7 September - Working class hero?

Like most teenagers, my (many) years at university were spent asking life's big questions, such as; 'can a capitalist society be a just society?' and 'does shaving my armpits make me a non-feminist?' Also, coming from fairly standard working class stock, and being raised to be suspicious of anybody with lots of money, I felt I was more open than most to a political philosophy that advocated a classless society. It's important to note here that I was 'open', not 'active'. So, whilst I always had time to read a Young Socialists' brochure or occasionally listen to an on-campus speech, ultimately the idealist in me died and, six years in, I was turned off by their fanaticism and bare feet. I do sometimes wonder though, what if I'd been converted all those years ago? Would I still consider socialism a viable system?

This question has something to do with my (some say morbid) interest in the former GDR (German Democratic Republic). So, for those of you who don't know*, the GDR was the communist state of occupied Germany following Germany's defeat in the second World War. This area encompassed East Germany - including the eastern half of Berlin. A big old wall was built to prevent citizens from defecting to the West, and the ruling political party (the Socialist Unity Party of Germany), created the Ministry for State Security to ensure that nobody (internal or external) posed a risk to their control over the population. The Ministry for State Security was basically a secret police force, commonly known as the Stasi. After reading Anna Funder's book, Stasiland, I'd always wanted to visit the former Stasi headquarters to formulate my own opinion on the supposed tyranny of the regime. 

However, before getting into the question of tyranny, it's probably more interesting to talk about the extreme paranoia of the Ministry for State Security. The lengths they went to to protect the socialist system from subversive elements, seem (to modern minds), almost laughable. Take a look at some of these devices and tell me this isn't like something from a Bond film featuring any one of the actors who wasn't Sean Connery.

First up a camera tie;

Don't normally wear a tie? Perhaps a button camera is more your thing;

Unfortunately though, it wasn't all slightly embarrassing espionage. The scent samples concerned me somewhat. This is where they would bottle the scent of citizens under investigation by wiping down the seat they'd been interrogated on - supposedly for the benefit of the dogs should that person require tracking at a later date. Kind of creepy right? 
Surely somebody in the Socialist Unity Party sat back one day and actually thought; 'hold on, it's now at the stage where we're collecting people's smells, just to ensure they don't leave. Perhaps something isn't quite right here?' Unfortunately, it seems nobody from the SED did have this thought because around 1985 the number of Stasi officials actually increased to close to 90,000. It took until 1989 for mass unrest and strikes to bring the system (and the wall) down.

There is certainly no question that the Stasi were a very strange and tyrannical force. However, I find it hard to believe that life under socialism was all bread lines and drab outfits. Certainly the feeling I get, is, at least nobody was cold or homeless or hungry. And really, can you imagine yourself as a former citizen of the GDR, and your first exposure to western society is David Hasselhoff in custom made electric lights jacket? I think I'd prefer somebody to put my scent in a jar.

*Shame on you for not knowing fundamental post-war history!

3 September - Berlin; The City of Bikes

About twelve months ago I purchased a bicycle on eBay. 'Reconditioned' and 'vintage' with a sparkling new paint job and obligatory basket on the front. Upon purchasing this bike I could not get enough of looking at it. Chained to my bedroom window grate, in front of a flower box brimming with geraniums, I dubbed my new acquisition 'snowflake', and foresaw a happy and aesthetically pleasing life together. 

In her twelve months lifespan with me, 'snowflake' has seen the road approximately nine times. My lack of ability to bond with bike riding was summed up when housemate K noted one day - 'oh, you rode today? I was worried when I didn't see your bike out front. I assumed it must have been stolen'. It's not that I'm lazy exactly, it's just that I like the idea (and look) of the bike more than the riding of the bike. 

So, upon landing in Berlin, my new home for the next two months, I've needed to radically reassess this attitude. Everybody rides a bike in this town. And they don't care if it has a new paint job or hand woven basket. If it has two wheels, it will do. Functioning brakes optional. Below is a snapshot of my back garden (taken from the kitchen window).

This shows only one side of the garden. There are at least ten more bikes bordering this courtyard - also note the veggie patch (but more on that in a later post). 

The orange number (second from the right under the shelter), is mine. As a homage to snowflake, this beast has been called 'traffic cone', as no other name could describe its lurid shade and utter lack of style. If I'm to get over my affliction for riding only for fashion, this bike is most certainly the cure.

When hiring the bike I made a gesture to the bike guy to indicate that I'd quite like to hire a helmet as well, so as to not break my skull during this little experiment. 'Nein' was the short answer to that request. No helmets here. So, day one, off I went with streaming hair and nervous stomach. First stop, Brandenburg Gate.

