The Inter-rail journey begins...
Paris, Île-de-France, France
Sunday, July 14, 2013
I write this now as I sit in my Paris hostel room with Brian, sipping on my Chimay lager and listening to the sound of loud French traffic from Rue de Dunkerque spilling through the open Mediterranean window.
It all began on the 14th July 2013, as I got out of my Dad's car and trudged over to Ethan and Alex like a tortoise, the rucksack I had used in India a few years ago already killing my back. And so, with Brian's precariously late entrance at the stuffy interior of Oxford station, and a swift farewell to our parents, we hopped on the train carriage to London Paddington and sat in a four seater. All four of us were excited about the trip, even though there was nothing spectacular or memorable about this particular short hop to London apart from the seat's new coat of sugar from the packet of strawberry laces I'd attempted to open.
Instead of getting public transport we decided to walk to the Eurostar at St.Pancras from Paddington station, and what a good decision that was- we got to relax for a while in Regent's Park, where the topic of conversation between the four of us somehow landed on: 'The word "virgin": What does it mean to you?' As I'm sure you can tell, this conversation became slightly uncomfortable, which was our call to then progress to the Eurostar
.
Again, we chose a four seater, except this time, instead of the sugar from the strawberry laces, the table, chairs, Alex's new book and my clean clothes became drenched, unexpectedly, in the sticky remains from my coke bottle explosion. Picture this scene in slow motion: Alex reading the important travel documents as I twist open the explosive bottle to Alex's wide-eyed horror: "George... The Documents!" I don't think he'll ever forgive me for that...
On arrival at Gare du Nord in Paris, we were each greeted with mini French flags, which didn't help mask our appearance from screaming BRITISH TOURIST to the oncoming horde of taxi drivers and pick-pockets in the streets. Though finally, hot sticky, tired, and with slightly chaffing and mangled box-areas due to repetitive underwear scrunching (a common occurrence in travel), we made it to the Vintage hostel on Rue de Dunkerque.
But we weren't to settle down just yet, as we had to go to the Eiffel Tower to see the famous Bastille day fireworks- These are held once a year to celebrate the storming of the Bastille during the French revolution, so a highly patriotic event indeed. Although, despite the singing of the French national anthem, I wasn't sure why they felt the need to play songs like Living in America as the four of us waited among the millions of spectators. We did, in fact, end up waiting on a view from the road for a good four hours till it got dark enough for the fireworks, during which we'd had to endure an opera concert. The increase of arse-chaffing as I parked my buttocks on the hard cement was not helped by the fact I don't like opera- I couldn't help but notice that one male opera singer had such a wide mouth that he possessed an uncanny resemblance to one of those gargoyle stone statues that spew up water from their mouths
.
Eventually, however, the fireworks commenced, and proved a perfect beginning to our interailing trip as the Eiffel Tower lit up with a multitude of colours and lights. Not so perfect was the metro shutting down once we had ripped ourselves free from the spectators, after which ensued a three hour walk back to our hostel in Paris. The length of this walk can be measured by the fact we passed two KFCs, and our determination by our resisting to stop at any of them. But it didn't end when we staggered in the hostel at 3am... Brian, with his enthusiasm, wanted a coffee before bed, so I thought I may as well have one with him. Yet with the addictive caffeine rush, this then led to the need for another one. And another one, which dealt me a meagre one hour's sleep...
This morning, I felt relieved as Alex and I took proceedings slow with a stroll to a nearby canal, where I drew the tranquil setting as he took pictures of lovers on the bridges. Fortunately, they didn't notice him take the picture, which I thought would've sparked embarrassment. That said, I now know from our batobus tour on the river Seine earlier today, that when a Chinese family are watching their holiday video in three years time they'll see me walk past, tired and stressed. There's no escaping the camera.
If you ever get a chance to visit Paris, the Natural History Museum in the Jardin Plantes would, from my point of view, be a must-see. Even just quick stroll through this maze of animal and bird skeletons from now and the prehistoric period still sets me wondering about evolution and the complexities of life as I sit here finishing the rest of my Chimay lager.
It all began on the 14th July 2013, as I got out of my Dad's car and trudged over to Ethan and Alex like a tortoise, the rucksack I had used in India a few years ago already killing my back. And so, with Brian's precariously late entrance at the stuffy interior of Oxford station, and a swift farewell to our parents, we hopped on the train carriage to London Paddington and sat in a four seater. All four of us were excited about the trip, even though there was nothing spectacular or memorable about this particular short hop to London apart from the seat's new coat of sugar from the packet of strawberry laces I'd attempted to open.
Instead of getting public transport we decided to walk to the Eurostar at St.Pancras from Paddington station, and what a good decision that was- we got to relax for a while in Regent's Park, where the topic of conversation between the four of us somehow landed on: 'The word "virgin": What does it mean to you?' As I'm sure you can tell, this conversation became slightly uncomfortable, which was our call to then progress to the Eurostar
.
Again, we chose a four seater, except this time, instead of the sugar from the strawberry laces, the table, chairs, Alex's new book and my clean clothes became drenched, unexpectedly, in the sticky remains from my coke bottle explosion. Picture this scene in slow motion: Alex reading the important travel documents as I twist open the explosive bottle to Alex's wide-eyed horror: "George... The Documents!" I don't think he'll ever forgive me for that...
On arrival at Gare du Nord in Paris, we were each greeted with mini French flags, which didn't help mask our appearance from screaming BRITISH TOURIST to the oncoming horde of taxi drivers and pick-pockets in the streets. Though finally, hot sticky, tired, and with slightly chaffing and mangled box-areas due to repetitive underwear scrunching (a common occurrence in travel), we made it to the Vintage hostel on Rue de Dunkerque.
But we weren't to settle down just yet, as we had to go to the Eiffel Tower to see the famous Bastille day fireworks- These are held once a year to celebrate the storming of the Bastille during the French revolution, so a highly patriotic event indeed. Although, despite the singing of the French national anthem, I wasn't sure why they felt the need to play songs like Living in America as the four of us waited among the millions of spectators. We did, in fact, end up waiting on a view from the road for a good four hours till it got dark enough for the fireworks, during which we'd had to endure an opera concert. The increase of arse-chaffing as I parked my buttocks on the hard cement was not helped by the fact I don't like opera- I couldn't help but notice that one male opera singer had such a wide mouth that he possessed an uncanny resemblance to one of those gargoyle stone statues that spew up water from their mouths
.
Eventually, however, the fireworks commenced, and proved a perfect beginning to our interailing trip as the Eiffel Tower lit up with a multitude of colours and lights. Not so perfect was the metro shutting down once we had ripped ourselves free from the spectators, after which ensued a three hour walk back to our hostel in Paris. The length of this walk can be measured by the fact we passed two KFCs, and our determination by our resisting to stop at any of them. But it didn't end when we staggered in the hostel at 3am... Brian, with his enthusiasm, wanted a coffee before bed, so I thought I may as well have one with him. Yet with the addictive caffeine rush, this then led to the need for another one. And another one, which dealt me a meagre one hour's sleep...
