Return to Oz

Homeward bound at Heathrow.

Homecoming queen

Sixty-nine locations and 25 countries – if you include Vatican City and Monaco – in 229 days. That’s our trip. Ten flights (OK, so we didn’t quite go totally overland), countless buses and trains, three days on a motorcycle, two overnight ferries and a few horse-and-cart rides later, and we’re back.

At the risk of sounding clichéd, it feels like Rhino and I only just left Australia.

Yet we took in more than Beth Ditto at a buffet. At the risk of sounding, er, smug, we saw: Angkor Wat, the Killing Fields, Halong Bay, the Taj Mahal, Ephesus, Cappadocia, the Temples of Bagan, the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triumph, Auschwitz, Mostar Bridge, Dubrovnik, Michelangelo’s David, Mona Lisa, the Louvre, Blarney Castle, Big Ben… yada yada yada. I’m surprised I’m not in a coma right now.

For the first few days back on home soil, I was, in fact, torn between wanting to sleep for a week and wanting to keep sightseeing. Following Rhino’s “no napping while overcoming jet lag” rule, I didn’t do either. Instead, as we hibernated at his parents’ house in Sydney’s Hills district, we re-bonded with both our folks, and channelled all the energy we could muster into re-bonding with our careers.

Back to life

…Back to reality. I’m no longer in a (floating) travel bubble where my biggest concern of the day is how to squeeze in visits to the Tate Modern and the V&A. Or what Harrods souvenir to buy my niece and nephew. Or whether the people in the hostel room next door are actually bumping uglies or just watching a movie. (Actually, that last one can happen anywhere…) I have to work – as a freelance journalist – prepare my own food and eventually find an apartment with Ryan. Which, eventually, we’ll have to clean.

Thankfully, all this excites me. Except for the cleaning bit. Most people go on holiday and come back to the same home, the same job, the same routine. Which is fine, but it can cause post-holiday depression, or “PHD” (I’m sure psychologists have a more original name for it). I’m not coming back to any of these, so it’s impossible for me to get PHD. Surely. Rhino and I have returned to Oz with a completely clean slate.

(Almost) every day on the road uncovered new sights and experiences, as will the next few months, spent resettling – for lack of a better word – in Sydney. In Sydney, which I can now say is one of the most beautiful cities on the world. How lucky are we?

Last tango in continental Europe

I started this post from our (second) Parisian room, on our last night (Friday) in the city of lights. Why was I not out, sipping caffe, carrying a baguette to the fleuriste or auditioning for the Moulin Rouge? Three reasons. One: a blog post was way overdue. Two: we had to be up at 5am to catch a Metro to the bus station, in order to catch a shuttle to the airport, in order to fly to Dublin. Three: I am slightly sick. Again. (Only slightly, Mum.) Not wanting to sound like a leprechaun with emphysema when we landed in Ireland, I stayed out of the crisp air du temps...

So, yeah, this week we spent four days in Paris – don’t hate me – and since I last blogged, Ryan and I have dashed through Venice, Rome, Florence, the Cinque Terre, Nice and Monaco (really, please don’t hate me). We spent our last day in gay Paris mostly in cemeteries – the Catacombes and Père Lachaise, where Jim Morrison’s buried – which Ryan cheerfully pointed out foreshadows the “end” of our trip. Yup, we’ll be home in precisely two weeks. Crazy. Seems like only yesterday we were packing up our flat, ticking off a to-do list longer than Tiger Woods’ and farewelling Vegemite/tap water.

And in just over two weeks we’ll be trying to find a new flat, trying to find our shoes/CDs/toaster and I’ll be trying to land many, many freelance jobs. If that doesn’t happen, you’ll see me on a street corner selling other journalists’ work in The Big Issue. But I digress.

You probably want to hear about Italy. And France. In that order, here’s a wrap-up:

Pizza, pomp and people… lots of people

Italy is, by-far, the most tourist-laden country we’ve visited. I queued for 40 minutes outside the Vatican and the Pope wasn’t even home. Ryan was late to meet me for panini in Venice because the holidaying crowd moved slower than a turtle on Valium. I queued for 120 minutes (that’s two hours) for the Uffizi gallery in Florence. Behind people with prams. Yes, prams, in an art museum. (What does a two-year-old care about Renaissance art anyway?)

But there are many reasons why over 47 million tourists flock to the Bel Paese (“beautiful country”) every year. It is beautiful. It’s really, really old. The people are stereotypically animated. The food is plentiful (except for breakfast – you can’t get much more than a croissant and cappuccino before 10). It’s drenched in Icarus-burning sun. And there’s loads to do. Duh.

In Rome, I ticked off the key sites… like the Colosseum, which is colossus. As I hadn’t seen Gladiator in years, I jumped on one of those guided tours where, like a lemming, you follow a lady around with a stuffed butterfly on a stick. Followed it with Palatine Hill, the Roman Forum and the Pantheon – Roma’s most significant ruins. Went to Vatican City, home of the Vatican Museums, the Sistine Chapel and St Peter’s Basilica, which – just as I thought I was over churches/temples/monasteries – is so ostentatiously and overwhelmingly beautiful I may just convert. Took in the Spanish Steps, the oh-la-la shops on Via dei Condotti, Trevi Fountain and lively piazzas like Navona, which sport more fountains. And we voted – from the Australian Embassy – not that it made a difference.

Venice was unsurprisingly lovely, and not polluted or as pigeon-infested as I’d heard. (But it’s all relative… once you’ve stayed in Paharganj, Delhi, or trampled through a flood in Jakarta. Which I didn’t, admittedly, but Ryan did.) And in the labyrinth of less-trodden alleys, away from the tourists, you’d think it was the off-season. I sampled my first genuine Italian pizza, found it wasn’t that much different from the pizza at home, and discovered giant meringues. Think of a small pavlova without the fruit or cream. Nearly choked on that blissful, sugary dust. I nerd-ily insisted we find the library (actually a church) that was featured in Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade, and Rhino charmed the lady-baristas with his rudimentary Italian. I caught a 50-cent, one-minute gondola ride across the Grand Canal to the Peggy Guggenheim Museum… instead of forking out $80 for the full tourist-trap experience. (Money doesn’t grow on olive trees, you know.)

