Last Thursday I braved the wild’s of Piccadilly for a wine tasting and S.A Presentation put on by the STA travel buzz team. This is what I saw and remembered, of the wines and the country.
With the undoubted exception of Scouts and Game Rangers no man holds his dignity in combat shorts. And, the Game ranger pulls of such a fashion feat because he was the Scout who stayed at camp. These men are heroic. They are Ray Mere’s after mainlining, the knowledge of Attenbourgh. From the thin cover of the brush, to the living deep of the Transvaal to clambering across the Drakensberg’s Mountains you can understand how women have their Robert Redford, moments. For these are the last of the rugged frontiersmen.
“Hey, Yaa! Yaa! Over theare Brew, lookee over theare! Brew! See it Ya?!”
He was Hercules in Desert Rats shorts. We were on the lookout for Lions but it felt like we were stalking Rommel and a Herd of dastardly Panzar tanks, circa 1941. But, not even a Howitzer has the punch of nature. There is nothing; absolutely nothing like seeing the spectacle of Natural Beauty. One touch of nature makes the whole world ten. Effrica is hold paradox; a poverty in everything that shouldn’t matter, wealth in all the things that do.
It’s not all Great game. The Republic has a Bri’s worth of BBQ-ued delights to offer. I had summered in South Africa when I was 17. My parents were sick of me, school was over and I was sick of that and it was still months before University began. So at their expense they packed me off, and launched me into the care of distant friends. I was bound for the Cape. It was a loose care, not only geographically but also affectionly. They really were distant friends and they weren’t too bothered about me either. I ended up roaming up and down the Garden route and South Africa is one of those Great countries to roam.
In truth I spent much of my time Boozing, Stellen –Bosching my way through vineyard and winery. I was right-hooked by the grapes of La Fromagerie in Franschoek and Laborie (1691) in Parll. Some of the Chardonnays of the Garden Route are as Buttery and Toasty as the Medoc of Gaul. Now compare there wines to the Old world, because habit makes us, but the wines of South Africa are not apprentices copying the Old Master’s. Like almost everything in South Africa the Africans do it their way.
It had been a few years since I savoured these wines, but Paul at the STA travel night, brought back the endless vineyards and towering mountains of the Cape. I had gone to the night on invitation. I was attracted by South Effrica and the Booze. Like I said Africa may be the new world, but there wines are still old.
To give you some history, the Huguenots started wine making wine in the 1630s and developed their new techniques with their new vines. In Europe we trim the leaves of the vine to give Sun to the grape, in Effrica where the hot, hot, heat of the Sun burns they bind the leaves around the vine. In the Old world they oak the wine in barrels, in Effrica they age them in Steel Vats. Like I said Africa may be the new world, but there wines are still old, we say Effrica is backwards but in Wine they’re light years ahead.
Pinotage – It’s the last vine ever bred. Not even 100 years young, and the sommeliers of the Republic, like almost all South African’s about anything South African are immensely proud of it. Married from the delicate, cherry of the Pinot- Noir and the Earthy Hermitage, its meant to provide a tropical soil taste to the drinker. I tried it. I drank it by the vat when I was there and I only ever found the dirt. Dirt and a touch of paint, but I will say it is an African wine.
You can’t escape Pinotage, to be a cape blend some has to have been snuck into bottle, so chances are you’ve probably supped some from your super market too. Now, despite my criticism it’s the right wine for South Effrica, because South Effrica is a country at home in the soil. Never have I seen an affinity to a land, and then have I seen with South Effricans and their country. Effrica is Effrica you either get it or you don’t.
Patriotism is paramount in this state. A house divided can not stand, but until as recently as 1991 this one was cut down the middle. The best for the whites, what scraps were left for the rest. Dreadful; absolutely, tragically, pathetically, worthlessly dreadful. We don’t need to talk about how awful apartheid was, (It was awful) or how racism and corruption are still problems. Instead let’s see the Blacks, Whites, English, Affrickana, Zulu, Xoser, together. There are 13 official languages in South Effrica and over twice as many peoples; which even before you take in account its stained history makes it a miracle that when you ask any South African he will stay proudly, first and foremost I am “SOUTH EFFRICAN.”
It has a roaring economy. Its up to its gut in culture, its knee deep in nature. You either get it or you don’t, and you only get it by going. Drink up drink up you’re on African time.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
Play with Fire
I love Moscow. Some things you can't describe, and sometimes some things are too good to share. Moscow memories are only my own.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Non-conformist: Getting to grips with the Avant Garde
Loft is an Art gallery in St. Petersburg. Its exhibitions are housed in an old Bread factory, close to that vapourish Bread Museum. I had been told by several Russian it did actually exist. Maybe? Like Paravda meant Truth, but what do I know? Brutus is an honourable man.
Modern art non-conformist art, is difficult, but debate about weather its worthwhile is over. If you're against modern art, you have to to move with the times. The real question is weather what you're looking at it is good or not. A lot of Art in Loft was. But as I said its difficult, so I eased the experience with a Bloody Mary.
I had met some couch surfers and we went to the Opera. Not the Marinisky, the tickets were sold out, that was the opera house the old Irish Lady had told me about. But to the St. Petersburg Opera house. They were playing the Carpetner of Livonia, by Donizzetti. It was ok, good because it was opera but not for much else. It hadn't been performed in over 100 hundred years and I could understand why. I felt sorry for the company, the material they were working with just wasn't up to scratch. It sounded like a re-hash of Rossini, and midway through the second act, I was unmistakably hearing a snippet from Mozart's Queen of the night. Still it was good, I love Opera, and seeing it for 200 Russians was a bargain.
I was with two Irish Couch Surfers, Russia, is not as sensitive too Race and Religion as we are in England and we all audibly winced, when the money lender was portrayed as a Shylockesque Jew, and the servant, a Blacked up girl. It was like a return to the classical Black and white minstrels.
Its stays light late in St. Petersburg at 10 it was still +20 degrees when we left. We were on the way to meet some Russians. They were the avante garde, arty types, poets, writers; skinny jeans, have made it to Russia. I told them I had been to Loft; they nodded their approval. "Da"
I'd sunk a couple of glasses at the Opera (you needed too) and with the Bloody Mary I was feeling a little tipsy, which added danger an otherwise benign trip. When these Russians weren't painting, sculpting, smoking Cigarellos and quoting Puskin, they climb roofs. Its one of those reclaim the urban environment movements; like Par Cour. They treat the city as a giant climbing frame, finding roofs to get good views, climbing things like Children.
We broke into a bell tower and climbed the ramshackle interior. As I hauled myself over and above some scaffolding I was feeling the drink and almost slipped on the third floor. But, I have a strong will for self preservation and my grip tightened, I'd be damned if I was going to end my days in some god damn, bell tower. I've always fancied meeting my maker in some sort of Blaze of Glory. We reached the top, and I presume like mountaineers I was overcome with the feeling of what next? I knew, though, as did the Russians, we cracked some cans of Beer and I lit up a fat Russian Cigar.
They took us to a street called the John Lennon Street, more of the Avante Garde. Apparently some aged Russian Hippy lives there, but Summer of Love is long over, of course you never know, Russia is stuck in the past, but behind the blast metal door of his flat there was no answer. They took us too a Bar. The bars in Russia postivley try and turn customers away. It was in a cellar, and you had to ring two bells to get in. It was called the Friendship and was only supposed to be for friends of the owners, very friendly.
"Good for business? I presume."
"It won't be cool if everyone knows about it.
The markets still getting started here, but true, true.
I got battered at the friendship. Talking to these Russians, the children of the new Russia. The Beer was reactively and relatively cheap Beer and I hammered them down, one after the other, like an endless series of Russian dolls. We all did, but I think that's what you do in Russia.
Modern art non-conformist art, is difficult, but debate about weather its worthwhile is over. If you're against modern art, you have to to move with the times. The real question is weather what you're looking at it is good or not. A lot of Art in Loft was. But as I said its difficult, so I eased the experience with a Bloody Mary.
I had met some couch surfers and we went to the Opera. Not the Marinisky, the tickets were sold out, that was the opera house the old Irish Lady had told me about. But to the St. Petersburg Opera house. They were playing the Carpetner of Livonia, by Donizzetti. It was ok, good because it was opera but not for much else. It hadn't been performed in over 100 hundred years and I could understand why. I felt sorry for the company, the material they were working with just wasn't up to scratch. It sounded like a re-hash of Rossini, and midway through the second act, I was unmistakably hearing a snippet from Mozart's Queen of the night. Still it was good, I love Opera, and seeing it for 200 Russians was a bargain.
I was with two Irish Couch Surfers, Russia, is not as sensitive too Race and Religion as we are in England and we all audibly winced, when the money lender was portrayed as a Shylockesque Jew, and the servant, a Blacked up girl. It was like a return to the classical Black and white minstrels.
