This is a rant. It won't be witty. It won't be Christmassy. Quite frankly Christmas can shove it, because I am mad. I will outline why:
Yesterday, I attempted to book a flight on ebookers. Now, ebookers is a nightmare before you even get to the payment stage, advertising flights that then disappear when you click on them and such. So I finally chose my overpriced return flight to Paris and then the website politely informed me in red text that ebookers was still confirming the flight with the airline and that if I didn't receive confirmation within half an hour to go ahead and rebook.
You are kidding me. I JUST ENTERED CREDIT CARD DETAILS AND CLICKED GO.
So I waited.
and waited.
and waited.
No Confirmation Email.
Better rebook, yes?
No.
Why? Because the bastards have just charged $413 to my bank account, that's why!
Not to stress, I think; it is the holiday season, people are busy celebrating a holiday honouring a deity I don't believe in, eating lots of food (which I do believe in) and generally being merry. Surely, the site is just busy with crazed customers, touched by the light of consumerism, I mean, Jesus, busily snapping up last minute flights to romantic destinations. Like Paris. Which is where I want to go.
I'll just email ebookers and tell them to send on the confirmation.
Later (much later) I get an email telling me that no, no, they have no record of my booking. Not even a failed booking record. Just nothing. Nor do they have record of charging me a fuckload of money for the flight. Can I send a bank statement?
No I can't send a bank statement, say I. See, when one is travelling around the place, one uses last minute internet booking sites, not for fun, but because one is travelling around NOT SITTING AT A FULLY EQUIPPED HOME OFFICE CHEERILY MAKING USE OF THE SCANNER AND PRINTER AND PEN HOLDER AND PAPERWEIGHT AND WHATEVER OTHER NICE ITEMS ARE FOUND IN OFFICES AND NOT IN THE PLACES FREQUENTED BY TRAVELLERS! (please note that the above text was not included in my very polite response to Mr or Mrs ebookers. Please also note that I am not saying Mr or Mrs to suggest that I did not know the gender of the staff member who replied to my emails. I did know the gender of each staff member who replied, it is just that a different one replied to each email. How's that for customer service? Fuckers.)
But wait, there's more.
After a number of emails I called ebookers and after a number of phone menus I spoke to a customer service lady who was very polite even though it was obvious I was on the verge of a tantrum. Unfortunately, polite is useless when not coupled with any kind of asistance.
All I wanted was either:
a) an email assuring me that if I were to book a new flight the current charge would be refunded or
b) A GODDAMN FLIGHT TO PARIS
I got this via email:
We would also like to inform that the details which you have provided us though we are unable to retrieve the booking if you go ahead and rebook and if the ticket is non-refundable then you will be at a loss.
Right.
The woman on the phone told me to call the airline directly. I said that the airline charged £1 a minute, and that it was ebookers fault and could she please fix it.
No.
So, I set the timer (so as to be able to pay my nice hosts for the expensive phone call) and called easyjet.
USELESS
They have no record of my flight either. They suggested I call ebookers.
So right now I have no flight to Paris, $413 less in my bank account, and a FUCKING TRUCKLOAD OF RAGE on Christmas Eve.
Ok Santa, baby Jesus or whoever else is running round the skies tonight, step up. I don't want socks, I want a flight to Paris. I'll even be nice the next time I visit a famous church - no scoffing, no suggestions that someone have sex with me in the confession box, no stealing of anti-abortion fliers and certainly no graffiti (that was Brie and it was a church in Bathurst, not a famous one.)
It has happened. I am finally sick of travel and ready to come home.
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
The Singing Housewife and Simone the Little Pig
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Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Queer?
A friend of mine from Norway, Frederik, posted these quote from Whipping Girl by Julia Serano and I found it interesting...thoughts? comments?
"It [the queer/transcommunity] is a subgroup of the LGBTIQ community that is composed mostly of folks in their twenties and thirties who are more likely to refer to themselves as "dykes", "queers" and/or "trans" than "lesbian" or "gay". While diverse in many ways, this subpopulation tends to predominately inhabit urban and academic settings, and is skewed toward those who are white and/or from middle-class backgrounds. In many ways, the queer/trans community is best described as a sort of marriage of the transgender movement's call to "shatter the gender binary" and the lesbian community's pro sex, pro kink backlash to 1980s-era Andrea Dworkinism."
....
"[I call this trend subversivism] Subversivism is the practice of extolling certain gender and sexual expressions and identities simply because they are unconventional or noncomforming. In the parlance of subversivism, these atypical genders and sexualities are "good" because they "transgress" or "subvert" oppressive binary gender norms. The justification for the practice of subversivism has evolved out of a particular reading (although some would call it misreading) of the work of various influential queer theorists over the last decade and a half
To briefly summarize this popularized account: All forms of sexism arise from the gender binary system. Since the binary gender system is everywhere - in our thoughts, language, tradition, behaviors etc - the only way we can overturn it is to actively undermine the system from within. Thus, in order to challenge sexism, people must "perform" their genders in ways that bend, break and blur all imaginary distinctions that exist between male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, and so on, presumably leading to a system wide binary meltdown. According to the principles of subversivism, drag is inheretly "subversive", as it reveals that our society's binary notions of maleness and femaleness are not natural, but rather actively "constructed" and "performed" by all of us. Another way that one can be "transgressively gendered" is by identifying as genderqueer or genderfluid - i.e., refusing to identify fully as either woman or man"
....
