JandalsnAll

Two and a half years ago, fresh from NZ on my first trip outside my country of birth, I stepped out of frankfurt airport and into a new world. As I took those first steps on foreign soil I felt something akin to debilitating panic take me over. Here I am in a strange land surrounded by strange people (of who I know nothing but for an unnatural obsession with cabbage and funny pants) who say strange things to me and who all think the same of me in return. How would I survive? And what if I had to go to the toilet??

Luckily, second time round, an experienced traveller by comparison, I landed in Dusseldorf armed with the German word for toilet, and thus was spared any feelings of culture shock as I caught a bus, then a taxi through the snow lined streets to Dusseldorf Backpackers.

It was at the hostel I first began to notice strange things…
1. The pillows were all big and square.
2. The lightswitches were all big and square.
3. The top of the glass doors would swing down towards you if you were silly enough to turn the handle more than exactly one quarter turn.

As I didnt recall any of these oddities from my first trip to Germany I at first put these down to the unique character of this hostel only. I was later to find these odd dimensions extended to nearly all pillow, lightswitch and door dimensions across the whole of Germany….

While in Dusseldorf, I did find time out frome examining interior fittings to indulge my artistic sensibilities at Dusseldorf’s excellent K21 Contemporary art gallery. Where upon my inadequacies when it comes to the German language were exposed. It is one thing to ask for a ticket, quite another to enquire as to the state of the contemporary art scene in Germany and its current position in a post-post-modern world…

I spent half my time at the gallery exploring the works, and the other half of the time with my mind occupied by the ‘click…click…click…click’ of the gallery attendant’s high-heels on the wooden floor behind me as she proceeded to follow me from one work to another. Eventually it became a sort of a game. I’d duck around a wall or down behind a sculpture and stifle giggles as her clicking footsteps became more and more frantic in her search for me, lest I start licking the paintings or straddling the sculptures. Theres nothing worse than the sound of high-heels when you are trying to consider the relevance of a resin leg protruding from a wall to the overall state of the modern world. It really should be mandatory for all gallery workers to wear slippers. Fluffy pink ones at that – then maybe theyd crack a smile once in a while (though I dont imagine a job that requires being in a constant state of painting -licker paranoia to be particularly ‘happy’ work).

I left Dusseldorf and its highheel weilding maniac behind the next day for the cathederal city of Koln, and the Station backpackers where all my lightswitch and pillow dimension suspicions were confirmed. Some may say I have a bad memory, but personally, I believe it more likely that over the last few years Germany has had a serious law reform regarding pillows, lightswitches and doors.

I set off shortly after arrival to view the world renowned cathederal, but what I was soon to find outside it was just as worthy of my attention. As I climbed the steps to the square surrounding the impressive Gothic building, a high pitched giggling arose from within a cluster of people across the way. I approached, intrigued, and caught a glimpse of something tan, something moving and wriggling and jiggling between the onlookers. I heard another explosion of giggles before I saw the source. A sack. No, a man in a giant sack. A giant laughing sack apparently. A button invited bemused passersby to stop and push, at which point the’sack’ would break into howls of laughter, which would quickly spread infectiously around the onlookers (as is the nature of laughter). Laughter in itself is an absurd thing when you stop and think about it. And here was a man dressed in a giant sack with holes cut out for his eyes laughing for his living.
As I dragged myself away, feeling I should at least give the cathederal a look rather than stand around all afternoon laughing with a man in a sack, I was left wondering how he came up with the idea and whether he ever laughs on his time off…

The interior of the cathedral was beautiful in the peaceful way cathederals are, the dim light filtering through multicoloured stained glass high above. To the right of the entrance I spotted an entry for the bell tower. Ah yes, the promise of spectacular views and the feeling of being ontop of the world. But how I would soon come to regret ever laying eyes on that sign of pure evil.
I began my ascent of the stone spiral staircase in high spirits and counting the stairs as I went to satisfy my obsessive compulsive ways. Somewhere after 100 I lost count as my brain responsibly began to rank certain things slightly more important that counting. Little things, like maintaining an upright position, and breathing. Another hour (or so it seemed) and I was praying for an end to the dizzying spiral imprisonment. At one point, I’ll admit, I considered turning around, but what if the end was just around the next bend? Or worse, what if everyone followed me and I deprived them of an experience that would be their best – or last? I couldnt have that on my conscience, so the only way was up. Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel and I emerged gasping into an open space, dragging my legs behind me and praying that my eyes did deceive me. I leaned against a wall and watched with a perverse sense of satisfaction as people behind me stumbled in, their expressions quickly changing from relief to undisguised horror as they too saw the staircase rising from the middle of the room. Here I was not alone in my suffering. I imagine perhaps this was used by the church as an ancient torture method for punishing the sinners. Send them up to ring the bells – if they made it back then God had forgiven them, if they perished then obviously their hearts were not pure.

Somehow by the will of God I made it up that final stairway to heaven to the bells and looking out over Koln I was rewarded with a glorious view of snow falling down on the city below. My first ever snowfall. It didnt seem to be settling, but not being experienced in the nature of such things, I did wonder if it might impede my exit from the tower, dooming me to a sinners death after all.

I made my way down with some difficulty, my jelly legs unwilling to offer me much support. I couldnt resist an inward smirk at the huffing puffing tourists on their way up, so innocent and unaware of the trials that lay ahead.
I later found out the staircase held 519 steps…I was one of the lucky ones.

That night I wandered the streets of Koln, which all oddly look the same. The same chain of clothing store, electrical appliances outlet, fast food restaurants on every street, their gaudy fluorescent signs serving to confuse me despite my ‘straight ahead, no turning alowwed’ street policy. A city full of German sausage lovers, Koln offered little of appeal to an anti-sausage campaigner such as myself. Determined not to help fund McDs quest for world domination, I instead settled for the equally u-German, and possibly equally-positioned-towards-world-domination Korean buffet.