We couldn’t miss Florence – the birthplace of the Renaissance and former stomping ground of the industrious and illustrious Medici dynasty – but my favourite slice of Italy was the Cinque Terre. On the north-west coast, just south of Genoa – famous for its pesto – are five coastal villages linked by a train line and walking trail; hence “Cinque” (five) and “Terre” (lands). The quaint towns, clustered with bright boxy villas, perch on craggy hills overlooking the Med sea - which glitters like a drag queen. And the walk, in parts, really is a bush walk. Ladies should leave their Prada wedges at home (though, I did see a couple try). The best bit? Dousing yourself in that cool acqua and filling up on pesto pasta after.

J’adore La France

From the Cinque Terre we travelled to Nice, on France’s south-east coast – which required six trains, BTW. I was reluctant to go, despite all recommendations, as it’s another place Ryan’s already been. Feel like a broken record: “Ryan went there/to that museum/to that gallery in 2001 so I went solo… blah blah blah”. But it was the best and easiest interlude between Italy and Paris. And I was reluctant to see only Paris. Call me hard-to-please…

Guess what? Nice really is nice. After a dodgy start (eg, arriving without a reservation in peak season) we gorged on much-needed veggies at a brilliant Asian cafeteria, mastered the self-service Lavomatique (a first), combed the dazzling beach, sampled frogs’ legs and duck l’orange, did the ubiquitous wander through the Old Town and got slightly drunk. (In a bar, not in the street.) After a glowing recommendation from our hostel owner, who’d been out till 7am the night before, we hit “Chez Wayne” in time for the nightly cover band set. Followed by DJ set, in a pseudo-basement that probably doesn’t pass fire safety laws. We danced, sung, watched the tanned girlie backpackers dance provocatively on tables, where they actually wouldn’t get approached (kinda defeats the purpose, chickies). It was fun, hot, sweaty and we even met some people. People to talk to other than each other. Whole thing was very reminiscent of the Boat Shed in Sydney’s Manly, or the Crowie on a Friday night after 11pm (I’m talking to you, Erin).

The next day, unusually hungover, we camped out in Nice McDonald’s for its free WiFi and unusually good coffee, before catching the TGV to Paris. Although it proved excellent contraception, never again will I spend four hours in a McDonald’s. Just try it if you don’t believe that food does bad things to children… it was freakin’ Lord of The Flies in there. Nothing McHappy about those meals.

In Paris, we stayed out of Macca’s and opted for pain au chocolat, some other divine pastry stuff, baguettes, crème caramel, lasagne (that was Ryan) and eventually, pate and brie. Don’t worry, we ate enough Cornflakes and fruit to keep even a truck driver regular. I worked my pins as much as my mouth, trawling the Musee d’Orsay and the Louvre (its glass pyramid “really doesn’t fit in with the rest of the building”, as an astute little Aussie girl said behind me in the queue). Tip: if you can only see one gallery, see the former. In an old, grand train station, it’s much easier to navigate, and is packed full of Realist, Impressionist, Symbolic and Art Nouveau pieces from the mid 1800s to the early 20th century. Van Gogh-a-go-go.

Speaking of, Rhino and I did a New Europe walking tour of Montmartre, the bohemian hill suburb that was home to Impressionist artists like van Gogh, Monet, Pissarro, Cezanne, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec, as well as Modigliani and Picasso. Pablo, in fact, was so poor he used to burn his finished canvasses for warmth and drew portraits of waitresses on napkins in exchange for food. Charismatic guide, two-hours, a free glass of vin at the end.

We trafficked some drugs to pay for our Moulin Rouge tickets (I’m kidding), which was the most spectacular, er, spectacular I’ve ever seen. It’s not just about the high kicks and nipples; there are performers who do other stuff, like ventriloquism and mind-bending acrobatics. Cabaret heaven. Won’t give too much away, but there are animals involved. See it.

Of course, Ryan and I strolled the Champs Elysees, gawked at the Arc de Triomphe, cuddled on bridges over the Seine (I know, blurgh!) and braved the wind on the Eiffel Tower at night. Yup, Paris is romantic. But it’s not all fairytale buildings and Amelie-esque, crème-brulee-cracking fun. The city just has that je ne sais quoi quality. It’s just the… vibe of it. Even when you’re not on the Tour d’Eiffel – which spectacularly flashes for three minutes on every hour – or perusing the street artists’ work in Montmartre, Paris has energy. And it’s huge: we only skimmed the surface in four days. I would go back in a second. And again, and again, and again…

PS

Oh, there’s one more reason why I stayed indoors last night, despite the nocturnal circus Paris offers (prostitutes guarding the fashion houses, break dancers entertaining the post-work crowd spilling out of wine bars, crepe stands, effortlessly chic brunettes sucking on ciggies…) We stayed in the colourful-but-cramped Woodstock Hostel, Montmartre, for the first three nights, but Thursday and Friday we home-stayed in the city’s centre with Alain, a “collector of happiness” who quit his 9-5 job to turn his apartment into a B&B. Alain wasn’t home, so I played house, pretending to be a real Parisian – short of doing a Carrie and screeching on a balcony in a beret/stripy top while generally pandering to a moody Russian (although, French women do really wear stripes). We even ate “at home”. Takeaway. I had Nutella-et-banane crepe. Miam miam! (It is really French for “yum”.)

PPS

One last thing: despite what you’ve heard, Parisians are not rude. They are darlings; just pull out the high-school French (or buy a phrasebook) and just try. Pas de probleme! And Paris might be big, but its Metro system is ah-mazing. It’s easy peasy, so if you’re nervous about your first time – like I was – don’t be.

