Meat me in Argentina

Argentina. Land of beef and football. I came to this country knowing little beyond its barbecues and its people's fanatic love for the world game; I will admit that that was reason enough for me to go. It is, I have since found out, a country of great diversity both in its culture and its landscapes*. I leave here knowing that one day I will come back.

(As a call-back to the previous post, you will see a lot of plans that get shifted around. Ahh, the fun of travel.)

Everything at steak

I had booked three nights at the Play Hostel in Palermo, a hip neighbourhood west by northwest of Buenos Aires's Centro. With little time to waste, I promptly crashed in my dorm bed, still exhausted from the night before.

My main goals for Buenos Aires was to get a steak, preferably several, and see a football match. I got onto the steak on the very first night. Less than a block away from my hostel was a parrilla called Don Julio. I quickly looked on TripAdvisor to make sure it wasn't completely crap. The reviews were generally good. Perfect. I headed there early to make sure I'd get a table.

"Sorry, we're closed."

Crap. It was only six and Argentinians do dinner very late. I went for my backup plan: beer.

Ok, so it probably wasn't a great idea to drink a lot after the previous night, but I had to check out some local beers. I headed to a place called Bodega Cervecera for a quick glass. It was a cool elbow-room type place (well, not at the time, as it was still early) with a few taps and a couple of fridges of mostly Argentinian craft beers. I still barely spoke basic Spanish and the barman had no English. Fortunately, beer is a universal language. Or something like that. I didn't actually figure out which beer I ended up having but it wasn't too shabby.

Seven thirty ticked over and Don Julio was finally open. I took my seat and ordered the entraña (skirt steak) with a side of vegetables. I asked the waiter, who spoke a little bit of English, what sauces were available, having forgotten that the word for sauce was salsa. He suggested one vaguely as being "very good" and I nodded my assent.

A short time later, the waiter came back with some sort of sausage. Oh crap. He thought I said sausage instead of sauce. Instead of complaining, I cut into it and ate a slice. It was the most delicious mistake I had ever made. It was so good that, for the rest of the trip, it became a pseudo-tradition to order a side of sausage with my steak.

The entraña came out perfectly cooked to my liking (medium rare) and despite being a half-portion--full portions are designed to be shared--it was quite an intimidating size, especially since I had already eaten the surprise sausage. Still, I was up for the task. Skirt steak is a bit chewy but very flavoursome and matched well with the (can't remember which because I'm not good with winery names) malbec, because of course malbecs match well with steaks. It was a good introduction to Argentinian barbecue. I also quickly found out that vegetables were far from a specialty here in Argentina, so I stopped ordering them with my meat.

The plan for the next morning was to take a walking tour of the city. As if cursed to be late for every single walking tour this trip, I got to the Subte (metro) station and found the doors shut. In a panic, I walked at a brisk pace to the next station on the line, which is not easy to do in Argentine traffic, far more aggressive than Chilean traffic. (It was only later in the day that I figured out the other end of the station had its doors open. Argentina. Seriously.)

I did end up making the walking tour, which was not quite as good as the ones I took in Chile, but were enjoyable and informative nonetheless. The tour group was pretty eclectic, and a few of us stopped by for (perhaps a few too many) empanadas afterwards. Two of the guys from the tour were also staying in Palermo, so I agreed to meet up with them for dinner.

Having some free time, I headed back to Bodega to check out more Argentine beers, which may have been a bad move.

Arriving at Campo Bravo for dinner, I was already a little intoxicated. The two guys from the walking tour were on a business trip, so they freely ordered more and more bottles of wine throughout the night. I devoured my steak while a couple of others struggled with theirs, to the point where I got a few free cuts from them. I wasn't complaining. The guys on the business trip insisted on footing the bill, which I also did not complain about.

The next bit is kind of blurry.

After dinner, we all headed to a bar and had several drinks. At a certain point, I said goodbye and headed off back to the hostel, where I found the party just getting started. There was, I think, a bottle of pisco going around, of which I was persuaded to do a shot. We all headed out but in bunches that were separated either by ill communication or on purpose. I couldn't tell and could not have cared less. The group I was with ended up at a bar and started chatting to some random Brazilian guys and it took me a few minutes to realise that it was the same bar from earlier in the night. It was probably then that I decided I better find my bed and lose consciousness there.

I woke up just before midday.

(The ojo de bife (ribeye) at Campo Bravo, was, incidentally, my favourite steak in Argentina. I think.)

Dropping the ball

Big city life in Santiago and Buenos Aires was great, but it was also starting to get to me. The nightly drinking was not helping matters. I ditched vague plans to take the ferry to Montevideo in Uruguay and instead booked a flight to Salta, a (literally) dusty desert city in the north of Argentina, in order to recharge.

Thanks to shenanigans of the previous night, my final lunch in Buenos Aires was at four in the afternoon. Erick had suggested a parrilla in San Telmo, so I decided to make it three steaks in three days. Sunday in San Telmo meant the markets spilled out onto the streets, with some roads closed off to vehicles. I strolled through the crowd of people towards Gran Parrilla del Plata. The cut for the day was a large chunk of bife de lomo (tenderloin). It came out a little more cooked than I wanted, but it was so damn tender that it didn't really matter.

That evening, I wanted to make my way to the River Plate stadium to experience first-hand the football atmosphere in Argentina. The game was at 21:30, so I had plenty of time to figure out how to get there. After a bit of time on the computer looking up maps at the hostel, I noticed a few of the people in the lounge room watching a match and realised, with a sinking feeling, that I had mistaken the GMT time for local time. The match had just started and I was at least a half hour away from the stadium. Dammit. I resigned to watching the match on the television, which proved to be very entertaining thanks to the overly enthusiastic commentators, especially when a goal was scored.

Later that night, I went out with a couple of people from the hostel and had some tasting paddles at Antares, a microbrewery chain venue (go figure) in the area. We would have stayed longer but for the early (two in the morning) closing time on Sundays. Not deterred, we had a "quiet" beer at the hostel kitchen chatting about all things backpacking. Before long, it was almost four, and my flight was at twelve. Typical.

LAN party

I got to the airport early despite the late bed time. There was a large throng of people crowding the LAN section of the check-in area so I got my boarding pass from one of the self-service machines. I hung around the monitor waiting for my gate number to show up.

After a while, I noticed that none of the LAN flights on the board had any up-to-date information next to them.

Almost at the same moment, the crowd began to chant some things in Spanish. Drums started thumping and the people began to march. It turned out the crowd of people were LAN staff members holding a protest, presumably for better work conditions. Brilliant.

The commotion went on for a while and eventually spilled out into the streets.

Meanwhile, apart from watching in amazement and taking the occasional photo, I began to wonder if my flight had been delayed. Someone was asking people in the LAN check-in line where they were headed and when he heard that I was going to Salta, he ushered me over to the front of the line, wherein another staff member discreetly told me which gate to head to. On my way to the security screening area, I noted that the LAN gate numbers had still not been displayed.

The flight boarded and left on time, and I was soon on my way north. I didn't quite understand the smoke and mirrors of it all--was the protest/strike just for show?--but it was a unique experience nonetheless.

Too much salt, not enough Salta

I checked into a hostel called Salta Por Siempre and spent the day trying to get a few things sorted. I was too tired to go out for dinner, so I ordered some empanadas at the bar. They were made by Victor, the resident awesome dude.

I didn't like the way I was barely getting along on the most basic of Spanish phrases, so I decided to take some private Spanish lessons. I won't pretend to be any sort of expert after just a week, but I am at least able to understand a little bit more now. Locals who talk fast and/or have a thick accent still leave be blank-faced regularly.

Another benefit of the Spanish lessons was that the tutors would occasionally tell me things about the country that I may not know, like how to make mate (the drink), the landscape and climate in different provinces, and where to get the best steak.

Speaking of which, I was still in Argentina, so of course I continued to try more steaks. The bife de chorizo (sirloin) at Viejo Jack was delicious, the restaurant being Victor's recommendation. La Monumental was suggested by both of my Spanish tutors, so I went there and had the picana (rump cap), which was gigantic, although the only reason I couldn't finish it was that it was salted far too much.

The find of the trip in terms of food was locro, an Andean variation on the stew. I ordered the locro at Doña Salta, which had chickpeas, beans, veal, and pork. Delicious. It's something I'd like to try making when I get back home.

Unfortunately, I was struck with a mild flu when I arrived in Salta. Between all the resting and the time spent at Spanish lessons, I barely had any time to do the things a tourist typically does in the city.

