What's all this fuss about police chases?
Why are the police getting told off for chasing Stephen Hohepa McDonald? I accept that someone's husband/father/son/brother died (Halatau Naitoko), but it's not exactly like it was all their fault.
The officer in charge of the pursuit (Inspector Willie Taylor) waited an appropriate amount of time in order to find out for certain as to whether a gun was involved or not. If he hadn't waited and it was later disclosed that the guy had a gun and that the police did not take the proper steps to account for this, the officer in question would be in way more hot water than he is currently.
Crazy guy runs from police. What should the police do in this situation? What would any logical person charged with securing the safety of the public do in this situation? They chased him. It's not a bad thing; it's what we expect them to do. You run from police, you get chased. It seems simple, doesn't it?
Crazy guy gets loose and gets out of car and runs off, carrying gun, likely threatening anyone in the vicinity, definitely threatening the driver of the truck he tried to hijack. Cops make a decision as to whether or not they take him out. In fact, the Armed Defenders Squad make the decision. A calculated decision, I'm certain. What happened to the poor bystander was an accident.
I know we look for reasons when horrible things happen to people we love, and we want someone to blame, but dragging the police through a pointless inquest for something that wasn't really their fault? That's unfair. Somebody is going to pay for this - and I'll bet nobody points the finger at the criminal who fled.
I accept that Naitoko's family want to blame somebody and I do not begrudge them that. But I think that the government or whoever is putting this bollocks in motion is not thinking it through very clearly. Also, one (ACCIDENTAL) kill versus restraint that would have allowed the guy to run wild in the crowd with a gun? I know the one versus many argument is tired and may not directly apply to this situation (I mean, they should have shot the crazy guy, not the bystander). That said, I think hell could have broken loose had they said, Hey, this chase isn't working out very well. Should we just quit and go home? Yeah, sounds like a plan. The community will be fine. The gun-wielding criminal who's hopped up on drugs surely won't attack anyone else today. Nah, they'll be fine. Let's go home.
Like that would've worked.
Accidents happen. It is unfortunate but they do. Stop hassling the police for doing what we expect of them. Though I bet some people are wishing they hadn't made such a fuss about giving the police tasers.
20 December 2010
26 October 2010
An Open Letter to John Key, Regarding the Budget Cuts to Education.
To Mr. Key,
Do you remember the days when education was free? No, neither do I.
Your public website (http://www.national.org.nz/) states that the Minister of Education, Mrs. Anne Tolley, "remains passionate about securing a healthy and secure environment for children." I imagine that is also how you sell yourself. Why then, the budget cuts to education institutions? This is not simply about the cuts to early childhood education, for that is only the most recent form. Whilst rummaging through the website, I came across a YouTube clip called "John Key TV - Your Education is Your Future: Believe in It!" That seems like somewhat of a joke considering all the money that the National government has taken from the education system so far. $25 million has been planned for "savings" by 2012/13 (http://www.nzherald.co.nz/ministry-of-education/news/article.cfm?o_id=119&objectid=10631206), plus $10 million in the next year. The funding for early childhood education has been cut, along with that of primary schools, high schools and tertiary institutions. Parents and students alike are forced to pay more money for less services. Education is one of the most important parts of our system. Your John Key TV clip advertises education as giving us "better choices about the life we are going to have, it gives us the rocket start for the different careers that will be part of our lifetimes, [it provides] more choices available to us." If you, and your ministers, honestly thought that this is the case, as I hope you do, then could you please tell me why you find it necessary to cut the budgets of the institutions that will give us these opportunities?
If you are preparing to argue that the education system already has a great deal of money available to it, then how about you work on making that money better used within the system? Why does my university degree cost more in course fees, even though I have less classes, less tutorials, less books in my library and no money to buy new ones?
Were you aware, Mr. Key, that your Minister of Education Anne Tolley is somewhat of a joke in several tertiary institutions? There is a running gag at Victoria University of Wellington that Anne Tolley will not be available for comment no matter how dire the situation. She has three adult children now. Did they ever come home with hastily scratched drawing of themselves, hands and faces still decorated with paint splashes from art class, only to ask their mother what she thought of their pictures? I imagine that she smiled a thin smile, nodded a little and said "No comment." How can someone make such important decisions about the education system when they obviously have such little interest in it themselves? And if Mrs. Tolley's actions are so useful, then why does she never justify them? Why is she always out of reach or unwilling to comment on something that directly affects so many people?
Why does my friend have to pay through the nose in order to send her child to preschool - a place that provides him with information, skills and important social interactions that he could not get elsewhere? Many neuroscience-based studies e.g. Bruce Perry 1997, (several of which are associated with UNESCO) have proven that the first five years of life are crucial in positively developing the brain. If this is so, then why would we offer our children anything less than the best? Why would we take away their opportunities to learn and to develop by taking away the money for the places that provide these opportunities? From John Key TV, Ms. Hekia Parata would have us believe that she wants "the same opportunities available for every child." Every child. Not just the children of wealthy New Zealanders. She wants every child to have the same opportunities. Do you, Mr. Key?
And for that matter, do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could give teachers a little more money? I mean, CEOs of several government ministries have had pay increases and now earn close to half a million dollars per year. Let's not mince words here. Five hundred thousand dollars per year. That is a lot of money, especially considering most teachers earnings start around thirty-nine thousand dollars a year, according to StatisticsNZ. That's $9615 per week versus $750 per week for teachers. It seems interesting that the CEO of the Education Ministry, Karen Sewell, has had a pay increase and now earns approximately $509, 999 per year. One person receives that much money in her bank account, yet still feels justified in deciding that jobs can be cut because there isn't enough money available. Hummm. She couldn't cut her own salary perhaps? In the National Business Review, State Services Commissioner Iain Rennie said that CEOs get pay increases for exceeding expectations. How come this does not apply to teachers? What expectations were exceeded? The ability to look the other way? The ability to stuff one's own pockets whilst robbing the education institutions of jobs and money? Sewell's income could pay at least 12 teachers' yearly incomes. Why is she more deserving than they? In addition, she is a member of a government-owned industry, meaning that her salary is paid by the government. So are the salaries of teachers. Fair? I think not.
How about you give teachers a salary that reflects what you think they are worth? Or, Mr. Key, is that exactly what you are doing? These are the people that are going to educate the children of New Zealand. They are going to inform these kids about how to succeed in and make sense of the world. They have a tough job to do and one that carries great expectations from the public. They are not only supposed to teach information, but also social lessons. They serve as substitute parents for 6 hours of every weekday. They spend time outside school constructing lesson plans and marking tests, which they do not get paid for. We entrust these people with giving children the skills and knowledge that will enable them to become successful adults. Yet you are only willing to pay them scraps, despite asking so much of them. Shouldn't their salaries also be motivation for others to want to step into the role of educators? Do you, as Prime Minister, honestly believe that teachers are being paid what they are worth?
If you want to argue about keeping up with international competition, then let me just say that this should never be about how well your neighbour is doing. Firstly, Australia has millions more people than New Zealand, and therefore it has millions more taxpayer dollars and resources to work with. Secondly, we are two different countries. We have different priorities and different means of achieving our goals. Your focus here should be on encouraging others to want to train as teachers by promising good working conditions and generous salaries. Otherwise you will only see more and more people leaving New Zealand in hopes of finding better prospects elsewhere.
So tell me. Somebody please. Explain the logic of this to me. How are we ever going to foster future leaders if we do not give them the resources needed to learn? Can New Zealand be judged on its own merits or will we forever be (negatively) comparing ourselves against our foreign counterparts?
Do you remember the days when education was free? No, neither do I.
Your public website (http://www.national.org.nz/) states that the Minister of Education, Mrs. Anne Tolley, "remains passionate about securing a healthy and secure environment for children." I imagine that is also how you sell yourself. Why then, the budget cuts to education institutions? This is not simply about the cuts to early childhood education, for that is only the most recent form. Whilst rummaging through the website, I came across a YouTube clip called "John Key TV - Your Education is Your Future: Believe in It!" That seems like somewhat of a joke considering all the money that the National government has taken from the education system so far. $25 million has been planned for "savings" by 2012/13 (http://www.nzherald.co.nz/ministry-of-education/news/article.cfm?o_id=119&objectid=10631206), plus $10 million in the next year. The funding for early childhood education has been cut, along with that of primary schools, high schools and tertiary institutions. Parents and students alike are forced to pay more money for less services. Education is one of the most important parts of our system. Your John Key TV clip advertises education as giving us "better choices about the life we are going to have, it gives us the rocket start for the different careers that will be part of our lifetimes, [it provides] more choices available to us." If you, and your ministers, honestly thought that this is the case, as I hope you do, then could you please tell me why you find it necessary to cut the budgets of the institutions that will give us these opportunities?
If you are preparing to argue that the education system already has a great deal of money available to it, then how about you work on making that money better used within the system? Why does my university degree cost more in course fees, even though I have less classes, less tutorials, less books in my library and no money to buy new ones?
Were you aware, Mr. Key, that your Minister of Education Anne Tolley is somewhat of a joke in several tertiary institutions? There is a running gag at Victoria University of Wellington that Anne Tolley will not be available for comment no matter how dire the situation. She has three adult children now. Did they ever come home with hastily scratched drawing of themselves, hands and faces still decorated with paint splashes from art class, only to ask their mother what she thought of their pictures? I imagine that she smiled a thin smile, nodded a little and said "No comment." How can someone make such important decisions about the education system when they obviously have such little interest in it themselves? And if Mrs. Tolley's actions are so useful, then why does she never justify them? Why is she always out of reach or unwilling to comment on something that directly affects so many people?
Why does my friend have to pay through the nose in order to send her child to preschool - a place that provides him with information, skills and important social interactions that he could not get elsewhere? Many neuroscience-based studies e.g. Bruce Perry 1997, (several of which are associated with UNESCO) have proven that the first five years of life are crucial in positively developing the brain. If this is so, then why would we offer our children anything less than the best? Why would we take away their opportunities to learn and to develop by taking away the money for the places that provide these opportunities? From John Key TV, Ms. Hekia Parata would have us believe that she wants "the same opportunities available for every child." Every child. Not just the children of wealthy New Zealanders. She wants every child to have the same opportunities. Do you, Mr. Key?
And for that matter, do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could give teachers a little more money? I mean, CEOs of several government ministries have had pay increases and now earn close to half a million dollars per year. Let's not mince words here. Five hundred thousand dollars per year. That is a lot of money, especially considering most teachers earnings start around thirty-nine thousand dollars a year, according to StatisticsNZ. That's $9615 per week versus $750 per week for teachers. It seems interesting that the CEO of the Education Ministry, Karen Sewell, has had a pay increase and now earns approximately $509, 999 per year. One person receives that much money in her bank account, yet still feels justified in deciding that jobs can be cut because there isn't enough money available. Hummm. She couldn't cut her own salary perhaps? In the National Business Review, State Services Commissioner Iain Rennie said that CEOs get pay increases for exceeding expectations. How come this does not apply to teachers? What expectations were exceeded? The ability to look the other way? The ability to stuff one's own pockets whilst robbing the education institutions of jobs and money? Sewell's income could pay at least 12 teachers' yearly incomes. Why is she more deserving than they? In addition, she is a member of a government-owned industry, meaning that her salary is paid by the government. So are the salaries of teachers. Fair? I think not.
How about you give teachers a salary that reflects what you think they are worth? Or, Mr. Key, is that exactly what you are doing? These are the people that are going to educate the children of New Zealand. They are going to inform these kids about how to succeed in and make sense of the world. They have a tough job to do and one that carries great expectations from the public. They are not only supposed to teach information, but also social lessons. They serve as substitute parents for 6 hours of every weekday. They spend time outside school constructing lesson plans and marking tests, which they do not get paid for. We entrust these people with giving children the skills and knowledge that will enable them to become successful adults. Yet you are only willing to pay them scraps, despite asking so much of them. Shouldn't their salaries also be motivation for others to want to step into the role of educators? Do you, as Prime Minister, honestly believe that teachers are being paid what they are worth?
If you want to argue about keeping up with international competition, then let me just say that this should never be about how well your neighbour is doing. Firstly, Australia has millions more people than New Zealand, and therefore it has millions more taxpayer dollars and resources to work with. Secondly, we are two different countries. We have different priorities and different means of achieving our goals. Your focus here should be on encouraging others to want to train as teachers by promising good working conditions and generous salaries. Otherwise you will only see more and more people leaving New Zealand in hopes of finding better prospects elsewhere.
So tell me. Somebody please. Explain the logic of this to me. How are we ever going to foster future leaders if we do not give them the resources needed to learn? Can New Zealand be judged on its own merits or will we forever be (negatively) comparing ourselves against our foreign counterparts?
24 October 2010
Liberty, Fraternity and Equality: New Zealand Wonders Where you have Gone
This Tangata Whenua thing will be the death of New Zealand. I understand it fair enough - the idea that Maori are the people of the land, owners of the land, indigenous people of New Zealand, with all the legal rights and intracacies that this now entails. I have a question though: why can't I be tangata whenua? I've lived here practically all my life. I've been away from New Zealand for less than one full year and I am now 22 years old. I consider this country my home more than anywhere else. But it's not really my home because someone else has more claim to it than I? Why can't I be tangata whenua?
Because I wasn't born here? Neither were the first generation of Maori people. They ventured here in water-bound vessels just like all British after them. And according to scientific discovery and Maori tales, they weren't even the first people to do so. There were people in New Zealand before the maori arrived from Polynesia. And just in case there is any confusion, yes, that is indeed where you are originally from. You didn't just grow out of the land. Maori immigrated here, just like everybody else.
The fact that there were people here before the Maori also discounts the idea that they have more connection to the land because they have been here longer. The Vikings were in North America well before any other peoples - does that mean that North America belongs to them? At least the American Indians and the Aborigines can recount their history back for thousands of years - and New Zealand's Maori are much better off than either of those peoples.
Also, if the idea of tangata whenua is for Maori people only and does not apply to Europeans, does that mean that nobody can consider themselves tangata whenua? Because there are no full blooded Maori in New Zealand (or anywhere else for that matter). None whatsoever. Surely there are some Maori people with a majority of Maori blood, but I highly doubt that anyone can trace their ancestry all the way back to the 1200s or whenever Maori arrived, and see not a scrap of "foreign" blood. It's like white people don't count. Like we are not as good as Maori or like some Maori want special rights that white people can't have.
As a side note, I might just add that Mr. Hone Harawira, who is so against his children dating Pakeha *cough cough racism cough cough*, has Pakeha blood running through his veins. I wonder if he feels tainted at all.
