let off around the stadium. If Sporting missed, a couple of flares went off. If Benfica missed, a couple flares went off. If a player got yellow carded, flares went off. If a player fell down in that wussy way that soccer players do when they have been slightly bumped by the opposition, then some more flares would go off. At one point after Sporting scored, so many flares went off that the haze they created meant that no one could see for the next five minutes.

Not only did I fear slightly for my hearing (and my life) when flares were going off around me, but I was also getting angrier with each one that was lit. I could not believe that my SLR was confiscated, but meanwhile all of these flares (which were clearly banned) were getting smuggled in. What a half-arsed job security were doing. I felt completely ripped off.

It was a draw in the end and I did enjoy myself, but I have to admit that I did leave ten minutes early so that I could pick up my camera and get on the first train home. Shameful, I know. But everyone else was doing it, so why couldn’t I?

Lisbon - A land of custard-filled happiness

bronhinton — Sun, 9 Mar 2008 22:21:00 GMT

I have already told most people this, but I will say it again - I love Lisbon. I can't believe that I was considering skipping Portugal and missing out on this great city. After spending over four weeks in Spain I was definitely ready for a change. My last stop in Spain was Sevilla and despite the fact that many people told me it was a great city, I simply found it, well, lame. Spain was getting on my nerves and even a chunk of semi-cured from the cheese counter at El Corte Inglès was not improving my mood. So I was feeling relieved when I began the seven hour bus ride from Sevilla to Lisbon. I was feeling considerably less relieved ten minutes after the journey began when I discovered that I was the only Australian on a bus full of American students, and they were already beginning to detail the 'sketchiness' of Sevilla. I knew then that I would have to listen to my iPod on full volume if I wanted to survive the journey without screaming. Surprisingly, the seven hours passed quickly, probably because I watched the hotness that is Mark Wahlberg in his gilly suit in the movie 'Shooter' on my iPod... twice in a row. Ah, good times.

When the bus arrived in Lisbon, I disembarked as quickly as I could and practically sprinted to the Metro station. I know what you are thinking, Bronwen is not really one to run, so what is the deal? Well, like most backpackers I have been booking my hostels through the Hostelworld website, where backpackers give a rating for each hostel. The hostel I had booked into in Lisbon was the top-rated one (and rightly so) and I just had a feeling that all these Americans that were on the bus with me would be at the same hostel. My competitive side reared it's ugly head when I arrived in Lisbon and I knew that I had to get to the hostel first, not just so that I could get a bottom bunk but also so that I wouldn't be stuck on a Metro platform as they assessed the 'sketchiness' of their surroundings.

Usually I get completely lost when I first arrive in a city and it generally takes me ages to find a hostel. Luckily for me, my internal compass had decided to join me on the quest to arrive first and so I was zipping around the Lisbon streets like I had been born with a glass of Port in one hand and a custard tart in the other. I am pleased to announce that I arrived at the hostel about twenty minutes before the rest and so was already sitting comfortably with my first glass of Superbock beer when the whole crew stumbled in, complaining about 'How, like, difficult it was, like, getting here.'

From that moment on, my time in Lisbon just got better. So good in fact, that I don't want to waste time forming coherent links between sentences and instead I will compile a list of all the great things about Lisbon.

REASONS WHY LISBON IS AWESOME

1. Everyday the weather was brilliant, nothing lower than 18 degrees and sunshine all of the time.

2. The Portuguese are incredibly nice, so much friendlier than the Spanish. If I stumbled over a Spanish word, then I often would be greeted with a sigh and an eye roll from the Spaniard I was conversing with. In Portugal, they just laughed with me and then helped me pronounce it correctly.

3. The city is really pretty. A lot of the houses are in those pastel gingerbread colours of pink, yellow and white and made for great photographs. The city is overlooked by the Castelo Sao Jorge, a castle on top of a mountainish-hill (I don't really know what I mean here either!) that provides great views of the city and ocean and you are also able to walk around the ramparts of the old castle.

4. Sintra. This is a town not far from Lisbon which is famous for it's lush gardens. They have these amazing botanic gardens and you can also explore the gardens of the royal holiday palace that is on the top of the mountain in Sintra.

5. Travellers House. This was the name of the hostel where I was staying in Lisbon. It was brilliant! The people who worked there were so nice, the beds were comfortable, a lady cooked you eggs for breakfast and they had Macs in their computer room! I could have easily spent more than a week there.

6. Futebol. Like most Europeans, the Portuguese are crazy for their soccer and I got to experience it first hand when I went to THE Lisbon grudge match. The two Lisbon teams, Sporting and Benfica, were playing each other the weekend I was there and I was able to get a ticket. It was a great experience, so good that I may need to leave that story for another blog.

