Dishevelled Travels. Rome. Part One.

Day 11. Munich to Rome.

Time to leave The Tent. I’ve really enjoyed my stay. When booking it was a gamble. The prospect of one hundred humans, notoriously filthy and disgusting creatures, sharing sleeping space in a giant gazebo didn’t exactly sound tranquil but the concept really works. The communal atmosphere creates a sense of social collectiveness amongst the travellers who stay here. It’s how I imagine living on a hippy commune would be like, man. As I bed everyone farewell Medji asks to add me on Facebook. He suggests that we play chess online.
“Yeah sure”
I look forward to being tactically humiliated in cyberspace in the near future.

Time for a swift one (litre) before I leave. The Hofbraühaus is the drunkards Mecca. A giant Bavarian beer hall where you sit on long wooden benches to be waited on by no nonsense women clad in traditional liederhosen. The beer comes in heavy steins. It’s strong. I take a seat at a boozy pew and wait patiently to be served. This doesn’t work. I observe that to the rowdiest clientele are the ones getting the attention and there are plenty of rowdies despite it being the middle of a weekday afternoon. I flag down a waitress who brings me a frothy Weissebeer. The brass band pump out a jovial tune that I find myself involuntarily bobbing along with between sips. A woman walks past with a basket of large pretzels. This is how drinking should be done. Apparently Mozart came here to ignite his creative flair before writing the opera Idomenao. He was inspired during numerous steamy sessions on the sauce in this grand hall of piss-artistry. Never mind composing a classical masterpiece, I’ll be impressed if I manage to navigate my way to the airport after a skinful in here.

Munich Airport: As I sit, slightly tipsy, in the departure lounge I take a moment to appreciate my time in Germany. I think fondly of the boozing. Germans drink admirably. The beer is expertly brewed and delicious. You drink because the beer is so palatable. You don’t drink just to get wasted. Getting hammered is just a merry consequence of appreciating the exceptional lager. You don’t chug Weissebeer. You sup. You savour. You appreciate. You relish the flavour. It isn’t fraternal binge drinking. It’s collective appraisal. You’re a connoisseur. You will over indulge. Of course. And you’ll wake up with a Weisse hangover. But it’s worth it. It’s like when you wake up with sore muscles after a strenuous workout in the gym. Your body is aching now but it was beneficial. In the way exercise is good for your body a session in the Hofbruhaus is good for your soul. I’ll drink to that.

  
My flight to Rome is delayed. Due to the size of my bag, which is way over the cabin allowance, I’ve had to put on a thick leather jack as well as two t-shirts and trousers over my shorts. I’m also carrying three books, two diaries and an iPad. The pockets of my jacket are loaded with miniature toiletries, note pads, pens, a pocket chess set and tea bags. I look like an overdressed psychopath trying to smuggle items that aren’t actually illegal. An Italian couple argue loudly in the departure lounge. Thanks to an old colleague from Florence the limited Italian that I know is vulgar. I know what Vaffanculo means. It means fuck you. The woman shouts Vaffanculo. A lot.

Rome: Hostel Two Ducks is a stark reminder that, up until now, I’ve been very lucky with accommodation. If I were being polite I’d call it aged. If I were being accurate, which I am, I’d call it grotty. It’s located on the fifth floor of a crumbling apartment block on a dark backstreet in the dodgiest section of an already sinister looking part of town. I ascend to the top of the building in a jerky wooden lift which looks like it hasn’t been maintainence checked since it was installed sometime during the early reign of Mussolini. If Doctor Who fell on hard times this is the splintery replacement Tardis he would use. It’s antique. The cables strain and squeak as the box of death heaves up the elevator shaft. With every jerk I’m expecting the faltering cables to snap plummeting me to my doom Wile E Coyote style.

Survive the elevator of terror and meet a bored looking Indian chap at the check in desk who is totally uninterested in my arrival. The booking system is as antiquated as everything else in the desolate building. He blows the dust off of an old diary and checks for my name. I feel like I’m intruding as he begrudgingly leads me to dark room with four bunk beds pushed against the walls. The light remains off as my surly chaperone points to the top bunk closest to the door.
“You…here” he mumbles before wandering off.
I’m left standing in the dark, still sweating in my jacket, holding my bag feeling totally confused. Is he coming back? He’s gone for a good ten minutes before returning with a set of keys which he jangles in my face. He explains which one opens which door but they seem rather superfluous as I’ve just waltzed through every single one of the doors myself and none of them were locked including the main entrance.

I’m famished and sprint to the nearest pizzeria I can find. In a starved panic I point to a margarita and ask for lots. I get two big rectangles which are very cheesy and extremely greasy. I practically inhale them. It’s midnight by the time I return to the cauldron of a bedroom. Eight perspiring bodies roasting in the Mediterranean heat are comforted with with nothing more than two weak portable office fans. They distribute a breeze across the room agonisingly slowly. Every thirty seconds I get a soothing blast of cool air which lasts nowhere near long enough to reduce my body temperature. Lucky I’m so tired that none of the adverse conditions prevent me from drifting off into a sweaty slumber.

Day 12. Rome.

I don’t usually go to church but when in Rome….
On the way to the Vatican I pick up my first souvenir, a bottle opener featuring Pope Francis smiling benevolently. Future drinking sessions shall now commence with the divine blessing of the pontiff as his guiding hand assists with the removal of the cap of a freshly chilled beer. I’m no theologian but I’m certain that this negates whatever mortal or carnal sins I commit while under the influence. Amen

As an Englishman I should get giddy at the prospect of a long and orderly queue. The Vatican museum doesn’t disappoint but, rather fittingly, it requires the patience of a saint. I’m convinced that it’s an intentional test of virtue and commitment. The queue is long. Obviously. But a number of external irritants make it particularly unbearable. Self titled “tour guides” are indiscriminate in who they badger. They offer lucrative holy site packages which include queue jump. To me, it doesn’t seem particularly ascetic exchanging money to enter a Holy site at the expense of others in the line who will now have to wait longer due to your financed pushing in. There’s no point preaching ethics to the hawkers because they’re too busy verbally discharging whatever tosh they think will trick gullible tourists into handing over some dosh. I adopt a tactic of stoicism by putting on a stony poker face and ignoring whoever approaches. It works. For about fifty seconds. They are relentlessly persistent and I end up humouring a gentleman called Ali who identifies us as “brothers” and is willing to offer me his super-duper guided tour for the low, low price he usually reserves for children. It’s still more expensive than all the money I have in my pocket. His attempts to entice me backfire when he promises “three hour non-stop talking guide”. I’m already fed up of listening to his pleading voice after five minutes. Paying for three hours of this acoustic torture would be nothing less than perverse ear sodomy. It’s a polite no from me. Followed by a less polite no. Then an abrupt no. Finally he gets the message. He moves on to the person behind me. I end up hearing the same desperate script, verbatim, twice more. Then one more time, in Spanish. When the group of Californian girls ahead of me in the queue are confronted by Ali, who enquires:
“you speak English…French…Spanish?”
one of the girls, without a drip of sarcasm, replies,
“No, we don’t speak any of those”.
He smirks and begins his spiel.

  
After two hours in the queue of temptation (the temptation to strangle someone that is) I make it to the museum which is a sensational spectacle of ancient sculpture and fine art. But there is one one monumental problem; the visitors inside. Now I realise that I am a tourist myself. It’s not the presence of large numbers of people that I’m objecting to. It’s the lamentable behaviour I witness which is appallingly inconsiderate. I’m pushed, shoved and poked. People block passages by stopping to fiddle with their oversized cameras. Kids scream. They’re bored, obviously. I get hit in the face by blasted selfies sticks so many times that I don’t know how I don’t end up ramming one so far somebodies backside that their next Instagram post is a photo of the inside of their own colon. I really do hope that their actually is a God and he casts every single person who has ever used one of these narcissism poles into the fiery pits of hell where Satan subjects them to an endless slideshow of every selfie ever taken for enternity while their eyes are clamped open like the reconditioning scene from A Clockwork Orange.