Its stays light late in St. Petersburg at 10 it was still +20 degrees when we left. We were on the way to meet some Russians. They were the avante garde, arty types, poets, writers; skinny jeans, have made it to Russia. I told them I had been to Loft; they nodded their approval. "Da"
We broke into a bell tower and climbed the ramshackle interior. As I hauled myself over and above some scaffolding I was feeling the drink and almost slipped on the third floor. But, I have a strong will for self preservation and my grip tightened, I'd be damned if I was going to end my days in some god damn, bell tower. I've always fancied meeting my maker in some sort of Blaze of Glory. We reached the top, and I presume like mountaineers I was overcome with the feeling of what next? I knew, though, as did the Russians, we cracked some cans of Beer and I lit up a fat Russian Cigar.
They took us to a street called the John Lennon Street, more of the Avante Garde. Apparently some aged Russian Hippy lives there, but Summer of Love is long over, of course you never know, Russia is stuck in the past, but behind the blast metal door of his flat there was no answer. They took us too a Bar. The bars in Russia postivley try and turn customers away. It was in a cellar, and you had to ring two bells to get in. It was called the Friendship and was only supposed to be for friends of the owners, very friendly.
"Good for business? I presume."
"It won't be cool if everyone knows about it.
The markets still getting started here, but true, true.
I got battered at the friendship. Talking to these Russians, the children of the new Russia. The Beer was reactively and relatively cheap Beer and I hammered them down, one after the other, like an endless series of Russian dolls. We all did, but I think that's what you do in Russia.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Cultural Bread and Butter.
The museam for bread in St. Petersburg? This I must see. I had heard two things about food under the USSR. The first being that when Khrushchev visted New Yrok and was taken Super market, he was so impressed by the selection and prices that he demanded "Who is the man responsible for food distribution in New York State." The evil empire was never, ever, ever going to win.
The second crumb of knowledge I knew about Soviet bread was that in the Battle of Stalingrad, corn had become so scarce that they replaced flour with sawdust. All of these things could have been revealed to me at the Bread Museum. But, when I went to the address it had been replaced by a Bank. Bread to Banking, now thats capitalism.
I was disappointed so I cut off a thick crust of culture and went to the Hermitage. In the Romanov's former winter palace, it houses one of the worlds finest selection of art. Its tremendous, there is no denying it. From Ancient Egypt to the Impressionists, this is one of the definitive collections of western civilization. The building too, is beyond impressive, the scale enormous, It is next to the Admiralty, the reason St Petersburg was built and right at the end of Karensky Aveneue. I wandered round the Dutch and Spanish art. I saw too many famous oils that they all blend into one. A mass of canvas and memory, intersected by a few names. On the way out, I saw him though, his ugly head peaking out of me. I'd recongise that face anywhere. Challenging me with his constant questioning. The bust had no sign, but the ugliest man in Athens is instanly reconginisible. "Socrates! My old friend" I cried. I took a snap and made my way out.
Half way down Karensky Avenue, there is a sign in Russian which is a relic from the war, about the only visible sign, I saw of the the siege. It reads "Citizens! When the shelling starts the other side of the road is safer". That's very practical advice. In the Hostel there was a further sign, in a similar friendly tone the west has taught me to associate with soviet Russia "Dear Friends! Please to not flush comdoms down the loo" Sturdy advice also.
Kazan cathedral is a little further along, it has sweeping, stone collonades that gather pilgrims into its interior. Id seen this design before, despite the Neo-classicism of it, the features were unmistakably based on Bernin's exeriour of the St. Peter's Basilica. As an aside, across Eastern Europe I had seen just shy of a score of cathedrals all domed. None were as impressive as the Haga Sophia. It is still the worlds largest unsupported concrete dome. Its elegance is only enduring, its memory forever, magicly and mystically engraved on my mind. The Muslims would say "You will never build a dome as grand as the Haga Sophia" And as far as I can tell that's exactly right.
The Scale of St. Petersburg is over large, all its public buildings, pre and during communism are inhumanly grandiose. But while the communists, and the fascist only sort scale, the level of complexity and beauty in the imperial work is astounding. Floral relief on everything. Statutes on all corners. Gold guilt everywhere.
Just of set from Karansky prospect is the Church of the Saviour on Blood. Its a candy cane store, of onion domes and liquorice All-sort towers. The interior is colourful to the extreme, its so garish its transcends awful and managed to turn full circle back into beauty. Outside I brought a corn on the cob. I was picking bits out my teeth for the rest of the day. I had purchased it of a relic of the USSR. An old Baboshka who looked mean, but cooked well. They seem to be all over Russia, selling tickets for trains, collecting money for toilets, sweeping up and manning desks. Everything these women do is done with an attitude of dignified irritation. Its as if everything of trivial importance but monumental convince has been given to these gate keepers with zero toleration of other human beings. Its not my lack of Russian either, I spoke to a Russian couch surfer about it, and they have a word for them, but it has slipped my mind.
The second crumb of knowledge I knew about Soviet bread was that in the Battle of Stalingrad, corn had become so scarce that they replaced flour with sawdust. All of these things could have been revealed to me at the Bread Museum. But, when I went to the address it had been replaced by a Bank. Bread to Banking, now thats capitalism.
Half way down Karensky Avenue, there is a sign in Russian which is a relic from the war, about the only visible sign, I saw of the the siege. It reads "Citizens! When the shelling starts the other side of the road is safer". That's very practical advice. In the Hostel there was a further sign, in a similar friendly tone the west has taught me to associate with soviet Russia "Dear Friends! Please to not flush comdoms down the loo" Sturdy advice also.
Kazan cathedral is a little further along, it has sweeping, stone collonades that gather pilgrims into its interior. Id seen this design before, despite the Neo-classicism of it, the features were unmistakably based on Bernin's exeriour of the St. Peter's Basilica. As an aside, across Eastern Europe I had seen just shy of a score of cathedrals all domed. None were as impressive as the Haga Sophia. It is still the worlds largest unsupported concrete dome. Its elegance is only enduring, its memory forever, magicly and mystically engraved on my mind. The Muslims would say "You will never build a dome as grand as the Haga Sophia" And as far as I can tell that's exactly right.
The Scale of St. Petersburg is over large, all its public buildings, pre and during communism are inhumanly grandiose. But while the communists, and the fascist only sort scale, the level of complexity and beauty in the imperial work is astounding. Floral relief on everything. Statutes on all corners. Gold guilt everywhere.
Just of set from Karansky prospect is the Church of the Saviour on Blood. Its a candy cane store, of onion domes and liquorice All-sort towers. The interior is colourful to the extreme, its so garish its transcends awful and managed to turn full circle back into beauty. Outside I brought a corn on the cob. I was picking bits out my teeth for the rest of the day. I had purchased it of a relic of the USSR. An old Baboshka who looked mean, but cooked well. They seem to be all over Russia, selling tickets for trains, collecting money for toilets, sweeping up and manning desks. Everything these women do is done with an attitude of dignified irritation. Its as if everything of trivial importance but monumental convince has been given to these gate keepers with zero toleration of other human beings. Its not my lack of Russian either, I spoke to a Russian couch surfer about it, and they have a word for them, but it has slipped my mind.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
The Unstoppable Veteran.
I saw him crossing the road at a red light on Nevisky prospect, he must have been a veteran of the Great Patroitc war. He was wearing more medals then a regiment of Horse Guards, and grasped between two hardened knuckles, on aged gorilla arms were an armoury of Carrier bags. He was with an equally impressive gentlemen armed to the teeth with rolls of bedding, dressed in an oversized navy uniform, which must have fit when they were both Russia's finest fighting men.
I noticed him because he crossed at the red, directly into swerving, Mercedes and BWMs, absuivley honking "Get back" from their horns. I winced in thought of the inevitable and I wasn't the only one, his companion had tried to pull him back and a young lady had made a brief dash in front of me to try and restrain him. But he was unrestrainable and unconquerable, indefatigable, he shrugged them both off and marched on. We shouldn't have been worried, this hero of the war, who had survived German bullets knew German cars couldn't stop him. He made slow progress never looking left or right only, forward, forward, on, on. When he reached the opposite side he pulled a 180 pivot turn, dropped his bags, harrumphed up his shoulders and mocked us all in jocular Russian. I couldn't understand it but I knew what it meant
"Hey, what are you waiting for."
We all laughed, everyone, languishing on the other side.
Sasha
"You are foolish, to take train if you only talk English"
"I thought I might be, it sounds about right"
Sasha was the first Russian I met and one of the best. I'd taken the night train Plansky, from Riga, to St. Petersburg and met him on the train. I think he may have became a sort of protector. I had sat down and a Russian started shouting at me. I think he may have been trying to rob me, but Russian is such a mystery to me, I could have just sat in his Seat. Like a Cossack at War Sasha, started shouting howling and the man retreated in confusion; like Napolean out of Moscow. That was how we met.
