kathmanasi. a tale of two cities

Separated only (only?!) by 10 hours of bumpy bus travel and 5 sweaty hours on a train, the 500 odd kilometres between Kathmandu and Varanasi is actually a journey between worlds (but you can be forgiven for not knowing this).

Kathmandu sprawls in a valley surrounded by mountains. It is dry- I saw one river but when I say river I mean a wide ditch with a small pool of dirty water that the locals use as a rubbish dump.
There are temples, of course- this is Asia after all. They are dotted about the city, stone figures living forever in niches and corners and where ever there are bodhi trees. They are convenient. As they pass by, with the fluidity of years of practice, locals will ring the bells, light the candles and smear the colour; choreographed moves of a theological dance.

There are bigger, more celebrated temples too...there is one at the top of a hundred stairs, where monkeys live on ice-cream, fairy floss and stolen bananas.

Then there is Durbar Square, Kathmandu's pride and joy and a pretty interesting place to wander around. One of the nicest places in the city; where you can sit on the steps of centuries old temples and watch toddlers tentatively running through clouds of pigeons, giggling and screaming; admire the amazing haircuts of the city's youth as they pose for selfies with their friends, framed by black and red; watch tourists mingle with praying locals and men wandering around plying their wares to the masses.

Our arrival here accidently coincided with the Nepalese New Year (actually this was the reason we spent so long here...intending to be heading to India, visas in hand, 2 days after arriving in the city we got off the bus to find the offices all closed for the 4 day holiday). So Harry's last day found us sitting in a heaving Durbar Square, all of the city (it seemed) turned out and looking sharp, in order to greet 2071.

One of the arms leading into Durbar Square is Freak Street. The enclave of the hippies of the 60's and 70's, it is now a fairly sleepy street with a few guesthouses and a couple of western cafes and lots of locals going about their business. A place to sip chai under the stairs in a darkened local momo house and organic (what else?) coffee amongst pretentious neo-hippies on the steps of a tiny little cafe.

Kathmandu is a dirty, dusty, welcomingly chaotic city. You go to the post office, organise beaurocracy and GET THINGS DONE. Busy and functioning; almost like London in its faceless hordes pounding the pavement with single-minded intent but here the pavement is made out of dirt and potholes and the soundtrack is shouting and blaring horns and the people are colourful. And there are dogs and goats and monkeys.

Varanasi is unlike London in every conceivable way. It is unlike everywhere in every conceivable way. Getting things done? Not in Varanasi. It is perched on the bank of the Ganges and, while the city and its mess of honking, mooing, screeching, shouting inhabitants sprawl- Asian cities just do, they just sprawl- up out and beyond the river, this is really where it is. This is the place that turns your complaints about how loud dirty in your face insane Indian cities are into a dropped jaw and an 'ohhhh myyyyy ggggg.....' Pertinently put, it's the place that makes a visit worthwhile.

The river is god here. But then, so is almost everything else...monkeys, cows, blue, bendy, many limbed people. It's the river we are all here for though. If you want to wash your clothes, wash yourself, learn to swim, do some praying, sell a boat tour, meet with friends, pay your respects and cremate a family member, have a chai or some freshly roasted peanuts, play cricket, fly a kite, beg, meditate, sleep...go to the ghats of Varanasi. For Hindus, to die in Varanasi is to escape the (I imagine) frustrating cycles of death and rebirth; it is a site of incredible religious importance and spiritual cleansing. Secularly, it is so polluted that it is poised on the brink of death itself. Human waste (an estimated 3 billion litres dumped daily), industrial waste, crematorium waste and household waste (check this out: http://www.dw.de/indias-polluted-ganges-river-threatens-peoples-livelihoods/a-17237276 )...all of these find their way into the great Mother Ganga. Seem confusing? Welcome to India.

The steps leading down to the river are a platform that support hundreds of temples, huge and tiny and every other size, and the braided alleys of the old city hide many more. We went walking around these shaded twists and winds one morning to escape the heat and as it was early they were completely deserted. The odd cow and a few mangy dogs and us. Occasionally, though, we would round a corner and be in the middle of a sudden burst of vendors selling trinkets and garlands of flowers, families hustling to and fro, people waiting expectantly at lockers, sweet sellers and chai wallahs working hard on a Sunday morning. Then we would walk a little further into the melee and spot a darkened entrance leading into the bright orange heart of a temple and the reason for all the activity. And the next corner we took would bring deserted lanes once more, so quiet it was as if the bustle of worship we just saw was a heat-induced hallucination.
You don't have to do anything in Varanasi- although the hundreds of boatmen and various other "tour guides" will try to convince you otherwise- other than wander along the ghats and wait to be shocked or amused or incensed. It won't take long. While you're waiting you can admire the soft pink of the crumbling buildings lining the water, the occasional flashes of bright orange signifying a temple, the reds and blues and greens of the wooden boats floating patiently on the water, waiting to be useful, the cheerful brightness of the fabric stretched out on the concrete to dry and the intricate artwork painted on the concrete walls.
There is nothing utalitarian about Varanasi. It feels as if the whole place exists just to excite gasps of shock or disbelief from even the most world-weary travelers. A place that has been the same forever and will go on staying the same, unbothered by the world around it, forever. But it is a living city also, there is no doubt about that. It is tangibly alive and every aspect of humanity is on show.

bonny streets and and windy hills.