"On the surface, subversivism gives the appearance of accommodating a seemingly infinite array of genders and sexualities, but this is not quite the case. Subversivism does have very specific boundaries; it has an "other". By glorifying identities and expressions that appear to subvert or blur gender binaries, subversivism automatically creates a reciprocal category of people whose gender and sexual identities are by default inherently conservative, even "hegemonic", because they are seen as reinforcing or naturalizing the binary gender system. Not surprisingly, this often-unspoken category of bad, conservative genders predominately made up of feminine women and masculine men who are attracted to the "opposite" sex.
....
"One routinely sees this "dark side" of subversivism rear its head in the queer/trans community, where it is not uncommon to hear individuals critique or call into question other queers or trans folks because their gender presentation, behaviors, or sexual preferences are not deemed "subversive" enough. Indeed, if one fails to sufficiently distinguish oneself from heterosexual feminine women and masculine men, one runs the risk of being accused of "reinforcing the gender binary", an indictment that is tantamount to being called a sexist. One of the most common targets of such critiques are transsexuals, and particularly those who are heterosexual and gender-normative post-transition. Indeed, because such transsexuals (in the eyes of others) transition from a seemingly "transgressive" queer identity to a "conservative" straight one, subversivists may even claim that they have transitioned in other to purposefully "assimilate" themselves into straight culture. While these days, such accusations are often couched in the rhetoric of current queer theory, they rely on many of the same mistaken assumptions that plagued the work of cissexist feminists like Janice Raymind and sociologists like Thomas Kando decades ago."
"It [the queer/transcommunity] is a subgroup of the LGBTIQ community that is composed mostly of folks in their twenties and thirties who are more likely to refer to themselves as "dykes", "queers" and/or "trans" than "lesbian" or "gay". While diverse in many ways, this subpopulation tends to predominately inhabit urban and academic settings, and is skewed toward those who are white and/or from middle-class backgrounds. In many ways, the queer/trans community is best described as a sort of marriage of the transgender movement's call to "shatter the gender binary" and the lesbian community's pro sex, pro kink backlash to 1980s-era Andrea Dworkinism."
....
"[I call this trend subversivism] Subversivism is the practice of extolling certain gender and sexual expressions and identities simply because they are unconventional or noncomforming. In the parlance of subversivism, these atypical genders and sexualities are "good" because they "transgress" or "subvert" oppressive binary gender norms. The justification for the practice of subversivism has evolved out of a particular reading (although some would call it misreading) of the work of various influential queer theorists over the last decade and a half
To briefly summarize this popularized account: All forms of sexism arise from the gender binary system. Since the binary gender system is everywhere - in our thoughts, language, tradition, behaviors etc - the only way we can overturn it is to actively undermine the system from within. Thus, in order to challenge sexism, people must "perform" their genders in ways that bend, break and blur all imaginary distinctions that exist between male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, and so on, presumably leading to a system wide binary meltdown. According to the principles of subversivism, drag is inheretly "subversive", as it reveals that our society's binary notions of maleness and femaleness are not natural, but rather actively "constructed" and "performed" by all of us. Another way that one can be "transgressively gendered" is by identifying as genderqueer or genderfluid - i.e., refusing to identify fully as either woman or man"
....
"On the surface, subversivism gives the appearance of accommodating a seemingly infinite array of genders and sexualities, but this is not quite the case. Subversivism does have very specific boundaries; it has an "other". By glorifying identities and expressions that appear to subvert or blur gender binaries, subversivism automatically creates a reciprocal category of people whose gender and sexual identities are by default inherently conservative, even "hegemonic", because they are seen as reinforcing or naturalizing the binary gender system. Not surprisingly, this often-unspoken category of bad, conservative genders predominately made up of feminine women and masculine men who are attracted to the "opposite" sex.
....
"One routinely sees this "dark side" of subversivism rear its head in the queer/trans community, where it is not uncommon to hear individuals critique or call into question other queers or trans folks because their gender presentation, behaviors, or sexual preferences are not deemed "subversive" enough. Indeed, if one fails to sufficiently distinguish oneself from heterosexual feminine women and masculine men, one runs the risk of being accused of "reinforcing the gender binary", an indictment that is tantamount to being called a sexist. One of the most common targets of such critiques are transsexuals, and particularly those who are heterosexual and gender-normative post-transition. Indeed, because such transsexuals (in the eyes of others) transition from a seemingly "transgressive" queer identity to a "conservative" straight one, subversivists may even claim that they have transitioned in other to purposefully "assimilate" themselves into straight culture. While these days, such accusations are often couched in the rhetoric of current queer theory, they rely on many of the same mistaken assumptions that plagued the work of cissexist feminists like Janice Raymind and sociologists like Thomas Kando decades ago."
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Farewell sweet friend of mine...
| Edit Note | Delete
We met in 2006. You arrived just when I needed you. Bringing comfort and support, giving me space, complimenting me perfectly.
Together we toiled 7 days (and nights) per week at the Edge where the stars trod the boards 10 minutes apiece in efforts to prove their potential fame and entertain Newtown's masses. Incognito, we melted into the black drapes just as we were supposed to, strangers in the night, moving this and that this way and that. Stuffed with importance you were just what I sought.
Soon after we would head for deserts red, dust covered fields we would tramp toger, up and down, up and down. Rising early to face another day's hard work as dirt from the nation's corners settled in our cracks. Pushed to the limit, with wristbands and torches and scissors and spillages and searing sun and rain. Not to mention our fellow staff... The year ended brutally for us both and we sought comfort in life's pleasures, in leisure soon to come.