Now part of the reason I don't really dig bike riding in Melbourne has something to do with hills and lack of decent infrastructure for cyclists. Everybody would know that riding to the Napier Hotel from my house (for example), involves not only braving the lunatics on Brunswick St, but also a slight incline that snowflake is simply not equipped to handle. Thankfully, Berlin is totally flat and has more bike lanes than pedestrian footpaths. Traffic cone also sports some nifty back pedal brakes which take me back to a time (when I was about twelve) and used to ride my bike outside my house for hours at a time. Handbrakes always felt so adult - so serious. 

I could get used to this. Then I hit the Unter den Linden and the bike path and bus lane became one. Praying that a bus wouldn't pull out in front of me became my sole thought. That, and the fact that I was without helmet. By the time I reached the Brandenburg Gate I needed to sit down at a tourist restaurant and pay five euros for a water - just to calm my nerves. 

But, from my overpriced vantage point I was able to observe the lay of the land. The buses (and cars) were deferring to the cyclists in every case. No aggression, not even a close call was noted. 

On the way home I was a different rider to the girl who had started out. Traffic cone and I were now friends. I could even relax enough to cycle and window shop at the same time. Result; new black dress and hopefully a fitter, less prejudiced future cyclist.

1 September – Hungary, Scrabble and Nudity*

I’m proud to boast that in the last fifteen years of adventuring around the globe, in my efforts to be culturally sensitive, but also to make myself understood, I’ve made it compulsory to learn the foreign equivalent of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘thank you’. At some stage I’ve been able to recite these words in German, French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Japanese, Indonesian, Cambodian, Thai and Vietnamese. But, after spending close to four days in Budapest, Hungarian is notably absent from this list.

I should have known I was bound for failure when on the first night I asked the waiter how to say ‘thank you’. He told me, I repeated it. He laughed and told me again. I repeated it. This went on for sometime, but, after about six to seven goes, I was confident enough to teach the rest of the table what I’d learnt. Then, on the way out, the normal practice is to thank the waiter. He smiled at me encouragingly, but…nothing. I had learnt this word not five minutes before. I couldn’t remember a single syllable. A smile and nod (and decent tip) had to suffice for my very patient and slightly bemused teacher.

When learning specific words in foreign languages, I usually find it handy to give them an English ‘sounds like’ equivalent. As an example, let’s take the name of my local metro stop in Budapest; Keleti Payaudvar. The best I could come up with – Kelti Palaver. For starters, Kelti isn’t even a word in English, and secondly, what language deserves to be associated with a palaver? It’s a joke word in any language. But perhaps this example isn’t sufficient to demonstrate the complexity of Hungarian. So, here are a few more to contemplate; Vörösmarty utca, Szabadságtelep, Szépvölgyi út. You get the picture right?

In order to amuse myself on public transport, I often spend time trying to interpret the advertising billboards. Normally you can make out what some words could mean by the accompanying picture. There was one ad that had me transfixed for four days. It looked a little like this; a sort of country chateau positioned off into the distance, a couple, early 40s, positioned to the foreground, towards the left hand corner. Couple with a very large bird of prey (I’m guessing falcon) in their hands, upside down, with its right wing pulled out into a full span. What in god’s name could this be about? The words were totally indecipherable, so, I only had the picture to go on. Here are some possibilities I came up with; ‘Secure your retirement; Buy into falcon farming today!’ or, ‘Falcon world; come see Zéöpkgtui the falcon with the world’s biggest wing span!’

So, in order to lend some authority to this theory, back at the hotel, I began typing in such google gems as ‘incidence of falcon farms in Hungary’ and ‘bird of prey theme parks in Hungary’. It’s only when I (unsurprisingly) came up with nothing that I realised this exercise was futile in helping me understand the language better. So, I googled what any keen linguist would; ‘how much are z’s worth in Hungarian scrabble’. Answer; four. (They are worth ten points in English by the way).

*Warning, post contains no mention of nudity. This is because this post was supposed to be about Budapest’s thermal baths, but, with a distinct lack of nudity on offer, there was not that much of interest to say (other than they are very nice and I would recommend them). Then the post was going to be about the food in Budapest, but the overwhelming desire to pun my way through references to being ‘hungry in Hungary’, got too much to bear.

28 August - Milan and the return of the Bedazzler

Milan. Home of high fashion. Style beacon. Shopper's paradise. So the theory goes at least.