The night we returned to England from Cyprus was dark and foggy and near to the witching hour, the perfect night for ghostly intervention. We had none of that however; just a whole lot of hassle with immigration as we tiredly tried to convince the Ultimate Decider that we would not work illegally and that we were, in fact, only going to be in the country six more days. After all the questions and checks were made we were free and back into Blackpool for a few days before we headed a little further north to the bonny city of Edinburgh.

Because we hate the cold, we only gave ourselves a couple of days in this pretty, literary city. But we used them well. We walked and walked, across cobblestones and over hills, reading quotes of the cities souls anywhere they could be carved. We found the sun, one day, and this farmly view was discovered on top of another hill just minutes from a busy city intersection. 

We found the windiest place in Edinburgh- possibly the known world- and after spending about 45 minutes climbing to it, made sure there was photographic proof, stood around making weather chat for 5 minutes and then scurried back down to somewhere we could actually see again. 

We came across the most nightmarish version of Puss in Boots I could never have imagined in a toy museum full of nostalgia (we were both in fits though neither of us is rightfully old enough to fondly recall the items we saw). Proceed with caution; forever hereafter your Puss in Boots will be fanged...

We walked also in the evenings. Edinburgh is like Adelaide's Scottish older sister. They are both big enough to be interesting but small enough that a walk from one side to the other isn't off-puttingly daunting and guaranteed to end in blisters. Edinburgh is the elder simply becuse she is; these footpaths are seeped in history, museums abound. There's a castle, for goodness sake. We could even ignore the odd, pervasive smell of what I can only describe as dog food that followed us about. It wasn't us. I can only assume it was from the smoking brewery.

We discovered the ultimate way to eat pig whilst we were here. Here's what you do:

Step 1. Be very hungry and be outside, hopefully in a misting rain under skies that promise worse to come.

Step 2. See that shop that has half a cooked pig in the window? It has a knife sticking out of it's back, I know. Don't be scared. Go inside.

Step 3. Order the biggest hunk of bread and watch, salivating, as the friendly pink-shirted girl stuffs it with slow-cooked pulled pork. Get very excited as she tops it with stuffing and apple sauce.

Step 4. Now you are sitting with it in your hand. You know what to do...try to go slow...indigestion is imminent. It'll be the happiest indigestion you will ever have.

We also made a self discovery whilst in this city of the north. Apparently- and this is a difficult thing for self-proclaimed world travelers to admit- we are not as open minded as we imagined. Because we have reached that stage in our travels where a check of the bank balance comes with tightly crossed fingers and immediate denial of reality, we needed to find a free place to stay in Edinburgh. And because it was a last minute journey, the only person to accept our desparate pleas for shelter told us we were very welcome, so long as we had no problem with his being a nudist. We considered. Two seconds later we replied positively; this will be fine, we thought, we're cool with this. And hey, free room! Hahaha. Turns out you can't really know how okay you are with this scenario til you are in a tiny living room, trying to appear casual as you stare fixedly at the ceiling whilst being offered tea by a naked stranger who is in the midst of preparing his evening meal...

  

  

And these are some lights we found in a garden. Don't know why. They were oddly mesmerising though.

stinge-ing out in paris and london. part two

No surprises here...

Welcome to London, where professionals are worked so hard they start hallucinating and mentally break down, a cup of coffee costs 3 pounds ($5) and if you are idling along the footpath, well, stop idling or get out of the freaking way! The sun has long ago abandoned ship but the curious thing is that people continue to flock here from all (far sunnier) corners of the globe, to live the London life. But if you are not a professional working 12 hour days, you can expect a long commute because the cost of living is far too prohibitive for any of the more free-spirited bohemians (read waitresses) to survive in the city. Unless, you know, you aren't too keen on food.

St Paul's Cathedral, of Mary Poppins fame.

London is...grey. It is a big, grey machine. People are busy busy busy. There is money to be made and money to be spent. And if money isn't your thing you won't last in the city. But there are pockets of humanity in amongst all the suited people. And the flag of socialism is flying high above the art galleries and museums, which are completely free for all (unfortunately the privatisation of rail companies means the same can't be said for public transport, which is rather horrendously expensive). Housed in elegantly imposing old buildings there are wonders from every place and age, from dinosaurs, to the Rosetta Stone- the key that unlocked the heiroglyphs, to more modern treasures from Dali and Picasso. And since night begins to fall at about 3.30 and it is kind of cold in London right now, they are the perfect places to while away afternoons.

I spy with my enormous eye...

We met up with some Australian friends who happened to be in London at the same time as us and we took them to Shoreditch, a deeply hipster enclave north east of the river. We had explored the area previously and I found it very agreeable because with the pretension of hipsters comes good coffee, vintage shops and graff. So much graff. Graff on every corner, on every wall, door, window...An interesting place to wander and much more accepting of idlers than the business centre of the city. As our little Aussie gang made its way around we found a sign leading to some sort of farm, so we followed the trail and ended up at a brilliant little city vegie farm, complete with donkeys and ponies. And an awesome spinning see-saw.

Home of the hipsters, Shoreditch.

So there are places to escape the capitalist machine. Another such was an amazing little food market that Will and I were delighted to find one afternoon. We ate curry and a gourmet hotdog with pickles and a brownie and tried butter beer- it's a real thing and it tastes like warm butterscotch mixed with weak beer- and enjoyed my seasonal tipple of choice, mulled wine. And this was all sourced and produced locally and cost about the same as one large pizza from Pizza Hut (which, I am ashamed to say, we were unable to avoid patronising in order to satisfy our friend's hunger pangs and which is still disgusting but has now turned fancy- gone are the days of the all-you-can-eat dessert buffet...).