7. THE FOOD. I know what you are thinking, you can't believe I left this until last! The food was simply amazing. The custard tarts blew my mind, I swiftly became addicted to them and ate one nearly everyday. The seafood was also great, but by far the highlight was the alcohol. I tried a lot of different wines and ports at a tasting that was held at the hostel, but my favourite alcohol was a cherry liquer called Ginja that was served to me at the end of my meal at a local restaurant. Most Portuguese finish their meals with it.

As soon as I left Lisbon, I missed it! It is such an easy-going place, it would be so great to live there. I am looking forward to going back.

The one where I was heading to one town and ended up in a completely different one.

bronhinton — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 19:14:00 GMT

I can see that this blog is a bigger commitment than I first thought, especially when you run the risk of typing out a whole story and then when you go to upload, the page has timed out. This happened to me a couple of days ago and I was so pissed off that I had put effort into writing something mildly amusing and then it was lost. Understandably, I lost a bit of enthusiasm for sharing my travelling tales, but now I am back and I feel like rambling, so let me proceed... I spent five days (or six, all the days kind of blend together after a while) in Granada after Malaga. Granada was lovely. It sits at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountain range and so I could gaze at the snow-capped peaks as I was sightseeing, walking, sitting in a restaurant, getting into bed... you get the drift. I know I have made it sound a touch lame, but it was a beautiful sight and as most people know, I do love a snow-capped mountain. While in Granada, I spent quite a bit of time at the Alhambra, a stunning Moorish palace that was built in the 13th century. I also took a day trip into the Sierra Nevada... or should I say day trips... Yes, this is one of those typical travel stories when things just go completely wrong. I bought a bus ticket to Pampaneira, a white-washed little town in the Sierra Nevada and headed to the Granada bus station to wait for the coach that would take me on the two hour journey. I tried to decipher the ticket and after consulting with a Spanish woman, I figured out (what I thought was correctly) that my coach would leave from Gate 5. When I went to board the bus, I thought I would check one last time and asked the driver (in Spanish) if this bus was going to Pampaneira AND I showed him my ticket at the same time, just in case my Spanish was not that clear (there was a fair chance of that.) He just said 'Si, si' and waved me onto the bus. I took that to mean that he understood me and that this was the bus to Pampaneira. It turns out that what he actually meant was, 'Stop asking me questions and just get onto the damn bus, gringo.' It wasn't until the bus had stopped an hour and a half into the journey, that I realised something was wrong. I was seeing all of these signs for Gaudix, which was confusing, since I had read the day before about Gaudix. It was a town on the other side of the mountain range from Pampaneira. Trying to stay calm and not panic, I asked the woman behind me. She only spoke Spanish, but after looking at my ticket she started making these frantic hand gestures and giving me worried looks. Another guy translated for me, 'She thinks you are on the wrong bus.' No shit was I on the wrong bus! I went to the front of the coach and asked the driver where I was headed. He took my ticket and this time he actually looked at it, because he started yelling at me and gesticulating wildy. I was concerned at this development, not just because I was clearly in the wrong place, but also because his hands weren't on the wheel and our coach was veering slightly to the left. A salty residue was forming in the corners of my eyes (I still maintain that this was due to stress and not my desire to throw a crying tantrum on the floor of the coach) and I was yelling back at the driver, something along the lines of 'You told me this bus was going to Pampaneira! I showed you my ticket!' We were both yelling by now, which was pointless considering neither of us spoke the other's langauge. An Englishwoman, who was sitting behind the driver, starting translating for me and she explained that I would have to get off in Gaudix and go back to Granada so that I could get to Pampaniera. The only catch was that the bus back to Granada from Gaudix leaves every five hours and the next one was due to leave now. I began to hyperventilate at the thought of being stuck in Gaudix. While I am sure Gaudix is a lovely town for the residents, it's only claim to fame is that people live in houses built partly underground. Now, this would have been vaguely interesting for someone who hadn't been to Coober Pedy, but I was on the Central Oz '98 trip - I didn't need to see underground houses again. The driver may have been feeling a bit of guilt then, as he sped the bus up and drove the streets of Gaudix like a maniac, obviously trying to get me to the bus in time. We rounded the corner into the bus station on what felt like two wheels and pulled up to a halt next to a bus that was just beginning to back out of the station. My driver got out and begin waving his arms at the other bus driver, yelling at him to stop. I managed to get onto the bus back to Granada, but only after several bus drivers, who were standing outside, and all of the passengers on the new bus had laughed at me. By the time I got back to Granada, I was too traumatised to get back on a bus to Pampaneira and so I waited until the next day. It was worth it in the end, as the town was beautiful and the view was amazing.

