Georgia

In a dusty corner shop in downtown Tbilisi, amongst the cute but useless souvenirs, Stalin beamed back at me. The Man of Steel, butcherer of countless millions, 'Uncle Joe', had been reduced to a label on a wine bottle. I suppose I could think of worse ways to be commemorated, but it seemed cheerfully fitting that this champion of Marxist revolution should now be used as a marketing tool in his home country of Georgia.

Nausea was setting in thanks to my traditional Georgian breakfast of Katchapuri, a colossal boat-shaped hunk of bread, knuckle deep in melted white cheese and fried eggs and drowned down with a large glass of coca cola. I wasn’t sure if it was the heartburn, lactose intolerance or a sudden urge to vomit, but for a brief and miserable moment I was forced to consider the benefits of veganism.

On all my travels, I had experienced a few moments where my life could have ended rather absurdly- falling from a pirate ship at a rickety theme park in northern Syria; a bad case of food poisoning- not obtained in a third world country, but rather in a quaint little Indian restaurant in central London; and falling into a drain in a nondescript village in Guatemala. I began to wonder if Katchapuri would be the end, and how it would look on my gravestone: ‘Died (not so tragically) of gluttony, somewhere in the southern Caucasus.’

Luckily Georgia’s other famous dishes managed to save me from certain death. Ken, me and two Swedes that we had met at the border (Viggo and Jens) were recommended a local restaurant by our hotel owner. In the basement of a shop in central Tbilisi, we found heaven. Though the waitress couldn’t speak a word of English and the menu was in the completely undecipherable Georgian, we pointed at a variety of dishes which were translated in the guidebook. With no idea of the prices or food quality we ended up stuffed to the brim with melt-in-your-mouth juicy dumplings, eggplant with walnuts and garlic and shashlik, skewers of marinated, grilled pork… all washed down with a litre of fine local wine. We received the bill with trepidation, wondering what this ‘top five best meals of our life’ would cost us. $30 for the lot brought it swiftly to the top of the list.

As we had crossed the border from Turkey, I noticed the roads degenerate and the skirts get shorter. Now that I had spent some time wandering the streets of Tbilisi, the contrast in cuisine, religion, landscape, language and culture became much more obvious. Georgia stands out for all of these reasons- a mountainous, mineral rich country with varied landscapes and climates- from sub-tropical to continental- making it ideal for everything from skiing to wine making. Although Muslims make up a sizeable minority (around 10%), Orthodox Christianity remains dominant and is widely practiced. The Georgian language is blessed with a beautifully curvaceous script and unique pronunciation, making it virtually impossible for travelers to understand. I did learn the Georgian word for ‘thank you’- ‘madlobt’ (თჰანქ yოუ) - although I still managed to forget it so many times that I would accidently merge it into an indecipherable blend of Turkish, Russian and Arabic phrases.

I only had two days in Tbilisi so I wanted to make the most of its fantastic food, cold beer, cobbled streets, hilltop cathedrals and suburban markets. Although the country’s capital and home to close to 1.5 million inhabitants, Tbilisi seems very small. We were told that Georgians love to flock to the Black Sea coast when the weather warms up, and as it was the height of summer, it may explain why the city centre felt eerily empty at times.

While strolling past the parliament, we somehow ended up in the middle of a protest. It seemed the entire police force of Georgia had turned out in rather severe looking riot gear for this day. It turned out that US Vice President Joe Biden was in town, and the Georgians weren’t happy. Since April the opposition had been gunning for the resignation of their president, Mikheil Saakashvili, and they wanted to make it clear to Biden that their authoritarian, warmongering president was guilty of human rights abuses and a failure to initiate promised democratic reforms. Mock jail cells had been erected across the front of parliament, protesters lined the streets and police had closed areas of the city and the central city metro line. We waited around for awhile but in the end the protest petered off undramatically.

We spent the last night in Tbilisi at an English pub, of all things. Sitting outside in the balmy evening air, talking to a homeless Chechnyan woman and listening to some young Georgians attempt karaoke, it couldn’t have felt further from England.

The next day Ken and I said our goodbyes to Jens and Viggo, the two Swedes whose black jeans and even darker humour I would miss. They were heading to Armenia while we were off to Batumi on the Black Sea coast. I’d had my fill of monuments and museums, my money was running out, and I was looking for a relaxing seaside end to my eastern journey before heading back to Istanbul.

Thanks to another unfortunate food poisoning incident, my lasting memory of Tbilisi’s bus station was of lying half conscious and crumpled in a stifling minivan waiting for it to fill, and finally on the sidewalk, begging Ken for a quick death or at least a pretty toilet. So to McDonalds we went, where I emptied my stomach before making my way back to the hotel to sleep off a raging fever. By nightfall I was feeling human again, so we headed for the railway station to take the night train to Batumi.

I woke to the morning light and soft drizzle tapping at my cabin window. Peeking through the curtain, I was greeted by a verdant collage of sub-tropical rainforest and the dark mass of the Black Sea looming forth.

Batumi is the last stop on the Transcaucasian Railway and is the largest port in Georgia. It’s also on the Baku Pipeline, making it an important player in the oil industry. Less than 30 minutes drive from Turkish border, it’s an interesting mix of local and Turkish vacationers and businessmen who come to stroll along the palm lined promenade and painstakingly tan themselves while standing upright on pebbled beaches.

I’d read about Batumi’s botanic gardens, a spectacular 111km mass of flora and fauna on the shores of the Black Sea. A lush wonderland of species from across the world, I was surprised to find it had a New Zealand Garden, even if it did consist of a few randomly placed ferns next to the gum trees that made up the Australian Garden.

It’s a compulsory cultural experience to see inside the depths of a nightclub in an ex-Soviet country. As much as I detest these manmade abominations, I felt it was my duty to endure a night on the town for the sake of research and bizarre entertainment. Batumi’s nightlife is centered on its beachfront clubs blasting dreadful techno music to vodka fuelled teenage girls. It could have been the music, hefty entrance fees, lack of sleep or jealousy at the ability of Georgian girls to totter through sand on six inch heels, but I didn’t last long on the town that night. Maybe I’m just getting old.

Ken and I parted ways the following day. After a week of Ken’s heroic rescue attempts from starvation, sickness and strange men it was time for me to find a home and a job back in Istanbul, and for Ken to continue on his way across central Asia. I’d miss my dear travel friend, whose unfortunate travel experiences and cheesy grin outdid mine hands down.

The rain was falling with unwanted vigor the day I left Georgia. Soaked to the bone and still full from my last dumplings, I said my last goodbyes to this strange and beautiful land.

Going East

It had always been a dream of mine to travel the length of Turkey and to make it right to the far east... the Wild East... where few travellers have the time or will to go. Virtually impassable for parts of the year due to heavy snowfalls, the east remains a mystical place, with its rugged, desolate landscape, dramatic mountain ranges, sparkling lakes, ancient castles and centuries old Armenian ruins. Although my grand plan was to take the exotic sounding Trans Orient Express train from Istanbul to Tehran, unfortunately time, money and the violent post-election riots meant I'd sadly have to miss the sands of Persia for now. Instead I took the decidedly less romantic (but infinitely more practical) long distance bus from Hatay on the Syrian border to Van in the far east of Turkey.

It wasn't long ago that it was virtually impossible to backpack here due to violent political clashes between Kurdish separatist fighters (PKK) and the Turkish military. The situation has calmed dramatically since the 1999 capture of PKK leader Abdullah Ocalan, and the area is now largely peaceful and easy to travel in. The military presence is still obvious, especially on the towns bordering Iran and Armenia- right where I was heading- and I passed through a few military checkpoints on my travels, one of which had a pack of rather scary looking dogs watching on.

Van
I arrived in Van, a city on Turkey's largest lake, Lake Van. Its mouthwash blue waters are out of this world; as if a part of the Caribbean had magically landed here. The town itself- with beautiful scenery, a large student population and a number of key historical sites- is a good base for exploration of the Lake and its surroundings.

I booked in at Hotel Aslan- 'Hotel Lion', which I can only hope was named for its jungle coloured interior... though perhaps the New Zealand bush would be a better comparison- brown and damp, with some rather strange inhabitants. The good thing about backpacking out east is that there's a severe lack of backpacker hostels, so I was free from the suffocating confines of dorm rooms. The flipside of this was the difficulty in meeting other travellers, so for the majority of my eastern Turkish experience I was either alone or sought out by locals.