I asked Sasha what the man had wanted, but he said it didn't matter. But he followed it with:
"I will sit next to you, so no one will rob you." In a benevolent way I think he was trying to scare me, because the train didn't seem threatening at all. Like all night trains it was just full of tired people.
As we left Riga, the train entered the boggy grass land marsh and birch that I had seen entering Riga. It looked miserable, really bleak. Sasha had been in Riga on business on a real estate trip. Prices in Riga have fallen by 2/3 since the finical crisis hit, there are more empty properties here than in Ireland. He lived in St. Petersburg, at the border he showed me his passport, it still said USSR, he had been born in Belarus.
St. Petersburg is built in 700 Islands, it has over 100 bridges. It was built by Peter the Great, probably Russia best leader, although Putin might get a shoe in. Russia is like no country I have visited, they have the west but this is different. Crylicc is indecipherable, the language incomprehensible to my ears. It felt like I was visiting a civilization not a city.
Sasha was friendly, I told him that I had presumed Russians were all surly, he said.
"Yes, But I'm not real Russian. Im from Belarus"
He spoke English well, but with a make piece syntax, that was amusing.
"In St.Petersburg you will make Big party"
"Don't flush toilet paper down loo, you will have chance of seeing real flood".
The water in St. Petersburg comes out the tap Brown. I wasn't sure at first, I thought my eyes might tired eyes might be tricking me, so I poured a glass and let it settle. It was definitely Brown.
I asked the receptionist at the Hostel if it was drinkable.
"This is not recommended. At least, you must boil it first". I played it safe and stuck to the bottled beer.
Sasha said that I was just going to miss the White nights. The city is at such a high lattiude that at the end of may to mid june, the sun never properly sets. Twilight lasts to midnight and the sun rises a few hours later. Even though I was in may, the city had a sombre glow till well past two, but I supposed could be my wish for romantisicim re interpretating, light pollution.
"I thought I might be, it sounds about right"
Sasha was the first Russian I met and one of the best. I'd taken the night train Plansky, from Riga, to St. Petersburg and met him on the train. I think he may have became a sort of protector. I had sat down and a Russian started shouting at me. I think he may have been trying to rob me, but Russian is such a mystery to me, I could have just sat in his Seat. Like a Cossack at War Sasha, started shouting howling and the man retreated in confusion; like Napolean out of Moscow. That was how we met.
I asked Sasha what the man had wanted, but he said it didn't matter. But he followed it with:
"I will sit next to you, so no one will rob you." In a benevolent way I think he was trying to scare me, because the train didn't seem threatening at all. Like all night trains it was just full of tired people.
As we left Riga, the train entered the boggy grass land marsh and birch that I had seen entering Riga. It looked miserable, really bleak. Sasha had been in Riga on business on a real estate trip. Prices in Riga have fallen by 2/3 since the finical crisis hit, there are more empty properties here than in Ireland. He lived in St. Petersburg, at the border he showed me his passport, it still said USSR, he had been born in Belarus.
St. Petersburg is built in 700 Islands, it has over 100 bridges. It was built by Peter the Great, probably Russia best leader, although Putin might get a shoe in. Russia is like no country I have visited, they have the west but this is different. Crylicc is indecipherable, the language incomprehensible to my ears. It felt like I was visiting a civilization not a city.
Sasha was friendly, I told him that I had presumed Russians were all surly, he said.
"Yes, But I'm not real Russian. Im from Belarus"
He spoke English well, but with a make piece syntax, that was amusing.
"In St.Petersburg you will make Big party"
"Don't flush toilet paper down loo, you will have chance of seeing real flood".
The water in St. Petersburg comes out the tap Brown. I wasn't sure at first, I thought my eyes might tired eyes might be tricking me, so I poured a glass and let it settle. It was definitely Brown.
I asked the receptionist at the Hostel if it was drinkable.
"This is not recommended. At least, you must boil it first". I played it safe and stuck to the bottled beer.
Sasha said that I was just going to miss the White nights. The city is at such a high lattiude that at the end of may to mid june, the sun never properly sets. Twilight lasts to midnight and the sun rises a few hours later. Even though I was in may, the city had a sombre glow till well past two, but I supposed could be my wish for romantisicim re interpretating, light pollution.
Occupation
The Museum of the Occupation of Lativia, 1940 -1991 presents some dispering material. Hitler rolled in and deported the Jews, then Stalin came in after and tried to report the rest of the Latvians. It really was the definition of out of the frying pan into the fire. Thousands were sent to Serbia, most never made it back. They died in concentration camps throughout Europe and Asia. Experimented on by the KGB. Stalin really was an awful thug, 27 million killed on his watch. That sort of scale is hellishly impressive. Unforgivable. Under Stalin, in Latvia, Death had obtained a quality that wasn't finality as if found at the end of life, but it became elemental as common and as certain as Earth, Wind and Fire.
Of course, we knew he was bad. The Allies, even thought about going on the attack the moment peace was declared; naming it Operation Unthinkable. We didn't, if was unthinkable, but might have worth it.
Of course, we knew he was bad. The Allies, even thought about going on the attack the moment peace was declared; naming it Operation Unthinkable. We didn't, if was unthinkable, but might have worth it.
I was in Riga for VE day. 65 years peace in Europe. Good news. There were celerbations over Russia and Europe, lest we forget. We'll never forget. The sacrifice made by the USSR to defeat Hitler is tremendous, 19,000 citizens died everyday through the conflict The bloodiest battles of the were fought on the Eastern front, I was heading to Stalingrad, the bloodiest siege in Human history. Unimaginable violence on the Stepes of Europe. Russia has always thrown labour at problems, it mashed the Germans into the ground, with the weight of bodies. The Germans, were better led, better equipped, better trained, but they couldn't replace dead men. That's no way to fight a war, grinding another country to attrition Latvia really had it tough, losing one despot for another.
Outside the museum they have a exhibition to Latvian independence. For us Brits, in which democracy was won so long ago, its rather nice to see such freshness in governance. Its already turned to cynicism in Latvia, with 26% unemployment, endemic corruption, but not Bitterness like in England. Politics never sleeps.
Outside the museam they have translated phrases that were written about independence in 1991. Something must have been lost.
"Why is everyone so elated? What are they so happy about? Does this not mean that human fulfilment requires something differant other than that which we chase in the grey exhaustion of our everyday routine? What was our treasure then? What was our prosperity? Wasn't it our Spirituality?
The meaning an enigma, I was heading to Russia, and that was a greater mystery.
The meaning an enigma, I was heading to Russia, and that was a greater mystery.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Riga: The Freak show and the Baltic Book club.
Some people call Riga the Thailand of the Baltics, I presume its because off all the sex tourism as I never managed to find its tropics I never found its vice either, but then again I wasn't looking. Either way is pretty tragic. The women here look like they are trying to dress cheap, or maybe they are trying to dress classy but all the clothes are cheap. Died hair, leather skirts, fishnet tights. Its all a bit of a horror show. This of course is a little unfair. Not all the women look cheap but a vast majority do and if it is a difference in styles the fault is mine not theirs. The men though, they look like they carry baseball bats for walking sticks and wear knuckle dusters for wedding rings and I'm certain they don't but I think there intentions to the legions of tourists who invade their city may as well be as if they did.
Which is in contrast to the city itself, because Riga is a nice place. I think the Dutch must have been here at some point, plying their trade and building their houses. It might be on Baltics but there is a touch of the Zeiter Sea here in some of their buildings. Art Nouveaux is dominant too, all built when Riga was rich. I never seem so much curved and floral relief all juxtaposed with medieval cobbled streets.
There is a Church here too, looks barque but not, the style might be called rocco but I don't know my art history. I've never seen anything like it. Its made of bronze or brass, and has a spire that saws high above the city. I went up to the top to have a look around, and saw Riga laid out below me. From up here it looked like a medeival village, but down there it had the feel of a city. Luther is the man for the religious, up here amongst the Baltic states. I saw his painting on a Church wall, his hooked nose beaking out at me. I was there listening to a Bach organ fuge and the heretic gave me the heeby-jebbies. Not Bach of course but Luther, Bach can make your hair stand on end, but only in a good way.
The central market in Riga, is inside four old zepplin hangers, built back when Airships were going to be the future of air transport. Sometimes, it looks like commerce in Riga hasn't moved on much since those heady past days. It;s so cheap you're buying several months shop for the price of a weeks, if you converted Great Britians into Latvians. Its a pity the choice isn't so great, I cant imagine what it would have been like under the communists, probably just a funeral train of old grey women selling bread and Vodka.