I am not anti-Maori, I'm not racist, I'm not being rude for the sake of it. I think Maori culture is cool. Your language is neat. It's cool that you can have something that can be said to be uniquely yours. It's this bloody foreshore-seabed issue again that has me worked up. However, something that everybody must share (and should share) like the beaches of New Zealand should never be specifically owned by anyone. The fact that anything is "owned by the Crown" doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't mean that Maori or Indian or Chinese or whoever cannot use it because they are not British. "The Crown" basically represents the government, which thus represents New Zealand and its people. But what does Maoridom represent? Does Maoridom represent all of New Zealand and its people or does it just represent the interests of the Maori? Or some Maori, beause those I've talked to think that this issue is a big fuss about nothing. So a legislation that acknowledges the true owners of New Zealand's beaches as the Maori serves Maoridom and not New Zealand as a whole. That seems a little separatist doesn't it?
And then in comes Mr. Racist Hone Harawira. Dear Mr. Harawira, did you know that racism goes more ways than just white to black? Were you aware that minorities can be racist too? That's right, when somebody calls me Honky or Palangi or white trash or whatever, and that same somebody considers white people as trash or less than them, they are being racist whether they are a minority or not. So as much as I believe Rodney Hide is an overweight conservative with politics that are outdated, insulting him and then refusing to talk to white reporters can be seen as racism. As though our white politicians and white reporters are less than coloured politicians and reporters?
All Rodney did was put in the word free, which I think is a very good addition. I'm not saying that we would have had to pay to go to the beach, but I wouldn't put it past anyone, least of all Mr. Harawira to charge for something that should be everyone's right. And the minute the word free came into play, suddenly the whole idea was off. Suddenly, Harawira no longer wanted to play with anyone. How dare they put the word free in there, as though anybody could come wandering onto a Maori's land without paying the proper respect? And if that respect should come in New Zealand dollars, then all the better.
Perhaps ol' Harawira should learn from Paul Henry's mistake. It's not what you look like or where your parents come from that decides whether or not you can call yourself a New Zealander. It shouldn't be your race that decides whether or not you can call New Zealand home.
And as beautiful citizens of the human race, we should be able to stand up and denounce racism wherever we find it. I'm denouncing you, Hone Harawira.
I plan on going to the beach tomorrow. Takapuna beach in fact. Hopefully I can walk on it as a New Zealander, rather than as a white person.
Because I wasn't born here? Neither were the first generation of Maori people. They ventured here in water-bound vessels just like all British after them. And according to scientific discovery and Maori tales, they weren't even the first people to do so. There were people in New Zealand before the maori arrived from Polynesia. And just in case there is any confusion, yes, that is indeed where you are originally from. You didn't just grow out of the land. Maori immigrated here, just like everybody else.
The fact that there were people here before the Maori also discounts the idea that they have more connection to the land because they have been here longer. The Vikings were in North America well before any other peoples - does that mean that North America belongs to them? At least the American Indians and the Aborigines can recount their history back for thousands of years - and New Zealand's Maori are much better off than either of those peoples.
Also, if the idea of tangata whenua is for Maori people only and does not apply to Europeans, does that mean that nobody can consider themselves tangata whenua? Because there are no full blooded Maori in New Zealand (or anywhere else for that matter). None whatsoever. Surely there are some Maori people with a majority of Maori blood, but I highly doubt that anyone can trace their ancestry all the way back to the 1200s or whenever Maori arrived, and see not a scrap of "foreign" blood. It's like white people don't count. Like we are not as good as Maori or like some Maori want special rights that white people can't have.
As a side note, I might just add that Mr. Hone Harawira, who is so against his children dating Pakeha *cough cough racism cough cough*, has Pakeha blood running through his veins. I wonder if he feels tainted at all.
I am not anti-Maori, I'm not racist, I'm not being rude for the sake of it. I think Maori culture is cool. Your language is neat. It's cool that you can have something that can be said to be uniquely yours. It's this bloody foreshore-seabed issue again that has me worked up. However, something that everybody must share (and should share) like the beaches of New Zealand should never be specifically owned by anyone. The fact that anything is "owned by the Crown" doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't mean that Maori or Indian or Chinese or whoever cannot use it because they are not British. "The Crown" basically represents the government, which thus represents New Zealand and its people. But what does Maoridom represent? Does Maoridom represent all of New Zealand and its people or does it just represent the interests of the Maori? Or some Maori, beause those I've talked to think that this issue is a big fuss about nothing. So a legislation that acknowledges the true owners of New Zealand's beaches as the Maori serves Maoridom and not New Zealand as a whole. That seems a little separatist doesn't it?
And then in comes Mr. Racist Hone Harawira. Dear Mr. Harawira, did you know that racism goes more ways than just white to black? Were you aware that minorities can be racist too? That's right, when somebody calls me Honky or Palangi or white trash or whatever, and that same somebody considers white people as trash or less than them, they are being racist whether they are a minority or not. So as much as I believe Rodney Hide is an overweight conservative with politics that are outdated, insulting him and then refusing to talk to white reporters can be seen as racism. As though our white politicians and white reporters are less than coloured politicians and reporters?
All Rodney did was put in the word free, which I think is a very good addition. I'm not saying that we would have had to pay to go to the beach, but I wouldn't put it past anyone, least of all Mr. Harawira to charge for something that should be everyone's right. And the minute the word free came into play, suddenly the whole idea was off. Suddenly, Harawira no longer wanted to play with anyone. How dare they put the word free in there, as though anybody could come wandering onto a Maori's land without paying the proper respect? And if that respect should come in New Zealand dollars, then all the better.
Perhaps ol' Harawira should learn from Paul Henry's mistake. It's not what you look like or where your parents come from that decides whether or not you can call yourself a New Zealander. It shouldn't be your race that decides whether or not you can call New Zealand home.
And as beautiful citizens of the human race, we should be able to stand up and denounce racism wherever we find it. I'm denouncing you, Hone Harawira.
I plan on going to the beach tomorrow. Takapuna beach in fact. Hopefully I can walk on it as a New Zealander, rather than as a white person.
The One in Which I Return.
Singapore Airport. Again. 3 months, 18 days later.
From Dublin to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Singapore, Singapore to Auckland. All in one go.
Singapore Airlines now has a Nintendo package in their entertainment system. Which includes Zelda and Pokemon. Ooh yeah!
Beautiful sunset over Pakistan - wish I had a camera, although I doubt it could do it justice. There were no clouds that high up, so the sunset seemed to stretch on forever. Deep blues faded into soft pastels - blue, pink, yellow - before they finally culminated into the most fantastic orange I have ever seen. It was glorious. Brilliant. Captivating. Like someone had blended tangerines and oranges and splashed them across the sky.
During our descent towards Singapore, there was a stunning display of nature's strength and beauty. A lightning storm broke out above the Indian Ocean. Light arced across the sky and filled a pitch dark world with colour. Clouds were purple and black, grey and blue, wild and alive. We flew through the edges of it, unwilling to challenge a power we could neither tame nor control.
There is such beauty in the world.
I arrived at Auckland International Airport at 10pm. As I was coming through the duty free shops, I noticed that all the women working there (bar one who was Asian) were Polynesian. Funny that. It's like they designed it like that. I handed over my passport to the woman at passport control, she flicked through it and handed it back to me.
"Welcome home," she said.
From Dublin to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Singapore, Singapore to Auckland. All in one go.
Singapore Airlines now has a Nintendo package in their entertainment system. Which includes Zelda and Pokemon. Ooh yeah!
Beautiful sunset over Pakistan - wish I had a camera, although I doubt it could do it justice. There were no clouds that high up, so the sunset seemed to stretch on forever. Deep blues faded into soft pastels - blue, pink, yellow - before they finally culminated into the most fantastic orange I have ever seen. It was glorious. Brilliant. Captivating. Like someone had blended tangerines and oranges and splashed them across the sky.
During our descent towards Singapore, there was a stunning display of nature's strength and beauty. A lightning storm broke out above the Indian Ocean. Light arced across the sky and filled a pitch dark world with colour. Clouds were purple and black, grey and blue, wild and alive. We flew through the edges of it, unwilling to challenge a power we could neither tame nor control.
There is such beauty in the world.
I arrived at Auckland International Airport at 10pm. As I was coming through the duty free shops, I noticed that all the women working there (bar one who was Asian) were Polynesian. Funny that. It's like they designed it like that. I handed over my passport to the woman at passport control, she flicked through it and handed it back to me.
"Welcome home," she said.
In Which we Hit the Countryside.
We took a tour to the Giant's Causeway via a big green bus called The Paddywagon. Free laughs guys. The countryside was nice enough on the way up, but it's like anywhere else - farms and roads.
We stopped first at Carrick-a-Rede - a famous rope bridge that links two islands. Turns out it costs 5 Pounds to walk across a very secure, reinforced-with-wooden-planks, rope bridge for maybe five metres. Not worth it. Good thing I didn't pay! The walk out was very nice though, about 1km around the cliffs overlooking the sea. We got some great shots of the beach, which I may be able to get off my brother at some stage. No puffins unfortunately. There was a rainbow and a very hairy caterpillar though. And his very hairy squished caterpillar friend.
The Giant's Causeway itself is a lot smaller than I had originally thought - though it takes up a wide space, the actual rocks are much smaller than first anticipated. You can either walk or bus down to the main set of stones. I had only ever seen pictures of the main bit - the pentagonal pillars of volcanic rock - but it turns out that there are many different parts to the causeway. From the top of the road you look out directly across the sea. On your left is a set of fallen stones at the base of a cliff. They look a little bit like a camel. Atop another cliff is a set of stones that looks like a granny with a walking stick, hunched over, climbing the hill. The road winds around to your right, taking you above the main set of stones and down steep stairs cut into the cliffside. Not far from where you come down the path diverges into two - one leads down to the main area and the other up to the organ pipes and the chimneys. It was great fun to clamber over the stones and the furious rainclouds above the sea made for a beautiful and emotive backdrop for our photos. We walked right around, though admittedly we did not go out to the furtherest points, and it took us most of an hour and a half.
The tour resumed and we were taken for a photo stop at Dunluce castle with a cool story attached. One night the duke/king/nobleman who owned the castle was having a banquet. He was quite drunk, after having too many tankards of ale whilst waiting for is food to appear on the table. Nothing more had arrived than a few varieties of bread and fruit - nothing substantial or fit for a man of his standing! he had a good mind to go to the kitchen and give his servants what-for! He rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen - or what should have been the kitchen - only to find that it had fallen into the sea! He later moved his castle elsewhere, in the middle of the countryside where no sea could swallow his servants and his dinner.
Dublin - my final two days in Europe. Dear NZ, if you are going to blow up, do it now (12/9/10).
Last night we went to the Porterhouse Pub by Temple Bar. They have their own brewery, as well as an extensive list of beers from around the world. I tempted Paul into an Oyster Stout. We put away a thick, almost creamy red - Porterhouse Red - and a light pale ale - TempleBraeu - and some Irish stew too. The woman who served us was a slim Japanese woman whose name (according to the receipt) was Renata Pikachu! I know. One for the history books.
Then I forked out 6 Euros and 50 cents for an Aventinus Eisbock - a dark german beer with an alcohol content of 12%! Most beers only crack 5%! I nursed that for the rest of the evening. Paul had another oyster stout and some horrible American lager called Chiller. Eeeww. Paul wanted to get shit-faced, but I refused to waste money/drink just because other people think I should.
Moreover, a note to Dylan - the Porterhouse has a beer list in order of countries and New Zealand's only contribution was Steinlager. I was plenty horrified on your behalf.
Last Day In Europe!
Paul and I were in Dublin. What to people do when they're in Dublin? They go to the Guinness brewery. So we did. It was actually more informative and interesting than I had thought, now that I actually know stuff about beer. They take you through the ingredients, the brewing process and history of the brand. The guides on each floor are helpful, but it's mostly a self-guided tour. One of my favourite bits was the level where you can watch every single ad ever made for Guinness. Then onto my other favourite bit: pour your own pint!
I kinda cheated because I already knew how to pour a Guinness pint, having worked in an Irish pub in Wellington. But it was fun. And I got a certificate. And then I even drank some of my pint, before I realised how icky it was and gave it to Paul.
Tried to go to the Museum of History and Archaeology but it was closed (on a Monday)! Shame.
Went for a pint. had a Koppaberg Pear Cider - so good. Fiddle dee dee, potatoes.
Also, I haven't noticed this "the Irish are the friendliest people in the world" thing yet. They don't seem overly friendly, and who isn't with a few drinks in them? Maybe you have to go further into the country. Or perhaps they don't like tourists. Either way, I think Dublin was a little disappointing for me. Everyone talked it up so much, saying it would be such a fun place to visit, but really it seems much the same as anywhere else. I would even go so far as to say I had more fun in Cardiff and London.
That said, Cardiff and London don't have a Leprachaun Museum! No, seriously, it exists.
We stopped first at Carrick-a-Rede - a famous rope bridge that links two islands. Turns out it costs 5 Pounds to walk across a very secure, reinforced-with-wooden-planks, rope bridge for maybe five metres. Not worth it. Good thing I didn't pay! The walk out was very nice though, about 1km around the cliffs overlooking the sea. We got some great shots of the beach, which I may be able to get off my brother at some stage. No puffins unfortunately. There was a rainbow and a very hairy caterpillar though. And his very hairy squished caterpillar friend.
The Giant's Causeway itself is a lot smaller than I had originally thought - though it takes up a wide space, the actual rocks are much smaller than first anticipated. You can either walk or bus down to the main set of stones. I had only ever seen pictures of the main bit - the pentagonal pillars of volcanic rock - but it turns out that there are many different parts to the causeway. From the top of the road you look out directly across the sea. On your left is a set of fallen stones at the base of a cliff. They look a little bit like a camel. Atop another cliff is a set of stones that looks like a granny with a walking stick, hunched over, climbing the hill. The road winds around to your right, taking you above the main set of stones and down steep stairs cut into the cliffside. Not far from where you come down the path diverges into two - one leads down to the main area and the other up to the organ pipes and the chimneys. It was great fun to clamber over the stones and the furious rainclouds above the sea made for a beautiful and emotive backdrop for our photos. We walked right around, though admittedly we did not go out to the furtherest points, and it took us most of an hour and a half.
The tour resumed and we were taken for a photo stop at Dunluce castle with a cool story attached. One night the duke/king/nobleman who owned the castle was having a banquet. He was quite drunk, after having too many tankards of ale whilst waiting for is food to appear on the table. Nothing more had arrived than a few varieties of bread and fruit - nothing substantial or fit for a man of his standing! he had a good mind to go to the kitchen and give his servants what-for! He rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen - or what should have been the kitchen - only to find that it had fallen into the sea! He later moved his castle elsewhere, in the middle of the countryside where no sea could swallow his servants and his dinner.