Eventually I reach centrepiece of the museum: The Sistine Chapel. So was it worth it? Battling through the army of audio guide zombies to get here?
Honestly?
Yes.
While gazing up in awe into Michelangelo’s heaven the infuriating crowd swarming around me evaporate from consciousnesses. I’m not religiously inclined but I find it impossible not to be moved by a demonstration of such meticulous skill and immense ethereal beauty. I spent what feels like hours engrossed in celestial appreciation before my neck starts to ache and I’m forced to plunge my awareness back to temporality where I find myself squashed in the middle of a group of French tourists who desperately try to take photos on their phones while an angry guard screams
“NO PHOTO”.
He’s completely ignored. I fight my way out of God’s paradise into the scorching heat of hell outside. Rome, in the height of summer, is extremely hot. St Peter’s square feels like a giant frying pan. There’s no shade yet still I find more people selling selfie sticks than bottles of water. Says all you need to know about human egotism if you ask me. Jesus wouldn’t approve. 

Esteban 

Dishevelled Travels. Germany. Part 4.

Day 8. Munich.

On a crowded metro train with panelled wooden interior. An elderly nun stares at me disapprovingly. What does she know?
Unfortunately I arrive at the Olympic Park forty three years too late. As impressive a structure as it is a stadium is slightly boring when there’s nothing going on inside of it. Also it has been stripped of the track and the field. So, essentially, I’m looking a large collection of empty green seats. Decide to visit every single toilet block in the stadium to make the entrance fee worthwhile. I admire the graffiti left on the walls by visiting supporters from during the period when the stadium served as the home ground for Bayern Munich. My favourite reads Red Star Headbangers ’96 which sounds like the fan club of an Eastern European thrash metal band.

It’s more lovely over in the swimming hall where members of the public are able to take a dip in the same pool in which moustachioed chlorine hunk Mark Spitz won seven gold medals for the USA in 1972. I’ve forgotten my trunks and skinny dipping is against the rules, unfortunately, so instead I sit in the judges’ chair and watch a group of teenagers messing around on the diving boards. Lack of triple somersault and considerable splash on entry means that I can’t award any score higher than a 2.7. One of them does do a pretty devastating running bomb however which garners the attention of the vigilant lifeguard and her whistle. I give that one a 6.

  
On the beers again tonight (well I am in Germany after all). The good thing about the campsite is that it has a very sociable atmosphere. Get chatting to a trio of Irish girls who all have names which I can barely pronounce properly let alone spell correctly. Lots of Es and Os. They are primary school teachers from Kilkenny who work in Dublin. I love their accents. Also get chatting to a timid young lad from Loughton in Essex which isn’t too far from where I hail from. It transpires that it’s his 21st birthday. Well that’s it, time to celebrate. Like magic the girls produce a water bottle filled with vodka and lemonade (trust the Irish to come fully prepared) and we all decide that a night on the town is on the cards. After necking the mixer we head to the trams where we bump into some smartly dressed locals who are also up for a party. They share their white wine with us and lead us to a very dark and expensive bar in the city centre. By now we are all totally plastered and head to the nightclub across the road. We lose our local guides, or rather they, purposely, lose us. The club is immensely busy. I can barely wrestle my way to the bar. I remember why I don’t like nightclubs as I have to repeatedly bellow my order at the bar guy so he can hear me over the deafening Euro pop. Clubs are busy, loud, full of obnoxious jerks and there’s never anywhere to sit. I’m getting too old for this crap. I’ve also made the fatal error of splitting from the group. I have a better chance of finding a long lost evil twin on an isolated Polynesian Island than locating these Irish girls in this bustling crowd and I’m too drunk to really remember what any of them look like. Finish my beer, battle my way to the toilet, have a big wee then head outside to flag a cab home. I never saw birthday boy again but I hope he enjoyed his night. I wonder if my primary school teachers drunk so much? They had to put up with me as a pupil so I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

Day 9. Munich.

A new morning, a new hangover. It’s becoming a habit. The irony being that it’s when you drink so frequently that you stop noticing the acute adverse physiological symptoms that you’ve developed a serious problem. I take the pounding headache and Sahara throat as a sign that my body hasn’t given up all hope and still yearns to revert back to a state of reasonable health. Optimistic.

Off to the English Garden which is the largest urban park in Europe. This time I do remember to take my swimming trunks as I’m told that there’s a waterfall and river to bask in. Pause for a quick power nap on a bench before heading to the source of the fast flowing stream which cuts through the park. It’s a wonderfully sunny day and the riverbank is filled with young attractive Germans as well as some not so young, and very much naked, older Germans. Why are nudists always shrivelled prunes? I dip my toe into the water. It’s freezing. Take a deep breath, and a small run up, then plunge myself the icy waters. That certainly woke me up. My hangover vanishes instantly. It’s startlingly refreshing and feels religiously purifying. I am being washed of alcoholic sins as well as beer sweats. However, redemption doesn’t come without punishment. The current is much stronger than I had anticipated and I’m dragged helplessly like a drowning cat downstream. There’s no point in fighting it. I relent and let the rapids drag me to what could be a watery doom. I’m whizzed under at least three bridges and past numerous bank side tree branches which are agonisingly out of reach. Faster and faster. I have no idea how deep it is but it doesn’t matter because I’m travelling too fast to stop and sink. I feel like one of those daredevils who throw themselves over Niagara Falls in a wooden barrel. Eventually I cling on for dear life to a purposely installed metal pole about a mile downstream from where I have safely deposited my clothes and valuables in a bush. It will be a soggy and indecent walk of shame through Munich if somebody has pinched them. I guess that the metal pole has been placed here because in the past idiots like myself have ended up drifting into Austria. I climb out of the river and tiptoe painfully over pebbles and dry twigs all the way back to the beginning. Check the bush. A tramp hasn’t nicked my stuff. Brilliant. Perch on the riverbank, take a another big deep breath, jump back in.

After three rounds in the rapids I’m cleansed cleansed both physically and spiritually. On my way home I stumble across a bizarre shrine to Michael Jackson at the foot of a statue of an old army general outside a hotel. Fans have delicately placed hundreds of photos, cards, bunches of flowers and handwritten letters to the deceased King of Pop. There are even celebratory posters to mark the day in which he was found innocent of charges of indecency. It really is rather peculiar and I simply cannot figure out why this alter of memorabilia is here in the middle of Bavaria. It isn’t even the hotel in which he chucked his kid, mattress or whatever it’s called, over a balcony because that was in Berlin. Very strange. Search in vain for a gold effigy of Elvis (if you’re going to have the King of Pop you have to have the King of Rock n Roll aswell) but no such luck.

  
There’s a load of French school kids running around and making an absolute racket at the camp tonight. I hate children. Especially noisy ones. Especially French ones. Especially noisey French ones. Merde.

Day 10. Munich.

Mingle around camp all day. Meet some interesting people and we spend the day chatting and swapping stories. Part of the joy of travelling isn’t just the places you go but the people you meet while you are there. As trite as that sounds it really is true. I notice that all conversations with fellow travellers follow the exact same script:
“Where are you from?”
“How long have you been travelling for?”
“Where have you been so far?”
“Where are you going next?”

The people I spend the day with are:

Phoebe. A cute girl from Liverpool. She insists that she actually lives on Penny Lane. She gets annoyed when I ask if she went to school in Strawberry Fields, if her nan is Eleanor Rigby and if she’s actually a walrus. She’s just finished her A-Levels and hasn’t even turned 18 yet. I feel old. The group of friends she’s with are flustered because one of them has lost her passport and they have to go to the embassy to sort it out. Phoebe stays at camp teaches me how to play a card game called Spit then proceeds to totally annihilate me at it. No mercy. I think she refuses to go easy on me as a beginner because of the sarcastic Beatles questions. This is begging of what becomes a dismal run of competitive pursuits today.

Alfredo. An Italian guy who makes me feel younger again as he’s in his 30’s. He hobbles around on crutches with his foot in a cast due to a football injury. It hasn’t deterred him from travelling though. We have a lengthy conversation about fascism and pilot suicide. We both have flights to catch tomorrow. To Italy.

Mejdi. A Kosovan with long black hair who is allergic to wearing a shirt. He invites me for a game of chess. I agree out of politeness knowing full well how awful I am at the game. I just don’t have the patience. Plus I’m a pacifist. He absolutely obliterates my helpless army. The pawns don’t stand a chance as he charges towards my back line aggressively. This bloody massacre takes place to the soundtrack of Mejdi’s favourite tunes playing from his phone. He’s got good taste. The playlist includes The Pixies, The Doors and The Rolling Stones. He tells me that he used to be a fan of Radiohead but had to stop listening to them because “they make my heart sad”. Considering how little English he understands this is testimony to precisely how depressing that bands’ lyrics are. Back in Kosovo he goes to karaoke every Wednesday night with his friends. His song of choice is Bone Machine by The Pixies. Consequently every Thursday morning he has a sore throat.