I brought a meal, it was mash and meatballs and an orange sauce. Finding a cheap place to eat has become a sixth sense. The seveth was for the mugging. The sauce tasted good, I recognised it from primary school but I couldnt place it, but I knew I hadn't had it for years. As I shovelled the congealed potatoes into my mouth, the memory congealed too. It was that sauce you get from straining the hoops out of spaghetti hoops, half tomato, half sugar. I am quite sure of it. It was the right colour for it too, luminous orange. I don't know what they did with the hoops but I never did find them on my plate, perhaps they sell them separability as some local cusine.
In the Hostel hunkered over the computer and nursing a Beer was a ragedy man in a ragid coat. He was American. I didnt ask him his name, I didnt really want to talk to him, but he wanted to talk to me. He was working in Moscow selling investment products. Now I know a little bit about this market, and I know you dont sell investment products be a big success and holiday in a Hostel. He was right wing, to the right of Mussolini. He didn't believe in evolution, he said it was "all wrong, damn it". He was one of those types who think the world was just shy of 5000 years.
I'm no Darwinisit, I don't know enough about it to be one. However, I trust those who do and I'm quite confident its the best idea we have. The thing about being right and wrong, is that right and wrong is not discrete digital units but an analouge scale. If I said the world is round and you said the world is flat, we would both be wrong, but your wrong is far worse than mine. If that analogy sounds smart, its because it is, and its not mine, I first read it while reading Asimov. I tried to explain this discretion to the American, but he was a fundamentalists, and you can't talk to fundamentalists about anything; they won't change their mind and they can't change the subject, not mine either, Churchill's.
He had a stash of boiled eggs, which he would crack on the table, roll around, then peel with the long dirty nails of his thin gaunt nails. He would dictate, while chewing. He looked like a biker version of skeletor, all skin bones and an oversized greying, black leather jacket. No breaks between eggs and Phillipics for this man, he must have thought I valued his insights, which I didn't. They were racist, vile, simple,overbearing and loud. It was horrible. I called him the Boiled egg monster, a child's nightmare, a liberals too. He used liberal as if it was a dirty word. I told him I was Liberal through and through. He didn't like me and the feeling was mutual, but like riding a tiger, the conversations I had with him were so extreme in their excitement it was impossible to get off. If I had I would have been swallowed whole by his self aggrandizing and miss-placed bravado. I got the last laugh though. As I said I know a little about markets and I am certain you're not in Investment and a success if your protein for the day is boiled egg and carbohydrates, spiteful words and bilious opinions.
Riga must have been collecting the odd balls of Europe. A staging ground, for the expansion of Ripleys believe it or Not into the Great Russian interior. There was a British man there, who might have been a sex-pat, but he didn't look it. He was in Riga for five months. He made his money writing advertisements for party balloons. I didnt understand it either. In this hostel I seemed to be the only person who had a normal source of income, or at least had. This Brit had got married to a Lithuanian woman after just three days.
He told me and I said: "That sounds like trouble".
It was. She also had a boyfriend. She was coming to visit the Brit to talk things over. I presume money was involved.
"Whatever you do. dont mention that I told you we got married"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
I really wouldn't. I saw the man and his "wife" later and gave them both a wide berth, you don't want to get mixed up in that sort of business.
There was a Swede on holdiay too. He was seedy and I despised him from the off. He had just had his hair cut you could tell, and he had gone for the Sleazed, Back and Slides look. He said he liked Riga because the women were cheap. I said I thought he was a disgrace and didn't like it for the same reason. He said that he thought British girls were ugly and didn't dress sexy. I told him, that he mistook sexy for cheap and I said it would't matter because "our girls wouldn't go near you". They wouldn't he was very ugly and British girls, or the ones I know can spot a creep a mile off.
Riga was all going wrong. I was having a dreadful time. Everyone I ran into domestic or forighn seemed to have been at the methanol vodka. There Brains rotted by alcohol or embroiled in machinations so complex, confusing and sinister that soon the only sensible escape would be booze. I was getting down, In Brataslavia I thought I had found my second wind, but like a Sea Breeze it ended with the sunset. I was going to drink myself into a depressed haze, but on the steppes of the Hostel there was a girl reading Crime and Punishment.
Now literature, good literature is the way to my heart. She was Russian reading a Russian classic. To have had her language! And, her books, that would have been something! We spoke for hours about Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Solzhenitsyn. It was a great conversation. Neither of us were faking it, which is rare when you talk to anyone about books. I asked her why Russians were so good at writing, she said "What else would you do in the Winter?" I told her I'd probably drink. My flippancy almost ruined it. But it was fine, we were both Bibliophiles, we had read the Classics and both loved them. We had both been having long and lecherous affairs with the written word.
It really made Riga for me, a book club in the Baltics that made the whole trip worthwhile. I'd travel half way round the world for a talk that good, in fact that's almost what I had done. By distance on the rails I could probably have been in Siberia by now.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Mickow in Warsaw.
In Warsaw I met a Londoner. Mickow he was Polish, but he had been living in London for years. He didn't look like a Pole, he dressed like a British man. I don't know what it is but you can see us a mile away. Its the way we dress, those bright colours and shabby look.
We clocked each other from across the concourse of a concrete hulk of Warsaw central station
"Are you English?" He asked, quietly and sheepishly.
"Yes, you?"
"I live in London".
I spent a long time talking to Mickow, he helped me find my train. Back in London, I think he was quite something in the Polish community. He told me that he would help out at the job centre in London bridge translating for new entrants to London's Polish community. While we were talking he took a call from a London number. He spoke in rapid polish, it was a random Pole, who had been passed his number by another. Mikow seemed to be the go to guy, to get yourself started in the big city.
He was London through and through, he preferred it to Warsaw. Now here was something I had noticed on my travels. You could call it my great insight, the countries I had been in, the people I had met, had become a mirror on which to observe and draw my own conclusions from our own great nation. I met Australian -Londoners, Polish-Londoners, Bulgarian and Greek Londoners. They were all from London first their countries second. London is a city so large so full of character it consumes nationality. It is the international city. If you live in London for anytime no matter where you were born you're a londoner first a nationality second. Of course I suppose those born in ear-shot of Bow-bells would disagree, but they have to move with the times. The world came to London and city conquered it.
I left Mickow at Vilinus, we exchanged emails, but I know already we'll never get in contact. It was dust in the wind. A meeting caught by a thin net of mutual distraction, that would fall apart as soon as the train left the station. He gave me a sandwich his mother had made him. It was basic, cheese and ham, but it tasted delicious. It had been made in Warsaw the day before, but unlike my swiftly cooked Pasta chewed down the day before, the sandwich was made with the missing ingredients, I couldn't put into my own food. His mother in Warsaw, who hadn't seen her Son for two years had put her heart into the sandwich. It was home food, made with love for a prodigal son and my taste buds basked in every stolen bite.
We clocked each other from across the concourse of a concrete hulk of Warsaw central station
"Are you English?" He asked, quietly and sheepishly.
"Yes, you?"
"I live in London".
I spent a long time talking to Mickow, he helped me find my train. Back in London, I think he was quite something in the Polish community. He told me that he would help out at the job centre in London bridge translating for new entrants to London's Polish community. While we were talking he took a call from a London number. He spoke in rapid polish, it was a random Pole, who had been passed his number by another. Mikow seemed to be the go to guy, to get yourself started in the big city.
He was London through and through, he preferred it to Warsaw. Now here was something I had noticed on my travels. You could call it my great insight, the countries I had been in, the people I had met, had become a mirror on which to observe and draw my own conclusions from our own great nation. I met Australian -Londoners, Polish-Londoners, Bulgarian and Greek Londoners. They were all from London first their countries second. London is a city so large so full of character it consumes nationality. It is the international city. If you live in London for anytime no matter where you were born you're a londoner first a nationality second. Of course I suppose those born in ear-shot of Bow-bells would disagree, but they have to move with the times. The world came to London and city conquered it.
I left Mickow at Vilinus, we exchanged emails, but I know already we'll never get in contact. It was dust in the wind. A meeting caught by a thin net of mutual distraction, that would fall apart as soon as the train left the station. He gave me a sandwich his mother had made him. It was basic, cheese and ham, but it tasted delicious. It had been made in Warsaw the day before, but unlike my swiftly cooked Pasta chewed down the day before, the sandwich was made with the missing ingredients, I couldn't put into my own food. His mother in Warsaw, who hadn't seen her Son for two years had put her heart into the sandwich. It was home food, made with love for a prodigal son and my taste buds basked in every stolen bite.
The Cold North Wind
My time in Bratislava was sojourn, it was R&R; time to re-group, before the big push East. I spent and eternity planning, and I had realised that I was running out of time to get through to Russia. I had hoped to visit Prague and Villinus but the trains wouldn't allow it.
