tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54767264846289801152023-10-31T07:57:50.154-07:00Bohemian BootcampRecord of my life, Herr in Berlin...plus previous travel doodles and miscellanous amusingsThomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-25023147576327431202010-07-04T16:10:00.001-07:002010-07-04T16:46:39.819-07:00Walking the streetsKatya has gone away to visit her boy-friend in Hanover, we have the flat to ourselves. But anxious to become orientated we set off to view the city, happened upon the 12th century church half-levelled by world war II and left to posterity, came accross poetry emerging from under our feet on a boardwalk by the cathedral.<br /><br />On crossing Rosenthaler Platz Germany score against Argentina, and folk erupt all around in suprised applause. Grinning people grinning at each other, grinning at me. Walking a busy city thronged with folk can be alienating but not today. Near there we fall upon a leather couch outside a tatoo shop and forget about walking and the disgruntling owner.<br /><br />Upon Kastanienallee every bar, of which there are many has a television oustide and a good crowd of people around it. All bikes take to the road, and for us walkers we party-hop from screen to screen.<br /><br />Flat back at the flat, I return to the open highway in search of dinner ingredients, and am further beaten up by the sun. Home again and fed and a minor domestic disagreement later we embark upon the town and though a little foot-sore it is nice for there to be two unsunny sides of the street so we don't have to crisscross. Guided by Map-Nav we get to the bar we aimed for, but the drinks are too expensive so we down an hour with a bottle of red oustide an off license with a down of mood gentleman. Bolstered by the bottle, we flew around the dance floor of another bar as if on the Wall of Death, and thus expediating the process of alcohol recyling I could just about manage to make basic conversational manouvres with some nearly scrupulous english people. We were lucky, nearly scupulous is good for strangers in a bar, supiciousness or over-eager-egging-the-puddingness will shade over any faces fixed under the sternest atificial lighting. Home, bed, tune in tomorrow if you are able still...Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-50912165479610503992010-07-04T15:49:00.000-07:002010-07-04T16:10:08.110-07:00My friend arrivesDidn't get up til 2pm, hadn't slept well the previous night. Berlin is very hot, and had been reaching 35C on occasion, and by midmorning my duvet was clinging to me like a greco-roman wrestler. I dunked it off the bed. It was nice for that freshening gesture to represent my mornings sucess and not some abstract reconciliation in spreadhseet land.<br /><br />Football screens strew the city, and I believe within there is even a football mile within a city park. It is called the Tiergarten, the inner city green lung that is the canopy to the trunk of the citie's main street, unter den linden.<br /><br />Nothing much happened after I become erect either, other than shopping and sorting out my new room. So we fast forward to my sweaty trek to the railwaystation, Hauptbahnof, a vast greenhouse where someone has interlaced a life-sized train set. Nathalie arrived on time, but by car, dropped off by one of a network of car sharers taken all the way from the Savoie region of France. We caught up on the way home, drank some beer I had bought on the walk back and had another at a bar. Home, brief tour of flat and sleep, another good day.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-56922084788332610792010-07-04T10:19:00.000-07:002010-07-04T15:48:17.121-07:00Ich bin eine.......Berliner! The flat is lovely. It has wooden floors and tall ceilings, and a Mary Poppins rooftop with lots of chim-chimeney chimney stacks. I sat up there on the first evening with Xavier who was subletting the room to us, and Katya who is our flat mate, and had a beer in the growing dark.<br /><br />Nathalie would arrive two nights later, my friend I met in Amsterdam while couchsurfing at her house. I have come to Berlin to embark on a few tentative creative ventures and enjoy a 2 months sojourn from employeedom.<br /><br />Both Xavier and Katya have been very friendly. Katya took me to a local coffee house the first day, where the man who made us our drinks was also the improbable face of the cafe on their postcards. An effeminate man he is seen posing as Wolverine from the X-men with a cookie struck bizzarely on one of his claws.<br /><br />Nathalie unfortunately had been legged up by wrongly imputting her details onto the flight booking, and what with her noit living in Switzerland had to make other arrangments. She came the next day, stay tuned to here more...Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-45696365018685375862010-03-29T16:43:00.000-07:002010-03-29T17:03:13.454-07:00High in PrestonRolled out of bed and onto the straight tracks, slick steel speeding me to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">chorley</span> for my first day back after my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">anaphylactic</span> reaction to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">brazil</span> nuts. Everyone at social services central was very kind, even more helpful than my GP even, and i am to have a risk assessment. The professionalism of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">lancashire</span> county council.<br />Being a fish out of water is almost like the famous evolutionary step, to grasp the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">vitamins</span> of air after the thin gruel of water. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Aeons</span> down the drain, literally. And so my far off thoughts and fish like looking into space i can find a niche within life's glittering bowl of fruit to be myself. And gobble it up for a while yet, the fresh air! The weirder you are sometimes the more leeway you have - i am at my funniest when i embrace the voice of madness within. Speak with your own voice, and burn the boats of suffering. Or whatever!<br />So i strolled out of the box that is our office and after <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">cheesing</span> myself with two slices from the booths deli i pedalled my stretching legs over to the chippy to add some chips to my defrosted bread and 2 portions of cheddar. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Delicieux</span>!<br />Another block of almighty typing, mouse wiggling, clicking, and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">reminiscing</span> about having a poo in a chair in accident and emergency (all the wires in my arms, it was hard to remember how to do it when <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">i was</span> so scared about wrenching my life giving pipes from them), and hey presto,5pm and i am like out of there! <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Knowwhatimean</span>?!<br />Back to the Bud Pad for tea, a wander in the garden,is this boring? And then a drinks gathering at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Isobell</span> and Laura's house (after having a shower, a new thing for me, i actually practiced Vaudeville stage act in there! complete with songs and stand-up routine) where Was was playing a Japanese computer game called Salary Man suicide. My high kite of mood had fallen out of the wind and by now i am peaceful again.<br />Good night whoever you are and thank you for reading!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-61506419077911940982009-12-07T11:52:00.000-08:002009-12-07T11:53:44.427-08:00<span style="font-size:180%;">a review </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Touching the past – joyful theatre to help you remember!</span><br /><br />LAST THURSDAY in the Continental Pub’s art space I witnessed mementos coming to life. “Human Remains”, a play devised by the whole company, a group called Touched Theatre, came from member Beccy Smith’s idea to recreate and celebrate her Great Uncle’s life, the African adventurer James Tunstall. And they did so using the things he had left behind!Uncle James was born in Manchester in 1927 and forged a successful career in Africa working as a crocodile and locust hunter and even discovered a new species of locust. His life is dramatised here through the lens of a young photographer called Stanley (played by Gilbert Taylor) who inherits his Uncle’s artefacts and uses them to make mock-ups of his life and experiences, capturing this “still living” in photography.We live his life once more through inventive puppetry and unusual use of his objects, enjoying the song he once sang, “I’ll hunt for you”, accompanied by his violin bow playing a saw, and his letters are flown around the stage in the manner of Savannah birds! At another point his stick is used to reflect his old age as it is limped across the stage. When it is finally leaned against a table, the beeps of a life support machine becoming continuous signal his death.The beauty of this lovely play was that it showed the value there is in making an effort to think about memorabilia. James in one letter wrote: “I think I am losing touch with you all back home”. It is easy to do, but through this play we are able to connect with him again in quite an unexpected way. So the next time you come across mother’s letters or a friend’s treasured gift treat yourself and go on a wonderful trip down memory lane. You might enjoy it and who knows...it might even feel real again!<br /><br /><em>The Continental is on South Meadow Lane, by the river Ribble. For upcoming events and tickets call 01772 499425</em>Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-32430765022056494862009-12-04T10:59:00.001-08:002009-12-07T12:37:17.006-08:00Bilsten Protest siteAnd we turned off the road by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">VW</span> garage and entered the wood, looking back in the dark the neon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">VW</span> sign seemed to simplify into a Peace image behind the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">lattice</span> of trees. A further 400 yards of dim and dimmer plodding we were in the Site.<br /><br />Our steps triggered the first line <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">of</span> defence, the dogs. Yapping and growling, we called out over them to their owner John. With dreadlocks and a flashlight on a band around his head, he led us down a pathway and over the river on a little wooden bridge to a corral of huts and awnings where a warm fire awaited us. We were there as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">couchsurfers</span> and were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">immediately</span> accepted even though we had not notified them we were coming! We took a seat around the fire which when lit to its full shone a pale orange light upon a sign - "Welcome to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bilston</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Vasey</span> - you'll never leave." The site had been here for 7 years and though the people had changed it appeared the site would never - until the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bailiffs</span> came. A local <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">industrial</span> estate was to be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">extended</span> here, and a connecting road was to be built through this glen, so a group of environmental <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">protesters</span> had set up camp among the trees to try to block its construction. And every environmental <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">protester</span> must eat, so off we went to the local Marks and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Spencers</span> in a retail park and raided its skip of its discarded edibles. "I wouldn't want to spend the Queen's currency if I could help it," said John. Three or four very large bin bag sized bags including the wonders of Sushi, top range mince pies and a feast of lovely <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">muffins</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">scones</span> and rolls, not to mention bagfuls of potatoes and veg, were hauled <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">campward</span> and a supermarket trolley was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">requisitioned</span> (to be later turned into cutlery in the fire!). And to damn the establishment further we hurled two bouquets of pink roses at the M&S security cameras to lodge them in the protective grid, a moment where the flowers became <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Molotov</span> cocktails of joy in an impish show of disobedience.<br /><br />The next day after a night in the ground level gypsy caravan, the drapes of the evening had been taken down and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">mazy</span> spread of tree houses and walkways <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">sprawled</span> across the canopy above us like lazy orangutans. Rachel had seen this place on <a href="http://www.couchsurfing.org/">www.couchsurfing.org</a>, reading something like "couch spare in a tree house - turn up any time, no need to ask!", so we did just that arriving here in the scenic border country 30 minutes outside Edinburgh. Today we learned tree climbing, via ropes, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">abseiling</span> down afterwards. We also took a stroll to get some wood for Tom who was constructing a musical instrument, a cross between a mandolin and a fiddle he called a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Mandifiddle</span>". The day after we went a wandering up glen and down burn, tracing our way around the genetic <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">modification</span> epicentre that is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Roslyn</span> Biotechnology to arrive at the centuries old medieval church at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Roslyn</span> that has been <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">made</span> famous by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Da</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Vinci</span> code. As we were now down with civilisation, we merrily leaped the fence and saved ourselves £7.50. <br /><br />Back we tramped to the site, tramping an appropriate term, wet shoes sludging through the draining fields to the mesmerising glow of the fire. Talk goes around the fire from 4pm in winter, as there is light there, and if you have nothing to say you stare into the fire. Some people had been here for a long time, others had diffused here from a protest site in Ayrshire where a coal field was going to be plumbed very soon, the bailiffs were expected at any moment, the eviction order had been served. £100,000 a day is the fee for the specialised eviction team - you would have to recycle a lot of M&S roses to pinch that sort of sum. One man, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">scouser</span> named George, knew and was friends with "Swampy", the face of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Newbury</span> bypass and an environmental <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">protester</span> celebrity. In that siege the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">protesters</span> dug deep in tunnels and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">eeries</span> high in the trees and kept the eviction team at it for many months. In fact John had had to leave <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Ayrshrie</span> taking his dog and a friend's dog with him to save them from being taken away.<br /><br />However our time was up and Rachel and I were to be evicted by commitments of our own, Rachel with her Ba (Honours) studies and me with my graduation ceremony and first day working at Social Services coming up over the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">next</span> two days. As we left the gathered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">companeros</span> who were sitting around the fire Tom turned to say "Good luck with everything, Job, Career, Degree" (i.e. the trappings of society which he mistrusted so). And as we tramped back to the cold light of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">VW</span> sign, part of me was also mistrusting, doubting and finding the life i would return to a bit hard to digest. Here we had had lungfuls of woodsmoke, glens with gushing rivers, 500 year-old yew trees, folk singing by the fireside and small adventures padded out over <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">carelessly</span> slow measures of time. It was a sad feeling to leave, but I am still warmed and inspired by the experience and the people there and if it is at all possible I want to go back.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-42477699079749380192009-10-26T13:41:00.000-07:002009-10-26T14:45:52.747-07:00Down and Out in Paris - Home to PrestonAnd then <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waseem</span> tried to hitchhike with a Motorway Servicing truck using a stolen motorway sign, saying "Direction Paris" and we were apprehended and the sign returned to the authorities. The man was very kind and dropped us at the motorway service station.