After humiliating me twice I begrudgingly accept a third and final scuffle. This time we have an attentive audience of his Kosovan friends who mutter and snigger to each other in Albanian. I’m convinced that they are mocking my lack of battlefield control and thus my virility. I approach this match with a new, and I think ingenious, tactic. I play the long game. My plan is to take so long to move my pieces that Mejdi finally succumbs to a fatal lung disease from all the cigarettes he chain smokes while waiting patiently for me to make a move which he already knows is going to be a dreadful decision. Like a form of board game based Chinese torture he watches me brood over possible moves yet consistently pick the worst possible advancement. I haven’t looked it up but I’m sure that the official rules of chess state that it’s a draw if your opponent dies from a chronic illness during a lengthy match. Alas my cunning plan fails. My queen is slaughtered and my desperate King flees for his life like a coward to the corner of the board where he is executed by a belligerent bishop.
“I think is finished” my victorious advisory announces. He’s right. As I surrender Jim Morrison sings “This is the end. My only friend, the end.”

Lick my wounds from the front line with a few beers with a girl from Texas who describes herself as an Asian American liberal molecular biologist lesbian. She’s called Joy. She must tick a lot of boxes on questionnaires. We are joined by the others and as the beers flow conversation gets deep. Existentially deep. The discussion of life, the universe and everything gets a bit animated. The camp manager isn’t interested in our philosophical musings and banishes us all to bed. In the tent myself and Joy, who is sleeping on the other side of the tent, attempt to continue the discussion via morse code using the torch on our phones. Obviously this fails as neither of us can actually understand morse code. Give up and fall asleep where I have a nightmare about Mejdi chasing me while riding a giant chess horse.

Esteban.

Disheveled Travels. Germany. Part Three.

Day 6. Frankfurt to Munich.

Restless night on the Megabus. Up on top deck I feel every sway as if I’m on a deep sea fishing trawler during a storm. Unable to contort myself into a position comfortable enough to dose off. On the few occasions I do flirt with the sandman a bump in the road jolts me awake and the process of attempting to mould my inflexible body into a bearable posture begins again. At 4am I try reading to take my mind off of how uncomfortable I am. Settle into Ernest Hemmingway’s To have and to have not which turns out to be very gripping as well as astonishingly politically incorrect. Enjoy a pleasant sunrise over the small Bavarian villages the Autobahn detour has sent us through.

Arrive in Munich just after 7am. Clean myself up in the station toilets (classy) and head for the tent. 

Not a tent. 

The tent.

The Tent is a huge marquee on a campsite just outside the city centre. I arrive ready to collapse just as everybody else is waking up. The tent resembles a refugee camp or one of those emergency shelters that they house victims of a major earthquake in that you see on the news. Fifty rickety bunk beds set in rows filled with fidgeting bodies. I pick a bottom bunk and pray that nobody climbs on top because the flimsy wire frame looks like it’ll cave in if any creature with a body mass greater than a poorly fed kitten lays on it. I’m worried I’ll become the filling in a mattress sandwich. The noise is a continuos cacophony. The pained echoes of the human condition: a cough, followed by a sneeze, followed by a snore, followed by a bed frame squeak, followed by a fart, followed by another cough, followed by another fart. Fortunately I’m so exhausted that the noise of bodily exhalations doesn’t bother me and I conk out fully clothed while everybody else is getting ready to brush their teeth and start the day.

Wake in the early afternoon when the tent reaches a temperature that disorientates me into thinking that I have passed out in somebodies greenhouse. If I stayed any longer I’d have marrows sprouting from my ears.
Pop into the city centre briefly and stumble across a gay pride parade. This is the second time that I’ve accidentally ended up in the middle of a gay pride celebration. I did the same thing in London last month. Is it a sign?

Back at the camp I hear Mozart’s Turkish March. Intrigued I follow the music, with a march of course, into the hut from where it is coming from. I discover that it’s not a recording. I find a girl playing a piano. She’s really good. I’m thoroughly impressed and slightly jealous that I do not possess the musical ability to casually key out pieces of classical music at a campsite.

Later on in the evening I enjoy a few bottles of beer with a group of young lads from Leicester. We are joined by a group of Danish travellers (3 girls and 1 guy) all of whom have immaculate bright blonde hair. Spend most of the night watching the drunkest of the lads, called Paddy, try hopelessly to chat up one of the Danish girls. He’s persistent if nothing. He goes on for a good couple of hours without success. Poor lad. We’ve all been there.

At 1am it’s lights out but myself, the Danish guy and the girl who has finally worn Paddy down (he stormed off to bed in a dejected sulk) sneak off to the far end of the campsite to continue drinking and conversing in hushed voices. We are soon joined by another of the Danish girls who had mysteriously vanished about an hour ago. She shows up with a smug grin on her face. The two girls start talking in Danish while I sit there idly not even bothering to try and work out what they are saying. She then skips off towards the toilet block.
“What did she say?” I ask.
It turns out that she had been getting acquainted, intimately, with a gentleman in the toilets.
“Paddy?”
“No”
“Oh right. So why were you sniggering?”
“Because my friend…she said that the guy…he’s very big”.
That explains that grin .
At this point I notice that the two I’m sitting with are also getting a bit close and I begin to feel a like a spare part. Not wanting to get involved in any sordid Scandinavian shenanigans in a field I leave them to it and trot off to bed. I walk past Paddy asleep in his bunk. He looks upset.

  

Day 7. Munich.

Wake up with slight hangover. It’s exacerbated by the heat of the tent which becomes a giant human oven after sunrise. Couple of eggs for breakfast then off to the city to soak up a bit of culture. Decide that the teddy museum is too expensive and mosey around some churches instead. They’re free.

St Michael’s church features an exhibition called Clouds by an artist named Michael Pendry. It is comprised of hundreds of little white pieces of rope dangling from a fence. Visitors are encouraged to tie a knot in one of the strings to represent whatever is troubling them. Evidently there’s a lot of things on peoples’ minds in Munich as I could barely find a spare piece to tie a tight double knot of my own.

Near the main square is St Peter’s church which is home to a rather macabre crowd puller. She’s called St Mundita and she’s a human skeleton dressed in luxurious royal robes and draped in jewels while holding a ornate cup. She’s propped up awkwardly on her side in a glass display cabinet like an distasteful exhibit from Ripley’s believe it or not. She really is deeply disturbing to gaze at. The glass eyes slid into her sockets don’t help with the general feeling of eeriness. She’s actually Roman and how she ended up here is the result of a gruesome Baroque era fashion whereby the remains of unknown Roman citizens were removed from catacombs and venerated as saints. Ultimately she’s a random woman pulled from her tomb and worshiped by members of the Roman Catholic Church. In what must be a bit of an insult she has been afforded the title of patron saint of unmarried women. She’s reppin’ all the single ladies. I guess nobody liked her enough to put a ring on it. But they had no problem stuffing her skull with gems.

 

All the single ladies…

 
The church has an ninety two metre high meter steeple tower which visitors can climb. I tackle the strenuous calf busting stairway but soon live (just about) to regret it. It’s important to note here that I’m a wuss. And when you’re a wuss ninety two meters in the sky is high. Really high. At the top of the steeple is narrow balcony leading around edge of the tower. It’s barely wide enough for single file and you have to walk around clockwise. Once you leave the relative safety of the tower building and commit to walking around it there’s no turning back. It’s one way only. A deep breath and I pluck up the courage to go for it. About five steps in my confidence begins to wane and I start to seriously regret my decision. On a clear day the view extends as far as the alps. It’s breathtaking. Probably. I’m too busy readjusting my vice like grip on the railing and looking down at the floor while shuffling along like a whimpering ninny. I managed to convince myself myself that the thin wire cage covering the walkway, which is shaking in the breeze, definitely is safe. I’m sure nobody has ever fallen off of this tower. But there’s a first time for everything. Absolute no chance of stopping for a photo. My hands are shaking and I have vivid images of my phone tumbling through the fence to the pavement below with me flailing behind it after leaning too hard on the mesh which gives way, my body splatting on the pavement in a red squishy mess putting diners off of their lunch in the restaurant below. Halfway around and my state of psychological discomfort elevates from manageable worry to frenzied panic. “I NEED TO GET DOWN”, the irrational voice in my head screams. The problem is that less cowardly visitors block the walkway by taking photos and admiring the view. A rapid scurry to safety is not possible unless I bundle past the ditherers which actually would be dangerous. Plus if they did fall they’d probably clamp on to my arm as they went over the ledge to drag me down with them. With a sigh of immeasurable relief I finally make it all the way around. I practically run down the stairs to get my feet back to precious earth. The look of terror on my face as I sprint down the stairway must have been slightly concerning for those of whom I pass making their way up. I comfort myself with a salted pretzel which is deliciously buttery and restores calm. To add insult to injury the clouds, which have been aching to burst all day, finally gave way as I sheepishly walk back to the tent. I return soaked in rainwater and shame. Nobody must ever know about my little episode up the tower. Oh wait…

Esteban.  