This morning, I felt relieved as Alex and I took proceedings slow with a stroll to a nearby canal, where I drew the tranquil setting as he took pictures of lovers on the bridges. Fortunately, they didn't notice him take the picture, which I thought would've sparked embarrassment. That said, I now know from our batobus tour on the river Seine earlier today, that when a Chinese family are watching their holiday video in three years time they'll see me walk past, tired and stressed. There's no escaping the camera.
If you ever get a chance to visit Paris, the Natural History Museum in the Jardin Plantes would, from my point of view, be a must-see. Even just quick stroll through this maze of animal and bird skeletons from now and the prehistoric period still sets me wondering about evolution and the complexities of life as I sit here finishing the rest of my Chimay lager.
Parisian Walkways and Cheap Red Wine
Paris, Île-de-France, France
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Day 3 of interailing, and I awoke in my Paris hostel room after allowing myself, this time, a good night's sleep. In dire need of exercise, I forced down a vitamin C tablet and subjected my body (at this point sagging with two days of snacks) to a 15 minute workout with Brian. My breathless proclamation: "I'm having the first shower" signaled the end of this workout.
As Brian and Ethan spent the day in Versailles (a decision Alex and I thought too expensive for what it was worth), we began the day by buying a baguette for lunch from the nearby Boulangerie. Our plan: To visit Monmartre, Sacre Couer and places of artist interest.
Sacre Couer was a white gem on the landscape and not too dissimilar on the outside from Agra's Taj Mahal I'd visited a few years earlier. Once inside, I was particularly drawn to the multitude of stone archways and beams which held the building together. What I was drawn away from were the two bulky men who nearly attacked us when trying to force-sell us some shitty bracelets- It was a meticulous ambush I'll give them that, pouncing on us at our most vulnerable- once reaching the top of the stairs leading to the church, tired and exhausted
.
An ensuing stroll through La Place du Tertre, a square in which famous artists including Picasso and Van Gogh lived and worked was refreshing. Unfortunately, the artists we saw there weren't so talented: I wouldn't hazard a guess in saying they'd dabbled paint onto some photographs and tried to sell them off as 'paintings.' I was, however, attracted to one artist's work called Serafedino Ebip. His paintings were abstract compositions of thickly layered paint, through which, when viewed closely, figures and buildings could be discerned. For me, it affirmed the idea that Art means so much more when the subject is suggested, as opposed to the majority of paintings which depict things literally and photographically- if you want to do that, use a camera for crying out loud!
Our next stop was Monmartre cemetery, full of crypts and a mysterious black cat which stared us with its green eyes before running off. Despite the bright, sunny weather, the atmosphere as we explored this city of the dead pulled me into a dark, supernatural mood. After noticing how the crypts looked like houses, Alex and I imagined how the cemetery would come alive at night. It would be the same as any ordinary Parisian street, with one exception- completely skeletal humans: Skeletal pedestrians, skeletal market vendors trying to sell shitty bracelets, skeletal tourists, skeletal pick pockets...
On our long trek to the 104 Modern Arts Centre, we passed famous Moulin Rouge cabaret show club. We then passed a sex shop. Followed by another sex shop, and then, well, more sex shops...
So back to the Arts Centre: I loved the large Keith Haring sculptures, so simple and in this way so visually interesting. Yet my favourite part of this centre for innovative artwork was getting lost in the cardboard maze. Here, the artist had laid out layer upon layer of corrugated cardboard through which we wound our way through and, from a bird's eye view, gave the impression of intestines. A remarkable feat of interactive artwork that it always stick in the Parisian part of my memory.
The view of the Eiffel tower and lit up streets after having scaled Montparnasse tower, Paris' highest viewpoint, provided a perfect ending for our time in this city. Meanwhile, the third glass of my 3 euro bottle of Chateau des Leotins I indulge in as I write this now, all but confirms one notion before leaving tomorrow- That France is, without a doubt, the best country for wine in the world.
As Brian and Ethan spent the day in Versailles (a decision Alex and I thought too expensive for what it was worth), we began the day by buying a baguette for lunch from the nearby Boulangerie. Our plan: To visit Monmartre, Sacre Couer and places of artist interest.
Sacre Couer was a white gem on the landscape and not too dissimilar on the outside from Agra's Taj Mahal I'd visited a few years earlier. Once inside, I was particularly drawn to the multitude of stone archways and beams which held the building together. What I was drawn away from were the two bulky men who nearly attacked us when trying to force-sell us some shitty bracelets- It was a meticulous ambush I'll give them that, pouncing on us at our most vulnerable- once reaching the top of the stairs leading to the church, tired and exhausted
.
An ensuing stroll through La Place du Tertre, a square in which famous artists including Picasso and Van Gogh lived and worked was refreshing. Unfortunately, the artists we saw there weren't so talented: I wouldn't hazard a guess in saying they'd dabbled paint onto some photographs and tried to sell them off as 'paintings.' I was, however, attracted to one artist's work called Serafedino Ebip. His paintings were abstract compositions of thickly layered paint, through which, when viewed closely, figures and buildings could be discerned. For me, it affirmed the idea that Art means so much more when the subject is suggested, as opposed to the majority of paintings which depict things literally and photographically- if you want to do that, use a camera for crying out loud!
Our next stop was Monmartre cemetery, full of crypts and a mysterious black cat which stared us with its green eyes before running off. Despite the bright, sunny weather, the atmosphere as we explored this city of the dead pulled me into a dark, supernatural mood. After noticing how the crypts looked like houses, Alex and I imagined how the cemetery would come alive at night. It would be the same as any ordinary Parisian street, with one exception- completely skeletal humans: Skeletal pedestrians, skeletal market vendors trying to sell shitty bracelets, skeletal tourists, skeletal pick pockets...
On our long trek to the 104 Modern Arts Centre, we passed famous Moulin Rouge cabaret show club. We then passed a sex shop. Followed by another sex shop, and then, well, more sex shops...
So back to the Arts Centre: I loved the large Keith Haring sculptures, so simple and in this way so visually interesting. Yet my favourite part of this centre for innovative artwork was getting lost in the cardboard maze. Here, the artist had laid out layer upon layer of corrugated cardboard through which we wound our way through and, from a bird's eye view, gave the impression of intestines. A remarkable feat of interactive artwork that it always stick in the Parisian part of my memory.
The view of the Eiffel tower and lit up streets after having scaled Montparnasse tower, Paris' highest viewpoint, provided a perfect ending for our time in this city. Meanwhile, the third glass of my 3 euro bottle of Chateau des Leotins I indulge in as I write this now, all but confirms one notion before leaving tomorrow- That France is, without a doubt, the best country for wine in the world.