<br />Here we were whisked northward after not much waiting by Nicolas and Celine. They dropped us in Tours at the busy central square, where we went to buy food from the supermarket. A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves at the edge of the town forming a one-two combination of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Waseem</span> with his thumb and me with the new sign. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kangny</span>, an artist from Paris, whizzed to a halt and we almost didn't spot him and then seeing him dashed up the road to jump in. The drive was still quite a long one to Paris, but he was going all the way and could drop us in the St Denis region where we were to meet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Muhammed</span> and the rest of the rap group. So we relaxed and talked, the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">landscape</span> mellowing as the sun set and the broad flat french fields <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">accentuated</span> the endless rhythm of the car speeding along the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">autoroute</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Waseem</span> called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Muhammed</span> and it seemed things were difficult for them to get <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">accommodation</span> for us as their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">apartment</span> was very full with 5 staying in a 3 bed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">apartment</span>, and what with all their music things it was difficult to find space for us. But they were going to sort something out so we remained hopeful. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Kangny</span> offered me a coffee but it didn't help, at this stage I felt abject and was finding it hard to keep chatting. <br />At 10.30 we arrived in Paris. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Kangny</span> took a photograph of us with our sign, saying "Paris", and we said goodbye to him and went into a nearby cinema to change. Here <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Waseem</span> called the rap group, and we got some awful news - they had no <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">accommodation</span> for us. We had travelled all the way from Spain to reach them and they had let us down. I was actually drunk on fatigue, and quite enjoying the feeling so I didn't get cross and neither did <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Waseem</span>. We both resolved, however, to go back to England as soon as possible as we had had enough. <br />It all called for a kebab, so we strode over to the eating area, skirting the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Stade</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">de</span> France as we did so. Suitably sustained, I popped into a bar to use the toilet and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">widdled</span> into the hole keeping well back with my flip-flops. And I then held down the flush button. This was not a good idea, as a cascade of water plunged down into the sunken bowl and splashed up over the lip onto my sock-covered toes. So I had to wash both the flip-flops and my feet, and when I came out and made a joke of it to the man at the bar he laughed and bought me a drink. I called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Waseem</span> over and we had a drink together, but when I returned the favour and bought him a drink and one for me I was shocked to find it costing 6 euros for a Ricard and half a lager. They also new a hotel with a free room, lucky as France were playing football tomorrow at the nearby <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Stade</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">de</span> France, so they walked us around and dropped us off there.<br />The next day when we emerged over an hour after check-out time, we went to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Internet</span> cafe and booked a bus to London and a bus from London to Preston. Calls to home and to cancel my card concluded business and so we decided to explore Paris by bus, first traversing the extensive multicultural areas of the north and north-east, and then taking a bus to the centre (jumping off for 10 minutes outside the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">megalopolous</span> Louvre building) and back, descending from the bus at the international bus station. We we were lucky as there were seats still left at the Coach desk, but while we were waiting I heard a shriek and there running towards me was a familiar face yelling "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Helloooo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Thooomaaasss</span>!". It was Rachel, who you may remember I stayed with in Heidelberg and travelled to Munich with. An incredible coincidence, she was travelling back to England too, after a time surfing on the west coast of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">France</span>, and was very brown. She had stayed the previous night on the banks of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Seine</span>, literally, in her sleeping bag!<br />So we all travelled back together n the 10pm bus from Paris. There was an incredibly funny snorer on the coach, and at Calais we had our passports stamped to the pleasure of the customs officials. On the boat we sat on deck and gazed around the immense blackness for the short crossing, not feeling too cold. Then we were back in England and soon after, in London where we said bye to Rachel who was getting a different bus to Preston. We left at 7am and when we were out among the fields it was clear that England lacked the brightness of the European countries I had visited, things were dim or even dreary. And perhaps because of this the landscape <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">emanated</span> colour and made me feel glad to be back.<br />And back in Preston we found Rachel again and after 10 minutes there was mum too. I was home. We drove <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Waseem</span> back to his Preston home and mum took me back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Simonstone</span> where food and home cooking awaited.<br />Well, that's it, here is where it all comes to an end. In all I had travelled for 10 weeks, covering some 10,000 kilometres mainly by hitchhiking and had visited 12 countries, alone and in turn with Rachel, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Kieran</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Waseem</span>. Not bad really if you also consider it had only <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">costed</span> £140 per week, a price massively inflated by the hotels and hostels we had been forced to use due to the lottery of hitchhiking. But then again, it wouldn't have been the same if I and we had planned things. Nothing that I did was planned anything more than a week before, and even then was only accurate to within a day or two and to a region. Only the one way plane ticket I took from Manchester to Brussels was genuinely premeditated - everything else was either whim or reaction. But that was the beauty of it and why I would recommend it to others. <br />But if you try it, you must remember that you are a drifter and have your wits about you, not for your safety but for your sense of your self. It is uprooting and alienating, so make sure you are willing to fight for who you are and have a clear sense of what you want out of it. Honestly, I travelled out of panic, out of having most of my goals in life fulfilled and of having lost direction, and so when I look back at the difficulties I experienced, such as loneliness or sleep deprivation, I only wish I had more of a clear reason to persevere. If I had, I think I would have got more from it and have been a better person too. It was good, yes, but for me it was not in fact brilliant.<br />So now, it remains to say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">thankyou</span> to mum and dad for giving me the money was a graduation gift and also <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">thankyou</span> for my travelling companions for being good friends. I hope you have enjoyed it as readers. I am sorry for finishing it off so late. And well, I shall hope to see you around the planet sometime. If you need somewhere to stay you can of course come and sleep on my couch anytime and if you are hitchhiking I will pick you up. I would have to! I am in debt now so I don't have the choice.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-27624205015892945192009-10-05T10:34:00.000-07:002009-10-26T13:39:23.345-07:00FuturoscopeAt 2pm our bodies were exhumed by that grim autospsy techician, the conscious mind. I felt like the fluffy dough of my thoughts had been mixed with asbestos-laced concrete and melded together with super-glue, and the physical pretences of my bipedal frame were as loose and fragile as an inwardly exploding tower block. Mr Wasim was also suffering much as I, our dentist chair faces abused by the aneasthetic of utter exhaustion, hanging around the jaw badly tailored. And as we moved back to the petrol pump, our abused selves somehow formed an agreement to coordinate movements, if only to deliver us to our hitching post like a pair of stringless thunderbirds, our dead-weight torsos riding magic legs.<br />A quick visit to the pharmacy of the petrol station's coffee bar and we were out there again, soliciting lifts. And we were lucky very quickly. Yvonne and Simon welcomed us into their car and we were off north in their very nice BMW. They dropped us at a petrol station to the south of Poitiers, just as night was circling above, spreading its black wings over us. Quite a bit of can't be bothered soliciting later and two excitable young ladies, Chloe and Camille, picked us up and dropped us in the middle of nowhere on an obscure road connecting to the autoroute. This was bothering as it was now 2am, so we dropped into a place behind an electircity station to sleep, but the heavens opened and drenched us and we fled off along the autoroute to find a service station, with a pair of road signs as tobbogans (down the motorway verge) and umbrellas for our heads. Our predicament was now extremely obscure, cars and trucks honking at our masked faces staggering up the hardshoulder. Five kilometres of this bleak winter weather and we spied an alternative, a vast and bizzarre recent construction, a grand and enigmatic mini-city known as Futuroscope. Clambering the fence, we wanted for nothing more than dryness and warmth and after a few staggerings around the sodden eerily empty plazas, by triangular buildings and monstrously zany archways, we came accross a hotel of quite incredible pretensions but realistically low prices. Sixty six euros and a room for two.<br />In the morning everything was wet, ruined like scribbled phone numbers from the night before. We were smelly, and I went down to pay, had my coffee and washed it down with a cheekily dispatched conversation to practice my french. I endeavoured to express joy at my "small" coffee being actually really big, only to confuse the waiter into thinking I wasn't satisfied. Very droll, and we got there in the end.<br />So off we went, and leaving my credit card somewhere lying behind in the hotel, we drifted motorway ward once more.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-4218189064404892382009-09-28T09:40:00.000-07:002009-09-28T10:24:35.292-07:00Red in Bordeuax and a kingdom for a carFrom San Sebastien, we eventually got a lift away from the border, hopping into <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">France</span> like docile frogs in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">menacing</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">headlights</span> of destiny, making only a few steps north to Bordeaux. The first lift dropped us on on the side of the motorway, and only <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Waseem's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">generosity</span> in offering his phone for the use of a french lady at a toll barrier won us the good fortune of her reciprocation in whisking us 50 kilometres upwards. Another step took us to Bordeaux, faster than you can say motorway and all we could see were the minutes crushing under our fleet rubberised feet. We had made it through the gorgeous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Landes</span> region, the largest forest in France and the largest (alpine) forest in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Europe</span>, all 100 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">kilometres</span> of it! Thumbing it, over the blue smells of the roadway our nostrils glimpsed the pleasures of a tree environment that would freshen a whole galaxy of patronised toilet facilities. But then, dropped off like unwanted babies at a Bordeaux petrol station, we puckered and persuaded but nobody could handle our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">responsibility</span>. Hours went by, and Mr <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Wasim</span> and I (as I was now calling him, my good friend, in a James Bond accent) slowly morphed into double-oh zeros, glum dummies without purpose or willpower as the dwindling evening travellers on the forecourt spurned our feeble pleas. At one point, Mr <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Wasim</span> looked like a petrified duck and my husky voice resembled that of a well kicked dog. We were down and out now, spitting tiredness, dreaming of not and never, enthusiastically finished. That's right, we had it with the baguette and were bored with the Bordeaux. And by 830 am, after sitting and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">gurning</span> at bleary eyed glaucoma besieged pump patrons for eight hours of baleful donkey headed yakking, failing to pick a juicy one from the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">diarrheal</span> dregs that sluiced between our sentry positions as the mocking fart of the gush of the automatic doors closed our indigestible fate behind their backs, we manually shifted ourselves in the general direction of a hotel to render ourselves comfortably unconscious of the raw line of hot coals that had become the tedious element of time. Cooked in the small air of our sweaty room, we awoke dazed and only marginally more energised. Fatigue was the marble hippo on both of our backs and was set to get worse too, and whole business of asking for lifts was finally losing its appeal. Fuck it was not the motto, but listlessness was the mind frame and, perhaps in a good way, the feeling of wanting, asking and hoping to Travel was dieing. Home thoughts were abroad and though we were soon to be back, the next few days were to test our personal strength and good humour morwe than we would have liked. And if you are not too tired either, look out for the next burst of writing ina few days time. Thanks, bye for now, Thomas.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-50626803245418887632009-09-12T13:30:00.000-07:002009-09-18T13:14:50.773-07:00A white thumb against a dark skyThere are various <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">categories</span> of “no” when you are hitchhiking, and as it would take us 5 days to reach Paris, here is a rundown of the various ways in which people turned us down and left us on the roadside (or, as it happenned, in a ditch sheltering from the rain).<br />Some cars aren't going far and so can’t see the point in stopping (often they are right in this), and the driver often makes a sign to indicate a left or right turn, so to this you give him an extra thumb to say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">thankyou</span>. These are the “Traffic Policeman”.<br />Some have no room due to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">baggage</span> or people, at which the universal gesture of the driver is to make a W-shape out of their arms and mouth and with their head rolled to one side make a hammy Jewish-looking body shrug as if to say "What can I do? If the Angels were on our side and there was less bulk in this automobile then we would be able to come to some sort of arrangement!". To these cars you share their dilemma with grateful understanding, at least they are not ignoring you and would quite possibly help if they could. These people are the Titans of the road, and at least look this way, full of grace and good intention, but it is always the same expression, and I wonder whether all of them, if they were less well fitted out with ballast, would be as magnanimous to pull over and pick you up? I wonder, they certainly look okay and good, so they are always given the benefit of the doubt and a grateful thumb and head nod is granted them. What with their Jewish waggling and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">virtuous</span> demeanour, I have called these (I am quite proud of this one) the “No room at the Inners”.<br />Then there is the driver who is not leaving the vicinity you are in. These without fail lift up their arm and point, in a jabbing motion, down into their laps and shake their heads with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">judgelike</span> impassivity. Some are serious as they do this, looking a bit grim like wizened Scottish grave diggers (“here’s a good spot!”), while others impart their disappointing news with a compassionate smile. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Either</span> way, they are “Finger Jabbers”.