An Australian, an Englishman, a Canadian, a Swede and a hot South African walk into a bar...

bronhinton — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 07:51:00 GMT

I suppose a better title for this story would be 'Tales from Málaga' but it wouldn't be as interesting as the current title (and let's be honest, suck you into clicking on the link) and it also wouldn't describe what I did while in Málaga. Yep, I drank. I drank a lot. Not that I believe that you need alcohol for a good time, but man, it was the contributing reason as to why I had such an awesome time in Málaga.

I don't mean to diss Málaga, because it was an interesting town. But only interesting in a kind of vague, dull way that when you think about it, isn't actually that interesting. I'm sure it would be great in Summer, but obviously I was there when it was a damn sight chillier. Málaga has a number of things going for it: it´s Picasso's birthplace, it has a beach and lovely pockets of green parks all over the place. But the problem is that the city is under construction and from what I gather, has been under construction for some years now and many more to come.

For my three days in Málaga I was planning on wandering around a bit, but mainly relaxing. My ankle wasn't at it's peak (see previous story) and so I really needed to take it easy. But then I met a bunch of strangers and ended up having a great time.

I had been making friends during my trip, but mostly people that had been in my room or that I had been introduced to by the people in my room. However, in Málaga the woman in my room was this annoying Austrian lady (I say lady because she was clearly on the home stretch to 40 and really shouldn't have been wearing those skinny leg jeans) and so I wasn't going to hang out with her. So I headed down to the bar of the hostel to get a cerveza and see if there was anything interesting to read.

Nothing much was happening at the bar, but I did see the very, very, very hot South African guy, that I had met earlier. (Yes, he was very attractive of face and form, but what made him even hotter was that he had spent two and half months travelling on his motorbike along the west coast of Africa, from Capetown to Tangiers - I know, I know, how cool!) The South African, Luke, was chatting to a couple of guys, and so because I wanted to hear more about his travels and also just get a closer look at his hotness, I walked over to this bunch of strangers and asked if I could join them. I had not done anything like this so far in my travels, and so I shocked myself when my mouth opened and I said the words.

It ended up being the best thing I could do in Málaga, as these guys (Luke, an Englishman called Edward, a Swede called Eric and a Canadian) were so much fun. On the first night we went to a local bar and saw some free flamenco dancing (when they say 'free' they actually mean that everyone needs to drink at least three beers before the dancers come out). The next night the Canadian, AJ, taught us a drinking game and we got very drunk on cheap, bottled Sangria. It was filthy stuff and made even worse because we couldn't fit it into the communal fridge and so had to drink it warm. We then decided to go out to a tapas bar, as it was 11pm and the Spanish had only just started eating dinner. That is when I went to the toilet and rolled my ankle as I drunkenly tried to open the door (see previous blog). It hurt a lot and normally when I roll my ankle I hobble around for about an hour, trying to get it to work properly again. However, since I had consumed so much bottled Sangria (I think this brand was like the Spanish equivalent of Peach wine) I clearly wasn't thinking when I grabbed a bag of ice and announced that I was good to keep going. I know, I know, obviously a very stupid thing to do! But I figure that since I have already damaged my ankle on this trip a number of times, waiting a couple of hours before resting it was not going to cripple me.

In conclusion, feel that I learnt two things while in Málaga.

1. If you want to have a great time with no social hassles while travelling, find a bunch of guys. They don't need to have a twenty minute conversation with you about what brand of straightener you use and whether Johnny Depp is still attractive now that he is mid 40s (what kind of a question is that? Of course he is!) before they invite you anywhere. They just see that you drink beer and welcome you along.

2. Never drink warm Sangria.

My tobillo is killing me!

bronhinton — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 05:30:00 GMT

I have learnt many Spanish words in the last month, but by far the ones that I use most are 'gracias' and 'tobillo'. Clearly, I use gracias about a hundred times a day: when the hostel has found a spare bed for me, when the old man at the shop gives me my packet of Jámon-flavoured Ruffles and icy Coke Zero and when a kindly Anadalusian laughs and points to the exact spot where I am standing, after I have asked where the bus stop is. No wonder I use the word so much.