Several greasy platefuls and one night later I caught a train to Manheim, from where I would be whisked away to Chateau Radetz, in the enigmatic town of Bohl-Iggelheim….

So here I find myself temporarily residing for the last week or so in Haggistown, the capital of the lovely Land of Haggis. Edinburgh (as it is known to the less immature), I can only describe as being grungily beautiful. The city is divided into the New Town and the Old Town (the Old Town being ‘old’ and the New Town, oddly enough being ‘new’, built to accomodate a growing population) between which run the Prince Street Gardens – once a stinking loch of human waste Im told, now a lovely place for a brisk stroll (just maybe dont be eating the dirt round here).

A mismatch of architectural styles, including but not restricted to Gothic, Classical, Contemporary and which also include other styles that might be Baroque or Renaissance or other things similarly old-sounding that I probably couldnt actually define even if I was forced to stand around in the Scottish winter wearing naught but a kilt and eat haggis. But there’s a real sense of history here, and a beauty that is not quite pure with its steep stairways, age-stained stone and dark archways.

To which of these aspects (the grunge or the beauty) to place the phenomenon of a massive Australian invasion I can not say, but the first few days I was here, I didnt hear one Scottish accent….just that lovely twang of our dear cousins from the north.

I spent the first night in a hostel (or as some, namely me, might call it an Aussiehouse) on The Royal Mile – the road that rolls down the hill from where Edinburgh castle sits royally on a rocky throne of volcanic rock, overlooking the city. Then I moved to a place called Globetotters which is out of town near the bay and with its shop, kitchen, gym, movie room etc is really more like a hotel, or even a town that anything else. I must say Im getting just a little too comfortable here..

My second day I spent wandering with an artist’s content through the four main art galleries of Edinburgh which are all free and therefore meet my budget (the castle at £10 did not meet my budget). The Portrait awards were amazing, and there were some interesting works at the Dean Modern Gallery, the rest as usual kindof all blended into one giant subtle-toned frilly-collared work I imagine might be called Portrait of Someone Royal holding StillLife in Landscape Somewhere Important.

Then after another day or so doing not much except watching helplessly as Edinburgh sucked away my NZ dollars, for some strange reason I decided to do a tour. I was a little apprehensive at first, imagining the worst to be a whisky guzzling, haggis-smearing, booze fest, but I shopped around and found a tour a little off the main backpacker radar that would take me to all the right places for not too wrong a price.

I was not to be disappointed. The tour was a 3day trek through the Highlands and the Isle of Skye run by Wild-inScotland. We set off on Saturday morning, a cosy group of only eight (maximum being 16), and I was relieved to see no obvious haggis-smearers nor obvious whiskey-guzzlers in the lineup. There was a couple from Singapore, an Aussie, two Srilankans, a Glasgowian and another KiwiChristchurchian. All in all a lovely bunch.

Our friendly tour guide drove our un-marked minivan through to Stirling on the first day, where we began our history lesson with the life and times of William Wallace (or Mel Gibson as some of us know him). From Stirling we made our way up the country in the shadow of the mighty Ben Nevis (highest mountain in Britain) and his neighbouring mountains to Signal Rock at Glencoe, the site of the chilling 1692 Glencoe Massacre (Signal Rock being where the signal was given for the English to massacre the town with no mercy).

From here we made our way further North following the Great Glen, past numerous picturesque lochs, learning more about the country, before arriving at our home for the next two nights in Plonkton.

Day two was by far my favourite as we took the Skye Bridge over the the Isle of Skye. The weather was just perfect (still frickin freezing but perfect) with blue skies and fluffy widdle clouds. We visited the main town of Portree for lunch then proceeded to one of my favourite places in the world…the Fairy Glen. The fairy glen is a valley is in the middle of nowhere, a number of grassy mounds surrounding a rocky fairy castle. From the top of the castle theres a great view of the landscape around, nothing but bare rolling land in greens and browns and yellows.

Now to the good part: the Brroownies. The ‘Broownie’ (roll that ‘rrr’) is Scotlands answer to the Irish leprechaun. a mischeivous little person with red hair who likes to run around in a kilt and resides here in the Fairy Glen. Rules for entering the Fairy Glen are: No hands in pockets (or the ‘brroownies’ think youre up to something), No swearing and No taking stuff. As we all know Ive had my fair share of bad luck with a certain Irish leprechaun and I was therefore fairly keen to stay out of this variations badbooks. It was a struggle in the near freezing conditions but I managed to keep my hands out of my pockets and left my notorious potty mouth back in the van. The way the winter evening light fell across the ‘castle’ sitting in the middle of a seeminly untouched natural landscape made the Fairy Glen a truly magical place.

With less than an hour of daylight left we made one last stop to catch the end of the sunset overlooking an area known as the Quiraing. A perfect end to a perfect day. Ahh.

Last day we headed back down the now icy country towards Edinburgh, past the totally scenic Eilean Donan Castle (complete with mirror reflection in the surrounding water) and on to the infamous LochNess. Where I unfortunately failed to see Nessie though I did take a few photos and Im pretty confident if I look closely enough he’ll be there in the background waving a flipper.

I returned to the hostel in Edinburgh feeling energised, having seen a part of this country that cannot be described as anything but awesome – in the true sense of the word. Tomorrow when I leave for Germany I’ll take with me a sense of Scotland’s spirit and history, and a clearer sense of another small part of my own ancestry.

So herein begins my ‘real’ trip. Ireland was baby steps really. Now I head into the wild European yonder to sample indigenous delicacies and provoke the locals with my twangy Kiwi accent.

Last Monday I took the ferry from Dublin port to Holyhead in Wales. From Holyhead I caught the train to Bangor, and then the bus to Caernafon, and in doing so learnt that I get more sick travelling on ferries than I do on buses, more sick on buses than I do on planes, and less sick on trains than any other mode of transport. I was under the impression that a boat that can carry cars would have little roll-to, but the ocean is a powerful beast obviously.