Better go. I’m finishing this post from a Dublin laundromat. And tem smalls ant going to dry temselves.

Gettin' Cinque with it.

Skopje to Berlin in 100 words or less

The blog is back! Sorry it’s been a while, but it’s hard to tie myself to the computer when we’re in Mostar/Prague/Berlin for one/two/three days. (How do travel bloggers find the time to actually travel?) Like Pulp Fiction for Travolta or Britney at the 2007 MTV Video Music Awards, this comeback is a bit controversial. I’m gonna summarise every country we’ve been to since Greece in 100 words or less. You should be finished by the time you’ve finished your Nescafe.

1 Macedonia

Instantly liked Macedonians, though shopgirls in buzzing Lake Ohrid could cut glass with their sultry glares. Discovered Eastern European women are unnaturally hot/intimidating. Kept reminding Ryan that I am, in fact, half European. Besides national dish, ajvar (capsicum dip), Macedonian nosh is multicultural: it hasn’t governed itself since 168BC, so the country’s undergoing a little identity crisis (and now Greece is fighting it over the name). But there are myriad sculptures in fast-developing capital Skopje that remind Macedonians who has made their nation tops, such as Goce Delcev, the independence leader who was assassinated in 1903 while battling the Turks.

Goce's got superhero status.

2 Montenegro

Ex-Yugoslav republic #2 was fairytale-beautiful. After the overnight bus ride – via Albania – our jaws dropped at Kotor’s walled Old Town, which squeezes dramatically between mountains and a bay. Discovered water polo is a big deal and “gourmet hamburger” means meat pattie, sans bread. Or salad. Black squid ink risotto, however, is edible gold. Climbed 1350 rocky, slippery steps up medieval St John’s fort. Headed to Durmitor National Park; slept in a cottage attic. In the shower, Ryan got walked in on by elderly landlady. Circumnavigated spectacular Black Lake looking for a mythical ice cave (didn’t find it).

3 Croatia

Ex-Yugoslav republic #3. Just as eye-popping, doubly touristy. Ryan secured another attic room in “the Mosman of Dubrovnik” (Lapad). Vowed to lock door. Old Town chockas with grand buildings, gelati-licking holidaymakers and vibrant piazzas. Dubrovnik is a pristine, peaceful coastal town; hard to believe anything bad ever happened there. We split for Split. Also nice – sunnier than Punky Brewster – but it didn’t move me. Besides a plaque about Serbia and Montenegro bombing Dubrovnik during the “Homeland War” (and a chat about Tito with a Skopje historian) , we still hadn’t learnt any more the Balkans’ recent history. Frustrating.

4 Bosnia & Hercegovina

School’s in. In Mostar, annihilated buildings and bullet holes make the ’90s conflict  between Bosnians and Croats feel very recent. On the “frontline”, the Bulevar, I ventured inside a multistorey bank-turned-snipers’ nest. Apocalyptic, yes. But the Old Town on Neretva River is now picture-perfect; its 21m-high centrepiece, Stari Most (Old Bridge), was rebuilt in 2004 – the Croats blew it up in 1993 - reinvigorating the Bosnians’ spirit. (We missed the annual bridge diving competition by one day.) Had a D&M with a wise ex-refugee/chef, “Tali”. Did a tour with an ex-Bosnian soldier on the Serbian siege of Sarajevo (1992-1995). Bosnia’s countryside is impossibly beautiful; it’s no wonder its neighbours fought for it.

The writer and Stari Most - first constructed in the 16th century.

5 Serbia

In Belgrade, we strolled pedestrian mall Knez Mihailova, felt robbed by the biased Military Museum (the “Compliments” book concurred) and I discovered gelati does not equal lunch. Rhino held out for famous pekara (bakery), Tomo. Jealous. Made friends with Old School-loving, Canadian-who-lives-in-Qatar, Shane. Learnt about the role of women in early Yugoslavian times at Marshal Tito’s Grave/Museum. Gawked at the big kahuna’s tomb and pictures of him with Liz Taylor. Indulged on leskovacka muckalica (grilled pork in spicy stew with onion and potato) in Bohemian quarter, Skadarska, while being entertained by minstrels. Heart warmed by the kindness of Serbian strangers.

6 Hungary

My Dad is half-Hungarian, which makes me extra-curious about Magyar culture. Our shirtless hostel owner, Jimmy – my Dad’s name is Jim – offered us shots of palinka (a strong fruit brandy). So far, so good. Goulash didn’t disappoint, but pork stuffed with banana was the bomb. Expertly shown around Budapest by rellies Adam and Kata: saw the tongueless lions on the Chain Bridge; relished the view from the Citadella at night. The Terror Museum, in the former HQ of the Nazis and Communist secret police, was an eye-opener. Loved the 19th century Szechenyi Baths; didn’t love $40 fine for not having bus ticket.

7 Austria

Crossed the border to Vienna; suddenly everyone spoke German. But no passport stamp (boo). First meal was unashamedly Asian-noodles-in-a-box (€2.50). Vienna spawned my two favourite artists, Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele, so I hit the galleries. Saw ‘The Kiss’ in the flesh. And some gratuitous stuff by an Austrian convicted sex offender/commune leader Otto Muehl. Not cool. Found navigating the city tougher than weiner schnitzel; found comfort in hot chocolate at Viennese institution, Cafe Sperl… and hazelnut-filled Manner wafers. Braved the wintry weather window-shopping in the posh Inner Stadte; sampled vino at a 300-year-old heurigen (wine cellar).

Klimt's The Kiss - courtesy of Google Images as you're not allowed to take photos of it in the gallery, Belvedere Palace.