But it is my 'tobillo' or 'ankle' that has really dominated my Spanish discussions this month. Simply because I can't seem to stop rolling my freakin' ankle! You could find the flattest surface in all of Spain (and trust me, there aren't that many flat surfaces here, unless you count the tops of bars) and I would still find a way to roll my ankle. What started out as my old netball injury with a lot of scar tissue, has now become the bane of my travelling existence. I have lost count of the number of times I have rolled it (actually, that is clearly an exaggeration, I know I have rolled it five times now - but still, that is a lot in one month!)

Here is a short account of what I was doing each time that I rolled my ankle.

1. On my first day in Barcelona, I was in Güell Park and enjoying the sunshine. I got my first glimpse of Gaudí's mosaic turtle and in my haste to get to it I rolled my ankle in the gravel. It was the first time, so incredibly painful.

2. Having iced my ankle for many days and slept with it elevated, I thought I would be fine as long as I was careful. Hm, not so. On my last day in Barcelona I was at Montjuïc (moderately high mountain with Olympic village at the top) and I rolled my ankle when I managed to stumble in the only dip in the ground on a grassy knoll.

3. By now I was in Madrid and spent a week walking around with my ankle strapped and keeping an eye out for any slight dips in the ground. Because a week had gone by, I admit that I had become complacent and so when I got off the train at the wrong Metro stop, realised my mistake and couldn't get back on, I turned around in angry frustration and... you guessed it, rolled my ankle. That was a really bad one, as my foot went completely over, so that the side of my foot was touching the ground. Just got a full-body shiver as I re-read the last sentence and it took me back to that time.

4. This is probably the only time that I rolled my ankle and found it funny. Yes, I was drunk. Having met some excellent drinking partners in Málaga (that tale can wait for another blog) and gotten drunk on warm, cheap, bottled Sangria and a skulling game that didn't have many rules, I went to the toilet just before we went out on the town for some cervezas. Considering how much I had drunk it really came as no surprise that I rolled my ankle. The surprising bit was that once I had gotten a bag of ice to chill my ankle, I insisted that I was fine and we all went out anyway. (That is also a tale for the future Málaga blog.)

5. This last time occurred in Granada. It was only a matter of time before I rolled my ankle there, because my hostel was in the old Arabic quarter, where they not only have a lot of shishas but cobblestone paths as well. I had been fine on the cobblestones, as long as I took my time. However, my ability to walk was really challenged when I had to negotiate the cobblestone path and the obstacle course that had been constructed out of dog poo by some lazy dog-owners. It was all too much for me and I rolled my ankle. I didn't really feel the pain that time, as my relief at not having fallen in any shit was so overwhelming, that pain took a back seat.

So that's it so far, but still plenty of my holiday left for me to roll it! Not that I intend to be so pessimistic, but after five rollings, my glass isn't exactly half-full. I'm keeping it bound, I ice it every now and then and I have Jason giving it some long distance reiki, so hopefully it will come good.

Sorry, but I can't understand what you say when you speak American.

bronhinton — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 04:53:00 GMT

I like Spain. I like the people, the language, the food (obviously the cheese), the scenery and the fast trains. Spain is great. But what is it with all of the American students?! The American tourists I don't mind, but the American students drive me crazy and they are everywhere! Fine, call me a racist, I don't care. There are simply too many of them. Taking hostel rooms away from deserving Australians, while they search for permanent accomodation. Filling up the cafes and churrerias (places that only serve churros, isn't that cool?!) so you can barely find a table. And worst of all, wherever I go all I can hear is that American they speak.

I know I am being a bit harsh and, to be honest, I have made friends with a couple of American students and gotten drunk with many of them. But the language barrier between us often seems too high to overcome. While I was in my Madrid hostel last week, I was typing an amusing anecdote for my blog in the Multimedia Room. Most of the Americans hang out in the Multimedia Room so that they can get out their laptops and charge their iPod, back up their Blackberry and then talk REALLY LOUDLY on Skype to their MOM in PHILLY so that she can hear about how nice everyone is in the hostel.

Because they are all hanging out there (and obviously so am I, point taken) I am privy to a lot of conversations that they have with each other. Not that I want to be eavesdropping on their conversation, but I can't help it when they talk REALLY LOUDLY. They shouldn't have anything to worry about with me overhearing them, because I honestly have no idea what they are talking about. They are speaking English, but none that I have heard before.

Here is a conversation I overheard while I was updating my facebook status...

American Girl #1: OHMYGOD. Like, you totally won't believe what happened, like, happened to Tom and Tatum and me last night.

American Girl #2: Ohmygod. What?! What happened? You've, like, totally gotta tell me.

American Girl #1: Okay, well, like, I said to Tom, like, I totally want some pot. So he was like, 'Okay, I'll like, totally ask around and see where we can get some pot'.