Tower Bridge and the king of Westminster.

During our first couple of days in the city Will indulged my consumerist alter-ego and we swanned from store to store pretending we had the space/money/inclination to buy all of the shinies we discovered. (I did buy boots...I am a girl after all). We also visited a bookshop on Marylebone High Street called Daunt's books, which is in a wonderful Edwardian building of 3 levels with green balconies and a stained glass window, that specializes in travel books and maps. Nothing remarkable, except that until the 1980's it belonged to Will's family. His great-great grandfather opened it as a book store specializing in travel but unfortunately the family had to sell it...and I have to say, they must be absolutely kicking themselves now- it was pumping (as much as a bookshop can be pumping) when we went in.

Another vestige of old London

So we've indulged our stomachs, our brains and our urge to buy- time to hit up the theatre. The first theatre I ever saw in London, several years ago, was 'Guys and Dolls' and 'We Will Rock You', the Queen musical. The first that Will and I saw together was rather more subdued and thought-provoking. We were in a pub listening to some terrible performers at an open-mic night and we decided to go across the road and check out a play we had seen advertised. It turned out to be two men, talking. More specifically, 2 homeless men and their conversations. It was enthralling, considering it was just a couple of guys on a tiny stage above a pub.

Also impressive was this here deer, made out of vacuum cleaners (and dad, as you can just see, from John Lewis).

 When we met our friends, we decided we all needed to have a night out, London style (but not too late because we all had trains to catch and, you know, we needed our 8 hours), so we wandered through the bright lights of Leicester Square until we found a show we agreed upon (and still had tickets available). It was called "Strangers on a Train" about, incredibly, 2 strangers who meet on a train. What followed was the psychological torment of one man by another, spiralling ever further out of control. The story was good but the sets were incredible and the theatre itself- gilt, gold, velvet and chandeliers- was very memorable. As was the man sitting in front of us who, after listening to Will and Tristan have a rambling conversation about melting chocolate dogs dipped in honey and how it would make a good show, turned around and swelled their egos immensely by saying he would watch their show.

I didn't really like London before this trip. In fact I told everyone it was a bad city and I never wanted to go there again and neither should they. I was certainly not qualified to make this judgement, having only spent, cumulatively, about two weeks there. But the things that stood out in my mind were the ridiculous cost of everything, the bad weather, the greyness of the city and the terrible hurry that everybody always seemed to be in. This recent visit has changed my opinion somewhat. I still don't want to live in London and it still isn't a city that has you conjuring up romantic fantasies of a new life (a la Barcelona or Paris), but as its charms were slowly revealed I found I was beginning to like London. I'm not sure exactly what changed my mind; it may have been the red fox that we saw strutting through a city park in the middle of the day (much to the delight and amazement of all us tourists), it may have been the way it is just as easy to spontaneously go to the theatre as it is to the movies or the joy of surprising myself- and Will- with my ice-skating abilities at the Tower of London. It may have been the discovery that with the changing of the guards comes the closure of several roads, an army of policemen and a marching band and that they do this everyday (every second day in winter) and it is essentially just a shift change.

No fox here but there were these guys too.

So it won me over. I still think it is far more stressful, expensive and commercially driven than necessary, but I'm no longer a hater. (Will, who was expecting some kind of "soggy, grey, expensive compost toilet" of a city, liked it almost immediately and thought I was nuts for my harsh earlier judgements). Well done London.

P.s. Will wanted to feed a goose. With his face. 

stinge-ing out in paris and london. part one

The creme de la creme of famous dangles

 We are no luxury travelers, but we have certainly not been down and out in Paris and London. Stinging out though? Yeah, a little bit.

Our journey from Chatellerault to Paris only cost us a few hours of slightly awkward small talk with strangers- we even learnt something. Did you know that 80% of France's power is nuclear? Neither did we.

We arrived in the city of love and, with our stingy hats firmly upon our heads, bought two children's tickets for the train to the 'burbs and our first night of Parisian couchsurfing. Which turned out to be more about celebrating the multicultural side of Paris than the 'stripey-shirted man with a croissant and a cigarette' side. We were staying with an Asian guy who lived with a family hailing from somewhere in Africa and we dined on Vietnamese pho (which was so good we were back in Vietnam for a minute).

We came round a bend on the river and saw this...

We had a far too brief 2 days in Paris and I'm sure we walked at least 100 kilometres in our efforts to see as much as possible (as well as, the metro is kind of expensive). And we saw a lot...of course the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysee (which meant I had that song stuck in my head for far too long), and Moulin Rouge. Also the final resting places of Oscar Wilde (Egyptian themed and covered in red kisses), Jim Morrison (covered in flowers) and George Melies (unfortunately no magic tricks were to be found) in the too big to be believed Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise. It is a wending, winding, tree-lined 110 acres with over a million "customers", that has been a fixture in Paris since 1804. I don't know if this is appropriate in a cemetery but I had to giggle when we came across a huge mausoleum housing somebody called 'Stroggonoff".

Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise

 The fantastic thing about Paris is that you don't really need to know where you're going (excellent for us, as we will often study a map, decide where we need to go and head off in exactly the wrong direction) because there is usually something to see around every corner. On our first morning's stroll we stumbled upon the Notre Dame! (Though if you fail to see that whilst walking around Paris I don't know...you may not have eyes). You will often be walking along a street, admiring the elegant old apartment buildings, and you'll turn a corner and be in front of a wonderful little park strewn with statues or a grand old municipal building or a shop window beckoning with its rainbows of macarons or, much to our literary delight, one of Ernest Hemingway's past homes.

For some reason, me kissing fish has become a theme.

We were walking along the river one rainy afternoon and as we passed the Musee D'Orsay we noticed an enticing lack of crowds so went inside and whiled away a couple of hours admiring Monet, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Rodin and lots of other people that aren't so famous and therefore aren't so easily recalled. Ahhh, Paris. They also gave us discounted tickets for the museum as we are under 26. It is actually surprisingly easy being in Paris with very little money (as long as you have somewhere free to sleep and can resist the very strong temptation to buy everything) because you can look for free and there are many, many things to see. Also croissants aren't very expensive.

As we made our way down to the Eiffel Tower on our first Parisian day we crossed a bridge covered in engraved padlocks, proclaiming the love of thousands of couples (it is called 'Love Lock Bridge', I later learnt from eavesdropping on two American girls of questionable intelligence- they were certain 2 days would be enough in Paris as there was really only 3 things to see: the Louvre, the tower and this bridge...). Anyway we posed for a couple-y photo and were continuing on down the river when Will, in nervous earnest, told me not to expect a proposal at the Eiffel Tower, as there were no engagement ring sized surprises in store. He must have been growing ever more anxious about how to avoid becoming engaged without hurting my feelings ever since we arrived in the most cliched romantic city of them all (indeed, we saw two separate brides posing for photographs at the Eiffel Tower). I told him not to worry- I wasn't interested in marrying him until he could provide me with a house, a car and 2.5 children.

Love Lock Bridge

So the city of art, love, shopping, food (pastries for breakfast and cheese and wine for dinner anyone? How Parisians stay so thin when there endless displays of incredible food everywhere, I have no idea.) and wandering...we did so much walking in our time there that my ankles actually swelled up and I was rocking some serious cankles for the next week. It was also freezing, freezing cold while we were there but this did nothing to deter us from our hours of exploring the streets. In fact, if you can handle the cold- which all the Parisians said was completely normal and not actually very cold at all- this is the best time to visit because the places which I'm sure are over-run with tourists in the summer are completely empty now.

The Sacre Coeur at Mont Martre

And then, abruptly, our little Parisian sojourn was at its end. We had morning bus tickets booked for London, our bags were packed and we were ready to go (physically, if not mentally). We said goodbye to our wonderful host Pierre, an incredibly friendly and open-minded man who couchsurfs around the world with his 3 children and spends his Sundays giving food and conversation to the homeless of Paris, and made our way to a bookshop I wanted to have a quick look around before I left. The famous Shakespeare and Company has been a fixture of the Latin Quarter since 1951 and is a literary institution. Unfortunately the shop only opens at 10 and we had to catch our bus at 11 so we could only have a very, very quick browse. This, as I should have known, was impossible. We found ourselves still immersed in the tiny corners and bursting shelves of this densely packed space at 10.20. Thus ensued an incredibly stressful and frantic race between metro stations all the way across the city to make our bus, our tickets for which, if we missed it, would not be refunded. As you have probably guessed, we missed the bus.

While this made for a stressful morning (and a realization that we would not be winning any sprinting medals any time soon) it actually worked out rather well for us. Thanks pretty much entirely to two of mum's good friends who happened to be staying in Paris as well. We had come to our last 20 euros and Pierre was in the country visiting his children, so if it wasn't for Christine and Melvin's incredible generosity we may have spent the evening getting to know the ins and outs of the Paris metro stations. As it was, we stayed in an amazing apartment with a view of Notre Dame. We also found ourselves with an afternoon of bonus exploring time which we used to watch bocce in the park, stare greedily at incredible chocolate creations in shop windows (and succumb to two of the best macarons I've ever eaten), admire expensive chess sets in a charming old toy shop and climb (i.e. ride an elevator) up the tallest building in Paris, the Montparnasse Tower. From here we could visually retrace our steps all over the city and I have to say, I was very impressed.

But the next morning we really did have to leave and in a responsible, grown-up manner we arrived at the bus station a whole hour early. The bus ride was very boring, as they often are. The two moments of anticipation came upon leaving France- we had stayed a whole two days over our allowed time in Europe and didn't know what to expect from the officials...as it turned out, they didn't even check our dates and I'm sure we could have stayed weeks over and they wouldn't have cared- and entering the UK. I have previously gone through a horrible barrage of questioning at UK border control and wasn't really surprised when the official at this border was less than friendly. I kept so cool under all his ridiculous questioning that he gave up and with narrowed eyes -I'm sure- and a sigh of resignation, he stamped me in. Will, on the other hand, was expecting to be welcomed in with open arms being almost English himself, and was completely thrown off by the manner in which Australians are now dealt with. It was only after 15 minutes of questioning, bank cards and phone numbers of English family members offered for inspection and a lecture about return tickets that he was allowed to enter, shaking his head in disbelief, the little island of cold.

Parisian dusk.

can we just get two of the custard tarts please...

Our journey to Portugal was, to borrow from Enid Blyton, perfectly horrid. It involved two sleepless nights, sleeping on the cold ground, and various forms of transport, all public, all slow. By the time we arrived in Tavira, our first stop, I was literally shaking with exhaustion and cold. Luckily our time in this small land of bacalhau and pastel de nata (that's salted cod and Portuguese tarts) has been a perfect delight.

