The Mystery of the Green and Gold Dirndls

The most memorable part of Germany is the part in which I cannot remember. We were intoxicated beyond brain damage for the entire three days but the photos tell us that between the grazes on our knees and the vomit in our pigtails, we had a lot of fun. Oktoberfest.

It’s completely cliché and we did it, admittedly, in the most cliché way but with no apologies. We were embarrassingly, unashamedly Australian and the whole festival knew it. Despite the freezing and drizzling conditions we were dressed in our skimpy green and gold dirndls followed by our matching entourage of fellow green and gold lederhosens. We camped in our tiny little collapsable green tent in a sea of tiny little collapsable green tents. In the state we were in I find it unfathomable how we made it home each night to the correct tent. I’m sure some kind of trial and error method was involved.

We drank we drank we sang we drank we vomited we drank we danced we drank we passed out.

Morning one we were up at 5am, working a sweat amongst the squabble, defending our tiny patch of mirror in the girls bathroom to look neat and pretty …little did we know it was all in vain. By 1:15pm we would look like Albert Einstein in drag. Morning two we didn’t bother. Threw back the covers …already dressed from the day before and off we went after a hearty chunder. Morning three following suit of morning two.

Morning four, the morning we left, was by far the worst. Every other day at breakfast we were armed with a pint ready to fight off any invading hangovers. Day four …that dreaded day… was three of the biggest hangovers of your life at once. We were in no state to travel to another country, but a state of complete and utter shock took us across the border to Austria where we came to in Salzburg speculating how we may have gotten there.

I got what I went for …a photo of myself standing on a table, trying to eat a giant pretzel and down a pint of Löwenbrau at the same time …the rest is a mystery …literally.

The NetherNetherlands for Pieter Post

Looking back, three months to the day, and I realise I have taken away one brain singeing feature from The Netherlands. It is an odd feature to have worked it’s way into the valleys of my cranium as I have never cared for it before, and nor do I care for it now. It was just our time spent in this one tiny country that it held the slightest influence, if any, on my average day. Yet it is what stands out three months later like a Cruiser on Australia Day. It is architecture.

I’m not talking about your typical centuries old Renaissance or Medieval buildings. Not the buildings that are towering over the huddle of ants below taking flash after flash of each stone in it’s wall. Not the building with whichever limestone carved saint or goddess is staring down on these ants on one knee bending over backwards with their foreheads pressed on the pavement and their tongues in their ears to get that perfect shot. Not the buildings that make Europe Europe.

I’m talking late 20th century Dutch architects who couldn’t accept things like how a house is a cube flat on the ground. It’s too easy. A Dutch architect would huff at this kind of practicality. “What if we tilt it so that it sits on one corner?” Does it matter that you’d have to walk up the wall to cross the floor?

Or the trending phase I noticed of “One building being just one building?! Ludicrous!”. So everywhere there is “one” building made up 6 or 7 or at one point there must have been at least 20. It’s hard to imagine what I mean unless you see it for yourself. If there’s a way to make a building not a building. They’ll find it.

However it’s not to say that architecture was the only standout thing in The Netherlands. Amsterdam was incredible but not in the way you will ever hear about it. Maastricht has charm, Rotterdam has old men living for old ship bones and Den Haag has a beach though I would advise against swimming if you find it unsettling to be submerged in poo. And I learnt a lot about myself in The Netherlands. I discovered the level of my brains intelligence when I scoffed at my travel buddy for asking me if Holland was a place in The Netherlands. I later found out that my reply of “OH MY GOD YOU DUMBASS! It’s the same thing!” dropped my intelligence level by 3 notches. Awkward.

Snappy Swedish Days

You get to a point in your travels where the camera stays so long in your pocket, that now when you decide to leave it at home altogether, it’s already left its mould in your denim.

Every journey starts the same. Snaphappying away at a hundred photos a day with eight hour sightseeing treks marked on every square of the calendar and writing home to your family every second day (ok for me it was every day, my sister had to turn the internet on her phone off because I was costing her too much in data fees). By the time we arrived in Sweden, these kind of days were just a foggy haze far off in the distance. After so much travel, it seems when everything is amazing nothing is. You forget. There are no more Kodak moments, it’s not uncommon to “save money” with a day of Breaking Bad and your family writes to you, guessing where you might be. Thank you Sweden, for turning that fog into a thunderstorm.

It is definitely true that the change of seasons was a significant factor in luring my camera back out of its cosy home. In Australia, I wasn’t even aware that Autumn was a season. I thought it was just the filler between Summer and Winter and now that I have witnessed this “void” in Europe I am to believe that it is possibly the most beautiful of all seasons. Yes. The incredible Autumn colours were the bait for my camera. However, Sweden, with is beautiful parks and old age charm was the perfect hook.

I would advise not to travel to Sweden if you have self confidence issues. This place will not help you. Oh no, it will make you feel like Susan Boyle. The rumours are true. The people are as pretty as the land they come from. And not only are the people beautiful, but they have impeccable taste in …well everything. Their fashion and general style has not one thread off shade and the art and music culture just purely belongs here amongst them.

Sweden is that bad relationship, that couple that everybody knows…

– I love you Sweden …but you make me hate myself.

Willy Wonka’s Belgian

Beer, Fries, Chocolate and Waffles. That is Belgium in a nutshell. Well at least that’s what us, the tourists, take away from it. That and an extra five kilos.