Dublin - my final two days in Europe. Dear NZ, if you are going to blow up, do it now (12/9/10).
Last night we went to the Porterhouse Pub by Temple Bar. They have their own brewery, as well as an extensive list of beers from around the world. I tempted Paul into an Oyster Stout. We put away a thick, almost creamy red - Porterhouse Red - and a light pale ale - TempleBraeu - and some Irish stew too. The woman who served us was a slim Japanese woman whose name (according to the receipt) was Renata Pikachu! I know. One for the history books.
Then I forked out 6 Euros and 50 cents for an Aventinus Eisbock - a dark german beer with an alcohol content of 12%! Most beers only crack 5%! I nursed that for the rest of the evening. Paul had another oyster stout and some horrible American lager called Chiller. Eeeww. Paul wanted to get shit-faced, but I refused to waste money/drink just because other people think I should.
Moreover, a note to Dylan - the Porterhouse has a beer list in order of countries and New Zealand's only contribution was Steinlager. I was plenty horrified on your behalf.
Last Day In Europe!
Paul and I were in Dublin. What to people do when they're in Dublin? They go to the Guinness brewery. So we did. It was actually more informative and interesting than I had thought, now that I actually know stuff about beer. They take you through the ingredients, the brewing process and history of the brand. The guides on each floor are helpful, but it's mostly a self-guided tour. One of my favourite bits was the level where you can watch every single ad ever made for Guinness. Then onto my other favourite bit: pour your own pint!
I kinda cheated because I already knew how to pour a Guinness pint, having worked in an Irish pub in Wellington. But it was fun. And I got a certificate. And then I even drank some of my pint, before I realised how icky it was and gave it to Paul.
Tried to go to the Museum of History and Archaeology but it was closed (on a Monday)! Shame.
Went for a pint. had a Koppaberg Pear Cider - so good. Fiddle dee dee, potatoes.
Also, I haven't noticed this "the Irish are the friendliest people in the world" thing yet. They don't seem overly friendly, and who isn't with a few drinks in them? Maybe you have to go further into the country. Or perhaps they don't like tourists. Either way, I think Dublin was a little disappointing for me. Everyone talked it up so much, saying it would be such a fun place to visit, but really it seems much the same as anywhere else. I would even go so far as to say I had more fun in Cardiff and London.
That said, Cardiff and London don't have a Leprachaun Museum! No, seriously, it exists.
In Which I was Greatly Overdue an Update
A post much overdue, but my brother has been less than forthcoming with the photos. So, another photo-less story.
Continuing on with the Edinburgh Ghost story, the group trouped up to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to over 400, 000 plague victims. It is appropriately creepy, even in daylight, but that night there was only a sliver of moon and our guide's torchlight. We were off to visit Covenanter's Prison - home to the men and women who refused to accept the King as the head of the Church. They were arrested and kept in a portion of the cemetery - being considered dead in all but the literal sense - in something akin to a concentration camp. They were tortured by a Sir MacKenzie and few survived - those who did found themselves sold into slavery and all drowned in a shipwreck. Now it is closed to the public and supposedly houses the "MacKenzie poltergeist" who does all the poltergeist-y things like stealing energy, scratching and pulling hair, and occasionally, tossing people about. Ooooh.
Naturally, everyone came out unscathed, although the mood was brilliant because our guide new her stories well. Occasionally she would bang on walls and doors to give everyone a good jump, but that was to be expected. There was a "jumper-ooter" near the end of the tour, who nobody was expecting, so everyone got a good fright. Thing was, I was at the front of the group when he jumped out and boy, did he have bad breath! It seemed to cheapen the whole experience too.
The second tour we went on was basically What Life was Like in Mary King's Close in the 1600s. It was not intentionally scary, but most informative and really put your imagination to work. We went under the city again too. It must have been hard living, packed in these houses - often a family of ten to a single room - of over tens stories. They were flimsy wooden things, but if you were lucky enough to have plaster walls, then the plaster was made from water, horse hair and the ground bones of plaue victims. Families threw their excrement into the street and passersby were most likely ankle deep in the stuff. The plague hit hard. Edinburgh lost 1/3 of its population. the tour was a very different style and mood to the other, but still very good.
The next day, we moseyed around town, through the castle and into the museum. We met more Australians and caught the train to Stranraer (Stran-rarr!) in order to catch the ferry to Belfast. Yonder! Onwards and upwards!
By the way - spelling errors in awful places: York Museum= carve, spelt calve. Edinburgh war memorial in the castle= bear, spelt "bare". Angels bare up the men? Grrrr.
The ferry was flash. Are they all like that? The ticket was pretty cheap and it took about 2 1/2 hours - though there was no connecting train so we had to take a very bumpy bus ride into Belfast. Which is a hole. Lots of red brick buildings with nothing particularly interesting to see and no character to speak of. Dublin has a good vibe, as did London, Berlin, Prague and Vienna...Belfast is dead inside.
Naturally, our hostel was filled with Australians. And Germans.
We moseyed out to see the murals depicting the religious conflict at Shankhill road at dusk, which quickly became night...in this dodgy little area. i'm sure that you can tell a lot about the socio-economic status of an area by the proliferation of KFCs.
Continuing on with the Edinburgh Ghost story, the group trouped up to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to over 400, 000 plague victims. It is appropriately creepy, even in daylight, but that night there was only a sliver of moon and our guide's torchlight. We were off to visit Covenanter's Prison - home to the men and women who refused to accept the King as the head of the Church. They were arrested and kept in a portion of the cemetery - being considered dead in all but the literal sense - in something akin to a concentration camp. They were tortured by a Sir MacKenzie and few survived - those who did found themselves sold into slavery and all drowned in a shipwreck. Now it is closed to the public and supposedly houses the "MacKenzie poltergeist" who does all the poltergeist-y things like stealing energy, scratching and pulling hair, and occasionally, tossing people about. Ooooh.
Naturally, everyone came out unscathed, although the mood was brilliant because our guide new her stories well. Occasionally she would bang on walls and doors to give everyone a good jump, but that was to be expected. There was a "jumper-ooter" near the end of the tour, who nobody was expecting, so everyone got a good fright. Thing was, I was at the front of the group when he jumped out and boy, did he have bad breath! It seemed to cheapen the whole experience too.
The second tour we went on was basically What Life was Like in Mary King's Close in the 1600s. It was not intentionally scary, but most informative and really put your imagination to work. We went under the city again too. It must have been hard living, packed in these houses - often a family of ten to a single room - of over tens stories. They were flimsy wooden things, but if you were lucky enough to have plaster walls, then the plaster was made from water, horse hair and the ground bones of plaue victims. Families threw their excrement into the street and passersby were most likely ankle deep in the stuff. The plague hit hard. Edinburgh lost 1/3 of its population. the tour was a very different style and mood to the other, but still very good.
The next day, we moseyed around town, through the castle and into the museum. We met more Australians and caught the train to Stranraer (Stran-rarr!) in order to catch the ferry to Belfast. Yonder! Onwards and upwards!
By the way - spelling errors in awful places: York Museum= carve, spelt calve. Edinburgh war memorial in the castle= bear, spelt "bare". Angels bare up the men? Grrrr.
The ferry was flash. Are they all like that? The ticket was pretty cheap and it took about 2 1/2 hours - though there was no connecting train so we had to take a very bumpy bus ride into Belfast. Which is a hole. Lots of red brick buildings with nothing particularly interesting to see and no character to speak of. Dublin has a good vibe, as did London, Berlin, Prague and Vienna...Belfast is dead inside.
Naturally, our hostel was filled with Australians. And Germans.
We moseyed out to see the murals depicting the religious conflict at Shankhill road at dusk, which quickly became night...in this dodgy little area. i'm sure that you can tell a lot about the socio-economic status of an area by the proliferation of KFCs.
04 October 2010
In Which We Did Not See Anything.
The journey to Edinburgh was short and picturesque - the train went up the coast and there were views of a wild sea and small medieval style towns on the right.
Edinburgh itself painted a very different picture. The city itself is beautiful and the old and new parts of town are separated by the gardens in the centre. The old town is situated atop the hill, just outside the castle, which overlooks the new town with the presence of a watchful elder. The old town whispers its history from cracks in the pavement and in the creaking of old doors.
We went on a ghost tour called City of the Dead, which involved a guided tour underneath and inside one of Edinburgh's ancient bridges that straddles the old and new towns. There are tiny vaults and extended caverns that used to be home to the poorest of the poor, the criminal and on one occasion, the rich (but only because they fled the fires of the burning city and even then they suffocated in these caverns). Policemen wouldn't enter these places, and rightly so, becausse they were packed with disease, danger and dodgy individuals. The vaults under the bridge did not adhere to the laws of the world above.
People lived, slept and died in spaces no bigger than your living room. Rats and faeces covered the dank, damp floors. Disease was rife and bodily fluids could easily end up in the small corner that you considered your bed. The days and nights were indistinguishable and screams echoed unceasingly down the halls. And then the plague hit. Boils popped and festered. Self control of bodily functions was lost and all manner of smells permeated the air. Your home became a rank pit filled with living, dead and dying alike. Families watched as their loved ones shuffled off the mortal coil, screaming bloody murder the entire way.
It wouldn't surprise me if there were still some poor souls clinging to scraps of life down here.
So we were taken to investigate. A group of about twenty of us walked into these dark caverns. The first room was used to house cows that would then be killed for their meat. It is highly likely that they never saw the light of day. Another room featured an ancient doorway, above which were carved the words, "God is my refuge and my helper." Each vault is dark except for some atmospheric candles placed at intervals. Our guide was an Australian woman with long, black hair and an oversized leather coat. She stopped at various intervals in order to explain the history of the place and the supposed inhabitants that remain.
The haunting spirit in question is called The South Bridge Entity and has its own ghost story (which I have rewritten and embellished).
There were two backpackers in town, around the end of the 1980s, and they were exploring the city. They came to an alcove that was covered by rotting boards and cobwebs. Peering through the gaps in the planks, the two men saw a tunnel that seemed to lead directly below the city. They left the spot but made a note of where it was and some time later that day, they returned with heavy duty flashlights. Prying off the boards, they let themselves into the tunnel behind. At the end of the tunnel, the first man shone his torch upon an old wooden door. He paused for a moment to show his friend, and then pulled at the door handle. It came away easily and the pair slipped inside.
They were faced with darkness, a clammy air and the dank stench of mould and rot. Unbeknownst to them, they were the first two people to venture here in centuries, aside from the Hellfire Club of old. They began to explore the vaults before them, the ancient city streets of Edinburgh. They had gone quite deep into the tunnels, exploring for a little under an hour, when they came to a room that was colder than any other. As they entered, the cold air seemed to gather around them, pressing close to the warmth of their bodies.
And then both torches went out.
Panic crept into the edges of their minds and their breathing became harsh and shallow. They felt as though they were choking and fear took them. They grabbed each other's wrist and stumbling, they fled back the way they had come. The darkness grew around them. It seemed as though their eyes could not adjust to the pitch dark and they groped the walls, hoping for the familiar feeling of the wooden door underneath their fingers. But they were lost. The tunnels seemed to move, to snake in different directions by a will of their own. The two men imagined sounds about them - cries of pain, gurgles, moans, even childish laughter. They felt like something was watching them, following them, as though the vaults held an audience they had not noticed before.
God is my refuge and my helper.
The words came unbidden to their minds and they shivered in the cold air. God was not here. He had long since forsaken this place and the people who lived under the ground had forsaken his light. The two men ran on.
Finally one of the men foun the familiar texture of damp wood. He pulled his friend close and the two of them pushed the door open. They pulled themselves through the door, slammed it closed behind them and darted down the tunnel, towards the alcove at the end and the fresh air outside. But no air was to be theirs, as the gap through which they had broken had since been boarded up! The men cried out in fear and frustration, banging their hands on the fresh boards and trying desperately to revive their torches. Something knocked against the wooden door at the other end of the tunnel. The two men screamed.
Luckily for them a passerby heard their cries and followed the sounds to the boarded alcove. He broke away the new boards and let the two men out into the cool night air. Both men took deep breaths and tried to slow their racing hearts. They were out. They were safe. As they turned to thank their rescuer, they saw that he was staring at them in horror. Turning to each other in confusion, the men saw that the other had been scratched. Not on their hands or arms, which they had used to feel their way along darkened stone halls. These scratches were not random cuts of stones or scrapes of walls.
Each man bore long, evenly spaced scratches down his face, deep and bleeding.
But neither had felt a thing.
The South Bridge Entity has awakened.
Or so the story goes. I did not end up on mysterious scratches on me - which is a good thing because that would have been the end of sleep for me. No ghosts were seen or felt, but the stories were cool and I learned a lot about the history of Edinburgh. We also got to see a place that would have been inaccessible otherwise.
Onwards to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to the bodies of around 400,000 plague victims.
Edinburgh itself painted a very different picture. The city itself is beautiful and the old and new parts of town are separated by the gardens in the centre. The old town is situated atop the hill, just outside the castle, which overlooks the new town with the presence of a watchful elder. The old town whispers its history from cracks in the pavement and in the creaking of old doors.
We went on a ghost tour called City of the Dead, which involved a guided tour underneath and inside one of Edinburgh's ancient bridges that straddles the old and new towns. There are tiny vaults and extended caverns that used to be home to the poorest of the poor, the criminal and on one occasion, the rich (but only because they fled the fires of the burning city and even then they suffocated in these caverns). Policemen wouldn't enter these places, and rightly so, becausse they were packed with disease, danger and dodgy individuals. The vaults under the bridge did not adhere to the laws of the world above.
People lived, slept and died in spaces no bigger than your living room. Rats and faeces covered the dank, damp floors. Disease was rife and bodily fluids could easily end up in the small corner that you considered your bed. The days and nights were indistinguishable and screams echoed unceasingly down the halls. And then the plague hit. Boils popped and festered. Self control of bodily functions was lost and all manner of smells permeated the air. Your home became a rank pit filled with living, dead and dying alike. Families watched as their loved ones shuffled off the mortal coil, screaming bloody murder the entire way.
It wouldn't surprise me if there were still some poor souls clinging to scraps of life down here.
So we were taken to investigate. A group of about twenty of us walked into these dark caverns. The first room was used to house cows that would then be killed for their meat. It is highly likely that they never saw the light of day. Another room featured an ancient doorway, above which were carved the words, "God is my refuge and my helper." Each vault is dark except for some atmospheric candles placed at intervals. Our guide was an Australian woman with long, black hair and an oversized leather coat. She stopped at various intervals in order to explain the history of the place and the supposed inhabitants that remain.
The haunting spirit in question is called The South Bridge Entity and has its own ghost story (which I have rewritten and embellished).