Salta itself does not have many attractions for the average tourist--a few nicely-maintained churches here and there is about it--but it is a jump-off points for many other locations, with many tour companies offering similar trips to places like Cafayate, Cachi, or Salinas Grandes.

On my second-last day, when I was feeling well enough, I went on a day trip to Cafayate, mainly because it included a wine tour. The wine ended up being the least interesting part of the trip--the winery was boring, but the torrontés variety, which I had never tasted, is a cracker and needs to be further investigated in the near future--thanks to the gorgeous landscapes on the drive down and back. It evoked memories of the deserts of the North American southwest. Stunning scenes.

Unfortunately, the steak I had in Cafayate was barely worth mentioning, and it was followed the next day by possibly the worst meal I had in Argentina, a very average fried fish. That'll teach me not to get red meat.

You shall not pass!

This makes it three for three.

It's now my final night in Argentina, and Victor has offered to BBQ some ribs and chorizo for me as a sending off. While I wait in eager anticipation, I will share this one last tale.

Apart from the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, the other major location I wanted to visit was Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flat. The original plan was to head from Salta back to Chile, to San Pedro de Atacama, one of the starting points for Salar de Uyuni tours. I was going to say "vague plan" again but this wasn't overly vague, and I almost booked my bus ticket online well in advance. It was a good thing I didn't.

When I arrived in Salta, I'd heard a couple of German backpackers talking about the road being closed due to snow. I figured it'd pass by the time I left so I went to the bus station later in the week to book my ticket.

"The road is closed," said the agent. Poor bloke must have been asked for the same fare for the past few days; he seemed grumpy.

So there goes that plan.

The new plan is this: head straight up into Bolivia. I'll be getting the midnight bus to the border then head to Tupiza after that.

That's it for now. I'll try to get to some more photos in the next few days, but here are the first bunch from Chile in case you missed it.


*Chile very well may have the same cultural and geographical diversity as Argentina, but I did not get to visit enough places to come to that conclusion. Perhaps in a future trip. Definitely in a future trip.

Santiagogogo

I've probably said this before, but it's no less true today: the most interesting stories are those unplanned crises.

Santiago, Chile. It's 8am on a Friday morning and I've slept through my alarm. I've missed my shuttle transfer to the airport and I'm wondering how late I'll be. It's going to be a close one.

But let's start at the beginning.

I've quit my job to tour the Americas. Ok, that sounds a bit extreme, but it's been a long time coming. It's nothing against my employer but my heart just wasn't in it, so I've thrown myself into the deep end, the land of uncertainty and no income. But first, a holiday.

My friends and I had been talking about a trip to South America for over a year but it kept getting postponed. It's not easy to co-ordinate such a big trip to fit into everybody's schedules. At some point, I made the decision to just fly solo.

The upside of going alone was that I could slot in a beer-centric jaunt into the USA without anyone complaining. Most of that has been booked, and I'll go into more detail when I get into the States. The South American portion, however, is more of a vague plan. In my research, I remembered my first big trip, a semi-planned European adventure, and I wanted to capture that same spontaneity for this trip. After the first week, I've left a three-and-a-half week chunk unbooked, so it will be an on-the-go and (hopefully) fluid journey northwards.

I waited for a sale and bought an open-jaw ticket to Santiago, returning from San Francisco two-and-a-half months later. I noticed a sale for an Inca Trail tour at the local STA Travel; I booked that, too. The multi-day 42km hike at altitude is something I am both excited and slightly terrified about.

A week after leaving my job, I boarded a Qantas* 747 headed for a continent on which I have never set foot.

False starts

Take two parts jetlag, one part insomnia, and one part homesickness.

Jetlag was expected, insomnia has been ongoing, but the homesickness usually comes later in the trip. It happens, I guess, and on reflection, it's for the best that I got it over with early on.

The flight landed in Comodoro Arturo Merino Benítez International Airport an hour before leaving (time travel!) with only a thirty minute delay for mechanical reasons on the tarmac at SYD. I left the flight full of optimism for what's ahead. I was, however, about to hit a wall.

After checking into the Princesa Insolente hostel in Barrio Brasil, I planned to keep myself awake by attending a free walking tour of the city. I find walking tours a good way to see some sights and learn some history in a short amount of time, and I try to go to one in every major city. Halfway there, the lack of sleep on the plane started to catch up to me and I headed back to the hostel for a snooze. Although I arrived in the morning, the day was a write-off in terms of tourism.

I woke up just as a group of fellow hostellers were heading to the supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner so I tagged along. Erick, a travel writer from America, offered to cook for everyone, so we all sat around in the hostel kitchen drinking, eating, and talking shit all night.

The next day, I climbed Cerro Santa Lucía for a nice view of the city against the backdrop of the Andes before once again hitting the wall and missing the walking tour. Another afternoon nap later, I had a wander around for dinner and a beer only to find that most places were closed on Sundays. I stopped at the first open place I could find, a Peruvian restaurant where I had a giant portion of ceviche that I got nowhere near finishing, and watched part of the (rather bad) Eddie Murphy movie Meet Dave dubbed in Spanish. Random.

The homesickness hit the next night. I had mumbled my way through dinner with barely passable Spanish and was beginning to question both my preparedness and my reasons for going on holidays in a foreign land. It's the same spiral of self-doubt every time, brought about by that certain lost feeling and of missing the familiar. The jetlag and insomnia certainly didn't help. I always get over it, too, and this time was no different.

At 2am, after an hour or two of being unable to get to sleep and trying to get myself out of that negative thought pattern, I finally picked up my laptop and chatted to a friend. The littlest, most mundane of conversations can do wonders.

"It's always about the people"

That's the kicker. You visit a place, and you see the sights, but what really completes the experience is the people you meet along the way.

I finally made it to the Tours 4 Tips walking tour on that third day, which took the group through the morning markets (sadly, not too lively on Mondays) and the Cementerio General (ironic in its liveliness). The tour was fun so I decided to come back for the second route in the afternoon, covering the more popular sights of the city.

I find comparing the different styles of walking tour interesting, and I imagine it takes a certain skill to strike the perfect balance between visiting places and recounting history. I still consider one of the very first walking tours I ever did, I think it was the Sandemans one in Berlin, as the gold standard. Berlin had gone through so much so the tour was rich in history, and you got to walk through the important landmarks of that history. The Santiago ones were pretty good, too, and the history of the short presidency of Salvador Allende, and of the Pinochet regime, were obviously still very fresh in the minds of the people.

Anyway, it was on the second tour that I met Jacqueline and Peter, backpackers from Australia and England, respectively, who turned out to be staying at the same hostel as me. They asked if I was Adrian and it turned out they'd spotted my name on both my bag in the hostel and the tour sign up sheet, and put two and two together. Along with Erick and Colten (another American), they became good comrades for that short overlap of time and helped lift my mood.

One night over drinks, chatting with another Brit, Rob, about the backpacking experience, we all agreed, "It's about the people. It's always about the people."

Bringing wine to a beer party

One of the reasons I stayed in Barrio Brasil rather than the city centre was so I could visit Cervecería Nacional, a craft beer bar in Barrio Yungay. Wine, bad beer, and other libations kind of got in the way.

La Bicicletta Verde is a company that does bike tours of the city, and it was highly recommended by Erick that I take at least one of them. Despite missing both of the city tours, I took a bike and wine tour of Viña Cousiño Macul.

The vineyard, located a subway ride and a 30-minute walk away, boasted some of the country's oldest grapevines, along which we rode on the tour. I imagine it would have been spectacular in season, when the colourful leaves are set against the Andes. In winter it was less spectacular, but still pretty cool. It was sad to hear that those very vines were being uprooted in a few years to make room for housing developments. Money really does talk.

Anyway, it was a good tour that delved into not only the history of the winery but also of the Chilean wine industry in general. The most interesting story was that of the Carménère grape variety, which was wiped out in Europe, and was rediscovered in Chile after an importation blunder; the wine growers had thought they had brought in Merlot when it was in fact Carménère. You can tell a good tour guide by how impressed you are with a story you already know.

After the tour, I had lunch with a couple of Brazilians who had taken the tour. We tried out chorrillanas, a Chilean dish of fries, topped with fried onions, topped with fried beef, topped with fried eggs. It's as ridiculous as it sounds.

My plan when I got back to the hostel was to relax, go through some photos, perhaps write a blog post, and start researching places to visit a little further into the trip. That didn't work out at all. Almost as soon as I took my laptop out, a group consisting of Erick, Colten, Jac, and Peter walked in to the hostel. They had gradually snowballed into a big group and were intent on visiting a Chilean institution known as coffee with legs. I joined in.