<br />Then there are the strange people who stick their thumbs up straight back at you, and for this reason are very annoying. Some people, great your hopeful “baited” thumb by sticking their own thumb right back at you, often with a look of great humour on their faces. To this, the best analytic response my mind has been able to muster at the time is “eh?”. This gesture could mean one of many things but these can only be elucidated in retrospect which is what makes their response so annoying. There are in my opinion several likely sub-groups which it is possible to categorise the person into after a few minutes of deliberating.<br />In one group this gesture means that they would never in a month of Sundays pick you up but they do in actual fact find you funny (which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">isn</span>’t a bad effect to be having) and so are indulging in a generous dose of mockery, mingled respect at your Chutzpah too I don’t doubt, if I am being accurate. These people are often “Townies”, for the want of a better description, and so perhaps we can forgive them as they haven’t after all had very good educations. But they are definitely taking this piss, so some education would be most needed in their case. That’s group 1, the "Laughing townies".<br />The second group I have come up with I believe actually have no idea why you are standing there, but being spontaneous people are reciprocating your gesture, again with a touch of mockery but unlike the last group, no irony. These are the best subgroup, as their mockery is light and also rather a reflex response as they haven’t really seen you or had time to think, by the looks of their deadpan faces as they blaze by. I shall call these the “Right back at yous”, as you can at least laugh at them as they robotically motor past you.<br />The last group I think have a certain solidarity with you, they know why you are standing there, and may in fact have hitchhiked too in their pasts and want you to know this by mimicking your behaviour. Theirs is a knowing sort of good humoured “no”. Perhaps they are going in another direction, or are full, but being the same kind of people they give you a “positive negative” by saying no with their thumbs. These people are okay, but a little inconsiderate as you think by their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">enthusiasm</span> are giving you a lift and you are disappointed when after running after their car for twenty metres that they are not slowing down. These are the “Keep <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Believing-ers</span>”.<br />Some people say no without moving a muscle. One highly irritating look you often get is best described as “The Terminator”, often from men, with sun glasses on who (and probably <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">becaus</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">e of</span> this) are not even slightly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">muscley</span> or macho PRETEND not to see you.<br />Then there is the “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Hauty</span> Finger <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Waggers</span>” who, as if some Football virtuoso in a previous existence seeks to tell you (perhaps they are dreaming) that they will have none of your diving nonsense against their football team, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">thankyou</span> very much, they perfect expressions of deep, nose wrinkled <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">insolence</span>, as if your plea is the smell of dog muck to them. Why they do this I have no idea, but their porky little fingers are most irritating when you are only after all politely asking for a lift.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-13834245966996999002009-09-11T12:09:00.000-07:002009-09-11T14:26:28.610-07:00Oviedo part deux - a lesson in receiving: say yes to everything!<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waseeem</span> hadn't eaten all day (no surprise there as it was Ramadan) so we went our merry and inexorable way towards a kebab eatery, arriving <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">coincidentally</span> at about 9pm when the fast could be broken again as the sun burned its way down the vast skewer of the sky!<br />And how the the meat was burning in the kebab shop, admirable little beauties, two sizzling legs turning in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">front</span> of the hot lamps, enough to make a grown man blush and we were ogling them like hungry children. But we were to be going upstairs to eat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">because</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Shahid</span>, the haltingly kind owner, had invited the two of us along with Katrina and Xavier to come and dine with him after we had come to buy a kebab the previous night and he had noticed we were travellers and so had decided to help us.<br />Conscientious and attentive, he brought out a lovingly prepared spread in the mirror-clad dining room part of the restaurant, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">separate</span> from the paying guests. Chicken mixed in with rice, a curry sauce, spicy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">chapatis</span>, hot bread fresh from the grill and a fresh olive tomato and onion salad. There were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">inexhaustible</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">quantities</span>, even for five of us, and we were well fed indeed by the time of the dessert, a scrumptious trifle with cream topping decorated with pistachio nuts and a red jelly heart in its centre (which we photographed!). We enjoyed talking to him, he was quietly spoken and was happy to talk with us despite the demands of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">restaurant</span> below. Interestingly, the mark on his forehead, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Waseem</span> related, was actually caused as is so common by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">observance</span> of the 5-a-day praying regimen of being a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Muslim</span>. It is also true that a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Muslim</span> should be on the look out for people to help, especially during Ramadan, doing a good deed such as this being grace enough to enter heaven, which partially explains <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Shahid's</span> eagerness to help. The meal was very generous, and we were very grateful come the end of a well-fed and well-rounded (in more ways than one!) evening, and happy to have met and spoke with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">thoroughly</span> nice man too. But as we were leaving he asked us if he could pay for mine and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Waseem's</span> passage to San Sebastien, at the cost of at least 20 euros each, which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Waseem</span> unfortunately turned down. I thought this wrong, and I will explain why. <br />Firstly, it disappointed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Shahid</span>, the feeling being we were less than "family" and this is not a good feeling, as by his gesture he was including us in some way in his family, religious, human or otherwise. Secondly, it would have been very useful to us, as we needed the money, were tired and hitchhiking was a difficult thing to do in Spain. Thirdly, we would have learned the very valuable lesson of accepting a quite incredible gift from a stranger, setting as it does a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">precedent</span> for our own lives such that we would never be able to be stingy again. This act would have made us better people, had we let its thundering import of staggering cash value thud down into our lives, such that in similar situations ourselves as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Shahid</span> we would be a lot more likely to do as he did. True, the meal was very generous, and a very good thing to offer but accepting this gift made us better people too, and if we had refused, it is possible that that act would have even made us worse people. So for us, it was in fact an opportunity to receive those tickets, as we would have become better people and would would have contributed more to the world I feel.<br />So we left and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Shahid</span> kindly inviting us back the next night for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">kebabs</span> (again on the house) we accepted, but the next evening after eating we went to say goodbye and, you'll never guess what happened, but Katrina and Xavier insisted on paying! I am prepared to say that when I brought out the money from my wallet I felt ashamed to hand it over. The whole point was that he was giving us something for nothing, and I for one would certainly not have come back to buy a kebab on that evening (I was a bit fed up with them to be honest and also, we had been there the last two nights! I wasn't about to just drop in now was I?), so the whole experience took on a most weird and unwholesome (for the soul) aspect of actually "paying the man back" for his generosity. Payment! We may as well have given him a tip too for his kindness the night before, and perhaps a few extra euros for the offer of the bus tickets, and then done the washing up too perhaps like the little Famous Five characters we really were. "Thanks awfully!" we would have trilled, "You've been such a sport!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Nevermind</span>. At least I learned something from the experience. In the past it would have been me eager to recompense (disgusting word in the circumstance) our benefactor. It reminds me of something I once read, a critique of the ethos of Reciprocal Pity, where you look to do good to those who are lacking and who then, seeing you lacking what you have just lost (through giving it to them) then almost queue up to do good right back to you. The odiousness of this system is there ends up being a demand upon the world to recompense the giver, even especially the people you think you have had done a favour to who end up eager to harm their resources a to give it all back to you. Maybe you didn't even want it! <br />This shouldn't be so, people should give freely and irrespective of the person's losses and though it is then less predictable when (and who!) you receive good back from, at least giving can remain in the realm of good feeling and loving kindness and not in the rule book, and with more genuine goodness in the world, you get your return that way too anyway! And my golden rule: if someone offers you something, say yes. Yes to everything! That way you might even end up in a fix, accepting so much from someone one day that you will be forced to live by their example and won't be able to hold up your head in life ever again if you let chances go by to give things out and be good to people.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-51978553511407079882009-09-11T06:59:00.000-07:002009-09-11T09:26:40.322-07:00Oviedo to Paris: a hitchiking odessey; Part 1: Oviedo to San SebastienWe thought it might take 2 to 3 days, in the end it took 5! By the 4th of September we would indeed be in Paris, Saint Denis to be precise, huddling dumb and tired-drunk in an unwashed and smelly fug, this time having failed to get free kebabs from the kebab restuarant (Waseem spoke Hindi and, with it being ramadam, it is an ismlamic code to be especially chairitable in this time of the year and it was our pernennial occupation to attempt to exploit this possibility!) and abandoned by the rap group (no room at their inn, the stingy buggers!) we were to be truly down and out. But all this lay ahead. Still the promise of joining the 11 day rap tour with Abdula and his 3-piece islamic group, with concerts at Lille, Stasbourg and in Paris was spread before us, along with free food and hotel accomodation was lit up in the sky before us. We were eager to see Paris, me especially as I wanted to see if it was liveable in (many reports had said to the contrary unless you ahd plenty of money) with a view to maybe moving there. So the carrot was dangling ahead of us and we were to need the motivation as the next days were to be dauntingly difficult. <br />It all started innocently enough, if booking two children's tickets on the train is innocent. The idea was that the train system has ticket turnstiles, and therefore wouldn't have conductors and so once we were "in the system" we could travel on indefinately, only hopping out at the penulitmate station to buy two more (children's) tickets to ride on to the end, in our case to San Sebastien, on the french border. We thought if we could manage this scam then it would at least save us a lot of effort hitchhiking, Spain being a notoriously difficult place for it but our plan it turned out was ironically childlike as not far from Oviedo a ticket collector boarded the train.<br />"Look out!" I yelled to Waseem as seeing him board, we scrambled to disembark, Waseem taking the nearest exit and getting down successfully, whereas I made a silly guilty looking dash to the furthermost exit at which as the train started moving the door wouldn't open! The baffled conductor came to my aide and, undeservedly, applying his foot to the door he triggered the alarm sensor and pulled the train to a stop again. I leapt down in relief, the children's ticket a silent partner in crime sitting in my pocket, and as the train sped off we realised we had also left our large bag of food on the train! We were in the middle of nowhere and had lost our food, which was of a value similar to what it would have cost to buy normal adult tickets to the end of the line!<br />We tried to htichike and for a good few hours (three or four) failed to get a lift and, remembering the time of the last train, we trouped down to the station and caught the train to Llanes, three quarters of the way to Santander (itself only halfway to San Sebastien). In our greed, we hadn't got very far, and were now stuck in a small seaside town. First thing Waseem stopped to break his fast by buying a kebab (free to him from the friendly Pakistani proprietor). Llanes was a honey pot, and was thronged with tourists at bed time, I decided to eat a Spanish delicacy of a pork sausage from one of the several delicatessans (just one, at a euro), this one having a great deal of fat in it and with a squashy fibrous texture that was difficult to explain (Waseem thought it was fat, to me it was like eating plant fibre, each bite leaving a stretched and squishy tooth-marked cut). We had seen a lot of these accross Spain, shops selling "jamon", the bigger ones in Oviedo and Madrid Emporia of Pig, great legs hanging cured and leathery brown from the mirrored ceilings, the bright lights showing off these legs as if they were attched to models! But they were expensive, as was all food in Spain, and we were travelling on the cheap so I was happy with my one sausage.<br />With no other options we went to the beach to sleep. Set in a perfect bay, scalloped out by the Sea, the sandy beach was lit by gentle night lights studded out upon encircling walkways. We had a dreamy and soft place to sleep. The lit walkways had metallic hand rails giving the sides of the bay the appearance of a land-grabbed cruise ship, a place for the wealthy land dwellers to come and admire the sea with food and drinks (indeed some revellers came by in the night waking the light-sleeping Waseem). <br />The next day and, thankfully,we had both slept! My only regret was not swimming there that morning in the crisp waves. We wanted to get up and away early, my vain idea was to be awake early to hitchhike when cars were on the move that are travelling large distances. So we moved off the beach before sunrise. The rhythmicity of the waves was calming and had surely helped us sleep, and I wish I has spent more time like this by the sea in the trip. Wary of the open road, and of our failure the previous day, we this time elected again to take the train and paid the full fare straight up. We now had many hours of seated luxury before us, as the train glided through the countryside, which was the magnificent Picos de Europa, great hulking hills tall and rounded and monstrous like dinosaur sides, bare green and treeless empasising the handsome masculine contours. These were very proud mountains, and the low lands were just as vigorous and healthy as the peaks, gushing rivers looking invitingly clean and fresh, patient fisherman standing out on pebblebeds to take fish from the abundant water. Farmsteads, making the best of limited room, gave roam to cows and horses and sheep, added variety to the land and on the hillsides red-painted dwellings among pine trees gave the view an Alpine aspect. Another place we were thundering straight across in which we could happily have stayed for a week or so!<br />To Santander train station and thence on to Bilbao, more of the same lovely mountainsides but, struggling with the dual demands of having a travel companion and constantly having to move on, I saught out the steady peremanance of the solitary life and my book. Beauty passed by in a blur by the window, frittered away in the windscreen as I whiled away many hours, perhaps a little rudely, gorging on solitude.