There were two backpackers in town, around the end of the 1980s, and they were exploring the city. They came to an alcove that was covered by rotting boards and cobwebs. Peering through the gaps in the planks, the two men saw a tunnel that seemed to lead directly below the city. They left the spot but made a note of where it was and some time later that day, they returned with heavy duty flashlights. Prying off the boards, they let themselves into the tunnel behind. At the end of the tunnel, the first man shone his torch upon an old wooden door. He paused for a moment to show his friend, and then pulled at the door handle. It came away easily and the pair slipped inside.
They were faced with darkness, a clammy air and the dank stench of mould and rot. Unbeknownst to them, they were the first two people to venture here in centuries, aside from the Hellfire Club of old. They began to explore the vaults before them, the ancient city streets of Edinburgh. They had gone quite deep into the tunnels, exploring for a little under an hour, when they came to a room that was colder than any other. As they entered, the cold air seemed to gather around them, pressing close to the warmth of their bodies.
And then both torches went out.
Panic crept into the edges of their minds and their breathing became harsh and shallow. They felt as though they were choking and fear took them. They grabbed each other's wrist and stumbling, they fled back the way they had come. The darkness grew around them. It seemed as though their eyes could not adjust to the pitch dark and they groped the walls, hoping for the familiar feeling of the wooden door underneath their fingers. But they were lost. The tunnels seemed to move, to snake in different directions by a will of their own. The two men imagined sounds about them - cries of pain, gurgles, moans, even childish laughter. They felt like something was watching them, following them, as though the vaults held an audience they had not noticed before.
God is my refuge and my helper.
The words came unbidden to their minds and they shivered in the cold air. God was not here. He had long since forsaken this place and the people who lived under the ground had forsaken his light. The two men ran on.
Finally one of the men foun the familiar texture of damp wood. He pulled his friend close and the two of them pushed the door open. They pulled themselves through the door, slammed it closed behind them and darted down the tunnel, towards the alcove at the end and the fresh air outside. But no air was to be theirs, as the gap through which they had broken had since been boarded up! The men cried out in fear and frustration, banging their hands on the fresh boards and trying desperately to revive their torches. Something knocked against the wooden door at the other end of the tunnel. The two men screamed.
Luckily for them a passerby heard their cries and followed the sounds to the boarded alcove. He broke away the new boards and let the two men out into the cool night air. Both men took deep breaths and tried to slow their racing hearts. They were out. They were safe. As they turned to thank their rescuer, they saw that he was staring at them in horror. Turning to each other in confusion, the men saw that the other had been scratched. Not on their hands or arms, which they had used to feel their way along darkened stone halls. These scratches were not random cuts of stones or scrapes of walls.
Each man bore long, evenly spaced scratches down his face, deep and bleeding.
But neither had felt a thing.
The South Bridge Entity has awakened.
Or so the story goes. I did not end up on mysterious scratches on me - which is a good thing because that would have been the end of sleep for me. No ghosts were seen or felt, but the stories were cool and I learned a lot about the history of Edinburgh. We also got to see a place that would have been inaccessible otherwise.
Onwards to Greyfriar's Cemetery - home to the bodies of around 400,000 plague victims.
27 September 2010
In Which We Mooch Accomodation Time and Time Again
No pictures for this leg of the trip unfortunately, as we had only one camera and Paul still has it.
Stayed with my great Aunt Anne (Iain's Mum) in the wops of Surrey for what was supposed to be one day, but turned into two due to trains and accomodation failing us. Aunty Anne was generally lovely and she filled me in about the side of the family that I didn't know much about. Although there was one occasion that frustrated me - when she wondered how women could play rugby, since they wouldn't be nearly as good at it as men:
How could they kick the ball over the goal?
Grrr...feminist rage.
Found a coach to Newcastle for £31.20 - great because the trains would have cost at least £118. Each. It only took two hours longer as well. Grabbed a cab out to a church in Fenham, where we were to meet our new host - one of Mum's friends from work, Helen - and I had one of my first experiences of listening to someone speaking English but not understanding what they were saying due to their accent. Helen is Scottish and she tried to direct me to:
St. James' and St. Basil's Church, Fenham
Which I heard as:
St. James' and St. Bethel's Church, Senham
Not too bad, but still.
We (Paul, Helen, Helen's two girls Holly and Megan, and myself) went out to a section of Hadrian's wall. The weather was appropriately fierce - cold and windy - and naturally I felt quite at home. Wellington, I miss you! We scaled a rocky crag that overlooked a small lake, atop which we cold see right to the horizon on all sides. The wind made the experience all the more exciting - standing atop a cliff with nothing to stop you from falling, and a wind that tries to be doing just that! We visited the remains of a roman fort - which some guys were still digging up. They said we could ask them questions and Holy asked, quite cheerfully, "Found anything yet?" The workers looked at each other, shrugged and said quietly, "Not today." That must be frustrating work.
Went to York on a day trip from Newcastle - home of my father and his family. Paul told me a story about him, that says that he was so much of a Yorkshire man that he refused to wear a red rose in his suit at his wedding to my mum because red roses were the colour of the House of Lancaster during the War of the Roses. He wore a white rose instead.
York is lovely. You can follow the old city walls right around the city. There is a minster dominating the skyline in the centre of the old town, complete with elderly gentleman playing harmonious, gentle music outside. Further on, one finds oneself in "The Shambles", a series of interconnected, winding roads that are still cobbled. They have the typical English sweet shops here too, the kinds with sweets in jars which you buy by weight. The weather is fine, with a crisp breeze and only a bit of cloud, but warm in general. I quite like it here. It is peaceful and perhaps even familiar. I may even pick up a Beano.
I didn't get a Beano, but I did come away with ginger fudge (woot)! The day continued with a viking museum and a trip up to Clifford's Tower. We also had English curry (so good) and home baked fish and chips. Staying with Helen was wonderful and leaving was such a pity. But off to bigger and better things.
Next stop: Scotland!
Stayed with my great Aunt Anne (Iain's Mum) in the wops of Surrey for what was supposed to be one day, but turned into two due to trains and accomodation failing us. Aunty Anne was generally lovely and she filled me in about the side of the family that I didn't know much about. Although there was one occasion that frustrated me - when she wondered how women could play rugby, since they wouldn't be nearly as good at it as men:
How could they kick the ball over the goal?
Grrr...feminist rage.
Found a coach to Newcastle for £31.20 - great because the trains would have cost at least £118. Each. It only took two hours longer as well. Grabbed a cab out to a church in Fenham, where we were to meet our new host - one of Mum's friends from work, Helen - and I had one of my first experiences of listening to someone speaking English but not understanding what they were saying due to their accent. Helen is Scottish and she tried to direct me to:
St. James' and St. Basil's Church, Fenham
Which I heard as:
St. James' and St. Bethel's Church, Senham
Not too bad, but still.
We (Paul, Helen, Helen's two girls Holly and Megan, and myself) went out to a section of Hadrian's wall. The weather was appropriately fierce - cold and windy - and naturally I felt quite at home. Wellington, I miss you! We scaled a rocky crag that overlooked a small lake, atop which we cold see right to the horizon on all sides. The wind made the experience all the more exciting - standing atop a cliff with nothing to stop you from falling, and a wind that tries to be doing just that! We visited the remains of a roman fort - which some guys were still digging up. They said we could ask them questions and Holy asked, quite cheerfully, "Found anything yet?" The workers looked at each other, shrugged and said quietly, "Not today." That must be frustrating work.
Went to York on a day trip from Newcastle - home of my father and his family. Paul told me a story about him, that says that he was so much of a Yorkshire man that he refused to wear a red rose in his suit at his wedding to my mum because red roses were the colour of the House of Lancaster during the War of the Roses. He wore a white rose instead.
York is lovely. You can follow the old city walls right around the city. There is a minster dominating the skyline in the centre of the old town, complete with elderly gentleman playing harmonious, gentle music outside. Further on, one finds oneself in "The Shambles", a series of interconnected, winding roads that are still cobbled. They have the typical English sweet shops here too, the kinds with sweets in jars which you buy by weight. The weather is fine, with a crisp breeze and only a bit of cloud, but warm in general. I quite like it here. It is peaceful and perhaps even familiar. I may even pick up a Beano.
I didn't get a Beano, but I did come away with ginger fudge (woot)! The day continued with a viking museum and a trip up to Clifford's Tower. We also had English curry (so good) and home baked fish and chips. Staying with Helen was wonderful and leaving was such a pity. But off to bigger and better things.
Next stop: Scotland!
20 September 2010
What's Wrong with Rubbish Bins?
Something I've noticed in Europe (this excludes the UK and Italy) that makes no sense:
In takeaway places, e.g. MacDonald's, they do not use rubbish bins. You don't take your tray up to the receptacle, dump your rubbish in the bin and then leave your empty tray on top.
No, here you simply slide your tray, rubbish and all, into a small cart with shelves. When the cart is full of trays it gets taken out the back and emptied.
In theory. What actually happens is the carts fill up too quickly and the mess spills over onto the floor. Then you can't put your own tray into the cart and there is nowhere to put it on top without stacking it awkwardly and running away before the avalanche begins.
It bothers me. It doesn't make sense. They're just making more work for themselves. Also, a "combo" in Europe is called a "menu". Or "menü". Which is like saying "men-eww" in english.
In takeaway places, e.g. MacDonald's, they do not use rubbish bins. You don't take your tray up to the receptacle, dump your rubbish in the bin and then leave your empty tray on top.
No, here you simply slide your tray, rubbish and all, into a small cart with shelves. When the cart is full of trays it gets taken out the back and emptied.
In theory. What actually happens is the carts fill up too quickly and the mess spills over onto the floor. Then you can't put your own tray into the cart and there is nowhere to put it on top without stacking it awkwardly and running away before the avalanche begins.
It bothers me. It doesn't make sense. They're just making more work for themselves. Also, a "combo" in Europe is called a "menu". Or "menü". Which is like saying "men-eww" in english.
19 September 2010
The One in Which I Miss Some Things
In summer, we know that 26 degrees Celsius is a scorcher, but the rest of the season probably won't tip 20.
We drive on the left hand side of the road, with speed limits.
Traffic jams are minimal and temporary.
Beaches. Real ones.
Lolly mixtures.
Everything is the price it says it is - no more converting currency to see how much this is actually going to set you back.
No tipping.
People don't cut in line - people who cut in line annoy the hell out of me.
You can get a quarter pounder again.
Outrageous Fortune is the best show on tv (still not watching it, don't tell me anything).
You can understand the television and the shows aren't being dubbed by the same four guys every time.
Cricket - people know what you're talking about.
You get jokes - and find them funny.
Cafes make proper hot chocolates which don't burn your tongue and they come with marshmallows.
You can walk through the city centre without people trying to sell you crap or steal from you.
John Key is a spazz, but at least you're home in time to get rid of him.
John Campbell's thinly veiled dislike of John Key.
Everyone knows where you are geographically. Not in the British Isles, not in the Caribbean and not in tropical Polynesia.
Public transport is terrible, expensive and unforgivable but your mum will drive you places for free.
Your house is warm and rent free - and if it isn't, then just remember that Wellington is way cooler than Auckland.
In-jokes.
Slang.
Less risk of imminent death by bicycles.
Less people = more room.
Colourful houses.
Normal keyboards, where the 'Z' and the 'Y' haven't swapped places and there aren't a whole lot of extra things on the side.
Sushi.
Indian food.
Proper sunsets - none of this instantaneous darkness rubbish.
Friendly strangers.
We drive on the left hand side of the road, with speed limits.
Traffic jams are minimal and temporary.
Beaches. Real ones.
Lolly mixtures.
Everything is the price it says it is - no more converting currency to see how much this is actually going to set you back.
No tipping.
People don't cut in line - people who cut in line annoy the hell out of me.
You can get a quarter pounder again.
Outrageous Fortune is the best show on tv (still not watching it, don't tell me anything).
You can understand the television and the shows aren't being dubbed by the same four guys every time.
Cricket - people know what you're talking about.
You get jokes - and find them funny.
Cafes make proper hot chocolates which don't burn your tongue and they come with marshmallows.
You can walk through the city centre without people trying to sell you crap or steal from you.
John Key is a spazz, but at least you're home in time to get rid of him.
John Campbell's thinly veiled dislike of John Key.
Everyone knows where you are geographically. Not in the British Isles, not in the Caribbean and not in tropical Polynesia.
Public transport is terrible, expensive and unforgivable but your mum will drive you places for free.
Your house is warm and rent free - and if it isn't, then just remember that Wellington is way cooler than Auckland.
In-jokes.
Slang.
Less risk of imminent death by bicycles.
Less people = more room.
Colourful houses.
Normal keyboards, where the 'Z' and the 'Y' haven't swapped places and there aren't a whole lot of extra things on the side.
Sushi.
Indian food.
Proper sunsets - none of this instantaneous darkness rubbish.
Friendly strangers.
In Which I go to Meet Someone who I only Know Vaguely and then Proceed to Get Drunk with Her.
I took an excursion to Bamberg - I imagine you have all seen the photos already, if not follow the link in the title.
It is the home of Rauchbier - a dark malty beer that tastes like bacon. No but really, it tastes like smoked meat. I am told by a certain knowledgeable someone that Bamberg is the original home of rauchbier, though I am yet to find anywhere selling it. I must look strange, walking into supermarkets, heading directly towards the beer section (which is always immense), looking around, looking confused and then leaving again. I'm sure somebody somewhere wants to teach me how to shop. Probably Tops.
There's a huge festival happening tonight so I appear to have arrived at the best time. My host used to teach at one of the schools that Paul taught at, and I have met her all of once. For about five minutes. In the supermarket. And then I was supposed to meet her at the train station. Surprisingly though, this wasn't that hard. Perhaps because Germany isn't that full of blondes as it was back in the forties.
Important interjection - asians speaking German is weird.
Moving right along, Bamberg lacks for shade. It's bloody hot and I could really do with a tall tree to lie under. And yet, and yet, and yet...
I devoured some watermelon I bought from a street market. It was bigger than my head but I figured I could pretty soon make it smaller. I must have looked rabid, plunging my face into this piece of watermelon, in the middle of a grassy patch all by myself. Om nom nom!
I love buying food in Germany when at festivals. Their idea of good food is fried onions shaped like a rose with garlic sauce on top (and hopefully a mint or two on the side) or meat in bread. You can get any kind of meat in bread. Most common are sausages or steaks, but you can have an entire chicken breast if you want. Or tongue, still shaped like tongue. Or meatballs which refuse to stay in the bread. You can always tell how drunk someone is when they order these by the amount that remains in the bread when they go to take a bite. I saw someone begin with five and end up with none before he even had a bite. At which point his beer was going to be particularly meat-flavoured.