Caernarfon is a quaint town built inside the walls of an impressive castle on the cost of Wales. Yes, a quaint town which unbeknownst to me at the time of visiting, was the quaint location for a quaint mugging of a good friend of mine. I didnt see any muggers, maybe they were disguised as quaint villagers, but I did feel a little like I was being watched by the locals.

I was suprised at how commonly the Welsh language is spoken here. At first I tried to blend in by speaking gobbledygook into my cellphone, which only seemed to draw more stares (not to mention a few rocks), so in the end I decided to stop pretending and embrace the tourist within – oversized map in one hand, both straps of my backpack securely tightened over my shoulders.

There’s a certain freedom in letting go of ones inner tourist, and soon enough Id hung my camera round my neck and started walking slowly infront of the locals, stopping every now and then in the middle of the narrow footpaths to point and exclaim at a particularly curious food product or street sign, phonetically sounding out the welsh labelling in typical Kiwi twang. Incidentally, I found out early that if you say Caernafon as ‘Carn-a-fon’, you will get the authentic idiot tourist treatment. (Though I must say all my encounters with the Welsh proved them to be as friendly, if not more so than the Irish, which is saying something).

I stayed at the homely Totters hostel where I had a dorm room to myself – one of the advantages of travelling off-season. The hostess there was kind enough to give me some quick Welsh language tips. Incidentally again, Caernafon is correctly pronounced Ca-Narven. Of course it is.

Caernarfon Castle is worth the £4.75 entry. The middle is grassed over, but the structure itself has been restored and its possible to walk through the shell of the castle – through passage ways, along walls, up towers (guaranteed to give you jelly legs), imagining bumping into the Prince of Wales himself ‘Oh how do you do? Lovely day, yes loovely day. Tea and scone your majesty?’.

After Caernarfon, I headed down the west coast taking the Sherpa route to Beddgelert (Beth-gelert) then Porthmaddog (Port-maddog) to give myself a glimpse of Snowdonia. No, not the amazing funpark it sounds like, but a mountain range. From Porthmaddog to Aberystwth (Aber-wrist-with), on a train that went around the coast and had beautiful views – atlantic ocean stretching out on one side, Welsh coutryside on the other. Then I jumped on a bus to Fishguard (Fish-guard…) – why? mostly because it has sufficent vowel sounds to satisfy my needs. On the bus I chatted to a Welsh woman (the bus ladies in Wales are rather friendlier than their Irish counterparts) who told me I HAD to go to St Davids, which was handy since I previously had NO idea where I was going, and it conveniently met the vowel-sound quota – as if it was just meant to be…

So after having caught four buses and two trains I arrived after dark in Fishguard where I stayed at Hamilton Backpackers Lodge, also homely, and run by the friendly and well travelled Steve.

The next day, I caught a bus to St Davids, hoping the lovely Welsh lady was actually lovely and not just of a different variety of the Irish bus-lady – but maybe one who lulls you into a false sense of loveliness with her Welsh charm, though who ultimately has the same goal – that goal of course being to make my life miserable. But thankfully she was genuinely lovely and had not pointed me to the national Welsh dumping grounds, but to a beautiful medieval little town, with a cathedral and a ruined Bishop’s palace.

The bus ride itself did provide much Welsh scenery to be admired. We meandered along narrow roads lined with bare trees and down into valleys passing through tiny villages – just a few houses clustered here and there – and every now and then Id catch a glimpse of the coastline and the ocean beyond. I expect the area would be lovely in Summer, yet even at this time of year the landscape is dramatic for all its sparse ruggedness. Unfortunately when I did arrive at St Davids, there was a funeral on at the cathedral, and the ruins were under restoration, so I had to take a few un-intrusive photos from the outside.

The highlight of my day here though, was visiting Whitesands Bay, which (if you call ‘less-brown’ than everywhere else in the UK and Ireland ‘white’), did have white sand – and waves, just like home. In either direction from Whitesands, there is a coastal walk that stretches around the entire South-Western Welsh coast. I followed my guidebooks advice and walked 40 minutes or so in the bitter cold wind to the St David peninsula. I saw hardly anyone else as I walked, another advantage of travelling off-season. A disadvantage being the way the season turns every path to mush, leaving your new, probably innappropriate suede converse boots looking not so new at all.

Once used as a fort, you can still see the remains of a guarding stone wall, and Neolithic stone circle huts on the rocky outcrop known as St Davids head, beyond which the ocean stretches out endlessly and un-scarred by any land at all. The day was overcast and wild and as with Irish landscapes, you can feel the history in Wales, like there are ghosts on the wind… The feeling remains the same though the ground surface itself varies – here in Wales an endless blanket of olive green is interspersed with blue grey rock and rusty orange bracken. In places like this I remember I love being by the coast and in the middle of nowhere. I feel like I could walk forever, the chilled seabreeze and the surrounding nature energising me. Its the road that makes my feet ache and numbs my brain.

And yet it was the road I reluctantly took back, unwilling to sacrifice my new shoes to the hungry bog the rain had left behind in place of the walking tracks through the fields. Luckily I had chocolate onhand. Thats the great thing about walking, carrying around half a block of chocolate wrapped in foil and being completely justified in eating a square at a time…or a half-block at a time.. for energy reasons only…

I was aching when I arrived back at Hamilton Backpackers after more walking than Ive done in months. But it was a good ache, worth while to have explored another little corner of the world.
THE END
(NB Ive chosen to describe the days events in a most lady-like way, resisting the urge to make some comment about squatting on St Davids head, so you’ll just have to make your own rude jokes).

POSTSCRIPT
Just to rush through the last few days before I turn into a computer:
From Fishguard, I then travelled to Cardiff where my ever-so gracious hosts Winston and Patrice showed me the city and let me lay my weary head on their couch. Highlights being Cardiff Bay, and as always, teasing Winston..
Cardiff Bay is great, with some really stunning architecture. Cardiff city itself is not unlike Dublin in that it doesnt feel very big. It also, strangely, has a Hamilton-esque vibe about it (but dont let that put you off).