So we were city bound for a time and you joined me for wide-eyed, dry-mouthed Great Escapes as we danced pushed up against hippies and children, beautiful women and sweaty alcohol-drenched men. But you were faithful, sticking to me throughout this foray into fun. We leapt and bounced and shook and ran with old friends and sisters, new friends and lovers.
You were a constant, dear friend of mine.
It seemed life was slowing down...time for retirement? But I kept you on your toes with the occasional odd job. We took on poorly matched pink t-shirts as thousands crossed Our Bridge in commemoration. You felt redundant though in shiny 4WD, when on January 26, crewing meant following a GPS and trundling through the city on wheels. Pockets included. Mud minimal.
I missed you so took you out one night, and in some serendipitous wonder you were so very needed. An unfortunate digestion of a little something someone found on the floor left me sprawled on another's lap all night, unable to move. But you were there, as always, to protect my dignity. A Kooky turn of events.
These past months we have climbed mountains, passed under waterfalls, tramped through cities we'd never heard of before now. Your retirement seemed complete.
But no, I have brought you here and you have said Bonjour once more to bon travail. Salut mud and heavy lifting. You are torn and smeared, ripped and covered in unidentifiable matters.
And I think this may be your final resting place, this Island Home (as sung Christina Anu when you came out to Aurora and we worked behind the stage the only ones not sporting tails and gowns.) You shall rest here, broken as you are, and sleep at last.
I doubt I shall ever truly replace you.
RIP beloved.
- One pair black cargo pants: $40 from leichhardt market place
- Thread used to constantly try and fix numerous holes in said cargo pants: £1 in Edinburgh
- Three years of damn good trouserage known by many names (short&sweetpants, crocpants, crewpants, theatrepants, festivalpants, practicalpants, movingdaypants, farmpants):...
priceless
We met in 2006. You arrived just when I needed you. Bringing comfort and support, giving me space, complimenting me perfectly.
Together we toiled 7 days (and nights) per week at the Edge where the stars trod the boards 10 minutes apiece in efforts to prove their potential fame and entertain Newtown's masses. Incognito, we melted into the black drapes just as we were supposed to, strangers in the night, moving this and that this way and that. Stuffed with importance you were just what I sought.
Soon after we would head for deserts red, dust covered fields we would tramp toger, up and down, up and down. Rising early to face another day's hard work as dirt from the nation's corners settled in our cracks. Pushed to the limit, with wristbands and torches and scissors and spillages and searing sun and rain. Not to mention our fellow staff... The year ended brutally for us both and we sought comfort in life's pleasures, in leisure soon to come.
So we were city bound for a time and you joined me for wide-eyed, dry-mouthed Great Escapes as we danced pushed up against hippies and children, beautiful women and sweaty alcohol-drenched men. But you were faithful, sticking to me throughout this foray into fun. We leapt and bounced and shook and ran with old friends and sisters, new friends and lovers.
You were a constant, dear friend of mine.
It seemed life was slowing down...time for retirement? But I kept you on your toes with the occasional odd job. We took on poorly matched pink t-shirts as thousands crossed Our Bridge in commemoration. You felt redundant though in shiny 4WD, when on January 26, crewing meant following a GPS and trundling through the city on wheels. Pockets included. Mud minimal.
I missed you so took you out one night, and in some serendipitous wonder you were so very needed. An unfortunate digestion of a little something someone found on the floor left me sprawled on another's lap all night, unable to move. But you were there, as always, to protect my dignity. A Kooky turn of events.
These past months we have climbed mountains, passed under waterfalls, tramped through cities we'd never heard of before now. Your retirement seemed complete.
But no, I have brought you here and you have said Bonjour once more to bon travail. Salut mud and heavy lifting. You are torn and smeared, ripped and covered in unidentifiable matters.
And I think this may be your final resting place, this Island Home (as sung Christina Anu when you came out to Aurora and we worked behind the stage the only ones not sporting tails and gowns.) You shall rest here, broken as you are, and sleep at last.
I doubt I shall ever truly replace you.
RIP beloved.
- One pair black cargo pants: $40 from leichhardt market place
- Thread used to constantly try and fix numerous holes in said cargo pants: £1 in Edinburgh
- Three years of damn good trouserage known by many names (short&sweetpants, crocpants, crewpants, theatrepants, festivalpants, practicalpants, movingdaypants, farmpants):...
priceless
Saturday, 15 November 2008
the day-to-day today
I am content.
I wake up in my cottage with a red door. I'm all covered with blankets but I get up and shower while it is dark. Breakfast is at 8 with coffee-in-a-bowl comme d'habitude and muesli laden with nuts. Then it's to work.
I can bike ride to the greenhouses, down narrow hedge-lined roads that criss cross the stunning green island. There are no cars here. It's a while since I've ridden but riding a bike really is...like riding a bike. If it's raining or I am lazy I can ride on the tractor. Nicolas drives and I sit on a metal platform above the wheel making sure my gumboots don't touch it. Aurelie rides a bike as she spends half the day working on a boat collecting oysters and needs to be able to travel to the south side. Temptation to make Tipping the Velvet references: high.
There's much to do to prepare for winter and next year's harvest. Also, there was a fire in the greenhouse a month ago and there's still lots to tidy.
Pulling up nettles, rearranging equipment, picking peppers, repotting thyme and mint, putting potatoes in the compost, realising they were not meant to be in the compost, standing knee-deep in the compost picking out the good ones, weeding, realising I can roll tubing the same way that I roll theatre electrical cords and that that means I have a skill to contribute (mine are the neatest coils), hanging chilli plants to dry, dragging heavy dirty stuff this way and that, avoiding spiders because I forget that I am not in Australia and they will not be poisonous, once again forgetting that I am not in Australia when I am scandalised that Nicolas pours a bucket of water on the ground - one look at the clouds tells me I needn't worry.