And the Germans being Germans, you can also buy bratwurst that has been marinated in.....
BEER!
I had a pretty good time out with Yvonne (my host) and her friends - more fun than I thought I'd have. Speaking a foreign language whilst intoxicated is always best because grammar can go out the window and you only worry about getting the words out. They'll figure it out and if they don't, then we can all put it down to the beer. I didn't throw up, though Yvonne placed a bucket insultingly in front of the couch upon which I was sleeping.
Aside from Rauchbier and drinking, Bamberg seems kinda boring. I've wandered around the entire place already and it's hot and I'm bored, but my train doesn't leave for ages. So I'm writing. I'm composing a list of things that I miss (to follow).
It is the home of Rauchbier - a dark malty beer that tastes like bacon. No but really, it tastes like smoked meat. I am told by a certain knowledgeable someone that Bamberg is the original home of rauchbier, though I am yet to find anywhere selling it. I must look strange, walking into supermarkets, heading directly towards the beer section (which is always immense), looking around, looking confused and then leaving again. I'm sure somebody somewhere wants to teach me how to shop. Probably Tops.
There's a huge festival happening tonight so I appear to have arrived at the best time. My host used to teach at one of the schools that Paul taught at, and I have met her all of once. For about five minutes. In the supermarket. And then I was supposed to meet her at the train station. Surprisingly though, this wasn't that hard. Perhaps because Germany isn't that full of blondes as it was back in the forties.
Important interjection - asians speaking German is weird.
Moving right along, Bamberg lacks for shade. It's bloody hot and I could really do with a tall tree to lie under. And yet, and yet, and yet...
I devoured some watermelon I bought from a street market. It was bigger than my head but I figured I could pretty soon make it smaller. I must have looked rabid, plunging my face into this piece of watermelon, in the middle of a grassy patch all by myself. Om nom nom!
I love buying food in Germany when at festivals. Their idea of good food is fried onions shaped like a rose with garlic sauce on top (and hopefully a mint or two on the side) or meat in bread. You can get any kind of meat in bread. Most common are sausages or steaks, but you can have an entire chicken breast if you want. Or tongue, still shaped like tongue. Or meatballs which refuse to stay in the bread. You can always tell how drunk someone is when they order these by the amount that remains in the bread when they go to take a bite. I saw someone begin with five and end up with none before he even had a bite. At which point his beer was going to be particularly meat-flavoured.
And the Germans being Germans, you can also buy bratwurst that has been marinated in.....
BEER!
I had a pretty good time out with Yvonne (my host) and her friends - more fun than I thought I'd have. Speaking a foreign language whilst intoxicated is always best because grammar can go out the window and you only worry about getting the words out. They'll figure it out and if they don't, then we can all put it down to the beer. I didn't throw up, though Yvonne placed a bucket insultingly in front of the couch upon which I was sleeping.
Aside from Rauchbier and drinking, Bamberg seems kinda boring. I've wandered around the entire place already and it's hot and I'm bored, but my train doesn't leave for ages. So I'm writing. I'm composing a list of things that I miss (to follow).
In Which I Arrive Somewhere and Regret it Immediately
SO we’ve arrived in Milan. I can’t believe that students can live here – everything is so expensive. One of the “tourist traps” near the Duomo wants to charge customers 5 Euros for a 330ml can of Coke. That’s about $10 NZ!
At dinner, my cutlery came in a plastic bag, like the kind you get on aeroplanes. Strange. They were metal utensils as well, so they’d still have to be cleaned. Not helping the environment.
On the train to Florence, Paul and I were sitting by the door as we didn’t have seats. We were sharing the space with one of the train conductors and a female passenger. The conductor asked where we were from and (in a mixture of English and Italian) we said New Zealand, and that it is near Australia. The conductor nodded but the woman looked confused. He repeated that it was near Australia and she said, “Ah, Australia. Kangarini!” She mimed boxing as she said it. Paul’s obsessed with the word.
Everything on this trip has scaffolding on it. Everything.
In the big famous shopping centre beside the cathedral, there is a Prada and a Louis Vuitton right next door to each other. This place is obviously for the upper class, not the riff raff. So what’s next door to Louis Vuitton? MacDonald’s. Real class.
And then we were leaving Milan - with help from the good people at Deutsche Bahn. You can always trust the Germans to be good with trains - no wonder Hitler said that the Japanese were fellows way back when. They're both freakishly efficient, albeit the Germans could learn from the Japanese politeness.
At dinner, my cutlery came in a plastic bag, like the kind you get on aeroplanes. Strange. They were metal utensils as well, so they’d still have to be cleaned. Not helping the environment.
On the train to Florence, Paul and I were sitting by the door as we didn’t have seats. We were sharing the space with one of the train conductors and a female passenger. The conductor asked where we were from and (in a mixture of English and Italian) we said New Zealand, and that it is near Australia. The conductor nodded but the woman looked confused. He repeated that it was near Australia and she said, “Ah, Australia. Kangarini!” She mimed boxing as she said it. Paul’s obsessed with the word.
Everything on this trip has scaffolding on it. Everything.
In the big famous shopping centre beside the cathedral, there is a Prada and a Louis Vuitton right next door to each other. This place is obviously for the upper class, not the riff raff. So what’s next door to Louis Vuitton? MacDonald’s. Real class.
And then we were leaving Milan - with help from the good people at Deutsche Bahn. You can always trust the Germans to be good with trains - no wonder Hitler said that the Japanese were fellows way back when. They're both freakishly efficient, albeit the Germans could learn from the Japanese politeness.
16 September 2010
Naples, You Dirty Beast.
Oh Naples, if you didn't have Pompeii, I so wouldn't be here. You are dirty, noisy, rude and dangerous. And you have pre-packaged toast.
Though you sure do have good pizza. Paul and I went out with some hostel friends (Blake the American, Toby the Australian, Daisy and Claire the Brits, and Martin (?) the Argentinian). We went in search of this pizza place, which is apparently the best pizza in Naples. We got a little lost, so we asked directions from a man who turned out to be the godfather, or close to. He had the voice, the smart clothes, the hand gestures, and he even did the kissing thing with his hand (you know the one). He told us to go somewhere else, somewhere called Il Presidente. So we did. It was cheap, 3 or 4 Euros a pizza, and very good. The wine too was quite nice. The company was excellent, lots of talking and laughing - instant camaraderie. Limoncello finished the meal.
We wandered down to the waterfront, stepping over the KO-ed dogs in the middle of the street and the cats that live under the rocks by the sea. There was a festival thing on, with live Christian rock. Woo. The Argentinian shot fluffy animals with a BB gun and gave me a kangaroo-chihuahua thing, who unfortunately remains in Naples. Moseyed back to our hostel around 1am and it was still 27 degrees Celsius. Cripes.
Pompeii was cool and a lot larger than I had imagined. The brothel was cool, especially the little pictures on the walls about offered services. We walked past a guide, fervently advising the children to check ot the beds (not the walls, don't look up) and called it the home of the oldest profession in the world. We walked around for five and a half hours and still had some to see.
Sweltering. Mid thirties to forty degrees Celsius (95 - 104 Fahrenheit) all day. After a while, it's just too hot. I wanted to keeping exploring and appreciating things, but it was too hot to do so. I was just melting. My sweat could have rehydrated the Sahara. Back to Naples for beers with hostel friends.
Couldn't find a ride/plane/train out of Naples for less than 170 Euros. Screw it. We'll make it up as we go - Gods know it's hot enough to sleep outside.
Though you sure do have good pizza. Paul and I went out with some hostel friends (Blake the American, Toby the Australian, Daisy and Claire the Brits, and Martin (?) the Argentinian). We went in search of this pizza place, which is apparently the best pizza in Naples. We got a little lost, so we asked directions from a man who turned out to be the godfather, or close to. He had the voice, the smart clothes, the hand gestures, and he even did the kissing thing with his hand (you know the one). He told us to go somewhere else, somewhere called Il Presidente. So we did. It was cheap, 3 or 4 Euros a pizza, and very good. The wine too was quite nice. The company was excellent, lots of talking and laughing - instant camaraderie. Limoncello finished the meal.
We wandered down to the waterfront, stepping over the KO-ed dogs in the middle of the street and the cats that live under the rocks by the sea. There was a festival thing on, with live Christian rock. Woo. The Argentinian shot fluffy animals with a BB gun and gave me a kangaroo-chihuahua thing, who unfortunately remains in Naples. Moseyed back to our hostel around 1am and it was still 27 degrees Celsius. Cripes.
Pompeii was cool and a lot larger than I had imagined. The brothel was cool, especially the little pictures on the walls about offered services. We walked past a guide, fervently advising the children to check ot the beds (not the walls, don't look up) and called it the home of the oldest profession in the world. We walked around for five and a half hours and still had some to see.
Sweltering. Mid thirties to forty degrees Celsius (95 - 104 Fahrenheit) all day. After a while, it's just too hot. I wanted to keeping exploring and appreciating things, but it was too hot to do so. I was just melting. My sweat could have rehydrated the Sahara. Back to Naples for beers with hostel friends.
Couldn't find a ride/plane/train out of Naples for less than 170 Euros. Screw it. We'll make it up as we go - Gods know it's hot enough to sleep outside.
19 August 2010
PAASSSTAAAA!
PART ONE
So we all know how terribly suck monkeys the journey to Italy was. Once we arrived though, things began to pick up.
I have made a habit of having at least two gelati a day. They're just too good. The fruit flavours are definitely better - much more refreshing. There's a place in Rome with seventy flavours on offer, and I'm indecisive anyway. They even have a watermelon flavour that tastes like the actual fruit, not that weird flavouring! In Florence, a scoop cost €1!
So, Venice - Busy during day, practically dead at night. Expensive. Small streets. Packed. Sunsets were gorgeous. Golden light. Probably nicer with more money and a special someone.
Verona - When I saw you in Verona... Six Euros on the train from Venice. Hot. Asked for bus tickets to the city centre in Italian. Was understood. Saw amphitheatre. Hot.
Florence - Loud snorer in hostel room. Almost comical except at 2am. Saw Florence in a day. Counted 17 churches. Lots of icecream was eaten. Florence might be wasted on me, because I don't care hugely for art. Besides, there's a copy of David in a square.
Beggars - Everywhere. Often with dogs. But thee dogs look really healthy. You'd think if you were really poor, your dog would be too. They are expensive animals. I suppose you could always be like that Tongan guy who ate his.
Besides, where's my money? I'm poor, don't speak the language, young, and in a foreign country with no income. If I sat on the side of the road with a paper cup, would you give me money? It's a big scam anyway. I refused to give a woman 1/4 of my €5e pizza, and as she walked away, I saw new Nikes under her shawl.
Sod off.
Sod off.
It's illegal in Italy to give them stuff. We saw a pamphlet on a train about thievery and on of the traps is "telling sad stories in expectation of money". I wrote this on a train to Naples, and a woman just came up to me with a piece of paper which says how her daughter is sick n a hospital in Rome with glaucoma. Why are you on a train to Naples if your daughter is sick in Rome? At least use some logic.
Pisa - Saw the leaning tower. I didn't expect it to be surrounded by so much other stuff. There's a cemetery, mausoleum, basilica and a baptistery. And all the idiots posing for photos i which thy hold up the tower. I wanted to run around and high-five them all, but I thought of it too late.
Rome - Mitfahr to Rome cost €10 each. Just caught the last metro. Hostel was rugged - no locks on the doors to the rooms, four showers for 27 people (2 with hot water), and a sleazy receptionist. Free net, and close to the Vatican. On our last night there, we shared our room with a bunch of girls from Manchester, who all said "crumbs" for me.
I regret not sticking with Italian at uni; it sure is a nice language.
I regret not sticking with Italian at uni; it sure is a nice language.
You've heard what I think of the Vatican already on Facebook, more so of what Emily thinks (or doesn't, but will fight to the end for), so I won't go on about that here. Though I do wonder if Egyptian museums have anything in them - all their treasures are in the Vatican or the British museums.
We did Rome in a day - Colosseum, Palatine Hill, Roman Forum, Arch of Constantine, Pantheon (which is now a Christian monument), Trevi Fountain (which was massive) and much more. Naturally I ate some gelato (berry and plum) and pulled faces on the Spanish Steps.
25 July 2010
In Which I Cried on the Side of the Road, Somewhere near Venice
#1 - When Elly and I were in the backpackers in Cardiff, we were in the TV room when some guy, who could have been Russian, asked me where I am from. When I said New Zealand, he asked if I was from the mountains. Which mountains, I inquired, thinking that there are many mountains in NZ. He says, I don't know someplace rural where not many people are, so your accent is very strong.
Elly and I laughed. Compared to Jessie, I don't have a strong accent. Even a guy from Canberra didn't think so. What the hell? A good laugh.
#2 -
Apparently, in Wales there is a specialty dish called "Dragon Sausages". They are some mixture of pork, onions, spices and so forth. However, there was recently a scandal that almost forced them to change their name. Apparently some people were horrified to learn that what they had eaten wasn't in fact, dragon. They got really angry and called it false advertising. YEAH.
Sorry for not updating in so long, but I haven't really had a good keyboard to do so on. I am now 22. Since I last updated, I have been to Wales, Austria, Prague and am now in Italy. I spent my birthday in Vienna, where Paul and I went to a big zoo and I saw pandas!! Amongst other things. I had seen a sign on a map that Paul had of the city, and had been wanting to see them since. They were the black and white kind too, and yes, they had silly names like Yang Yang and Xing Xang Xong.
Prague was so beautiful (architecture swoon)! We also went out to a place called Kutna Hora, where there is an ossuary - a chapel decorated entirely with bones!
Our ride to Italy was far more eventful than I'd have wished. We were supposed to get a Mitfahr from Munich to Venice. We met the guy at the train station and climbed into his campervan. Then everything went awry. What was supposed to be a four hour trip turned into 12 hours, at which point we hadn't even reached our destination. The guy was an idiot. He got lost so many times, even with a GPS navigation system on his dashboard. He took the route through the alps, south through Germany, into Austria and then through Italy. This means that his suck monkeys outdated campervan could only go a maximum of about 20kms. Italians were overtaking him and making evocative hand gestures. Constantly. He stopped so many times, once to get food, and other times on the pretence of letting us get some fresh air whilst he fiddled around with his GPS. He was lost. We were stuck in the frelling mountains for 8 hours! He also said that he didn't know about the tolls on the autobahn, and so wanted to charge us more than we had originally agreed. We had agreed on €33 each, and he wanted to jack it up to €46 each!