<br />Bilbao was gentile, ordered buildings set about a winding river set into a stone channel running through the city, the streets quiet and unobstrusive. In the train station, though, the security guards agitated vigilance and arm-long baton were threatening resonances of the underlying tensions that are present in the Basque country. Remembering that Nursel, the girl who gave me a lift when I was hitchhiking from Masstricht to Aachen and had become a friend, had friends near Bilbao who I was welcome to stay with, we contacted her at an internet cafe and she gave me the phone number of Rafa who she said would sort us out. He lived, however, in the nearby city of Vittoria, so we took a bus out to the bus station. Near the bus station the magnifcent Guggenheim modern art museum was standing, looking a little out of place but proud of it, its controversial structure like an exploded steel-plated armadillo. <br />Vittoria in its centre has a cool green park, in which a sports team was sitting in a circle doing exercises, and this youthful relaxed flavour gave it a collegiate atmosphere. In Spanish the word is similar to the english word for tranquil: tranquilo. At the bus station, we were met by Rafa, who whisked us off to his place of work, a kebab restaurant! In fact, he owned sixteen right accorss Spain so we had truly landed on our feet given our recent frequenting of kebab restauraunts, especially as he had also booked for us two beds in a private appartment for that evening! So we dined on plates of donner and chicken, with a Turkish salad of olives, lettuce, tomato and feta cheese, and delicious fried potato wedges with properly spicey chilli sauce and drank cordial and in my case a beer. Served by Rafa's cute and cuddly wife, a Spanish lady who was taking time off her career as a police lady to raise their numerous children (and whose name I ahve guiltily forgotten), we had a good time talking and they were very friendly. Finally a Turkish red tea, a delicious drink if you haven't had it, taken with sugar and not milk, a more mellow drink than the black tea preferred by the english. Then Rafa took us striaght away to the Hotel Pamplona, with a host's senstiivity to the lateness of the hour and our flagging energies, dropping us off there, where as we took the stairs up to slumberland we passed photgraphs of the bullrunning in the notorious nearby town of Pamplona. Apparently, they also do it here and in Bilbao, from time to time, but the famous one is in Pamplona. A last inspection of Waseem's feet, he had cut one of them, the blister's sharp edge giving his big toe difficulties for the last few weeks, and urgent foot and body washing and we were able to sleep uninterrupted. So the next day we were refreshed and got up and, after visiting the modern art gallery got the bus to San Sebastien. But the nearer we got to the Pyrenees, the more the grey skies coalesced and bulged brimming with water and had a look of, it seemed to us, loathing for the wandering traveller. Less and less of the countryside was becoming visible, only chilly gases that swirled up and down the steep sides of the barrier that was forming between us and France. In the coach, more noxious gases were swirling, as in our clsoe proximity we realised the toll our mouths were taking from accomodationless travelling (and fasting), a curious stench coming from them necessitating talking with hands over our mouths! In falling darkness we arrived in San Sebastien, the time now 8pm. Once more, we walked through a foreign city in search of a kebab restaurant, this time we had to pay the full price but with nowhere to sleep (surprise surprise as we hadn't booked one, as ever things were made up as we went along!) we walked to the centre to take a bus towards the frontier, the now torrential rain soaking the streets and our ponging feet. We looked every inch the down and outers, glistening in the wet, me in a kagool and Waseem in his water-absorbant army jacket. The bus we were taking went "towards" the motroway but after some confused dicusssions with fellow passengers as to where we should get out, we jumped down in a badly lit frontier town, dodging the rain in amongst the shadows of the shops, looking for signs for the motorway. It turned out to be far enough away to make walking (in rain) difficult, and the taxi was our last option, ten euros to get us to the service station on the autoroute into France. Waseem, still partially "on empty" despite his fast-breaking kebab, called our preambulating cravan off the road and into a kebab restaurant where the people there was delighted to have us (and to offer us free kebabs and drinks and chips, I might add!). They so rarely got to speak to fellow Pakistanis that Waseem was a resounding hit and talked happily to them and we had a great time, exploring how we had all got to this meeting point from our various home countries. The proprietor, Ahmed, was particularly kind and talked to us with great warmth and interest and was very happy to receive us at his home when he learned we ahd nowehere to stay. Here he let us take his bed for the night (he slept in his daughter's vacant bed in another room). He was very generous and attentive as a host and layed out fresh towels and fruit and drinks for us and we sat up talking for a while, Waseem and he talking long after I went to sleep at 130.<br />It was here I got a first insight into the perverse and hard life of a Pakistani expatriate. Here in the west, Ahmed would work a good ten hours each day, 5 or 6 days a week, and would earn a lot of money. A large fraction of which, most in fact, he sent home to Pakistan to his wife and children there, a similar trend Waseem told me was seen in England. But the rub of the matter of it was that the cost of living in Pakistan is so low that his family were living there in luxury and great idelness while he was struggling in relative simplicity and working long hours (espeically so for a man in excess of 50 years!). Far from his family showing gratitude and humility, they were in fact exploiting him and living a richer life in a poorer country, a paradoxical truth about the so-called dependents of a pioneering european immigrant like Ahmed. A real eye-opener.<br />The next day he walked us out and over to the border, only a 5 minute walk through an open menagerie of shops and coffee places! What coincidence! We knew we were in the vicinity, within 10-15 kilometres of it, but we had no idea that upon waking we would have a short stroll to the border, in fact by a river overlooking a short pacth of water to France! And there it was, looking funny as if wearing an ill-fitting suit, the mighty nation of France awkard and cramped in this far southern corner, its only visible extants a few houses, a bakery (Boulangerie), a a newsagent (Tabac) and a rocky cliff face going upstream. Curious. So Ahmed bade us a sincere and warm goodbye (saying, rather touchingly, that he would miss us!) and with such wind in our sails we had the perfect goodwill and energy to start our travels that day. Saying goodbye we walked over the bridge and into France without looking back. It was Adios Espanya and Bonjour Hitchhiking - our troubles were just about to begin!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-26183918607444391312009-09-11T05:37:00.000-07:002009-09-11T06:52:06.060-07:00Oviedo: we sleep on park benches and a barman pours our cider on the floor!We arrive and, without somewhere to stay, we went in search of a safe place to lay down our sleeping bags and fall asleep. This "lack of somewhere to stay" was as much by design as anything, a deliberate sabotage to our plans so we could experience sleeping rough and also to give me something to write about here!<br />First we tried the lobby of a nearby bank, where admittance is allowed during the night to use the cashpoints, or to fall asleep, but one person had beaten us to it and was safely setup behind the double glazing for many more hours to come. It was midnight, and we were on the outside of the glass, and it was cold. We scanned around, looking for a park, but everywhere we saw was quite small and well lit, or had rather sinister looking sprinkler heads that we found difficult to trust. A mad dash into a hostel to haggle with them over prices, we were a bit sick with sleeping rough after the journey down, yielded nothing coming, so we went back to one of the parks and, taking it in turns for one of us to "keep watch", we attempted slumber. But the cold and the noises of the night meant that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waseem</span>, first up to sleep and a very light sleeper, failed to do so, so we went in search of somewhere quieter and, vainly, warmer. A long hungry straggle through the town, though, yielded nothing - none of the other banks had places where the cash points were on the inside. The situation was bleak and there was no possibility of negotiation, the sun would only come around again when it was ready. So the hours were whiled first on a park bench near the bus station (where I slept like a log and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Waseem</span>, well, didn't) and then, when the centrally heated bus station opened at about 6am, we moved our "beds" into it and I slept handsomely with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Waseem</span> also getting a few winks. It is a real advantage to sleeping rough if you are also good at sleeping, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">but</span> even still I only got about 5 hours. By 11am, we had done all of the prostrating, sleeping and sham-sleeping that we we were possibly capable of and, because we had done rather a lot of that now, it was time to put a stop to it and get on with the day.<br />So we slouched over to the cathedral, part of the Santiago <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Compostela</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pilgrimage</span> route which terminates several <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">hundred</span> kilometres to the west of here in Santiago, and sat around like dazed hermits at all the trafficking people in and out until Kristina, our host, arrived at 3pm.<br />Kristina, alternately friendly and short, was another of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Waseem's</span> friend from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">UCLan</span> in the previous year, and was our chirpy host for the next 2 nights as we regained our strength and with Xavier, her boyfriend, saw a little of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Asturian</span> nightlife.<br />One street she showed us was named Cider Avenue (or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Avenia</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sidera</span>), cider being a regional delicacy here. "Great!" I said, "I like alcohol and the drinking of it. Can you show us some of your cider?" So we went in one of the cider bars, elsewhere from this street as it happened, and were amazed at the style of pouring it.<br />The cider was completely flat in the bottle, and so the barman, in ceremonial fashion, would hold the bottle high above his head and pour it into a glass held down by his hip, introducing gastronomically necessary bubbles into it while all the while staring off blankly into space as if he he was really very bored and that this was really very easy. Of course, at any moment he might drop some of the precious stuff, or pour it down himself in sticky-staining rivulets, but I think the purpose of his expression was to show his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">nonchalant</span> confidence that in his hands this was not going to happen. But spill it, to my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">English</span> eyed disbelief, he did! <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Luxuriously</span>! Straight and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">unapologetically</span> onto the floor! Sacrilege! This would never happen in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">England</span>! But the drink, served out in it now-bubbly glory, a third-filling the large glasses, was very <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">tastey</span> and had surely benefited from the pounding pouring technique, the sweet bubbles tickling the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">palette</span>. Yes, I would say that the delicacy is in the pouring too! <br />And everyone was enjoying a drink, even the waiter was getting in on the act in the high altitude pouring method, this time standing at special pouring-booths out <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">amongst</span> the tables, looking very much like urinals made from halved-beer barrels, at which the especially portly man in his pristine whites stood to pour, his belly an excellent counterpoint for balancing to the pouring arm craned up and above his head's central balancing sensors, staring off into the distance, looking for a ship arriving from Tahiti it must be presumed from his expression (he was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">certainly</span> not losing any sweat over the perfect <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">transferal</span> of paid commodities between bottle and glass!).<br />And then, to round the experience off, the bar was actually built like a long urinal, with a liquid drainage canal running along its length, and you were invited to discard your dregs (had you got any, I being an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">English</span> drinker hadn't, having loudly and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">unceremoniously</span> sucked my dregs out in a moral riposte against alcohol wastage) into it, again with a look of lordly aplomb, if you could muster it (I was almost crying at this point). By the second drink (half of it poured onto the floor by the blind and non-present barman) I was getting into the spirit of it all, straight away downing my drink (as was the custom) but leaving a hefty amount in mine (about half of it!) to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">gayly</span> throw it straight back down the front of the bar! Brilliant fun! And of course, unlike the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">English</span> reasons for drinking, this was more done for its community binding ritual and once I had left my desires for "getting pissed" along with my smelly mackintosh at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">coat stand</span>, I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">appropriately</span> tickled by this terrific novelty (if a little harrowed!) and would happily do it more often given the chance. But a warning to you, only practice drink chucking in a chucking-friendly establishment, always asking the barman first and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">don't</span> bring alcoholic friends with you. It would be just too cruel!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-50538175378803584322009-08-30T14:02:00.000-07:002009-09-11T05:36:51.521-07:00South to North: a coach ride and a geographical snapshot of the countryside upto OviedoWe bade goodbye to Luis at the bus station in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cacares</span>, near to Trujillo, and I was sad as he had become a friend. The way out of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Extramadura</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">August</span> cuts <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">across</span> a dun coloured <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Savannah</span> like terrain, beetle cattle scattered <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">across</span> it, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">strange</span> int heir brown wobbly flesh, shiny skinny ribs and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">cardboard</span> rectangular shapes. Low <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">buffon</span> trees stood in silence, exotic drinking vessels standing on black shadowed beer mats. Time skulked and idled, it was hot.<br />Land runs freely here, among the trees and up and down the hills without <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">interruption</span> by field marking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">or</span> fence. On stranded hillocks, boulders the size of the houses, piling up on top of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">each</span> other, leaning in like indolent teenagers.<br />Nearing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Salmanca</span>, the yellow ground sprung green and brown, blue-green fruit tress <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">flashing</span> their silica leaves in the sun. A large <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">reservoir</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">faced</span> off around its edge by bright white sand was surrounded by the massive heights of the Sierra <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">de</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Gredos</span>, part of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Sistema</span> Central mountain range. According to the map, the highest peak seen from my view was the 2400 metre whopper, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Calvitevo</span>. These peaks have ground down <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">summits</span> of fine rubble, with stunted trees <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">and</span> bushes making it up to near the top, the heights <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">simple</span> and inviting to exploration, serene below the space <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">helmet</span> moon. A miscellany of small <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">valleys</span> lay down below the coach, wrung around with walled fields along their contours, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">making</span> a patchwork pattern. At a pass between high points, the stone wall etched fields are like riveted bands making the burned hills appear as leathery helmets.