Dishevelled Travels. Germany. Part Two.

Day 4. Cologne to Frankfurt.

Up early to catch the Megabus to Frankfurt. While gathering my stuff as silently as possible in an attempt not to wake anybody (what a considerate guy) I notice that the girl in the bed opposite is totally naked and has partially rolled out of her sheets exposing a bare breast. Morning. 

Get a final dose of dance music from Station hostel as I eat breakfast (egg & sausage) to the time of nineties disco classic What is love? Good question. 

Pleasantly surprised by the Megabus. It was on time, relatively comfortable and had wifi. At £3 it’s an absolute bargain. It costs £2.70 for a return trip to the town centre back home which is a distance of about three miles and there’s always a motley crew of Jeremy Kyle guests and at least one bloke with soiled trousers on the number 65. No loonies on the Megabus. I now have much less trepidation about the seven hour overnight haulage to Munich tomorrow evening. The double decker coach arrives in Frankfurt so promptly that I have two hours to kill before check in at the hostel. 

Have a leisurely stroll into the heart of the city. Frankfurt is a modern city with glistening silver skyscrapers jutting into the stratosphere. It is home to the Central European Bank which is represented by a large statue of the Euro symbol. Frankfurt must rank just below Bongo Bongo land in the list of places Nigel Farage would want to go on holiday. As the centre of European finance Frankfurt is animated with bankers strutting around purposefully in immaculate suits. Even in this blistering summer heat there’s not an untucked shirt in sight. It’s all a bit serious. I bet there’s a booming trouser press trade here. 

Amongst the Rolex and Hugo Boss stores I find Engels which sells every type of offensive and potentially lethal weapon you could ever need for your maiming needs. From brass knuckles and inconspicuous flick knives to Schwarzengger style air rifles. Consider buying a deadly souvenir but I have an EasyJet flight to catch next week and I couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t result in lengthy interrogations and invasive cavity searches. I’m sure that airlines base their entire prohibited items list on the stock take at Engels.

Union Hostel has a large polished reception with three helpful staff on shift and a convertible Smart car on display in the lobby. It’s much more sophisticated than my previous accommodation in Cologne. I’ve been upgraded to the ten bed dorm. Bingo. There’s a lingering smell of body odour in the cramped room. More lighting problems. This time there’s no bedside lamp at all. The only other occupant of the tightly packed room is a middle aged oriental gentleman. He scratches himself vigorously and loudly. 

Venture out to the suburbs for a wander around Volkspark Niddatal. Clean. Well maintained. Not an empty crisp packet or used condom in sight. 

I think that I’ve been upgraded because there’s nobody else in the hostel. Had dinner (Frankfurters, naturally) in the spacious self kitchen and chill out lounge which resembles the abandoned mess hall of a battleship. All I have for company is a library of Stephen King novels, a heavy hardback copy of Die Bibel and a mouse which scurries from underneath the pool table which has no cues or balls. The wall is plastered with photographs of raucous parties taking place in this very room as if to mock me. If I get too bored I can always pop a few doors down to Dolly Buster’s XXX internet lounge (is there any other type of internet lounge?) which was enticing clientele by blasting out AD/DCs Highway to hell when I walked past, and peered in, earlier. 

Turns out that I’m actually spoilt for choice when it comes to perversity as the hostel backs onto a seedy red light district frequented by drug addicts and sinister looking street corner pimps. I see an elderly man limp through the mysterious beaded doorway of Eros which advertises “toys of optimum pleasure”. Even German butt plugs are efficient. Take solice in the fact that if things gets too desperately dull in Station Hostel I always have the option score some smack and sit on a brutal twelve inch dildo. Without lube. 

  
Day 5. Frankfurt. 

“If the immediate and direct purpose of our life is not suffering then our existence is the most ill-adapted to it’s purpose in the world”.

These are the bitterly cynical words of pessimist nineteenth century philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860). I read them from his melancholic essay On the Suffering of the World while lingering over his subtle tombstone in Frankfurt Main Cemetery. The gravestones in this enormous park cemetery are meticulously maintained while the surrounding trees and bushes are allowed to flourish. The cemetery maintains a fine balance between allowing nature to blossom without decimating headstones. It’s incredibly tranquil and serene. Still I find myself sympathising with Arthur’s surly observations particularly regarding tedium.

“Want and boredom are the twin poles of human life.”

With twelve hours to kill in Frankfurt, the city where he retired to and died, I know exactly what he means. Having exhausted every free museum in the city I find myself without nothing else to do but head to the cemetery which is a staunch reminder that “our existence is so wretched and its end is death”. I’m glum. I didn’t get a great nights sleep as my oriental roomie snored like a mountain bear which had swallowed a megaphone. This morning he was scratching again. Loudly.

“We are conscious not of the healthiness of our whole body but only of the little place where the shoe pinches”

Or, in this case, where the thigh itches. Schopenhauer believed that life is driven by a constantly unsatisfied will which is forever searching for satiation that it can never fully attain. Pleasure is merely the absence of pain and we all have an itch that needs to be scratched. Some more urgently than others. Evidently. 

It’s midnight and I’m waiting at Frankfurk train station for a Megabus. It’s an hour late. I can’t help but ponder Schopenhauer’s exhortation to “imagine, in so far as it is approximately possible, the sum total of distress, pain and suffering of every kind of which the sun shines upon is in it’s course”. In this instance it’s the moonlight shining discourse but the sentiment holds. I see an emanciated topless junkie, ribcage poking through his skin, passed out on the pavement with his head resting on a plastic bag filled with a stained duvet. A shifty women eyes up potential pickpocket victims. I’ve seen her strike twice already. A group of alcoholics who, judging by the mountain of discarded beer bottles piled up by their makeshift cardboard box camp, have been boozing since dawn engage in a lively argument that I suspect I still wouldn’t be able to comprehend even if I understood German. A shivering old man on crutches is greatful when I hand him an empty Coca-Cola bottle. He’ll get 20 recents for recycling it. He carries a little collection of used bottles in a crate. All of this takes place to the backdrop of the PriceWaterhouseCooper tower which glows triumphantly. 

I feel a mixture of relief and guilt as, at 1am, I retreat into the safety of the Megabus to leave this sorry neighbourhood and continue my journey. As we pull I away I see the old man rummaging through an overflowing bin adding to his bottle collection. I wave but he doesn’t see because the windows are tinted. 

  

Esteban.

Quick Review. Post Office by Charles Bukowski.

Have you ever had one of those menial jobs where every day felt like a long and tortuous struggle? Did you stand around watching the clock tick by at an agonisingly slow pace? Did you count down the minutes until you got to run home, get some sleep, and then repeat it all over again the next day? Post Office is the first novel by notorious drunk and professional barfly Charles Bukowski and it provides the perfect portrayal of life imprisoned within the confines of soul destroying dead end employment.