I had organised my Russian Visa before I had organised anything else and I hadn't seemed to have ever got round to organising that anything else, so Europe had been done on the fly.
Playing it fast and lose had distinct advantages, if I liked a place I stayed a little longer. But, those extra days in Paris, Istanbul and Belgrade I had enjoyed, but the the time had built up. I know had to race North, I had planned to go from Vilinus through to Beleraus but I hadn't realised I needed a transit Visa, which meant I had to go through Riga in Latvia. I had more countries then days to get through left in my itinerary.
On the second day it was raining in Bratislava, it hadn't rained for days while I had been in Europe. I had been carrying around winter gear and umbrella for weeks. In the Sun of Southern Europe I had been sourly tempted to throw it all away, I'd been slinging possessions out of my Backpack from Paris to Istanbul. The umbrella and the coat almost went the way of Tolstoy, and my swimming trunks. From Gaul, Thrace, Italy the Pelopanese and Attica, the hot ball of the Sun had mocked me as I sweated around with an overloaded backpack. In Bratislava I had my moment. As the rains came tumbling down I was dry to the bone. It felt like I had outwitted God, which is always a foolish thing to think.
I brought food for the journey. I'd even cooked a pasta meal. But it wasn't real home cooking, I playing home. On the train from Slovakia I met an American and her husband. He was Slovakian and she was American, but he had lived in America from his childhood. It was his first trip back to the country of his birth. He was unimpressed.
"Its not what I thought it would be like. Not from the stories my family told me"
"Babe, it never would have been from the way your family talked and talked"
I told them that my guide book had told me that Slovakia was famous for beautiful women.
"Hmmm. It shouldn't be" was the wife's reply. I was inclined to agree with her.
They were moving onto Italy that night. I told them I had been there a couple of weeks previously.
"How long are you going for?"
"Four days. Do you think that's too long?"
"For all of Italy?" I asked. "Hmm, I think you could be busy"
The sandwiches I'd made for the journey disintegrated in my hands. The soft cheese had wormed its way into the dry bread and they fell apart in my hands. It was a let down, it had the integrity of a Big Mac.
I had organised my Russian Visa before I had organised anything else and I hadn't seemed to have ever got round to organising that anything else, so Europe had been done on the fly.
Playing it fast and lose had distinct advantages, if I liked a place I stayed a little longer. But, those extra days in Paris, Istanbul and Belgrade I had enjoyed, but the the time had built up. I know had to race North, I had planned to go from Vilinus through to Beleraus but I hadn't realised I needed a transit Visa, which meant I had to go through Riga in Latvia. I had more countries then days to get through left in my itinerary.
On the second day it was raining in Bratislava, it hadn't rained for days while I had been in Europe. I had been carrying around winter gear and umbrella for weeks. In the Sun of Southern Europe I had been sourly tempted to throw it all away, I'd been slinging possessions out of my Backpack from Paris to Istanbul. The umbrella and the coat almost went the way of Tolstoy, and my swimming trunks. From Gaul, Thrace, Italy the Pelopanese and Attica, the hot ball of the Sun had mocked me as I sweated around with an overloaded backpack. In Bratislava I had my moment. As the rains came tumbling down I was dry to the bone. It felt like I had outwitted God, which is always a foolish thing to think.
I brought food for the journey. I'd even cooked a pasta meal. But it wasn't real home cooking, I playing home. On the train from Slovakia I met an American and her husband. He was Slovakian and she was American, but he had lived in America from his childhood. It was his first trip back to the country of his birth. He was unimpressed.
"Its not what I thought it would be like. Not from the stories my family told me"
"Babe, it never would have been from the way your family talked and talked"
I told them that my guide book had told me that Slovakia was famous for beautiful women.
"Hmmm. It shouldn't be" was the wife's reply. I was inclined to agree with her.
They were moving onto Italy that night. I told them I had been there a couple of weeks previously.
"How long are you going for?"
"Four days. Do you think that's too long?"
"For all of Italy?" I asked. "Hmm, I think you could be busy"
The sandwiches I'd made for the journey disintegrated in my hands. The soft cheese had wormed its way into the dry bread and they fell apart in my hands. It was a let down, it had the integrity of a Big Mac.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
In search of a second wind
The Castle and the Parliament of Budapest are really something to see. The parliaments Neo-gothic, the whole city does look a little like London. I suppose its because they were great at the same time, the Hapsburgs and the Victorians. It took me an age to walk to the citadel, I got disorientated when I got of the underground and walked the wrong way. All these cities in Eastern Europe seem to be the same, a big castle on hill overlooking the city.
I was walking exploring some Germans, Kim and Tina, they were on a euro trip. The castle was impressive, but to be honest I’ve seen enough of them, not Germans, castles. The museums are informative, but to be honest, I’d seen enough of them too. I was seeing the sights out of obligation rather than desire, and there are few things in life which are enjoyable under obligation.
I strolled across the bridge to have a look at the parliament, it looked like Westminster but with a dome but that might be because I had read it, or simply because I missed London and wanted to see something that reminded me of home. That night we got battered and made a meal of salami bread and wine. It was nice, but the evening rang hollow. Tina and Kim looked like sisters, neither were pretty. They were 25 and 25 respecivly, and respectively a Chef and a sommelier. We had gathered together the last of our Hungarians, about 20 coins coming to a total of just under 4 euros. It was all rather pathetic.
We brought a couple of bottle of wines. I choose a Reisiling and the Germans always wanting a bit of France, went for a Muscat. I'm not really into my sweet anyway. We brought some bread and Chorizo, Cheese and Bread. It was a personal picnic, and we were ravenous. The wine supercharged our appeteites. I drank the Resiling and went to get a Cabernet Savigon, it was grim stuff, I half expected to pick some leafs out the bottle.
When I came back Kim was arguing with Tina in rapid German about the wine. I couln't follow besides I was drunk.
'Langsmear Bitte!" I chanted, but it did no good. The whole evening was getting a bit much, so I lit up a hungarian cigar, lent back and tried to enjoy myself, but the Hugarian cigar was about as good as the Hungarian wine
.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, when I woke up I could hear the Germans whispering. They had some scissors and were about to cut my hair.
"What the hell do you think your doing?" I cried.
I felt a bit uneven, of kilter, I was searching for a even keel. The situation had all become surreal. I felt groggy with the wine and the cigars. They said in unison.
"We think you would look lovely if you let us cut your hair"
I didn't want them anywhere near me; damn bats. I pulled the last of the wine from the bottom of the bottle with a long slug and a jerk of the head and said.
"Hurrrghhh, Im going to go to bed".
But I didn't though. I was in the doldrums. That night someone was snoring in the dorm and I couldn’t get to sleep. So I went out and brought some night nurse, another bottle of Hungarian wine and drank them. I’d had just about enough of Budapest so left in the morning.
We brought a couple of bottle of wines. I choose a Reisiling and the Germans always wanting a bit of France, went for a Muscat. I'm not really into my sweet anyway. We brought some bread and Chorizo, Cheese and Bread. It was a personal picnic, and we were ravenous. The wine supercharged our appeteites. I drank the Resiling and went to get a Cabernet Savigon, it was grim stuff, I half expected to pick some leafs out the bottle.
When I came back Kim was arguing with Tina in rapid German about the wine. I couln't follow besides I was drunk.
'Langsmear Bitte!" I chanted, but it did no good. The whole evening was getting a bit much, so I lit up a hungarian cigar, lent back and tried to enjoy myself, but the Hugarian cigar was about as good as the Hungarian wine
.
At some point I must have fallen asleep, when I woke up I could hear the Germans whispering. They had some scissors and were about to cut my hair.
"What the hell do you think your doing?" I cried.
I felt a bit uneven, of kilter, I was searching for a even keel. The situation had all become surreal. I felt groggy with the wine and the cigars. They said in unison.
"We think you would look lovely if you let us cut your hair"
I didn't want them anywhere near me; damn bats. I pulled the last of the wine from the bottom of the bottle with a long slug and a jerk of the head and said.
"Hurrrghhh, Im going to go to bed".
But I didn't though. I was in the doldrums. That night someone was snoring in the dorm and I couldn’t get to sleep. So I went out and brought some night nurse, another bottle of Hungarian wine and drank them. I’d had just about enough of Budapest so left in the morning.
Spirits were down, Id been moving so fast and seeing so many new things that a surly look or smile from a local as I got off a train could determine weather I liked the city or not. The weather could determine my thoughts on the populace, capricious by nature, transit, and rail transport only compounded my fickle mind. Everything was blurring into one. The cities were becoming similar, the languages the inhabitants spoke all sounded the same and were incomprehensible jibber jabber.