Spawning from a Chilean indifference to the beverage due to being a tea country, the way the coffee industry managed to get people, and, in particular, men, to drink coffee was to introduce attractive women into the equation. And so, coffee with legs was born. It has evolved into a weird amalgam of cafes and strip clubs, although we were told that the level of explicitness varies from place to place. The one we visited, Black's, was full of men sipping on (bad) coffee chatting to women in bikinis. Open only during regular cafe hours, I found it very strange indeed.

Our next stop was a random bar to drink cheap litre bottles of beer and then it was back to the hostel, where we opened a bottle of wine I brought back from the wine tour earlier in the day. A heated discussion of politics ensued, fuelled by even more wine, so of course the next logical step was a night out to a cool little salsa bar named Maestra Vida, followed by a karaoke bar, where I heard more Spanish-language songs in one night than I had in twenty-nine years.

Needless to say, the next day was a complete write-off.

Valpo

A day-trip to Valparaíso was on my to-do list and it was on my very last day in Santiago that I finally got off my ass and on that bus.

Jac and I got to the bus station a little later than planned but we got to the walking tour meeting point just on time when we arrived in Valparaíso. The tour took us around the city's quirky and colourful streets while telling us of the brakes that were put on the city's port-based economy after the construction of the Panama Canal. There were a lot of formerly beautiful buildings that stood abandoned due to lack of money, which was a shame to see.

After the tour, we headed to a local place for chorrillanas--the Valpo variety seemed more like a proper meal than a drunken snack, although it was still quite ridiculous--and checked out a microbrewery called Altamira, who made some pretty decent beer. Exhausted, we caught the bus back to Santiago, both wishing we'd stayed longer.

All in all, I really liked the small slice that I got of Valparaíso, with its graffiti-d streets and its vibrant culture, and it's definitely a city I'd like to go back to.

That night was BBQ night at the hostel, which meant all you can eat meat and all you can drink terremoto, a local, potent cocktail named after the earthquakes that Chile so frequently gets. The price of admission also included a driver that took us to a few bars.

"It's my last night," I said in weak protest.

I went out anyway.

So, as I was saying...

I'm sitting in the hostel lobby, waiting for my decidedly more expensive, though still reasonably priced, ride to the airport, sweating it out a little bit. (Literally; I think I'm still slightly drunk.) My shuttle, as it turns out, was taken by a guy who thought it was his shuttle to the snow. While the hostel staff was looking for me, he'd already hopped on and headed off.

A Brazilian guy I had been drinking with the night before greets me with surprise. I tell him I missed my shuttle and I may yet see him later in the day if I miss my flight.

"I hope not," he says with a laugh.

I secretly hope that I do, just to make things interesting.

The driver arrives and the ride to the airport is without incident. I actually make it to the gate with an hour or so to spare. I contemplate the power of the unexpected, and am almost disappointed when I board my plane to Buenos Aires.


*Oh, remember how I was so pissed at Qantas that one time and swore I'd never fly with them again? I got over it. Their safety record is too good to ignore. (Funny how this came up in a post about unplanned events.)

Europe 2010/11 final leg: Switzerland and ???

If you know me in person or online, chances are you've already been subjected to my post-trip rants regarding a certain incident that happened after my final stop in Switzerland. If not, you can scroll down for spoilers as to what ??? in the title stands for, or just keep reading to find out.

In transit: Chamonix to Zurich

We waited in the freezing cold for our shuttle back to Geneva airport and thankfully it came early in the pick up window. From the airport we would need to catch a train to Zurich. This was good in theory, but does not take into account any unforeseen circumstances, such as, for example, the train breaking down and the replacement trains being a convoluted mess of routes that involved no less than four connections. So much for an efficient transport system. We ended up arriving in Zurich in the evening rather than the afternoon as was planned.

Pro tip: Zurich is dead on Sundays

Zurich is situated in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, and is the largest city in the country. It is a major transport hub for the country as well as for Europe, and it is for this reason that we chose it as the last city in our respective trips.

A cold, overcast day in Zurich

When we arrived in Zurich, I proceeded to immediately lose Morgan at the train station. Excellent start. 10 minutes later, I found him waiting for me near the end of the train, both of us clueless as to how we got separated. Well, okay, I do have a clue as to what happened, and it has something to do with Morgan's awareness and sense of direction.

One important thing to know when visiting Switzerland is that the price of absolutely everything is higher than most other places. Even one night in a hostel dorm set us back more than what it would probably cost to stay a couple of nights in a similar establishment elsewhere in Europe. We mostly stuck to low-cost tourist activities and made meals from things we bought at a grocery store.

We did want to do a lot more sightseeing than we ended up doing, but it turned out that most places were closed on Sundays, possibly because a lot of people were at church. That's the other important thing of note - don't plan to go out on Sundays when you're in Zurich. Stay in, or partake in a sufficiently interesting outdoors activity not involving the services of other people.

St. Peter

Fortunately for us, we found a liquor store open that carried craft beers from Europe and around the world, aptly named Drinks of the World. We raided the place and hunkered down at the hostel to escape the cold and boredom. We even played a board game (the hostel had a copy of Pandemic, which is a great game (you should get it)) and chess while we were sampling some fine ales and lagers. Well, ok, not all of them were fine. We did, for laughs, buy a can of Duff Beer and it was as horrible as you can imagine.

In transit: Zurich to Sydney

On the final day of our respective trips, it was time for our paths to diverge. Morgan had a Singapore Airlines flight that didn't go through Heathrow, and I had a later Qantas/British Airways flight that did go through Heathrow (because I'm cheap like that). When Morgan left I stayed at the hotel attempting to finish the novel I was reading until it was time for me to head to the airport. A little bit later, I got a call from Morgan. It turned out he had left his passport on the train and was going to miss his flight. I was not in any way shocked at this news. He was on his way to pick up his passport from another train station and was calling to ask if I could check on available beds at the hostel. It would seem as if I would beat him back to Sydney.

Connecting via Heathrow was uneventful enough. I wasn't able to change my seats due to the type of ticket, but I was happy enough with what I got. The flight from Heathrow would make a stop at Bangkok before continuing to Sydney.

An hour or so into the Bangkok-Sydney leg, the pilot made an announcement. "As you may have noticed, we have turned around and are jettisoning fuel from the engines." Hmm. News to me, I was busy watching movies on the in-flight entertainment system. It turned out that one of the four engines had failed, and they were going back to Bangkok for safety reasons. Fair enough. I wouldn't want my life endangered just to make schedule. The jettisoning of fuel was to make the minimum landing weight. I could imagine it to be a disconcerting sight to look out the windows and see a stream of white coming from the wings, but I was oddly fascinated by the whole thing.

I would have thought that Qantas would have us wait for another flight when we got back to Bangkok, but things started to look bad when they sent everybody from the flight to a five star hotel halfway to the city.

One night in Bangkok

It was the middle of the night in Thailand, and hundreds of us were shepherded into the hotel reception area, being processed two at a time and sent to our luxurious rooms for the night. The poor overwhelmed staff handled themselves great. We were given a complimentary dinner and were told to wait until morning when there would be an airline representative to update us on our flight. Fair enough, I guess. I mean, I would have preferred it if there had been an airline representative at the hotel to meet us all when we arrived, but whatever. I could afford a twelve hour delay in my schedule - instead of arriving in the morning I'd be getting in in the evening, and I would just have to go straight from Sydney airport to the Opera House, where I had an Amanda Palmer concert to attend. No big deal at all, I thought. In retrospect, I was perhaps a little too optimistic at Qantas's attitude towards its customers.

My hotel room had a window in the bathroom

I woke up early in the morning, at the time specified by the hotel staff the night before, to check up on updates on our rescheduled flight. The piece of paper left in front of our hotel room doors carried terrible news. Not only would we not be flying out that morning, we would also not be flying out at all that day. Our rescheduled flight would be early the following morning. We'd be stuck in Bangkok for the entirety of what was Australia Day. Bugger.

Ok, let's stop there for a bit. A piece of paper? I mean, c'mon, you have to do better than that, Qantas. If you're telling people their flight has been held up for more than a whole day, at least send a human being to break the bad news. A piece of paper adds insult to injury.