I suppose I was at a disadvantage by arriving in August, with an average temperature of 35 degrees and, subsequently, all the locals escaping to their holiday homes. The mass exodus was so extreme the city centre resembled Brisbane city mall on a Tuesday evening - thankfully minus the goths loitering outside Hungry Jacks. At the very least it put me in mind of that wonderful song by the Specials - Ghost Town. I could listen to nothing else for three days.

So, keeping in mind what I was supposed to get out of Milan, I, with a friend, booked a day's shopping at the designer outlet mecca - Seravalle. Think DFO, but rather than driving to Melbourne airport, one must board a bus for 1.5 hours, and end up closer to Genoa than Milan. Upon hearing about the necessity of the bus, I explained to T, that if we had to wear name tags and fight a bunch of middle aged mums for bargains, then Milan, shopping beacon, could take a flying leap. Luckily, things are slightly more dignified in Italy and the bus was merely the transport to outlet paradise.

Now for those who know me (and why would you read this if you didn't know me), you are aware that my style extends to shades of black, grey and the occasional scrap of draping fabric.  

However, inexplicably, by the end of my Seravalle experience, I actually thought that my wardrobe was somewhat lacking in rhinestones and white slacks. I mean, the Italians epitomise style right? And when all the shops had to offer was rack after rack of bling, strange polyester blends and 'distressed' denim, then obviously I was the one getting it wrong. 

After struggling with this moral dilemma for close to six hours, I am pleased that my only concession to bling manifested in a slightly dubious gold-ish shirt from Moschino. I had my wits about me long enough to also purchase a very sophisticated (dark blue) stiff cotton dress from Prada. Though, upon trying it on, perhaps it would benefit from just the smallest row of diamontes...

24 August - The theme park on the water

As much as I would like to claim that my interest in Venice was sparked by it playing host to the most important contemporary art event in the world, I'll sheepishly report that it is actually Johnny Depp who is to blame. Johnny and the emaciated figure of Angelina Jolie in the 2010 rom com - The Tourist. I'll not go into too much detail about why I was watching the film, but safe to say it had something to do with finding myself alone in a Brisbane hotel room and in want of some/any entertainment. But, getting back to the point, the film is set in Venice and when I could no longer look upon the gaunt face of Ms Jolie, I remember thinking there was surely no better looking city on this earth. And now I've seen it in the flesh, I think my original guess is quite correct. The theme park reference, stolen from a friend, is accurate in so far as it is so fantastical, it's hard to believe it's a real place where people apparently sit down to dinner every night and send their kids off to school every day.

I should note here however that my first impressions of the place were greatly hindered by the indignity of 34 degree heat, and the weight of 25 kg of suitcase. Upon arrival from the airport to the bus stop nearest my hotel, I was fully prepared that I would need to walk the short distance, as cars are unable to access the small lanes. I was not prepared however for the numerous bridges - all stepped, and the aforementioned blazing heat. Since the bridges are stepped, wheeling a case over them is impossible. One must carry the suitcase. All 25 kg of it. I was so devoid of all my dignity towards the end of the journey that, when a seedy looking character attempted to help me, I slapped his hand and shouted 'no' in his face. He was lucky to get away with only that, as I was so irate I think I may have punched him if he provoked me any further. 

Eventually though, after many map consultations, I found my shabby little room with no canal view in sight, but, with a resident pigeon who likes to coo from my window night and day. After shaking 'ratty' (my new pigeon friend's nickname), from the shutters on five different occasions, I've decided to let him be. This is his town after all, and I'm a mere tourist who gets to enjoy the spoils. 

And enjoying the spoils I have been. Never one to bother too much with maps (having no skill in actually understanding them), I have gotten myself joyfully lost amongst Venice's laneways only to regather my wits over a cold beer in one of the many town squares located conveniently around every corner. I've seen more masterpieces that I can recall or even comprehend, and I've been exposed to some genuinely interesting and exciting contemporary art.

Due to the heat however, I've been unable to indulge in my other great travel passion - eating. Two meals a day and gelati is all the fuel I can handle. Therefore, determined to not leave Italy without at least one great pasta to gush over, I'm going to make my next stop Milan. It is looking to be as hot as Venice, but, thankfully there will be no canals to get in my way.

19 August - There's a fine line between pleasure and pain

I'm no stranger to the communal bath experience. I even have a ten trip discount card for Ofuroya Japanese bath house in Collingwood. I'm down with the nakedness, I'm down with the public scrubbing, but most of all, I'm down with the unbelievable relaxation a communal bath can offer. 