To save money (mostly) we decided to couchsurf all the way through Portugal- and we managed to, save two nights- and as a result, I think it is all the people we have met that will stay with us more than the places we have been.

Our first host was in Tavira, a little village on the ocean where we saw wild flamingoes feeding in the salt lakes. His name was Paulo and he welcomed us into his little home with open arms, a very comfortable couch and a chicken dinner. He was a lifeguard who loved the ocean and his town and he made us little maps and itineraries of places to visit and things to see. One day we walked six kilometres along a long deserted beach, from an anchor graveyard in the sand to Paulo's little life-guard hut; it's a fantasically exhilirating and anticipatory feeling swimming on an empty beach with storm clouds gathering in the distance. Unfortunately those storm clouds then broke and the next few days were flood-like.

Then the weather cleared, we said goodbye to our life-saving friend and tried to hitch-hike to Lagos, a town at the other end of the Algarve. We made it as far as Faro, then decided to catch the train and therefore made it to Lagos before nightfall. Lagos is an extremely touristy place but for good reason- the beaches are amazing.We were lucky enough to have one last day of "summer", and spent it swimming in crystal clear water on tiny little beaches surrounded by huge orange cliffs. Then we watched the sun go down over the Atlantic, atop a cliff. We stayed in a hostel in Lagos, our couch requests bearing no fruit, but it was definitely worth the expense. After our summery swimmy day at the beach we caught the bus out to the town of Sagres, from which it is a 6km walk to the desolately, breathtakingly windswept southwestern-most point of Europe. Atlantic waves crashing into rocks a hundred metres below you, insane fishermen perched on the very edge of the cliff hunting for the catch of the day, huge sea birds gliding on updraughts all around, and wide flat blue for miles. And Europe's most southwestern hotdog stand...
Not feeling extremely enthusiastic about a return 6km walk we tried our luck sticking out our thumbs and were surprised and delighted when, after four or 5 cars drove past, one stopped and took us all the way back to Lagos. From where we caught an afternoon bus to...

Lisbon! A picture perfect city; all cobbled lanes, old yellow trams, pastel pink and yellow and blue houses and a huge square opening out onto a harbour, from where we could see the "Golden Gate Bridge" and Rio's "big hilltop Jesus". Despite all this, and despite the abundance of pastel de natas all over the city, it wasn't a place that I wanted to live in (and this is how I determine a good city). I think this may have had something to do with the people we were couchsurfing with though, or if not the people, definitely the house. I say house...I mean tiny little bottom floor apartment with 3 tiny bedrooms and smaller kitchen and no living area that was home to seven people...and then couchsurfers. We found it a bit odd that these people hosted couchsurfers at all, what with all their minus space and all, and it wasn't until we were leaving and the man asked us for eighty euro for the 4 nights that we understood...scoundrels.
Rather than spending any more time than we had to in the apartment, we spent hours wandering around Lisbon. Up and down the hilly streets, overdosing on charm in tiny little tiled gardens, eating pastel de nata in Belem, the home of said delicious, finding aqauducts, a castle and hordes of tourists...not a bad city, not a favourite city.

After handing over 80 of our precious euros to our landlord (ahem, "host"), we sat fuming at the train station waiting for our train to the inland university town of Coimbra. We were heading into Harry Potter territory now...did you know old J.K. taught English in Porto (the 'capital of the north') and gained inspiration from a lot of the surrounding places. Like the university in Coimbra, a beautiful old stone complex on a hill above the city where tradition has students going about in black capes...sounding familiar?
Uni means students and students mean parties and our host in Coimbra was a very friendly, happy, enormous Bulgarian who loved to go out and party. So we met lots of people in Coimbra, stayed up way past our bedtimes and slept all through the mornings. To get out of the house one afternoon, after a long hard day of sleeping, we duck-spotted along an autumnal river with a Venezuelan chap called Jeremia.
We ended our time in Coimbra with a huge codfish dinner at a Portuguese house (an eternally tardy friend of our host's mother cooked), another late night that included Jenga and an impromptou oboe performance and a warm, fuzzy feeling inside from the extent of Bulgarian and Portuguese hospitality. And a vow to visit Bulgaria and all our new friends there.

In Porto, the place from which we reluctantly farewelled this lovely little country, we stayed with another Bulgarian who we met in Coimbra. Dilyana is in Porto on exchange, studying fine arts and living with another arts student from Slovenia and a plaster artist from Porto itself. So we were feeling very arty...even though the only thing we created while we were there was a chicken soup "surprise" and a chocolate fondue.
We had far too short a time in Porto, it's an exceedingly picturesque city perfect for exploring. On our first morning Dilyana and Helena took us on an impromptu little tour of the backstreets, to opshops and fabric stores, past cheap bars and cafes (students area of expertise). Past a little park that was to us a point of orientation and was to the elderly, the arts students and the local prostitutes a meeting place. Then they left us and we climbed a big tower for a panoramic view of all the red rooves, the river and the vine covered walls of the city. We dove back into Harry Potter in the Livraria Lello, an amazing bookshop that has been in business for over 100 years, has been voted one of the most beautiful bookshops in the world and was, reputatedly, inspiration for the library in Harry Potter. It's walls are lined in very old books encased in glass-faced panels and the staircase to the second floor is an Alice in Wonderland wonder...google it.
We saw the city from both sides of the river, climbed over the bridge designed by Gustav Eiffel (there is a resemblance, indeed) and were treated to another impromptu performance at another dinner we were invited to- this time it was fado, the traditional, melancholic music of Portugal. Our performer (one of the girls we were having dinner with) was a little audience shy so she turned off all the lights and sang to the open window...she was quite incredible.