After Cardiff, I caught the expensive train to Milton Keynes where the equally ever-so gracious host Lex (and co-host Ian) let me lay my weary head on THEIR couch. Highlights included the royal school tour, the royal pub tour,Oxford, and Lexes mysteriously shrinking trousers…

On the day that Lex and all other responsible humanbeings went back to work (Monday), I went to Oxford. Oxford really is impressive. It has way too much history for my history-repellent brain to handle, but even just visually its impressive. Its packed with immense college buildings, museums, spires, posh accents and students whizzing about on their bikes.

Today, leaving behind good friends in both the Land of Gobbledygook, and the Land of Tea and Scones, I caught an early train to Edinburgh (which you’ll find in the Land of Haggis). And I will tell you all about it soon – but only if you are good and eat all your greens tonight. A vegetarian always knows…

Top 10 resolutions I swear I will keep:

1. Eat less chocolate

2. Dont kid self about eating less chocolate

3. Do something crazy: Get a tattoo? Pierce an eyelid? Grow a beard?

4. Say yes to anything that isnt agains my morals… (thanks to friend who forgets giving me this one, or making it herself)

5. Dont forget about Doolin

6. Buy a surfboard (ie. stop being a wuss and brave the ‘summer’ Atlantic)

7. Resist buying icecream when weather is cold enough to require the wearing of gloves…broke this one already this year…but…. starting now…no, I meant starting… now.

8. Give more – I have enough.

9. Think of one more to make ten.

10. Plan my 2006/7 campaign against the making of resolutions – no one ever keeps them, its just a world of broken promises….

What began as a peaceful 4 day Dublin shopping frenzy, ended in dreadlock massacre as, 10 days before my one year dreadlock anniversary, Antonia finally had enough of having a hippy for a sister and with a mad glint in her eye proceeded to chop the life essence from my head 1/84th at a time (Prize time: I’ll send one original dreadlock to anyone who can tell me what that is in percentage). I went from scraggly dread-locked hippy
, to 13 year old skater-boy , to homeless lady who chops her own hair with a plastic knife she found in the McD’s rubbish bin (No really Tonia, it wasnt that bad) in a matter of hours – six hours over two days.
And I was left with a mountain of hair. If one human loses on average approximately 100 hairs per day, and I had dreadlocks for 355 days, and all those lost hairs remained entangled on my head….well you do the math. Thats a lotta hair. I considered putting my dreads on ebay and making a fortune but decided in the end that Id rather just have fun with dreadlock dolly.

Luckily Dublin is hairdresser central and I got myself tidied up the next day. There seem to be two types of hairdressers in this world: those from the mega-poofball school of thought, and those from the body-is-evil school. This hairdresser was from the latter as most of the younger hairdressers seem to be. So I came out of there with hair as straight as a nail. As straight as a nail that hasnt been bent. Which was all well and good except that two days later when I had to wash my hair I ended up looking like a human cotton ball. A brunette cottonball – in other words, ‘poof’. I guess I should stick with the mega-poofball hairdressers in future – at least then Id end up with an attractive poofball cut. Im just destined to be a poofball.

Aside from losing my soul, I got around fifty solid shopping hours in with Antonia, and came back to the hostel with a bag full of…nothing, somehow. Liam meanwhile went to work and managed to get a piece of wall stuck in his eye and so, unfortunately was unable to join us – a likely story.

After a few days back at the hostel recovering from the shock of Dublin christmas overload, I came crawling back, repulsed yet strangely compelled by the bright shiny lights and decadent spending lifestyle of the city under its christmas spell. And so again, I have spent the last two days being carried along by the pulsing throngs of christmas mad shoppers.

Street vendors selling cheap imitations and ‘two packs of batteries for a fiver’ verbally advertise their products – what exactly those products are I would never know to hear them shout with my untrained ear – though I definitely know one guy is selling ‘two packs of batteries for a fiver’. It was recently suggested that Dublin streets need a slow lane for all the grannies so they dont hold up the rest of us. I couldnt agree more – for their own safety (though they seem able to fend for themselves as proven yesterday when I had a walking stick stuck out infront of me to block my path – that guy wasnt gonna stop for nobody).

Maybe Dublin city could also provide me with a plastic bubble so I dont have to deal with cigarette smoke being blown in my face everywhere I walk. And everyone should have a personal shopper so we dont actually have to deal with the madness, and the personal shoppers could have robots to do their shopping. Or maybe we should just forget Christmas altogether and ‘dont buy presents, how about giving your money to the homeless instead’ as one collector (for the homeless) was heard to say this morning. All very well but Christmas aint nothing without presents – oh and love and fellowship of man, and frankincense and myrrh too. Merry Christmas everyone, hope Santi (thats Irish Santa) brings you just what you want. (I asked for a cure for poofy hair).

If I clean one more toilet will I go mad? Am I already mad? No, they say if you think you might be mad then you’re definitely not mad. But who are ‘they’? Are ‘they’ mad? Maybe ‘they’ are if ‘they’ dont know it. In which case I shouldnt be listening to the mad unreliable advice of ‘they’.

And if my weak NZ summer constitution succumbs to the Eire devil winter, and I get frostbite, how will I clean toilets then? I’ll have to make special gloves for my stumps. And I’ll have to learn to play the fiddle with my toes – or my teeth if my socknjandal innovative footwear cannot prevail against the cold.

Man, I cant wait to go to Dublin tomorrow; finally I will be able to sleep, my dreams free from the distant smell of bleach, and the scratch of the brush on the bowl. Finally I will awake without wondering ‘In which order shall I clean the toilets today?’ Four whole toilet free days.
I hope Darren and Deidre dont ask me to clean their toilet…..