Henry Chinaski’s life is malignantly bound to his job at the US postal service. Every evening he faces the drudgery of a twelve hour night shift sorting through mail fearfully anticipating a tanoy announced demanding he stays for overtime. He is confined by draconian rules intended to sap away any possible enjoyment and increase worker productivity. He must suffer the infuriation of working under the cruel watchful eye of a bitter and arbitrarily belligerent supervisor who does anything in his power to make life a total misery. On the streets he delivers to the irritating and infuriating residents of Los Angeles who provide a constant barrage of rudeness, disrespect and outright insanity. Chinaski is tortured by witnessing veteran employees, their souls long since eroded away, driven to emotional breakdown before they are hastily removed and never to be seen again. A newbie replacement hastily drafted into the briefly abandoned workspace ready for the demoralising cycle to begin again. This unenviable life is washed down after hours with a destructive cocktail of booze, women and the race track. Chinaski uses anything he can to dull his senses from the harsh reality of living in a vicious circle, earning just enough to scrape by yet realising the disheartening truth that he has nothing of worth to show for over a decade of service.

Chinaski’s life is so dreary that you can’t help but sympathise with a character who is essentially a lowlife. He’s a misogynistic and violent alcoholic with very few redeeming features. He stumbles through life looking out for himself and that’s about it. Yet his existence is so tragic you can’t help but feel sorry for him and amongst the tragedy and hopelessness there are some fine moments of comedy in this story, always delivered dryly by the protagonist. But behind the laughs is a deep sense of captivity and sorrow. He’s under no illusions. He knows what a terrible mess his life is but cannot find a way out. He despises the post office yet it’s his only means of survival. If he stays he’ll surely drive himself to insanity. If he leaves he’ll probably die in the gutter. Those racetrack winnings only last so long.

Post Office is a short and entertaining novel describing relentless struggle of life in the American underclass. Bukowski has been described as a laureate of American lowlife and this story can be read as highly autobiographical as the author himself spent decades working for the postal service before taking to full time writing. There’s no doubt that the drinking, the womanising and the gambling are all exaggerations of tales from his younger years. At least you hope they are exaggerated. But they’re probably not. Worryingly.

Esteban.

---

For more reviews of fiction check out the quick reviews of:

Damned by Chuck Palahniuk
A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M Miller

The dishevelled Travellers’ Guide to Tampere

Nestled in the middle of the southern region of the country, sandwiched between two giant lakes, nicknamed the Manchester of Finland and inhabited by a population who speak the most undecipherable language in Europe, the small city of Tampere is the place to experience the literally chilled out lifestyle of urban Scandinavia. Here’s the dishevelled travellers’ guide to Finland’s third city.

A trip to the supermarket is like wandering into a mad scientists’ Frankenstein laboratory stocked with bulbous jars of preserved matter. Ahti  (god of the sea) is the most popular brand of mysterious sea creatures although there is absolutely nothing divine about pickled herring. The lid informs consumers that the slippery blob of aquatic flesh you’re about to slide into your reluctant mouth was caught responsibly. Should have gone a step further and left it in the sea. Curiously sweet like supermarket brand cat food that’s been regurgitated by a sickly kitten. You’ll pull the same contorted face of disgust as a 2girls 1cup reaction video. Another supermarket favourite is Hernekeitto (pea soup). It’s confusing. Emerging from the tin in a mouldable play-doh consistency a few minutes in the microwave produces a curious green alien mash. It’ll never reduce to the liquid depicted on the label. It tastes like your mum saved up every green vegetable refused as a child, kept them in a vat, then mushed them all together into an earthy concoction before serving as punishment decades later. Dessert is much better. The liquorice puts Bertie Basset to shame. Cinnamon buns are a sugary swirl of baked bliss resulting in type 2 diabetes. It’s worth it.

Grubs up

Pedestrian crossings make use the ingenious innovation of a small box containing a woodpecker who pecks repetitively and increases in tempo as the lights turn green. Fantastic if you’re blind. Take note of Woody’s tapping commands as every single car progresses from stationary to movement via an uncontrollable wheel spin on the icy road surface. Driving appears hazardous all round. Nobody travels above 11mph. Skidding onto the pavement is a plausible threat. Ascending up hill is a constant and fierce battle against stalling. For these reasons bicycles are popular. The university campus is like Cambridge on ice as spectacled professors and studious undergrads zip past on two wheels. Nobody wears a helmet. The snow cushions any tumbles.

All guys under the age of 30 look like the lead guitarist of a thrash metal band. Long ponytailed blonde hair. Thick viking beards. Various piercings. Metallic belts. Feels like you’re walking around in an Iron Maiden video. The girls are beautiful. All of them. Initially pleasant it becomes a bit unsettling. What do they do with ugly girls? Do they cull them at birth? Would you have made the cut? Every citizen is pulled along by some sort of wolf hound leading the way. There’s even a dog café which looks more appealing than the kebab shop opposite. Wonder if they have the same supplier?

As a student town the nightlife isn’t too bad. It’s not as expensive as the horror stories you’ve probably heard about having to take out a mortgage to fund a night out in Scandinavia. Pints are about 4 Euros. After a few you’ll find yourself slumped at a blackjack table. Every bar features a felted table in a dark corner hosted by a friendly croupier with a black waistcoat and a wide smile. Gambling is a popular past time. Shopping centres feature rows of fruit machines where weathered old ladies feed coins despondently into slots. Apart from freezing to death there can’t be much else for local pensioners to do in the winter. If you plan on a night of binge drinking without having to head out into the elements the most popular beer sold in the local kiosk/mini casino is the regally named Karhu III. A ferocious bear with a belligerent expression on his menacing face adorns the can. As you drunkly stare into his piercing eyes you’ll wonder why he’s so angry and what happened to Karhu I and II. Maybe he defeated them during bloody battle? Much like Karhu III’s heart the beer is dark. Like his paws it’s strong.

The drunker you get the more intimidating he becomes

Tampere city centre is the result of Santa branching out into the commercial sector and constructing a large business park. Big bleak office buildings void of any character sit in the shadow of the tallest visible structure in the whole town, an industrial revolution style chimney pumping a constant stream of thick grey smoke into the equally thick grey sky. Gravel and white are the city’s predominant colours. A colour blind artist equipped with just a HB pencil and some Tip Ex could produce a landscape painting of photographic accuracy.

Snippets of structural aesthetic pleasantness are provided by the glorious churches dotted around town. Pop into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting taking place amongst the bum numbing pews of the pine panelled nave at Alexander church. Sitting at the western end of Hämeenkatu, the main boulevard, the neo-gothic house of god is named after the Russian Czar Alexander II and legend has it that that after the Finnish Civil war of 1918 a load of bodies were dumped in a mass grave in the surrounding park. Be careful where you tread. You might anger some frozen spirits. Less welcoming than Alexander’s place is Tampere cathedral. Ripped straight from your nightmares the sharp pointing spire of this Lutheran cathedral reminds visitors that this isn’t a house of fun. Some serous god worship goes on in here. Inside is a spectacularly grim painting, the “Garden of death”, a cheery scene of sinister skeletons dressed in black robes tending to an abstract garden below. Terrifying. The AA meeting was more fun.

Home to Karhu III and his throne made of human bones

Delve further into the macabre with a visit to the Vaprikii museum centre to follow in the exhausted footsteps of a medieval nordic pilgrim. A thoroughly detailed exhibition takes visitors on the treacherous journey thousands of Finnish Christians made every year to gawp at some questionable relics collected in various cathedrals around Europe. Jesus loving Finns of the middle ages would set off on life threatening pilgrimages as far reaching as Santiago de Compostela and Rome to check out mummified severed heads, dusty old bones and holy foreskins claiming to be the earthly remains of various apostles and the J man himself. In a time before low cost airlines existed it took absolutely ages. If that doesn’t quench your thirst for suffering the WW1 exhibition will. A collection so disturbing it has an age limit, no under 13’s. World Wars aren’t brilliant at the best of times but battles fought during the height of winter above the arctic circle at -40 degrees produce particularly gruesome results. The Vaprikki centre isn’t all doom and gloom however. The complex is actually a collection of various miniature museums where you can flick a puck at a virtual goalie in the Ice hockey Hall of fame, play with Victorian dolls in the toy museum, carry out your lifelong dream by visiting a replica of an 18th century shoe factory floor, pick up tree trunks in a logging simulator, learn about the joys of stem cell research, check out taxidermy of bizarre furry Nordic creatures you’ve never seen before and salute the valiant heroics of Finnish postmen and women throughout the ages. A fun day out catering for all tastes. The dinning hall is used by the emergency services too so if you plan on having a heart attack do it in the rare rocks and minerals museum. You’ll be in safe hands.