Lunch is at 1pm and we eat like kings. Veges and fruit and nut and seeds. Big salads and ratatouille crusty bread. Nothing is wasted and last night's dinner is reheated with some extra rice or herbs that change the flavour. And tea. Lots of tea. Oh and of course the chocolate and pear gateau we made yesterday.
And the cheese. Oh the cheese...
...pause for small cheese related taste bud orgasm...
We get back to work, strapping a massive plastic sheet to the tractor to take back to the greenhouses. My French is getting better every day (slowly returning to my former glory) but I still don't quite know what this plastic sheet is for. Sometimes instructions are clear, but their aim is not. But I assist nonetheless and enjoy the mental effort of trying to keep up with the slang-heavy conversation.
Dinner is excellent much like lunch. I learn an important lesson when Francois insists that I wash the tomatoes very well. In broken English (he speaks in English when he thinks something is very important for me to understand) he tells me that the little bits of black stuff might be rat shit. 'This is ok. But it might be plastic sheet bits from the fire. This is not ok. Shit ok. Sheet not ok.' I wash them well not really wanting to consume either.
We sit next to the fire and afterwards Francois, who owns this farm gets out his ukelele. I play guitar and sing The Waifs and Tracy Chapmen as that is still all I know how to play. He joins in while Aurelie and Nicolas read. When Nicolas takes up the guitar we have a slight difference in taste until we are able to settle on Leonard Cohen and we sing 'the partisan song' in French and English.
We talk and they make fun of my inability to pronounce 'tout,' a ridiculously overused word. If my French accent is as wonderfully comical as their English ones, having me around must be great.
Early to bed of course.
And that's just today.
After 4 months of holiday I decided it was time to be of use to someone. I have heard a lot about wwoofing on my travels so decided to give it a go. The deal with wwoofing (worldwide workers on organic farms) is that you pay 15 euros for a massive list of host farms in a particular country. Then you go work on the farm and they give you board and food. This farm, Kervillon, is my first go at wwoofing. It is on the lle de Brehat in Bretagne and it is pretty damn gorgeous.
I wake up in my cottage with a red door. I'm all covered with blankets but I get up and shower while it is dark. Breakfast is at 8 with coffee-in-a-bowl comme d'habitude and muesli laden with nuts. Then it's to work.
I can bike ride to the greenhouses, down narrow hedge-lined roads that criss cross the stunning green island. There are no cars here. It's a while since I've ridden but riding a bike really is...like riding a bike. If it's raining or I am lazy I can ride on the tractor. Nicolas drives and I sit on a metal platform above the wheel making sure my gumboots don't touch it. Aurelie rides a bike as she spends half the day working on a boat collecting oysters and needs to be able to travel to the south side. Temptation to make Tipping the Velvet references: high.
There's much to do to prepare for winter and next year's harvest. Also, there was a fire in the greenhouse a month ago and there's still lots to tidy.
Pulling up nettles, rearranging equipment, picking peppers, repotting thyme and mint, putting potatoes in the compost, realising they were not meant to be in the compost, standing knee-deep in the compost picking out the good ones, weeding, realising I can roll tubing the same way that I roll theatre electrical cords and that that means I have a skill to contribute (mine are the neatest coils), hanging chilli plants to dry, dragging heavy dirty stuff this way and that, avoiding spiders because I forget that I am not in Australia and they will not be poisonous, once again forgetting that I am not in Australia when I am scandalised that Nicolas pours a bucket of water on the ground - one look at the clouds tells me I needn't worry.
Lunch is at 1pm and we eat like kings. Veges and fruit and nut and seeds. Big salads and ratatouille crusty bread. Nothing is wasted and last night's dinner is reheated with some extra rice or herbs that change the flavour. And tea. Lots of tea. Oh and of course the chocolate and pear gateau we made yesterday.
And the cheese. Oh the cheese...
...pause for small cheese related taste bud orgasm...
We get back to work, strapping a massive plastic sheet to the tractor to take back to the greenhouses. My French is getting better every day (slowly returning to my former glory) but I still don't quite know what this plastic sheet is for. Sometimes instructions are clear, but their aim is not. But I assist nonetheless and enjoy the mental effort of trying to keep up with the slang-heavy conversation.
Dinner is excellent much like lunch. I learn an important lesson when Francois insists that I wash the tomatoes very well. In broken English (he speaks in English when he thinks something is very important for me to understand) he tells me that the little bits of black stuff might be rat shit. 'This is ok. But it might be plastic sheet bits from the fire. This is not ok. Shit ok. Sheet not ok.' I wash them well not really wanting to consume either.
We sit next to the fire and afterwards Francois, who owns this farm gets out his ukelele. I play guitar and sing The Waifs and Tracy Chapmen as that is still all I know how to play. He joins in while Aurelie and Nicolas read. When Nicolas takes up the guitar we have a slight difference in taste until we are able to settle on Leonard Cohen and we sing 'the partisan song' in French and English.
We talk and they make fun of my inability to pronounce 'tout,' a ridiculously overused word. If my French accent is as wonderfully comical as their English ones, having me around must be great.
Early to bed of course.
And that's just today.
After 4 months of holiday I decided it was time to be of use to someone. I have heard a lot about wwoofing on my travels so decided to give it a go. The deal with wwoofing (worldwide workers on organic farms) is that you pay 15 euros for a massive list of host farms in a particular country. Then you go work on the farm and they give you board and food. This farm, Kervillon, is my first go at wwoofing. It is on the lle de Brehat in Bretagne and it is pretty damn gorgeous.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
Good Times, Cheese & Swissbians*
* Please note that not all the lovely Swiss citizens I hung out with were lesbians, it's just that swisstrosexuals doesn't have the same ring to it.