Its over two weeks since I arrived back in the Emerald Isle. So the re-telling of my role as guest in Dublin and host in Doolin since then, may not be entirely accurate. Though a number of notable occasions do stick in my mind. One being Liam’s near fatal incident with an angry/crazy handbag wielding pedestrian. Another being my superb near fatal, near face-plant in the mud. Suprisingly, Antonia passed the few weeks highly unscathed by either mud or handbags, leaving me with very little teasing ammunition. Except for her extreme cow phobia which came to light at every cow encounter in Doolin. Doolin has a lot of cows. Aside from managing to avoid any most unlikely, near fatal cow attack, Tonia also managed to catch a leprechaun in Doolin. Yes, a real live leprechaun. I wonder now if that is the reason for how she remained mud free. And whether its also the reason I didnt…

Let us start from the beginning.

I arrived back in Dublin on a Tuesday night, one night after Tonia and Liam had landed in Ireland. Aside from an outing to the supermarket down the road, I dont think they’d ventured far out of Liam’s brother’s house at all, still recovering from the trip. So next day Tonia and I went to town, and I taught my sister all the important things about living in Ireland just like a big sister should: How to buy a ticket on the bus, how to find the street names, how to buy a plastic bag at the supermarket and (due to the rain and our inherited above-average eye level), how to avoid serious eye injury by umbrella. Liam learnt an important lesson of his own – how to buy half a dozen beer when beer comes in lots of four.

The next day I think was the day we watched the ‘From Justin to Kelly’ movie – as in Kelly Clarkson and Justin Whatshisname from American Idol singing, dancing, reading scripts- a brilliant piece of crap cinema.

One day we went into town, using our newly learnt bus catching skills, and after crossing a road and reaching the curb, Liam comes face to face with a woman with a handbag. For some reason she decided she didnt like the look of him and took a violent swing at him with said handbag – I think I heard her snarl. What it was in Liam that caused such a violent reaction in such an unlikely assailant we will never know, but after that shaky experience, whenever we approached a woman with a handbag, Liam would cower behind me. Tonia said hes been having nightmares about giant handbags too.

The last night in Dublin, Tonia and I went out to dinner at Govinda’s (?), a vegetarian harekrishna (?) run place with good food – and heaps of it. Liam didnt come as it was a Friday night which he reasoned meant a larger number of woman out with their handbags.

Saturday I made the bus trip back to Dublin, Tonia and Liam having decided to follow in a few days time. And follow they did, arriving on Monday night just as I finished my working day. We spent most of our week playing cards, as Doolin was swamped by typical WestCoast of Ireland weather, visiting Jack the donkey and his new friend Little Jack the donkey, and telling each other that yes, tomorrow we would go to the cliffs.

It might have been Tuesday or Wednesday I learnt of Tonia’s cow phobia – but Im not sure as time doesnt exist here in Doolin, until you need to catch a bus somewhere. On which ever day it was we donned our jackets and woolly hats and went for a walk down a local road to the coast, stopping to visit the local dead in the old ruin of a church on the way. When we got to the coast, the sea was impressively wild, the waves smashing up against the rocks, foam blowing in our faces on the equally wild wind. The total opposite of this. (I like that photo and had to fit it in somewhere).

Eventually though, after an hour or so of walking, we had to leave the coast and walk back up the road towards the hostel – but first we had to cross a field. A field with COWS. I thought I was scared of cows, but the difference in my case is that I can reason that cows do not generally attack and eat humans and will walk through a field of them if need be. At first sight of a cow, Tonia started panicking ‘ Its looking at me! Its looking at me!’ And by the time we reached the barb wired gate, she was in a frenzy, flying over the gate like a herd of cows was indeed chasing her. Which there wasnt. If a herd of cows were to attack anyone it would me, as the other two ran off, leaving me at the mercy of the bemused bovine mob. We got Tonia back to the hostel free of cow bites and calmed her jitters with lashings of free tea. Liam tells me she still has nightmares about giant cows.

Our next major excursion was down to MY beach which isnt really MY beach anymore as I havent been there for ages – long enough for someone else to lay claim to it. Actually, this was the second attempt to visit the beach, our first the day prior abandoned when we found we lacked the skills to ford a river. When we finally did get there, we were very happy,
and I was suprised to find my sculptures still relatively intact considering the wind thats been tearing up and down the coast. Tattered but still standing they were.

It was, I believe, on this particular outing that Antonia caught her leprechaun. Now if someone had told me she had found a leprechaun I would not have believed them, not being one who believes in such nonsense. BUT I believe this because I have photographic proof. As I was walking up the beach, I noticed Tonia had wandered off on her own for an unusually long time, so being the caring sister I am I snuck up behind her to find out what she was doing. And it is at this moment that I catch sight of her little friend. I could barely believe my eyes. But yes, see for yourselves, there she is, with him tightly in her grasp, preventing any escape. I could at this moment have confronted her but, knowing a thing or two about leprechauns (though not believing in them of course) I thought it best not to envoke Tonias nor the leprechauns wrath. So I kept quiet. Little did I know I would soon find out just how powerful that wrath was. If only I had continued to keep my mouth shut.

Tomorrow we finally did end up going to the cliffs, as we had been saying all along. The wind was still blowing strong yet the rain had cleared, though the track to the cliffs was still in a swampy muddy cow-pooey condition. But we rolled up our trousers and set off up the incline, skirting the mud as best we could.
About half way up the track we spy something most unfortunate ahead. Most unfortunate for Tonia that is. More COWS. Sitting on the track. And the land around the cows was so swampy you’d lose a shoe. We were cornered. We couldnt go round the cows, , couldnt go under the cows, we’d have to go through the cows. Again Tonia starts panicking. And I start helping her panick. ‘That cow’s looking at you Tonia’. And indeed it seemed these hungry looking cows were eyeing up Tonia’s juicy limbs.