American Girl #2: Ohmygod. You went to get pot? Ohmygod, like, what happened?

American Girl #1: Okay, so we, like, go to this totally sketchy park in, like, the sketchiest part of Madrid.

American Girl #2: Ohmygod. OHMYGOD! What happened?!

American Girl #1: So the feeling was, like, totally sketchy. It was dark and there were these sketchy guys everywhere and they were all, like, selling pot. I was, like, I want some pot. But Tom kept saying 'This place is too sketchy! This place is too sketchy!' He was, like, totally sketched out.

American Girl #2: Ohmygod. So what did you do? Did you get the pot?

American Girl #1: No, we didn't. Tom was way too sketched out and the whole thing was, like, way too sketchy for me.

American Girl #2: Oh, cool.

This is the usual kind of convesation that is floating around when the American students speak and so with that in mind, you can imagine the horror on my face when someone asks me if I am American. I have started to say 'No worries!' a lot more in the hope that no one can make this mistake.

Gallery: Segovia

bronhinton — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:45:00 GMT

UNESCO World Heritage Site

Gallery: Madrid

bronhinton — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Why I love this city...

Shrinkage and a Supercilious Frenchman: The Trials of Hostel Life

bronhinton — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 09:02:00 GMT

The hostel I have been staying at in Madrid has been quite good. The breakfasts are awesome, though incredibly carb-laden. I eat a lot of toast and cereal and I leave the dodgy looking ‘breakfast cakes’ to the Europeans. The beds are quite comfy, the rooms are very new and clean and the internet is free. However, there have been moments when this place has driven me crazy and I think that is why I am ready for a new experience in Málaga.

One such problem encountered at this hostel was on Sunday night. Having eaten a Tortilla Espánol (they are just potato and egg and completely tasteless, never again) with an American room mate at a local bar, we wandered back to the hostel at 8:30pm so I could wash my clothes. We slid our security card into the room’s lock, opened the door and pushed the card into the slot that turns the light on. The lights came on for a second and then we heard a bang. Before I could employ everything I had learnt about disaster survival from watching rescue shows, like Rescue 911 (remember at the start of every ad break how they had to remind the viewer that in Australia we are supposed to dial 000 and not 911, and William Shatner did the voiceover and every episode they needed to rescue a Scout who had fallen into a river and gotten their leg stuck in a bit of driftwood?), we realised that we weren’t under attack and the building wasn’t falling down, the lights had simply blown. All of the power had gone out on our floor and there wasn’t anyone around to fix it. That is what the Frenchman who was working the reception desk told me when I inquired as to when we would be able to see in our room. He then followed this statement up with a smirk and this gem, ‘I cannot help you, as I did not learn how to become an electrician.’ Smart arse.

They eventually got power in every second room, it was unfortunate that ours wasn’t one of them. We had to find our way around with a small torch and then move rooms the next day. I could have lived with that, but the laundry was on the same level and when the power went out the two washing machines stopped and then started again from the very beginning. I wasn’t able to wash my clothes until 10pm, which meant that if I wanted to get any sleep at all that night, I would have to use… THE DRYER.

One of my biggest hurdles so far is washing my clothes. I don’t mean the actual washing, I am fine with that. It is getting over my ingrained distrust of clothes dryers. I was brought up to treat the dryer’s power with respect – you should only put in towels and sheets (but not fitted sheets) and pillowcases and underwear (but not all underwear, certainly not Chesty Bonds) and at a stretch – socks. But never wet. I use the dryer when everything is at that point where it is nearly dry, it just needs that extra blast of energy when the wind isn’t cutting it. With that in mind, it took a lot of courage for me to take my clothes out of the machine at 11pm on the night the power went out and place them all, still wet, into the dryer. Thinking back now, I still get the shivers!

I was so worried about what the dryer would do to my clothes that I would not put it on for the full 90 minutes like the Americans were doing and instead went for short 20 minute bursts. After each burst, I would pull out my clothes and check them all for signs of shrinkage. It was paranoid, I know, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I finally had to stop when it had been over an hour and nothing was even close to dry, probably because I kept stopping the cycle whenever it was just getting warmed up. I was so tired at that point that I gave in, setting the full cycle and crossing my fingers.

When I went back an hour later, it was a miracle! Things were dry and they kind of looked like they would still fit. My jeans felt great the next day, like when you first buy them and they fit perfectly and the logos on all of my shirts were intact. The only casualty was my new dark grey top, it had shrunk at least one size and although it still fits me, it is certainly not flattering anymore! (I later learnt from Mum that 100% cotton things often shrink in the dryer, sound advice, but a little too late for my top.)