I needed to regroup and re plan, so I headed up to Bratislava chasing a second wind. It arrived , a gust of confidence and Bravado, that was induced by the Sun of Slovakia. I’d meant to be staying for one day, but got a second as the hostel was clean and I was tired. I’d bagged myself a single room for the price of a dorm. As ever there was a castle over looking a city and cobbled streets of the old town were worth a couple of afternoons stroll. I was tightening the budget again so I brought a few packs of salamis and some bread and had a feast under the castle.
On the second day it was a deluge, the skies were grey and with the rain the depression descended. I kept meeting travelers who told me horror stories of risky Russians and dodgy poles . I’d met a Australian who had been bottled for his wallet in Warsaw and a Swiss who had had to bribe his way across Russia. I had to man up though, I was being a Pussey. The stories anyone ever tells on the road are the bad ones. The trips which work out fine aren’t interesting. Still I was a little worried. Id once again built a pyramid of connections to get me up to Riga in Latvia, but this time I could n’t miss any of them . I had to be in Riga on the 9th to catch an overnight train to St. Petersburg for the tenth and I didn’t want any border issues, so the fear remained; the coward hiding at the back of my mind.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Trading the Huff
In 2008 when this recession was still just a few bankers mislaying a few zeros from their crib sheets. It wasn’t the Greeks who were the the bad news bears of Europe but the Hungarians. They had a currency that was rapidly leaking dignity, and was in risk of becoming one of those useless currencies, like the Zimbawean dollar or the Riechmark pound.
I know this because I used to work in and around money markets, and in particular I had a friend who broked the Hungarian Florrint. Or the Huff, as its known in finance. He matched buyers of the HUF with the sellers of the HUF and made the difference on the spread in between the two prices. For him the recession was a real cuff-huff-le.
By the end of 2008 he was having a hard time of it. Many of the clients he broked for were broke, the Huff was became near impossible to sell, and currency was devaluing so fast it was in real risk of disappearing altogether. It was a very stresfull period , he actually contracted a stomach ulcer.
I saw him perhaps two months ago, he has left finance and money markets altogether, working in the for more leisurely and far less rewarding field of Auto insurance. I told him that he needs to get back in the game. We’re still in a slump but volumes are up and there is profit to be made. He was having none of it.
“Stu, you don’t understand it was horrible. I’d be on the phone trying to sell and there would be tanks. Tanks,. Actual tanks, outside their parliament!”. Once bitten twice shy.
This almpost crisis, an almost fire was put out by a deluge of money from the IMF. In Budapest its just shy of two years since then and you couldn't tell that the economy almost went into meltdown. The city is teaming with business.
I went to the Central market, just by the banks of the Danube. Its housed in a three storey Hanger esque space, made of Brick , glass and steel. In england we would say it looks Victorian. The three floors stock fresh food. There are innumerable sausage sellers, it’s a real Butchers paradise, bakeries, and grocers.
There are also old women selling jars of picked vegetables. All folded up leaves, onions, gherkins, pressed faced and squeezed against the glass. Anything pickeled and squeezed against glass looks unattractive. It was a vegans Damion Herst exhibition. At my high school they had jars of pickled animals, entombed and slowly breaking apart in jars of formaldehyde, these preservative vegetable vats took me back to those salad days and I had to look away.
There are also old women selling jars of picked vegetables. All folded up leaves, onions, gherkins, pressed faced and squeezed against the glass. Anything pickeled and squeezed against glass looks unattractive. It was a vegans Damion Herst exhibition. At my high school they had jars of pickled animals, entombed and slowly breaking apart in jars of formaldehyde, these preservative vegetable vats took me back to those salad days and I had to look away.
On the third floor, besides and behind the inevitable tourist tat, are a row of stores selling Hungarians finest foods at Hungary's finest prices. I’d wanted some Hungarian fare for sometime. I’d tried the fish of Istanbul, the white Cheese heavy foods of Bulgaria and the meat parcel pastry packets of Serbia and of course the unforgeable, Red Rum in Slovenia. In Hungary I knew what I wanted. Goulash.
I brought a bowl for 800 Hungaroians. It looked like the colour of mud with bits in. It tasted like spiced earth with boot leather. It was tough and a little spicy, from the ones I’d met I suppose its bit like Hungarian women.
I brought a bowl for 800 Hungaroians. It looked like the colour of mud with bits in. It tasted like spiced earth with boot leather. It was tough and a little spicy, from the ones I’d met I suppose its bit like Hungarian women.
The Goulash was tasty, filling; hearty perhaps would be the best description. I ordered a few beers too. And began to really get on the go- Lash. I wandered past some shops selling chess sets, and some more selling Key rings, took me back to Agrophobia at The Grand Bazzar. I could feel pin pricks of sweat on the back of my neck, but this wasn’t so bad, there were n't as many god damn, bats. I ordered a Lagnos from a shop, ran by a real formidable women, her glare could burn steel, her massive forarms could have snapped me in half. She must have been the prodiginy of the last Warsaw pacts Olympic shot put team.
I ordered a Lagnos of her, its deep fried bread. She slammed it onto a piece of card, punched on some sour crème and then gave it a shot gun blast of grated cheese. I got out of there sharp-ish and took a nibble. Of course like all fast food it was delicious. One bite began dumping serotonin to brain, in reaction to its overwhelming fat and oil content. You could probably use them as fuel if you ever run out of fire lighters, they are so packed with energy. The cuisine, in Hungry reminded me of its people. Heavy, tough, hearty, warming, but a little bit of an aquirted taste.
I ordered a Lagnos of her, its deep fried bread. She slammed it onto a piece of card, punched on some sour crème and then gave it a shot gun blast of grated cheese. I got out of there sharp-ish and took a nibble. Of course like all fast food it was delicious. One bite began dumping serotonin to brain, in reaction to its overwhelming fat and oil content. You could probably use them as fuel if you ever run out of fire lighters, they are so packed with energy. The cuisine, in Hungry reminded me of its people. Heavy, tough, hearty, warming, but a little bit of an aquirted taste.
Monday, 3 May 2010
It's a terrible thought but I'd probably have been a Nazi.
The girl at the Hostel desk was surly, a real winter chill. I'd asked her for a map, I knew she had them, everyone had them but she ignored me. I was only being polite, I'd already spied them behind the Iron curtain of a desk. So I broke detante, lent over and seized one. It was a pity because the rest of the Hungarian I met seemed nice enough chaps, a little quiet, but I suppose I can be overbearing so the fault is probably as much mine as theirs,. that is if difference is a fault at all.
The map was a touristic classic, It had all the sites of historical interests marked and some which weren't. It had numbers from 1-300 of things to see and do. I get the impression that it was compliled by an over zealous, underling in Hungrys ministry of culture. Not every statue is a site, and most definitely not of interest. The nearest number, number 15, was the Great Synagogue, in the centre of what was the Great Jewish quarter, now of course just the Jewish quarter. The synagogue is still grand. Its enormous, comparable to Christendoms cathedrals. It was built in 1854 by Budapests large Jewish community but in the Moorish style. The Jews once composed 25% plus of the population of Budapest. Of course like much of Europe, Hitler and his goons did their best to put an end to such wonderful diversity.
I knew a Hungarian, in fact I knew a Hungarian Jew and to quote him "A Hungarian Jew is the only man who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out in front", Tenacity, you always have to admire that. Budapest's community is recovering, tenaciously fighting back, but it has been ravaged and I don't suppose it will ever be what it once was was, even if they are amazing at the revolving door trick. Before the war there were 250,000 by the end it was less than 150,000 the difference can be made up by murder . It is difficult not to judge in the face of such cold, bloody facts, really, how could this have happened? We saw it to quote Churchill circa April 1944. " There is no doubt that this persecution of Jews in Hungary and their expulsion from enemy territory is probably the greatest and most horrible crime ever committed in the whole history of the world".
Would I have seen it? Probably not. You have to pinch yourself, you have to be honest, would you have gone along with what was happening? I expect so. That is the chilling truth, if you stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back at you, he'll smirk, snigger and whisper in you ear "in all probability in 1944 you would have been complicit in the State operated industry of murder". Its a horrible thought, something I'll never forget, I truly wish I could.
The Jewish quarter would have been bursting then, now its quiet. The Synagogue was only repaired in 1991 from the ravages of the war and then the soviets. Even time can't heal these wounds. In light of the depressing fact that I would have probably been a Nazi symperthiser, I can take heart in the brilliance that just maybe, if I am the man I like to think I am (And I know I'm not), I would have been either Budapestian, Giorgio Perlasca or Raoul Wallenberg. They both masqueraded as diplomats, they both danced daily with death, matching wits with the Nazi Death machine and winning. In various capacities at great personal risk to themselves they saved thousands, tens of thousands of Budapest's Jews. Unimaginable bravery, these two boys were real good eggs; a credit to humanity. Wallenberg died somewhere in Russia, he was arrested by the Soviets at the end of the war, I couldn't find out why. And, after the war Perlasca returned to his native Italy, he never mentioned what he had achieved. It took the Jews he saved some 40 years to track him down, find him and thank him. That is unquestionable heroics, integrity, the beam of redemptive light in an otherwise ghastly, horrific story.