Belgium is a very contrasted, confusing and contradicting country. One minute you’re pinching your nose to avoid to the stench of urine on the street and the next you keep it pinched because if you smell that waffle cooking you won’t be able to resist. It’s hard to stare at the incredible architecture when there are chocolate fountains in every window and walls lined from floor to ceiling with more varieties of lollies than you even knew existed.

And then there’s the beer. Belgians can hold their alcohol. Australians cannot. And’s that’s fine but it becomes a problem when every Belgian you meet insists on enlightening you with their favourite 8% local brew and you have to spend the rest of your time together with limited communication such as nodding and smiling so as not to give away your incompetence.

Their pride lies in their fries that they smother, like everything they eat, with mayonnaise. I think they have a lot more to be proud of than that. Like their festivals for example. Or perhaps that their people are so lovely and genuinely helpful. Not typical helpfulness where one acts out of obligation or with the expectancy of getting something in return but being helpful just because they can be. I know some people that would disagree with me on that but we met real friends in Belgium, not just Chuck Palahniuk’s ‘single-serving’ friends that are offered along all travels.

Home away from home

London is Sydney.

Sorry, I should probably un-offend some people and rephrase that by saying Sydney is London. Sorry to the other half that I have now offended but it’s true. Sure, London has double-decker buses and red telephone booths …WOW!!! If that’s what we get excited about when we envision a country on the other side of the world then that should prove my point enough. But if you still don’t believe me? Here.

For starters, there are no Londoners in London. Sound familiar? And not only is their famous shopping strip Oxford Street 15 minutes from Kings Cross but London also has a Greenwich, Camden, Kensington, Richmond, Blackheath, Sydenham, Soho, Paddington and I dare you to google-image the Tyne Bridge in England’s Newcastle (also a city in Australia). They drive on the left (and walk on the right! Ref. There are no Londoners in London). They eat bangers and mash and meat pies. They speak English. …Oh! And we’re English. That could explain a lot.

Of course there are some differences apart from the breathtaking age gap staring at you through every medieval window or 13^th century gargoyle. Such as… …their seagulls are really big!

 

 

 

 

From Calmer Waters

Phnom Phen is a city you love most in the rain. Not because of its beauty (yet to appear) but because it’s not so damn hot!

It is definitely not the beautiful, relaxing, destination that people flock to South-East Asia for. Once you get over the smell of urine, decaying pig snouts and your own sweat, you still have to survive the traffic.

The “nice” part of the city is a strip of run down, built up hotels with views of the brown, littered Mekong River with bar bills tripling that of its suburban neighbours, stealing $7 for a large hearty meal accompanied by a $2 Angkor Draught.

Although Phnom Penh can boast that it has more wildlife than the average city, at the top of the fauna list is dogs and rats. In their defence, yes their rats can often be mistaken for possums.   

However! You cannot judge a whole country by its capital. If I were to do so, I’d have to assume that the Cambodian people live relatively well. But I know better. By ‘relatively well’ I mean only that they have enough flesh on their bones to give the impression that they eat enough to survive and that they have shelter to sleep under, even if it is inside their Tuk Tuks or under shop awnings. Even the other touristy destinations in which I have visited, Sihanoukville and Siem Reap, naturally shed no light on the true poverty of Cambodia. It is only now that we are on a bus out of the city, hours into our journey that we are catching realistic glimpses.

You may read this and fall into the assumption that I dislike Cambodia. But you couldn’t be more wrong. I can only judge on face value, but the Khmer are simply beautiful people (except for the men who tried to rob us on our homeward stroll). For the most part they have infectious smiles on glowing faces and an aura about them that draws you into what feels like a peaceful world. These people are extraordinary to be able to achieve such beaming qualities through not only a deprived lifestyle but also after such a recent and brutal past.

It’s all too often said and somewhat of a cliché but a country is its people. For that reason I intent to visit the Khmer over any white-sandy beach, pinacolada or palm tree.

Not goodbye… …See you later!

I’m never one to say goodbye. I tend to side with the Lizard King as the girl who slips out the back door …but not this time.

This time I say farewell to not only friends but two families. And I didn’t mean a single one of those goodbyes. I said them, with each individual in mind, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before we say hello again.

Of course there were the goodbye’s in which I felt truth, but they are always easy. If it is hard to say, then you’re saying it all wrong.

Until I am reunited with my besties and both my families, I say a huge ungoodbye to the few special people that fit in my hand and live in my heart.

Expectations of futures past

I write this not only for you. But also for my future self.

I am not a writer. My punctuation isn’t exemplary and in the past my origin has been questioned, not because of my accent but because of my grammar. At times I may sound stupid, and in these times I give you permission to laugh, but only with me.

I am looking forward to reading this tiny chapter, years after i have returned, when I’m straining to remember if it was Hans or Wolfgang that showed us that Absynthe Den in Berlin or if it was The Eiffel Tower we climbed or was it Mont Blanc?

What am I expecting from the next year?

1. To stumble back to our tent after the Pukkelpop music festival in Belgium, exhausted.

2. To stumble back to our Hostel after the Airwaves music festival in Iceland, enlightened.

3. To stumble back to our tent after the Gallipoli Dawn Service in Turkey, sleepy.

4. To stumble back to our tent during Octoberfest beer festival in Germany, slurring.

5. To become very good at stumbling.

The rest of this teepee future is history ..for the present 🙂

…and what is this?

I will write to you, all four of you…

…and this is how i will do it

x