So here I find myself in Istanbul. A long way from Japan and even further away from Collingwood. A Turkish bath will surely offer me the same blissed out, comfortably naked washing experience right?

The great Turkish bath experiment started with me mistakenly stumbling in to the men's section, only to have my credit card swiped and my person manhandled towards the more appropriate bathing area. Here I was greeted by a gaggle of large Turkish women who knew no English but who appeared highly practiced in playing charades with the gormless tourist. I was directed to undress in a strange little booth, which, with clear glass enclosing it, seemed to me utterly redundant. In spite of this, I took off my clothes (I knew I had to do this by wildly gesticulating arms and sharp words), and wrapped a tablecloth-like bit of material around myself. I was then instructed to put on wooden shoes which made me walk like a Geisha (giving me heart that maybe my Japanese bath experience wasn't unrealistic after all). But, balancing on wooden shoes, while holding up a bit of cloth to cover my naked body, and being shoved through a door by a large Turkish woman, soon put an end to my dreams of Japanese style tranquility. 

Upon entering the bathroom I was confronted by two naked women lying face down on a marble slab in the middle of the room. Again, more flaying of the arms and soon I too was laid out much too literally like a slab of meat on the marble. 

Feeling foolish and embarrassed, I stole quick glances at my marble slab companions. They appeared to know what was going on, so, while they stayed put, I stayed put. Lying on a hot marble slab is quite unlike anything I've experienced before. Both relaxing, and slightly unnerving, I didn't know what to make of it all. I looked around at my surroundings - at the beautiful domed ceiling, the ancient sinks and the equally ancient mold covering the walls. Suddenly the fact that I was in Istanbul, naked, sweating and lying on a marble slab didn't seem quite as ridiculous as I initially thought. It felt like an amazing privilege.

After what felt like an hour of cooking on the slab (but was likely ten minutes), my Turkish washer lady arrived. She was about sixty, topless and sporting a pair of very disconcerting pink lacy underpants. She took me firmly by the hand to the sinks and started pouring cold water over my head. After the heat of the marble, this was shocking at first, but then rather blissful. Back over to the slab I went, where she proceeded to use an exfoliating mitt over my entire body. After scrubbing my feet, next was my face. Same mitt. She joyfully showed me the skin that had been removed from my body. She was joyful, I was mostly grossed out.
Then back for another cold water rinse, before moving back to the slab again. Next up, soap. So much soap it appeared as if I were in one of those sitcoms where the series idiot puts too much washing powder in the machine. I was covered in this soap which then got massaged into my body. I tried not to think about its stain removal properties. 

Finally, back to the last rinse in the cycle. I was instructed to sit by the sink where I had bucket after bucket of water poured over my head. This is where the fine line between pleasure and pain came in. Now I'm not suggesting that my Turkish friend was engaging in any waterboarding activity, but, there were times when I thought I might suffocate. But, there were also times when the feeling of the cool water running over my face was close to bliss. I felt sparkling clean and more high than relaxed.

So, by the end, and after a small deliberation, Turkey was pronounced the winner in the battle of the baths.

13 August - The 24 hour clock incident

At the cumulation of this festival of farewell, I crawled into my bed at 1am this morning for what I thought would be the last time for three months. I'd said my goodbyes to all the unbelievably wonderful people that make up this Melbourne life, feeling loved and a little giddy but satisfied that all was in order for departure.

As mentioned previously, I'm a terribly organised person. In preparation for this trip for example, I've been known to set an alarm as a reminder to put washing on - to ensure sufficient drying time prior to packing. I've copied my itinerary, passport, credit cards and insurance documents to send to my parents and select friends. 

That's why when K said to me this morning 'now I don't want you to be alarmed', I was only mildly panicked. Why would I be alarmed? The washing is dry, the suitcase at the correct weight. 

Unfortunately my organisation doesn't extend to the basic laws of telling the time. As K patiently explained the nature of the 24 hour clock, my stomach lurched and I had the upsetting realisation that I'd missed my flight. I feebly protested that nothing flies at 2.30am - knowing all the while that I'd stuffed up.

The airline told me to call STA to try and re-book. The thought that I was never going to get out of this town had me in a small state of hysteria. My small state rapidly turned into a large state when I had to endure the following voice message from those zany kids at STA; 'Oh hi! You've called STA Travel. We can't answer your call right now because we're not in the office - we're most likely in the pub! Be sure to call us back...etc. etc.' 

So, here I wait. If nothing else, I can be confident that I can successfully organise another farewell breakfast...