"The Venice of the North" in Appearance and Price
Amsterdam, Noord-Holland, Netherlands
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
I think I can safely say, that after a full day of non-stop train travel from Paris, sweaty changes and a painful walk to the Meininger West hostel in Amsterdam, that we're glad to be here- We almost never made it, tensions and stress running high among us as we debated the map directions and one hopeless moment as we slogged our way into a run-down car park in vain search of our destination.
The highlight of the train journey to Amsterdam would have to have been the question I asked Brian to break the hour-long silence of vacant staring out of the train window: "Brian, do you wax?" to which, in shock, he replied: "No! I just don't grow much hair, that's all." Sure, that's what they all say...
Spoterdijk. This was the name of the station in Amsterdam we didn't know how to pronounce as we subsequently got off the Amsterdam Central station much further on. This didn't stop us pronouncing it 'Spot a dick' and amusing ourselves with this, but it seems as though the station had the last laugh when we turned up to our hostel after long, argumentative hours hauling our luggage searching for it, only to realise Spoterdijk station was just down the road.
Fresh after sleep the next morning, however, we decided, for an albeit extortianate price, to hire some bikes as means of transport for our day in Amsterdam. This turned out to be a pretty good decision, as it was a leisurely, healthy way of exploring Amsterdam's quaint canals and streets. As we strolled the Bloemenmarkt (a flower market on water) and purchased some tulip bulbs for my Mum, it struck me how unlike a capital city the so called 'Venice of the North' was. The only busy areas seemed to be the Van Gogh museum- This was my favourite part of the city, containing some of the artist's best works: As I had previously seen in Monmartre, his layers of thick paint seemed to suggest and give the impression of the subject, which distinguished the painting as a work of art from say a mere photograph- In addition, the only dirty dealing came from, as Brian aptly put it; 'the sour grape in his day,' when we both purchased our dinner from a newsagents.
Travel Tip: Never buy anything from anywhere that doesn't label the prices unless you're a master barterer, or the seller always takes their opportunity to rip you off.
The highlight of the train journey to Amsterdam would have to have been the question I asked Brian to break the hour-long silence of vacant staring out of the train window: "Brian, do you wax?" to which, in shock, he replied: "No! I just don't grow much hair, that's all." Sure, that's what they all say...
Spoterdijk. This was the name of the station in Amsterdam we didn't know how to pronounce as we subsequently got off the Amsterdam Central station much further on. This didn't stop us pronouncing it 'Spot a dick' and amusing ourselves with this, but it seems as though the station had the last laugh when we turned up to our hostel after long, argumentative hours hauling our luggage searching for it, only to realise Spoterdijk station was just down the road.
Fresh after sleep the next morning, however, we decided, for an albeit extortianate price, to hire some bikes as means of transport for our day in Amsterdam. This turned out to be a pretty good decision, as it was a leisurely, healthy way of exploring Amsterdam's quaint canals and streets. As we strolled the Bloemenmarkt (a flower market on water) and purchased some tulip bulbs for my Mum, it struck me how unlike a capital city the so called 'Venice of the North' was. The only busy areas seemed to be the Van Gogh museum- This was my favourite part of the city, containing some of the artist's best works: As I had previously seen in Monmartre, his layers of thick paint seemed to suggest and give the impression of the subject, which distinguished the painting as a work of art from say a mere photograph- In addition, the only dirty dealing came from, as Brian aptly put it; 'the sour grape in his day,' when we both purchased our dinner from a newsagents.
Travel Tip: Never buy anything from anywhere that doesn't label the prices unless you're a master barterer, or the seller always takes their opportunity to rip you off.
German Malt- And the lake where it ended up
Hannover, Lower Saxony, Germany
Saturday, July 20, 2013
You may wonder how, on a trip where we're staying in busy, central European cities, how I've ended up sitting here on a sunny, fairly remote beach with a can of delicious German beer worth a mere 67 cents in my hand. Allow me to explain...
Firstly, I must add that my introduction to my introduction to German beer yesterday was not a pleasant one- my first 'beer', if you can even call it that, I purchased when the train stopped at a station shop just past the border for 90 cents, I deal I was fairly pleased with. Until, to my dismay, and much to the amusement of two other British interrailers sat opposite us in the carriage, Alex and Sammy, I wretched on my first mouthful. Suitably disgusted, I looked closely at the bottle, something I should've done before I bought it: 'Malt 0% alcohol.' When I returned from the toilet a few minutes later, Alex asked; "Why did you take the malt with you to the toilet, George?" I sat down and replied as if I'd just disposed of a corpse; "Because I poured the rest of it down the sink."
You'd think I would've learnt from my mistakes after that experience, but oh no..
. With me it's never as easy as that: That night, after settling in at the hostel in Hannover, we decided to go for our first meal out on the trip, where I tried a German schnitzel (pork covered in bread crumbs) for the first time with a side order of chips. Don't get me wrong, this was one of the best meals I've had on the trip, but it was slightly marred by the fact I'd ordered another beer, and yes, you guessed it- another malt.
Today we took the decision to relax and have a break by taking the train and bus outside Hannover to a remote country lake, Steinhuder Meer. ('Meer' meaning 'Lake' in German.) After purchasing many cheap beers (and yes, they were beers this time), we headed down to the lake and were pleasantly surprised to stumble across a large beach with white, gleaming sand that could've been ripped out of any magazine advertising seaside escapes. Almost immediately we got our trunks on and leaped in the water, which was cold at first, but it eventually warmed up. Alex even noted with glee as he swam towards me; "Hmmm, there's a lovely warm patch here..." He wasn't so gleeful when I responded; "Yeah sorry that was me."
Firstly, I must add that my introduction to my introduction to German beer yesterday was not a pleasant one- my first 'beer', if you can even call it that, I purchased when the train stopped at a station shop just past the border for 90 cents, I deal I was fairly pleased with. Until, to my dismay, and much to the amusement of two other British interrailers sat opposite us in the carriage, Alex and Sammy, I wretched on my first mouthful. Suitably disgusted, I looked closely at the bottle, something I should've done before I bought it: 'Malt 0% alcohol.' When I returned from the toilet a few minutes later, Alex asked; "Why did you take the malt with you to the toilet, George?" I sat down and replied as if I'd just disposed of a corpse; "Because I poured the rest of it down the sink."
You'd think I would've learnt from my mistakes after that experience, but oh no..
. With me it's never as easy as that: That night, after settling in at the hostel in Hannover, we decided to go for our first meal out on the trip, where I tried a German schnitzel (pork covered in bread crumbs) for the first time with a side order of chips. Don't get me wrong, this was one of the best meals I've had on the trip, but it was slightly marred by the fact I'd ordered another beer, and yes, you guessed it- another malt.