Please do not touch the model of two frozen corpses wrapped up on a death sled. Because you just can’t help yourself can you.

Venturing away from the gritted city streets into the wilderness takes you to Pyynikki natural park. A stark contrast to the industrial skyline of the centre as rigid buildings are replaced with flowing pine trees sprinkled in dazzling white. In the summer the shore by the lake is the setting for sunny afternoons of basking in the northern rays. In the winter the lake and it’s surroundings sit under a blanket of fresh bright snow. Heavenly. It is slightly odd to see abandoned deck chairs and ice cream stalls on what feels like the North Pole though. The vast open space of white void provides little point of reference apart from miniature trees swaying in the distance. Before long you’ll have wandered in the middle of the lake itself completely unaware. Trekking the hills further inland reduces the chances of breaking through into an icy grave but increases the danger of getting mowed down by a wild cross country skier or being abducted by a Bond villain and taken into one of the mysterious evil lairs built into the jagged rock face. An afternoon hiking knee deep in untouched snow facing bitter winds is a refreshing experience that will certainly assuage the ill effects suffered after an evening abusing Karhu III.

“No Mr Bond, I expect you to freeze”

Overall Tampere is cold, quiet and torpid. But these aren’t necessarily bad traits for a small city to have. The frozen temperature produces a glistening wintery landscape surrounding the city while eliciting appreciation for the harsh power of nature. The serenity allows for solitary relaxation, peacefulness and contemplation. You can sit back without worrying that somebody will disturb you. The place is like an iPhone charger; industrial, white and reenergising. Just don’t upset mighty Karhu III.

Tapani.

The Dishevelled Travellers’ guide to Budapest.

According to the overpriced souvenir t-shirts at the airport good boys go to heaven whereas the bad ones end up in Budapest. It’s unclear where naughty girls go. This condemning aphorism is more than enough to prompt a curious visit from the dishevelled traveller. Stumbling through the bohemian streets of a former Soviet controlled city lined with imposing bourgeois boudoirs is a beckoning experience for any disorganised wanderer. So here’s a rough guide to the landlocked city that sits to the east of central Europe. A temporal representation of Satan’s realm. If you believe everything you read on a t-shirt.

free wifi?

Arriving by Metro provides immediate indication of the antique enchantment the city has. It’s one of the oldest metro systems in Europe. It shows. The trains belong in a transport museum. Squeaky rectangular carriages. Plain on the outside. Uncomfortable on the inside. Heavily vandalised doors give passengers precisely nine seconds to get in or out before an aggressive buzzer borrowed from an old fashioned arcade game squeals. They guillotine themselves shut forcefully. Nobody smiles. Everyone shivers. The only ray of colour down in the tunnels is provided by a poster for a circus. A terrifying clown laughing at you manically. You won’t sleep for days. Fans of traditional escalators will be thrilled to ride a rare working example of the classic wooden form of automated stairs. Their rapidness makes it very exciting if not slightly hazardous. Emerging from the dungeons of soviet era transportation puts you slap bang in the middle of the nineteen twenties. Yellow trams rattle past. Grand art nouveau hotels stand adjacent to sharp neo-gothic churches. Distinct absence of any construction higher than a dozen floors. Everything’s a little crumbled. Tired but not complete disrepair.

Next stop… death

 

Varieties of the national dish Goulash are available everywhere but for a real idea of what life under communism must have tasted like one should dine exclusively from tins of mysterious content. Töltött Káposzta (cabbage stew) tastes precisely as bland as the translation suggests. Flavourless and stringy the supermarket version is particularly curios containing an unidentifiable block of gelatinous flesh which is either corned beef or a minced up tramp foot. Other canned banquets include Sólet füstölt; baked beans with what is suspiciously claimed to be bacon. More likely some sort of offal. By far the most outlandish supper is the misleadingly titled Pizzás. This crimson slop can only be associated with something you’d order at Dominoes by the fact that it resembles the outcome of a culinary experiment involving a slice of Margarita, a can of pedigree chum and a blender. The resultant abomination looks, smells and one would presume tastes like the excretory result of a glutinous binge at a Pizza Hut buffet. Serve all meals with a sliced up raw turnip as side salad.

 

One large cat goulash please

For dessert a bottle of local red wine is sweet enough to induce diabetic coma. The cheapest of which, tastefully presented in a two litre plastic bottle, tastes exactly like spiked Ribena. Savoury booze can be purchased from one of the teeming liquor stores which mirror sex shops with frosted windows and red neon. Don’t mistakenly wander in and ask for a ten inch dominator. There’s plenty of actual Erotik Centers for that. Beer is dangerously cheap. A bench dwelling hobos wonderland. You can get smashed for less than half a pint costs at the King’s Arms back home. For some sociable intoxication head to the VII district (great name) to a Ruins bar. Abandoned buildings with independent rooms of peeling wallpaper, smashed windows and gratified tables remind you of a Glaswegian pub after Rangers have lost. The dark side rooms with hollowed out doorframes and scarred pillars are the kind of place you’d expect to find Jigsaw racking up for a game of pool with Freddy Kruger. The rules about smoking are unclear as you’re technically outdoors most of the time anyway in a courtyard with a dance floor in it. The combination of temptingly affordable beer, the potent alcohol content and the Europop music will result in a furious headache the next day.

 

They must have the latest Miley Cyrus music video

 

Sweat out that relentless hangover at the Széchenyi spa. Located just north of Heroes square (called so as one must possess super powers to avoid getting mowed down by an oblivious cabbie when approaching it) this collection of communal wash basins is a tiled labyrinth of holistic pleasure and flabby bellies. A sign in the changing room alerts to the hygienic necessity of washing ones genitals before plunging into a public bath. Apparently it isn’t common knowledge. In the main baths people of all shapes and sizes stew catatonically in the soothingly warm water while voyeuristic cherubs stare down from above. Despite a sign indicating no food is allowed old women in floral swimsuits nonchalantly chow down on homemade cheese sandwiches. Do they treat the rules about soaping up their bits with equal disregard? Around every corner of the complex there’s an elderly man in ill fitting speedos. Always traumatically tight. Sweaty wooden doors lead to rooms of heat based torture. Body temperature fluctuates from pleasingly warm to unbearably blistering before plummeting down to catastrophically cold if you’re masochistic enough to dive into an icy plunge pool. For extra satisfaction you can pay a stranger to prod and poke you. They call it a massage. Staff stroll around in crisp white uniforms giving the place an asylum vibe. The entrance fee entitles whole day use but after an hour or so the novelty of witnessing middle aged couples fondle each other in an aquatic peep show and cramming yourself into a crowded steam cabin next to a guy easily mistaken for a heavily perspiring gorilla wears off. Prepare yourself for the abundance of withered old man penis on limp parade in the changing room before vacating. If you’re lucky one might eye you up in the showers.

Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin’ world go around

Other popular destinations include the Citadel which stands proudly atop a mount so steep you’ll need marathon level fitness to ascend without the use of an oxygen canister. The view of the surrounding city is stunning. If it’s not raining. Not a skyscraper in sight allows Budapest to maintain its Old Worldly charm. The castle is pleasant. Especially if statues of horses are your thing. If you’re more into Lions then the chain bridge is heavily guarded by belligerent stone felines of biblical proportions. For a truly uniquely morbid day out head to the Kegyeltez museum located within the sprawling grounds of Kerepes Cemetery. Translated as the Piety Musuem it’s precisely as ghoulish as you’d expect. Battered bibles, crooked crucifixes and towering funeral carts are displayed in a room decorated with black and white photographs of early twentieth century funerals. Cheery. Stare into the disturbingly accurate face of a long dead revolutionary in the death mask cabinet. Downstairs the pièce de résistance of the entire collection hangs proudly in the coffin lair. The Plague Coffin looks like a bad prop from a fun fair ghost train; a casket with a trap door on the bottom. As you can imagine the origins of this pathological relic are exceptionally distasteful. During epidemics and wars, for reasons of frugality, people were dumped into the cold earth in this multi-use coffin before being ejected from the bottom while it was dug up to accommodate a different poor soul. Like tampons and condoms some items should only be used once and you certainly don’t want to receive them in second hand condition. As if that wasn’t creepy enough the museum is home to the most sinister mannequins ever produced. Dressed head to two in black funerary robes. They follow you around the room. The cemetery outside juxtaposes the regimental and minimalistic monuments of fallen soldiers, laid to rest in strict formation, with the hauntingly artistic and sombre sculptures of individuals left to the ravages of time. The entire place has an emerald tinge.