Daytrippin'

bronhinton — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 07:05:00 GMT

Hm, long time, no blog. I'd like to say it was because I was incredibly busy immersing myself in the awesomeness of Madrid, and it's true - I was. However, laziness was the reason why I haven't written in a while and I can already forsee this problem can only get worse as my trip progresses.

Let's move on though, because 'Daytrippin'' is the title of this blog and that is what it is about. Since arriving in Spain I have discovered a not-so-secret love for daytrips. Not entirely sure why, although I am sure it has something to do with the surge of excitement I have everytime I travel on one of those fast European trains. I seem to get such joy from being on a fast train, that this part of my trip to Toledo on Saturday was actually the best bit. But maybe that has more to do with the fact that Toledo was a HUGE disappointment. Talk about overrated. Toledo is an ancient-looking town that deals a lot in El Greco artwork and swords. That is basically what I gathered from the four hours I spent there. I haven't really regretted anything on this journey so far (not even eating a Personal Pan Pizza in the dirtiest Pizza Hut in existence or eating a European 'breakfast cake' [an explanation of that will appear in a later blog]) but I regret forking out 7 euros to enter the Cathedral at Toledo. It was cold and scary and you weren't allowed to take photos, which normally wouldn't have bothered me because there wasn't anything in there that I wanted to photograph, but the atmosphere in there was so chilling that I almost felt like I needed to record a farewell message to my parents.

After the Cathedral things got better, as I went to a smaller, friendlier church and I could climb to the top to get a view of all of Toledo. There was other stuff in Toledo, but I'm getting bored just writing about it, so I can only imagine how bad it would be for the reader.

Moving on to last daytrip - Segovia. It was brilliant! Couldn't recommend it enough, as it is a stunning place without too much of that touristy crap that Toledo had. The town of Segovia and it's Aqueduct are World Heritage listed sites. This Aqueduct was amazing, it blew my mind to touching something that was built by the Romans in the 8th Century.

The town also has this amazing building called the Alcazar, which has been many things over the years, like a military training college and a royal palace. I read that apparently this building inspired the design of the Disney castle and when you see the turrets it makes sense.

The only downside to my trip to Segovia was that I had to take a bus and not a train. Good news is that even though it is costing me an enormous amount, I am taking the fast AVE train from Madrid to Malaga tomorrow. Can't wait!

The Prostitutes and I like to hang out at Gran Vía

bronhinton — Fri, 8 Feb 2008 09:13:00 GMT

I’m still in Madrid and I will continue to be for a few more days, as I have just booked until Tuesday morning. This is partly because I am still enjoying Madrid and also because I now have a month to fill in time while I wait to start my tours of Ireland and Scotland.

I must be in a Madrid rut, because the routine I have had since arriving here is holding strong. I get up in the mornings and go off to a new tourist attraction and then spend the afternoon walking the streets. Walking the streets, an excellent segue to my story about prostitution in Gran Vía. All the different travellers that have come in and out of my room in the last week have not stopped raving about the shopping on Gran Vía, which is basically just a large plaza with streets going off it. I am trying to avoid shopping as much as possible so that I don’t tumble into a Campers shoe-buying frenzy (like Birkenstocks in Germany, when you arrive in a country that manufactures a particularly good shoe you kind of get sucked into buying them in that country, as it seems more authentic and, let’s be frank, cooler to say ‘I bought these Campers in Madrid’ rather than ‘I bought these Campers at Giallo on the Chadstone VIP night’) Getting back to Gran Vía… so when this Argentinian girl, who sleeps in the bunk above me, showed me this awesome jacket she got from a shop on Gran Vía for only €5 I knew I had to go there and at least check the shopping action out.

I got off at Gran Vía station and began wandering around, looking for these great shops and admiring the footwear of the Spanish women. I must stop here and explain that since it is winter in Europe that means it is boot weather. I would love to get a new pair of flat boots and so I spend a lot of time staring at people’s shoes, trying to find a pair I like. That is why that I couldn’t help noticing that for a city of women who generally like to wear flat boots, there were suddenly a lot of women wearing boots with really high heels. And they weren’t particularly nice boots either; in fact they were garish colours and with tassels and stuff on them, and all of the women had them on. And there were heaps of women. And they weren’t moving quickly down the street, like everyone else does in Madrid, they were just standing still. I looked around in confusion and when I saw a women leaning down into the window of a car that had rolled to a stop at the curb, that is when the penny dropped. In my quest for Spanish clothes on sale, I had accidentally come across the place where… ‘ladies of the night’ ‘ply their trade’ and ‘look for johns.’ (If you have watched episodes of Law & Order SVU, you will be down with prostitution lingo and know that a ‘john’ is someone who purchases a prostitute’s ‘services’.) I was getting a glare from a woman whose corner I was clearly on and so I walked out of there as quickly as possible.