As they had still not sent a representative to the hotel, I tried to contact Qantas using the hotel reception's phone. Unfortunately, they told me, they wouldn't be able to guarantee anybody a seat in an earlier flight due to them being full, and that if I wanted to I could go to the airport and go on standby. I decided not to partake in that stressful exercise, and instead made arrangements to have my mum take my place at the Amanda Palmer concert. (She enjoyed it, by the way. Go mum!) I had a day to spend in Bangkok, a place I'd never been, so I may as well make the most of it.

Armed with a wad of local currency acquired by exchanging unused British pounds from the start of the trip (because I was far too enthusiastic in withdrawing cash), I caught a taxi to the city so that I could check the place out. Seeing the driver weave through traffic was terrifying at first, but eventually it became kind of hypnotising. Despite the long cab ride, I didn't have to hand over very much cash. I could get used to this.

The first thing I noticed was the heat. Coming from Switzerland in the middle of winter, it was equally unpleasant in the other end of the spectrum in Thailand. Cheap and really hot, so I guess it was the complete opposite of Switzerland.

Bangkok

I wandered around in the sweltering heat, checking out temples and other tourist attractions and eating street food. Every once in a while a local would approach me, giving tips on what I should be checking out, before suggesting that they take me on their tuk-tuk to the place they just mentioned. I would politely decline, saying that I was perfectly happy to go on foot. "Why you stupid?" they would invariably say to me when I began to walk away from them. It was a bit insulting, really. I meant no offence to them, and wasn't sure if they were scammers or genuine, I simply enjoyed walking around to explore a city, despite my maligned sense of direction. In the end, I was still too pissed off at Qantas that I wasn't in the mood to do very much.

I wanted to go to a Muay Thai event that evening, but the time it took to get from the hotel to the city was too long, and I was worried I might miss the bus to the airport when I returned. Instead, I had a nap before getting up for the mass exodus of tired and angry passengers.

In transit: Let's try that again, shall we?

Sorting out the buses to go to the airport was a mess. Once again, it was mostly the hotel staff that had to deal with all of this. We got to the airport ahead of time, and I went to get a meal at the food court. I was impressed - even the airport food was cheap in Thailand. I had some money left over, and I would have had a hard time trying to get rid of it all before the flight.

The final insult of the whole debacle was that we were made to wait several more hours at the airport because the plane, which was meant to take us back to Sydney, was carrying a fifth engine - a replacement for the blown engine from the original flight - and this had to be removed before the plane could be boarded. You'd think they would have factored this in when they told us what time to wake up to be taken to the airport. It meant that I would have had plenty of time to watch Muay Thai in the city after all. It also meant I'd be cutting it very close to see Gotye on the evening of my arrival - I was now in danger of missing a second concert.

A full day and a half after our scheduled arrival time in Sydney, we finally landed. Morgan, who had missed his flight, had arrived well ahead of me. Karma, perhaps, for laughing at him misplacing his passport. Thankful that I had no checked baggage, I hurried out of the airport to meet my brother at the car park and collect my Gotye ticket - the gig was in less than an hour - before getting on the train to the city. I arrived at the concert after two and a half songs had been played. I guess I should have been happy that I didn't miss more than that.

As an apology for the incident, each passenger on that hyper-delayed flight was sent a voucher for credit to be spent on future Qantas flights. I've still got a bit of credit left on my voucher, but once that's done I plan to avoid flying with them again if I can help it. I can understand the turning back of the plane due to safety concerns, but I do not understand nor agree with the extended turnover time to schedule a new flight for the stranded passengers. I also felt that, by not having a representative of the airline present at all times, Qantas did not really care about its customers. 36 was a long delay for a flight that was not hindered by natural disasters or adverse weather, and to convey updates via printouts in the hotel lobby without having anybody on hand to answer questions was an added insult to an already stressful situation. In light of the recent employee disputes dominating headlines, I wonder if Qantas management care about anybody at all. My guess is that they only care about themselves.

Final leg overview

Cities: Zurich (2 nights), Bangkok (1 nights, 2 if you count time spent in the airport)
Weather: Ridiculously cold, ridiculously hot
Arrival time in Sydney: 36 hours later
Concerts missed: 1 (and 2.5 songs)

Flickr set: Switzerland, Thailand

Europe 2010/11 fourth leg: France (pt 2)

In transit: Venice to Chamonix

My bus to Venice airport broke down halfway, which would have been concerning had I not been paranoid and left super early. I still ended up at the airport with time to spare.

To get to Chamonix, in France, I first had to fly to Geneva in Switzerland before completing the journey on the ground. Venice to Geneva is not a busy air corridor and most flights require a connection, so I was fortunate to time my stay so I could catch one of the few direct flights per week. I love small planes - you get a better sense of actually being in the air, as opposed to just sitting down for a few hours - so it was great to see that our plane for the day was a turboprop. Despite the size of the plane - probably towards the larger end of the scale in terms of commercial passenger turboprops, but still small compared to the many of the more common jets - I counted probably less than twenty other passengers on the flight. The majority of the seats in the plane were left empty.

I took a shuttle bus from the airport (which wasn't large, but was nevertheless very busy) to Chamonix, the ski resort town that would be my destination for the next week.

Chamonix: Open wallet policy

Chamonix-Mont-Blanc is one of the most well-known ski towns in France. It serves as a good base for several ski areas, including one in Italy. It can also boast to hosting the first ever Winter Olympics in 1924.

The sunset showcases several peaks surrounding Chamonix

I met up with Morgan at our hotel for the week - he was in Europe for a shorter period of time - and we set off to hiring some gear and me some clothing (as Morgan had packed heavier than I did and brought snow clothes). Being a shorter guy, it took me a bit longer to find everything that fit, but I eventually settled on an outfit, including women's snowboard boots and a helmet painted with silver reflective paint that would have fit in well in a ski-themed glam rock music video.

We tried to go to as many ski areas as we could so that we could make the most of the multi-area pass that we bought.

Le Tour was our first stop. There was no new snow on the ground, and it started off a bit icy, but did get softer as the snow melted away under the sunshine. I lost Morgan a couple of times, a result of his sense of direction, which was worse than mine. We went back there the next day and decided to take lessons since the conditions weren't really great for off-piste. As usual, I hurt myself during the lesson, I guess because I always push myself to try to improve whenever I take one.

We had a relaxed afternoon in Le Brevent and La Flegere, two connected ski areas, and the closest to Chamonix. In fact, you can walk from the bottom of one of the areas back into town, which is precisely what we did.

A few kilometres away from Chamonix is the small resort town of Les Houches, situated at the base of a more family-oriented ski area. It was the flattest, lowest altitude area covered by our multi pass, and also had the sparsest snow cover. Many of the runs were closed, and we mostly felt it worth the visit thanks to an oddly placed bathtub on one of the slopes.

Random bathtub in a ski run at Les Houches

Feeling optimistic about the AUD/Euro exchange rate, we decided to go on an off-piste tour of one of Les Grands Montets, one of the larger ski areas. The snow was icy and crusty at the top and the air was thin - I think it was the highest I've ever ridden before, and part of the route actually took place on a glacier. The beginning was very steep, too - it didn't seem like it when I was concentrating on sharp turns, but when I stopped to look at the horizon I was blown away at how vertical we were. The traverses were the hardest - very flat and at times uphill - and I wished, not for the first time, that I knew how to ski for tours like these (or, at the very least, knew how to snowboard really bloody well). It was tough work, but the views were worth it. Such a shame I didn't have my camera in tow.

The last ski area we visited was across the border, in the Italian town of Courmayeur. Its French-sounding name is likely a result of its proximity to France and/or due to past border disputes. I asked the guide but I've unfortunately forgotten his explanation for it. Chamonix and Courmayeur are connected via a tunnel that runs under Mont Blanc. The journey could take longer than the 11.6 km traverse through the Mont Blanc Tunnel due to strict border inspections at either end.

Courmayeur, the ski area, gave us the best ski conditions of the entire trip. We once again took a tour, and started off doing groomed runs. After lunch the group was split into two, with one taking on the easier off-pistes, while the other would tackle advanced terrain. I was feeling adventurous after the grappa we had had with our delicious meals, and I decided to join the advanced group. We did a lot of tree runs and hit a lot of soft patches of powder. It was tiring as hell but very fun. We ended the day with a long exit run - I suspect it was an out-of-bounds cat track, but I didn't question the guide, who seemed to know what he was doing - that led us all the way to the car park.

We spent our final ski day at Courmayeur, having enjoyed our time the previous day. Because we weren't with a tour this time, we had to take a large cable car the size of three small garages that connected the town to the ski resort. The icy path up to the lift was perhaps the most dangerous thing I encountered for the entire trip. The groomed runs were just that bit icier and the off-piste was just that bit more crusty that we didn't have as good of a time as the day before, and we ended up quitting early on, happy with the snowboarding on the trip overall.