I arrived in Bern after an epic journey (well epic if compared to getting the train from newtown to central...not epic compared to, say, the odyssey.) I caught two overnight trains in a row, mainly because I wanted to get to Switzerland quickly, but also I think just to see if I could. One sets oneself funny tasks when travelling alone. And one starts to refer to oneself as one so as to give the impression that everyone behaves exactly as one does. Yes.
So I caught first an overnight train to Vienna from Romania and had the good fortune to be sitting in a carriage with two large, suit-wearing Romanian men who saw fit to have lively debates all through the night and ate very smelly sandwiches in the morning. One of them was very well-endowed. I know this because he was sitting opposite me, with legs very wide apart so that said endowment was very much on display through aforementioned suit.
I spent a day in Vienna (see photo album: one day in vienna) and then had a very stressful time trying to find Stian who was in a hotel on the longest street in the world, a street I powerwalked up and down searching for the hotel. When I found it I was informed that were three hotels with this name and that my friends were not in this one. By this point I needed to go catch my train.
I was not pleased to discover that this time I was accompanied by two laptop endowed young men who also chatted, despite having aforementioned laptops to entertain them. I had also been seated in a carriage with people who were not, unlike me, going all the way to Zurich. This meant that every few hours I had to return my seat to the upright position and shuffle around so they could get off the train and be replaced by other people also only going short distances so not requiring peace and quiet.
You can imagine my joy when I arrived (unshowered for quite some time now) at Susan's charming flat in Bern, to be greeted by offers of laundry facilities (one adores laundry facilities) and tea. I love staying with lesbians; they always have such a wide variety of herbal teas.
That day I went to the Einstein museum and fell asleep during the little film. I may need to write a Note entitled Stupid Things I have Done when Ridiculously Tired.
But when I met up with Susan and Amanda after my ill-fated sight seeing in Bern (I was also very distressed by a caged bear) they were lovely and took me for nice coffee and then there was the supermarket which I always enjoy and a nice dinner with them and Susan's remarkably well-behaved son, Noam, who I later sang songs to before he went to bed. He liked the songs but was a little annoyed that they weren't in German.
And so began my preference for just hanging out with Swiss people rather than seeing their rather famous sites.
Oh, I tried, I really did but I kept getting set back. Fog on the mountains, rain in the valley, missed trains and later on the beginnings of a cold which led to the entire photo album of flowers in Montreux - I was a little delirious. Not to mention the fact that they turn off Geneva's world-famous fountain at night. Well I think they do because after a fulfilling day of museumage and a UN tour, I bought a felafel and strolled down to get my token photo and it was nowhere to be found. I looked for some time and felt like I may be crazy as I had seen it from a distance earlier in the day...
But enough complaining, I did see some very pretty stuff. The day I went to Gruyere with Cosette was wonderful. Perfect weather, charming old town with the same name as the EXCELLENT cheese it produces and a HILARIOUS audio guide in the Gruyere Museum (which gave you 3 pieces of cheese as a ticket! Anna - I think it is the museum for you!!! Well actually it is the country for you but this is a blog not an email so I will tell you about it later.) There was a quaint restaurant with flowers on the balcony, where we had a large fondue followed by ridiculously over-the-top sundae*... Birds were singing and the sky was blue, children were laughing, people were getting married and even that couldn't kill my mood. And then my camera ran out of battery before I could make a record of it all. VERY UPSETTING.
* I don't know why neither Cosette nor I remembered that you should NEVER eat ice cream after fondue. Eating cold things straightaway can harden the cheese in your stomach into a 'cheese ball' that you can't digest. Now, we weren't whisked to hospital for cheese ball removal but we did feel mighty ill for quite some time after. Worth it though I think.
Where was I? Ah yes, providing no information about Switzerland for my eagre readers, just nattering on about nice people you don't know. It is just that I am getting to the point in my trip where I may just have seen enough churches, old cities, castles and museums about WWII.
And so it was that the highlights in Switzerland included exquisite homemade fondue, long chats, silly dancing and music tips with Susan and Amanda, hot chocolate with Cosette and Charlotte when the other young things were partying and drinking beer, and also dinner on my last night when both Charlotte and I were sick and so I made soup.
And I read a lot. And was entertained by getting trains between French and German sections of the country and hearing them change the order of announcements from French then German to German then French.
The moral of the story is that Switzerland is fabulous, its people are charmng and one day I must go back...when it is not Autumn. Pretty much any season but Autumn would do the trick.
Love Maeve
p.s. random fact: Apparently all Swiss residences have to have a bunker in case of attack.
p.p.s. random fact 2: They have some crazy political system with 7 rotating presidents who do a year each or something. It was very hard for me to understand.
p.p.p.s. Bern, Switzerland's capital only has like 120,000 people. Wonderfully small! And lots of them ride bikes. And the public transport is STILL better than Sydney's.
I arrived in Bern after an epic journey (well epic if compared to getting the train from newtown to central...not epic compared to, say, the odyssey.) I caught two overnight trains in a row, mainly because I wanted to get to Switzerland quickly, but also I think just to see if I could. One sets oneself funny tasks when travelling alone. And one starts to refer to oneself as one so as to give the impression that everyone behaves exactly as one does. Yes.