Van's culinary claim to fame lies in its breakfasts; they are so famous, in fact, that they have a street aptly named Kahvalti Caddesi (literally, 'Breakfast Street'). My first stop after the harrowing bus journey was a genuine Van feast. I packed into a restaurant on a narrow alleyway to enjoy a delectable assortment of morning goodies. Fresh herbed cheeses, wild honey, boiled eggs, tomatoes, olives, fresh bread and an odd honey sponge... delicious.

All fired up, I got the first bus towards the lake for a day of sun and ancient history. Lake Van also boasts a series of islands, the most visited of which is Akdamar Island, homeplace of Akdamar Church. This Armenian cathedral, constructed in the 10th Century AD, is perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the tiny island. Once the seat of Armenian patriarchs, it was abandoned in the late 19th century due to conflict between the Ottomans and Armenians. It was recently restored and reopened as a museum by the Turkish government.

It's fairly easy to get to the Island from Van- just a short dolmus (shared taxi) ride followed by a ferry crossing. Getting back to Van proved a little more difficult, and the three hours I had to wait to led me to a group of Iranian hippies who were staying at the nearby campsite.

While on my way to the local bus station I had made friends with a local student, Adnan, who offered to show me around the town and its castle that afternoon to practice his English. When I finally got back to the town we met back up and he took me to see the castle. Van Castle is a surprisingly large hill-top fortress, and settlement is said to have begun here around the 8th century BC. It took a couple of hours scrambling over steep, dusty paths at sunset to see the fortification in its entirety. Adnan was a perfect guide.

It's unusual to see many women alone on the streets, so not many foreigners get a chance to talk to local women. I felt very lucky, then, to be invited into the home of a local family while waiting for my bus out of Van. I was shuffled in by hoards of children and their mothers to a little roadside house beside a stagnant river in the town centre. The house, with its low ceilings and silk flower packed living room, felt cozy and familiar. With television blazing, the matriarch fed me tea and bread on faded mattresses on their living room floor.

The girls crowded around my camera, posing for photographs, and excitedly began to tell me the life story of their family, all in the Kurdish language, of which I understand next to nothing and which has no real relation to Turkish. Still, it's amazing how far gestures and spontaneous sign language can get one in such a situation. I was graphically recounted the story of the death of one woman's brother. Whether it was murder or suicide I couldn't quite get, but the grief was obviously deep and fresh. All I had on me to give was an old packet of very melted chocolate biscuits, so we munched away until I had to catch my bus.

Dogubeyazit
I felt that it would be a sin to come to eastern Turkey without seeing Mount Ararat. Ararat, with its surreal looking peaks and year long snows, lords over many lands. Now Turkish territory, it's also the backdrop of the Armenian capital of Yerevan, and its summit is a mere 16km from the Iranian border as well as an enclave of Azerbaijan. A militarized zone for most of the 20th century, the mountain was only opened for tourists in 2001, and takes a lot of money and bureaucratic nonsense to gain permission to climb. I didn't have the patience, fitness or desire to tackle the mountain, so I took to eating and watching instead.

I nabbed myself a cheap hotel in the town of Dogubeyazit with panoramic views over both the town and Ararat, and for the first time in months I had the use of a kitchen. As nice as it sounds to have meals cooked for you everyday, I was in desperate need of something other than bread and meat. To say I was 'Kebab-ed out' would be an understatement. I cooked up a giant bowl of tomato pasta and spent the rest of the evening on the top floor lounge gazing at the majestic mountain, which is said to be the resting place of Noah's ark.

Dogubeyazit's famous man-made landmark is Ishak Pasa- a spectacularly beautiful 18th century hill top palace and administrative complex, undoubtedly one of the best castles I have ever seen. Its location, in full view of the majestic Mount Ararat, and with fields expanding in all directions, defied all my expectations.

When I came out of the palace it didn't take long before I was approached by groups of teenage girls, apparently confused by this tall, gangly blonde girl going solo by the Iranian border. Cellphones were whipped in flurries from leather handbags and I became the subject of the most remote photo shoot of my life. I wasn't quite sure if they had mistaken me with someone from Hollywood or outer space. To avoid seeming rude, I posed with women, children, young and old men. It was not uncommon to have random babies thrown at me, either. To this day I still wonder what percentage of the Middle East population has my photo, and I won't be surprised to one day come across myself on You Tube.

Igdir
Thanks to the infrequency of bus services and my dislike for very early starts, my next destination took a lot longer to get to than I expected. To get to Kars, not more than 150 km from Dogubeyazit, it's necessary to first take a bus to the town of Igdir, change buses, then go onto Kars. What I didn't realise was that there would be a 3 hour delay between changing buses, and so I ended up Igdir, a town of about 120,000 on the border with Iran, Armenia and Azerbaijan. Thanks to my Igdir friends- Hakan, Kurban and Ali- whose friendliness, generosity and apricots I will never forget.

Kars
I arrived in Kars as the dusk was setting in. Despite having near perfect weather for the entire duration of my time in the Middle East, it decided to rain in Kars. I had just finished reading a Turkish novel about a town cut off by heavy snow falls, providing the perfect environment for a gruesome coup. The town was Kars. And as I approached the town centre, I was greeted through the drizzle with mud, military barracks and buildings as grey as decaying teeth

The rain only got heavier and colder and it took some time before I finally found Hotel Kent, the 'best budget option in town.' Tucked away on a side street with prime views of rain sodden footpaths, it looked more like a low end brothel than anything else.

Just when I was beginning to question why and how I ended up in this godforsaken town, I was saved by the only foreign inhabitants of the hotel- an ageing British sometimes-journalist and a wide-smiling Australian dentist named Ken. Within minutes of introduction, tensions were already rising between the journalist and the dentist, the latter of whose Indian origins seem to prompt the Brit into enacting a painful slowing down of speech and movement while in his presence.
Despite this, and at risk of starting our own coup, we decided to join forces the next day to tackle the town's most important gift, the medieval ruins of Ani.


Ani is an abandoned former capital of an Armenian kingdom and is said to have once been inhabited by an incredible 100,000 – 200,000 people. Due to its rather remote and desolate location about 45km from Kars, we were lucky to be one of only a handful of tourists, so we had free rein to wander through the crumbling remains of this ancient place. Most of the site has been left to the elements is in various states of disrepair and it's hard to imagine that this former city once rivalled Cairo and Baghdad in importance.

On my last day in Kars I still had no idea what to do next. All rational signs were pointing me back towards Istanbul- to a job and the comforts of slightly settled life. However, when Ken suggested I join him on a detour to Georgia, I thought... why not?

We set off early the next morning, heading for the most remote border crossing in Turkey.

Lebanon

Entering Lebanon was just like any other day in the life of a traveller: get in the queue. Wait. Step. Wait. Step. Wait. Smile at facetious official. Fill in pointless form. Pay money to corrupt government. Smile. Stamp. Welcome to Lebanon.
We got back in our waiting shared taxi and continued on our short journey from the border to Beirut. Our vintage American taxi wound up and down the mountain range surrounding the city, along the increasingly urbanized highway until finally coming to a stop at a concrete yard. We only had the name of a hotel suggested to us which was supposedly only a few minutes walk from this 'bus station.'

Talal's was not easy to find; hidden up a few flights of stairs in an otherwise unremarkable grey apartment block off a main road. The tiny reception also functioned as a lounge, which was to become the site of many cramped but enjoyable evenings spent drinking cold beer with an eccentric mix of travellers.

Once we were settled in at the hotel we took an afternoon walk around Gemmazye, the nearby bar hub famous for its western themed nightlife and restaurants. Beirut is indeed the party capital of the Middle East, and it was obvious from the first encounters with locals that we had strayed far from the conservative culture of Syria. Everyone is just so damn cool. Girls giggling over Cosmopolitans in a lounge bar; guys reclining with a Heineken listening to jazz- and even at a whopping seven dollars a drink, who's counting? The locals switch effortlessly between Arabic, French and English in a country where its universities bear names such as the American University of Beirut; Lebanese Canadian University; and the Ecole Superieure des Affaires.

Beirut is a dazzling city, surrounded by verdant mountains on one side and the jade waters of the Mediterranean on the other. Construction is ongoing and rapid, and for every pile of war ravaged rubble there seems to be a new sushi bar, gelato shop or glittering hotel looking on. The energy and optimism is palpable as the city undergoes yet another reincarnation, and the feeling of being witness to this re-birth was electrifying. Any preconceptions I had faded into the dusk and I was overcome with child-like excitement.

Our trip was organised at such last minute that I hadn't had a chance to let my family know I was even going to Lebanon. I sent off a quick email to my parents that night:
Hi guys, great to hear from you. We are in Beirut now! Not nearly as scary as it sounds.''
I had an email from my father not long after:
''This trip has certainly taken you to places that you hadn’t necessarily intended to visit. Have you witnessed any live shelling yet?''