Another thing covered by our multi-area pass was a cable car ride up to the top of Aiguille du Midi. The visitor centre at the summit gives some breathtaking (almost literally at an altitude of 3,842 m) panoramic views of the surrounding mountain ranges. In summer months, the Vallée Blanche Aerial Tramway crosses to the Italian side, and is an alternative way to get to Courmayeur. In winter, those skilled and brave enough can take on the infamous Vallée Blanche, a glacier route that is 20 km long with a vertical of about 2,700 m. It's something I'd like to do one day when I reach the skill level of awesome.

The view from Aiguille du Midi


A steep descent to get to the start of the Vallée Blanche

Being a ski town, it was not surprising that the night life in Chamonix was vibrant. However, being a couple of beer geeks, our main goal was to determine the best place to get some good, or at least decent, beer. Some Internet researched tipped us off to Micro Brasserie de Chamonix, more commonly referred to as MBC, a microbrewery started by some Canadian ex-pats. Sadly, the beers they made were mostly bland, probably so it would appeal to more people. On the other hand, we did end up going back there for the food, which was fantastic.

We stumbled upon another place called Berlucoquet, which stocked some French and Belgian beers as well as cheese and other goods. You could drink there or take away, and the owner was very hospitable, so it became our go-to for good beer.

As part of our extravagant spending, we also tried a couple of the town's fine dining establishments. The culinary highlight of the trip by far was dinner at La Maison Carrier. Our guide from the ski tours recommended it to us so I'm not sure if he was getting any commission from sending people their way, but it didn't really matter because the food was superb. My meal must have been the most perfect rack of lamb I've ever had. I can't even remember what Morgan had, but everything we ate and drank in that restaurant was amazing.

We went to another place our guide had recommended, but it was not nearly as good as La Maison Carrier. To be honest, we were more blown away by an appetiser from a Japanese place that consisted of green beans and what may have been peanut butter or sesame paste, or something similar. To this day I cannot figure out what that dish was, but I could have a main-sized serving of it any day of the week.

Of course, it wasn't all haute cuisine while we were in Chamonix. We'd found a central fast food place that served burgers and crêpes. The burgers were massive and the size of the galettes were almost equally impressive. I couldn't finish my burger, and Morgan was unable to get through his galette, but in a moment of glory I did manage to finish an identical galette along with some fries.

The most memorable thing from Chamonix happened when we were at the laundromat putting our clothes through a wash. We put the coins into the machine and as we were leaving to grab a bite while the clothes tumbled away, we couldn't seem to find the door handle. After several futile attempts to pull the door open in creative ways, we began to panic. There was a red button on a wall near the door that we thought may have controlled a mechanism to open it, but after pressing it we were still stuck. In the end, we only had our stupidity to blame. The side of the door, which looked like it was part of the door frame, was actually the handle, and we felt like idiots when we finally figured that out. I wonder what it must have looked like to passers by when they saw two guys by the door of the laundromat facing outwards and looking perplexed. That said, I'm probably more concerned that the red button I pressed set off some alarm in some guy's house and disturbed a nap or some sort of important task.

Fourth leg overview

Cities: Chamonix (7 nights), Courmayeur (2 day trips)
Weather: Ridiculously cold, mostly sunny
Times Morgan got lost in a ski resort: At least 3
Times stuck in a laundromat: 1

Flickr set: France

Europe 2010/11 third leg: Spain and Italy

In transit: Montpellier to Barcelona

Possibly due to administrative issues, there was no direct train from Montpellier to Barcelona. Instead, one must catch a French-run train to Figueres, past the French-Spanish border, then transfer - literally metres away on the adjacent platform - to a Spanish-run train to Barcelona.

As the train sped towards Spanish territory some blue began to emerge from the gloomy skies, and looked more promising this time. When I changed trains at Figueres, the sun was well and truly out. I got excited about the prospect of finally spending at least an afternoon outside in well-lit conditions.

One thing I immediately noticed upon boarding the Spanish train was the number of different languages used for announcements - four instead of three. The French train had announcements read out three times, one each in French, Spanish, and English, while the connecting train had an extra repetition of announcements, this time in Catalan.

Barcelona: The city that never sleeps (except during siesta)

I had been to Europe twice before, but not once had I stepped foot on Spanish soil. It was a bit of an oversight, I will concede. One of my priorities for this trip was to finally tick it off the list.

In case you've never heard of the place, Barcelona is the second largest city in Spain (after Madrid) and is the capital of Catalonia. It's a very old city (over 2000 years old, supposedly) that is also very modern, thanks in part to the 1992 Olympics, which it hosted.

The weather was brilliant when I stepped out of the Metro - blue skies and warm enough to go around in a t-shirt, which is amazing for the middle of winter. Because of this, I picked up the pace on the way to my hostel so I could spend the rest of the afternoon exploring. I was staying in Barri Gòtic, the Gothic Quarter of Ciutat Vella, which is Barcelona's old town (the name translates to old city in Catalan). It was a nice area to be staying, with the Gothic architecture attracting many tourists. I had a good walk around to get a feel for the place then had a pretty ordinary dinner at a fast food place with a surprisingly decent beer list.

Blue skies!

Staying on the topic of beer for a little bit, Barcelona is not exactly renowned for its craft beer scene. Most places will sell you Estrella Damm, the local beer that has been brewed in the city since 1876. Thanks to BeerAdvocate, I found a place near my hostel called La Cerveteca that stocked a good range of bottled beers as well as a few on tap. The highlight for me was the Great Divide Yeti, which I had tried in London earlier in the trip and is still, to this day, one of my favourite stouts. Sadly, the place closed at 10:30pm, which is very early for Barcelona. And I do mean very early.

I don't know if this is a symptom of the siesta, but people in Barcelona seem to start their night very late and party hard and long well into the morning. When I got back to the hostel after my beer hunt, I tagged along with a group of people who headed to a club in another part of the city. The place was just starting to get busy when we arrived. Clubs not really being my thing, I must have left at around 1 or 2am, but I think some stayed until 5am or later.

I spent most of the next day checking out Gaudí architecture as part of a walking tour. Antoni Gaudí was a Catalan architect most famous for designing the Sagrada Família, a breathtaking church that is one of the main tourist draws of Barcelona. The church is so massive in scale and complexity that it was not completed in Gaudí's lifetime. In fact, it is still a work in progress, with the expected completion date being 2026, the centennial of Gaudí's death. The construction work did not deter the crowds and, because of this, none of us bothered to join the lengthy queue to go in.

One of the façades of the Sagrada Família

Apart from the Sagrada Família, where our tour ended (and a fitting end it was), Gaudí also designed many other buildings around Barcelona, and the tour took us to these places while talking a bit about the architect's life and work. One place the tour did not go, because it was too far away, was Park Güell, a garden complex designed by Gaudí. Three of us decided to make the trek there, which involved walking up a hill after taking the Metro. It was worth the effort as the place featured impressive architecture and had a festive atmosphere thanks to the favourable weather.

The main terrace of Park Güell

After a long morning and afternoon of walking around, I did as the locals do and had a siesta back at the hostel, waking up just in time for dinner. The same people who ran the walking tours during the day were meant to run a pub crawl that night, but interest was too low so it was cancelled. A few of us decided to go out with the pub crawl people anyway, although it didn't last too long, and I once again found myself heading off before anybody else.

I really should have known better than to walk home by myself, but soon enough after leaving the last pub I once again found myself lost in the streets of a foreign city. How did I get out of it this time, you ask? Well, I'd been walking around without any clear direction for the better part of an hour when I ran into the people from the hostel with whom I had gone to the club the night before. Lost themselves, they were once again on their way to a club and decided a taxi would be the easiest way to get there rather than just walking. One of them was less than enthused about continuing on and I ended up walking back to the hostel with him. The hostel, it turned out, was only a couple of blocks away from where I had run into them. Figures.

In transit: Barcelona to Florence

Having nothing to do for an entire morning, I arrived early at the airport for my afternoon flight to Florence. It was therefore no surprise at all that my flight was delayed. Twice. I wasn't overly concerned as I had a book to read, but there was also some sort of kerfuffle once the queue for boarding began to form. Were people being bumped from the flight? I couldn't really understand what was going on as it was all in Spanish (or maybe Italian), and when we all boarded there were still spare seats in the plane, so that is one mystery that will remain unsolved.

