Plodding Along

Feeding

vesnamcm — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 01:35:00 GMT

I live for travel and I travel to eat. While others savour the tourist delights of architecture, history, and scenic views, I only think of my next meal. I seek out local delicacies, exotic cuisine, and without hesitation can recite my favourite meals across the globe.

When I visit new destinations I rate them in terms of gastronomic “liveability”, and Sarajevo is one city I could make my home. The food is a colourful blend of east and west, particularly the spicy potato pita (pie).

Ten years ago this charming city was under siege by the marauding Yugoslav army. The war was messy and vicious and the scars linger deep within the people, the destroyed buildings a visual testament to human madness. As you drive through the countryside of Bosnia & Herzegovina the most glaring image is the shiny new cemeteries littered with white headstones for Muslims and black for Christians, who often died on the same day and now lay side by side for eternity.

Sarajevo was a popular host to the 1984 winter Olympics but the main stadium no longer hears the cries of sporting victory but the wails of heartbreak for the dead. It’s a surreal sight as you stand among the graves surrounded by the intact grandstands, a glaring reminder of the continuing power of the dead over the living.

Ultimately, it is people which shape a nation and its soul and the Sarajevans exude life with an infectious zeal. Maybe it is a simple gratitude for having survived, or possibly having experienced hell, everything and anything else is a bonus. Whichever, you will not find a friendlier nor more hospitable society anywhere.

The city bustles with an invigorated fervour and entrepreneurs have embraced any and all commercial opportunities. My favourite being a real life Indiana Jones, Semir Osmanagic. In them thar hills of Visoko (which fittingly translates as high), 40km east of Sarajevo, Semir believes that over 27,000 years ago the pyramids of the Sun, Moon and Dragon were built by an ancient civilisation.

You can imagine the controversy his assertions of pyramids in Europe have provoked with international archaeologists, but charismatic Semir, whose costume is ready for filming the next Spielberg epic, claims that within the next five years he will fully clarify their existence. He is a passionate soul and already has the locals fully convinced they live in the midst of these awesome structures covered with centuries of dirt and vegetation.

From a distance Visoko’s overshadowing hills certainly appear in the distinct shape of a pyramid. The climb to the summit is arduous and fraught with mishaps, Flip flops are not recommended hiking attire, and although there is not much to see you will want to bring along an Aussie flag to plant and mark your achievement. Like every good tourist I have the t-shirt and happy snap as proof of my sweaty efforts.

Although not quite the believer I am a little besotted by Semir and his convictions. I am also enamoured by the locals who have won my heart with their tourist attraction 3-cornered pizzas, sandwiches and cakes. In these parts a lamington is a chocolate pyramid shape with green coconut. Bless them.

Sarajevo

vesnamcm — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 01:21:00 GMT

I am a tourist and therefore I wait. Actually, I wait and I queue. And as I wait and I queue, I ponder if one exists without the other. For one cannot queue without waiting, but one can wait without queuing. However, that one is not travelling, as in all my years of gallivanting this globe, I have never had to just, wait.

In real life one also must wait. The difference as a tourist is that all the waiting and queuing is bunched together. It’s a philosophical juggling act where on one hand “real time” is suspended so you feel as if “holiday time” will last forever and once you arrive in, oh let’s say Paris, you will have endless time to see the Louvre, the Seine, Notre Dame or just loll about and inhale the romance.

But with the mental checklist of must sees and dos, who can afford the exorbitant cost of a hotel in Paris for more than two days. So you dart around along with the swarm of other summer tourists, who oddly enough had the same idea, and queue for a glimpse of Mona Lisa. Yep, tick, and now off to Montmartre for a quick café au lait and croissant, energy food to queue for the Eiffel Tower climb.

I once queued 3 hours to see Michelangelo’s David, with 15 minutes to storm through Firenze’s Galleria Academia, ignoring every other priceless artefact, to find nudie strapping young Dave so that I could say “been there, done that”, whiz off to the train station, for more of the same at next destination.

And here’s another conundrum. It is said that times of trouble build character but I have borne witness to waiting and queuing revealing the ugliest of characters. I appreciate this activity is hardly a dangerous pastime, but humans are a disparate lot. Some of us calmly and orderly bide our time, while others vocalise frustrations, and you can even feel their tension infecting your space. So much so, that I have learnt that the “she’ll be right mate” attitude doesn’t work with a testy yank, who believes in is his American-god-given-right to be serviced immediately or receive a money back guarantee. Not even in Disneyland, buster.