So I tease her some more ‘That cow looks really hungry Tonia’ ‘Hes licking his lips’ ‘Look out! He’s behind you!’. But shes ignoring me, lost in her cow insanity. Or is she? Next thing I know I feel the rock beneath me move, actually move by itself and I teeter above the fetid mud, my arms windmilling trying to catch my balance. And just as Im about to recover my balance I feel a little hand on my bum give me the slightest push, just enough, and then Im moving, downward, fast but in slow motion at the same time: ‘Nwooooowooo’ I cry as I near the cesspool beneath me. And then I have mud in my mouth and mud up my nose and mud in my eyes. And I look like Im smiling but Im actually crying inside. Tonia turns around and says ‘Are you okay?’ trying to cover a smile as she takes my photo. We both know what happened. I think she must have stashed him in her backpack.

So we made it to the cliffs and back. I washed my jeans and wiped my face, everyone had a good laugh. And not a word was spoken of the unusual circumstances, the unlikeliness of the event – that I, eversteady Em had fallen. And no mention was made by either Tonia or myself of the little man of mischief – Im not even sure Tonia knew I had found her out. Next day we went to Galway for the night, then Tonia and Liam headed home to Dublin and I headed back to Doolin. And I havent fallen in any mud since.

How she managed to catch the thing I still dont know – maybe we’ll never know. Nor whether she took her little friend back to Dublin with her. But I know one thing: Just in case, Liam better watch himself.

Wow, so much art. Yesterday I gave myself a nosebleed from looking at art just too hard out. That was at the second venue for the Venice Biennale, the Giardini, or Public Gardens. For some reason I was expecting this particular exhibition expedition to take a mere four hours or so. I was very wrong. Even though after learning my lesson from my first expedition and breezing through the whole area first to pick out the good stuff, I was there from opening time 10am til 5.30pm…. Its all those damn video installations. I start watching one and just have to see what happens. Actually the amount of video work was a little disapointing – seems like everyone was jumping on the band wagon instead of trying to bring back painting. Long live the painting. This exhibition was curated by a different person to the last one and was much bigger, with works that seemed cleaner and more refined than the last. The best work for me being a William Kentridge work which consisted of four video projections of animated black and white ink and graphite drawings combined with actions by the artist as he told a sort of fantastic story. The imagery was beautiful and so I forgave the video aspect. Its not actually the using of video that I dont enjoy, just the lack of painting and drawing – this work combined both. Francis Bacon and Marlene Dumas works were also great to see. Out in the giardini (garden) were exhibitions by all the individual participating countries.

The best of these was Australia’s Ricky Swallow, who had no video whatsoever, rather painstakingly carved sculptures of still life with references to time, existence, death – all those deep things. There was probably some other good stuff from other countries, but by this time, nose bleeding, feet stumbling, mind reeling, everything was one big foreign blur. But Im not racist, Im not.
I didnt actually find NZ’s contribution to the exibition til I was on my way back as it, plus Northeren Irelands plus Morroco’s and a few other countries were hidden away…probably because Italy doesnt need to stay on NZs good side… but the exhibition looked interesting, from what I could see through the haze of my art-induced insanity. Youve probably heard about the work, its the one with the portaloos. And the portaloos are supposed to move or speak or something but it was almost closed when I stopped by. There were also lots of signs and gates and words and other confusing things in it. As far as attempts to confuse the viewer go in contemporary art, I can assure you NZ is up there with the best of them.
Today I succumbed to the inevitable and went for the San Marco basilica experience. Seeing it again, it was still awe inspiring to think of the time and material value of the place, which was built as a monument to St Mark – or whoever it is who was smuggled into Venice from Egypt and whos bones are buried under the basilica. There is so much work evident in the huge number of mosaics, and so many precious gemstones and metals in all those stolen treasures, its hard not to be impressed. I wish I had the desire and patience to actually read all the educational plaques around the place and thus actually learn some stuff but I was too busy looking for impaled pigeons. Where are they? I think either the pigeons have learnt that sitting on spikes is not a good idea, or the religious authorities felt people should be spending more time reading educational plaques rather than looking at pigeon corpses and so have hired specially trained pigeon scoopers to quickly hide the evidence should an impaling occur.

Tomorrow, I’ll do a last minute dash of spending, then its off to Treviso airport to sit in a shed for two hours (for that is all it is) before flying to London and back to Dublin. Where Tonia will nurse me back to sanity and massage my aching smelly feet like every good sister should.

Ive read and heard it said that three days is plenty to see Venice, but Ive been here for five full days and there’s still plenty I would have liked to have seen. Guess it depends on your definition of seeing Venice. Though I will be glad to be back to Ireland where ‘please’ is only one syllable and has no tricky rolled rrrrs, where I dont have to practise buying a bus ticket, and where Im not faced with the eternal dilemma of deciding just what flavour of gelato to have today.

Buon giorno! Yes here I am in Venice – I wish I could say that in Italian too but Im still working on “Give me five scoops of gelato right now”. Actually I did manage to ask to use the internet in Italian: Vorrei usare l’internet?” but then the receptionist replied with “buonosidoveoraquantoraviolimamamiaquello?” and we were back to englese but Im trying. Not that it makes a huge difference here. It seems to me a lot of the shop keepers are treating me like I shouldnt be here wether I try or not. Either that or theyre super nice while theyre showing you all their wares. And in a way I dont blame them. Imagine January and February downtown in the Mount and times that by six more months and you see what they have to deal with. And its embarrassing the way some people treat Venice, storming into a shop and demanding something without even trying an Italian greeting and with out using manners in any language – Ive seen it many many times.
Anyway Im here and having a good time – and a bit of a laugh. Sitting in SanMarco’s square provides hours of entertainment, from the parents who pay to have their children swarmed by filthy Venetian flying rats, to the women with the golden getups purchasing imitation godola man getups for their unfortunate husbands or grandchildren. Or maybe they like that sort of thing, who knows.
Back to the flying rats, these arent your Auckland variety of dirty, these are 800 year old SanMarco Piazza variety of dirty. And every day approximately 4000 people walk through the square, people who could have stepped in anything on the way there, even poo, and who leave 700 000 00000 invisible poo footprints contaminated with 10 00000 000 0000 00000 000000000 000 0000000 germs. And Mum and Dad think it’ll be fun to let little Johnny play with the pigeons. So fun that they pay EU1 for birdseed to attract pigeons with 800years worth of poo on their feet to climb all over their children. And then they take a photograph so as to look back with fond memories on the time they contaminated their child with 800 year old poo germs in San Marco Square.
It is indeed the place for taking photos. Not only of the palace which really is impressive, but of other people taking photos of the palace. I’d really like to be able to take a huge panoramic photograph and be able to literally count how many people are taking a photo in the square. I’d also like to know how many of other peoples snapshots I am in – I try to get in as many as possible.