Florence: Gelato doom

Some past mistakes I never learn from. One of them is this: ice cream greatly increases my chances of catching a cold. But more on that later. First, a primer on the next stop of my trip.

From around the 14th century to the 16th century, Florence was one of the most important cities in the world. Florentine political influence was vast, coming in the form of the Medici family. Look them up on Wikipedia - some members of the family held important roles, such as pope, or regent of France. You know, small things like that. The word "Medici" doesn't even come up with a red squiggly line in my web browser indicating it's unknown or misspelt. (Gelato does, though. Madness.) Economically, Florentine money is said to have funded the development of industry all over Europe. And of course, you can't talk about the importance of Florence without mentioning its cultural history. There, I mentioned it.

Ponte Vecchio

After two nights out in Barcelona, my plan for the day was to have a quiet night. This plan was promptly thrown out the window when I ran into a workmate from Panorama at my hostel. Throughout my travels I've run into many people I know or people who know people I know, and I still find the whole experience fascinating. When you're travelling around, and especially when you're travelling alone, there's always this artificially inflated sense of camaraderie with familiar people - more so than strangers - that you may not necessarily get at home with the same people. Perhaps it's some sort of coping mechanism to deal with the loneliness and the distance from home. I'm sure there's been a study done on it. Speaking of which, at the same hostel, I also ran into a girl who went to my high school (albeit from many years below me, so I didn't know her prior). Small world.

What's that? You want me to elaborate on the cultural history of Florence? Oh, ok, if I must. But only in an oblique way. For example: How to get into the Uffizi without having to join a massive queue. The Galleria degli Uffizi, or Uffizi Gallery, is one of the world's most famous art museums, which means it can often have several-hour-long queues just to get into the place. The following is a check list on how to avoid the crowds.

• Arrive early in the morning - before, at, or just after opening time
• Inclement weather (e.g. rain, hail)
• Visit in winter

Ok, the last one is killer. You really have to travel in the low season if you don't want to waste a lot of your time lining up for popular attractions like museums. I learnt as much on my first trip to Europe. It was cold, in the middle of winter much like this trip, and the fabled queues at the Louvre in Paris were almost non-existent. In contrast, just a few days earlier, the good weather in Barcelona meant entering the Sagrada Família was just not worth the time wasted.

So, once again, travelling in winter has worked to my advantage. Actually, the main reason I went to the Uffizi was to avoid the rain, but I did see some amazing art in there. I won't pretend to be any sort of expert on art or architecture or whatever, but seeing works like Botticelli's The Birth of Venus in person really is quite something.

After a bit of time at the Uffizi, the weather was a bit better, so I went to a few outdoor places. Worth visiting are the Boboli and Bardini gardens, which feature sculptures in a relaxed setting. You get a really good view of the city from Giardino Bardini, too. I even saw a double rainbow all the way across the sky, albeit briefly. One ticket gets you entry to both gardens.

One of the sculptures at Giardino di Boboli

Another place with a good view and does not cost any money to visit is Piazzale Michelangelo (signposted as Piazzale Michelangiolo). The trek up there is uphill and therefore a bit more difficult, but it's well worth it. There was a wedding party there at the time, and lots of photos were taken. I decided to take a few shots of my own.

Maybe I should be a wedding photographer

I'd completely neglected Spanish cuisine in Barcelona, so I wanted to make up for it in Italy with some Italian food, and make up for it I did. We'd ducked in for lunch at a random restaurant, and it began to hail outside just as we entered. Good omen or bad? I ordered freshly made pappardelle with a wild boar ragù which was certainly good, and I was told not to miss out on gelato while I was in the country, so we went for some afterwards. I can't fault the taste of the local equivalent of ice cream, but what I can fault is my judgement, which dictated that I consume a cold dessert in cold weather. Needless to say, I woke up with the sniffles the next day. Sigh.

Venice: Overrated tourist capital of Europe

Ok, perhaps I'm a bit harsh with the above subtitle, perhaps I could have visited under different circumstances (i.e. not winter), and perhaps I was unfairly biased due to being sick for most of my time there but I didn't really think much of Venice. (Let us also recall that the last time I was meant to go to Venice I got sick and couldn't go, but I digress.)

No doubt you know about Venice, the pedestrian city with a maze of canals and streets, and supposedly one of the most romantic cities in the world. I won't bore you with a spiel for this one. What I will bore you with is the reasons why I was decidedly underwhelmed by the place.

Let's start with the lurgy. Now, I'm not sure if my flu née cold was actually gelato-induced, or if it was because one of the people in my dorm appeared to be deathly ill. Either way, it made sure I wasn't feeling great when I arrived in Venice. My motivation to enjoy the place, therefore, was low. The weather didn't help either.

I didn't do much on my first day there. After the train trip from Florence, I met up with a friend I'd previously met in Japan who was studying in Venice, and with whom I was staying. I bought some disposable razors and finally shaved for the first time in the trip, leaving only a moustache (for laughs) and we had a cheap but tasty pasta lunch, which I guess is the Italian student's version of microwave noodle lunches. Because it was cloudy outside, I opted to have a quiet day to rest off my cold. Unfortunately, the weather didn't improve very much over the next couple of days, and what little time I spent wandering the streets of Venice was under clouds, sometimes rain, and often in fog.

My friend showed me pictures of acqua alta, literally "high waters", the occasional flooding Venetians have to deal with when there is high tide. The uneven nature of the city meant that some streets would be covered in water but would still be accessible for those keen or desperate enough (high rubber boots are essential for residents) while others are just too flooded for pedestrians. It was one of the really interesting things about the city, and I kind of wish I was there to experience it.

Canals and gondolas were everywhere

My flu was subsiding by my last day there, so I did have a bit of time to explore. A word of warning to the potential tourist: bring a map. A big map. You can get a good map of the city from the airport, which has most (if not all) of the streets on it. Thankfully my friend had got me one in advance, because I came by train. The reason I say this is because Venice is huge and discombobulated. This, combined with a lack of roads or clear signage (except on the way to major landmarks), means that the city is at times hard to navigate. Even the strategy sticking by a major canal for navigation purposes isn't completely sound as there is no one walkway that sticks completely to a canal - the buildings are the ones that usually hug the water.

Along one of the major canals

You've probably assumed by now that I got lost, and you'd be right. I got lost at least once. Maybe twice, or more. I can't really remember. I think much of my self-guided walking tour of Venice was just a long string of being lost, and that was with the big street map.

Nevertheless, I did see a couple of landmarks. A lot were churches, and many looked the same. One that I was on a lookout for was the Chiesa di San Barnaba, probably better known as the library from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade - the real-life church's façade was used as the in-film library's exterior. Unfortunately, there was a lot of construction going on at San Marco, one of the main attractions of the city, so the effort I spent getting there didn't pay off.

The Indiana Jones theme was playing in my head

Ok, that probably made me sound like more of a cynic than I actually am. I wanted to like Venice, I really did, but for some reason I left feeling somewhat empty. You'll probably tell me that I did it completely wrong, and you may be right.

It wasn't all bad, I suppose. To focus on the positives, my hosts were great. My friend and her housemates were good company to have during a pretty boring few days of being miserable, and we shared Italian food and Italian wine. Sometimes it's the small things that get you through those times.

Third leg overview

Cities: Barcelona (2 nights), Florence (2 nights), Venice (3 nights)
Weather: Rain, hail, and shine
Days spent with a seedy moustache: 2
Times lost in the streets: At least 3, maybe 4 or 5 or more

Flickr sets: Spain, Italy

Europe 2010/11 second leg: France (pt 1)

So much for making up for a lack of blogging. Looks like I completely neglected (read: forgot about/too lazy to update) my story even though I've been back in the country (i.e. Australia) for over half a year now. But hey, it's tradition to be so behind on blog posts, right? In an effort to hurry things up, I'll write up a little bit about my time in each city instead of the usual play-by-play commentary.

Oh, and before I begin, I'll point out that photos from my trip are now up on my Flickr page. I'll link to them as I go, but here are the ones from England and Belgium.

In transit: Brussels to Nantes

I had my fears about checking out early on New Year's Day, but the biggest hassle I had to go through was trying to get the attention of the hostel staff, who were still partying on from the night before.

The trip to Nantes, my next destination, would involve an inter-city train from Brussels to Paris, a Paris Metro to a train station across the city - Paris doesn't have a unified central train station (this comes into play later) - then another inter-city train to Nantes. As inconvenient as that sounds, the trip itself was unremarkable. I even got a few precious minutes of sleep on the Paris-Nantes leg.