<br />On the way to Zamora, the land becomes less chaotic in design and altogether more boring and affluent. Square constructions and an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">agriculture</span> with a golfcourse-aesthetic, even the scrub <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">land</span> seems <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">orderly</span> and twee, all the groves and crops <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">geometrically</span> plugged into well-watered spaces in the landscape. Rustic no longer. But at least <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">dramatic</span> in its <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">expansiveness</span>, one vista throwing open a vast blanket of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">wheat</span> fields <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">drifting</span> for kilometre <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">after</span> kilometre in both directions, wind turbines lining the vanishing hills like idling blades on a combine harvester. A field of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">solar</span> panel blades almost presuming to deceive the viewer that the earth is a thing that can fly. Now at Zamora, we traverse the lush Rio <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Duero</span> and the bus stops for a break.<br />On again northwards, sun flower fields among the wheat, silos <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">standing</span> around like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">disused</span> rocket packs. Another change, and we see trees! A veritable forest, the first in all of the 1000s of kilometres we had seen in Spain. Whole groves rushing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">upto</span> the roadside, thick as polar bear fur, vivid and lush, random <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">roadside</span> bunches in exciting sprays like a florists <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">mixture</span>, one <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">sandstone</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Church on a promontory</span> looking down proudly over these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Spanish</span> rarities as if to say "look at our trees!".<br />Next the land dropped away below the road and became wet, the mango orange sun slipping low towards the shattered jawline of peaks, cornfields looking like stubble <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">upon a</span> now grass inhabited landscape. The sun plunged lower and the hills sulked a misty blue, a final splash and it<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46"> w</span>as gone and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Waseem</span> broke his fast with a twenty pence <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">muffin</span> soaked in orange juice (our discovery!) and a sandwich he bought in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Cacares</span> when we departed. Up ahead in the falling light, the dark lilac arms of the Cordillera <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Cantabrica</span> pulled the coach up and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">over</span> into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Oviedo</span>, the dark tugging at our eyelids and at my pen, its handsome heights soon shrouded <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">from</span> a<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">ttention,</span> my last sight the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">altitude</span> throwing yellow vegetation and scrub back into view, something <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">normal</span> at sea level in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Extramadura</span>.<br />Sso here ends my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">geographical</span> description of an eight hour bus ride up most of the length of Spain's western half. Make of it what you will, but what was clear was that as the bus advanced the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">landscape's</span> wealth increased in terms of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">greeness</span> and growth and modern construction, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">familarity</span> (in an englishman's eyes) and order increased and by inference fun decreased too. Extramadura seemed to be more rustic than I had ever imagined a european countryside to be, idealistically rural, unassuming and with a restrained ambition. I was sad to have left there. Extramadura was the most beautiful landscape I had seen in all of Spain, but how would Asturia (like Austria!) and its famous Picos de Europa mountain country compare? Stay tuned...Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-46251581920445222972009-08-30T05:53:00.000-07:002009-08-30T14:02:34.406-07:00Pigs, kissing friends and sword fights in castles: childhood in TrujilloIt is difficult to imagine the charmed life of a not unhappy chiled growing up in the exquisite little town of Trujillo in Extramadura, Spain. And whether it involves cutting the pigs throat with your bare hands, feeling and smelling its blood, or fighting with antique swords in palaces not yet visited by thieves or archeologists, a Trujillo upbringing would surely vibrate with exhilaration and wonder.<br />Just a small glimpse at the golden nugget of the memory of our friend, Luis, yielded many stoires, and as we walked and talked our way around this huge village, basking on a granite rock, he talked about his life here, pigs, girls and trespassing being some major highlights.<br />Every year, the family kill a pig, an event central to their meat-loving life. Hilariously, their early morning post-kill coffee was interrupted twice one year by the presumed dead porker making a red bannered resurrection dash. Another year, the pig leapt off the barbecue, only to sprint around in a flaming halo before the decisive blow being belatedly applied. Perhaps they are better here at eating pig than at killing it! Poor Waseem, unable to eat the neck-less, and so ‘Haram’ meat, was the centre of much genuine but unquenchable curiosity at meal times, almost in opting out of this large “chunk” of their culture in this way he became curisouly alien and invisible to any inquiry. And what with temperance at the dinner table being decisively out of vogue, we were both the source of great mirth and head shaking bewilderment.<br />But back to the children, on the walk we headed in along climb to the top of this (children's) playground of civilization, on the way up we came to the Alberca, a pool of spring water cupped in a 30 metre deep spiral staircase of stone. Luis would often plunge off its sides, daring friends even strapping a table to a nearby turret and leaping off from a great height to watery safety. A worn down trough was for the arab women to wash and socialize, and nearby were places where Luis would bring girls, or “kissing friends” as he called them, to little centuries old romantic locations.<br />He and his friends would no doubt have poked fun and played around the various statues and historic erections, the impressively macho bust of Francisco de Orellano (1511-1545), his impassive glowering face a veritable font of ape and ridicule, one of many structural playthings at a young persons luxury. Discover of the Amazon and townsman, along with Pizzaro, slayer of half of south and central America, warrior role models are in good supply here fof the youth.<br />And what would an impressionable soul make of the whirlwind season of larger than life fesitvals? In Easter, men in KKK-style white pointy hats promenade around with sculptures describing the stations of the cross, and then on the 5th of September, a giant Virgin Mary (Trujillo’s Victoria) is carried on a giant wooden polished brass cradle, complete with candlebras, down from its castle fortress to the central square by a society of carriers, the noise and colour heightened as families dance to celtic sounding reels in traditional dress, boys with long white shirts and red neckerchiefs, black waistcoats and close fitting caps, the girls in decorated dark skirts, plumped out with underskirts. On Mayday, they outdo us by partying like there is no tomorrow at a Monty pythonesque titled “Fanfare of the Cheese”, celebrating not just the local specialities but also several special bullfights. In one local cheese, the purple heart of the thistle weed is poured into the fermentor to make a special flavour, its spikes also the bane of the unwary youth playing around the scrub that line the castles ramparts. Here, cacti grow, great strap like pads of thorny green in overgrown reveries of succulence, their fruit reddening on the branch free to pick. Dopily, Waseem having taken one down to inspect, I tried to wipe off the ultra fine hairs with fingers, only succedding in inflicting an irritation all over our hands. Luis’s mother had once taken tweezers to his tongue. Another day, we explored the other major stinging thing hereabouts, turning over a large rock and discovering a large yellow scorpion having a siesta.<br />There was other free fruit, lemon orange and pomegranate drooping from heavily laden trees within a climb’s grasp, atop odd ramparts or leaning off walled gardens. And if you had real cheek, you threw your towel over the glass atop the walls of the expensive houses and, while the owner was away, enjoyed his fruit trees, manicured lawns and the cool water in the swimming pools. But not all of nature is up for grabs, some passing nuns a reminder of the three nunneries Luis mentioned were in the town (down from 10) one of which is closed now but used to have an outdoor toilet which wreaked of pee!<br />The town is thick with little nooks, the narrow streets acting as corridors to transport knowing youth to unknown destinations away from the adult world and to places to play freely beyond the inward looking gaze of the closeknit community. Come here, I would recommend it, and bring some children!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-70646607153759304812009-08-30T05:34:00.000-07:002009-08-30T05:53:31.775-07:00RamadanI managed 3 days. By the 3rd, my legs had become very heavy and my inertia was doubling up, my siesta now 3 long hours of complete absence. Falling alseep at night, my body horizontal and sleep once more my best friend, an image popped into my mind of a sun straddling a horizon line, in balance between above and below, and it seemed to me that it was representing something I was feeling. The urges in my body had mellowed, my desires had abated and I had rapidly lost a lot of those irritating impulses of "hunger" and "thirst". At 9pm, 20 minutres before we "broke", I had on each evening felt disinterested in the meal, and though we did gorge ourselves a lot in the 4 hour time window before bed, to the point of nausea in my case, this was more out of anxiety than anything else and a desire to stand up well to the next day and the 36 37Celsius heat.<br />So for 20 hours each day we had no drink or food, and also didnt use toothpaste or admit any flavourings to our mouth, as is correct muslim pratice. We had also shaved our arm pits and groin, as is also generally customary for a muslim. But by the 4th day, I became reluctant to continue, mainly because I am not a muslim and because the heat and an exhasuting one hour 5 a side football match sweated out an armful of body fluid and I had experienced what I ahd set out to.<br />It was really surprisingly easy, and if I was a believer it would have been no real challenge, but for comfort sake and also as I am trying to lose a little weight (ironically, though your stomach is shrunk by the fast, I was overindulging in the feast) I have since been mainly as normal, though I have done a couple of days of fast since. Try it, I think you will learn something from it, and as it is practiced between sunrise and sunfall, my memory of it will always be of that vision I had of the drowsy sun, balanced on the horizon line poised to set.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-49278064666775340042009-08-30T05:20:00.001-07:002009-09-11T06:59:45.160-07:00Trujillo and the four poster bedsWe arrived at 1145 at a nondescript bus station on the edge of the Little town called Trujillo. All around in the clear night vast open fields had been discovered through the pall of the evening, ranging far and wide and free, the abrupt flat-handed check of the stone walled streets jolting us awake. Our 4 day rolling transit was at an end. And with no preconceptions, the sense of exoticness intensified the feeling of triumph, our arrival made regal as we were whisked onto the historic cobbles of the central square by a kind girl and her father in their large 4 door car after we had asked them the way.<br />In the oval square, packed out with palaces and memorials to time, my doubts over coming were left sprinkled over the vast uninvisionable landscape behind us, (2022 kilometres to be precise, according to Google Map Routefinder) and a soujourn of homecooking and domestic delight was spread accross our itinerary like a delicious picnic. So near to a comfortable bed and security, and the clock ominously hovering at 5 to midnight, Luis wasn’t answering his phone and so Waseem called a friend in England who began relaying instructions to find his home as we marched around, a bit like in Challenge Aneka, if you remember this. Would we sleep on the street again?<br />Trujillo turned out to be a maze of homogenous terraces of squasehed together plastered cottages, shuttered and huddling in their ancient but secretive glories, the path ahead snuffed out at every turn by sense-boggling blind bends. When we were on what we thought was the right road, trundling with our heavy bags like sleep walkers, we were on the look out for the curiously described “house under the bell with the nest on it” which was in fact nowhere to be seen, and just as it looked like we would be sleeping on the street (we were not on the right road!) we made contact with Luis and he guided us “home” to bed. A hefty meal later, we lifted ourselves onto a four poster bed each and among deliciously crisp sheets imitated rocks plunging inexorably into a deep sleep. Staying at Luis’s parents was like being dipped into a domestic bliss of the sort I had almost forgotten about.<br />When we got up though, it was the dawn of ramdam and we would have to obstain from many delights until nightfall. Would we manage? Would we become deranged, and wander in the brilliant sun and hallucinate pastries, or gorge ourselves from the larder? Stay tuned until the next exciting installment!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-28021722371032020042009-08-28T05:51:00.000-07:002009-08-28T06:50:52.913-07:00Luxembourg to.......<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Extramadura</span>!<br />It was much too tempting, free food and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">accommodation</span>, far away in deep dark Spain, and then afterwards a fully paid for room and meals at hotels with a touring music group, I couldn't go home. I also had around a hundred pounds of what i had budgeted to spend, so it was a challenge to stay cheap for a further 3 and a half weeks...so out came the thumb and after taking <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">public</span> transport (and not paying!) we got a lift southwards with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hakm</span>, an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Algerian</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Frenchman</span>. France blew by in a wondrous blur. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Hakm</span> dropping us off at a petrol station, only for Eric and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Ile</span> a half hour later to whisk us a further 500 kilometres to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">just</span> north of Lyon by 11pm. An indulgent one hour break in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">service</span> station, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">"xxxxx</span>" (can't remember at the moment), another <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">French Algerian man</span>, a chauffeur for Glasgow rangers footballer amongst other people, took us as far as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Montpellier</span>, a further 400 kilometres! Out we jumped, and had our photo taken with him, and as we had our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">standup</span> wash in the toilets, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Waseem</span> recounted how he had begun to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">fall</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">asleep</span> at the wheel, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Waseem</span> asking him, with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">English</span> restraint, "are you all right?" and we got there in the end. I had slept through the drama.