BootsnAll Travel Network



Zakopane: Tips

October 28th, 2005

We were crushed like sardines into a can on our bus from Stary Smokovec to Lysa Polana. It was a delapidated local bus, every seat was taken, and at least twenty people packed the aisles. Lysa Polana was about an hour away, sitting just on the Slovakian side of the Slovak-Polish border. We survived the crush, left the bus, and walked from one country into another; an experience that was way less scary than I thought. Once across the border, we waited for a local bus to take us another hour to Zakopane, a moutain resort town at the Northern foot of the High Tatras. Seated a few metres up the road, also waiting for a bus we assumed were the same three hikers we’d shared the mountain chalet with two nights earlier. After about 15 minutes, a maxi-taxi pulled up and the other three got in.

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Photos: Vysoke Tatry

October 21st, 2005

The hike. You know what I’m talking about….

Snow. Wow, hey look, there’s some snow. Man, I hope we get to see some more later.view image

The Path Ahead. Walking up a valley between two huge mountain ranges. Cool.view image

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Vysoke Tatry: Snow at 1700

October 21st, 2005

I pointed to the three dimensional map; “How long to hike this section?”

“5 to 6 hours” the old guy in the mountain hiking information centre replied. “But the snow line is down at 1700 metres. This chalet,” he pointed to the mountain chalet we were thinking of staying in, “is at 1960 metres. And this peak,” he moved his finger to the highest peak we would have to pass, “is over 2300 metres.”

“Hmmmm,” I put my thumb and forefinger to my chin, and pushed my eyes skywards. “Well, you see, I don’t really have any hiking shoes. All I have are these,” I lifted my ankle up with my hand, showing off my every day low-cut shoes, the ones that got me safely up and down Mount Vogel in Slovenia. The old man looked at my shoes, then turned his eyes to me, doubt screaming out from his silent face. “Not so good?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Snow up to here.” Here was where he put his hand, which was just below his knee. Yikes.

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Photos: Hungary (and Kosice)

October 17th, 2005

More pics, and the stories behind these ones might even be fresh in your minds, unlike that batch form Slovenia…

Poi Master. Dylan doing poi. In the background is the hostel owner Atilla, doing wakeless wakeboarding. What’s that? What’s wakeless wakeboarding? Well, you’re towed around on a wire that does laps of the lake, with a jump and a rail along the way for tricks. We spent an afternoon watching him go round in circles – pretty cool actually.view image

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Košice: Ghost Town

October 17th, 2005

From Eger, Bec and I planned to head north, across the Slovakian border, and to the city of Košice. Unsure whether to get a train or a bus, we sussed out the options for both. We tracked down a train time table at the tourist information centre, but none of the departure times were particularly suitable, and each inolved a couple of transfers over what should have only been a four hour journey. At the bus station, we wrote down ´Košice´ and the next days date on a scrap of paper, and showed it to the Hungarian speaking attendant. She shook her head, ´No Košice. Miskolc.´

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Photos: Slovenia

October 17th, 2005

Righto, I’ve put a couple of sweet photos up on our Flickr website (link on the right somewhere). And for your own entertainment I’ve put some of the not so sweet ones up here for you to check out. No need to thank me…

Basketball Buddy. Me and my new mate Borut, who filled me in on all the stars of the Slovenian basketball team.view image

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Eger: Valley of the Beautiful Women

October 16th, 2005

After a week in Budapest, partying at the Backpack Guesthouse, we needed to get back to some normalcy – a bit of quiet, a private room, and cheap, cheap wine. Where else to go but Eger, two and a half hours northeast of Budapest, and home of the famous Bull’s Blood red wine, so it was there that Bec and I journeyed on October 11th.

About a twenty minute walk from the centre of Eger, a town of about 60,000 or so, is the wonderfully named Valley of the Beautiful Women. Here, amongst all the lookers, are at least 100 wine cellars standing side by side, each making their own wine on site and selling it dirt cheap to anyone walking past. We had been told that you could take empty plastic bottles to the cellars, and the owners would gladly fill them up for you. Almost disbelieving, Bec and I emptied a couple of water bottles, and walked through the late afternoon sunshine towards the valley, a bit of a spring in our steps. The guidebook we had mentioned something like the following when talking about the valley, “The number of cellars can be overwhelming. Cellars 6, 8, 16, 17, 25, and 45 are always popular, but numbers 5, 13, 18, 23, 31, 32, 42, and 44 have better wines.” This sounded like our sort of valley.

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Budapest: Water, Fire, and the Backpack Guesthouse

October 15th, 2005

I haven’t stayed at a whole lot of hostels in my time. So far on this trip, Bec and I have mostly bunkered down in private rooms, enjoying the, er, privacy. Budapest was a different story though. A friend of mine who had travelled through Eastern Europe just a few months earlier (and who is now in Africa, and spent a week tracking gorillas not too long ago. Tough life, I know) recommended a hostel in Buda, a bit out of the city, called the Backpack Guesthouse. And even with my limited experience sleeping in bunk beds trying to block out the snoring of my roommates, sharing a kitchen with 30 others, holding your hand on a button in the shower to keep the water flowing, and answering the same three questions over and over again; where are you from, where have you been, and where are you going, I’m positive that the Backpack Guesthouse in Budapest will go down as one of the greatest hostels I’ll ever stay in.

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Budapest: Who needs anaesthetic, anyway?

October 13th, 2005

Milo. When I was a youngin’ I used to eat it by the truckload. It’s a delicious, granulated choc-malt drinking powder, looks a bit like coffee, that you mix in with milk to make it chocolate flavoured. I wouldn’t mix it in of course, rather, I’d dump four or five heaped teaspoons of the stuff in a glass of milk, drink all the milk, and then eat the milo out of the bottom with the teaspoon. I could’ve eaten it straight from the tin, plunging my hand in like Winnie the Pooh dipping his hand in a pot of honey. Three years ago, after a typically chocolaty glass of milo, whilst staring in the mirror counting the freckles on my face, I noticed a glob of milo stuck to one of my back teeth. I swivelled my tongue over in the direction of the milo, expecting to get one more hit of milo goodness, and found nothing but the sharp edges of a big, black hole. I was eating the milo, but it was eating me, too.

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Budapest: Mirrors

October 9th, 2005

Before I tell you this story, let me first inform you of a strange fact about Budapest. Around the city, in the subway entrances, you can buy your train, bus and tram tickets from a person sitting behind mirrored glass. Why? I don’t know. But just be sure to keep that in mind as you read on.

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