There is a skill and art to the queue and wait. Just head to the Balkans or the former USSR where people once waited days for a stale loaf of bread. Medical conditions were diagnosed, offspring betrothed, recipes exchanged. It doesn’t have to be a waste of time, if you can recognise the value of spending moments with strangers engaged in a mutually intimate experience.

You may consider my situation quite banal, and yes, in the scheme of things, I agree. But I have experienced far too much cosy contact, too near to sweaty Mediterranean types; feel intimately familiar with the layout of transport terminals on four continents; and can say that being within earshot of personal conversations is often too much information, thank you very much.

However, it’s all worth the effort. You’ll have the memories, happy snaps and anecdotes, like my favourite celebrity sighting or the time I met Massimo in Prague and we…

Munchin in Munchen

vesnamcm — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 20:47:00 GMT

Important tips for Oktoberfest in Munich:-

Arrive early to secure a table as you cannot order a beer otherwise;
No need to buy new lederhosen or a dirndl to get that tasteful and authentic Oktoberfest look, as you can purchase second hand costumes, hopefully industrially disinfected from last year’s frivolities;
Each time you sip your beer you must shout “prost” and make eye contact with every individual with whom you cheer. Apparently, no eye contact and you’ll have bad sex…for the next 7 years.

Beer is serious business. And Munich, in the Bavarian region of Germany, is the self acclaimed beer capital of the world, a source of great pride and an integral part of local tradition, culture and history.

It all started as a wedding celebration for King Ludwig I in 1810 who magnanimously invited his subjects to share in his connubial bliss by hosting a horse race. The good citizens had so much fun guzzling the free beer they decided to continue the merriment each year and the Oktoberfest legend was born. Alas the horses galloped off into the sunset and no one really noticed, nor cared.

Big is what is important in Munich. No quaint corner pubs, but colossal beer halls and sprawling beer gardens. Beer is served in litre steins, and big funny hats, big pretzels and big sausages are all essential ingredients for the quintessential beer experience.

Do not fear, however, if beer is not your thing, as Munich offers so much more than brewing and boozing. The city itself is somewhat of a European exception as 65% of it was destroyed by bombs during WWII. It has a slick and contemporary atmosphere and much like Adelaide’s Colonel Light, Munich’s modern city planners and architects could impress structure and order. For example, over a quarter of residents ride bikes and the hundreds of bike paths are also a fantastic convenience for tourists.

Bavaria is also cuckoo clock land and the ultimate version is the Glockenspiel on the Town Hall tower. It is both elaborate in decoration and performance and some even describe the show as a torturous 15 minute ordeal. Split in three parts, with the wedding of some long forgotten royals, the dance of the coopers (barrel makers) and the celebration of the end of the Plague. Someone, please explain the connection between Black Death and frolicking barrel makers.

Though, the ultimate torture is a visit to the nearby Dachau Concentration Camp, also known as the “Academy of Terror”. It is a chamber of horrors and you will experience emotions worse than anything your imagination can conjure up. The souls of the persecuted are ever present and the sense of evil leaves you icily numb. Local tours also provide visits to where the Nazi Party was launched and the site of the Gestapo Headquarters. Brace yourself.

At this point a stiff beer was necessary to restore my sanity and dull the sickening images in my mind, and for a little relief, I took a stroll through the English Garden, originally the hunting grounds of Munich’s ruling families. And, low and behold naked bodies. I had come upon uninhibited local sunbathing city workers on a lunch break. Imagine bumping into your boss starkers. No thanks…well maybe if I worked for George Clooney.

So if you come to Munich, be prepared for … everything!

More than mountains

vesnamcm — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 20:29:00 GMT

As a recreational pop psychologist I would suggest that travel is an opportunity to abandon reality. It’s when real time is paused until you return, often begrudgingly, to the routine of life. It’s like pretend calories when devouring chocolate cake with girlfriends.

It’s a feeling of freedom and release when humans become absent-minded Mr Magoos. This is why airlines and hotels are overwhelmed with discarded items in their lost and found departments. I once left my bus ticket on a kitchen counter with no time to make the round trip to retrieve it. This little episode cost me another bus ticket even though my name was still on the passenger list. Tip, beware of shady eastern European ticket sellers.