When we finally arrived in Venice, we weren't actually in Venice but somewhere in the outskirts. He dropped off the two other passengers where they wanted to be. He then told us that he wouldn't be able to take us into the centre city because he wouldn't/couldn't drive there. We said take us to the nearest train station then. The frelling moron started driving off on the motorway towards Trieste! Trieste is near the border of Slovenia!! Which is at least two hours by train. I was freaking out. He had lied to us, stuffed us around and now couldn't even get us near where we wanted to be! What a suck monkey.
Then it all got much, much worse. He decided that he needed to pull over to check his battery, potential issues with which had been indicated to him since our adventure in the alps by a flashing red light, but he thought "we could get there(wherever there was because he clearly hadn't intended on dropping us off at our destination)before it dies." Guess what? It died. The spare one didn't fit. Who buys a new car battery and charges it before checking whether it fits the car or not? He was clearly not a forward-thinking man, if indeed he was a thinking man. So there we were, pulled over on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere (an industrial exit about 10 minutes drive from anything citylike) at 9:30pm. I was almost at breakingpoint. We only had two hours to be at our hostel in which to check in, or we would have to pay for a night that we didn't spend there. And we would still not be in Venice, trapped on the side of a road with a frelling moron. Naturally, I ended up in tears. Paul readied the pepper spray in case he wasn't an idiot and was in fact, playing us.
His best idea was to call his friends (who were somewhere between Venice and Verona) and hope that they would come to him. At which point he hadn't a clue what he would do. He didn't even apologise. He didn't seem to care what happened to us at all. Paul eventually flagged down a nice man who drove us to the local station, and we made it to the hostel safe and in time. Needless to say, we were exhausted and very distraught. And no, we didn't pay him any more money (we'd already foolishly handed over €50 in the mountains to compensate for tolls).
Frell him for ruining my holiday. Oh well. Something had to go wrong somewhere, and it hadn't happened since Hastings. Venice today, then Verona tomorrow then onwards and outwards. See you later!
18 July 2010
Sharing an Enclosure
Backpackers hostel in Oxford.
Subject A: English woman, Catholic, average height, but thin, with a gaunt face and loose skin. She is old, sixty maybe, or a very aged mid-fifties. Her hair is shoulder-length, white and stringy. It is askew upon her head, and looks as though it has already fallen out once and she has just glued it back atop her head. Her face seems to be permanently set to disappointment, or perhaps despair. She made me feel uncomfortable, as though she were judging my comments to her personal scale of upright behaviour.
She greeted me kindly enough and asked where I was from. I replied and then said that I was on my OE. I don't know if it was my tone of voice or something I suggested quite subconsciously, or perhaps the direction of the conversation was predetermined by her before I even spoke. As it was, she leapt into a fervent tale about how her youngest daughter's ex-boyfriend had suddenly dropped job, house and her daughter in order to travel the globe, leaving the daughter in (or so it was communicated to me) a state of utmost disrepair.
Said daughter is apparently now in a relationship with a man who (oh gods, wait for it) doesn't want kids! The horror!
Apparently the other daughter is going to be marrying a non-Catholic in a church of no denomination!! Yak yak yak. The fiance in question suggested that meeting his fiancee's mother (my lecturer in this story) was "an experience". She cannot imagine what he might mean by this.
I can guess...:P
Subject 2: It's 12:30am and they have just arrived at the hostel, at our room. Naturally this means that they should turn on all the lights - why do people do this?? Use the light of your mobiles, or turn on a light not directly over my head.
They were French, and one of them stunk up the bathroom in the morning. It had no windows, not even a fan. Lucky me.
Hostel in Cardiff from tomorrow. New people, new fun.
Subject A: English woman, Catholic, average height, but thin, with a gaunt face and loose skin. She is old, sixty maybe, or a very aged mid-fifties. Her hair is shoulder-length, white and stringy. It is askew upon her head, and looks as though it has already fallen out once and she has just glued it back atop her head. Her face seems to be permanently set to disappointment, or perhaps despair. She made me feel uncomfortable, as though she were judging my comments to her personal scale of upright behaviour.
She greeted me kindly enough and asked where I was from. I replied and then said that I was on my OE. I don't know if it was my tone of voice or something I suggested quite subconsciously, or perhaps the direction of the conversation was predetermined by her before I even spoke. As it was, she leapt into a fervent tale about how her youngest daughter's ex-boyfriend had suddenly dropped job, house and her daughter in order to travel the globe, leaving the daughter in (or so it was communicated to me) a state of utmost disrepair.
Said daughter is apparently now in a relationship with a man who (oh gods, wait for it) doesn't want kids! The horror!
Apparently the other daughter is going to be marrying a non-Catholic in a church of no denomination!! Yak yak yak. The fiance in question suggested that meeting his fiancee's mother (my lecturer in this story) was "an experience". She cannot imagine what he might mean by this.
I can guess...:P
Subject 2: It's 12:30am and they have just arrived at the hostel, at our room. Naturally this means that they should turn on all the lights - why do people do this?? Use the light of your mobiles, or turn on a light not directly over my head.
They were French, and one of them stunk up the bathroom in the morning. It had no windows, not even a fan. Lucky me.
Hostel in Cardiff from tomorrow. New people, new fun.
14 July 2010
In Which I Have a Deliberation Over Which Tense to Use
My name is Hannah - I smell like cheese - Paul's edit. This is what I get for walking away.Salisbury - Went to Stonehenge, which is quite small close up. It is also packed with tourists, but no one can go into the circle itself so everyone is quite spread out. If anyone has looked at the photos you will notice that I named the rocks after some of you. I told English Heritage but they said that those were silly names for rocks. What's a good name for a rock? Anyhoo, it's kinda amazing to think that people once dragged 12 tonne stones to the top of the hill. There must have been lots of complaining. One can still see the avenues through which the stones were dragged. There are barrows surrounding the site, which some people believe they have the right to climb. Nuts to the preservation of ancient sites, apparently.
Our English Heritage cards got us in for freesies and the bus took us out to Old Sarum as well - a prehistoric man-made fortification from the same time as Stonehenge. It is a terraced hill with three levels - dug using only antlers as pick-axes and shoulder blades of oxen as shovels. There are also the foundations of a Norman fortress atop the hill. The free mead was tasty.
Bath - The YHA was nicer than the Salisbury one and I met some girls who like Yugioh Abridged. One of the YHA staff gave us a map with very good instructions about places to see, shortcuts, good photo spots and some good places to eat. The town was pretty, but seeing the Baths was expensive. The water in the baths is untreated water from way back when, and it is a fetid green colour, thus it is rather unnerving to see people put their hands in it, then put their hands to their noses and lips! A nice town, if a tad pricey. The locally brewed Bath Ales are great.
Glastonbury via Bristol - I cannot imagine why anyone would name their child after this city. Bristol is drab and industrial. We got out of there as soon as possible.
Glastonbury doesn't seem like a place to hold a huge music festival. It's a rather small town surrounded by farmland. It is quite new age-y, and was thus very much to Paul's liking. The abbey has connections to King Arthur and a badger sett (none seen so far). We had our packs so we took turns looking around. While Paul took first turn, I slept in the sun on the grass. Also patted a cute calico kitty. The Tor was atop a high hill, which we climbed with our packs. The view was great.
Exeter - We had planned to go down into Cornwall but, unable to rent a car, we abandoned this plan and went to Winchester instead. We stayed one night in a YHA which was way out in the suburbs and was really simple. Not the best, though I shared a room with only one other person.
What is it with people coming into shared dorms after 11 and just flicking the light on? Chances are, people will be trying to sleep. Be respectful!
There's a guy on the train next to us with a silly haircut. It's like a short mohawk in the middle, but is straightened at the sides and back. The front flops down.
A guy just got on the train. Then he looked around, rushed off the train and over to the ticket office. He spoke to someone there, before walking back to the train. Just as he got to the doors, the train pulled away! Poor bastard.
Winchester - King Arthur's round table! It's actually quite huge and weighs almost two tonnes! There's also an amazing milkshake store here called Shakeaway. And they have Olde Sweet Shoppes, where the lollies are in jars and you buy them by weight.
I thought you said you were married?
- Divorced now.
And the children?
- Dead.
Oh my God, what happened?
- Froze. They froze to death.
Miranda Hart is hilarious!
12 July 2010
The one in Which I Pretended I am Up-to-Date
Friday 25 June - Hampton Court: on of King Henry VIII's ol' hangouts. Not a single ghost.
Saturday 26 June - Camden Market. It's a really indie market scene. You are expected to haggle which is weird for me, but I figure that whatever I buy I have to carry - which puts me off spending money. That said I did com away with a snazzy jacket and a new hat for not vry much at all.
Took a train out to Highgate to check out an old cmetery but were distracted by beer and card games. By the time we arrived at the cemetery the gates were shut. That was cool 'cause we didn't want to pay 3 pounds to enter anyway. Instead, we killed an hour, then jumped the fence. See Facebook for the photo of Marx's grave. Saw a squirrel and a fox too.
Sunday 27 - Left London. Took the train to Folkestone, which is near Dover. Picked up by Bea and Mike Auger - friends of Mum who gave us somewhere to stay. They live in Temeraire Heights (EMILY!!) which overlooks the channel. In early morning and evening you can see France. Bea and Mike were very kind and their house was amazing. So nice!
Monday 28 - Day trip to Canterbury - around 30 degrees (86 F). It's an ancient Roman town, and the museum has the foundations of a roman villa, complete with mosaic floor! Liz I thought of you as the only person that I know who might care.
We did get to go out to Battle on Wednesday, where William the Conqueror defeated Harold Godwinson for the English Crown. There's a brilliant audio guide tour that takes you around the battlefield itself. Found a postcard that listed the top four English tourist attractions - Stonehenge, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and an ATM. Very accurate. Bloody expensive being a tourist in England.
Dinner with Aunty Sue and Uncle Harry, and their son and daughter-in-law. Hadn't seen them since 1992.
Today (i.e. Thursday) we tried to escape Hastings. Our directions to a car hire place failed us and we ended up in Rye. It was hot and we were frustrated. We finally caught a train to Brighton, after wasted time and money, in the hopes of finding a car there. No dice. We walked all over town with our heavy packs. I hurt so much.
On a train to Salisbury in the hopes of better fare. Passed through Worthing and Goring-on-Sea for those who care.
Brooklyn Rage!
Saturday 26 June - Camden Market. It's a really indie market scene. You are expected to haggle which is weird for me, but I figure that whatever I buy I have to carry - which puts me off spending money. That said I did com away with a snazzy jacket and a new hat for not vry much at all.
Took a train out to Highgate to check out an old cmetery but were distracted by beer and card games. By the time we arrived at the cemetery the gates were shut. That was cool 'cause we didn't want to pay 3 pounds to enter anyway. Instead, we killed an hour, then jumped the fence. See Facebook for the photo of Marx's grave. Saw a squirrel and a fox too.
Sunday 27 - Left London. Took the train to Folkestone, which is near Dover. Picked up by Bea and Mike Auger - friends of Mum who gave us somewhere to stay. They live in Temeraire Heights (EMILY!!) which overlooks the channel. In early morning and evening you can see France. Bea and Mike were very kind and their house was amazing. So nice!
Monday 28 - Day trip to Canterbury - around 30 degrees (86 F). It's an ancient Roman town, and the museum has the foundations of a roman villa, complete with mosaic floor! Liz I thought of you as the only person that I know who might care.
Tuesday 29 - Paul and I left the comfort of Bea and Mike's for Hastings. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It is a chav town with nothing to do, as shown by the high numbers of teenage mothers.
Thursday - I had the worst day. I'm feeling it both mentally and physically. My neck aches and burns. Keeping my temper though.We did get to go out to Battle on Wednesday, where William the Conqueror defeated Harold Godwinson for the English Crown. There's a brilliant audio guide tour that takes you around the battlefield itself. Found a postcard that listed the top four English tourist attractions - Stonehenge, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and an ATM. Very accurate. Bloody expensive being a tourist in England.
Dinner with Aunty Sue and Uncle Harry, and their son and daughter-in-law. Hadn't seen them since 1992.
Today (i.e. Thursday) we tried to escape Hastings. Our directions to a car hire place failed us and we ended up in Rye. It was hot and we were frustrated. We finally caught a train to Brighton, after wasted time and money, in the hopes of finding a car there. No dice. We walked all over town with our heavy packs. I hurt so much.
On a train to Salisbury in the hopes of better fare. Passed through Worthing and Goring-on-Sea for those who care.
Brooklyn Rage!
Disobey at your own Risk
Conversation overheard on the bus in London:
A short, stout African woman, with very dark skin and dressed in purple and orange talks on the phone. She doesn't lower her voice to suit her surroundings, but instead addresses her threats to both the unfortunate person on the phone as well as anyone unlucky enough to catch her eye.
AFRICAN WOMAN:
You go out an' you buy for me the chocolate and the flower - I wan' roses and tulips and the 'oneybirds - all these, everythin' in the flower. You got 'alf a day to get on it. You do it or I'll clap you roun' your fuckin' 'ead.
An' I wan' champagne, the real kind, not dem copies, the real stuff. You got 'alf a day - you spen' your money 'cause you ain't gonna spen' it when you're dead an' you ain't gonna give it to chari'y! I be thinkin' 'bout that champagne and dem flower all day - you don't get 'em for me, I gonna drop you like a piece o' shit. Thass right, I clap you roun' your fuckin' 'ead. You better 'ave 'em by tonight or you in big trouble.
I've never found the wall of a bus so intriguing.
A short, stout African woman, with very dark skin and dressed in purple and orange talks on the phone. She doesn't lower her voice to suit her surroundings, but instead addresses her threats to both the unfortunate person on the phone as well as anyone unlucky enough to catch her eye.
AFRICAN WOMAN:
You go out an' you buy for me the chocolate and the flower - I wan' roses and tulips and the 'oneybirds - all these, everythin' in the flower. You got 'alf a day to get on it. You do it or I'll clap you roun' your fuckin' 'ead.
An' I wan' champagne, the real kind, not dem copies, the real stuff. You got 'alf a day - you spen' your money 'cause you ain't gonna spen' it when you're dead an' you ain't gonna give it to chari'y! I be thinkin' 'bout that champagne and dem flower all day - you don't get 'em for me, I gonna drop you like a piece o' shit. Thass right, I clap you roun' your fuckin' 'ead. You better 'ave 'em by tonight or you in big trouble.
I've never found the wall of a bus so intriguing.
09 July 2010
In the Beginning
Ah Memmingen
You know how I don't like to swear? Well fuck this fucking town, its fucking airport and its fucking expensive hotels! Highway robbery!
Ryanair - Germany to London for approximately €65. Airport- Memmingen, Munich.