<br />Pascale then took us on to the Spanish border, another large drive, he was a chemical <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">salesman</span> and his car smelt like it. Again I plunged into sleep, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Waseem</span> informing me again <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">afterwards</span> that he <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">had</span> started to sleep at the wheel and that he had asked him to pull over. Dangerous stuff, hitchhiking overnight. I slept right <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">through</span> it again, but I had been making good french conversation for quite a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">few</span> hours of that night, and so probably needed to rest my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">English</span> language shy mind. Smelly and tired, we were at a toll station and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Spain</span> was within walking distance, and so we slept in a field by the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">motorway</span>. UP we got and, not soon after, we were into Spain with Victor and Florence doing a booze drive. The hills <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">by t</span>he coast are rounded and well coiffed, like broccoli heads or poodle perms, the car rolling on by hay bales round like wheels. These lovely green hills, i noted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">from a</span> road sign, were shielding our view from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">white-toothed</span> glare of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Cadaques</span>, its square and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">brilliantly</span> white houses clustered around a bay immortalised by the surrealist painter, Salvidor Dali.<br />They dropped us off at a little town, where they had come to buy some <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">eau</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">du</span> vie</span> and some cheap <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">San</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Miguel</span>. Most of the people here were french, and we found it difficult to get a lift and walked out of town in 37<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Celsius</span> and jumped over a fence to get to a petrol <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">station</span> on the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">motorway</span>. Here it was difficult too, either the heat or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">the</span> national temperament making people less communicative and helpful. But a couple of hippies, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Tulla</span> (listen to her at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">myspace</span>, under the name of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Sardana</span>, she has appeared at Glastonbury!) and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Carlos</span> picked us up and dropped us off at a toll station, where we got a lift within 5 minutes by Sergio in a BMW convertible. Unfortunately when he dropped us off at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Tarragona</span>, just 100 kilometres south, he left us on the side of the motorway and so we marched off along the side of it in the hope of finding a petrol station. Petrol stations are better for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">hitchhiking as</span> you are able to talk to people to ask them for a lift, and they also have more time to think about your suggestion. However, we just encountered a toll station, where unfortunately we were asked to move on. 4 or 5 kilometres later, after following the motorway westwards towards <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Llieda</span> on the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Madrid</span> road, it was getting late and so we decided to sleep at a parking place by, or on in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Waseem</span>´s case, some chunky furniture. Before sun fall we stole some grapes form the vineyards and ate almonds off a tree, tasting richly of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">marzipan</span>!<br />5 kilometres <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">from a</span> service station, we started off to hike there <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">along</span> the motorway, with the fanfare of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">occasional</span> horn honk to keep us to good speed and soon after a passing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">RAC</span> van who escorted us along the hard shoulder with its flashing lights. Once more, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Spanish</span> service station and we were met with the relatively terse and unfriendly responses of those we questioned about lifts, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Waseem</span> with another of his good ideas went over to ask some people getting out of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">large</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">coa</span>ch and they gladly agreed to take us as far as Madrid, 5 hours away! They were all <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Christians</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">from a</span> church in the Lebanon, and bade us <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Inhsala</span> as we jumped aboard. I was mute on the voyage, as the music blared and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Waseem</span> entertained two small girls with the hand trick (where it looks as though your finger has been chopped off) and played games with them <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">and</span> chatted to the very friendly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Wasim</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Pssshhh</span>, the doors opened and we stepped down (onto the side of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">motroway</span> again!) and with a feeling of elation jogged down the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">motorway</span> verge, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">across</span> a bridge over a few barriers and to a bus stop where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">Ily</span>, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">Lebanese</span> minister, told us there would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">be</span> a bus stop to the centre.<br />A hostel stay later, we were knackered, the trip having taken much longer than anticipated, we tried to hitchhike at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">outskirts</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">dramatically</span> failed, wandering <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">this</span> way and that to either hail down cars or search for buses to take us to better positions, with 16 kilograms on our back in the 37C heat until at 7pm, we gave up after a good 5 hours of trying. And again, in weakness, caught a bus, for a whopping 24 pounds.<br />In the sinking sun we drove in the express coach though <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">the</span> country around <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">Madrid</span>, where sad tress melted on a golden landscape, undulating and swirled like a caramel cream ice cream. We floated on in our clean, sofa style seats, the sun catching stubble int he fields and lighting them up brilliant yellow, soil a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">chocolaty</span> brown, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">residual</span> hum of the sunshine colouring purple 50 to 100 kilometres away. this was a vast plain, and on our boomerang trajectory away from the city, a last view of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">Madrid</span> was sighted, row upon row of houses lit with sharp lights gazing south warily towards <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">Arabian</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">Africa</span>. At least 20 peaks seem at the rim all around the plain, then the coach climbs a fly over, and this number multiplies to 200 then 500 discernible peals, this is a dramatic gathering of landmass! The trees mark the exotic terrain, rotund ones mixed with pines and with anorexic conifers. By the road, a 20 foot high black bull, a 19<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_83">th</span> century <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_84">advertising</span> hoarding for "Osborne" wine, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_85">retained</span> across <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_86">Spain</span> for its symbolic depiction of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_87">Spain's</span> national character, behind the sky is hot and glowering, as if removed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_88">from a</span> fire, in the west it hangs like a piece of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_89">unquenched</span> metal dented along its rim in irregular serrations like a scimitar blade by the long stretch of the hill line. Soon we would be in Trujillo, after a whopping 4 days of travelling, and we were in good need of real food and regular washing. But the next day, the 22<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_90">nd</span> of august, marked the beginning of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_91">Ramadan</span> and a new challenge, to accompany <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_92">Waseem</span> on his fast. Wish us luck!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-51586702424793449962009-08-23T10:14:00.000-07:002009-08-24T11:03:36.909-07:00Budapest, my last night: a guy who hitchhikes with ships, a lost sleeping bag and a lady called Maria...The following I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">am w</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">riting</span> before I forget, it is out of order <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">like</span> a few of the most recent entries.<br /><br />And a day in the hot hot sun, walking with my heavy bag (with the 5 or 6 books i had bought or had been given while travelling), meeting a new <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">acquaintance</span> Philip (a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">hitchhiker</span> from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Germany</span> who was trying to flag down <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">enormous</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">freight</span> boats to take him down river to the sea) for a photography exhibition at the extravagantly landscaped museum complex and sculpture park, left me abroad in the city and minus my sleeping bag. I had planned to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">sleep</span> on the hill above the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Gellert</span> hotel, where there is a rocky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">park</span> and a big statue of a lady, lit at night, holding aloft a wreath, but now my plans had changed. The 90 minute walk down to the museum I retraced and then back again, but for nothing other than seeing the city, which was ideal as I saw a lot. Along the way, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">somewhere</span> near to the brilliant <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">building</span> that is the opera house, I met a homeless lady. She asked me for some money, but not having any, I gave her a bag of plums which she impishly received, her sly charm melding happily into a quite gracious and genuine smile.<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Thankyou</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">thankyou</span>,"she said, "My name is Maria, like Virgin!"<br />She pointed over to a nearby church, where there was a picture of the virgin Mary. I gave her my name.<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Ahh</span>, Thomas More!" she said, "God bless you Thomas More."<br />She had ways of trying to curry my favour, mainly humour edged doe-eye looks, but I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">resisted</span> them. As I say I didn't have any money, and as much as I liked her I didn't want to condone her good humoured tactics. So we bid each other good bye. I felt quite sad not to have given her more. She was old and had all her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">possessions</span> it seemed in a little trolley that she pushed around, and she was surprisingly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">resilient</span> and good natured for someone who could be forgiven for being bitter and hardened. So I felt sorry for her. <br />But then I had an idea. I still had half a kilogram of Turkish delight that I had bought in the Balkans. I stopped and with much rummaging plucked it out of my bag. She hadn't ambled very far by then, so I jogged after her and gave her the gift. <br />"Thomas More!" she said, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Thankyou</span>, God bless you, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Thomas</span> More, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Ahh</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">thank you</span>!" She said this while showering me with kisses. She was visibly moved and we talked for a short while, about her husband and son (she pointed upwards to tell me where they were) and about her dislike and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">distrust</span> of gypsies. Then she wanted top give me something in return.<br />"A <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">souvenir</span>...let me see"<br />She wanted to give me a ´<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">souvenir</span>´, so she capered around her trolley and shaping herself uneasily, like Freddie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Frinton</span>´s drunk, extracted a packet of peanuts. The packet was already opened and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">her</span> hands <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">looked</span> very dirty, but I accepted it (later to be put into a bin) and we said good bye to each other. I felt a lot of affinity for her, the way she used charm and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">humour</span> when she was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">struggling</span>, something I have found myself doing too.<br />So I carried on walking. It was good to see this area of eastern Budapest as here there are lots of nice cafes and book shops, statues and little parks in the middle of the streets. And it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">now</span> being 1am I decided to stay awake in a bar and bought a cup of coffee and started to write all this down.<br />At 530 the bar shut, so it was a perfect time to be setting off, being able to get out to my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">hitchhiking</span> position at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">motorway</span> petrol station early, walking <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">across</span> the river and to the main road leading west which soon became a motorway. Here I got my first lift and was off to Berlin.