So I caught first an overnight train to Vienna from Romania and had the good fortune to be sitting in a carriage with two large, suit-wearing Romanian men who saw fit to have lively debates all through the night and ate very smelly sandwiches in the morning. One of them was very well-endowed. I know this because he was sitting opposite me, with legs very wide apart so that said endowment was very much on display through aforementioned suit.
I spent a day in Vienna (see photo album: one day in vienna) and then had a very stressful time trying to find Stian who was in a hotel on the longest street in the world, a street I powerwalked up and down searching for the hotel. When I found it I was informed that were three hotels with this name and that my friends were not in this one. By this point I needed to go catch my train.
I was not pleased to discover that this time I was accompanied by two laptop endowed young men who also chatted, despite having aforementioned laptops to entertain them. I had also been seated in a carriage with people who were not, unlike me, going all the way to Zurich. This meant that every few hours I had to return my seat to the upright position and shuffle around so they could get off the train and be replaced by other people also only going short distances so not requiring peace and quiet.
You can imagine my joy when I arrived (unshowered for quite some time now) at Susan's charming flat in Bern, to be greeted by offers of laundry facilities (one adores laundry facilities) and tea. I love staying with lesbians; they always have such a wide variety of herbal teas.
That day I went to the Einstein museum and fell asleep during the little film. I may need to write a Note entitled Stupid Things I have Done when Ridiculously Tired.
But when I met up with Susan and Amanda after my ill-fated sight seeing in Bern (I was also very distressed by a caged bear) they were lovely and took me for nice coffee and then there was the supermarket which I always enjoy and a nice dinner with them and Susan's remarkably well-behaved son, Noam, who I later sang songs to before he went to bed. He liked the songs but was a little annoyed that they weren't in German.
And so began my preference for just hanging out with Swiss people rather than seeing their rather famous sites.
Oh, I tried, I really did but I kept getting set back. Fog on the mountains, rain in the valley, missed trains and later on the beginnings of a cold which led to the entire photo album of flowers in Montreux - I was a little delirious. Not to mention the fact that they turn off Geneva's world-famous fountain at night. Well I think they do because after a fulfilling day of museumage and a UN tour, I bought a felafel and strolled down to get my token photo and it was nowhere to be found. I looked for some time and felt like I may be crazy as I had seen it from a distance earlier in the day...
But enough complaining, I did see some very pretty stuff. The day I went to Gruyere with Cosette was wonderful. Perfect weather, charming old town with the same name as the EXCELLENT cheese it produces and a HILARIOUS audio guide in the Gruyere Museum (which gave you 3 pieces of cheese as a ticket! Anna - I think it is the museum for you!!! Well actually it is the country for you but this is a blog not an email so I will tell you about it later.) There was a quaint restaurant with flowers on the balcony, where we had a large fondue followed by ridiculously over-the-top sundae*... Birds were singing and the sky was blue, children were laughing, people were getting married and even that couldn't kill my mood. And then my camera ran out of battery before I could make a record of it all. VERY UPSETTING.
* I don't know why neither Cosette nor I remembered that you should NEVER eat ice cream after fondue. Eating cold things straightaway can harden the cheese in your stomach into a 'cheese ball' that you can't digest. Now, we weren't whisked to hospital for cheese ball removal but we did feel mighty ill for quite some time after. Worth it though I think.
Where was I? Ah yes, providing no information about Switzerland for my eagre readers, just nattering on about nice people you don't know. It is just that I am getting to the point in my trip where I may just have seen enough churches, old cities, castles and museums about WWII.
And so it was that the highlights in Switzerland included exquisite homemade fondue, long chats, silly dancing and music tips with Susan and Amanda, hot chocolate with Cosette and Charlotte when the other young things were partying and drinking beer, and also dinner on my last night when both Charlotte and I were sick and so I made soup.
And I read a lot. And was entertained by getting trains between French and German sections of the country and hearing them change the order of announcements from French then German to German then French.
The moral of the story is that Switzerland is fabulous, its people are charmng and one day I must go back...when it is not Autumn. Pretty much any season but Autumn would do the trick.
Love Maeve
p.s. random fact: Apparently all Swiss residences have to have a bunker in case of attack.
p.p.s. random fact 2: They have some crazy political system with 7 rotating presidents who do a year each or something. It was very hard for me to understand.
p.p.p.s. Bern, Switzerland's capital only has like 120,000 people. Wonderfully small! And lots of them ride bikes. And the public transport is STILL better than Sydney's.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Places I've Been and Things that I've Seen
In Sarajevo I read a lot. Zadie Smith. She's a champ.
In Croatia, a south african retiree told me and Kamilla that 'communism had made the croations grumpy.' She then told us that the 'turkey people will just bend over backwards for you.' I'd say Turkish myself but hey. This woman had the best South African accent EVER and I don't know if Kamilla quite understood why I kept talking to her. Oh Liz, if you had only been there...though we may have lost composure and started giggling!
Louise and I caught overnight buses in Turkey to cover the long distances between the places we wanted to see. Buses in Turkey are amazing. It is like flying (back in the day when flying meant free food and customer service.) One bus even had wifi and headphones for listening to music. A bus attendant comes and gives you water and such. AND, when I left my phone on one of the buses, I got a dude to call the company and it was back in the town I was in 12 hours later! How's that for service!!!
I flew business class from Sarajevo to Istanbul. This was not intentional. I believe it was an error made due to late-night flight booking. It was pretty funny though. I got to sit in the business lounge where plastic surgeryed women didn't eat the peanuts I was gorging on and there was free juice. Then, on the plane I was given real cutlery because rich people don't hijack planes and they pulled a little curtain across so I didn't have to look at the peasants.