And with these delicious memories we snuck onto the metro (since we were leaving we felt we need not buy a ticket...) and settled into our uber cheap, ad-riddled plane, ready to fly to Bordeaux.

mo-roccan beats.

Which are..."hey, my friend, what you need? hey, my friend, you can trust me! hey my friend, tip?" With only slight variations, these are the beats of Morocco. Though, I am sure our cynical, weary, tetchy judgement of  country we were in for only two and a half weeks- and only in the 'big hitters'- is entirely subjective and not an accurate representation of the people at all. In fact, our few encounters with "real" Moroccans- those who are not at all involved in the tourist tricking racket and don't live in any of the massively touristy areas- were very positive.

The very first hour we were in the country, we encountered some very helpful lifesavers (unlike those pesky 'unhelpful' lifesavers...). Having caught the "8.30pm" ferry from Spain (it left at about 10pm), we arrived at midnight, at the new port 50kms out of Tangier. Having no idea of the existence of this port until we arrived (we thought we were at the other port, 5 minutes from the centre of Tangier), we had no idea how to get to the city without being completely ripped off by an over eager taxi driver who'd spotted us. Luckily there were some other men who lived in Tangier and needed some people to share a taxi- save money, you see- so in we jumped. All six of us, and the driver. Off at about 120km, into the night, down roads that would be comfortably navigated at about 80km, with a driver who had no qualms about tail-gating every single car he came upon.

We made it alive, obviously, though as Will and I were sharing the front seat I was white-knuckled on the door handle every time we rounded a corner. With a huge sigh of relief we arrived and our new friends helped us get to the medina to find a hotel and bid us farewell. We thought everyone would be like this- especially after a kindly old taxi driver gave us a discount on the fare because he didn't understand where we wanted to go, 'only' speaking French and Arabic. We soon realised that almost everyone else who offered us help was doing so with the expectation of a great big tip for their troubles. One man at one bus station literally begged us to go and look at this hotel- we did, only because it was night time and he wouldn't take no for an answer- and then once we arrived and discovered it was actually lovely and decided to stay, demanded a tip! Oh, the audacity.

But I will move on from our dubious relations with the Moroccan people to the towns we saw which, overall, we had better relations with (just don't talk to us about Fez).

We started our jaunt off in celebrity style...drinking incredibly sweet tea in the very square that William S. Burroughs (friend and collaborator of Jack Kerouac) used to admire the local 'talent' in. In the evening we moved on to the very posh (as in, when the waiter came over to ask if we were here for dinner or drinks I had a fleeting fear he was discreetly going to ask us to leave) hotel which has served the likes of Yves St. Laurent, John Malkovich and William Hurt. And a bunch of others. We drank fairly expensive wine, ate all the free snacks provided and pretended to be fancy for a couple of hours. This was in Tangier, a surprisingly nice port town, full of European style cafes and French accents.

The next stop on our hastily and rather unresearched route was Chefchaouen, a little village  surrounded by mountains and notable for all the blue paintwork in the medina. (Quickly, a medina is like the old part of town...in every city we went to there was the medina- usually the touristy part- with all the little alleys and picturesqueness you can imagine, and then the ville nouvelle (new town) with all the administrative and important city buildings.) We spent a lovely few days exploring the medina, rocking the kasbah (old king's quarters, walled off from the rest of the medina), climbing a very steep, very rocky mountain and admiring all the lovely shades of blue upon the houses. This was especially exciting once we discovered the colour select function on our new camera...we now have far too many pictures that are black, white and blue. Once we had been charmed out by the adorable little village,  we left Chefchaouen bound for our one mistake of the trip, Fez.

I'll say this first. We were both a little ill in Fez, we got very lost upon arrival and ended up choosing a hotel on a very loud and busy road just because it was getting dark and we had no idea where we were really. A map is a purchase that will never be regretted. So the next day, after a sleepless night in a hotel on an incredibly busy road (Will slept a little and all his dreams were driving related), we decided to look for greener pastures and set off to the medina. Where we were immediately accosted by somebody who had rooms- without toilet or shower- for 150DH (about $19). To put this into perspective, in another far nicer town, we stayed in a "pent-house suite" (but seriously, for us it was) with a balcony, bathroom and even a couch for 150DH.

I digress. Fez. Wouldn't recommend it. Insanely, inanely touristy, unjustifiably expensive, hot...and just not worth it really. My fondest memories are of sitting in a cafe in the ville nouvelle writing my last blog post and of sleeping.

Next! Rabat, the capital of Morocco. I'd say come here over Fez. There is a medina, it is smaller, less crowded and still sells all the same things. It was really quite nice to wander through (apart from one very, very, very crowded street)...there was the main street with all the hotels and the smells wafting around from the delicious sandwich stalls and the clothes shops and carts piled high with pomegranates, grapes, herbs and figs and dried apricots and garlic; there was the "market" lane...think fruit and veg stalls, little shop fronts piled high with glistening olives, every second tiny shop selling bread, boys lounging in shelters with boom boxes selling coal, a big room full of sheep and kids running all over the place and the smells of mint, cumin, olives and preserved lemon mingling in the air. Chaotic and my favourite part of the medina. Then there was the ubiquitous tourist alley...alluring shops calling to those with fat wallets with their lovely leather bags, colourful textiles and other shinies. Nice to wander through, but don't get too close.