There was no shelling for us on that trip, although we heard our share of horror travel stories from other backpackers from our hotel. One evening, while meeting up for a drink and water pipe at a clifftop restaurant, we caught up with two dazed looking young travellers- one from Northern Ireland and the other from Canada. They had been walking around the Hezbollah dominated refugee camps that day, merrily taking photos of their surroundings, when they were forced into a car and taken to Hezbollah headquarters.

Their interrogation lasted a couple of hours and took much ego boosting along the lines of ''Hezbollah good. Israel bad. Canada likes Hezbollah'' (two thumbs up). In the end, ''the guys,'' they said, ''were kinda friendly, and offered to drop us back at the hotel.'' We were more concerned about the power cuts, however- each day, for several hours at a time. Nothing can really prepare you for a cold shower in the early morning, no matter how much you try to rationalise it in the context of a war-ravaged developing country.

Back at the hotel we were lucky to meet a journalist who offered to take us on a three day tour of the rest of Lebanon. We rustled together a group consisting of myself, Kristin, a kiwi mechanic named Kerry and Torry, an American girl who had just finished working in Jordan. We piled ourselves into the car and headed south along the coast towards the border with Israel. Driving through the quaint fishing villages of Tyre and Sidon, past the sparkling (though predictably polluted) waters of the Mediterranean, it's easy to miss the war-shattered buildings, sandbag checkpoints and martyr posters honoring those who have killed and been killed.

Along with Beirut, southern Lebanon has seen its fair share of bombings, gunfire and landmines, often due to its close proximity to the Israeli border. Standing right next to the fence between Lebanon and the border, in a seemingly tranquil spot, I asked our journalist guide what would happen if I tried to jump the fence to the Israel side. ''Well'', he started, ''Firstly you would have to get past the landmines in the strip below. Once you got through those you would have to dodge fire from Israeli snipers hiding in the the hills above us, who are watching us as we speak. There will also be people hiding in the grass below. All follow a shoot to kill policy.''

Recent Lebanese history is violent and complicated. Following independence from France in 1943, Lebanon maintained a largely calm, stable and prosperous economy. However, when the Lebanese Civil War broke out in 1975, 15 years of violent warfare followed with an estimated 150,000 killed, 200,000 injured and up to 900,000 internally displaced. Despite extensive rebuilding in the country, violence again broke out in 2006.

This is a country where the state, rather than distance itself from religion, has instead used it to define its political makeup. In a bizarre attempt to minimize sectarian violence and correct ideological religious imbalances in parliament, the Lebanese government has embraced a system called Confessionalism whereby the government is strictly divided on religious lines. The President, for example, must be a Maronite Christian, the Prime Minister a Sunni Muslim and the Speaker of Parliament a Shi'a Muslim. While guaranteeing representation from all of the major religions in the country, it's easy to imagine the paradox effects of such a system.

The religious divisions are often obvious, with many grouping together geographically into majority towns or suburbs. On a simpler level, dress can be a clear indicator of religious affiliation, such as a headscarf or length of skirt on women, while Druze men tend to have moustaches and wear white hats. Bad feeling runs deep and in southern Lebanon, none is so obvious as hatred for Israel.

It was fitting, then, that we visit Al- Khiam Prison Museum. This former prison, once a Lebanese army base, was taken over by the South Lebanese Army (SLA) and purportedly used by the SLA and Israeli soldiers as a brutal prison camp until the Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon in 2000. Following the withdrawal, Hezbollah converter it into a museum, but it was destroyed by the Israeli airforce in 2006. It has been resurrected as a museum again, although it is now mostly just piles of very disturbing rubble. There is little doubt, though, that hideous torture was commonplace and included methods such as electrocution and long periods of solitary confinement.
http://www.hrw.org/en/news/1999/10/27/torture-khiam-prison-responsibility-and-accountability
Walking around the former prison, it feels more like a theme park from a horror movie. Tattered Hezbollah flags wave eerily in the breeze. Children, on an educational Sunday outing with their family, play on the disused tanks and peep at eachother through bullet holes. Old rockets have been shuffled around so that they all point in one direction: towards Israel, a blatant 'fuck you' to the neighbours.

But Lebanon is not all tanks and terror. After our day of political history in the south, we took in some highlights of the north and east, past the spectacular seaside ruins of Byblos and onto the cedar forests which Lebanon is famous for, despite extensive and badly managed deforestation. These woodland jewels rise out of dramatic hills dotted with wildflowers, ancient hermit caves and Christian monasteries. The fact that so few cedars remain somehow make them all the more beautiful.

It's also no secret that Lebanon has some of the best wine in the Middle East; its Mediterranean climate, French influences and liberal leanings lend itself to wine making. Heading east from Beirut, the natural landscape is interrupted now and then by grand vineyards and their accompanying restaurants.

On our final day in Beirut we headed to Sabra and Shatilla, open refugee camps housing mostly Palestinian refugees who fled the conflict in Israel. The camps are often remembered for the massacre that took place there in 1982, when up to 5,000 inhabitants were brutally slaughtered over three days. The massacre was led by a Christian Phalangist militia following the assassination of their leader, Bachir Gemayel, the recently elected President of Lebanon, and carried out with the knowledge and protection of the Israeli Defense Force.

The majority of camps' inhabitants have been refused citizenship by Lebanon. Unable to return to Israel or to integrate properly into Lebanese society, they remain as unwanted aliens with little chance of getting out. Access to property is severely limited due to a law which forbids those with no recognized state (such as Palestine) to own property outside the camps. It's of little surprise then that Islamic militias and terrorist organisations have moved in, using its inhabitants to further their religious and political causes.

The narrow streets of the camps are overshadowed with dilapidated apartments blocks and tyre weighted shanties. Pictures of fighters, martyrs and even Saddam Hussein are pasted on bare, sometimes bullet scarred walls. Children ride on rusted bicycles in the dust, or pack into darkened internet cafes to play outdated warfare games The local market is bustling, selling everything from freshly squeezed fruit juices to leather boots while a corner pizza shop churns out fresh and delicious treats.

As we were leaving the camps a group of men approached us to ask us the usual questions: where we were from; did we like Lebanon; what were we doing here? When they discovered Kristin was from Norway, one broke out into fluent Norwegian while the other, when he found out I had lived in Sweden, excitedly started speaking Swedish. It turned out that both had lived in Scandinavia but had returned for their family- they'd come home.

From the camps we headed to the public beach, to sunbathe, swim and try to make sense of our day. In many ways it had summed up the week we'd spent there. Lebanon is mad, maddening, sickening, friendly, disgusting and beautiful. It's familiar and alien all at once, and it doesn't take long before the checkpoints, guns, guards and bullet holes start to feel unexceptional; part of the routine of everyday life in Lebanon. Its bizarre contrasts give it an edge like no other, but by the end of the week I felt as educated as I did confused.

I left Lebanon on a Monday. Kristin was flying back to Norway and I was heading back to Turkey. As there is no practical way to reach Turkey by water, the only way to get there by land is to transit through Syria. So I packed myself into a shared taxi with Kerry the Kiwi and two Lebanese businessmen. Arriving at the border, Kerry and I were told that the free transit visa for Syria (which was promised at the Ministry of Immigration just four days earlier) no longer existed and we would have to pay US$85 for less than twelve hours in Syria. Two weeks earlier I had paid almost half of that for a 30 day visa.

One of the Lebanese men in my taxi who spoke both Arabic and English helped us to argue with immigration for an hour, but we were not successful. Despite this, our new translator-cum-engineer on his way to work in Syria reached into his wallet and paid for my visa, refusing any offer of compensation. 'Enjoy your travels', he said with a smile, and got out of the taxi to begin a new day of work.

Syria

Donkey & Cart, Palmyra II
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Twenty hours, several food stops and countless cups of cay later and I had finally reached the Turkey-Syria border. It took US$60 and some stockmarket style negotiations on the part of the bus driver to get past the border bureaucracy and gain my Syrian visa. Validity: two weeks; entries: one.

Suddenly I was in the Middle East. The real, Lawrence of Arabia Middle East, which is difficult to find in much more westernised Turkey. Bearded, turbaned men in long white tunics, reminding me of a child putting on a doctor's coat, strolling brown sandalled on dusty paths in the Syrian semi-desert; flat roofed concrete housing, made off-white by years of dust.

Reaching Syria's second largest city, Aleppo, by midday. I dumped my backpack in the nearest hotel and set off for the town's claim to fame: its very, very friendly tourist office which routinely greets its visitors with gifts of dusty calendars, large posters and its key phrase: 'Welcome to Syria: The Cradle of Civilizations.'