We had the best kulfi (indian dessert) I'd ever had in Istanbul. I doubt they make it so good in India. I will have to go check.
My host in Sofia, Bulgaria works for an NGO that helps Roma people living in the ghettos. Her co-worker had just quit after 6 years of working with local sex workers because she can't live on the pay anymore and they can't get more funding. Iskra (my host) was mighty generous despite the fact that I now knew how minimal her salary was. She paid for the dinner she made me and then slept at her boyfriend's place so I could have the bed. Yep, she left a girl she had just met alone in her apartment. I can't believe the trust people have put in me. I did the dishes the next morning. Least I could do really.
While I was in Croatia, an Australian went missing and died. Teresa and Rowan were in Nepal at that time and two Australians died in a plane crash. Creepy.
Travelling with Louise is tops. One can forget sometimes how entertaning one's own family can be. Louise has this habit of saying totally random stuff at strange moments as if it isn't funny. It is funny but she never seems to think it is. It is said in a way that you can laugh at her without feeling like you are mocking her, but at the same time you don't think she is being consciously witty in order to impress anyone. The quotes I managed to write down follow and you may not find them funny. But I did. And it's my mum, so damn well agree with me or there'll be trouble.
Louise in defence of endless window shopping: I think I was arabic in a past life. Or German baroque. I'm just decorative.
Maeve: Ah! Apparently Tsar Boris of Bulgaria sided with Hitler but then refused to send Bulgarian jews to the concentration camps saving 50,000 lives.
Louise: mmm, good reason to name your son Boris.
...meanwhile, interesting fact about Bulgaria, non?
I heard my first call to prayer in Sarajevo and thought it atmospheric and un-western in a cheesy-touristy-exoticising-the-other kinda way. Sometimes it would happen at the same time as church bells. By the time I had spent two weeks in Turkey I had lost patience and religious tolerance. I don't care if people want to pray at 5am, I want to sleep. In a strange switch of alliances, I appreciated the smell of Sarajevo's cevapcici (tiny fried meat matter) more than the burek I lived on for 3 days. But this was mainly because of the masses of raw onion they were served with and the wood smoke from the fires, both overwhelming enough that I could not smell the dead stuff.
Kamilla and I spent some time devising amusing ways to convince baffled guesthouse owners that we wanted a double room not a twin after an unsuccessful first night. We didn't get to dress her up as a boy in the end but we did have a VERY funny time with the man who owned our guesthouse in Dubrovnik. I chose him because unlike the others hassling us at the bus station he stood quietly aside with a sign that said "Inside Old City." Once we got in the van, we realised it was the end of the silence. He prattled on about the greatness of his business, leaning away from the steering wheel to point to his reference in some obscure Korean guidebook or to point into the distant suburbs claiming that this giesthouse or that guesthouse was way out there. He spoke of its cleanliness, location (not actually inside the town but right next to the wall so we forgave him) and value for money. He continued to sell his wares at top vocal speed even once we were inside, taking us into both bathrooms, pointing at his large supply of cleaning products, putting his head inside the shower cubicle, inhaling and saying "see! we clean every day!"
In Turkey, stuff is sold by theme in individual areas. When wandering through town we came to a whole suburb devoted to hardware, taps, doorknobs etc., spilling out onto the street. Louise was not wildly into this suburb and politely suggested (i.e. firmly insisted) that we head for a more enjoyable quarter. The bookshop street was great. And just when I was yearning for thermal longjohns, we came upon camping, fishing and outdoor town - right next to our favourite baklava joint!
I saw a land mine action team still at work in Sarajevo. Sarajevo is still covered in bullet and shell damage and packed with crumbling buildings, unlike Dubrovnik which, despite also coming under heavy fire is near perfect.
They drive crazy in Turkey. Though I have since discovered that the true speed demons live in Romania. My oh my, they go sooo fast. In Turkey we had a driver who's first day on the job it was. He got lost and then semed to be falling asleep. Louise and I were sitting in the front seat of the minibus and kept trying to do things to wake him, but it was hard as he spoke no English. Louise considered doing what she thought was the 'international gesture for sleeping' to show that she sympathised but was then concerned that he wouldthink it was the 'international gesturefor do you want to come to bed with me?'
In Zagreb, Croatia, my host Jelena gave me rakia (alcohol - spirit) that her Serbian girlfriend had made. She had stored it with fresh mint and honey and it was a flavour sensation. Whycan't I have a Serbian home-made-alcohol-producing lady friend? Why I ask?
I've punched through a lot of books lately so any suggestions would be appreciated. Though nothing obscure, as I am trawling book exchanges. I went to a charming one in Veliko Turnovo, Bulgaria run by a Welsh woman. We chatted about books and I ended up selecting Perfume by Patrick Suskind. I gave her Amsterdam by Ian McEwan and now I feel like I ripped her off. Sometimes I am mildly concerned/amused by how many sights I miss because I think I'd rather sit in a cafe and read
soon to come...Bulgaria and Romania aka The Countries That Mother Me
In Croatia, a south african retiree told me and Kamilla that 'communism had made the croations grumpy.' She then told us that the 'turkey people will just bend over backwards for you.' I'd say Turkish myself but hey. This woman had the best South African accent EVER and I don't know if Kamilla quite understood why I kept talking to her. Oh Liz, if you had only been there...though we may have lost composure and started giggling!