So a quick synopsis of what Ive been up to.

Day One: Caught the bus from the airport and stepped into the madness and the wonder of Venezia. Checked in at Santa Foasca hostel which is a part of the University dorms. Was basic but clean enough.

Day Two: Walked around absorbing the sights and sounds. Checked out the bridges. Visited the Peggy Guiggenheim museum of modern art. I was lucky enough to catch a few talks on her life – she sounds like this eccentric crazy lady who actually knew nothing about art when she started collecting – Im keen to read her biography “Out of this Century” if I can find it cheaper than they were selling it. Saw some Kandinskys, Pollocks, Calders, Picassos, Ersnts and more – just like 6th Form art history but in real life. Had dinner in a small Italian cafe. Had pasta for dinner, of all things.

Day Three: The first visit to the Biennale. It was great but exhausting. I should have gone through the whole thing first then gone back to the best things, because all the good stuff was at the end, and I was tired and hungry and had to go to the toilet by then. Also I missed out on going inside Moriko Mori’s huge beautiful UFO because the queue was closed. But it was great anyway, with lots of crazy stuff – lucky I decided to be a tourist and opted for the audio guide. Contemporary art is so hard to understand sometimes. Its like the artists are just trying to confuse you on purpose.

Day Four. Today I went to Murano by waterbus to see some Glass Crap. Geez there was alot of it. There was some beautiful stuff too, but a lot more crap than not. So I bought some presents there. Then I came back and looked around down by the square and there was alot of glass crap there too but it was cheaper. Luckily I only bought the non-crap in Murano. Last night and tonight I stayed at Foresteria Valdese. It was my first choice but they told me it was full when I rang. I checked it out on my second day here and they did infact have some places. Its an old building being restored and apparently has frescoes on some of the ceilings. Not my room though. Im sharing a room and a bathroom with four other girls and get free breakfast. Im really glad I decided to come by because its a great place to stay and excellent location – close to SanMarco and the Biennale but also outside the tourist area. And internet is only 5EU per hour not EU9 like most of the other places in the city.

Tommorrow is more biennale, Monday is the big tourist extravaganza – SanMarco etc (I have to look for pigeons impaled on the spikes) and Tuesday is check I have enough glass crap day, then home to Dublin.

And now my internet time is almost up and as Ive spent all my money on glass crap and gelato I cant afford to pay for more.

Ciao (that means seeya later alligator).

Well the days are passing by and the event of the Reunion of Sisters is growing nearer. Possibly not to be quite as Barbara Taylor Bradford as it sounds, but exciting none the less. Actually more exciting than a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel in my opinion, or than I imagine a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel would be….
As soon as next week in fact, I will finally have a little sister in close enough vicinity for me to effectively pick on again (Long distance teasing just isnt quite as satisfying). Oh the fun we’ll have. I’ll pull her hair and she’ll go running to Mum to tell. Except theres no Mum to come to her rescue this time….mwahaha. She might go running to Sandeater but I’ll just pull his hair too.

Tuesday morning next week I plan to catch the bus to Dublin, where I will hassle my two victims for one night (said victims having arrived in Dublin from NZ on Monday), before jetsetting, or at least the Ryanair equivalent of jetsetting, myself away for a week in Venice. Yay Venice! Land of ‘Many Flavours of Gelato of Which I Must Try Every One’, and ‘Many Kinds of Pizza of Which I Must Try Every One’, and also ‘Glass Crap’, as Ang so eloquently puts it. Of course I have a valid excuse for gorging myself on gelato and pizza and looking at glass crap, that being to see the International Art Exhibition held as part of the Venice Biennale which ends first week of November.
As usual I have left everything to the last minute and havent yet decided on a place to stay. But I do have flights so I WILL be there, sleeping somewhere….

As Tonia and Liam prepare to cross seas to see me, let me share some of the lessons I’ve learnt here in Ireland so as to help make their assimilation easier.

Lesson One. Coronation Street. If you are a fan, you’ll love Ireland, if not, be prepared to face your worst nightmare. When walking the streets of Ireland and interacting with Irish citizens, you can expect to find that approximately one in five Irish people resemble Coronation Street characters. Not a statistic that is widely publicized, or even accurate, look around you and you will start to notice the scary truth. I’ve seen countless Martins, Tyrones, Sarahs and Candices, spotted a few Les’s and was once even lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the rare and elusive Fizz. One of my bus drivers even was a dead ringer for that short guy with the goatee and leather jacket that did dodgy dealings with Mike a while back. I cant remember his name…I should have asked him when I saw him. The questions that arise from this peculiar coincidence are those age-old questions of which came first, and nature versus nurture. In this case, are these lookalikes born this way, or are they such fans of the show that they would go to extreme lengths to alter their appearance so as to resemble their favourite stars?
While in Ireland, if you find yourself coming down with a case of Corrie Fever (symptoms include: an involutary cockney accent and disillusions that a Vera-hairdo would bring out your eyes) it is reccomended (by all good doctors) that you take a large dose of quality television such as The Simpsons, three time daily until symptoms subside. NB. EastEnders is not reccomended as a safe alternative to Coronation Street.