The Synagogue is the physical manifestation of what is a long and awful saga of persecution and murder. And in this tale, in which there is almost nothing good to say and a tragic absence of good men. In the light of the horrible truth that I may well have been a Nazi sympathiser, I will pretend I would have been one of these better men. The better Angels of our Nature. That is what you have to do, otherwise you simply can't explain it. Afterall, this would never happen on my watch would it?
The map was a touristic classic, It had all the sites of historical interests marked and some which weren't. It had numbers from 1-300 of things to see and do. I get the impression that it was compliled by an over zealous, underling in Hungrys ministry of culture. Not every statue is a site, and most definitely not of interest. The nearest number, number 15, was the Great Synagogue, in the centre of what was the Great Jewish quarter, now of course just the Jewish quarter. The synagogue is still grand. Its enormous, comparable to Christendoms cathedrals. It was built in 1854 by Budapests large Jewish community but in the Moorish style. The Jews once composed 25% plus of the population of Budapest. Of course like much of Europe, Hitler and his goons did their best to put an end to such wonderful diversity.
I knew a Hungarian, in fact I knew a Hungarian Jew and to quote him "A Hungarian Jew is the only man who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out in front", Tenacity, you always have to admire that. Budapest's community is recovering, tenaciously fighting back, but it has been ravaged and I don't suppose it will ever be what it once was was, even if they are amazing at the revolving door trick. Before the war there were 250,000 by the end it was less than 150,000 the difference can be made up by murder . It is difficult not to judge in the face of such cold, bloody facts, really, how could this have happened? We saw it to quote Churchill circa April 1944. " There is no doubt that this persecution of Jews in Hungary and their expulsion from enemy territory is probably the greatest and most horrible crime ever committed in the whole history of the world".
Would I have seen it? Probably not. You have to pinch yourself, you have to be honest, would you have gone along with what was happening? I expect so. That is the chilling truth, if you stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back at you, he'll smirk, snigger and whisper in you ear "in all probability in 1944 you would have been complicit in the State operated industry of murder". Its a horrible thought, something I'll never forget, I truly wish I could.
The Jewish quarter would have been bursting then, now its quiet. The Synagogue was only repaired in 1991 from the ravages of the war and then the soviets. Even time can't heal these wounds. In light of the depressing fact that I would have probably been a Nazi symperthiser, I can take heart in the brilliance that just maybe, if I am the man I like to think I am (And I know I'm not), I would have been either Budapestian, Giorgio Perlasca or Raoul Wallenberg. They both masqueraded as diplomats, they both danced daily with death, matching wits with the Nazi Death machine and winning. In various capacities at great personal risk to themselves they saved thousands, tens of thousands of Budapest's Jews. Unimaginable bravery, these two boys were real good eggs; a credit to humanity. Wallenberg died somewhere in Russia, he was arrested by the Soviets at the end of the war, I couldn't find out why. And, after the war Perlasca returned to his native Italy, he never mentioned what he had achieved. It took the Jews he saved some 40 years to track him down, find him and thank him. That is unquestionable heroics, integrity, the beam of redemptive light in an otherwise ghastly, horrific story.
The Synagogue is the physical manifestation of what is a long and awful saga of persecution and murder. And in this tale, in which there is almost nothing good to say and a tragic absence of good men. In the light of the horrible truth that I may well have been a Nazi sympathiser, I will pretend I would have been one of these better men. The better Angels of our Nature. That is what you have to do, otherwise you simply can't explain it. Afterall, this would never happen on my watch would it?
Sunday, 2 May 2010
A Night at the Opera
I took the train from Slovenia to Budapest. It was nondesript, the train not the city. I slept for much of the journey. At a place called Hodus-Hodus, they switched engines. I watched it, I like that big industry stuff, but it was taking so long I didn't care for it any more and went to buy a coffee. It didn't take that long, and I almost missed the train. I almost got Duffilled as Theroux would say. I had to sprint after it screaming, I thought Id been marooned in some backwater, with no money, no passport and a half spilt cappuccino. The kindly driver stopped the train. You don't get that in England do you.
I arrived in Budapest and got lost. Lost really badly, I taken a picture of a map from my computer to where I wanted to stay. Google maps, screwed me over, or I just screwed myself. Same difference. I rang on the address I had taken, I already knew it wouldn't be a Hostel and was confirmed by the angry Hungarian on the end of the Buzzer. Fuck you, I said as he shouted at me. I ran away, I was worried he might come after me. I ended up wandering around Budapest for two hours. Backpack and all. I fucking hate my back pack. I had to buy a Burger King whopper to regroup,did the trick but the dogs charged me for Ketchup, beside I was still Hungry in Hungry and now thin on the Hungarians.
I'd come to Budapest because my old pal Google had told me that you could get cheap as chips tickets to the Opera . I love the opera, anyone who goes would and does. La Clemenza di Tito was playing. I just made it. I brought the Plebeian tickets and they were at Plebeian prices, just 1400 Hungarians, and they weren't the cheapest seats in the house. You could they weren't for the rich folk you had to enter through a side door and miss all that architectural glory. It didnt matter everyone feels like royalty at the Opera. Sumptuous, ornate, that's who you would describe all opera houses, but Budapests is double decadent, its a Sofflait of grandiose design. The Accousitcs were very good too.
Im a big fan of Wolfgang, if you have ears, who wouldn't be. Rossini does Cheek, Beethoven Nature, Bach is the master of the interwoven melody, but Mozart does relationships, man v woman, rich v poor, the musical social commentator. He is the master of his class and a very good friend of mine. Le Nozze De Figgoro, released just before the French revolution hammers class. The Magic Flute is the Liberals hymn to good governance, La Clemenza di Tito is all about magnanimity. It was a double dose of love for me, it was about rome. I was sitting next to a bunch of frenchies and even they couldn't ruin it for me, with there sniffing and opening and shutting of camera cases. They ruined it for the lady infront, she turned round and told them to shut up. They left after the first act. Shocking. The chappie who played Titus was superb a real strong voice, he could have been Imperator in a different life. I almost cried, Opera gets me like that, but I cry at anything, I'm an absoulte child. It was in Italien, but it didnt matter you feel it, not hear it.
Afterwards I met an elderly Irish lady. I never did catch her name she must have been about seventy and a real opera buff. She had been all over the world seeing performance, La Scala, some place in St. Petersburg, I' never heard of. Covant garden. A very interesting old woman, she brought me a glass of wine, the old flirt. I felt a bit creepy so I said my good byes and had a wander around the Hostels area. There was a peep show just outside, you could have take a peek for 100 Hungarians, but after Amsterdam that stuff just creeps me out. To Voyeuristic for I the voyeur, so I brought a Beer and then two more went back to the Hostel and wrote this nonsense.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Eating Red Rum in Ljubljana.
In Ljubliana I ate a horse. I was chomping at the bit for a bit of meat and I had heard that in Sloveina they make a meal out of Red Rums.
Minced up in a Burger was how I ate my thourghbred, I saddled it up with some Ketchup and Mayo. It must have come from good breeding stock becasue there was n't a gram of fat on it. The meat was juicy and moist, delicous too. Disguting you say? Come now, why the long face? M-eat is Eat. Ill be licking my lips next time I watch the Grand National.
Ljuliana has a coffee culture, House after house serves good cups of the Black stuff, especially by the river in the old town, under the shadow of the Castle. The city is pretty, cholcate box nice. It reminded me of some of the smaller cities in Belgium and a little bit of Italy, but its only becasue the Renasance was here too. Ljubliana, looks like a counter reformation town. There is Barque everywhere and with its residual beauty, the Popes can still hit hard.
The Slovians have their own style here too, I think it might be called Cessionist, its nice. Looks like Art deco, just before Art Deco. I climbed up to the Citdel, that was a struggle, I had to take a nap at the top, under the morning sun. When I woke up I paid 5 Europes to see a bad 3D film about the city.
Apparently tradition dictates that it was founded by Jason and the Argonaughts. I dont believe it, he would have been a long way from home if he had, and I think the Archeology is with me. The video skipped from 388 AD to 1850AD, so we can assume that nothing of interest happened in the interveneing 1200 years. Of course it did, for a start the castle had been built in the 12th Centuary and Napolean and his goons had taken the pound of flesh in the early 1800s.
Slovenia was the power house of Titos Yugoslavia and its easy to see when you compare it to, Belgrade or Sofia .It has a distinctly Western European feel, that could place it anywhere from Ravenna to Brussles, Bruge to Bravaeria. The prices were western European too, they werent the cheap eats normally found on the Balkland express. I was having a mare spending money on Horse and coffess, I didnt mind though, the city is very nice, in the evening I watched some superb Acapella singers.