Today we took the decision to relax and have a break by taking the train and bus outside Hannover to a remote country lake, Steinhuder Meer. ('Meer' meaning 'Lake' in German.) After purchasing many cheap beers (and yes, they were beers this time), we headed down to the lake and were pleasantly surprised to stumble across a large beach with white, gleaming sand that could've been ripped out of any magazine advertising seaside escapes. Almost immediately we got our trunks on and leaped in the water, which was cold at first, but it eventually warmed up. Alex even noted with glee as he swam towards me; "Hmmm, there's a lovely warm patch here..." He wasn't so gleeful when I responded; "Yeah sorry that was me."
"Don't trust anyone."
Berlin, Germany
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Currently forcing myself to write after lazing around in a long, sweaty siesta in our boiling hostel room, the second day into our Berlin stay. It's a very industrial city. Each building, with its towering architecture and columns seems to be screaming; "Look how powerful I am!" A total of three full days, it's our longest stay of the trip, and so we've had to make the most of its main attractions such as its significant history, food and (not forgetting) the beer; my first experience of a litre mug of Munich beer in a Biergarten being a particularly glorious one.
We dedicated the first day to a search for Berlin's famous historical monuments, of which there are many. So, blocking our minds as much as much as possible from the blazing sun, we braved the heat to explore this city's pivotal history. We began with the Berlin Wall, which, with its symbolic paintings, (many now unfortunately under the guise of badly drawn penises), spoke boldly of the freedom that had been stolen from the victim's living under the communist regime in East Germany
. These symbols included a bird pulling a chained hand with its beak (freedom), two male politicians kissing (freedom of sexuality), and my favourite; The Berlinica, an interpretation of Picasso'sGuernica which conveyed the oppression of war, in this case political oppression.
Taking the S-Bahn to Tiergarten (Berlin's largest park), we settled down in the shade. As we were finishing, however, we were unfortunately approached by women pretending to work for the 'deaf and blind' charity and wanting us to hand over money. Remembering my Dad's wise words; "Don't trust anyone," I fled the scene through the trees, but Ethan, Brian and Alex, being the polite souls they are, engaged in conversation with these con artists. But alas, their warm hospitality was abused, resulting, depressingly so, in the crude theft of Ethan's milka bar.
The Victory Column and Brandemburg Gate I'll admit were dominating and overwhelming structures which confirmed this city's history of national power, yet, while visiting the Jewish cemetery shortly afterwards, I was reminded more of the city's history of national oppression. The cemetery's contemporary design, as I strolled through the row upon row of ominous, metallic blocks was for me, in its abstract simplicity, poignant. It made me reflect, that with 6 million human beings from minority groups allowed to be slaughtered by an entire nation not too recently in the past, how threatening the ideas of political propaganda and ideologies are- they mark the point at which patience ends with bravado monuments the Brandemburg Gate and Victory Column designed to encourage Nazi ideology
. Since, when you compare these with the Berlin Wall and Jewish Cemetery, the what victory?
Today, fortunately, has been pretty relaxed- We visited the Reichstag (the German equivalent of the houses of Parliament), where they were so anal about security they temporarily confiscated my harmonica on the suspicion that I was hiding a bomb in it. We got a nice view of the city skyline at the top, though, while a cleaner was mopping the sloping windows at the edge of the building. Not sure I'd like that job, a bit too dangerous for the sake of wiping away bird crap.
Once I'd collected back the weapon of my failed plot to demolish the Reichstag (my harmonica), we sat at a bench and tucked into some lunch, during which a pair of boys approached us supposedly working for the 'deaf and blind' charity. A unanimous cry of "No!" confirmed that we're now fairly interrail savvy.
We dedicated the first day to a search for Berlin's famous historical monuments, of which there are many. So, blocking our minds as much as much as possible from the blazing sun, we braved the heat to explore this city's pivotal history. We began with the Berlin Wall, which, with its symbolic paintings, (many now unfortunately under the guise of badly drawn penises), spoke boldly of the freedom that had been stolen from the victim's living under the communist regime in East Germany
. These symbols included a bird pulling a chained hand with its beak (freedom), two male politicians kissing (freedom of sexuality), and my favourite; The Berlinica, an interpretation of Picasso'sGuernica which conveyed the oppression of war, in this case political oppression.
Taking the S-Bahn to Tiergarten (Berlin's largest park), we settled down in the shade. As we were finishing, however, we were unfortunately approached by women pretending to work for the 'deaf and blind' charity and wanting us to hand over money. Remembering my Dad's wise words; "Don't trust anyone," I fled the scene through the trees, but Ethan, Brian and Alex, being the polite souls they are, engaged in conversation with these con artists. But alas, their warm hospitality was abused, resulting, depressingly so, in the crude theft of Ethan's milka bar.
The Victory Column and Brandemburg Gate I'll admit were dominating and overwhelming structures which confirmed this city's history of national power, yet, while visiting the Jewish cemetery shortly afterwards, I was reminded more of the city's history of national oppression. The cemetery's contemporary design, as I strolled through the row upon row of ominous, metallic blocks was for me, in its abstract simplicity, poignant. It made me reflect, that with 6 million human beings from minority groups allowed to be slaughtered by an entire nation not too recently in the past, how threatening the ideas of political propaganda and ideologies are- they mark the point at which patience ends with bravado monuments the Brandemburg Gate and Victory Column designed to encourage Nazi ideology
. Since, when you compare these with the Berlin Wall and Jewish Cemetery, the what victory?
Today, fortunately, has been pretty relaxed- We visited the Reichstag (the German equivalent of the houses of Parliament), where they were so anal about security they temporarily confiscated my harmonica on the suspicion that I was hiding a bomb in it. We got a nice view of the city skyline at the top, though, while a cleaner was mopping the sloping windows at the edge of the building. Not sure I'd like that job, a bit too dangerous for the sake of wiping away bird crap.
Once I'd collected back the weapon of my failed plot to demolish the Reichstag (my harmonica), we sat at a bench and tucked into some lunch, during which a pair of boys approached us supposedly working for the 'deaf and blind' charity. A unanimous cry of "No!" confirmed that we're now fairly interrail savvy.
"Oh toilet, toilet, wherefore art thou toilet!?"
Berlin, Germany
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
At Berlin Zoo today. It certainly contains a variety of species, including the Indian Elephant and the Giraffe, the two central attractions we saw when passing through the gates.
I can see why alot of people disagree with zoos; after all, they are essentially prisons for animals, but then again, as long as they're treated properly, is it not a way of saving them from extinction? After all, the way the chimpanzees were lounging about in their enclosure suggested that, if they could talk, their conversation would go along the lines of; "Look at those unfortunate humans- They have to pay to visit us, stand there, and then pay to use the zoo toilet when they need a piss whilst we lounge about 24/7."
Watching the Orang-Utan climbing across its cage was a sight I won't forget. It was so shaggy it was like a moving blanket. You wouldn't know any different if you you were lying in bed and your duvet started slipping down from your chest. I wouldn't like to be an Orang-Utan, especially in the 30 degrees plus heat here. Instead, I would opt for an advark, one of the nocturnal hunters we later saw; it would be alot more peaceful at night and most of the dangerous creatures would be in bed.