Lesson Two. Weird Bugs, Man. Just yesterday I saw a walking toothbrush-head. About an inch long and spiky it just ambled across my path, all unconcerned as if it didnt look anything like a piece of dental equipment and just like an ordinary bug. I think the Irish call this thing a catepillar. Though I didnt try one myself, I see a lucrative untapped market in all-natural toothbrushes.
When visiting Ireland be prepared to be amazed, disgusted and fascinated by the assortment of mutant bugs and birds. Also be prepared to have the spooky sensation you are in the middle of a Hitchcock film in which the multitudes of crows, ravens and jackdaws just abiding their time will soon turn on the innocent human population. If one were to look at the individual bird populations in Ireland with relation to those in NZ, one might deduce that crows are the sparrows of Ireland, sparrows are the fantails of Ireland, and fantails are the crows of Ireland. In summary, as in New Zealand there are no crows, in Ireland there are no fantails. But there are robins. Robins are the cutest little birds that like to hop around you hoping for some food while you pretend you are in the remake of A Secret Garden. Significant bird mutations observed include: magpies – Irish magpies dont have the fleck of white on the side of the head that NZ magpies do, gulls – some gulls in Ireland wear a little black masks to preserve their annonymity when interacting with other gulls – that or they like to play Zorro, unlike NZ gulls which have no need for annonymity and dont watch movies. As an avid birdwatcher you can take it on my good authority that this is true fact.
As you will know, St Patrick banished all snakes from Ireland in a year a really long time ago. He did not however deem it necessary to banish the legless lizard. I have been informed that this ‘legless lizard’ does reside in Ireland and that it does in fact have no legs. BUT it is not a snake. Though I do wonder if Ireland’s secret authority on reptilian matters decided to call this particular specimen a legless lizard just so as to prove St Patrick did a thourough job.

Lesson Three. Squirrels. Ireland has squirrels! And I saw a mink once. (This lesson is a sub lesson of Lesson Two devised to give the often overlooked squirrel the attention it deserves).

Lesson Four. The Bus Lady. There is a fine art to riding a bus for two hours in comfort. In my opinion, buses shouldnt be called buses but rather Big Slow Nightmares On Wheels. Though there are ways to make your trip slightly less nightmarish. A major part of this consists of avoiding of the bus lady. The bus lady comes in several forms, though will usually appear elderly and fragile and wearing a scarf – unfortunately this is often a ruse to maximize the bus lady’s potential to harrass unsuspecting passengers .
The Buses Arent for Bags Bus Lady is the lady who is a stickler for the rules and will take every chance she can to catch you out. Take this one example: Woman sits down near the front of the bus and places her handbag and shopping bag on the seat beside her. There are free seats infront and behind her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along the aisle and makes like she want to sit next to Woman. Only problem is Woman’s bags are on the seat. Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady makes a fuss and declares ‘Buses arent for Bags!’ embarrassing Woman as she apologetically moves the bags onto her lap, and at which point all other polite passengers feel obliged to move their own bags. After which, Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady carries on and takes an empty seat further down the bus. Another example: Woman gets onto strange bus in a strange country with strange bus rules and puts her pack down beside her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along and squeezes into the same seat as Woman stating ‘Buses arent for bags!’ Woman apologizes and moves pack to the rack pointed out to her. Woman spends rest of the bus trip being scolded by Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady.

The second form of the bus lady is commonly known as the ChronicChatter Bus Lady. The chronic talker loves to chat, wether it be about the weather or the lack of weather or the two different forms of the word weather. You must be very careful how to respond to the ChronicChatter, a response to the question ‘Whats the Time?’ will very likely prompt a long description of how ChronicChatter had a watch but she lost it and thats why shes asking you the time because she never knows the time now that shes lost her watch but it really was a nice watch, and have you found a watch? because shes lost her watch. A variation on the ChronicChatter is the ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who after your reply of ‘twenty to three’ to their ‘whats the time?’ replies back in loud capital letters with ‘YOU NEED TO PEE? WELL YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU GOT ON DEAR’. If you say ‘twenty to three’ and they reply ‘WHAT? YOU HAVE GAS? WELL IM SORRY TO HEAR THAT DEAR’ which doesnt even rhyme, you can be pretty sure that they are indeed just faking ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter syndrome for their own sick pleasure. Headphones, while a deterrent to a plain Chatter, will not stop a ChronicChatter or a ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who will continue to ask you questions depite your exaggerated performance of removing your headphones every time they do. Best just to ignore these ones, saves everyone else hearing about your supposed bladder problems.

Picking the right seat is the best way to avoid any bus problems. Too close to the front and you’ll get the Chatters, not close enough and you’ll end up victim of the Bags Arent for Buses Lady. A recently conducted experiment deduced that if you sit a minimum of four rows and not more than six rows from the front of the bus you minimize the risk of any discomfort as a result of the above annoyances, and as well as the seat next to yours will be the last to go giving you extra freedom to spread. The elderly will choose a seat in the first few rows, while others will walk past your seat before they realize there are hardly any seats left on the bus.

Lesson Five. Lingo. Best study up on your Irish lingo before you arrive so as to avoid the potential for embarrassing misunderstandings. For instance, in Ireland someone might say ‘Hows it going lads?’ which if directed at a group of females is not a case of mistaken gender because in Ireland everyone is a lad. If you a with a group of females, one of your Irish friends might still say ‘See you later lads’. Much the same as one might say ‘See you later guys’ to a group of female friends. ‘Where’s the craic?’ is not a request for a mooning, but a general question about where the best fun is to be had. I have it on good authority that you should not say ‘pants’ in polite company here in Ireland though I havent been brave enough to test out this naughty word for myself. Or at least, you should not say ‘My pants are all wet’ or just as bad ‘Oh look, I just got my pants all dirty’ as Irish ‘pants’ are infact the equivalent of NZ ‘undies’. If you are of an Australian persuasion, ‘my thongs are all wet’ as one Aussie male has been known to have said, is even worse. ‘Jandals’ however is a word that is completely safe – as no-one will know quite what you are talking about.

Lesson Six. Ireland is cool, the culture is great and the people are generally more than welcoming.