Actually Memmingen is not a part of Munich at all. Instead, it's a 90 minute bus ride out to a little town on the edge of Bavaria! The airport is so frelling small - it's literally one long room with check in counter on th left, then cafe, departure gates and toilets. The last flight left at 20:15 and then the airport shut. It's fuckin raining too and 10 degrees, or we'd go sleep in a churchyard. So we took a taxi (Gods damn tipping) to an expensive hotel (not by choice - apparently the taxi driver thought it was cheap). There we were swindled - a small room for about €90. It included a breakfast that we couldn't have because we had to leave so early.
All the money saved from the ticket has been spent twice over. I hate you Memmingen and you, Ryanair, with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
I would take time in a dozen airports over this frelling bollocks.
LONDON
For Fuck's sake, not again. Get into London Stansted, go to ATM, 200 pounds please, okay, checking card, taking money, here you are, card and cash.
Got the card, where's the cash? The frelling ATM took my money but didn't give me any money! That's at least $450 NZ that's no longer in my account! Fucketty fuck.
LONDON PROPER
Took the bus to Liverpool Street Station. Bunnies alongside the motorway! All the houses look the same. Had to kill time until we could head to Peter's flat in the evening, where we would stay for a week. He is an old friend of Mum's and he's a great guy, letting us stay in his place for free.
In town we bought Oyster cards - what Wellington's Snapper is based on - and took the bus to Trafalger Square, past Fleet Street, Oxford Street and Regent Street. Monopoly means so much more now.
There was a Hare Krishna festival on so we had a free feed and Paul came away with some educational reading. He caught up with a friend while I went to a pub for a beer and fish & chips. I watched the soccer as NZ tied with Italy! Second to bottom of th competition tied with the World Champs. Ahaha. I know this is out of date now, but it's still cool (we got more points than them too)!
Watched the Best of Mr. Bean on TV. I love this show. Good ol' England.
You know how I don't like to swear? Well fuck this fucking town, its fucking airport and its fucking expensive hotels! Highway robbery!
Ryanair - Germany to London for approximately €65. Airport- Memmingen, Munich.
Actually Memmingen is not a part of Munich at all. Instead, it's a 90 minute bus ride out to a little town on the edge of Bavaria! The airport is so frelling small - it's literally one long room with check in counter on th left, then cafe, departure gates and toilets. The last flight left at 20:15 and then the airport shut. It's fuckin raining too and 10 degrees, or we'd go sleep in a churchyard. So we took a taxi (Gods damn tipping) to an expensive hotel (not by choice - apparently the taxi driver thought it was cheap). There we were swindled - a small room for about €90. It included a breakfast that we couldn't have because we had to leave so early.
All the money saved from the ticket has been spent twice over. I hate you Memmingen and you, Ryanair, with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
I would take time in a dozen airports over this frelling bollocks.
LONDON
For Fuck's sake, not again. Get into London Stansted, go to ATM, 200 pounds please, okay, checking card, taking money, here you are, card and cash.
Got the card, where's the cash? The frelling ATM took my money but didn't give me any money! That's at least $450 NZ that's no longer in my account! Fucketty fuck.
LONDON PROPER
Took the bus to Liverpool Street Station. Bunnies alongside the motorway! All the houses look the same. Had to kill time until we could head to Peter's flat in the evening, where we would stay for a week. He is an old friend of Mum's and he's a great guy, letting us stay in his place for free.
In town we bought Oyster cards - what Wellington's Snapper is based on - and took the bus to Trafalger Square, past Fleet Street, Oxford Street and Regent Street. Monopoly means so much more now.
There was a Hare Krishna festival on so we had a free feed and Paul came away with some educational reading. He caught up with a friend while I went to a pub for a beer and fish & chips. I watched the soccer as NZ tied with Italy! Second to bottom of th competition tied with the World Champs. Ahaha. I know this is out of date now, but it's still cool (we got more points than them too)!
Watched the Best of Mr. Bean on TV. I love this show. Good ol' England.
14 June 2010
In Which We Saw Some Things and Screamed a Lot
I won't have photos until tomorrow so I shall add them to Facebook and make this entry nice and pretty later. For now, perhaps I'll just stick with a list. You can always google image them yourself if you want to be jealous early.
On Wednesday Paul and I spent our first day in Berlin. We saw:
On Wednesday Paul and I spent our first day in Berlin. We saw:
- Brandenburger Tor
- Bundestag (parliament)
- The memorial for homosexuals killed in concentration camps.
- The Jewish memorial.
- Tiergarten (the huge park in the centre of the city).
- Siegesäule (the big statue which was almost entirely covered by scaffolding)
- Wilhelm I Memorial church
- The Berlin Wall
- Checkpoint Charlie
- The memorial for Soviets killed during WWII
- Bellevue Stately Home (they say castle, but it's really just a flash house).
- Topographie des Terrors (Topography of Terror exhibition - Nazis in Berlin)
- Jewish Museum - a history of the Jews in Germany beginning in the Middle Ages
- Berlin Cathedral
We spent about 12 hours in the city. There is pollen everywhere. If you were asthmatic or allergic, you would not survive Berlin in summer. The spores cover the ground like snow. In the Tiergarten, there are pockets of nude sunbathers. I don't care really, it doesn't harm me, but it does show th differences in the countries. Imagine trying to sunbathe nude in the Auckland Domain!
We got a lift to Berlin from mitfahrgelegenheit.de - a website that is basically organised hitch-hiking. You search for people going to the same place, where to get picked up from, how much it costs (Munich to Berlin €30, whilst the train tickets start at €60) and then you go. It has the possibility to be dodgy, so Paul and I now own pepper spray, just in case (from the American shop). No problems yet though. The autobahn is cool. It's basically a straight line with the occasional curve, so one can see why it would never work in such a hilly place as NZ. The trip to Berlin took just over four hours - Mercedes Benz, 180 km/h! People hardly seem to indicate on the Autobahn, but getting one's licence takes so much more work here than in NZ. You have to be 18 and it costs approximately €1000 or something expensive anyway. There are lots of classes and tests involved too. Apparently, Paul's classes were disturbed to hear how easily NZers get their licences.
Wednesday night, we went to the hostel bar to play pool. Met some lovely Finnish people, Jenni and Juha, and had drinks with them (as well as a long conversation from 2-4am!) We hung out in Berlin the next day, visiting the East Side Gallery (artworks on the Wall), the German History Museum, the Berlin Aquarium (with SNAKES, Mum - and some tuataras from Victoria University). We went to a restaurant with a rude waitress (I refuse to tip you if you are unnecessarily grumpy) and I had some potato soup. It was about 32 degrees (89.6 Fahrenheit) that Thursday. Later we all went out to Plaza Toro, a mexican place outside our hostel (off Landsberger Allee, for future reference) and had cocktails and card games. I had a cubre libre which I am positive was purely rum with a hint of cola and lime for flavouring. Good night though!
On Friday the Fins left and Paul and I went out on our own once again. We saw the DDR museum and the Berlin Film Museum. Then we went flag hunting. This took way longer than it should have. We wanted a NZ flag for the upcoming World Cup, but there were none to be found anywhere. We encountered many rude Germans though.
One woman, when politely asked what kind of country flags they sold, replied "There are lots of different ones outside, I'm not sure which ones exactly and I don't want to go and check." And that was it. She promptly turned back to her magazine. Even the FLAG SHOP didn't have NZ flags and despite the fact that there was no one else in the store besides Paul and I, and we were clearly looking for something, the guys running the place didn't pay us ANY attention!
We eventually found a flag (small, paper) at the Checkpoint Charlie store. We went to a rugged Kiwi pub that night, which sold Flame, Tui, Export Gold and Monteiths. Fear not Dylan, it also had German beer. Spoke to a rather cheery, racist, old-fashioned American from Missouri (who also voted for Obama) and convinced the bartender that Paul was really called Rangi, from Huia. I showed off my beer knowledge and we didn't stay too long.
I went to the public square in Burghausen last night to watch Germany demolish Australia 4-0. They have these rituals that they do whenever someone scores. There's an MC guy with a mic, who says: GOAL! Everyone cheers. MC: *first name of whoever scored* Everyone: *last name* MC: *first name* EVERYONE: *last name* MC: Deutschland! EVERYONE: Heil! MC: Australia! E: Buuuu! MC: Danke! E: Bitte!
Looking forward to Tuesday's game, even if we do lose.
05 June 2010
The One in which We Went Back in Time, and I Noticed Some Things
Things I have noticed since travelling to Germany:
(1) The keyboards on computers are different. Thankfully they have keys for all the umlauted letters, but the 'Z' and the 'Y' have swapped places. Some of the punctuation marks are in different places too, such as '?' and apostrophes require one to hold down shift, which is way annoying. Paul's keyboard was recently attacked by coffee, and is still recovering. Any spelling mistakes are mostly due to buttons not recognising that they have been pushed.
(2) The pedestrian crossings do not have buttons to push. The lights are always active, whether someone is there or not. Also, they don't make much noise to alert you that they are green, so you had better be paying attention.
(3) The German phrase for breaking up with your boyfriend or girlfriend is "auf der Mond schießen" or "shoot to the moon." In Germany, you flick them to the moon when th relationship is over.
(4) Broadband is super fast. You can load up a video page, push play and be certain that the video will load faster than you can watch it.
**FUN FACT** As I type this, I am drinking Sprite and eating Nutella with a spoon.
(5) Burghausen has an "American Shop". Guess what it sells?
(1) The keyboards on computers are different. Thankfully they have keys for all the umlauted letters, but the 'Z' and the 'Y' have swapped places. Some of the punctuation marks are in different places too, such as '?' and apostrophes require one to hold down shift, which is way annoying. Paul's keyboard was recently attacked by coffee, and is still recovering. Any spelling mistakes are mostly due to buttons not recognising that they have been pushed.
(2) The pedestrian crossings do not have buttons to push. The lights are always active, whether someone is there or not. Also, they don't make much noise to alert you that they are green, so you had better be paying attention.
(3) The German phrase for breaking up with your boyfriend or girlfriend is "auf der Mond schießen" or "shoot to the moon." In Germany, you flick them to the moon when th relationship is over.
(4) Broadband is super fast. You can load up a video page, push play and be certain that the video will load faster than you can watch it.
**FUN FACT** As I type this, I am drinking Sprite and eating Nutella with a spoon.
(5) Burghausen has an "American Shop". Guess what it sells?
That's right Weapons. Lots and lots of weapons. And lighters, NY caps and naturally, guns.
(6) The rumours are true. You can buy beer everywhere. Vending machines, petrol stations, movie theatres, McDonalds. Pretty much anywhere. At the petrol station, there are mini bottles of Jägermeister right next to the chocolate bars and packets of gum. And they cost about NZ$10 for 300ml. 750ml costs NZ$20. In NZ, 750ml of Jägermeister costs around $35. 500ml of beer, when bought from retail stores, costs aout NZ$3. They better have strict drunk-driving rules.
(7) 
Spaghettieis is available in Burghausen, but they only do the simple version (without the chocolate icecream 'meatballs'). It was good. The texture was a bit strange but it looked cool and tasted great. It was vanilla ice cream, raspberry sauce and white chocolate shavings. And a wafer.
Paul and I got up early on Wednesday morning to go to Munich. Set us back €30, but it was for both there and back. 'Twas all very easy except for the part when the train was going to leave in five minutes and we hadn't yet bought our tickets, and there was a man in front who couldn't have taken longer if he'd been a turtle with arthritis. But we held our tongues. We're determined to be foreigners with ettiquette.
The tour to Dachau left at 12:30pm. We took the bus to the town, which is twenty minutes from Munich and houses about 40,000 people. The sky was growing darker as we approached and rain eventually fell upon us, setting an appropriately dreary mood. The camp itself retains quite a few of the original buildings, including the gas chambers and incinerators. The camp site and museum were thought-provoking and respectful, although I had to wonder at the poor taste of a "No Smoking" sign outside the crematorium building.
I also learnt that it is compulsory in Bavaria for German students to visit a concentration camp at least once during their schooling. It is recommended for students in other states to do so as well, but is not compulsory as of yet.
More photos can be found on facebook. None of the photos have me in them because I thought it would be in poor taste to 'pose' at a memorial site such as this.
The guide was informative and everybody seemed appropriately contemplative, except for one fat man who kept getting in the way of everyone's photos.
Heading home, we were playing 'Last Card' on the train. We were sitting next to a blonde girl and lamenting the fact that we hadn't made any travelling buddies to whom we could teach our game. Said blonde girl revealed she could speak English, her name was Theresa and that she came from Tanzania. Apparently 'Last Card' is almost exactly the same as a German game called 'Mau-Mau'. So we played card games on the train together.
On June 8, we are going to Berlin for four days. This weekend we may be heading to Salzburg, via Fucking. I promise to buy and photograph the light beer from the area, "Fucking Hell".
01 June 2010
Kuchen und Bier und eine Burg
Saturday was my "Exploring München" day. Frühstück with Alina's friend was cancelled so we eventually left the house around 12:30pm. This might seem like a waste of time to any New Zealander, but that's the thing that I still am not used to. The European Summer. It hasn't yet grown too hot, but it's light until 9:30pm. At 5pm it feels like midday. It's very different.
We caught a tram and a train to Marienplatz, and considering how often we use public transport, I'm glad it's "free". Photos to follow on facebook. I saw Marienplatz, die Frauenkirche, Odeonsplatz, an Englische Garten and Leopoldsstraße - where there was a huge street party taking place! Very cool.
Munich has a population the size of Auckland, but the city feels so much bigger. I'm sorry to anyone reading this, but I really adore beautiful architecture, so lots of my photos are of buildings. Albeit, I did take a cool picture in the Frauenkirche of "der Teufelsfußabdruck" - the devil's footprint, where the devil apparently stood in the church before he was banishd by whatever Pope was being papal at the time.
We spent all day out and eventually had dinner at 9pm in a traditional Bayerisch (Bavarian) restaurant. I had a goulash meal with some strange buttery pasta stuff. It was really big and ridiculously filling.
And yes, Dylan, I had a 500ml glass of Radler. It was a good balance between beer and lemonade with a nice lime aftertaste. The head on these beers is quite intense and you have to wade through quite a bit of head before you get to the beer, but it keeps it fizzy for longer. As it should be.
Sunday: we went to see Paul's friend Jamie - who really loves Michael Jackson, New Zealand and Lord of the Rings - for lunch. Lunch was good and there was lots of German conversation - that I listened to.
Afterwards Paul and I left for Burghausen. It's in the wops of Bavaria. But the Altstadt (the old part of town) is really pretty. It sits next to the river Salzsach, so-named because of the huge barges that traveled the river with salt cargoes - back in Roman and medieval times, when salt was an expensive commodity. Austria is just on the other side of the bridge that crosses the river - I went there last night whilst looking for somewhere to eat. I have seen the castle that sits above the town and have partaken in cake (strawberry cream cake) and beer (helles Lager).