I later found out that I had gone in the wrong direction when I exited Gran Vía and instead of finding the Nike or H&M store, I had simply found the best place in Madrid to pick up a hooker.

Madrid

bronhinton — Thu, 7 Feb 2008 04:00:00 GMT

I'd like to be able to say that I sensed how special Madrid was from the moment that I got off the night train from Barcelona. However, considering my journey on the train consisted of ten hours of trying to sleep upright, avoiding conversation with a creepy Nigerian man and trying not to crunch my feet on the empty San Miguel beer cans that the Korean backpacker was littering our cabin with, I think that it is amazing that I managed to even get off the train at the right stop with both of my shoes on. So it wasn't until I had dumped my stuff at my hostel, slapped some water onto my face and stumbled out into the chilly Madrid morning that I realised how great this place is.

I was exhausted after my train arrived in Madrid and I was desperate for a long nap. However, I was lucky that the hostel was tight and wouldn't let me check in straight away, because this forced me to go out and explore Madrid on a Sunday morning. I went to El Rastro, the Sunday flea market, and I was even too early for the stall-holders and so I ate churros while I waited for them to set up in the pouring rain. El Rastro was interesting, but from somewhere within myself I have managed to develop some restraint when it comes to purchasing random junk at overseas flea markets. Even with those words just typed in mind, I have to admit that the variety of huge rings did dazzle me and I decided to buy an outrageously large one. After five minutes of dithering over colour choice I was about to say 'I'll take this one, por favor!', when one of the women who worked the stall pushed me out of the way so that she could get to the other side of the table. That was enough to snap me out of my large-ring trance and I moved off in a huff. It was good that this happened, as I have already purchased three rings so far this trip and I brought along at least seven of my own!

After El Rastro I went to THE museum, the Prado. I got there an hour after it had opened and the line had hundreds of people in it. I walked to the front to see what the opening hours were and an Australian couple told me that they had been waiting nearly an hour, and they were near the front! I went to the Museo Thyssen Bornemisza instead and it was great. All of the artwork in this museum was donated by Baron and Baroness Thyssen-Bornemisza and the collection is huge. Once I hurried past all of the religious stuff, I saw some great work.

I'm enjoying Madrid so much that I have decided to stay for a week. I've gotten into this rhythm of getting up in the morning and going to a tourist sight (like a museum or Plaza Mayor) and then spending the afternoon wandering down streets and catching the Metro to new stations.

To finish, I have to express my disappointment in the Prado. Let's just say that after lining up for 40 minutes yesterday in 4 degree weather, I was quite underwhelmed by the number of potraits I saw of monks with bowl cuts. The only good thing about it was that as teacher I got in for free. The woman who served clearly did not know what to make of my Victorian Institute of Teaching card, but I don't think her job satisfaction is very high, as she just rolled her eyes and waved me through!

More queso, por favor!

bronhinton — Sat, 2 Feb 2008 06:25:00 GMT

My name is Bronwen and I'm addicted to tapas. It has been a dangerous addiction and I'm sure the road to recovery will be hellish and difficult but with the support of my family and friends I'm sure that I will get through it. The problem is that the people I am friends with in the hostel are enablers. They encourage my addiction because they too love the tapas at Quimet & Quimet.

That's right, without too much convincing I was 'dragged' back to the awesome tapas place from the other night. We went back for some old favourites (like our canapes) but I told the others that if I was to survive the evening I could not eat too much of my old friend, queso. Once again we stood outside before the place opened, determined to snag our favourite table, near the gigantic Bombay bottle. We were joined by two young Spanish men, who were laughing at our eagerness. They failed to understand me when I blurted out 'We love this place!', so I had to mime it... they were still laughing but I think they got it.

We rushed in as soon as the old doors were unlatched and we were greeted with amused 'Holas!' from the couple who own it (I presume Mr & Mrs Quimet). We ate some of our old faves and then requested the empanadas and croquettes. We had no idea what was in them, but they were delicious. I then wanted to finish off with... you guessed it, cheese. I had already eaten a soft cheese canape and wanted a hard cheese one and with my embarrassing, fumbling Spanglish I somehow got the message across. To be honest, that is more a testament to their patience than my language skills! Funnily enough, what was delivered to me was a combination of a lot of things that I don't like - capsicum, gherkin and an orange-coloured blue-veined cheese. And I loved it! It was delicious. However, the Hintons be warned, that does not mean we can start using one knife for all the cheeses on the cheese board!