It was getting towards late afternoon at this point, and as me and Alex went in search of the Polar Bear (which we never found, understandably; I doubt the current weather is suited to these creatures), I mulled over how I hadn't had a piss all day, and my bowels knew it. By the time we were engrossed in the activities of the hippos swimming in the water, however, I was momentarily distracted from the pain. That said, whilst watching the liberty and freedom with which one of the hippos released the contents of its bowels onto the transparent paneling, bog-related issues once again re-surfaced. To top it off, I could've sworn the hippo threw me a smug smile as it did it too.
That night, after releasing Niagra Falls into the hostel toilet, we went to see the Berlin Shakespeare Company perform their open-air production of Romeo and Juliet. The fact that it was in German didn't seem to matter as, not only were we familiar with the tragic lover's tale, but also knew that dated Renaissance English is almost equally as unintelligible.
The historical setting and the eerie foreshadowing of the deathly ending as the sky darkened towards the end of the production really heightened the experience in terms of atmosphere, whilst the natural way they addressed the disaster of the photo frame prop falling off a table on stage was impressive.
On our return to the hostel we found out that Kate's new baby and the future King of England was to be named after me and Alex; George Alexander. We proceeded to celebrate this news with a litre mug of Muncher Sommer beer in the beer hall for our final farewell to Germany and entrance into the bowels and unexplored depths of Eastern Europe.
I can see why alot of people disagree with zoos; after all, they are essentially prisons for animals, but then again, as long as they're treated properly, is it not a way of saving them from extinction? After all, the way the chimpanzees were lounging about in their enclosure suggested that, if they could talk, their conversation would go along the lines of; "Look at those unfortunate humans- They have to pay to visit us, stand there, and then pay to use the zoo toilet when they need a piss whilst we lounge about 24/7."
Watching the Orang-Utan climbing across its cage was a sight I won't forget. It was so shaggy it was like a moving blanket. You wouldn't know any different if you you were lying in bed and your duvet started slipping down from your chest. I wouldn't like to be an Orang-Utan, especially in the 30 degrees plus heat here. Instead, I would opt for an advark, one of the nocturnal hunters we later saw; it would be alot more peaceful at night and most of the dangerous creatures would be in bed.
It was getting towards late afternoon at this point, and as me and Alex went in search of the Polar Bear (which we never found, understandably; I doubt the current weather is suited to these creatures), I mulled over how I hadn't had a piss all day, and my bowels knew it. By the time we were engrossed in the activities of the hippos swimming in the water, however, I was momentarily distracted from the pain. That said, whilst watching the liberty and freedom with which one of the hippos released the contents of its bowels onto the transparent paneling, bog-related issues once again re-surfaced. To top it off, I could've sworn the hippo threw me a smug smile as it did it too.
That night, after releasing Niagra Falls into the hostel toilet, we went to see the Berlin Shakespeare Company perform their open-air production of Romeo and Juliet. The fact that it was in German didn't seem to matter as, not only were we familiar with the tragic lover's tale, but also knew that dated Renaissance English is almost equally as unintelligible.
The historical setting and the eerie foreshadowing of the deathly ending as the sky darkened towards the end of the production really heightened the experience in terms of atmosphere, whilst the natural way they addressed the disaster of the photo frame prop falling off a table on stage was impressive.
On our return to the hostel we found out that Kate's new baby and the future King of England was to be named after me and Alex; George Alexander. We proceeded to celebrate this news with a litre mug of Muncher Sommer beer in the beer hall for our final farewell to Germany and entrance into the bowels and unexplored depths of Eastern Europe.
And then there were Five
Prague, Praha, Czech Republic
Thursday, July 25, 2013
As the train sped out of Germany and into the steep, pine covered hills and mountains of the Czech Republic , we were in many ways moving further further from home- the language became increasingly difficult to comprehend for us English travelers, the prices for everything significantly cheaper, and the jobsworth ticket collectors were being replaced replaced by those with a personality: Since me, Brian and Ethan had missed the station and needed to change at the next station to a train heading to Berlin to get back, the ticket collectors response, instead of suspicion to this accusation was a loud, hearty laugh that seemed to imply; "clueless English tourists!"
Jamie, a friend we'd known well from school back in Oxfordshire, met up with us earlier this evening once we'd settled in the Plus Prague Hostel, me and Brian having unfortunately been landed with a room in the girl's dorm. (He was going to join us from the beginning but never got round to planning it properly.) Instead, he joined us here in Prague after an impressive 24 hour train journey, and was, to say the least, 'shocked' to discover we'd seen nothing but a few red lanterns in Amsterdam's Red Light District. We were lucky he hadn't noticed that we'd avoided the famous drug scene there, or else he'd probably make us go back.
Jamie, a friend we'd known well from school back in Oxfordshire, met up with us earlier this evening once we'd settled in the Plus Prague Hostel, me and Brian having unfortunately been landed with a room in the girl's dorm. (He was going to join us from the beginning but never got round to planning it properly.) Instead, he joined us here in Prague after an impressive 24 hour train journey, and was, to say the least, 'shocked' to discover we'd seen nothing but a few red lanterns in Amsterdam's Red Light District. We were lucky he hadn't noticed that we'd avoided the famous drug scene there, or else he'd probably make us go back.
Big Meat Mixed
Prague, Praha, Czech Republic
Saturday, July 27, 2013
It's the second full day in Prague, and judging by my pounding headache and desire to do as little as possible today, I can safely say I've made the most of cheap Czech beer.
The first day began as a sight seeing trip, which gradually, for me at least, merged into a beer buying trip. After a leisurely dip in Plus Prague's swimming pool and sauna, followed by an all you can eat breakfast which left me and Brian feeling more bloated than after a X-Mas dinner (I quote; "I'm going to try and lie down on the bed... Oh no, wait, that's impossible!"), we traced the Vltava river towards the city centre, already entranced by the picturesque Prague Castle in the distance.
Once in the centre I purchased my first beer of the day (the first of many), which certainly quenched my thirst. We then strolled through the old town square and across the cobbled streets, making it just in time to see the astronomical clock. (A complex clock on the side of a church with a door which opens up. This then reveals statues of saints not too dissimilar from the creepy dolls in The Woman in Black ending with a fairly humorous golden cock poking out at the end. And it got laughs because it crowed, not because it was the other definition of the word.)
Finally, after winding our way through the sloping alleyway of arches, (in addition to my purchasing another beer), we stumbled across the famous Charles Bridge. This impressive structure, which crosses the river from the central part of the city to the Mala Strana district is adorned with towering religious statues which gaze down on the passers by with an impression of power and authority. The sloping view of the terracotta rooftops from the top of castle hill was stunning, but no more breathtaking than that of the observation tower- after scaling this giant the whole of Prague was presented as a sprawling, magnificent micro-city against the surrounding green Czech hills.