Cradle of civilizations aside, the imperative stop for any visitor to Syria is one of its numerous and delicious falafel shops, which fills the stomachs of locals and travelers for a mere 25 Syrian Pounds, equivalent to less than US 50 cents. Upgrade to a Shwarma, the chicken version, for only a little more.

Once full I wandered the streets and souk (market) of Aleppo, the largest covered souk in the Middle East, which sells everything from dates to car parts and everything in between. Aleppo's citadel is another beautiful sight, best seen in the evening, when the town comes out to flirt, drink tea, smoke nargile and people-watch. We were (un)lucky enough to be the main subject of people- watching that evening; groups would just stop and stare. A few came up to introduce themselves and welcome us to Syria, others shuffled closer and with big smiles proudly dropped the few English words they knew within earshot; still more just stared drop-jawed and motionless for several minutes until the novelty of having two young western women in their town wore off.

We dragged ourselves out of bed early the next day to tackle Syria's so called 'Dead Cities'- ruins dating back to the 11th century AD. While the ruins were of course spectacular, it was with thanks mainly to the bilingual skills of an Egyptian/Australian friend that we struck up a fine friendship with our Kurdish taxi driver, becoming one of the highlights of the trip. It wasn't long before he had his leg out the door, holding it open with his foot and had us all dancing to Arab love ballads at high volume.

He took us to a Bedouin community in the semi-desert, about 100km from Aleppo. The men of our group were instantly offered a sheep for slaughter, which was gently refused, followed by introductions to the children, women, men, cats and donkeys of the family. A generous dust coating and a few marriage proposals later, we headed off a little overheated and overwhelmed.

By the end of the second day we had his wife and child along on our adventure, squeezing all seven of us into a hatchback on the way to dance on dusty roads and end the day on a pirate ship at a seemingly abandoned Syrian theme park.

After missing the stop to Hama, we got off at Homs, described in guide books as simply an 'ugly city.' While it would be difficult to describe as the most stunning city of Syria, Homs was charming, friendly and lacking in tourists. Unfortunately our backpacker budget could not stretch to the town's five star hotel, so we had to settle for 'no stars', which by Homs standards extends to grimy sheets,
stained walls, morose staff and one of the worst toilets in the Middle East. At the risk of catching any number of physical and mental diseases, we fled the city as soon as we could the next morning for Crac des Chevaliers, described as 'one of the most beautiful castles in the world.'

Like every experience in Syria, even the castle was made more special by a bizarre combination of circumstance. So it was that we stumbled on a film set and I had the chance to ride Ahmed the acting horse in an ancient castle on the hilltop amidst fake fog.

With all hopes of 'Sollywood' fame fading with the sun, we headed for the desert, to the ruins of Palmyra. With its barren landscape, swaying palms, concentrated tourist population and one of the most notorious prisons in the country, Palmyra is a contrast to the cities of western Syria. Most visitors come to see the ruins, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ archeology museum and perhaps to ride a camel, before moving on quickly.

There was a distinct buzz in town, and it didn't take us long to figure out that one of the country's richest men had booked a two night wedding celebration amongst the ruins. We put on our best outfits and tried, unsuccessfully, to enter. On the way back we were hit by a sandstorm, so we left disheveled and rather dusty....

From Palmyra we took the bus to Damascus, the lively, chaotic and charming capital of the country. In the five minutes of waiting outside a shop for my friends I was fed with dates, dried apricots and figs by shopkeepers eager to pose for photos and welcome me to Syria, again. The days were spent following the sweet scent of nargile smoke through narrow streets packed with antiques, 'real fake' watches and sizzling kebab. It's easily one of the most exotic capitals in the Middle East- a city easy to love and difficult to leave... rather well in tune with its country.

Istanbul

Fishing on the Bosphorous, Istanbul
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Forget first impressions. I spent my first hour in Istanbul lost in pouring rain, trying to negotiate myself around hooting taxis, maniacal tour groups straight off the cruise ships, and touters of every kind.

When the drizzle cleared and my backpack was finally dry, I found the nearest kebab shop and sat down, relaxing my limbs and nose to the senses of the city. The first hit wasn't what I was used to. Not a tepid sewerage, acrid sweat, South-East Asian kind of hit, but more like a shrieking mosquito in strike mode, approaching from every corner to try to suck me into its carpet shop.

Once I was fed and somewhat closer to human, it didn't take long for the carpet sellers to figure out that I had the greatest repellent of all- a backpacker budget- or for me to find the best way to deal with the one-liner conversation starter, 'Where are you from?' when the repellent wore off. Somehow, every man in Turkey seems to have a relative in New Zealand, Australia, U.S.A, Ireland, South Africa, or whichever other country I tried to convinced them I'm from. It was 'Iceland' when I was in a bad mood, and 'Space' when I was in a good one.

The hair also helped. Being blonde in Turkey is preferable to having a diplomatic passport, as long as you don't mind your boyfriend/husband/father being offered camels for your livelihood. After visiting the main (and truly magnificent) sights of Sultanahmet- the once Christian-church-turned-mosque-turned-museum of Aya Sophia; Topkapi Palace; and Istanbul's stunning landmark, the Blue Mosque- I gave up on royalty and religion for awhile and decided to do what I do frequently and well- get lost. Descending the steep and ancient alleyways towards the sea, I was followed by a harem of well fed and friendly street cats. There's a story in Turkey about Mohammad who cut around his tunic to avoid disturbing his cat, and it's easy to see that this reverence of felines prevails, even in the cities.

By the time I reached the Galata Bridge over the Bosphorous, my stomach full with fresh fish and Turkish cay (tea), it was difficult to imagine a place I would rather be.

If you don't mind being woken by wails from the minarets at sunrise, or the occasional terrorist insect in your hotel room, it's easy to give a little of your heart and even your blood, to this city.

I fell for Istanbul, and even almost for its mosquitoes.

Sofia, Bulgaria

Alexander Nevsky Orthodox Cathedral, Sofia
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Thanks to Easyjet's bargain basement prices, I found myself in Bulgaria's capital, Sofia.

When coming in to land at Sofia International Airport I was thinking, what do I know about Bulgaria...? All I could conjure up was Cyrillic script, bagpipes, wine and spies. It was a good excuse to find out more.

5 minutes out of the airport and I wondered if I was in the shantytowns of Johannesburg... or the slums of Bangkok. It seemed to be populated mainly by Sofia's Roma community living in row after row of sheet-metalled squalor, with a few chickens here and there.

10 minutes later I arrived in the city centre. Surrounded by snow capped mountains which serve as a thriving ski resort during the winter, and packed with ancient and communist style buildings, it was quite a contrast to my first impression. Sofia is one of the oldest cities in Europe, over 7000 years old, dating back to Thracian times.

Bulgaria has endured numerous seizures by the Macedonians, Romans, Byzantines, Huns, Slavonic tribes, Ottomans and Russians, and later the Allies during WWII, during which time Bulgaria sided with the Germans. Finally, the Russians came in, and Bulgaria was subjected to decades of communist rule.

It didn't take too much querying to reveal the disdain many Bulgarians still feel towards their communist history, and a mix of disgust and humour about the way revolutionary socialism has been popularised in the west, especially by those who have little or no experience or knowledge about the ideology and practice.

I had 2 days before my night train to Turkey so I asked the owner of my hostel about tours. It turns out he has a nephew who has worked as a guide so I was lucky enough to get a 3 hour private guided walking tour for about €10. He was very well educated in Bulgaria's ancient and more recent history and politics so I got a unique insight into the country.

Despite its current ethnic tensions,(http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L16241089.htm )
Bulgaria has had a history of ethnic and religious tolerance. During World War II Bulgaria took a strong stand against Germany in relation to the holocaust, and managed to save every one of the over 50,000 Jews living in the country at that time.

It's of little surprise, then, that some of Sofia's most impressive buildings are religious in nature. I had a glimpse inside a mosque, the Sofia Synagogue and the Russian church. As far as tourist sights in Sofia go, one of the city's most well known and beautiful is the Eastern Orthodox St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, one of the largest of its kind in the world. With its gold plated dome and marble interior, it's a beautiful sight.

When I was all churched-out I wandered around the markets, which sold everything from fresh cherries to books to religious icons. 8 hours later and I felt I had seen most of the city. After a feast of roasted garlic potatoes and Bulgarian wine I boarded the night train for Istanbul. It was time to go East.

Spain

Seagull over San Sebastian
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

I decided to concentrate my visit to Spain on two regions: the northern Basque country and Madrid.