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-60892656992799279792009-08-23T06:56:00.000-07:002009-08-23T07:57:32.160-07:00Berlin and on to KoblenzIn Berlin I stayed with my friend Dave and his girlfriend, Laura. The first few days I just slept during the day as getting there had been an enormous hitchhike, 24 hours in fact, to make the 1200 kilometres as the crow flies (via Munich). <br />Everything was going well <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">uptil</span> the outskirts of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Berlin</span>, 2 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">VW</span> camper vans and 3 cars taking me between 100 kilometres and 400 kilometres apiece, although I did spend about 4 hours in Munich, stuck in thew centre and by the time I reached the motorway it took a lot of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">thumbwagging</span> in the stifling sun for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Jurgen</span> to take pity on me and whisk me off up the autobahn. But at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Berlin</span> things slowed up a lot and form 50 kilometres away it took <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">me a</span> further 7 hours to reach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Dave's</span> house in the centre. One ride took me in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">towards</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Berlin a</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">nd</span> then away again, heading out towards Dresden down another arm of the capital´s <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">motorway</span> network, there being no service stations for the Polish family to drop me at. The one they did find was only servicing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">southbound</span> traffic, so I then had to backtrack 3 kilometres to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">northbound</span> one and make a dash <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">across</span> the autobahn too! I then got a lift from a lorry driver who took me to the north edge of the city (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Dave</span> lived in the south) and then I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">took t</span>he metro to what I thought was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Dave's</span> and it turned out that there were two streets of the same name in Berlin, so I got the metro again and by 830am was there at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Dave's</span>. Nathalie, my friend from Amsterdam who had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">come</span> to meet me here too had already arrived int he city and was staying at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Dave's</span>, I had forgotten that I had given her his number! So it was funny to see her when the door opened, saying "'<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">ello</span>!" in a broad french accent, Nathalie and Dave having never met each other until then. That night we went clubbing, after a long and abortive stroll through the city in search of a squat party, which Berlin has many of. Oliver, who Nathalie had moved out to stay with through <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">couchsurfing</span> rescued us from the middle of we did not know where and in his car took us to a cult Berlin venue, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Kaffe</span> Burger bar, for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Russe</span> Disco an extremely perky <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Russian</span> themed mix of music and an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">uninhibited</span> dance floor clientele. In keeping with the cities creative flavour, the disco is run by an author, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">I w</span>as alive to none of this and by the end of the evening when we left at 5am, I was a shadow. This was a third night without sleep. I really need to learn to say no.<br />The following night was a little less hectic, but not much so, Dave and Laura taking me out to see more of the groovy nightlife. First up, a rooftop bar on the top of a multistory car park, the upper deck of which in summer is covered with sand and decking so people can shake of their shoes and enjoy a drink in a deck chair. IT was good and relaxing, and from here you could see <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">laser</span> beams playing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">across</span> the tall buildings on the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">skyline</span>. In winter, it is just filled with cars. From here, Laura <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">went</span> home as she had a lot of work on, and Dave and I went to the rather wonderful Doctor Pong, two rooms, one with a bar and another with a table tennis table. Simple, but not as simple as the decor, which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">didn't</span> exist, the grey space around the table lined with basic chairs and here and there stray wires poked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">from t</span>he ceiling. To get a beer, you asked a really friendly girl behind a hatch for a lager from a kitchen-style fridge, and then paid a deposit of 5 euros for a raggedy racket and our game began. Everyone was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">walking</span> around the table, gently knocking the ball back to the other side, and when someone made a mistake <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">they would</span> drop out. At <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">some</span> times around 30 people would be crushed around the table at the outset, but by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">end</span> when 6 or 7 people remained, the players began to play their shots. Dave was really good and managed to get to the last 3 , but I was pretty rubbish and was quite happy to be a part of the communal atmosphere for a brief few shots.<br />To round off the evening, Dave took me on to a socialist bar near <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Dave's</span> flat, called Cafe <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Morgenrot</span>, where we shared a beer and Dave told me how if you came for the all you can eat Brunch, which is a common activity in Berlin, you are asked to pay (between 4 and 8 euros) what you can afford.<br />A lie in and then Dave treats me to a ticket for the Hertha Berlin football match at the Olympic stadium. The match is rather dull, but the stadium was worth seeing, several statues around the stadium of very strong and serious young men with extremely large and obvious genitalia standing by square horses and the large rectangular columns and vast fascist architecture of the stadium provide a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">dramatic</span> setting for sporting events in the present day and serve the city well.<br />Another day I took the tour an<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">d there</span> were also several days of much needed flopping in there too too, before having to say goodbye to Dave and Laura, who had been very kind and good company, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Waseem</span> and I then decided, as we were to be staying at Ali´s house, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">UCLan</span> friends, in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Koblenz</span> that night we took the regional train offer where by you get two tickets for the price of one if you take the slow regional trains. 11 hours later we arrived at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Koblenz</span>, en route running out of the station at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Magdeburg</span> to see the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">enormous</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Hundertwasser</span> (artist) designed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">apartment</span> block, in a fantastical sweet shop and organic "Castle" style, its walls painted bright pink! This was one good idea <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Waseem</span> had of many, I would probably just have sat in the station and people watched, but the half hour was used well.<br />By 840pm, we were at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Koblenz</span>, the historic town built at the confluence of two great <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">German</span> rivers, the Rhine and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Mosel</span>, where Alis brother <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Atilla</span> picked us up and delivered us to Ali's parent's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Italian</span> restaurant, where we ate, and their guest house, where we slept. The evening was great, it was good to see Ali again, if briefly, and Ali's father kept my beer glass topped up throughout and the food was delicious. Otto at the end of the bar, a regular, kept sending peach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">scnhapps</span> over to me, and while I tried to find places to stay and means of getting there on the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Internet</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">waseem</span> managed not to lose at dice and Ali went off to pray.<br />And so the next day Ali and his dad dropped us off in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Koblenz</span> and here, deciding on the novel idea of trying to walk to Luxembourg, set off to buy a sleeping bag and some supplies for the journey.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-1227950723807214082009-08-12T15:15:00.000-07:002009-08-12T16:24:15.015-07:00Budapest - dossing and dolloping and the calm before the stormWhen I first arrived at Budapest, stepping from the metro into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Deak</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ter</span>, a square close in to the centre on the Pest side of the river, men and women stood standing silently, in ones, very much alone like statues. They were waiting for someone, someone special, romantic ones presumably as they all looked a little excitably tense. I, the newly arrived hobo, slightly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">harassed</span> and needing a wash slumped down on the steps of the church to wait for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Zoltan</span>, my host for my first 4 days in the city, sitting as opposed to eagerly standing.<br />And so he came, in between these twitching figures and plucked me from their midst to his little flat in a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">practically</span> silent early 20<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> complex, pseudo-art deco in design. With a trim <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">goatee</span>, his narrow face resembled in part the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Turkish</span> roots he had. Staying too was Damian, another stray, whom <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Zoltan</span> had found dropping his water bottle from his touring bike and, serendipity throwing its dice into the equation, he suggested he stayed here too. He had travelled a similar distance, but not on the back of other peoples lifts but on his own pedal power!<br />Together the two of us saw the Memento Park the next day, a curious collection of rather stridently physically enhanced soviet statues, long removed from their city homesteads to stud way out at the edge of the city. One had both fists clenched, his eyes blank but his face physically committed in nerve and sinew, raw passion running around every feature, and his 20 foot high frame was running down towards the awed visitor in a fit of communist fervour. Their too a museum to the "Young Pests", <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Budapests</span> famous youth who stood <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">upto</span> the socialist regime in 1956 and were killed off in their thousands in their attempt to lay siege to the radio, and were nevertheless an inspiration to resistance <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">across</span> the soviet controlled east. A comical KGB videotape for training recruits in how to track, interview suspects or make new recruits, accompanied by incidental jazz music and some hammy acting, added a rather lighthearted, and so therefore a sinister, complement to the history. Well worth seeing if you go.<br />Another day, and I doze, stretch, lie, eat, drink, eat and finally after a wander outside, come back again for an early night. Am tired. Another day and I take a lift with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">zoltan</span> out to the east where he drops me at a thermal bath, and relying on its flotation properties, i dangle my whole body there in its mineral rich waters and reconnect my mind <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">with my</span> body again and once again, a day of rest and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">hitchhike</span> home, really easy with just 3 lifts. <br />In one lift, with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Ferenc</span>, we were at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">crosspurposes</span> in our conversation. Sitting there, I was observing out of the corner of my eye women standing by the side of the road, one every kilometre or so, and women they all of them were! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Hmmm</span>, i thought. Meanwhile, he was mentioning the speed cameras and that he was having to travel slowly at certain points. I, my mind wondering to the site of boobies at 90km/hour, point to the side of the road and go "sex?". <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Ferenc</span>, it appears, hasn't heard me, but continuing on his story he writes on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">dashbaord</span> the numbers 60000. Now this is in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">florints</span>, which is 200 pounds sterling, a lot of money. And in his words... "Hot Money!". <br />Eh? Yup, his face is lit up in quite exquisite expression; does he mean <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">that's</span> what one must pay for sex? Well, as it turns out this was for a road fine, but as i am sure you will <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">appreciate</span>, this is no less extraordinary by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">english</span> standards anyhow and it certainly foxed me, his choice of "hot" as an adjective with his look of strained enthusiasm. So watch your speed in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Hungary</span>, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">dont</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">drive</span> too slow or you will be stopped for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">curbcrawling</span>. Maintain a balance. <br />IT was the next day that I went to Budapests favourite feature, the bath house. The most beautiful of these, the name escapes me, is a vast yellow and white building, a cross between a hotal and a mansion, upon entering and oaying you enter a reassuringly luxurious changing block with wodden changing rooms, their doors like cupboards, and some rather severe looking attendants in all white uniforms. A quick change and a prompt exposure of glistening white flesh, I escorted myself through to the bathing area and upon entering found myself in a maze of quite decadent proportions. To describe it, it can only be described as like a dream, room after room of nipple-tweaklingly hot baths, head-noddingly hot saunas and throat-throttling cold plunge pools opening up to you one after the other, and when you get so far in it is hard to remember where you are as the rooms all seem to look the same. Watch Last Year in Marienbad and you will see the fully clothed version of this, except in a luxury hotel and not a bath house and in these rooms each one packed with beautiful and bizzarre bodies, walking sitting or reclining and not stiff society people in black tie and evening dresses. To the artist, or the downright pervert, this was heaven and I, being an artist of course, had a good look/ Again, I let my body relax and let time run its course, and so it did and quickly too, and after nearly 4 hours of skinwrinkling fun I wandered over the river to the east side, to Pest, where Dodo was awaiting me with a tent for the night. As it turned out he was late home, so it was not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">practical</span> to set up the tent, so i had the floor in his room, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">before</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">bed</span> chatting with the 4 other guests and drinking beer,and then he and two <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">spanish</span> girls and I went for a walk to see Pest from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">a nearby</span> hilltop. Lovely! So to bed and to dream. The next day again was a day of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">chillaxing</span>, a little nap in his garden by an ant infested lizard, some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">exercises</span>, a wander to the supermarket and then in the evening some vegetables, lots of them in fact, and then after a fiery <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">thunderstorm</span> and meeting Dodos lovely partner Andrea, to bed again. Another simple day, and much needed. Especially as for the next 3 nights i wound have no sleep at all!Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-29713302349196222042009-08-10T15:15:00.001-07:002009-08-12T16:29:26.774-07:00Berlin - a tourSo we rolled up, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waseem</span>, my new travelling companion freshly arrived from moist Preston, and your good author, at the place to meet the tour guideTheo, an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Australian</span>, part-guide, part-artist, our "Voice" for the day. And his tour was terrific and it is related to you, dear reader, for your enjoyment, below.