On the very long trek back to the hostel, me and Alex took a detour in a desperate search for a cake to celebrate Ethan's 18th birthday that night. After about ten shops, and having nearly considered sticking the candles in some biscuits, we miraculously stumbled across some marble cake. So, to celebrate that evening, we a ate at a 'Celtic' restaurant, with steak being it's specialty dish. Another thing it excelled in was beer, which I later continued to consume in large quantities at the hostel bar, to the point where my response to the offer from equally merry strangers; "would you like a lleger shot?" was in the form of an even merrier; "yes!" We also met some very welcoming Australian girls there, which put the cherry on the cake of this first day in Prague.
Today's been good, in parts, but feels like more of the excess from yesterday... We traveled to Divoka Sarka nature park, splitting ways with Jamie and Brian on arrival- while they braved the mountainous slopes like ruthless explorers, Ethan and Alex accompanied me like you would an elderly patient to the public pool we'd heard was there, the sun blazing on my weak back along the way. There wasn't a map, but we could tell we were honing in on our destination by the amount of people walking by in swimming trunks. In fact, I was impressed by my alcohol-poisoned stomach not to churl at the sight of a 70 year old man sauntering by in speedos.
The pool was packed, but at least it was somewhere to lie on the ground where I could attempt to recover. Somehow, the pool was freezing when I tried it but woke me up momentarily, before once again plunging back into my ill state. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed the beauty and lights of Prague on our visit to the centre that evening in a hazy, exhausted appreciation. That's why, as I prepare for an early bedtime, I think to myself; 'This isn't the just the drink that's killing me, but the Big Meat Mix meal at the hostel last night,' before dropping my journal and spiraling down once more into one long, sickly, muggy night...
The first day began as a sight seeing trip, which gradually, for me at least, merged into a beer buying trip. After a leisurely dip in Plus Prague's swimming pool and sauna, followed by an all you can eat breakfast which left me and Brian feeling more bloated than after a X-Mas dinner (I quote; "I'm going to try and lie down on the bed... Oh no, wait, that's impossible!"), we traced the Vltava river towards the city centre, already entranced by the picturesque Prague Castle in the distance.
Once in the centre I purchased my first beer of the day (the first of many), which certainly quenched my thirst. We then strolled through the old town square and across the cobbled streets, making it just in time to see the astronomical clock. (A complex clock on the side of a church with a door which opens up. This then reveals statues of saints not too dissimilar from the creepy dolls in The Woman in Black ending with a fairly humorous golden cock poking out at the end. And it got laughs because it crowed, not because it was the other definition of the word.)
Finally, after winding our way through the sloping alleyway of arches, (in addition to my purchasing another beer), we stumbled across the famous Charles Bridge. This impressive structure, which crosses the river from the central part of the city to the Mala Strana district is adorned with towering religious statues which gaze down on the passers by with an impression of power and authority. The sloping view of the terracotta rooftops from the top of castle hill was stunning, but no more breathtaking than that of the observation tower- after scaling this giant the whole of Prague was presented as a sprawling, magnificent micro-city against the surrounding green Czech hills.
On the very long trek back to the hostel, me and Alex took a detour in a desperate search for a cake to celebrate Ethan's 18th birthday that night. After about ten shops, and having nearly considered sticking the candles in some biscuits, we miraculously stumbled across some marble cake. So, to celebrate that evening, we a ate at a 'Celtic' restaurant, with steak being it's specialty dish. Another thing it excelled in was beer, which I later continued to consume in large quantities at the hostel bar, to the point where my response to the offer from equally merry strangers; "would you like a lleger shot?" was in the form of an even merrier; "yes!" We also met some very welcoming Australian girls there, which put the cherry on the cake of this first day in Prague.
Today's been good, in parts, but feels like more of the excess from yesterday... We traveled to Divoka Sarka nature park, splitting ways with Jamie and Brian on arrival- while they braved the mountainous slopes like ruthless explorers, Ethan and Alex accompanied me like you would an elderly patient to the public pool we'd heard was there, the sun blazing on my weak back along the way. There wasn't a map, but we could tell we were honing in on our destination by the amount of people walking by in swimming trunks. In fact, I was impressed by my alcohol-poisoned stomach not to churl at the sight of a 70 year old man sauntering by in speedos.
The pool was packed, but at least it was somewhere to lie on the ground where I could attempt to recover. Somehow, the pool was freezing when I tried it but woke me up momentarily, before once again plunging back into my ill state. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed the beauty and lights of Prague on our visit to the centre that evening in a hazy, exhausted appreciation. That's why, as I prepare for an early bedtime, I think to myself; 'This isn't the just the drink that's killing me, but the Big Meat Mix meal at the hostel last night,' before dropping my journal and spiraling down once more into one long, sickly, muggy night...
2p DVDs and an Easy Japanese (Lunch)
Vienna, Vienna, Austria
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Second full day in Vienna, and this illness won't ever seem to go- while the others are off watching Vienna's famous horse-jumping show this morning, I'm sat at the hostel trying to recover, my diarrhea tablets nearly gone. It probably was the dodgy Big Meat Mix, but whatever it is has well and truly marked the low point on this trip for me. I'll begin with our departure from Prague...
Prague Station= 36 degrees celcius. Me=Shit. As I wanted to spend my remianing Koronas at the station, I had a taste of home with a chewy burger form Burger King, afterwards buying two, possibly illegal and ridiculously cheap 10 korona (equivalent of 2p) DVDs of the French movie Amelie and a movie about a played on death row played by the actor from 24, Kiefer Sutherland- With a beard he looks surprisingly like Ricky Gervais.
For the train journey, we shared a sweaty cabin with three Spanish Interrailers, one of whom was wearing an 'I <3 Roma' shirt, an odd choice of clothing for Eastern Europe, I thought. Whilst all three simultaneously gamed on their phones, the shit that I'd been cooking all morning really couldn't wait longer even if it was on a high-speed train. As I left the toilet, I felt like warning the nearby pasengers on the floor to leave it five minutes. Instead, I simply sped back down the corridor and fled the scene of the crime.
On arriving in Vienna, Jamie had to help Brian carry his suitcase down the long, tram-lined streets to the hostel- one of the wheels had come off and we were convinced the whole city had started to get if not a little bit pissed off with the sound of screeching.
Despite my illness, we still tried to make the most of our first day in the Austrian capital: We began by watching an Apple Strudel-Making show, where the chef had to keep switching between German and English as he tried to demonstrate the process. This was impressive, but not as impressive as the way he managed to stretch the doe to such a thin layer with his fists without it breaking. When he asked him afterwards how he did it, his answer was short, sweet and simple; "It's just practice..."