I was interested in checking out the north for both its beauty and its people. Home to the Basque people, a unique ethnic group which inhabit part of France and Spain. Interestingly, the Basque possess the last surviving pre-Indo European language in Europe (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basque_language ) , and are still fighting for greater self determination and, in some cases, a separate state. The name is commonly associated with ETA, the Marxist-Leninist paramilitary group responsible for much of the organised political violence in Spain.

San Sebastian
I put aside museums and tourist sites for awhile and went in search of good food and and stunning beaches in San Sebastian, on Spain's Atlantic coast. I arrived by train from France in the evening, dropped my increasingly burdensome backpack at a hostel, and headed to the Old Town in search of a culinary adventure. At the heart of the Spanish Basque country, it claims to have the best pinxtos (tapas) in Spain. The food really is an art form. Wandering around the historical part of the city, pub after pub serves a stunning array of colorful, tasty morsels, using gourmet smoked hams, fresh seafood, pickles and vegetables from long wooden bars. From around lunchtime to late into the evening you can stand by the bar, serviette in hand, sampling as you wish.

Apart from the food, San Sebastian's beaches are long, pretty and wild and seem to have become a big draw card for bleached haired Australian surfers who flock here for the good waves, cheap beer and decent nightlife. And despite the 'mild' (i.e. rainy, cool) climate, the atmosphere of San Sebastian more than makes up for its weather. It's the kind of place you don't want to leave.

Bilbao
Perhaps it was my lack of map or tourist guide to point me to all the good things about Bilbao, but this largely grey and industrial looking city, situated an hour from San Sebastian, didn't have too much to offer than its Guggenheim museum which houses some spectacular modern art in a very unique building. It's worth visiting just for the museum.

Pamplona
I couldn't let a trip to the North end without a trip to Pamplona, the town made famous by Ernest Hemingway's novel, Fiesta. There are still several restaurants named after the writer, and its easy to imagine him wandering around the town, wine skin in hand, ready for a fiesta. It really is a gorgeous town, and quintessentially 'Spanish', if not made more so by the hordes of backpackers who flock to the town each year to get mindlessly drunk and sleep in the town's parks for the duration of the Running of the Bulls Festival. I was glad to miss it, and instead enjoyed wandering the streets of the old town.

Madrid
From San Sebastian I took a 6 hour bus journey to Madrid. Great weather, good friends and cheap flights east attracted me to the Spanish capital and if anything it was better than I imagined. The second leafiest city in the world, Madrid's trees are a welcome haven from the heat. Often reaching into the mid 40 degrees Celsius in summer, I was delighted to finally feel some real heat on my skin after a year of Irish weather. Some of the main tourist highlights:
-Reina Sofia Museum- Madrid's GIANT modern art museum, boasting thousands of works including Dali, Picasso and Francis Bacon. It's also home to Picasso's Guernica.
-Housing an equally impressive collection of older art including Michelangelo. My favourite was the Sleeping Beauty.
-El Museo de Jamon- Madrid's museums of ham deserve an honorable mention. Not really museums, they offer a colossal array of smoked hams and cheeses, all of which can be consumed on site or taken away.

However, the real heartbeat of Madrid is heard at nighttime, when the whole city comes alive. From about 11pm onwards until sunrise, the streets are packed with partygoers, in search of a tasty meal, music, dancing or pubs which cater to almost any preference.

I left tired, tanned and full of world class food!

Death by Baguette

France
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Baguettes, baguettes, baguettes. They come to me in my dreams, stalking me along the Paris streets under the arm of every French man, woman and child. The cliché is true, and inescapable. Everywhere I look I see the baguette in innumerable forms: baguette sandwiches; baguette with sausage; baguette with nutella. I fear death by baguette.

Disappointingly, the baguette carriers did not wear berets. And I had no-one spit on my shoe. In fact, I found the French generally friendly, welcoming, and very willing to put up with my complete lack of French.

I started in Paris, arriving on the Eurostar train from London in under 2 ½ hours. Despite a rather bad bout of food poisoning, after a long sleep and some food I was ready to explore the city.

Paris is a perfect city to get lost in. I avoided paying the hefty entrance fees to the main tourist sites (Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Arc de Triumph, the Champ Elysees), although I did see them from a distance, and instead wandered the streets aimlessly. Montmartre was a definite favourite, with its mixture of cobbled leafy streets, shamelessly seedy strip (site of the Moulin Rouge and an long, long, long row of sex shops) and site of some of the best views of Paris. After a compulsory taste of escargots (snails), I grabbed a few cans of beer and dragged a friend to the top of the steps of the Sacre Coeur basilica, which overlooks the whole city and we happily enjoyed the drizzly sundown after a long day of walking.

I went through the well stocked but easy to get lost in Picasso museum and the quite disappointing Jewish museum with a few cafe stops in between.

I left the hectic and rainy streets of Paris for La Rochelle, on France's Atlantic coast. It's a pretty, well- monied but quaint yachting city, with a beautiful old city wall and tower facing the coast.

Fouras was the next stop. A smaller coastal town with a charming village centre, it boasts an impressive seafood market, packed with fish, crabs, lobsters, sea snails and the region's famous oysters, all gleaming fresh.

I seem to be making a habit of visiting famous liquor towns, so this time I visited Cognac, home of the world famous luxury tipple. Like tequila or champagne, cognac can only be called cognac if it is from a select few provinces in France and according to a very strict distilling process. Made from a combination of grapes from certain French regions, it is then blended and double distilled before undergoing an aging process to produce the final product. The town of Cognac is in itself a very pretty, with many of the buildings dating back to the 15th and 16th centuries.

From Fouras I was incredibly lucky to have the chance to stay in a medieval chateau, set amidst the wheat fields and woodlands of Sansac, Western France. Complete with winding staircases, banquet rooms once used by knights, turrets, secret passages and books dating back centuries, much of the time it was difficult to believe I was actually there. Largely uninhabited, the chateau produces delicious handmade goat's cheese from the cellar factory.

It would take too much time to describe all the quaint villages I passed through and stopped in- all very old and beautiful, but the enduring images I will have of France are vast barley and wheat fields; spectacular, almost surreal castles set dramatically on hills surrounded by emerald woodlands; countless medieval villages with rambling gardens; and amazing cheese.... even the local Spar (a European convenience chain store) had its own, extensive delicatessen!

Many thanks to Gerhardt & Annie, who housed, drove and fed me very well!

Belfast

Anti- British signs, West Belfast
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Despite living just two hours from Northern Ireland's main city, Belfast, it was only my second time there after 1 year in Dublin.

The overriding question of the visit, asked of me by at least a dozen locals was 'Why would you come to Belfast?' They seemed genuinely perplexed as to why anyone would chose Belfast as a tourist destination.

I was there for the politics.

The Northern Ireland conflict has always fascinated me, especially because it's so recent and perhaps will never really be over. Its historical roots go back to the 1600's but became especially relevant following the civil rights movement in the USA in the 1960's and led to renewed conflict over various injustices such as gerrymandering, as well as over the constitutional status of Northern Ireland.

When peaceful protests by Catholics and some Protestants in the 1960's were met with violent force, the conflict turned increasingly violent and parts of Northern Ireland became virtual war zones with places like The Falls Road, in a staunchly republican area of the city, morphing into a tense and bloody front line of The Troubles.

With both sides denouncing the media as propaganda machines, the people of Belfast and (London)Derry turned to painting the walls of the streets with large murals to say what they wanted to say, much like today's blogs have responded to mass media. These murals remain in the more partisan areas of the cities, and while many still relate directly to the conflict, present day issues such as the Israeli-Palestine conflict and that same gnawing obsession with Che Guevara are also represented.

I was always a bit confused about the terms 'Catholic' and 'Protestant' in relation to the conflict. It took me awhile to realise that they are related more closely to heritage than religion. In many ways it's all about your surname. As a Simpson, descended from Scottish heritage, I would be a protestant, even though I am agnostic.

Even now, when you apply for a job in Northern Ireland, you have to fill out a form declaring if you are a) Catholic; b) Protestant; c) Neither
But, according to a friend who lived in Belfast, even if you pick neither, depending on your surname or what school you went to, you could still be classed as one or the other.