This lane opened out onto the kasbah, which opened on to the ocean. Right across the road from the kasbah was probably the biggest cemetery I have ever seen...I'm thinking a couple of acres...complete with tomb-stone guarding cats. There was a little carnival near the beach where we spent a good 10 minutes deliberating which ride to spend our pocket money on. (We went with the spinny-around-in-the-air-in-little-cages option). There was a beach, but not so good for swimming, better for people watching at dusk when all the strollers came out. And then sunset watching.

We visited some Roman ruins, with a lovely little garden green with fruit trees and pretty flowers and a lot of storks who had made their homes on the tallest towers. We visited the sweets stall in the medina and went a bit overboard, walking away with at least 15 different treats (they were very small though...). We drank fresh orange juice in the street, coffee and mint tea on the cafe strewn footpaths and avocado milkshakes in the milk bar.

Then we left Rabat. And there I will leave this post. We still had two more towns to visit before we returned to the stress-free shores of Spain, but I will return to those in another post...this is quite long enough I think.

a misadventure and a slaughtered sheep.

It is a very tired and weary couple of Will and Jordans that greet you from blog world today. Turns out, after two months in genteel Europe we've gone soft and are having trouble re-adjusting to the crafty "sales techniques" of those who live in the not so lucky world. But. Take it back about a fortnight.

We ended up staying on at the finca in Spain for an extra week, not really for any particular reason, just because we liked it and both decided it would be stupid to cut our time there short. And it is a good thing we did. We gained two anecdotes to add to our repetoire from that week.

After finishing work one afternoon- and after our afternoon nap- we decided to walk out to an old monastery, set in the hills behind the finca. We set off at about 5, and it was quite a pleasant walk, through the valley, up along the ridge, down through olive and carob groves...then we realised we had been walking for more than an hour and the monstery was still a mirage in the distance. Being sensible, we thought, 'we should go back, don't want to get stuck out here in the dark'. Hahahaha...oh how we laugh. Now. It was most definitely not funny when we were running around like panicky idiots on the top of a mountain at dusk, staring at a wall of impenetrable, prickly shrub that stood between us and a delicious pizza dinner. (Actually, it would have looked quite funny...we were in no mood for frivolity though, you understand.) Anyway, we were on the ridge because we knew we could walk down a slip in between two of the hills. We just didn't know that by the time we found the slip it would be dark. So there we were, panicking our way down a rocky, prickly, slippery, ankle-breaky "path", in the dark, with only the thought of the wild boars that would surely snuggle up to us if we didn't make it home to keep us going. We made it home. Scratched up legs, huge appetites and a story and we were home.

Then the week went on. We went for a couple more walks- strolls really, safely along flat ground. Visited another old English couple who fed us a huge roast dinner with banana split chasers. Saw more charming villages. Hung out with the dogs. Painted a bit. Then it was our last day- for real this time- and we were ending it with a memory that will last forever. Our first sheep slaughter. That's right, we are well on our way to becoming real country people, who can kill and chop up a sheep for many a future dinners (I say well on our way...that may be an exaggeration. We were in fact giggling hysterically through most of the "operation", and I may, at one point, have had my photo taken holding a knife and fork next to a dangling sheep carcass...). But it's a start. I know what bit loin is know. And I know I will never be a vegatarian- seeing all the neatly cut up joints on the table set my stomach a-rumbling, even as the dog was licking up sheep's blood off the floor.

So, we knew we stayed for a reason. But then we really did have to leave (it was getting to the point that we probably would have adopted the finca as our second home and Cathy and James would have found themselves with two new grown-up children). We took our cue from the ducks and headed to Granada.

A wonderful city is Granada. And not only- though this is probably a large part of it- because of the 'free tapas with every drink' thing they have going on. Seriously, 2 or 3 euro (that's $3 or $4) and you can have a beer or wine or sangria and you will also get a little dish of stew or a piece of pizza or some meatballs. These Spaniards, they know a thing or two about the good life (you know, except in regard to the economy and running the country smoothly; food, drink and sleep though- they have it down!) But Granada is also a very wanderable city. The Arabic area climbs up a hill in all its whitewashed, tiled charm to several fantastic panoramic city views (edit out all the ipad-wielding tourists). The main city centre is walkable and dotted with little plazas of fountains and trees. There is the majesty of the Sierra Neveda mountain range in the background. There is a river and watching, steadily and serenely over the city, the Alhambra. An Islamic complex comprising palaces, unimaginably beautiful gardens, and everything else needed in a royal complex back in the day. It is a relic from the days of the Moors and (I'm sure) a world heritage sight. It would be a huge mistake to come to Granada and miss it (and we nearly did). But we lined up from 7am, in the rain, to get a ticket and it was truly worth it.

And for now, that is the end of our European adventure. I do, however, get the feeling we will be back on its welcoming soil before too long. Morocco is a little more difficult than we'd like at the moment and it is, after all, just a short hop across the water. Those Portuguese tarts are calling to us...

(Also P.S. no photos again, back to the imaginations I'm afraid, at least for now).

and the winner of the best city ever award....