Tomorrow we are taking the train into Munich to go on a third reich tour Dachau is only twenty minutes out of town. Photos later tonight on Facebook. Promise.
We caught a tram and a train to Marienplatz, and considering how often we use public transport, I'm glad it's "free". Photos to follow on facebook. I saw Marienplatz, die Frauenkirche, Odeonsplatz, an Englische Garten and Leopoldsstraße - where there was a huge street party taking place! Very cool.
Munich has a population the size of Auckland, but the city feels so much bigger. I'm sorry to anyone reading this, but I really adore beautiful architecture, so lots of my photos are of buildings. Albeit, I did take a cool picture in the Frauenkirche of "der Teufelsfußabdruck" - the devil's footprint, where the devil apparently stood in the church before he was banishd by whatever Pope was being papal at the time.
We spent all day out and eventually had dinner at 9pm in a traditional Bayerisch (Bavarian) restaurant. I had a goulash meal with some strange buttery pasta stuff. It was really big and ridiculously filling.
And yes, Dylan, I had a 500ml glass of Radler. It was a good balance between beer and lemonade with a nice lime aftertaste. The head on these beers is quite intense and you have to wade through quite a bit of head before you get to the beer, but it keeps it fizzy for longer. As it should be.
Sunday: we went to see Paul's friend Jamie - who really loves Michael Jackson, New Zealand and Lord of the Rings - for lunch. Lunch was good and there was lots of German conversation - that I listened to.
Afterwards Paul and I left for Burghausen. It's in the wops of Bavaria. But the Altstadt (the old part of town) is really pretty. It sits next to the river Salzsach, so-named because of the huge barges that traveled the river with salt cargoes - back in Roman and medieval times, when salt was an expensive commodity. Austria is just on the other side of the bridge that crosses the river - I went there last night whilst looking for somewhere to eat. I have seen the castle that sits above the town and have partaken in cake (strawberry cream cake) and beer (helles Lager).
Tomorrow we are taking the train into Munich to go on a third reich tour Dachau is only twenty minutes out of town. Photos later tonight on Facebook. Promise.
Death by Flying Coins
Here follows "actual Europe". As requested. (29/5)
Ow. Headache.
My hair is poofy. Very poofy. It has "volume". It was worse yesterday after I washed it. I guess it's the different climate. I had it cut short for the sake of not needing to get it cut whilst in a non-English speaking country, but it seems to have doubled in size.
The napping on th plane did not work as a woman in front of me wanted to put her chair back as far as it would go, until it was on my head. How far back to those things go?
Excuse me, mam, but your seat is in my supper.
The flight from Singapore to Munich was really long. I noticed every hour going by and when I thought I had been asleep for ages, it had only been twenty minutes! And then it was all pain and fidgeting. I did watch these two interesting foreign films, and ye-gods, did I just use the term foreign to describe non-Hollywood movies? It must be the jet-lag.
(1) Exam. A British film, by a Mr. Hazel-something.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1258197/
An interesting film on social reaction experiments. Reminded me of Das Experiment. Some of the acting was only so-so, but the characters were interesting. More proof that Hollywood isn't making the interesting movies.
(2) 14 Blades. Chinese.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1442571/
It was like Lone Wolf and Cub meets Wuxia Pan. It was crazy.
By the by, Munich airport doesn't sem to have any immigration checks or declaration of goods. If anyone wanted to smuggle something in, I don't know where they'd stop you. A guy checked my passport but I didn't get a stamp. I'm technically not here.
Staying with brother's girlfriend Alina. Her place is nice, modern and cosy. Paul speaks only German with her and she speaks only German to me. I can follow her well enough, but at the moment, replying is difficult. I'm either responding with only a few words at a time or in well-constructed sentences a few minutes after she asked the question. There's usually an awkward silence or two. Thankfully, I'm not thinking too much about my sentence construction, but my vocab needs to catch up. But I can follow a conversation okay.
Also, I have not asked anyone the way to the train station yet. Although if I did, I wouldn't need them to show me how to get a ticket, because apparently they are unnecessary. According to some. That said, Munich is expensive and we take public transport all the time. On tram ride, for the whole of two blocks, costs €2,40. That's NZ$4.80! Ridiculous.
Also, people seem to throw money at you. Paul and I picked up breakfast before catching the train. After I paid my money, the woman behind the counter flung the change into this little glass square with a depression in the middle that sits atop the counter. One must reach up to gather the coins out of the bowl, whilst avoiding customers. It's troublesome.
Also, things I've noticed about Germany: the dawn chorus of birdsong starts at 3:30am.
(New Yu-Gi-Oh Abridged update!)
Ow. Headache.
My hair is poofy. Very poofy. It has "volume". It was worse yesterday after I washed it. I guess it's the different climate. I had it cut short for the sake of not needing to get it cut whilst in a non-English speaking country, but it seems to have doubled in size.
The napping on th plane did not work as a woman in front of me wanted to put her chair back as far as it would go, until it was on my head. How far back to those things go?
Excuse me, mam, but your seat is in my supper.
The flight from Singapore to Munich was really long. I noticed every hour going by and when I thought I had been asleep for ages, it had only been twenty minutes! And then it was all pain and fidgeting. I did watch these two interesting foreign films, and ye-gods, did I just use the term foreign to describe non-Hollywood movies? It must be the jet-lag.
(1) Exam. A British film, by a Mr. Hazel-something.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1258197/
An interesting film on social reaction experiments. Reminded me of Das Experiment. Some of the acting was only so-so, but the characters were interesting. More proof that Hollywood isn't making the interesting movies.
(2) 14 Blades. Chinese.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1442571/
It was like Lone Wolf and Cub meets Wuxia Pan. It was crazy.
By the by, Munich airport doesn't sem to have any immigration checks or declaration of goods. If anyone wanted to smuggle something in, I don't know where they'd stop you. A guy checked my passport but I didn't get a stamp. I'm technically not here.
Staying with brother's girlfriend Alina. Her place is nice, modern and cosy. Paul speaks only German with her and she speaks only German to me. I can follow her well enough, but at the moment, replying is difficult. I'm either responding with only a few words at a time or in well-constructed sentences a few minutes after she asked the question. There's usually an awkward silence or two. Thankfully, I'm not thinking too much about my sentence construction, but my vocab needs to catch up. But I can follow a conversation okay.
Also, I have not asked anyone the way to the train station yet. Although if I did, I wouldn't need them to show me how to get a ticket, because apparently they are unnecessary. According to some. That said, Munich is expensive and we take public transport all the time. On tram ride, for the whole of two blocks, costs €2,40. That's NZ$4.80! Ridiculous.
Also, people seem to throw money at you. Paul and I picked up breakfast before catching the train. After I paid my money, the woman behind the counter flung the change into this little glass square with a depression in the middle that sits atop the counter. One must reach up to gather the coins out of the bowl, whilst avoiding customers. It's troublesome.
Also, things I've noticed about Germany: the dawn chorus of birdsong starts at 3:30am.
(New Yu-Gi-Oh Abridged update!)
31 May 2010
Auckland Airport Needs a Butterfly Garden
28 May.
I don't like airports. I don't really enjoy being stuck in a loud, crowded place that feels dreary and dirty. I can't go anywhere. It's an enforcd pause. The thing about the word 'pause' is that it implies (at least to me) a kind of relaxation, the same kind of relaxation that is amiss in airports. In Auckland, I always feel that I'm just waiting around for so long, yet when I finlly get anywhere, it's all so anticlimatic. I'm nervous about checking my bags and going to the gate for domestic flights, as though my insecurity and punctuality are warring inside my head. I don't mind flying (except for the lack of legroom but I'm not about to pay an extra 5000 dollars just for some leg space). It's just that airports fill me with anxiety, whether I'm flying international or domestic.
Or so I thought. Maybe it's just Auckland. Although I don't remember Sydney being all that nice. However, Singapore airport seems quite nice. I didn't even go to the mall part. The air-conditioning is a blessing - it's 33 degrees celsius at 7:30pm! The skycars that travel between the terminals awaken the writer and sci-fi fan in me. They're so slick and snazzy looking. Also, the airport is remarkably quiet, save the iPod buzzing in my ears. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it's nighttime on a Thursday, this airport is massive and it isn't a holiday of any kind. Perhaps. That said, it doesn't have the claustrophobic feeling of Auckland airport. It's clean and perfumed (smells a bit like Jessie's perfume) and the trolley carts are Segues! Heck, I'd go so far as to say, "It's nice".
Now that I'm slightly more at ease, I must say that "travelators" are silly. Perhaps they're useful for the elderly or small children, but when a healthy adult rides along it and I can out pace him whilst walking on the carpet, it's just silly. Or when people grab a trolley, load it up with their bags and then step on the "travelator", it makes me a little sad to see that people can be that lazy. The trolley is already doing most of the work for you. And what's with the people who get on the things and then proceed to walk along them? If you are going to be silly enough to use them, at least use them properly. Yes I am that contradictory.
The man who was praying in front of the window has just left. If I were a paranoid person (and a racist) I might htink that things were going to go boom.
But I'm not paranoid.
I'm cynical.
On happier notes, on the plane I watched Doctor Who, The Big Bang Theory, and Attack the Gas Station! Read about a third of The Whisperers, the new John Connolly novel. No Gaiman/Pratchett yet, mostly because Connolly's book is less travel-friendly due to being much larger.
More fools on "travelators".
I have an apple in my bag. I'm growing hungry again - gods know why; I ate less than two hours ago and it should be 12:10am on my body clock. Curious to see if I can get it to Germany. Probably get nicked by some hungry customs officer, although it's quite possible that it's only NZ that is that paranoid about bio-security.
Thanks to everyone for the nice farewell texts.
Had enough with th air-con now. I'm chilly.
I don't like airports. I don't really enjoy being stuck in a loud, crowded place that feels dreary and dirty. I can't go anywhere. It's an enforcd pause. The thing about the word 'pause' is that it implies (at least to me) a kind of relaxation, the same kind of relaxation that is amiss in airports. In Auckland, I always feel that I'm just waiting around for so long, yet when I finlly get anywhere, it's all so anticlimatic. I'm nervous about checking my bags and going to the gate for domestic flights, as though my insecurity and punctuality are warring inside my head. I don't mind flying (except for the lack of legroom but I'm not about to pay an extra 5000 dollars just for some leg space). It's just that airports fill me with anxiety, whether I'm flying international or domestic.
Or so I thought. Maybe it's just Auckland. Although I don't remember Sydney being all that nice. However, Singapore airport seems quite nice. I didn't even go to the mall part. The air-conditioning is a blessing - it's 33 degrees celsius at 7:30pm! The skycars that travel between the terminals awaken the writer and sci-fi fan in me. They're so slick and snazzy looking. Also, the airport is remarkably quiet, save the iPod buzzing in my ears. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it's nighttime on a Thursday, this airport is massive and it isn't a holiday of any kind. Perhaps. That said, it doesn't have the claustrophobic feeling of Auckland airport. It's clean and perfumed (smells a bit like Jessie's perfume) and the trolley carts are Segues! Heck, I'd go so far as to say, "It's nice".
Now that I'm slightly more at ease, I must say that "travelators" are silly. Perhaps they're useful for the elderly or small children, but when a healthy adult rides along it and I can out pace him whilst walking on the carpet, it's just silly. Or when people grab a trolley, load it up with their bags and then step on the "travelator", it makes me a little sad to see that people can be that lazy. The trolley is already doing most of the work for you. And what's with the people who get on the things and then proceed to walk along them? If you are going to be silly enough to use them, at least use them properly. Yes I am that contradictory.
The man who was praying in front of the window has just left. If I were a paranoid person (and a racist) I might htink that things were going to go boom.
But I'm not paranoid.
I'm cynical.
On happier notes, on the plane I watched Doctor Who, The Big Bang Theory, and Attack the Gas Station! Read about a third of The Whisperers, the new John Connolly novel. No Gaiman/Pratchett yet, mostly because Connolly's book is less travel-friendly due to being much larger.
More fools on "travelators".
I have an apple in my bag. I'm growing hungry again - gods know why; I ate less than two hours ago and it should be 12:10am on my body clock. Curious to see if I can get it to Germany. Probably get nicked by some hungry customs officer, although it's quite possible that it's only NZ that is that paranoid about bio-security.
Thanks to everyone for the nice farewell texts.
Had enough with th air-con now. I'm chilly.
24 May 2010
Silly Hats Abound!
It's getting really close now.
On Thursday I'll leave the only country I've ever really known. 10 days in Japan and 2 weeks in Australia do not compare to a one way ticket to Europe. I don't even know what to think, what to feel. It's all kind of numb. I'm hoping that it's a happy kind of numb, rather than a what-have-I-gotten-myself-into kind of numb. Although, I guess I'll only really know when I'm in Singapore, all far away and by myself.
So until then, there's only the waiting.
Out of the flat and into my Mum's house. It's really quiet here. I watch tv for the sake of something to do. I like my mum and it's nice being at home, relaxing and not going to work (it's the not paying rent part that I like the most). Yet it is so different from the social hub that was my flat. Even when I was home alone, as was common in the week leading up to graduation, it still felt as though I was connected to people. Now I find myself surfing facebook compulsively, for the sake of familiar faces and familiar syntax.
By the by, I graduated last week. I wore a silly square hat and an ungainly gown, neither of which fitted properly and if it wasn't for the family heritage I would have been all the more bothered. As it was, I was just a little irritated.
However, I didn't fall over, my hat didn't tumble off my head, and I didn't sneeze or spray other bodily fluids pre-hand shaking.
'Twas sad. I hadn't really prepared myself mentally to say goodbye to everyone and then we were each being swept away by over-excited family members, and there were only brief hat tips and little gifts and very, very sad cards.
So now I am trying to meet up with people in Aucky, saying goodbye and whatnot.
I think I have forgotten more German than can be good for me, especially prior to a trip to Germany. I have demanded Spaghettieis from my brother and his forgiveness for my sleep-deprivation-induced-uncoordination. That was a great word. Pity the days of academic essays are behind me. Though with all those hyphens, it'd probably only count as one word, and therefore not be of any REAL use.
Well then. I should mention Bones = *tear* and Doctor Who = damn two parters of which you won't be able to see the end.
Anyhoo, Tally-ho and away I go.
05 May 2010
In which a lot of clouds and one girl's grief make inspiration.
Patient clouds in slow descent.
Electricity in the air – a clash between silence and emotion.
A grey veil covers the world,
All grief is made equal by a cold,
Egalitarian haze.
Surrender,
Relinquish,
Resurface.
Electricity in the air – a clash between silence and emotion.
A grey veil covers the world,
All grief is made equal by a cold,
Egalitarian haze.
Surrender,
Relinquish,
Resurface.
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