8 Poland

Since Ryan went in 2001, I did a solo side-trip to Krakow, Poland – solely to see Auschwitz and Birkenau concentration camps, where 1.1 million people were murdered (1940-1945). From the wooden stables designed for 52 horses but packed with 400 prisoners, to the two tonnes of human hair intended to fill mattresses, the exhibits are grim. Not to mention the one remaining gas chamber (Nazis destroyed the rest). But there’s uplifting stories among the ashes: on October 7, 1944, 450 Jews staged an armed revolt, setting fire to then-new Crematorium IV. Not a “fun” side-trip, but completely worthwhile.

9 Czech Republic

Reunited with Ryan in Prague – coincidentally the backdrop for INXS’ Never Tear Us Apart video. Stunning, lively, a bit quirky… beats tidy Vienna. Bee-lined for the Communist Museum, a colourful insight into Czechoslovakia behind the Iron Curtain. Said “pah!” to the $16 sex museum ticket: can see enough medieval sex toys in the foyer anyway. Soaked up the Old Town Square. Amazingly, bumped into Shane, drank in the street and ate Czech speciality, roast pork with potato dumplings and sauerkraut (yes, loving pork). Watched free ballet/opera from Charles Bridge, saw the “pissing sculpture”. Considered buying a Stalin babushka doll. Not really.

10 Germany

Berlin. A bit old, a bit new… full of history, counterculture and wurst. Loveable Nadine from Duisburg spent the weekend with us (she and Rhino met in Sweden in 2001 – more innocent than it sounds). Checked out Checkpoint Charlie and its museum, got spooked by the Stasi Museum (button-concealed camera, anyone?). Took in the new Jewish Museum, and Topographie des Terrors – museum focussed on WWII and the Gestapo. We like museums. Eastside Gallery, a section of the Berlin Wall painted by semi-famous artists, was brilliant. Briefly saw the Reichstagsgebaude, Brandenburger Tor and the Holocaust Memorial; ate incredible buffet brekkies. All in three days. Phew.

Where are we now? In Italy. Will (hopefully) be reporting more than 100 words on it soon.

Former East Germany car the Trabbi bursts through the Berlin Wall.

Where are they now?

 

With India crossed off, the Turkey leg a distant memory and our “holiday” in Greece done, Rhino and I are now in former Yugoslavia – and the trip is moving faster than Hussein Bolt on amphetamines. We left Greece on July 13 (I think), entered Macedonia the next morning and on July 18 (I think) we were eating squid-ink risotto and drinking Nik beer in Montenegro. Phew.

So, where are we now? Dubrovnik, Croatia. Between now and our ETA in Berlin, Germany, of August 14, we’re criss-crossing Eastern Europe, averaging four days per country… Bosnia & Hercegovina, Serbia, Hungary, Austria and the Czech Republic. It’s like Contiki without the booze and nudity, for the over-25s. (PS due to time constraints do not expect the same, ahem, literary brilliance this blog usually brings – I’m writing this post on a bus. There may be spelling mistakes.) 

Johnnie says, just keep walking.

Where are we going? After climbing our way up to Berlin, we’ll probably fly to Rome in Italy. We’ll spend about two weeks driving through Italy and on to Paris, which I hear is kinda nice. After Paris, we’ll fly to Dublin, Ireland, and after a week there head on over to London. Also on a plane, as Ryan pointed out we’d need a special sort of bus to get there any other way.

This is a rough plan… as I’ve learned, plans change!

After a bit less than a week in London, home time (8pm, Saturday September 18… put it in your diary).

So, yeah, we are officially coming back the quick way. I’ll be honest with you: I was momentarily depressed when Ryan punched those credit card details into the Thai Airways site, while on Santorini. It marked the beginning of the end of the trip, I thought. But Rhino, being the glass-half-full half of us, reminded me that we were about to embark on a two-month trip through Europe. Oh, duh. What a spoilt brat.

Ouzo, Bloc Party and sunsets

 

I’m blogging from our 10^th country, Macedonia, a former Yugoslavia republic north of Greece. We’re in a breezy WiFi cafe on Lake Ohrid, homeless until our bus leaves for Montenegro at 10:30pm. (Try to keep up.) That’s 11 hours away. And yes, we’re getting on another overnight bus. I lied about never getting on another overnight bus.

But it’s a stellar opportunity to tell you about our week of doing nothing on Santorini in Greece. After five months hauling packs across Asia, we needed a lie-down. This is what happened (or didn’t happen)…

Greece me up

On July 5 we hopped on a ferry from Fethiye, Turkey, to the Greek island Rhodes, where we spent a day checking out the Old Town – apparently one of the best preserved medieval cities in Europe. That night, we took the overnight ferry to Santorini (slept in a cabin; completely worth it). When we approached the next morning, I didn’t get it. It looked like a brown, beachless lump of island dotted with shrubs. Ryan, who went to Santorini in 2007, explained that it’s more beautiful “close-up”. It must be, I thought. Like in the pictures. We disembarked and followed a friendly tout to a lovely pension in Perissa Beach, on the south-eastern side.

Perissa Beach is striking, with its contrasting black sand, aqua water and lofty headland, but the flat, arid area of guesthouses and shops behind it is a bit uninspiring. I’m not complaining, but it wasn’t the picture of white-washed domes and labyrinthine steps perched on a hillside that I’d imagined. So we hired a scooter for about $22 from “Nick The Greek” (yes, really) and coasted past the hill-top vineyards to the island’s main town, Fira. We parked the bike, wandered up through cobblestone lanes to the look-out over the Caldera – the body of water that filled in after Santorini’s volcano erupted – and there it was. The picture! White-washed domes and labyrinthine stairs perched on a hillside, overlooking the bright, blue water that hazily meets an equally bright blue sky. Blue and white. That’s how I imagined Greece.

Home shopping

As we shopped for a room in the maze, I literally said, “Now all I need to see is some donkeys and my life is complete.” Five minutes later, there they were. A string of jingling donkeys and mules, ready to lug suitcases or tourists, coming up the cobblestoned steps. The cliché was complete and I was happy.                   