Nantes: A case of food poisoning

The city of Nantes is the 6th largest in France and is situated on the Loire, the country's longest river. Because of its location, it used to be the slave trade capital of France. It is also the historical capital of Bretagne, more commonly known as Brittany to English speakers. I stayed with an ex-co-worker and her family at their home there, and I think it's always nice to get the local perspective on a place that you're visiting.

Fresh produce at the Sunday markets in Nantes

One of the places my hosts took me was Trentemoult, a former fishing village on the south bank of the Loire. I also got to see Les Machines de l’île, a cool exhibit of Jules Verne-inspired steampunk inventions with both mechanical and animal characteristics. It was a shame that the main attraction - a giant steampunk elephant that would walk around the grounds, taking people for a ride on it - was shut down for the winter months. Speaking of which, another thing I wanted to check out but was closed at the time was the Jules Verne museum. Verne, a seminal author in the science-fiction genre, was born in Nantes.

An abandoned boat in Trentemoult


Steampunk elephant!

The highlight of the visit for me was perhaps the food. I got to try galette bretonne, a savoury version of the crêpe traditionally served with cider. Unlike other crêpes, which are made from wheat flour and have sweet fillings, galettes are made from buckwheat flour and filled with savoury ingredients like meat and cheese. The one I had had classic galette fillings of ham, cheese, and egg. Delicious. Galettes originate from Brittany and while Nantes is no longer technically part of the region, there still remains a Breton cultural influence, and the galette is an institution.

Unfortunately, one of the more memorable things about my time in Nantes was giving myself food poisoning. Since my hosts were kind enough to show me a bit about culture in the region, I wanted to introduce them to something from my culture. In particular, I decided to cook them one of the most iconic dishes from Filipino cuisine, adobo. What went wrong, you ask? I messed up pretty badly is what went wrong. I'd say the error was caused by a bad mix of overconfidence and lack of recent practice. That and too much vinegar. Anyway, the dish ended up being far from my best, but my hosts seemed to like it (and didn't get sick from it like I did), or at least were nice enough to pretend they did. What a bad ambassador to the Philippines, eh? The whole ordeal left me sick and drained for the next day or so, which meant I didn't get to see as much of the city as I wanted.

Rennes and an unplanned trip to Mont Saint-Michel

Under two hours away from Nantes by train, Rennes is the modern capital of Brittany. It is somewhat of a university town, with over a quarter of its inhabitants being students. My friend was studying there at the time, and catching up was the main reason for this stop of the trip. (Predictably, we had humongous galettes.)

Apart from the Parc du Thabor, through which I took a relaxing stroll, there wasn't really much for tourists in Rennes. My friend tipped me off to Mont Saint-Michel, the third most visited national monument in France. Having a spare day in Rennes, I decided to do a day trip there.

Mont Saint-Michel is a town on a tidal island by the sea. The island is dominated by the Saint-Michel monastery, from which it gets its name. The monastery has been there since the 8th century, and is surrounded by smaller buildings such as shops, hotels, and homes. Very few people actually live on the island, and it is mostly a tourist destination. Interestingly, Mont Saint-Michel has a counterpart in Cornwall, across the English channel, called Saint Michael's Mount.

Mont Saint-Michel

There are buses from Rennes that go to the monument, and it takes about an hour and a half to get there. The place itself is beautiful, and it's easy to cover the entire place in a day. In fact, thanks to a mistimed visit to the monastery, I walked around the streets several times because I missed the bus back to Rennes and had to wait another two hours for the next one. The return trip isn't cheap and the monastery costs money to enter, but it's well worth the visit if you have the time.

One of the areas accessible at low tide

It was a really cold day and it got foggy as it went along, so I wanted to spend some time indoors. Apart from visiting the monastery, I had lunch at one of the overpriced restaurants. Sadly, it was cold in there as well. I was also served by a stereotypically rude French waiter, and the food wasn't that good. Perhaps I should've eaten at the more expensive place instead.

When I got back to my hotel, I cracked open the Cantillon Mamouche (yum) that I had picked up in Brussels then had an early night.

In transit: Rennes to Montpellier

I caught an early train from Rennes to head to my next destination. I armed myself with three pain au chocolat for breakfast on the go. Some of the inter-city trains in France, I have to mention, go very fast. It's fascinating to look out to the roads parallel to the tracks and see seemingly stationary cars that are in fact driving at normal speeds.

I mentioned earlier that Paris did not have a unified central train station, and that one often has to make a connection between stations via Metro (or otherwise) before catching a connecting train. This meant one would need to leave sufficient time between trains. My train from Rennes would arrive at Gare Montparnasse, which was the Paris station servicing the west of France, and I had an hour to get to Gare de Lyon, which serviced the south, to catch my train to Montpellier. When I got to Gare de Lyon it took me a while to figure out where the platform was, and as I boarded the train the doors behind me shut. Talk about cutting it close.

Montpellier: Guess what? More clouds!

Located in southern France, Montpellier is the fastest growing city in the country. Many old structures still remain but the city feels very modern, a result of developments prompted by a population boom in the latter half of the 20th century.

Aqueduct St-Clément, built in the 17th century

Despite teases of sunlight peeking out of the clouds during the train trip, the weather was still not great when I arrived in Montpellier. In fact, I had not seen consistent sunlight since arriving in Europe. It actually started to rain a bit, too.

I was in Montpellier to visit a French acquaintance I had very briefly met years ago in a hostel in Quebec City, Canada - he needed to send an email and asked to use my laptop for a few minutes. He kept in contact with me after that, and offered his couch to crash on when he heard I was coming to France. This is one of the reasons I love to travel.

Anyway, my friend was at work when I arrived in Montpellier and I wasn't in the mood to do too much sightseeing in the poor weather with backpack in tow, so after a bit of walking around to get my bearings, I went hunting for good beer. Unfortunately, the bar I had read about, Up and Down, was not yet open, so I ended up at this dingy bar run by a guy who supposedly raced in the Tour de France at one point. There were Tour de France memorabilia and newspaper articles all over the walls. The Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World ukulele cover by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole played on the radio - in fact, this was not the first time I heard this song in France. They love it for some reason.

It was still raining the next day but, despite spending hours in Musée Fabre, I did actually get to see a good chunk of the city. I got lost (again) trying to find a kebab place my friend had recommended, walked around the Jardin des plantes de Montpellier for a bit, and got accosted by a scam artist at the Promenade du Peyrou. On the second attempt, Up and Down was open and I went there with my friend for a drink before dinner. It was a cool little hole-in-the-wall bar that served a good range of mostly Belgian craft beers and had a cramped area downstairs for live music.

The tiny live music area at Up and Down

Apart from the aforementioned kebabs, I also had confit de canard courtesy of my friend. I love that dish. Drinks wise I tried a few different things while in Montpellier. I had some Belgian and French beer, Italian wine, French cider, and limoncello, a strong lemon liqueur from Italy that puts hairs on your chest.

After two nights in Montpellier the trip continued south. Next up: Spain!

Second leg overview

Cities: Nantes (3 nights), Rennes (2 nights), Mont Saint-Michel (day trip), Montpellier (2 nights)
Weather: Cold and overcast, some fog, some rain
Favourite dish: Confit de canard
Times lost in the streets: 1

Flickr set: France

Update: I'm experimenting with mobile templates for the blog. Expect slightly more exciting backgrounds in the future rather than the default boringness.

Europe 2010/11 first leg: England and Belgium

I just had a look at the date of my last post. Here is an attempt to make up for the lack of blogging. In case you hadn't already guessed from the title, my latest travel adventure is, once again, Europe.

No sleep til London

Departure day began with me lacking sleep. I had had a coffee-based stout the night before and woke up feeling like I drank ten espressos just before trying to sleep. It was pre-jetlag jetlag. I didn't feel like doing anything even though I had a list of things I wanted to sort out (e.g. photos from the Muse and Gorillaz concerts) before leaving on holidays for a month. The ideal solution to my zombie-like state would have been to sit and watch the Ashes all day, but the Aussies were going so badly in the Boxing Day test match that I just couldn't be bothered. Vague plans to see a movie fell through as I moved too slowly to catch the bus into the city. I just sat in front of my computer, chatting away, waiting for the inevitable.

Things didn't get much better when I got to the airport. After checking in, my grand plan was to make a beeline to Pie Face and get a stack (a pie topped with mash potato, mushy peas and gravy), but the man behind the counter informed me that they weren't doing stacks. I ate a regular pie out of a cardboard pie-holder, designed for a cleaner experience, but in reality ended messier than the previous, simpler paper arrangement. By this point, I just wanted to board the plane and get it over with.