So, food talk aside, I had a lovely day in Montserrat, a monastery built on the top of a mountain, about an hour outside of Barcelona. It was awesome, but only 3 degrees celsius and the two trains that could take you to the very top of the mountain were being fixed! (Like the time I was in DC and Lincoln was being ´fixed´and the entire monument was covered in scaffolding.) Apart from that, it was great!

Gallery: Barcelona

bronhinton — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 07:01:00 GMT

Mmm, tapas

Queso, queso, queso!

bronhinton — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 06:32:00 GMT

I am in a state of euphoria right now. Why? Because of food, of course! Let me set the scene...

Bronwen walks to the Mambo Tango Hostel counter to speak to Marina, the receptionist, about food.

Bronwen: Hola, Marina. I was wondering if you could help me? I really want to try tapas. Where do you suggest I go?

Marina: Hola. For tapas, go next door. The best tapas in all of Barcelona.

Bronwen raises her eyebrows in scepticism, as she has heard this line many a time from hostel workers.

Marina: Just make sure you get there for 8, as it will get very busy.

End Scene.

I reported back to my new dorm friends and we decided to try this place. We went at 8, as suggested, and for a place that wasn't supposed to be busy yet, we could barely fit in the door. Everyone was shouting orders in Spanish and no one appeared to have the time to assist us as we fumbled through requests for 'queso' and 'oliva'. We left, very freaked out and certain we wouldn't return. We went to some random Spanish bar for dinner and it was very average. We were disappointed and worried that we wouldn't get a chance to experience awesome Spanish cuisine. After much discussion, we decided to give next door another chance the following night, but this time we would make sure we were there when it opened (at 7pm) to ensure we got one of the three tables in the place that was honestly the size of three elevators squashed together.

The next night...

It appeared as though other Spanish people had the same idea as us, as we were sharing the narrow footpath in front of the tapas bar with three drunk, 60 year old Spanish men. We all seemed to be desperate for tapas, as on the stroke of 7pm we laughingly encouraged one of the drunk old men to bang on the heavy wood door. Good idea. The door swung open and we surged in, I elbowed aside a heavily made-up woman in a fur coat to get to the table I knew was at the back. I couldn't resist throwing a smirk of triumph her way when I got to the table first. We spoke to the lady at the bar and after telling her what we liked (for me, this mainly involved me yelling out 'cheese' - 'queso, queso!') she started bringing us these amazing dishes, each one better than the next.

I ate random seafood morsels, toasts with so many different toppings that my mouth is kind of watering as I remember it... sour cream, smoked salmon and honey... caramelised onion, soft cheese, tomoto relish and balsamic... paté, relish and balsamic. Then the cheese platter came and I nearly wept! I thought the cheese platter at a Hinton family dinner was amazing, but this one in the tapas bar set new standards for me. My two new friends and I kept giggling with the excitement of being in a real tapas bar in Spain. It was truly fantastic.

Barcelona

bronhinton — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 01:28:00 GMT

Yesterday I felt as though I was in the middle of one of those tragic British reality shows set in an airport. There were angry UK bogans and cancelled flights and I was worried I would never get out of London and get to Barcelona. Thankfully, it all worked out. My last few days in London were good, although I spent quite a bit of time trying to cull stuff from my pack, I did manage to see some of London. By far the highlight was riding the London Eye and getting a photo of the sun hitting Big Ben. Although London was nice, I felt that my trip wouldn´t truly begin until I was in Spain. I got up at 5am yesterday so I could take the train to Gatwick airport. However, once at the airport I discovered that my flight was cancelled due to fog and I then had to get rebooked on another flight. The problem was this flight left from Heathrow and it felt like I was in an episode of The Amazing Race as I gambled on good English traffic allowing me to get to the airport in time. I didn´t need to bother, as my flight was delayed for over five hours. I shouldn´t really complain, as there were so many flights cancelled that day, I was lucky to even get in the air.

I really like Barcelona and despite what people kept telling me before I left, I feel pretty safe! Hopefully, that feeling continues until I leave! The city is just saturated in Gáudi´s work and I spent today looking at the magnificent La Sagrada Familia (a cathedral that is unfinished and is the most visited construction sight in the world) and taking photos of Gáudi´s crazy mosaic constructions in Park Güell. I ate lunch at McDonald's, just so I could order a beer with my quarter pounder and eat mayo on my fries! Now it is time for my siesta. Bye!