Then we stumbled across Sofi’s, a three-roomed pension run by a Greek woman who couldn’t really speak English – presumably called Sofi. That’s what we kept calling her, anyway. I nearly squealed in an embarrassing Carrie Bradshaw-way when she showed us the tiny cave room at the top of the hobbit-size steps. No room to swing anything, but it had a fridge, kettle, immaculate bathroom and access straight onto the spacious rooftop courtyard. Which looked over the Caldera and a domed Orthodox church. For $95 – everyone else was charging upwards of $250. We booked it for the next night and got back on the bike.

Despite asking for directions at every turn, we got lost on the way back to Perissa. We climbed the windy, one-lane road to Santo’s highest peak, Mt Profitis Ilias (567m), which features a church, military base and a dead end. The sunset was incredible though. (Did we have the camera? No.) Eventually, we made it back to Perissa before sun-down.        

Chill-out session

So it took a couple of days, but we did shut down and recharge. We sampled the local vino at Santo Wines (which has gotta boast one of the best views of any winery in the world), ate from banana lounges on Perissa Beach, mistook Red Beach for a dive and spent more time on our rooftop than Jordan spends on the covers of trashy UK mags. We bumped into the 6 out of Oz crew (my new-favourite family of six, who we met in Turkey) and Rhino logged another dive. This time, 22m down the Caldera swimming among lava rock.

OK, so our week in Greece wasn’t a complete coma. But we didn’t step in any museums, churches, monasteries, galleries or bazaars. And, unapologetically, didn’t learn anything about Greek culture.     

I did discover Ouzo, though. In a big way. In Tropical Bar, Fira, I got (mildly) drunk for only the second time since our farewell on January 30 (yes, really). My inner, caged Beyonce exploded on the dance floor, where Rhino and I actually managed to upstage a camp Aussie whose best move was simulating oral sex. Classy. It’s also where we bumped into Benois, the French guy living at our guesthouse who does contract work for the UN – helping supervise elections in fledgling “democracies” like Cambodia and the Congo. It was perfect timing, just as we were discussing how not to forget what we saw and learnt in developing countries now we’re back in the West. 

After three nights in Fira we moved again – old habits die hard – to Oia, which Ryan promised was even more beautiful than Fira. He was bang-on. On the north-western side of Santorini, Oia is more sophisticated, more blue-and-white and applauded on a nightly basis for its sunsets. I couldn’t tell the difference between Oia’s and Fira’s (er, it is the same sun), but we certainly applauded our new accommodation. Having booked us into a full hotel, the Santorini Tourist Office upgraded us to a better hotel right on the point – for the same low price of $95. A third of what it should have cost. (If it’s any consolation, I did do some work while I was there. By the pool.)

Things change

So now that we’re completely ensconced in Europe, the tone of the trip has really changed. Like it’s a different one altogether.

While exhaling on Santorini, I finally reloaded my iPod and actually started using it. I’ve rediscovered music, beyond blaring Khmer music on buses or Lady GaGa in any given shop or cafe in any city between Sydney and Skopje. (Damn her – and Katy Perry – for releasing songs I hate but that are utterly catchy.) I’m finally catching up on and loving Bloc Party’s A Weekend in The City album. Which was released in 2007.

We’ve scrubbed up. I blow-dry my hair every second day so it doesn’t look like I had it cut by a lawnmower. I sometimes wear blingy sandals or metallic ballet flats instead of my trusty Havaianas, and Rhino’s relegated his zip-off pants to “travelling days only”. I’ve needed the hand sanitiser once in about two weeks, we don’t need to douse our skin in DEET anymore and I’m not even sure where my sleeping sheet is.

Our budget has more than doubled. While the holiday in Greece was still cheaper than one you’d book in the Whitsundays or Broome – minus the airfares – the days of $10/night accommodation are officially over. A coffee cost what we would have spent on breakfast in South-East Asia. On the upside, the beers on Santorini were cheaper than at home: around $5. A small bottle of Ouzo at the supermarket cost about the same. (Took one for the road.)

Our diet is suddenly very Western: rice has been replaced with bread, lentils with fava beans, fried vegetables with salad. Like the budget, my food intake practically doubled on Santo. It felt that way, anyway… as apart from climbing about 3000 steps, I did very little to counter it. Indulged in feta cheese,  olives, taramosalata (fish roe dip), chicken gyros (yiros), halva (a sweet made of tahina, butter and sugar) and bread (deliciously unavoidable baked dough). So if I look five-months’ pregnant in the Facebook snaps, that’s why.

But we mostly self-catered. This is going to sound dorky, but I actually relished going to the supermarket and making my own food. (When I say “making” I mean, transferring food from the fridge to plates, though Ryan did fry some eggs.) It’s very novel when you’ve eaten out for almost every meal since about January 28. I felt like a local, especially when a tourist asked me whether it’s kosher to sample the cherries before purchase in Greece. I didn’t know, but hey! She thought I would know.

Finally, stuff seems familiar. We keep thinking we see people we know – but maybe it’s because we’re surrounded by white people. They all look the same. Stuff from my childhood resurfaced – all good, nothing that requires a psychologist. On Santorini the birds sounded just like the ones my grandfather kept in his avery, my Mum used to serve halva to guests and the smell of donkey manure and hay took me back to the farm. So does the hot, dry climate of Macedonia and the smell of pine cones.

Asia smells, tastes and looks different. Europe is a bit like home – even if it is over 15,000km away from the real thing.

The Turkey leg

 

How to “do” Turkey in two weeks

Okay, we did this itinerary in 2.5 weeks but you could easily shave off a couple of days. Slot it into your next annual leave… the people are warmer than freshly-baked pide, the food is delectable – if a little meaty – and the scenery will knock your socks off. Turkey’s full of surprises.

Start in… Istanbul

Why: it’s the former centre of both the great Byzantine and Ottoman Empires, and now it’s an increasingly cosmopolitan city that wants to be in the EU gang. And everybody there smells like freshly washed hair.

Mmm, Frigola...