Louise and I caught overnight buses in Turkey to cover the long distances between the places we wanted to see. Buses in Turkey are amazing. It is like flying (back in the day when flying meant free food and customer service.) One bus even had wifi and headphones for listening to music. A bus attendant comes and gives you water and such. AND, when I left my phone on one of the buses, I got a dude to call the company and it was back in the town I was in 12 hours later! How's that for service!!!
I flew business class from Sarajevo to Istanbul. This was not intentional. I believe it was an error made due to late-night flight booking. It was pretty funny though. I got to sit in the business lounge where plastic surgeryed women didn't eat the peanuts I was gorging on and there was free juice. Then, on the plane I was given real cutlery because rich people don't hijack planes and they pulled a little curtain across so I didn't have to look at the peasants.
We had the best kulfi (indian dessert) I'd ever had in Istanbul. I doubt they make it so good in India. I will have to go check.
My host in Sofia, Bulgaria works for an NGO that helps Roma people living in the ghettos. Her co-worker had just quit after 6 years of working with local sex workers because she can't live on the pay anymore and they can't get more funding. Iskra (my host) was mighty generous despite the fact that I now knew how minimal her salary was. She paid for the dinner she made me and then slept at her boyfriend's place so I could have the bed. Yep, she left a girl she had just met alone in her apartment. I can't believe the trust people have put in me. I did the dishes the next morning. Least I could do really.
While I was in Croatia, an Australian went missing and died. Teresa and Rowan were in Nepal at that time and two Australians died in a plane crash. Creepy.
Travelling with Louise is tops. One can forget sometimes how entertaning one's own family can be. Louise has this habit of saying totally random stuff at strange moments as if it isn't funny. It is funny but she never seems to think it is. It is said in a way that you can laugh at her without feeling like you are mocking her, but at the same time you don't think she is being consciously witty in order to impress anyone. The quotes I managed to write down follow and you may not find them funny. But I did. And it's my mum, so damn well agree with me or there'll be trouble.
Louise in defence of endless window shopping: I think I was arabic in a past life. Or German baroque. I'm just decorative.
Maeve: Ah! Apparently Tsar Boris of Bulgaria sided with Hitler but then refused to send Bulgarian jews to the concentration camps saving 50,000 lives.
Louise: mmm, good reason to name your son Boris.
...meanwhile, interesting fact about Bulgaria, non?
I heard my first call to prayer in Sarajevo and thought it atmospheric and un-western in a cheesy-touristy-exoticising-the-other kinda way. Sometimes it would happen at the same time as church bells. By the time I had spent two weeks in Turkey I had lost patience and religious tolerance. I don't care if people want to pray at 5am, I want to sleep. In a strange switch of alliances, I appreciated the smell of Sarajevo's cevapcici (tiny fried meat matter) more than the burek I lived on for 3 days. But this was mainly because of the masses of raw onion they were served with and the wood smoke from the fires, both overwhelming enough that I could not smell the dead stuff.
Kamilla and I spent some time devising amusing ways to convince baffled guesthouse owners that we wanted a double room not a twin after an unsuccessful first night. We didn't get to dress her up as a boy in the end but we did have a VERY funny time with the man who owned our guesthouse in Dubrovnik. I chose him because unlike the others hassling us at the bus station he stood quietly aside with a sign that said "Inside Old City." Once we got in the van, we realised it was the end of the silence. He prattled on about the greatness of his business, leaning away from the steering wheel to point to his reference in some obscure Korean guidebook or to point into the distant suburbs claiming that this giesthouse or that guesthouse was way out there. He spoke of its cleanliness, location (not actually inside the town but right next to the wall so we forgave him) and value for money. He continued to sell his wares at top vocal speed even once we were inside, taking us into both bathrooms, pointing at his large supply of cleaning products, putting his head inside the shower cubicle, inhaling and saying "see! we clean every day!"
In Turkey, stuff is sold by theme in individual areas. When wandering through town we came to a whole suburb devoted to hardware, taps, doorknobs etc., spilling out onto the street. Louise was not wildly into this suburb and politely suggested (i.e. firmly insisted) that we head for a more enjoyable quarter. The bookshop street was great. And just when I was yearning for thermal longjohns, we came upon camping, fishing and outdoor town - right next to our favourite baklava joint!
I saw a land mine action team still at work in Sarajevo. Sarajevo is still covered in bullet and shell damage and packed with crumbling buildings, unlike Dubrovnik which, despite also coming under heavy fire is near perfect.
They drive crazy in Turkey. Though I have since discovered that the true speed demons live in Romania. My oh my, they go sooo fast. In Turkey we had a driver who's first day on the job it was. He got lost and then semed to be falling asleep. Louise and I were sitting in the front seat of the minibus and kept trying to do things to wake him, but it was hard as he spoke no English. Louise considered doing what she thought was the 'international gesture for sleeping' to show that she sympathised but was then concerned that he wouldthink it was the 'international gesturefor do you want to come to bed with me?'
In Zagreb, Croatia, my host Jelena gave me rakia (alcohol - spirit) that her Serbian girlfriend had made. She had stored it with fresh mint and honey and it was a flavour sensation. Whycan't I have a Serbian home-made-alcohol-producing lady friend? Why I ask?
I've punched through a lot of books lately so any suggestions would be appreciated. Though nothing obscure, as I am trawling book exchanges. I went to a charming one in Veliko Turnovo, Bulgaria run by a Welsh woman. We chatted about books and I ended up selecting Perfume by Patrick Suskind. I gave her Amsterdam by Ian McEwan and now I feel like I ripped her off. Sometimes I am mildly concerned/amused by how many sights I miss because I think I'd rather sit in a cafe and read
soon to come...Bulgaria and Romania aka The Countries That Mother Me
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