“What’s the matter Zoltan?”
“It’s so damn heavy can’t we just bury it here?”

While the architecture may be a bit tattered in places and the remnants of a population living under communist rule remain to be seen. Even though the belligerent bald security guards eye you menacingly in the supermarkets and during the winter months the weather is bitter. Budapest is still a fascinating place for the dishevelled traveller. It may not be the place to whip out the glow sticks and rave into the night it’s definitely the kind of place where one can sip from a wine glass in a grandiose drawing room while a Bartók concerto flows gently in the background. Sitting around with some new friends discussing which dilapidated apartment block converted into a watering hole to head out to. Go to the one that sells raw carrots to nibble on seductively like a nymphomanic Bugs Bunny. The t-shirt was partially correct in its assertions; bad boys way well go to Budapest but to compare it to hell is exceptionally unfair. It’s considerably colder.

István

 

Reccomendation

The 11th Hour Cinema Hostel located close to Astoria and Ferenciek Tere metro stations is ridiculously good value with eight bed dorms costing between 5 and 10 euros per night. The rooms are massive studio conversions with enough room to fit twice as many as they do. As the name suggests there’s a cinema room where you can spend the night in watching A Clockwork Orange with Australian backpackers laughing hysterically at ultra-violence and discussing socialism. Just be careful if you’re returning to a top floor room when hammered. The drop is perilous and you’ll crush a late night smoker sitting in the courtyard at the bottom.

 http://www.11thhourcinemahostel.com/

The Dishevelled Travellers’ Guide To Athens

Home of Socarates, classical theatre and ongoing debates about the Elgin Marbles, Athens hasn’t had a particularly golden time recently. Hit hard by recession and mass protests it’s not exactly a fashionable young travellers spot at the moment. However this glorious city remains a panoramic photo snapping, audio guide junkies paradise where sightseers will have no trouble formulating a comprehensive, culturally stimulating itinerary of activities. While there’s plenty of official travel guides providing overused suggestions and banal visitor tips here’s a rough guide to the ancient city from the perspective of a disorganised hostel dweller.

Presuming the cuppa-soup thrown at you during the Ryanair flight was not substantial nourishment the first thing on the disorientated travellers mind is food. Hopefully you like kebabs. Because there’s lots of kebab shops. Similar in appearance to the kind of place you’d stumble into at two a.m after a heavy night on the beers. Open from breakfast onwards your safest choice is Souvlaki which doubles up as a fantastic option for veggies consisting of: chips, lettuce, onion, tomato and mayo crammed into a pitta. Simple, delicious and equally as appetising in price at just over a Euro. Carnivores get the same thing but with a greasy meat of choice stuffed in there. That’s what she said. Classier than fast food huts are the numerous restaurants that line the tourist distract around Akropli and Plaka. Welcoming waiters beckon potential diners while dressed in pressed white shirts that have at least three buttons unfastened to reveal an impressive yet stomach turning tuft of chest hair. They refer to you as their friends and promise authentic traditional cuisine and a bit of plate smashing for dessert.  Saves on washing up. To complete the homely feel a lot of places have a budgie cage at the entrance however pleasantries are soon halted if you point and say “I’ll have that one medium rare please”.

Enjoyed drunk or sober

Self catering is a cost effective option but bare in mind that while Sainsbury’s provide a selection of seventeen varieties of hummus, inexplicably, it’s not widely stocked in Athenian supermarkets. That’s like Asda not selling rotisserie chickens and crates of Fosters. Bizarre.  Feta cheese on the other hand is supplied in abundance. Be warned, it’s unbelievably pungent. Much like children’s cough syrup apply in small doses to prevent a serious throat condition.  An equally aggressive taste bud onslaught will result from consuming a tub of pre-made Russian salad. This gloopy concoction of creamy foulness should be avoided at all costs. It tastes worse than licking tzatkiki off of the waiters furry man boobs (a service that some restaurants actually offer).

The local brew to wash your meals down is Mythos which proudly claims to be “the world’s most famous Hellenic beer”. A specific and undisputable claim seeing as you’ve never heard of others. It’s drinkable enough. Naturally a shot of oesophageal scarring Ouzo will be poured down your throat at some point. Tasting like lighter fluid that’s had a packet of Bassett Allsorts marinating in the bottle for six months this local aniseed liquor isn’t just heavy on the pallet. The booze content is disturbingly high. A few shots of this chemical and you’re hammered so adhere to the Feta cheese method of conservative consumption to prevent waking up with an apocalyptic hangover, regrets of confessing your deepest secrets to a Canadian backpacker and a nauseating taste in your face hole that chugging a gallon of Listerine will not alleviate. A cheap bottle of vinegary Crete red wine appeals to the more dignified hooch hound but will illicit similar results.

Choose your poison, things are about to get weird

Once sufficiently battered on the poison of your choice, joined by new buddies picked up at the hostel bar, the natural instinct to party will kick in. Putting unquestionable faith in the personl recommendation of a random taxi driver is unwise. A translational misunderstanding will result in the request to “take us to the best bar in town” to be misinterpreted as “take us to a strip club really far away from here”. Avoid insulting the man’s suggestion by politely entering the club where drinks are ludicrously expensive. Obviously. It’s a boobie bar. Admire the dim, dingy décor and general air of depravity but under no circumstances no matter how tantalisingly persistent and persuasive, for the sake of your already rapidly declining dignity, clamber on stage to take part in the live show. This isn’t Christmas pantomime audience participation. Your moment in the spotlight will escalate to traumatising levels. Less Dick Whittington more Dick Whippinghim. Yes she really is going to do that to him. Yes in front of all these people. Yes the auditorium of perverts are enjoying it. Yes she is very dedicated to her job. Yes she is unfamiliar with the concepts of “decency” and “legal”. You may not be a prude but it WILL go too far, it will involve foreign objects, she will continue even if he tries to escape and nobody will stop it.

Equally as outrageous as watching a seemingly timid guy you met less than five hours ago getting gagged, blindfolded and bound to a plastic patio chair stripped to his underpants, perspiring in fear in front of a gratified audience is the realisation that everyone is smoking cigarettes. INDOORS. This is not exclusive to adult entertainment venues. Smoking is the national sport. Unlike less cancer friendly European nations you can do it pretty much anywhere. All the time.  You’ll get ejected from your local Whetherspoons for even thinking about sparking up whereas in Athens you can order a drink at the bar and blow second hand smoke in the barman’s face as you do. Non-smokers should take up a two packet a day habit before hand to avoid missing out on the respiratory destroying fun. On the downside you’ll need to locate a local laundrette because your clothes will stink of stale fags.

Stressing the rule about not trusting cabbies may seem judgemental and pessimistic but it might save your life. Even explicitly specifying that you wish to be transported somewhere with “real girls not strippers” isn’t sufficient enough not to end in getting dropped off in a desolate dive in the bad end of town. You apprehensively enter an empty room minus the Romanian hookers whose job it is to lure you into buying insanely expensive drinks (worse than the skin bar) for them until sunrise. You may suspect that the taxi driver has some kind of deal with the owner about providing a supply of pissed up foreigners to his shady establishment but by then it’s far too late. Nowhere else is open and blurred judgment concludes that a couple of drinks while humouring the prostitutes can’t hurt right? WRONG.  After sloshing away the rest of your money (on drinks not sex) the exit will be barricaded by an imposing man with slicked jet black hair accusing you of owing cash for stuff you didn’t buy. Haggling is the only way home. Indicate a lack of finances and a need to visit an ATM to clear your imaginary debts. Then run. Fast. It’s a desperate situation when remaining in the sanctity of a seedy lap dancing club appears to have been the safer option in hindsight. Morale of the story: settle on a definite nightspot location before piling into a cab with a load of drunk revellers.