Stay: at Hostelon (No 68 Firguzaga Mah. Bogazkesen Caddesi, Taksim), around $46 per double. Having opened in March, this place is shiny and new – and the owner goes above and beyond. On the second night, our double room was booked so he moved us into our own light-filled dorm with bathroom. He made us teas and bribed us with Frigolas (my new favourite ice cream) so we’d write a rave review on Hostelworld.com. We stayed five nights – about three more than expected.

Eat/shop/drink: on and around Istiklal Caddesi, Beyoglu. We were officially back in the Western world when we hit this long, sophisticated street… lined with boutiques, restaurants, kebab houses, sweets shops, bookstores and oyster/ice-cream/corn vendors, decorated with fairy lights and visited by a tram with a band on it. A band on a tram. Super cool. The windy, cobblestone lanes branching off Istiklal Caddesi are packed with bars and cafes so we dedicated one night to a food-and-drink-crawl, to sample bits and pieces without spending a motzah. Down the Ottoman burger at Mano Burger and finish off with drinkies at Leb-i Derya, a casual-chic rooftop bar with brilliant views. (But bring the plastic if you wanna get anywhere near pleasantly-drunk.)      

See: the Blue Mosque, the piece de resistance of mosques, and Topkapi Palace, the most decadent address in Istanbul. According to a tour guide I couldn’t help overhearing – sneaky – the people were mighty pissed off by the sultan when the Blue Mosque was built between 1606 and 1616 as, for the first time, taxpayer dollars were used instead of treasures pillaged from other countries. It was worth their grumbling. Get there early or late if you don’t want to queue.

Topkapi Palace was built by Sultan Mehmet after 1453; Ottoman sultans lived in this sprawling complex until the 19^th century. Apparently the harem is a highlight but entrance costs extra (boo). Many rooms have been converted into museums – note the sultans’ huge kaftans fit for Jabba the Hut.     

Do: a cruise of the Bosphorus, the harbour that divides Asian Istanbul from its European half (PS, apparently there’s not a lot of difference between the two). It costs only $11 for two hours and you see (more) palaces, palatial waterfront homes (I’ll take one!), normal homes and a medieval fortress.

 

 

 

 

Trust me, it's really big.

Next, go to… Gallipoli

Why: because it’s the Awstralian thing to do. And while we didn’t go, Troy is also a 30-minute drive from Gallipoli.

Stay: at Anzac House Hostel in Canakkale. (Yep, many hotels in the Dardanelles – Turkey, in fact – are Australian/NZ themed.) If your Australian history’s a little rusty (like mine), every night the hostel plays Peter Weir’s Gallipoli and an ’80s doco about the campaign featuring adorable diggers and lots of younger, bronzed Aussies in really short pants.

Eat/drink: on the waterfront in Canakkale. Check out the pseudo beer halls, practically dedicated to the national pastime, Backgammon. It’s a good place to learn how to play (we, regrettably, kept forgetting to).

See: um, Gallipoli. Yes, it’s totally worth it, even if you’re not super-patriotic. The peninsula where the Anzacs landed on April 25, 1915, and endured static trench warfare until late December, is now a tasteful and potentially moving tribute to the 36,000 Commonwealth soldiers who died on the battlefield. There are 31 war cemeteries containing 22,000 graves and more name plaques, located at significant spots. You can hop on a crowded bus tour, but it’s far more rewarding to use your steel-spring legs and walk – though the guys at Hassle-Free Tours will try to convince you that doing it on your own is, er, a hassle. We logged 11km and saw the Beach Cemetery, Anzac Cove, and Lone Pine Cemetery and Memorial in about five hours. Crowd-free. 

Did you know?

86,000 Turkish lives were lost during the Gallipoli campaign, compared with 8709 Australians.

 

Then go to… Selcuk

Why: it’s a cute town 3km from Ephesus – an easy bike-ride – which has got to be one of the best preserved ancient Roman cities in the world. (I’m an expert because I’ve seen so many.)

Stay: at the ANZ (Australia & New Zealand) Guesthouse. Run by a Turk called Harry who grew up mostly in Australia, it’s a home away from home – with a funky rooftop lounge, a nanna who hangs laundry all day and a common room off the kitchen, where you can always smell someone’s dinner being cooked. Make sure you catch one of Harry’s regular BBQs and BYO vino. PS, The buffet-style breakfast was the best we had in Turkey.

ANZ Guesthouse is an awesome place to meet people. We were especially inspired by a Perth family of six who sold their business to travel the world for a year. The kids – aged between six and 12 – are hilarious, charismatic and well-trained. Only fuelled Ryan’s well-known desire to have four kids (thanks guys, really). Read about their trip here! We also made friends with John and Beryl, from Perth (the place breeds adventurous types), who married young, raised kids and are now seeing the world. John’s a marathon runner… he’s 63 years old.

 

Eat: at Mehmet & Alibaba’s Kebab House, around the corner from ANZ and next to the Archeological Museum. Mehmet, who part-owns ANZ, is adorable and will do anything for your culinary pleasure – including free tea and coffee, and the concoction of a delicious and healthy vego Turkish tasting platter. Turkey’s meat-lover heaven, so this was a special moment for me (being part-time vego). We also overheard him telling a couple of backpackers he’d walked home in the wee hours that if they ever returned to Selcuk he would “make a paradise” for them. We love Mehmet.    

See: Ephesus, of course. The city was first established in 6000BC, but the ruins you see today are  dated “only” 300BC. Having not seen Roman ruins before, I was as giddy as a schoolboy when we saw the Great Theatre (1-2AD). And then we got to climb it (can’t do that at the Colesseum). Its capacity was 24,000 and the original stage was three storeys (18m) high. Another highlight: the Library of Celcuis (117AD); scrolls were stored in niches in the walls and today, mostly just the facade remains. But it’s still mind-blowing.

Ryan addresses the masses in the Great Theatre... in his now-baggy action pants.