The odd anxiety I had been experiencing in the lead-up to the trip was allayed before the plane took off. There was a young couple next to me who spoke, I think, Italian. Not only did they speak it but they spoke it loudly, especially the man. He was so expressive - complete with hand gestures - when talking to his partner that even if it was an argument (I could not tell since I speak no word of Italian) it would have been the most beautiful argument I had ever witnessed. Despite the constant talking throughout the flight becoming more annoying than anything, it did reassure me that my passion for travel was completely justified - that I went to new places so that not only would I see beautiful sights, but would also experience those differences both major and idiosyncratic.

A good time, not a long time

I would have hit the ground running had I not arrived in London at 6:30 in the morning. Even though it took an hour and a half to get to the hostel from Heathrow airport, it was still too early for much to be open. I decided to have an English breakfast at a pub before starting the day.

I got to the Tower of London just before 10:30, and was glad that I did. The crowds were still slowly shuffling in so there were people there, but it wasn't too busy. The highlight for me was seeing the Crown Jewels on display. It was both impressive and also a disturbing example of the excess that the royals were/are involved in. When I exited the gallery the queue to get in to see the Crown Jewels was starting to build up. I explored more of the Tower of London and by the end of it - probably an hour or so after I had arrived - the queue to see the Crown Jewels had snaked well towards the entrance.

Pro tip: If you want to visit the Tower of London, get there as early as possible.

Next up for me was Greenwich. My two main goals were seeing the Prime Meridian and having a stopover at the Old Brewery, run by the Meantime brewing company. The former was easy enough.

Despite the small hike up the hill to the Royal Observatory, it was straightforward and not difficult to find. The crowd surrounding the the Prime Meridian was just getting busy as I got there as everybody wanted a photo at the point that marked 0°00′00″ longtitude. I managed to get a quick photo with no people there then decided I'd head back towards Greenwich for a pint before officially checking into the hostel.

The pint became a half pint. I had a walk around the old naval college that was now Greenwich University hoping I'd come across the Old Brewery, but I ended up straying far from the mark, completely missing the pub right next to where I was near the start of the stroll. And so, once I finally got to the bar, I was so exhausted from all the walking that I figured a half pint would do me before having a rest at the hostel.

The truth is I was so exhausted I could have slept for five days straight after the restless start of the trip, but I could only afford over an hour before heading out once more. I got lost a bit heading to my tube station, but eventually I caught up with Mark at the White Horse on Parsons Green, a pub that was a little out of the way but worth the trip for the impressive tap and bottle list.

Adrian vs European city planning

After a quick one day stopover in England, my next destination would be Brussels, where I would spend new year's eve (and a bit of new year's day). I had some time and British pounds to spare when I got to Heathrow so I popped into Plane Food, a Gordon Ramsay-owned restaurant. The steak there was delicious.

The thing about European cities is that they were planned differently to modern cities. Of particular importance in my case, many modern cities in the western world are built on a grid layout, making it easy for one to find locations by their address. Not so in old European cities. This adds to their charm, but also confuses the hell out of someone with a bad sense of direction, e.g. me. With that preamble, I launch into my adventures in mainland Europe.

My French training (I have been learning the language for one year) instantly failed as I forgot how to ask for a ticket from Brussels airport to the city. I had to resort to English. My morale was further dampened by two things. The first was the weather, which was more of the same as England, perhaps a bit colder (and with some snow still on the ground). The second was my sense of direction (or lack thereof) combined with an inability to follow written directions.

I spent almost an hour walking back and forth (sometimes backtracking to streets I hadn't actually come from) looking for my hostel before I realised that the directions that came with my hostel booking were actually very helpful. I checked in to find my room devoid of people, which was a shame because I was hoping to socialise a bit. The main lounge room was also empty, and the hostel bar had not yet opened.

I went to the city (I only got marginally lost this time!) to visit Delirium, a beer bar, and to get some food. Unfortunately, I remembered too late that I didn't really like Delirium that much. It was too much of a local youth hangout as opposed to a place where you would find a lot of craft beer lovers. A lot of the people were smoking, which killed my nose, and I only stayed for a drink before moving on. The only consolation is that I got a kebab with fries inside, one of my favourite fast food options in Europe.

The hostel bar was open when I got back, but it was still dead, so I decided to call it a night and hoped the next day would be better. Little did I know that my impressive streak of getting lost was to continue. Despite a shaky start to the day, it was by far more enjoyable than my first day in the city.

I woke up early and began the day with a self-guided tour of the city, which would lead to the Cantillon brewery. Most of the directions were easy enough to follow, and it was a nice and informative (albeit cold) tour of some of the city's history. Things went pear-shaped towards the end when I misread the instructions and map and went down one street instead of another. This lead me far from where I was meant to be going. Despite this, I arrived at the brewery when it was still pretty early.

Cantillon is the last remaining brewery in Brussels that still brew to traditional methods - that is, they still use the same brewing methods that were used when they first started in 1900. When I finally found the brewery, it was in an unassuming old warehouse in the Anderlecht municipality. They are one of few breweries in Belgium and, indeed, the world that brew a type of beer called Lambic, which are fermented spontaneously with wild yeast from the air as opposed to the controlled addition of yeast to begin fermentation. The resulting beer tends to be unfermented, and are most commonly used to produce their other commercial beers, such as the Geueze (a blend of Lambics from three different vintages), Kriek (Lambic blended with cherries), and Framboise (Lambic blended with raspberries). They are generally sour (some intensely so), a unique taste in the world of beer. I've recently begun to really appreciate the style, the sour acidity doubling as a palate cleanser, and it was a treat to see Cantillon's brewery much like it was more than a hundred years ago. I also tried a few of their beers on offer, and picked up a couple of bottles for later in the trip.

Foggy memory

Delirium the previous night was still in my mind, and I didn't want a repeat of the experience. I researched a bit on the Internet and read about a place named Chez Moeder Lambic. I had come across it as part of the walking tour to Cantillon (and, indeed, it was recommended as a half-way pit-stop in the tour notes) so I made it the venue for my late lunch.

I found the place to be fantastic, with 40 taps of beers I mostly hadn't even heard of, and 6 Lambics on hand pulled casks. A venue with so many beers on tap runs the risk of being quantity over quality, but the beers at Moeder Lambic delivered. The atmosphere was much more relaxed compared to Delirium - it wasn't packed, and they also had a no smoking policy, which was great. I also got to talking with an American couple at the bar, and we ended up wandering around the city for the rest of the day.

We had no idea what to do for dinner or for the new year countdown, but we had a lot of time on our hands. Dinner turned out to be kebabs. We were pushed into buying a dish instead of a traditional wrapped kebab, and the 7 euro portion was far too much for any of us. Each of us a bit fatter, we headed to another beer bar (Moeder Lambic closed early for the night). To kill time, we came up with the idea to play categories. After a few false starts, we settled on actors as a category. One actor was on the tip of our tongues for most of the rest of the night, the actor who played George Constanza in Seinfeld. We were afraid 2011 would roll around before we remembered his name. Mercifully, we collectively came up with Jason Alexander just over an hour before midnight.

It was nigh impossible to move around in the main square, so we went to another area to watch the fireworks. At around this time, the fog had rolled in and visibility was getting low. It was unfortunate that the sky was not clear when the fireworks finally went off at midnight, but the fog and cloud cover also resulted in the interesting effect of the entire sky flashing different colours as different fireworks exploded. There were also many people letting off their own fireworks in the area where we were watching the fireworks, which reminded me a lot of my childhood in the Philippines (albeit a lot more sedate).

As the fireworks were dying down, I parted ways with the Americans after exchanging the details and wishing each other a happy new year and an enjoyable trip. As if to signify an interesting year ahead, I came back to the hostel to find the room close to being trashed, with the two top bunk bed mattresses being inelegantly thrown onto the floor along with a few pieces of luggage. A couple of hours of sleep later, my (presumably drunk) dorm cohabitants came home making all manner of ruckus in a vain attempt to avoid waking the only person sleeping in the room. I lay there silently, not complaining - I had had a good day, and a good year.

First leg overview

Cities: London (1 night), Brussels (2 nights)
Weather: Cold and overcast, some fog
Impressive breweries/pubs visited: 3
Times lost in the streets: 5

I've also noticed some outstanding maintenance issues for the blog. I hope to get around to them when I return from my trip.