Both West and East Belfast are dominated by rather grim looking housing estates, militant murals and men stalking around with shaved heads and tracksuits. Both are a little scary to walk around, and I was questioned on one occasion as to what I was doing there.
I decided to chance it and walk into the local bar on the Falls Road. For a moment it was like a scene out of a western movie, where all the men (only men) stopped drinking mid pint and I could almost hear the imaginary wooden doors swinging behind me. I left quickly.
Stormont- Northern Ireland's parliament. Despite Northern Ireland's small population, its parliament seats 108 members. It's worth visiting just for its beautiful location, surrounded by acres of parkland. It's much harder to see anything inside the parliament, and I was refused access to the most interesting looking area after being told it was ''top secret''.
Crumlin Road Prison- completed in 1845 the Prison closed in 1996 and is now open to the public for tours. Although a hoard of pigeons has now replaced prisoners, the prison is an interesting architectural specimen and housed many of the most infamous political prisoners such as Gerry Adams and the Rev. Ian Paisley. It's an eerie place.

The Troubles officially ended in 1998 following the Good Friday Agreement. Controversially, all paramilitary prisoners were released, including notorious mass murderers such as the Shankhill Butchers, who indiscriminately murdered around 30 people, many on a random basis.

Many former IRA and UVF members now have large stakes in the State, including Martin McGuiness, former IRA commander, who holds the post of Deputy First Minister and the current Lord Mayor, Tom Hartley, who was incarcerated at Crumlin Road Prison.

I was lucky enough to get a ticket to a The Chronicles of Long Kesh, a play which looks at what happened at the former Long Kesh/Maze Prison, where most political prisoners were held during The Troubles. It was also where the 1981 Hunger Strike happened, during which 10 men died. The acting was brilliant and it's a novel way to learn about the history.

Aside from all the politics, there are a few other sites worth seeing in and around the city.

Belfast Castle, situated high on a hill overlooking the city, is beautiful, as is much of the surrounding area. I'm not usually a fan of tours, but Paddywagon Tours does it well- very well informed, local guides, comfortable buses and very reasonably priced. I took the Belfast–Giants Causeway-Derry day tour, which gave me the opportunity to see some amazing natural sites around Northern Ireland. Dramatic cliffs, rolling green fields, ancient castles and bizarre rock formations can be visited within an hour of the city.

Derry (or Londonderry, depending on your political persuasion) is a pretty little city on the North coast. It's Europe's last walled city, and remains very militant.

It's also worth following your stomach around Belfast's old Georgian food market, held on Fridays and Saturdays, near the main train station. It's packed full of stalls selling a wide ranging and delicious range of foods, with scores of free samples. I had a delicious Lebanese wrap with falafel and chili sauce. Sadly, no hot dogs in sight.

If you are looking for an exciting night out in Belfast it's a little harder to find. Even on weekends, most of the bars seemed to shut at 12pm, leaving you with little else than terribly bad nightclubs with 18 year olds dancing to Beyonce, or pretentious suit wearers swirling house chardonnay under fake chandeliers. As with most Irish bars, the best time to go is late afternoon, when you still have a seat and conversations are audible.

I left the city on a Saturday afternoon on the last flight to London. On the short flight over I was trying to sum up what I thought of the city. In the short time I was there I had developed a kind of love-hate relationship. If imagined or not, it felt tense and restless, as if something could snap at any moment. In many ways it was boring. Walking around the city at 8pm on a Friday night, even convenience stores were closed and the streets oddly empty. But I admired it as a reluctant hero or survivor, a rough and tough but straight-to-the-point type; the kind who would save your life but tell you to get lost for wasting their time.

Going West

I spent the Easter weekend in Sligo on Ireland's West coast, home to wild and dramatic scenery, neolithic sites, surfing, and shockingly bad boy bands such as Westlife and Boyzone...

It's a good place to do much and nothing at all, so in between long lie-ins and reading on the cane sofa looking out at the sea I managed to fit in horse riding, a boat trip, shopping, bar-haunting and a few decent walks.

Sligo is somehow quaintly rugged. A very short drive from the rocky, windswept beaches will take you to a 200 year old stone and thatch pub, where the decripid looking picture of Jesus is barely visible in the dark, damp inside. You know you're in a 'real' pub in Ireland when there's no stereo system, only silence waiting to be filled by singing old men red with whiskey, or the sound of fiddles on an occasional Trad session.

There's another rather old pub near Sligo which (at least in theory) simultaneously serves as a convenience store and undertakers, and the hooks from the ceiling serve as a reminder of its old days as a butcher shop. I was a little disappointed to find that the can of condensed milk that had been tempting me all night on the shelf was actually not for sale, but rather for decoration. Still, the Guinness was good.

It had been awhile since I last rode a horse. There's nothing quite like galloping along a beach at full speed, even with a creeping hangover and the realisation that this is the first time to do real physical exercise in actual years.

I left feeling very relaxed and happy to have seen a bit of this beautiful part of Ireland.

Four Seasons in a Strange Land

Spending a year in another country is a unique experience.

I did it the first time when I was 17, in Sweden, and although there were huge differences between my experience there and here in Ireland (namely, level of freedom and especially the language), it roughly followed the same pattern and timetable of reactionary response.

Sentiments about place, people and distinctive cultural differences seem to fit neatly into quarters like a seasonal cycle cliché as the year unfolds.

Stage One, or ‘The Photo Stage’ begins before you arrive, with ideas of what one thinks the place will be like. Arriving is always a slightly surreal experience. The images and stereotypes present like aged photos; they fade, destroy, or are restored to a brighter and more brilliant image.

Stage One fluctuates between the exciting, disappointing and exhausting. It’s like Groundhog Day centered around first impressions, and you find yourself answering the same 3 questions so many times that your revised answers even stretch to include a joke or anecdote. As a New Zealander these days it usually leads to a well versed Lord of the Rings reference (‘My cousin’s cousin’s little sister was an extra in Lord of the Rings’).

My least liked but inescapable stage is Stage Two, the ‘Superior Comparison Stage’. It plagues one like a nervous tick after 2- 3 months in the country, and no matter how much you try to stop vocalising it, you find yourself making countless references to how much more efficient/cheap/friendly/warm ‘your’ country is. Time seems to go slower than a leprechaun on sedatives. The excitement of tasting the local cuisine wanes and you find yourself daydreaming about kumara. You miss your family, friends, and perhaps even your pet goldfish. You resent the tourists, who never pass Stage One and can be overheard talking about how much they love the country, and who rarely retreat beyond the borders of such places as Temple Bar, the Dublin Disneyland of clichéd ‘Irishness’.

By Stage 3, ‘Spring’, annoyances start to abate. Friendships are firmly established and you’ve been long enough at work to be able to pre-empt tasks and cruise along nicely. If you are learning a language, the grammar finally starts to make as a whole at this point. If it’s still in your native language, you find yourself throwing in local colloquialisms without realising it, leaving you looking like a foreigner who is trying just a little too hard to be a local. As a foreigner in the Emerald Isle this means throwing the word ‘grand’ into sentences at every opportunity. You now look at the tourists with a gleeful superiority because you know the secret to the ‘real’ Ireland.

By Stage 4, the 'Summer' you don’t want to leave. You even find yourself showing symptoms of the Superior Comparison Stage, only in reverse, as all the good things about the place become exaggerated with blind nostalgia. Time seems to go faster than an Ethopian runner on Speed.

Things that previously would have induced extreme irritation become ‘quaint’ or ‘charming’, to the point that when the bus driver pulls over for 10minutes to pick up his drycleaning you laugh instead of grind your teeth (this actually happened today). This is a sign that it’s time to leave, before the worst part of the last 3 quarters ome back to haunt you.

Leaving is as surreal as arriving. It's hard to really come to grips with the fact that your life as it is has expired its term. It will always bring some regret for the places never visited and the friendships that will never be progressed due to lack of time. But it's also liberating, because you can leave behind all the things you don't like. And exciting, because new adventures are coming.

I have 2 weeks left in the country before embarking on new travels.

Slan go foill!

Amsterdam

IMGP3268
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

I put aside my fear of clogs and a language which resembles the sound of regurgitating steak to go to Amsterdam.

In many ways it way just as I imagined: winding canals, a slightly disturbing obsession with cheese and giant Dutchmen and women on a murderous mission to flatten unassuming stoned tourists with their bicycles.

Throw in Anne Frank's old house and Eastern European prostitutes beckoning from windows and you're almost there. Almost, but not quite.

The three of us took the 6am flight Dublin to Amsterdam, arriving in time for a sausage and chips breakfast and a wander around the city centre, jumping from shop to shop to avoid the misty rain.

3 days was a nice amount of time to see all the main sites while still having time to get lost in the cobbled streets and many canals. We checked out the Amsterdam Dungeon, Anne Frank's House, The Sex Museum and some bars and coffeeshops in between. The Van Gogh museum was a definite highlight, with an impressively large collection of his paintings.