After that, head east to… Capadoccia

Why: it’s a mystical place in the central Anatolia region. From the 2nd century AD on, Christians made “fairy-chimney” and cave homes out of the bizarre rocks formed from a volcanic eruption and subsequent weathering. They were cool in summer and cosy in winter, and look like Luke Skywalker’s home on Tatooine*.

Stay: at Shoestring Cave Hotel & Pansion  in Goreme. Sleep in a cave room and splash around in the pool with possibly the coolest view in the world. For reasons unknown, the guys upgraded us to an ensuite room for no extra cost… Turks are seriously the nicest people.

Eat: The tourist hub Goreme is loaded with eateries, so take your pick. But we liked the low-key, Lonely Planet-recommended Meeting Point Cafe on Muze Caddesi (on the way to the Open Air Museum). First amazing (non-lassi) banana smoothie for weeks. 

See: the underground city Derinkuyu, Ihlara Valley and the lookout over Pigeon Valley. Panoramic Pigeon Valley is full of fairy-chimney homes and so-named because its inhabitants used carrier pigeons to communicated with each other. (They also used pigeons’ egg shells to make paint for the church frescoes, see below.) The carved-out homes are empty now but the pigeons are still around; not sure what pigeons are going to with Turkish Lira but there’s a donation box for them at the look-out.    

Derinkuyu is one of the underground cities dug out by the Christians to escape attacks by the Romans before the religion was accepted. If you’re even slightly claustrophobic or have no sense of direction, go there on a tour. We did. Incredibly, the city goes 85m underground and is a well-engineered labyrinth of homes, kitchens, morgues, ventilation holes, traps, a church, monastery, punishment area and even a stable for small animals. (Which is also where the people may have met their “toilet needs”, explained our guide). The Christians lived there for weeks at a time.

Ihlara Valley is a pretty, 12km gorge that we didn’t have time to walk the length of (but wanted to);  we did squeeze in 3km as part of our day tour (the most efficient way to see Capadoccia’s sights – to do it independently, allow a few days). Again, homes were carved out of the cliffs.

If you’re not caved-out, pay to see the Goreme Open Air Museum as well, which is an area of rock-hewn churches and monasteries about one kilometre from Goreme. While they’re no Michaelangelos, the frescoes on the cave walls and ceilings are pretty spesh. Even for an atheist like me.    

Do: a hot-air balloon ride at sunrise, if you can afford it (prices start at around $250 per person). We couldn’t justify the expense but it’s sure to be a magic experience.

The last overnight bus

We took an overnight bus from Selcuk to Goreme in Capadoccia. We stayed one night in Capadoccia. The next night, we took another overnight bus to Antalya, on the Mediterranean coast. That’s two in 54 hours. Never again. Even though buses in Turkey are the Hiltons of transport – think tea, coffee, snacks, WiFi, personal TVs, an attendant in a bow-tie – this experience pretty much marked the end to our overnight bus travel. Yes, it saves you paying for a night’s accommodation, but I’m over it. You never get used to sleeping in an upright position and being woken up every two hours at “rest” stops.     

Peace out.

Now go to… Antalya

Why: Turkey’s glittering Mediterranean coast is your reward for tackling the Roman ruins, climbing in and out of caves and enduring the overnight bus rides. Antalya’s one of the biggest and brashest on the coast. It’s a good starting point.

Stay: at the White Garden Pansiyon in the old town quarter, Kaleici ($44 for a double with bathroom). After the overnight bus ride, another two hours on a public bus because the driver forgot to tell us when to get off and a short taxi ride, this “pansiyon” was an oasis. (Apparently many small hotels in Europe are called “pensions” – like the government money – but are spelled various ways). There’s a lagoon pool, a big, leafy dining-courtyard area, bar with self-serve Nescafe coffee – more exciting than it sounds – free WiFi and the rooms are posh. No sleeping sheet required. When we left Antalya after two nights, the lovely owners waved us off like we were old friends.   

Eat: in the garden at Restaurant 36, a couple of doors down from White Garden. Came recommended by a nice Canadian-Swedish lady and didn’t disappoint. Heaps good value and cooked with love. On our second night in Antalya we picked a random restaurant on the marina near Kaleici, for $11 whole fish with salad, and BYO’d the mulberry wine we’d bought in Selcuk (low alcohol and fruity… like the stuff you can buy at Cole’s).

See: Kaleici, if you’re not already staying there. The rest of Antalya seemed pretty developed but this old, Ottoman quarter is cobblestoned, quaint and quiet. Abeit touristy.

Obviously, the beach is a must. There’s a couple of teensy pay-beaches but the free, main beach is a short tram ride from Kaleici. Being a Europe virgin, it was the first time I’d ever seen proper nightclubs on the beach (but in the daytime), playing dance music and decked out with lounges. Crazzzzy. After lunching in one, we paid for a banana lounge and umbrella, and I took my first dip in the Mediterranean. Then nearly fell over trying to negotiate the pebbles on the way out.

Outside the hamam. Hhmmm.

Do: Visit a hamam, a traditional Turkish bathhouse (costs around $25 for bath-time, exfoliation – called “peeling” – soap massage and oil massage). Imagine this: you and your travel buddy are asked to change into sheets the size of a tea towel (I kept my bathers on), then lead to a steamy, marble room and asked to lie down for 20 minutes on a slab. Next, you’re woken by two middle-aged Turkish men also wearing tea-towel loincloths and lead to another marble room and asked to lie down on another slab, where you’re rubbed all over with a sloughing glove to remove about a year’s worth of dead skin cells. By the men in the loincloths. Then they throw foam on you, head-to-tail, and give you a rough massage, finishing off with the sort of hair-washing you’d give a dog. You’re wrapped in new sheets and taken back to reception, where you’re expected to “relax” with an apple tea and fruit. But it’s not over.