When you are not thinking entirely rationally you also take chances and make decisions that would appear ridiculous in real life. Language may be alien and geography confusing, so you just “go with the flow”. Like accepting offers of accommodation from people you have just met, because you think it’s wonderful that there is still genuine hospitality in this sometimes scary world.

So when a relative of a friend generously offers their guest room in Lake Constance, Germany, of course, I do not hesitate. This is why I now sleep beneath a canvas of tasty salamis dangling from the ceiling, something like phallic stalagmites. Yes, my cave doubles as the smokehouse and storage room. If it took my fancy, I could reach for a beer and a sausage with little exertion from my bed. However, my vegetarian sensibilities are greatly challenged and my dreams menacing.

You can imagine how grateful I am for the spectacular scenery outside my window. It really is the quintessential picture postcard of Europe. Pristine water surrounded by snowcapped mountains. The vineyards precariously wedged into the hillsides and charming German hamlets abound.

Lake Constance is actually a series of lakes that border Germany, Austria and Switzerland. The nations live quite harmoniously in hunting heaven and duck is the local dinner table fare. These boisterous fowl call in on their autumn migration from Siberia to Asia and apart from their sacrifice to gourmands, they also support a thriving taxidermy industry.

A visit to a souvenir shop and I am perplexed with the choice of stuffed ducks and cookoo clocks. I know this is the genuine “thing” in this part of the world but even here it looks plain kitsch. Then I recall it is all a part of the local flavour as I amble down the winding narrow streets in Landau, with its gingerbread houses, and the beer and wine gardens.

I could prattle on about the abundance of fish in the lakes, the serene alpine forest air and the quaint hunting lodges. My senses are so hypnotised that I am sure I hear Heidi’s grandfather yodelling in the distance.

A spontaneous decision leaves little time for expectations and in retrospect I would have not wanted for more. Well maybe. If only I could have met a real Hansel or Gretel, to complete my storybook experience.

Proper Swiss

vesnamcm — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 20:20:00 GMT

Zurich would be the ideal place to hold an international nana convention. It is neat, clean and orderly where people dress in their Sunday best everyday, and behave accordingly. Afternoon tea at the Sprungli bakery for the world’s supreme melting moments and everyone tucked into bed by 9pm.

On my first visit I felt awkward raising my voice above a whisper. On my second I was taken for a night on the town to the Alpen Rock House for dinner and dancing to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell”. And by the third time I find myself helping Swiss Tom choreograph a Liza Minnelli number for his drag show. Zurich is a dichotomy of experiences for the gamut of tastes. On my next visit I plan to enrol in a yodelling class.

Apparently three-quarters of visitors to Zurich come for business. However, I cannot spot one pin striped suit, nor briefcase at the annual Street Parade, held every August. A cross between Adelaide’s Christmas Pageant and Sydney’s Mardi Gras, it is a celebration of love and life and this year’s theme of Move your mind, Don’t be blind has revellers costumed in their carnival finest. My nana would love it.

Maybe the pin striped ones are keeping a low profile in the 400 odd banks to be found in this financial Mecca. Switzerland is the quintessential destination for the outrageously wealthy where there are 15 private banks, still family owned, to cater to private clients who need a spare US$1million to merely open an account.

It is the Swiss banks legendary privacy which attracts the uber rich, dishonest third world government officials, and other crooks, as only one person will know your ID, as all transactions are processed by an account number.

If like me your fantasy is to one day possess a Swiss bank account maybe you are already blessed. Check the web for the database of Unclaimed Swiss Accounts and other Holocaust-era assets with 50,000 names. There is over US$1.25billion on offer, but I alas, am not one of the privileged ones. However, if you can prove you are related to one of the Jones or two of the Smiths that appear, you’ll never need to buy another lottery ticket and then join legendary squillionaire, J. Paul Getty’s chant, “If you can actually count your money, you are not really rich”.

Zurich is the world’s top ranked city with the highest standard of living for the fifth consecutive year. It is almost a utopian success story, much to the chagrin of the most idealist communist, where consumerism and capitalism rule and function with the rarest of hiccups. Like the US nearly every home has a firearm but rarely is there an explosion or tragedy to make the 6 o’clock news.

The motto of the museums is “please touch or nothing will happen” and there is a tangible atmosphere of enthusiasm from the mix of old and slick modern buildings which would rival any in New York or Tokyo.

First impressions can be deceiving, and the staid, conservative appearance belies the dynamic experience Zurich offers. Save your pennies and although the locals may initially show restraint, soon enough you will be exchanging more than tea cake recipes.