If there’s a football match at the Karaiskakis stadium during your visit get a ticket. Even if you don’t like football you’ll have a thrilling time. Enjoy the spectator experience of yesteryear before the Premier League took over and enforced draconian rules about sitting down and shutting up. Witness a colourful cast of passionate supporters display an utter contempt for personal safety by jumping on chairs and risking serious injury by precariously dangling legs over the high concrete wall at the front of the stand. Envision the whole place going up in flames as thousands of cigarette ends are thoughtlessly discarded onto a floor littered with paper and the escape route blocked by hairy shirtless men proudly displaying their considerable belly overhang.  Teenagers periodically set off the kind of smoke bombs riot squads use to disperse crowds of unruly protestors, smothering you in a cloud of red mist hindering your ability to see and breathe. Not great for asthmatics. Boos and whistles reach high pitched, eardrum rupturing decibels when the ref blows for an unfavourable decision. Basically all of them.  The entire evening is played out to the rhythmic backing of a small child relentlessly thrashing down on a drum larger than his own body. Your nostrils tickled by the smell of slowly burning meat from the countless skewer stalls outside. It’s an exhilarating experience for all the senses. Just remember to take a gas mask.

“How was the view?”

Getting around is easy. A goldfish could navigate the reliable and efficient Metro system. The trains themselves are wonderful tributes to the New York subway carriages of decades past as, like most of the city, they are coated in a colourful array of graffiti ranging from hurriedly scribbled tags to impressive portraits of genuine artistic talent. Evidently graffiti is a serious problem. Walls, bins, lampposts and parked vans are scrawled with offensive language and forceful political messages, often in English. How thoughtful. If you’re the creative type who poses solemnly in front of rebelliously motivated street art there’s enough opportunity to fill up an entire A-Level photography coursework portfolio.

Where there’s vandalism other crime is usually not too far away so remember that swanning around in hiking boots and a rucksack singles you out as a potential victim. If two shifty looking young men approach you in a dimly lit walkway dressed in civvies claiming to be undercover police who need to see identification, think twice before reaching into your pockets to compliantly produce the wallet they plan to snatch.  Stoically refuse.  If they threaten to take you downtown simply request they call for a squad car to haul your arse down there. If legitimate officers of the law show up, your instincts proven wrong, at least you’ll have the opportunity to explain why you were reluctant to follow the orders of two un-uniformed strangers whose only form of ID came in the form of an unofficial looking card produced from a Hugo Boss wallet. Furthermore real coppers tend to call for back up on radios not their personal iPhones.  Be alert throughout the tense standoff while you wait for backup to arrive which never does. Shock. Hopefully they’ll get fed up of your stubborn ways and kindly let you go. DO NOT breathe a sigh of relief and skip off into the moonlight, turning your vulnerable back to these potential muggers/murderers. Wait for them to swear at you in Greek then leave themselves. Satisfy yourself that they are a fair distance away then proceed. In the opposite direction. Vigilantly.

…and those pretending to be

Maintaining ancient ruins of historical importance is not an easy task. In order to prevent the Parthenon from crumbling into nothingness its aesthetic beauty and mystique is compromised by the presence of scaffolding and cranes surrounding the entire edifice.  As well as the semi-permanent construction site the entire Acropolis complex receives constant delivery by the coach load of camera wielding zombies. Gawping at archaeological marvels through a zoomed lens.  To avoid the transfixed crowds take a detour to a hidden gem called the Kanellopoulos museum. Revel in the majesty of a gold infused Byzantine painting of Jesus getting horrifically mutilated. Remind yourself of mortality by staring into the eroded, anguished face of an angel statue taken from an ancient citizens tomb. The museum is quiet, secluded and free. Go there. Equally worthwhile is the Panathenaic stadium where you can sweat out those hangover blues by going for a few laps on the track. Do it barefoot like the original Olympians although it is unadvisable to strive for full authenticity by doing it bollock naked. It will lead to a hilarious Benny Hill chase with the security guard.

Lazy unadventurous types can eliminate the inconvenience of having to walk by taking a segway tour where a local guide will lead you to places of interest without the strenuous task of having to use your legs. These are popular with American visitors. Or jump on the goofy looking road train to be paraded around the streets like the single float in a moron parade. If you have enough energy to use your own body to explore then enjoy a hike up Mount Lycabetus to the north of the Greek Parliament (the place where the guards have funny pom pom shoes). For medical reasons DO NOT attempt to scale this peak hungover and unarmed with a bottle of water. It’s steeper than you think. As you ascend to religious salvation at the apex (there’s a chapel at the top) the gradient will rapidly increase and you’ll be exposed to the cosmic rays of the unforgivable Mediterranean sun. Even in October. As you progress, stumbling, pale faced, panting rapidly and perspiring profusely towards some builders carrying out  masonry work on a step they may take pity on your sorry state and offer you much needed water. Just try not to faint before you reach them because there’s no helipad for paramedics to collect you.

still not finished?

Exhausting expeditions up the rustic mounts surrounding the city not only provide stunning views but an eye opening insight into the bizarrely aggressive sexual behaviour of native wildlife. You’ll have already noticed the spectacular army of stray cats roaming the city streets. But up in the dusty hills tortoises reign supreme. Despite their traditionally sluggish reputation male Testudo Graeca are vicious little bastards. Gain an appreciation for nature in all it’s gory, horrific glory as a you witness a walking army helmet chase, head-butt, bite then eventually commit a serious sexual assault on a female. Before you’ve had time to question why you’re watching this brutality a disturbing squeal indicates that the deed is done as, ironically, male tortoises don’t last long. This won’t be an isolated case. It’s perfectly normal behaviour in the Testudo world and until a herbivore court of law is set up aggressive doggy style rape will remain unpunished.

It’s slow, but it’s not a dance

Selecting souvenir gifts before heading home is easy. For mother a miniature replica statue of a naked Grecian idealistic man with a meticulously detailed penis. For father an army surplus bullet proof vest available from one of the many militia memorabilia stalls in the market district of Plaka. As your trip reaches its conclusion you’ll be pleasantly surprised to find that while the cultural immersion of visits usually terminates the moment you step foot in the departure terminal Athens airport boasts a small exhibition of ancient artefacts dug up while laying the very tarmac you’re about to catapult into the skies from. Nervous passengers may alleviate any pre-flight apprehensions with a quick visit to the prayer room to ask Zeus for a safe journey. It’s next to McDonald’s. 

Hurtling down the runway it’s easy to see why Athens has long been a staple destination for backpackers and travellers of Europe but for the short term reveller there’s a fantastic time to be had. While the majority of flights into Hellenic territory aim for the grotesquely tacky party islands  frequented by chavs and squaddies chugging down fishbowls of sugary cocktails then fighting each other, Athens provides a considerably more rewarding vacation for the astute young voyager who can enjoy evenings drunkly debating the merits of pragmatism with a research archaeologist illumined by the red glow of an ADULTS ONLY sign. Just make sure to bring your own hummus. It’s technically not a liquid so it should be allowed on-board.

Esteban

 

 

Notes

I really wish I could remember the name of the strip club but I was far too drunk to recall even though the experience of witnessing a large Irish guy who I’d only met about five hours previously getting the works on stage is something I will never forget. It did get too much for him eventually but she really would have carried on going if he didn’t get up and literally ran away. As for the dodgy prostitute bar, it didn’t have a name and it’s location shall forever remain a mystery to me.
The two mysterious men who stopped me were almost certainly muggers. My suspicions were confirmed when I later found actual uniformed police officers on patrol about three minutes walk away. Trust your instincts and remain vigilant. There was something fishy from the moment I saw these guys. I was ready to run at any moment and seriously contemplated doing it but I didn’t sense a physical threat plus I literally had no money (hence why I was walking and not on the metro) or anything of value on me so I waited to see how it played out. The biggest give away was the fact that real police don’t say things like “we’ll call the police” as a threat. 

Recommendation

For an excellent, affordable place to stay I’d highly recommend ATHENS BACKPAKCERS located approximately 14 seconds from Akropoli metro station (red line). Considering it’s a hostel where up to 12 people share one bathroom it’s immaculately clean and the shared rooms are in no way cramped or awkward. They provide bread, jam and eggs for breakfast if you can pull yourself out of your hangover pit early enough (7:30-9:30am). I met many partners in drunken sordid crime at the fantastic rooftop bar where people from across the globe gather to get wasted against a stunning backdrop of the Acropolis. Just be careful when descending the steep metal stairway in a wobbly state. When I enquired, the beautiful Greek bar girl (I hope she reads this) informed me that nobody had ever stumbled over the railings to their death and that it met all health and safety regulations but still, watch your step.

http://www.backpackers.gr/