Finally, the men take you to a tiny room and your husband winds up naked and they perform Swedish oil massages. By the time you’ve finally stopped wondering if you’re going to be molested and actually relax, the Turkish man asks you to sit up and promptly wacks you in the back of the head. Therapeutically. You screech, the man looks apologetic and you walk out feeling like you’ve been in a washing machine and dryer.

This is a Turkish bath and it’s allegedly completely normal. But honestly, I’ve never felt so clean…

Once you’ve recovered, go west to… Fethiye

Why: if you don’t mind a few lobster-coloured package tourists hanging around in ill-fitting clothes, then Fethiye is a beautiful bay and the perfect base to explore more of the coast.

Stay: a five to 10-minute walk west of the centre of Fethiye. You’re close enough to restaurants, shops and travel agencies but it’s quiet and suburban – reminded us of Sydney’s northern beaches. We stayed at Ferah Pension Hostel (No 21, Karagozler Orta Yol, +90 252 614 28 16), a family-run place with almost a menagerie of pets. For $36 we got harbour views and breakfast – though on our last day in Turkey, owner Tuna (“like the fish”) couldn’t feed us before the usual brekkie time of 8am, when we had to leave. Humph. 

See: nothing if you don’t want to. Sure, there’s loads of sightseeing (Butterfly Valley, Roman ruins, Fethiye Museum, Saklikent Gorge…) but after five months on the road we just wanted to lie down. On the beach. Oludeniz is a gorgeous lagoon an easy dolmus-ride away from Fethiye town. (A dolmus is a mini-bus that runs regularly between the tourist hot spots, another example of Turkey’s brilliant public transport system.) When you’re not floating in the idyllic bay you can watch parasailers land right on the beach.   

Do: a coastal road trip. You don’t need an international driver’s license to hire a car in Turkey and unless you get distracted by the eye-popping scenery, the roads are really safe. We borrowed a fully-sick Fiat sedan from Levent Rental (opposite the marina) and cruised south-east to Kalkan, Kas and Pantara – about a 250km round-trip. The latter is a 20km-long sandy beach, but being part of an archeological site it costs money to access. But there are no shops, cafes or action sports.

Kas is a port in a sheltered bay; there’s no beach in the actual town but you can dive off the concrete beach into pristine, aqua water and use banana lounges for free. We actually stumbled across Kalkan, a stunning little resort town with a beach straight from heaven. It’s full of holidaying Brits – the real estate ads are quoted in GDP. One of whom is Jane, who set up Cafe Leon with her Turkish husband and parents-in-law (she’s brave), just a few weeks earlier. Totally recommend: fresh, healthy food with a stack of trashy UK mags and newspapers to read. Much cheaper than the pretentious places on the waterfront, too.      

So, that’s our guide to seeing Turkey in two-ish weeks. What did we do next? Caught a ferry from Fethiye to Rhodes, Greece, and transferred to blissful Santorini. More on that next time.

*Yes, I know. That’s two Star Wars references in one post. I am a nerd.

Postcard from Turkey

Merhaba! We’re two weeks into the European bit of our trip, having flown from Mumbai to Istanbul on June 17. But Turkey’s not exactly European: it’s the perfect fusion of east and west. The Kylie Kwong of countries. You can eat (proper) cheese and olives while listening to the Muslim call to prayer, drive through Middle-Eastern-esque arid landscape on the way to the sparkling Mediterranean coast, and choose from a squat toilet or Western loo. (Which at rest stops cost up to 1 Turkish Lira, but are always clean and smell nice.)
It’s the perfect transition for me and Ryan – after four and a half months in South-East Asia and India – and a top destination for anyone who wants a European holiday with a hint of exoticism.

Until now I’d only spent one week in Europe, seeing a slither of it in Switzerland for work. So Turkey is European enough. The contrast to India is a welcome slap in the face; I was beaming from the moment we stepped into the train at the airport (yes, a train that takes you directly from the airport to the city!). The smile got Joker-wide when we alighted and hauled our grubby packs up to brand-spanking-new Hostelon in Beyoglu, Istanbul.

The sun was shining but the temperature not oven-crispy; the streets were clean – some even cobblestone! – and the buildings cheerfully painted in rainbow colours. Turkish ladies in headscarfs appeared in louvered windows; tidy delis boasted fresh fruit that I probably wouldn’t have to peel or wash before eating.

Don’t get me wrong… I loved parts and aspects of India. But to finally be on (sort of) European soil was freakin’ Christmas, my 17th birthday (it was a good one) and the day Rhino popped it rolled into one. Just about.
From that moment on, life got easier. The only challenges we’ve faced: asking locals from which direction our tram will be coming; mastering the pronunciation of teşekkür ederim (“thank you”); and avoiding the obsolete, 2005 1TL coin in change – no one wants it and vendors think they can swindle happy, glazed-over travellers like us. Um, no, they can’t.

We’ve climbed over Roman ruins at Ephesus, trudged our steel-spring legs 11km around Gallipoli, wandered in and out of rock-cut monasteries in Cappadocia… and never once have we had to scrub our fingernails clean, wipe dirt from our faces or hose cow poo off our trainers. Toilet issues are now a vast memory. Prices are fixed and no one tries to short-change us (bar that 1TL coin problem). Turkey is clean. Turkey is nice. Turkey is a cinch. And I thought South-East Asia was (fairly) easy.

But I guess that’s what’s great about backpacking through developing countries – when you get to a developed country, you really appreciate everything about it. Tiny things like towel racks, shower pressure, highways, salad and free WiFi in parks and on buses (yes, on buses).

Maybe when I get home I’ll appreciate the little things just a little bit more, as well.

PS This post comes to you via a comfy mini-bus between Antalya and Fethiye on Turkey’s Mediterranean coast. I wrote it after filtering the photos on our DLSR camera. Ryan monitored the four-hour trip using the TomTom he was given as a going-away present. While simultaneously listening to the iPod. Total flashpackers.

This is me, beside myself with joy at the immaculate conditions of our first hostel in Istanbul. Big window!