Our brief stint living it up in the coolest city I've ever been to is over now, we are back in the country working on a farm, but this post is all about Barcelona. I promise you will all want to go there, after a week of tramping around its cafes, bars and neighbourhoods, we were all smitten.

You can walk in pretty much any direction from the horribly touristy central street called La Rambla and you will find something interesting to look at. There was the neighbourhood directly behind our hostel, of which the outskirts were the domain of homeless crazies and prostitutes but which became considerably cooler the further in you explored. Full of little bars and cafes and a big concrete square home to skaters and people practising break-dancing...one night, at about midnight, after a beer we sat and watched them...they were pretty good. Though not as good as the Jamaican dance-fighting troupe we saw at another square on another night...they were awesome, triple back flips and jumping over each other's heads. We even threw some euros into their hat after only seeing them perform for about a minute and a half, that's how good they were!

A bar we found and ate the worst nachos ever, microwaved, with packet cheese...but the beer was cheap and the music was good.

If we walked up the hill from our hostel we ended up the in fancy area, the Calvin Klein kind of shops area, where there are numerous Gaudi buildings to admire and wonder about. And that's the thing about Barcelona, you can just be walking up a shopping road and all of a sudden, amongst all the old European buildings, there is this crazy, odd shaped, colourful thing to make you stop and look. And then you walk on- or if you are rich go inside and admire anew- and find something else to look at.

One day we walked up to Park Guel, another of Gaudi's creations, about an hour and a half from our hostel. It was worth the walk though, to see more of his unreal buildings and also to listen to the band we chanced upon as we were wandering around...they were very good and very entertaining and they had decided to spend their Sunday afternoon entertaining tourists at the park, much to our delight.

The gingerbread house of Park Guel (sorry, I don't know how to rotate it)

Another Gaudi building we discovered on our walking...this one used to be apartments, now it's a gift shop and tourist destination as well as being a performance space sometimes.

I forgot to say, we also visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's most famous building (and most expensive to visit I imagine), which has been under construction for over 100 years and still isn't finished.

We spent a lot of time in Barcelona just wandering around, discovering places and cafes and bars. Luckily coffee and beer is pretty cheap, even in the city, so these many halts didn't break the bank. Although towards the end of our stay we did discover an awesome tapas bar where you sat down and just grabbed whatever looked delicious from the bar and even though each piece was only 1.65 each, we ended up spending around twenty euro each time...oops. But when you are sitting there with a beer and looking at little pieces of bread topped with things like jamon, goat cheese and berries, or the best Spanish omelette ever, or salmon, or even a piece of blood sausage- which sounds disgusting but is actually delicious-, you can't really stop yourself from reaching for more. We even convinced Iz to come with us on our last night and spend her last 3 euros on tapas. She was very pleased with her decision. (She was less pleased when we insisted on stopping for a drink at every reasonably priced place we came across...but after I bought her a custard filled churro she humoured us a little longer).

We had our first (and our last, now we know what to expect) European pickpocket experience in Barcelona. Just as I was beginning to think all those stories people bring home from Europe about being so quickly and unexpectedly robbed were unsubstantiated, we got robbed. Quickly and unexpectedly. More precisely, Iz got robbed. We were in the park, in a little circle, playing cards and these men kept wandering past, trying to sell beer or water or whatever. One must have noticed her phone poking out of her bag and so he bent down next to us and tried to convince us to buy hash which he used one hand to distract us with while he took her phone with the other...we didn't notice until about 20 minutes later when he was long gone. So now we can join camp 'seriously, don't leave anything anywhere obvious in Europe, it will get stolen', and I hold my bag much closer to my chest at all times now.



After the pickpocket...no iphone so she had to resort to her actual camera. Oh life!

As well as that, Barcelona also taught us some other lessons...it taught us that vermouth is delicious, especially when it is only 1 euro a glass, it taught us that public squares and parks and general areas mean life is lived outdoors and the city instantly becomes more vibrant, it taught us that a good way to get people to ride bikes around the city is to put racks of them everywhere that you can pick up and use and drop back somewhere else when you are done.

A bar with jamon. And delicious sangria. And a photo-shy Isabelle.

We had a fantastic time there. Visiting the beach occasionally- it was always packed though, we aren't quite used to that yet, pedalling out to visit other areas, buying ridiculously cheap baguettes and picnicking on jamon sandwiches for lunch, visiting shops we couldn't afford and looking wistfully at the products. We visited one tea shop at least 5 times to get tiny free sample cups of ice tea. Iz and I sprayed ourselves with what we thought was peach perfume in another shop, then realised it was actually toilet spray and left the shop laughing hysterically, under the unimpressed gazes of the salespeople. It was also good wandering around the tiny, winding streets of the old town and ending up in little tree strewn squares, home to cafes and, more often than not, some type of sculpture. These walks would have been better, of course, if there weren't a billion other tourists there too. The good thing about  most tourists though is that they rarely wander too far from the hordes, so all we had to do to escape them was walk for 15 minutes in another direction. Usually then the coffee and beer got at least 25% cheaper as well.

La Rambla and the famous mural by Miro.

Us being the wicked-sick dudes we are in graff central.

A little alleyway and some cool cats.

But the time came to leave- money allowing I could have stayed there at least a month, unfortunately it wasn't allowing- so we ate our last tapa and gelati and custard filled churro, drank our last café and beer and woke up horridly early to accompany Iz to the train station from where she was headed to the airport. And we were headed south, to a farm, to see what was going on there.

Just one of the many plazas of Barcelona.