<br />We began at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kastaneinalle</span>, a trendy and bohemian quarter of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Mitte</span> central region. He showed us a 17<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">th</span> century stable block in among the 4 story maze of streets, used by none other than King Friedrich. "Old Fritz", as he was known, was a liberal regent, a talented flute player, friend of Voltaire and an excellent ruler and town planner by all accounts. Which causes shock when the building is covered in graffiti and sandwiched in a rather unruly way behind a grubby wall. Berlin, as apparently is its wont, has let this building "go" but as its <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">metier</span> has passed it on to artists to make a go of it. Further <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">evidence</span> of creative recycling is seen at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Tachalus</span> centre, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Jewish</span> department store that was left vacant and squatters seized control of its whopping 5 stories and 200 rooms, making way for a sculpture studio, painters workshop, cinema, drama studio, bar and night club. Leading us on, we pass briefly through one of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">notorious</span> courtyards, displaying enigmatic and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">humorous</span> graffiti, my favourite a bearded lady where the beard is made of real dandelions!<br />Berlin, it seems, is creative and adaptive not just to change but also catastrophe. The huge rubble heap left by world war II created an unprecedented gap in the urban landscape, 80% of structures being levelled. Even before this, the Nazi machine itself was manhandling the city, Hitler had uprooted the city grass, torched the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Reichstag</span> and constructed some rather offensive architecture, the Aviation Ministry an exuberantly cruel-looking block of impervious stone.<br />As Hitler <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">disposed</span> of himself, below the spot where we later sat in a car park and felt, in my case, rather sick, the allies were 50 km away and advancing in on foot, and the city they discovered was remarkably devastated. The men being dead in their millions, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Trummer</span> Frau (or Rubble Women) set to work, and in 10 days trams and buses were able to pass <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">across</span> the whole diameter of the city. Later, the excess rubble was heaped to form a great hill beside the city, apparently now bought by the film director David Lynch, another odd connection in a bold and interesting town.<br />And the tour passed on, with great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">poignancies</span>, such as the empty book shelves to remind one of the burning of 20000 books beside the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Unter</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">der</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Lindel</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Berlins</span> major avenue. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Alongside</span>, the quote: "Where they burn books they will also burn people.". A story of wonder, a family of east <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">germans</span> escaping the enclosure by building their own hot air balloon and making it away, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Sound</span> of Music style, was related to us at Checkpoint Charlie, at the point where the Berlin wall once stood. This was one exception in a great dark age of creativity, and as we strolled into the west, to eat at "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Snackpoint</span> Charlie', I noticed a shock to my back and feeling it, liquid was flowing there. I had been shot by the man on the checkpoint! But not with a rifle but with a water pistol. This was perhaps the cultural low point of the tour, but also a welcome dose of irony to the heavy subject matter!<br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Jewish</span> war dead memorial was brilliant, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">strangely</span> relaxing and enjoyable park of grey concrete blocks in a vast <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">gridwork</span>, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">interlayed</span> spaces making paths along which a single human can walk. As you penetrate the centre of it, people jump out from behind corners, children whimper that they have become lost, and several of the 2000 blocks tower above you at wonky angles, the urban compass spun in circles as you have entered a bizarre piece of contemporary <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">sculpture</span> (on a piece of real estate large <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">enough</span> to house an entire <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">ministry</span>). The blocks are grey, a nothing-grey that is an almost palpably wasted colour that permits only a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">superimposition</span> of meaning over the top of it, it itself having no grain, depth or surface with which to grapple or sense-make. A <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">sinister</span> colour, but most of all the scale calls to mind the immensity of its title, the "Memorial to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Jewish</span> War Dead", and its many heavy stone blocks suggest the throngs of war dead, their 3D shape a precise mirror of the actuality of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">individual</span> grave ditches.<br />And so a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35"></span>chapter in Berlin's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">history</span> is made sense through the medium of the city and its structure. Further examples of this amalgamation are seen in the many rather grim, half <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">derelict</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">buldings</span> that are now <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">graffitied</span> and contain squatters. According to Theo, Berlin is a poor city economically.<br />One chapter of the City Life is seen in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Potsdamer</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Platz</span>, where in the 1920s Berlin was swinging with cabaret and people such as Marlene Dietrich and Fritz Lang appeared at film premiers. Then Berlin was known as the "Cocaine Capital" of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">europe</span>, but now <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Potsdamer</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Platz</span> is a pristine monument to modern <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">architecture</span> and clean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">skyscraping</span> ingenuity, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Daniel</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Baremboim</span> at one point leading a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">battalion</span> of construction cranes in a dance, via <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">walky</span> talky, to the music of the Berlin philharmonic, known as the Ballet of the Cranes. Indeed, at one point <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Berlin</span> lay claim to a third of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">the</span> worlds construction cranes! Similar stories of reinvention can be found elsewhere, the excellent <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">British</span> designed dome of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Reichstag</span> poised above the new "transparent" legislature in the government building below, replacing the dome razed at the end of the war. Its glass design enables you to actually look down at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">politicians</span> below, its beautiful apex is open tot he elements where exhausted at the end of 5 hours on the tour we lay looking up at the sky, trying to tempt a butterfly to land on my hand for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Waseem</span> to photograph.<br />And at no point did you feel buzzed or bustled by busy city life. Instead, you had the feeling of taking a stroll in a great urban park and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">architectural</span> garden, indeed below the Brandenburg gate trees run for several kilometres in parkland, the fabulously golden goddess victory on a giant column raising civilisation above nature, but only just. Berlin means 'swamp", and within just 30 minutes of the centre, lakes and woodland abound among the many <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">digited</span> prongs of the suburban spread. And like these green lungs, the visitor must certainly take a deep breath, or at least a well chosen and reasonably lengthy walking tour, to try and comprehend the true extent to which this city might be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">appreciated</span>.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-59606107697855421992009-08-04T11:59:00.000-07:002009-08-04T12:03:15.211-07:00The author is on holidayIronically, I am on holiday. I have been lying low, so apologies if you havent been able to hear from me recently, i have been in the compost heap of rejuvenation. Tomorrow I hitchhike to berlin, fingers crossed... it is 740 kilometres, so wish me luck. I hope you are all well. Am missing home actually, the trip has gone full circle in that sense. I am also a little bored, so am trrying to reinvent the experience a little, but just mainly drifting along and things will find themselves again i feel. Ciao for now, tom.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-12731016817220371902009-08-02T04:54:00.000-07:002009-08-02T05:28:34.722-07:00Belgrade day 2Morning comes to visit me in my slumber and I grunt at it for a while, then reluctantly give in to it and get up. I walk to the market, it saying in my tourist book that you should "go to the market and speak to the people there" and as I am also interested in buying some fruit I take my city map and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">go</span> for a wander. En route, I am reassured to find myself lost a little, it really feels comforting for me, I don1t know why! Perhaps it is an excuse to ask for directions and strike up a conversation, or maybe because it forebodes adventure. Anyhow, I get both. First the asking for directions, and a young couple Ivan and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Dusan</span> are going in that direction so walk with me, they are very friendly and it put me straight by some fruit stalls. SO I wander in, and spying a rather perfect looking onion (I have decided to cook for myself now I am in a hostel!)I approach the old lady behind the stall and ask her how much for it. She looks a bit like Mother Theresa and her waving away of my attempt to pay is one of polite and kind saintliness. So I grab a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">chili</span> and a clove of garlic, and then inquire as to whether she will take money for them. She begrudgingly accepts 15 pence worth of Dinars, but perhaps to make things fair on her side, she closes the deal by giving me two tomatoes. Well, I have been learning that morning the extra special words of VERY good and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">thankyou</span> VERY MUCH, so I fish into my own handwritten phrase book and with quite a few "just a minute" eyebrow gestures to keep her attention, I extract <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">jacko</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">dobro</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">hvala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">mnugo</span> to in some way "pay", or at least express my gratitude. After all, as a lover of most comestibles, this sort of sales tactic was like a red rag to a bull, so <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">off I</span> go to the next stalls, the nectarines sitting plump and looking at me. So for 2o pence I acquire 6 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">nectarnines</span>, and then I see some blackberries, and a large punnet of very fat blackberries are mine for 20 pence. Thinking I might have actually payed for something on this charitable continent, I decide to buy something luxurious, Turkish Delight. It says 140 dinars (47 pence) on the box, so I ask for this amount (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">sto</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">centri</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">deset</span>) of dinars worth, and what comes back but a kilogram of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">turkish</span> delight! I give up, each time I try to, I fail to spend what things seem worth. So I rest on the "bar" of this stall, and try the guidebooks tip of chatting to the people there. The first guy I speak to, a veteran fellow with brown skin and not many teeth straight away gives me a sausage. Not outdone, i offer him some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">turkish</span> delight, which he declines, but we chat a little with mime and a few brief words and it is very nice and I am grateful for the sausage (even if he will take nothing for it!). And then i chat to a guy called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Milos</span>, who is drinking a beer. I inquire the cost, quite innocently, and he then buys me not one but 2 beers! Great, the sunshine begins to look even lovelier. He will not take turkish delight either, on account of his heart, and slightly hilariously ina black sort of way, I am thwarted from offerring soem to the next guy becuase of great scar down his chest indicating where he was cut open for heart surgery. No sugar for him then. But the charity doesnt wend here, as Milos is impressed by my word knowledge of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">serbo</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">bosnian</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">croat</span>, and we get along pretty well and at the very zenith of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">chairty</span> in my trip to the market comes with him paying for me to take a taxi ride home, at a cost of 5 pounds! Incredible. So I get back to the hostel in time to brag about my exploits to the gathered backpackers, feeling very Marco Polo and quite a superior travelling person, if I say so myself. Tonight I sleep on an island with lots of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">mosquitos</span> and a towel over my face, but I will leave that for the next one. Bye for now.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5476726484628980115.post-61051563743304798542009-08-02T04:28:00.001-07:002009-08-02T04:53:30.849-07:00Belgrade (am about a week behind)Today I do very little, just lounge around in the youth hostel, which is appropriately called the Backpackers Lounge , as it feels a bit like being on the set of Friends, the furniture is very modern in design and open planned and people mill to and fro without any notices on the walls and it almost difficult to realise where people sleep, everything is tucked away from view. I stay out of the never ending 35 degree heat during the day, but later in the afternoon i walk over to the Hill Of Contemplation, on which sits the castle on a corner of a large bend in the Danube. People are walking and taking it easy and the air is still hot and sleepy. A bird flies down towards the river, off the side of the cliff. In line between the sun and my vantage the sun sparkles like flasbulbs in the water and behind me a pram rolls by, its sound deep and sonorous as a tram. In the distance, beyond the out and in left jab of the river, smoke rises into the sky and makes a deft wave as it breaks in the wind, and all around minor things make a happening. <br />I hear Slavic voices, passing behind me in ther opposite direction to the pram, their voices edged thick and thin in elegant origami, coming in and out of emphasis with the virtuosity of a caligrapher, the strokes easy, rhythmical and cordial, forming a blend like a mixture of cool water and warm apple juice.<br />On my way back, I meet a girl who is begging for money, the source of her monetary concern is her large belly, the baby within needing medicine. At first, I follow habit and actually not having money, I revert to my normal behaviour and discard her plea. However, on my journey, the main lesson I have learned is that you see a lot of goodness in people when you ask for things, upto this point in time I have received a lot for my "begging", in fact a princely sum. So, I go back to her (Ana) and we swap numbers and I agree to meet her the next day to give her the 15 euros she needs, and in a funny reward to me she gives me a packet of condoms. In the end, being me I leave it late and text her to meet me the next day, by which point she may well have got the money, I hope she did, but she doesnt return my call so I assume someone else helped her. The point is, though, that I learned that giving should be a matter of freeness and we should give well and without reserve, for we will also receive the same back in the end too, even though that is not the point of course.Thomas Galpinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01774889948310299179noreply@blogger.com1