Afterwards we explored the centre of the city, browsing some of the Tat-Filled souvenir shops and gazing up at the towering church steeples above row-upon-row of windows adorned with stone-patterns. This gave off the impression that the city was outrageously expensive, whilst the prices of food proved it. Since we were away from Korona land and back in the unrelenting world of the Euro, we decided that the best port of call for lunch would be a box of noodles from Easy Japanese. Finding a nice spot on the curb, me and Alex spent the time sketching the statue of the man who invented the printing press. That said, for a man who invented the press he didn't look best pleased: He appeared to be frowning and wore a long, sloping, tar-covered beard which gave him the appearance of an ice-cream melting in the sun.
On my last legs, and with my stomach as loose as an outpatient on the run, I went along with the others to Prater Fun Fair. Apart from the slow, Vintage Ferris wheel made famous by starring in Grahame Greene's spy thriller The Third Man, I had no intentions whatsoever of riding the log flume that spun you around, or the other metallic monsters that lifted you up and dropped you unexpectedly to the ground. 'That would be stomach suicide,' as my conscience aptly put it. Still, it was funny seeing how Brian's hair, already gelled up in a quiff, stood up erect as he exited one of the rides as if he had undergone an electric shock.
Prague Station= 36 degrees celcius. Me=Shit. As I wanted to spend my remianing Koronas at the station, I had a taste of home with a chewy burger form Burger King, afterwards buying two, possibly illegal and ridiculously cheap 10 korona (equivalent of 2p) DVDs of the French movie Amelie and a movie about a played on death row played by the actor from 24, Kiefer Sutherland- With a beard he looks surprisingly like Ricky Gervais.
For the train journey, we shared a sweaty cabin with three Spanish Interrailers, one of whom was wearing an 'I <3 Roma' shirt, an odd choice of clothing for Eastern Europe, I thought. Whilst all three simultaneously gamed on their phones, the shit that I'd been cooking all morning really couldn't wait longer even if it was on a high-speed train. As I left the toilet, I felt like warning the nearby pasengers on the floor to leave it five minutes. Instead, I simply sped back down the corridor and fled the scene of the crime.
On arriving in Vienna, Jamie had to help Brian carry his suitcase down the long, tram-lined streets to the hostel- one of the wheels had come off and we were convinced the whole city had started to get if not a little bit pissed off with the sound of screeching.
Despite my illness, we still tried to make the most of our first day in the Austrian capital: We began by watching an Apple Strudel-Making show, where the chef had to keep switching between German and English as he tried to demonstrate the process. This was impressive, but not as impressive as the way he managed to stretch the doe to such a thin layer with his fists without it breaking. When he asked him afterwards how he did it, his answer was short, sweet and simple; "It's just practice..."
Afterwards we explored the centre of the city, browsing some of the Tat-Filled souvenir shops and gazing up at the towering church steeples above row-upon-row of windows adorned with stone-patterns. This gave off the impression that the city was outrageously expensive, whilst the prices of food proved it. Since we were away from Korona land and back in the unrelenting world of the Euro, we decided that the best port of call for lunch would be a box of noodles from Easy Japanese. Finding a nice spot on the curb, me and Alex spent the time sketching the statue of the man who invented the printing press. That said, for a man who invented the press he didn't look best pleased: He appeared to be frowning and wore a long, sloping, tar-covered beard which gave him the appearance of an ice-cream melting in the sun.
On my last legs, and with my stomach as loose as an outpatient on the run, I went along with the others to Prater Fun Fair. Apart from the slow, Vintage Ferris wheel made famous by starring in Grahame Greene's spy thriller The Third Man, I had no intentions whatsoever of riding the log flume that spun you around, or the other metallic monsters that lifted you up and dropped you unexpectedly to the ground. 'That would be stomach suicide,' as my conscience aptly put it. Still, it was funny seeing how Brian's hair, already gelled up in a quiff, stood up erect as he exited one of the rides as if he had undergone an electric shock.
The People Make the Place
Budapest, Hungary
Friday, August 2, 2013
Having recovered slighty during the second morning in Vienna, I went with Ethan to join the others at the Danube Tower (called so as it is situated on the River Danube's island in the centre of the city.) We had reserved 21 euro seats for a free two-course meal at the revolving restaurant. I say 'free,' as this was part of the 21 euro package, but the spectacular, luxuriously rotating view of Vienna's panorama whilst indulging in a filling schnitzel and stunning strawberry sorbet was definitely worth it. And, even though the drinks were extortionate, Alex and I, being the savvy Interrailers we were, whipped out our bottled water and topped up our glasses with that while the waiter's weren't looking: Us-1, Tourist Traps-Nil!
Visiting the Modern Art Museum in the city's museum quarter later that day was interesting, but it was at that point that loose stomach motions and pains once again started kicking in, and my sharpest memory from this period of time was unfortunately of the museum toilet
. There was, however, this one set of paintings that drew my attention; here, the artist had used mirrors in his paintings to make it seem like the viewer were inside it- a very innovative idea.
Having run out of water on the way back to the hostel, Jamie kindly offered me some from his massive plastic bottle, which was refreshing and really helped relieve the pounding headache tormenting me. Until the next morning of our departure from Vienna that is, when Jamie confirmed his helpfully hidden suspicion that he had tonsillitis.
As I had trouble finding a seat near the others on the train from Vienna to Budapest, two, pleasant German girls let me have one of two free seats in front of them. And so confirmed the belief that the places you go are made my the people you meet- What I had initially imagined would be a long train journey reading Stieg Larsonn's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and listening to my ipod had been greatly transformed into an enjoyable, insightful journey that flew by, chatting and joking about how my German was so bad while their English was so good. Their names were Bente (accented 'e') and Carol, also interrailers, who'd been travelling an impressive five weeks around France, Spain, Italy, Austria and now Hungary. I was surprised by how early the German summer ends when Carol said they returned to school on Monday. Then again, I suppose that's why they're such an efficient country, since they're up and ready to go while the other nations are still in bed and groaning for more of a lie-in
.
As we hopped of the train from what had seemed like the quickest train journey and our eyes were greeted by the pleasant cream buildings of Budapest, we said goodbye to Bente and Carol. Not for the final time, however, as we met them briefly for a drink the following evening, Brian taking a particular liking for Bente. So much so, in fact, that he ended up rushing to the station to say a romantic goodbye to her before she left. (And no, it wasn't the kiss of black and white movies, it was the adding each other on facebook of 2013.) It was a painful farewell, but, like I would never see once more the Australian girl I met in Prague on Ethan's Birthday, Brian had also fallen victim to the bane of all travelers- That as long you travel, the people you meet along the way will probably always disappear and fade into memory.