The Red Light District was a bizzare experience, and, during the day time, more disturbing than I imagined. I was expecting a few windows with prostitutes, mainly for intoxicated tourists, but it was a much larger and more efficient operation which was operating in full swing at lunchtime on a Sunday. We were warned not to take photos, with stories of the large, rather well aged sex workers beating culprits with sex toys successfully putting us off.

It's a pricey place, with a 1/2 litre (the 'extra large' size in Dutch terms) glass of beer setting you back €5, with very little variety in beer types. The museums will all cost you, and the hostels aren't cheap.

In a city with otherwise quite bland food, the hot dogs deserve an honourable mention, with one of the largest topping selections I have ever seen including many sauces, pickles, fresh vegetables and crisps.

It's a strange mix of the pretty, quaint and colourful with a seedy side. It's somehow laid back and buzzing at the same time, and is full of alternative little boutiques and markets selling tulips, vinyls, cheese, quirky clothing and garage junk.

It was a beautifully sunny final day in the city, and as we had seen the main sites we spent it wandering around and somehow wishing we could stay longer to do very little. It's easy to see how people get stuck there, throwing in their clean hair and jeans for hemp pants and dreadlocks. It was time to leave...

London Calling

Speakers Corner, London
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

After almost a year of living in Ireland, and as it's soon going to be my new home, I decided it was time to visit London again. My friend and fellow Duff admirer, Sam, who I met in Belize and traveled with in Mexico, invited me to his 30th birthday party.

After a long day at work, a 1 hour bus ride to the airport, the Dublin- Gatwick flight, a train then a tube ride later I was finally in London. It was near midnight by the time we got a long dreamed-of curry in Soho then back to Acton.

I had seen most of the tourist sites on my last visit to London, so it was great to just wander around on Saturday.We also had a fantastic lunch with a view from the Oxo tower. Saturday night was the party at the Proud Bar & Gallery in Camden, with live band a horse stable rooms, and it was great to meet all of Sam's friends, most of which he had met traveling in random places around the world, and who had come from across Europe for the party.

Sunday was a day of more great food and markets. Brick Lane was the highlight, with it's long line of Indian restaurants and markets. We also made it to Speakers corner, where an eclectic mix of the eccentric and insane united to reveal to London their secrets to the meaning of life. Suffice to say, I didn't become a fundamentalist Christian, British nationalist or free-hugs hippie, although I did ponder the idea of taking to the soap box myself and seeing if anyone would join my self-invented cult, which I am still working on.

London's a world in a city and I'm looking forward to living there. As long as I never become one of those Kiwi/Australian/Canadians who spend their nights at the Australian chain bars, getting nostalgic over Pineapple Lumps and Vegemite...

Egészségedre!

Ice skating by the castle, Budapest
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

From Vienna I took the train to Győr, a medium sized city halfway between Vienna and Budapest in Hungary’s Northwest. I met my friends there and took a stroll through the darkened city centre, taking in the baroque buildings. Then it was off to Tata, Gergo’s hometown. With a beautiful old castle and lake (which was entirely frozen), it’s a pretty town and I took in most of the sites the next day.

What stands out most about Hungary is its hospitality, with the beautifully cheesy irony that you will never be hungry in Hungary (Contrary to local claims that ‘hungry-Hungary’ jokes are overused and not amusing, it is quite clear that they are=) ). From the moment I arrived I was fed food and endless shots of homemade palinka (a strong brandy made from fruits, similar to schnapps).

I was thoroughly educated in the benefits of palinka, as related to me by my friend’s parents: a shot to prepare for the meal; a shot to compliment the meal; a shot to finish the meal; a shot to help the digestion; a shot to aid sleep; a shot to warm one up; and, my all time favourite, the breakfast shot, to wake one up. It’s good for your health, apparently. I also got to try some interesting dishes, all good: rabbit stew with macaroni and sour cream; the strangely addictive duck fat on bread with salt and spicy paprika powder; and, of course, Goulash.

From Tata we took a trip to the very Soviet looking Tatabanya, a town dominated by grey apartment blocks. It boasts a brilliant giant bird statue though, which looks out over the town.

On the way to Budapest, we took a road trip along the Danube to some towns well worth visiting:

Ezstergom- Ezstergom, the very beautiful former capital and one of the oldest towns in Hungary. Ezstergom has a fascinating history based on its many battles and invasions, and has a stunning basilica (the largest in Hungary).

Visegrad- most famous for its ancient hill-top castle, the remnants of the summer palace of King Matthias. Thankfully not a taxing climb to the top, which gives a stunning view over the Danube.

Szentendre- is a very pretty and arty barqoue town close to Budapest.

Budapest
I arrived in Budapest on New Year’s Eve. Budapest is a top city, and I was lucky enough to see it with locals. The two sides of the city, Buda and Pest, are split by the Danube river. It’s a city packed with history, culture and nightlife. It’s also very cheap by European standards. New Year’s Eve began with a trip to the horse races, and ended with a house party. I was given a ghetto tour the next day, to see the ‘underside of Budapest’. With endless grey apartment blocks and the overwhelming presence of dog faeces, I almost felt like I was in North Dublin.

Highlights; the cellar dive bars, Hungary’s version of a Wild West saloon; general wanderings around the city, taking in the architecture, parks, castles and giant outdoor skating rink; paprika.

Downsides: Unicum

I left Budapest bruised, exhausted and with the longest running hangover of my life, but it was worth it.

Many thanks to all my hosts in Hungary, I’ll be back =)

Back to the Blog- Part II

Brno main square
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

Gothenburg, Sweden
After returning from the Baltic, my next stop was Gothenburg, Sweden's second biggest city.

It was great to catch up with my friend Lotta and to meet her boyfriend, Daniel. They were perfect hosts. Gothenburg (Göteborg) is a cosy, pretty city with canals winding through. I had a great time shopping, bar hopping and reviving my Swedish again. And I can't forget the Swedish hot dog: korv med mos, which is a hot dog with or without the bun with mashed potato and special Swedish spice. Definitely in my top 3 World Hot Dog list. (Guatemala is still #1.)

Dresden, Germany
I spent Christmas with my niece and family in Dresden. It was great to see them all again, and to visit Dresden. Dresden is a breathtaking city, with a sufficiently alternative other side to make it artsy, edgy and interesting as well as beautiful. And I finally lived my dream of ice skating outside =) Christmas was a lovely time to be there, with its holiday markets, gluwein and roast goose.

Brno, Czech Republic
I took the train from Dresden- Brno. Since I've been to Prague, I wanted to see something else of the Czech republic, and I'm glad I did. Apart from a couple of Germans, I think I was the only tourist in the town. I have consistently found that the second cities are always worth seeing as they are usually cheaper, friendlier and somehow more 'real'. I saw the city on foot, wandering its cobbled streets, visiting the castle, churches and shops. The highlight was trying to order at the local Chinese restaurant, where they spoke mostly Mandarin, a little Czech and about 3 words of English. My body language was so appalling that it took about 3 minutes to ask for rice (although I have yet to come up with a successful 'rice' sign).

Vienna, Austria
Vienna is beautiful, but expensive. It's a grand city, with stunning architecture and packed with culture. I didn't spend long enough here to get a real feel of the city past the endless Mozart paraphernalia.
I tried to see as much as I could by foot, ducking into cafe after cafe to prevent hypothermia. The market was a highlight.

Part III: Hungary.... coming soon

Back to the Blog- Part I

Abandoned military base, Paldiski
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

After a (very) long hiatus for no good reason other than laziness and extended procrastination, I'm attempting to revive the blog.

It's been a crazy few months since September... starting with a Baltic trip to Latvia and Estonia... then Gothenburg, Sweden for a friend's birthday... Christmas in Dresden with my niece + her family... Brno (Czech Rep) for the hell of it... onto Vienna for Mozart and schnitzel...then a very full time Hungary for the New Year, finishing up with London last weekend for Sam's 30th.

Here's a quick rundown of some images, thoughts and observations of it all, beginning with the Baltic. I took this trip at the end of October with 4 Hungarians and an endless supply of vodka. We rented a car and took in the sights of the region.

Latvia:
All roads lead back to Riga: this odd city was the start and end point of the trip, and unfortunately we didn't have time to see much else of Latvia than Riga. However, it's a city worth visiting for its art-nouveau architecture, dumpling buffets, Russian market and cheap vodka. The only place I have been when the hostels advertise tours to fire rocket launchers in World War 2 bunkers. Ethnic conflict between the Russians and Latvians is still rather raw, in a country which has suffered so many occupations they even have a museum dedicated to it. Downsides: its popularity as a stag party town. And Black Balsam, a horifficly bitter tar-like liquor, invented by Latvians to torture tourists. Pure evil.

Estonia:
The majority of the trip was spend in Estonia and included:

* Parnu- a Baltic sea esort town in Western Estonia. We only spent one night here and the weather was incredibly bad, but it's supposed to be beautiful in summer. My addiction to metal-tubed Baltic mustard began here.
* Tallinn. It was my second time in Tallinn and it was as beautiful as the first time. Built on the banks of the Gulf of Finland, it is one of the prettiest cities I have been, with cobbled streets, stunning Russian Orthodox cathedrals. The hometown of Patsy the stuffed Dutch cat and Vana Tallinn (the sweeter and better Baltic rival to Black Balsam). Also home to the worst hot dog I have tasted in my life: soggy bun, cucumber and mayonaise! My coat still bears the scars.
* Paldiski. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paldiski .... One of the most bizarre towns I have visited. A former Soviet submarine base, it was nicknamed the 'Soviet Pentagon' as it was the most important nuclear facility in the Soviet Union. So important that the whole town was sealed off until 1994. Driving through the town is an eerie experience. Many crumbling relics of the Soviet past remain, grey and decaying. The town has little else than a pizza restaurant and more grey Soviet apartment blocks. The town has starred in 2 of my favourite movies- Lilja 4 ever and Tarsk pa Tallinn.
* Narva. Narva lies right on the Estonia-Russia border, and it's population is almost 95% Russian speaking. Most of the signs are in Russian and the supermarkets sell vodka by the crate. Narva's castle is mirrored across the river (the border) on the Russian side by another castle. Worth checking out, if only for the giant Lenin statue.
We found a hostel in the nearby Narva- Joesuu, where we enjoyed a 3am sauna, Estonian style.
* Tartu. Estonia's famed university town, and the second largest city in the country. A very pretty, quaint town, with a fantastic hostel, Hostel Terviseks! It also houses the toy museum (better than it sounds) and the KGB cells museum, where you can track the history of occupation in Estonia. Tartu was definately a highlight of the trip.

Verdict: The Baltic is beautiful and bizarre all at once. I would like to see it again in summertime.

Edinburgh

Me below Edinburgh castle
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

I had a fantastic weekend away in Edinburgh.

I had been to the city once before, and really loved it. Its so close to Ireland that my flatmate and I decided on a whim to visit.

We arrived late on Friday night, dumped our bags and headed off to some of the city's bars. I was suprised by how much cheaper it is than Dublin, and everything is just so... pretty. We spent most of the evening wandering around the old town pubs, which have a backdrop of a lit Edinburgh castle. The bars were great and we ended up finding some cellar rock bars, frequented by heavy metal fans and students enjoying the music and cheap Absinthe.

We got up early on Saturday, feeling too well the effects of the Absinthe and went for a wander around the city in daylight. Edinburgh has a very arty feel to it which is probably why its host to some of Europe's largest festivals including the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

We walked around the Castle for a couple of hours, checking out the crown jewels, tiny chapel and tunnels. Its easy to imagine how it was a few hundred years ago, minus all the tourists.

After a terrific meal of haggis we headed up Carlton Hill with whisky and Iron Brew for a real Scottish experience and checked out the city skyline by night.

We ended up at a Judas Priest tribute band near the end of the night before heading back to the hostel for much needed sleep.

We had a few hours left in the city on Sunday before our flight home and its a great place just to wander around, especially in Autumn through the tree lined streets and parks.

I'll be back!

A Very Irish Weekend

Ever felt like you were living in a movie? Last weekend was definitely one of those moments, where every good Irish stereotype came together in the form of Banagher town, County Offaly. Banagher is a very small town, population 1636, with 6 pubs, several churches and a very bad takeaway store and where everyone knows everyone.

I was invited as part of my friend Agnieszka's birthday celebrations. Her flatmate, Ger, from a family of 10, hosted us. We stayed next door to the family run pub, which has been in the Hough family for 4 generations and is really a spectacular pub. Famous for its nightly renditions of songs like 'It's a long way to Tipperary' and 'Danny Boy', sung by a wonderfully eccentric woman playing the piano, its something of an institution in Banagher.

The Hough family own a plot of land in Offaly countryside, so we checked out their bog where they collect and sell peat logs. I had never seen anything like it- it was quite strange holding something which was thousands of years old. Apparently one of the daughters found an ancient shoe once, which is now in the National Museum.

We stumbled on a medieval fair and game show while we were there. I managed to accomplish one of my 100 things-I-have-to-do-before-I-die.... I had a falcon on my arm! It was really amazing.

One of Ger's friends works for a boat touring company on the river Shannon and took us for a twilight cruise. It wasn't quite the bikini-clad, champagne glass in hand sunset cruise, but we had a great time.

Saturday night was another party night, celebrating Aga's birthday with yet more renditions of 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary.'

We left very tired and full from Mrs. Hough's home cooking. Definitely an Irish experience to remember!

A Bit of Culture in Dun Laoghaire

Last weekend was another busy one, with most of it spent at the annual Festival of World Cultures in a quaint seaside suburb called Dun Laoighaire on Dublin's South Coast.
It's become rather popular in Dublin, mostly for it wide variety of food stalls selling delicacies from all over the world, as well as free outdoor concerts overlooking the sea.

For this reason, it is of course preferable to have a nice, sunny summer's days to wander the stalls and watch the concert. We weren't so lucky, and from the moment I set off out of my front door to the late afternoon, it really rained. Then there was the mud.

Fortunately it cleared in time for some great concerts and an impromptu Brazilian jam session by the sea....definately one of the highlights.

We caught an amazing West African family band on Saturday night, then headed home for some sleep before returning on Sunday.

The weather cleared up on Sunday and I experienced bright, warm sun for the first time in awhile. 23 degrees and it was even described as 'boiling'- funny how quickly we adjust!
One of the best bands of the weekend played on Sunday night at a local loft pub- Balkan Beat Box. Definately the most original band I have heard in a long time, they were really fantastic.

All in all the weekend was really great. I tried a variety of foods, the strangest being Polish 'pate'... not really pate at all, but pork lard mixed with onions and spread thickly on bread. Hmmm....fat on bread. This is only one of many festivals to come in Dublin. The International Theatre Festival and Fringe Festival are coming up soon. I'm hoping to catch a bit of Oscar Wilde-a compulsory Irish experience.

I will post photos soon.

Hasta la vista

I Love Brussels

Escaping Vesuvius
Originally uploaded by simpsonatti

This became the phrase of the week after an endlessly hilarious trip to Brussels last weekend with my friend Agnieszka.

Why Brussels? I wasn't too sure. It's close enough to Ireland to make a good weekend trip and it rhymes with the mussels Belgium is so famous for.

We arrived in the city late on Friday night, dumped our bags at the hotel and headed straight for the bars. Unbeknownst to us we happened to be staying right near the Red Light District, home to seedy looking cinemas and Eygyptian boy racers. So after an eye opening trip down the main street we headed to the bar quarter on the look out for some of that famous Belgium beer.

I was never a great fan of Belgium beer, and the Krieg (cherry flavoured beer) reinforced this. Basically its bright red, sickeningly sweet and if it was up to me should be banned from existence. After repeatedly refusing the very common Stella Artois, I did try some other (better) varieties, although I still think German beer trumps them all.

Anyway, after a very late night/morning, we headed back to the hotel for some much needed rest before getting on one of those terribly tacky hop-on, hop-off tour buses with recorded commentary. Despite beginning the tour very seriously, this degenerated quickly when we realised that the English version of the tour wasn't working, so we decided to listen to it in Japanese instead. We got off at the first stop, which was the Atomium, a famous Brussels landmark in the shape of an atom which you can go to the top of to get a great view of the city.

While up there I looked down to see the Eiffel Tower, Mt Vesuvius and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. No, we weren't in Space looking down at Europe, but we were looking at.... Mini Europe! By far the highlight of any trip to Brussels, it contains miniature versions of all EU member states.

Mini Europe prompted a very serious Mini Euro Tour photo shoot (see left and http://www.flickr.com/photos/24491659@N03)
during which we morphed into Japanese aliens.

During a walk around the very quaint city centre, we visited the main square and Mannikin Piss, the famous statue of a little boy peeing which, according to legend, was erected in honour of a boy who put out great fires of Brussels while doing his business.

After a compulsory waffle eating mission, we headed in what we thought was the direction of our hotel only to end up at a fun fair. We took a quick ride and headed back to the hotel before going out to the Delirium Bar, known for its selection of over 2000 beers.

On Sunday we finished off the bus tour, catching a glimpse of the EU district, beautiful cathedrals and the palace.

Before leaving we finally had a bite of Brussels Mussels before heading back to the airport.

All in all a fantastic trip!

I love Brussels.