On reflection, I think we made the most of our one full day in Budapest. This was, in part I believe, down to the central location of our luxury apartment, which I can safely say took our breaths away on arrival the evening before. For a mere £30 each, we'd discovered an interrailer's dream hostel, where the 'rooms' (a word which doesn't serve it justice) consisted of a kitchen, bathroom and quintessentially European balcony over-looking St Stephen's Basilica. I distinctly remember the cool, summer evening ambiance whilst we relaxed on the balcony with coffees, our minds suspended there in peaceful harmony by the soothing strum of a violin below.
We began the day with a trek up to Buda Castle and Fisherman's Bastion. This consisted of a white wall as creamy as the colour of my shorts (before we left- they are now smothered in random dirt and tar-stains with the occasional smear of sauce), which over-looked the city's jagged rooftops and gleaming blue river
.
On our way to lunch, we stopped to see the memorial for Hungarian Jews murdered in WWII, which took the form of metal casts of their shoes left by the river bank before they were deported to the concentration camps. It struck me how we'd traveled so far, yet still saw the marks left behind by such an evil part of human history.
We pater got a great deal at the Gerloczy Cafe for lunch; a three course meal with a rose for the equivalent of five quid! Following our delicious lunch, we made our way to the Schezenyi Thermal Baths, this time not so cheap, but the hot water really helped us loosen and release our stress from travel. But what really opened the pores, more than the 70 degree Celsius sauna there even, was the steam room, possibly the single most scorching room I've ever entered. I started choking and couldn't breathe for a good ten seconds from the moment of stepping into this oven, and for this you may be wondering; "Why bother?" Well, sometimes the prize is worth the fight, and the results of my five minutes baking in there were marvelous- the pounding headache I'd developed that day had disappeared, my body seemingly refreshed, re-born almost...
That evening we dined at a cafe recommended by the hostel receptionist as; "the only cafe in central Budapest where they're not shitting with the bill." This was certainly true, and the food was great as well as the service, so I'd recommend anyone visiting this city to try out cafe Kisharang at least once.
And it is on this memory that we came to the end of our interrail journey across Europe, the plane lifting off the ground and homeward bound as write. And while I sit here, reflecting on our three-week trip in the stench of perfume from the airport duty-free shop which everyone tries but never buys, I wonder at the amount I've achieved with my friends on this journey, or what I've learnt from such an experience. Well, you could say I've taken on many responsibilities being away from home, (not forgetting the many irresponsibilities), but I think that as a group of young, British travelers we've learnt one major thing: How to have a bloody brilliant summer on the tracks.
Visiting the Modern Art Museum in the city's museum quarter later that day was interesting, but it was at that point that loose stomach motions and pains once again started kicking in, and my sharpest memory from this period of time was unfortunately of the museum toilet
. There was, however, this one set of paintings that drew my attention; here, the artist had used mirrors in his paintings to make it seem like the viewer were inside it- a very innovative idea.
Having run out of water on the way back to the hostel, Jamie kindly offered me some from his massive plastic bottle, which was refreshing and really helped relieve the pounding headache tormenting me. Until the next morning of our departure from Vienna that is, when Jamie confirmed his helpfully hidden suspicion that he had tonsillitis.
As I had trouble finding a seat near the others on the train from Vienna to Budapest, two, pleasant German girls let me have one of two free seats in front of them. And so confirmed the belief that the places you go are made my the people you meet- What I had initially imagined would be a long train journey reading Stieg Larsonn's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and listening to my ipod had been greatly transformed into an enjoyable, insightful journey that flew by, chatting and joking about how my German was so bad while their English was so good. Their names were Bente (accented 'e') and Carol, also interrailers, who'd been travelling an impressive five weeks around France, Spain, Italy, Austria and now Hungary. I was surprised by how early the German summer ends when Carol said they returned to school on Monday. Then again, I suppose that's why they're such an efficient country, since they're up and ready to go while the other nations are still in bed and groaning for more of a lie-in
.
As we hopped of the train from what had seemed like the quickest train journey and our eyes were greeted by the pleasant cream buildings of Budapest, we said goodbye to Bente and Carol. Not for the final time, however, as we met them briefly for a drink the following evening, Brian taking a particular liking for Bente. So much so, in fact, that he ended up rushing to the station to say a romantic goodbye to her before she left. (And no, it wasn't the kiss of black and white movies, it was the adding each other on facebook of 2013.) It was a painful farewell, but, like I would never see once more the Australian girl I met in Prague on Ethan's Birthday, Brian had also fallen victim to the bane of all travelers- That as long you travel, the people you meet along the way will probably always disappear and fade into memory.
On reflection, I think we made the most of our one full day in Budapest. This was, in part I believe, down to the central location of our luxury apartment, which I can safely say took our breaths away on arrival the evening before. For a mere £30 each, we'd discovered an interrailer's dream hostel, where the 'rooms' (a word which doesn't serve it justice) consisted of a kitchen, bathroom and quintessentially European balcony over-looking St Stephen's Basilica. I distinctly remember the cool, summer evening ambiance whilst we relaxed on the balcony with coffees, our minds suspended there in peaceful harmony by the soothing strum of a violin below.
We began the day with a trek up to Buda Castle and Fisherman's Bastion. This consisted of a white wall as creamy as the colour of my shorts (before we left- they are now smothered in random dirt and tar-stains with the occasional smear of sauce), which over-looked the city's jagged rooftops and gleaming blue river
.
On our way to lunch, we stopped to see the memorial for Hungarian Jews murdered in WWII, which took the form of metal casts of their shoes left by the river bank before they were deported to the concentration camps. It struck me how we'd traveled so far, yet still saw the marks left behind by such an evil part of human history.
We pater got a great deal at the Gerloczy Cafe for lunch; a three course meal with a rose for the equivalent of five quid! Following our delicious lunch, we made our way to the Schezenyi Thermal Baths, this time not so cheap, but the hot water really helped us loosen and release our stress from travel. But what really opened the pores, more than the 70 degree Celsius sauna there even, was the steam room, possibly the single most scorching room I've ever entered. I started choking and couldn't breathe for a good ten seconds from the moment of stepping into this oven, and for this you may be wondering; "Why bother?" Well, sometimes the prize is worth the fight, and the results of my five minutes baking in there were marvelous- the pounding headache I'd developed that day had disappeared, my body seemingly refreshed, re-born almost...
That evening we dined at a cafe recommended by the hostel receptionist as; "the only cafe in central Budapest where they're not shitting with the bill." This was certainly true, and the food was great as well as the service, so I'd recommend anyone visiting this city to try out cafe Kisharang at least once.
And it is on this memory that we came to the end of our interrail journey across Europe, the plane lifting off the ground and homeward bound as write. And while I sit here, reflecting on our three-week trip in the stench of perfume from the airport duty-free shop which everyone tries but never buys, I wonder at the amount I've achieved with my friends on this journey, or what I've learnt from such an experience. Well, you could say I've taken on many responsibilities being away from home, (not forgetting the many irresponsibilities), but I think that as a group of young, British travelers we've learnt one major thing: How to have a bloody brilliant summer on the tracks.
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