Minced up in a Burger was how I ate my thourghbred, I saddled it up with some Ketchup and Mayo. It must have come from good breeding stock becasue there was n't a gram of fat on it. The meat was juicy and moist, delicous too. Disguting you say? Come now, why the long face? M-eat is Eat. Ill be licking my lips next time I watch the Grand National.
Ljuliana has a coffee culture, House after house serves good cups of the Black stuff, especially by the river in the old town, under the shadow of the Castle. The city is pretty, cholcate box nice. It reminded me of some of the smaller cities in Belgium and a little bit of Italy, but its only becasue the Renasance was here too. Ljubliana, looks like a counter reformation town. There is Barque everywhere and with its residual beauty, the Popes can still hit hard.
Apparently tradition dictates that it was founded by Jason and the Argonaughts. I dont believe it, he would have been a long way from home if he had, and I think the Archeology is with me. The video skipped from 388 AD to 1850AD, so we can assume that nothing of interest happened in the interveneing 1200 years. Of course it did, for a start the castle had been built in the 12th Centuary and Napolean and his goons had taken the pound of flesh in the early 1800s.
Slovenia was the power house of Titos Yugoslavia and its easy to see when you compare it to, Belgrade or Sofia .It has a distinctly Western European feel, that could place it anywhere from Ravenna to Brussles, Bruge to Bravaeria. The prices were western European too, they werent the cheap eats normally found on the Balkland express. I was having a mare spending money on Horse and coffess, I didnt mind though, the city is very nice, in the evening I watched some superb Acapella singers.
Gatsby, Babys, Bribes to Slovenia
I was back on the Balklan express charging through the night. The Slovienians, I had met in Belgrade had been such diplomats for the coutnrz that I it would have been bad manners not to visit their country. It was a long night journey and after the German incidence of the dog in the night I was to selfish to share the cabin.
I had an argument with the conducter asking if I could be put alone. I followed him through the carriges, arguing in English and then German. Like the train we were on, he wasnt moving, and I was deperate to be on my own. I had asked at the station how much a first class cabin was, it wasnt expensive but was out of my price range, but I regretted not paying it now. I went back to the cabin, and a young mother entered with her baby.
Next door were a pair of Macedonian Politics students doing a quick tour of the Balklands, they wanted to know why I wasnt coming to Sjkope, eveyone here is proud of there country and wants to show it off. Its a nice touch. I was to busz though, I had seven days to make it to the Baltic states and I was a little bit behind on time. I had met a couch surfer in Belgrade though, who was sorting me out a bed in Krakow.
I setteled down with Gatsby and a bottle of Gin I had brought in Belgrade, it was a long journey and I ways hoping, gin dependant, I could polish off the Great mans rise and demise in a day and a night. It wasnt to be , the baby started crying, the morther started shusshing and I was swiging from the bottle. It wailed on and on and the Jazz age or the booze couldnt distract me. I had, had just about enough of this. I picked up my wallet and went to find the conductor so I could pay him a bribe.
I had an argument with the conducter asking if I could be put alone. I followed him through the carriges, arguing in English and then German. Like the train we were on, he wasnt moving, and I was deperate to be on my own. I had asked at the station how much a first class cabin was, it wasnt expensive but was out of my price range, but I regretted not paying it now. I went back to the cabin, and a young mother entered with her baby.
Next door were a pair of Macedonian Politics students doing a quick tour of the Balklands, they wanted to know why I wasnt coming to Sjkope, eveyone here is proud of there country and wants to show it off. Its a nice touch. I was to busz though, I had seven days to make it to the Baltic states and I was a little bit behind on time. I had met a couch surfer in Belgrade though, who was sorting me out a bed in Krakow.
I setteled down with Gatsby and a bottle of Gin I had brought in Belgrade, it was a long journey and I ways hoping, gin dependant, I could polish off the Great mans rise and demise in a day and a night. It wasnt to be , the baby started crying, the morther started shusshing and I was swiging from the bottle. It wailed on and on and the Jazz age or the booze couldnt distract me. I had, had just about enough of this. I picked up my wallet and went to find the conductor so I could pay him a bribe.
Friday, 30 April 2010
The Belgarde beauties.
I went clubbing in Belgrade, down to the river and onto one of the boats. I was with some solvenians who had told me Serbian music was famous. Serbian pop is distictive and very popular in Serbia, unlike almost all countires in Europe, British and American music has not invaded here. This lucky circumstance, is the result of two reasons; pirde and isolation. An overty nationalist population who cling tooth and nail to their culure and the Serbian lonileiness imposed first by Tito and then Sloberdan has meant the Serbs have had to retreat inwards. I dont suppose the Serbs would like to hear it, but you can hear, the East in their music. The Ottoman empire never left, its hiding behind the Electroic, synthesiers, electric guitar and a girl warballing. She might say its Vibratto, but this was more Istanbul than Italien. There is a minarets call to prayer, somwhere in those songs, its quite good. I was battered though and everything sounds quite good to me when I'm batterd.
I asked the Slovieans what she was singing about but I had already guessed, I was told in Serbia all the songs are the same, about falling in love or unrequited love. As it was and is everywhere, as it will be for evermore. The lead singer was beautiful, stunning, jaw dropping, salvia dribbiling, eye-poppingly attractive. When I first saw her I thought Id have a heart attack. She was so fit. I told this to the Sloveians who with brilliant inisght said:
"But of course, if she wasn't noone would be here"
The women in Belgrade are so beautiful, Ive never seen anything like it. Every other girl will turn your head. There waists are so thin, theres not a gram of fat on anyone under the age of thirty, but they all have full bososoms. I couldn't stop stareing. They have perfect posture and dress well too, not as well as girls in england, but they aren't as chubby as girls in england. Not only that, these beauties from the way they act there pleasent bearing, there girl next door attitude, there easy nature, there apperance of innocence and there harmless attitude which says to all men "I'd be nice to you if we met in a Pub"; I have a suspision that most dont think they are special at all. I told this too, to the Sloveians who agreed and said Serbain women in The Balklands, were famously attractive. Really you have to see for yourself.
To underline, this dichtomy between beauty and niceness, I'll tell you about one of the strangest things I have seen in my life. In central Belgrade there is a fountain and everyday while I was there on the steps of the fountain there were over one hundread adults swapping football stickers. Thats right football stickers. About seventy percent of these swappers were men, but the other thirty percent were women. There is no doubt that this is a geeks hobby, and geeks aren't famous for there looks. I asked at the hostel and the receptionist said, that it was a geeks hobby in Serbia too. So here you have over thirty Serbian female geeks, swapping their stickers and half of these were really fit. Really, really fit, about another quarter were pretty, and I didnt see a single horror show there. I cant imagine you would find those conditions at a Sci-fi convention in the UK or for that matter anywhere in the world.
Belgrade is pretty ugly, some of it still looks bombed, but the women outshine the city, they are its absolute light, its sirens call. I have a further suspicion of my own. I loved Belgrade, I had a great time, I can't but my finger on why, I think it could be the clubs or the food, but I think deep down I know, it might just be the Biological drive. Darwin never sleeps, Freud would have agreed, I think I might just like this city because the women are so fit.
Serbia has so much to offer, as do all the Balklands, they are so rich with life and history. Still, you can't escape the conflict, it lies just beneath the surface ready to bubble up. Muslim V Christian, East V West, this could be as much a battle ground as Afghanistan if you added a little more fuel to the fire. Its tragic, both communities have been here for centuries, mutually influencing each far more than either realise and would ever care to admit. This endless circle of conflict and hate, mutual suspicion. There is no consolation except that of Philosophy.
"What God has set such enmity between two truths that established desperately they refuse to bare the common yolk"
I asked the Slovieans what she was singing about but I had already guessed, I was told in Serbia all the songs are the same, about falling in love or unrequited love. As it was and is everywhere, as it will be for evermore. The lead singer was beautiful, stunning, jaw dropping, salvia dribbiling, eye-poppingly attractive. When I first saw her I thought Id have a heart attack. She was so fit. I told this to the Sloveians who with brilliant inisght said:
"But of course, if she wasn't noone would be here"
The women in Belgrade are so beautiful, Ive never seen anything like it. Every other girl will turn your head. There waists are so thin, theres not a gram of fat on anyone under the age of thirty, but they all have full bososoms. I couldn't stop stareing. They have perfect posture and dress well too, not as well as girls in england, but they aren't as chubby as girls in england. Not only that, these beauties from the way they act there pleasent bearing, there girl next door attitude, there easy nature, there apperance of innocence and there harmless attitude which says to all men "I'd be nice to you if we met in a Pub"; I have a suspision that most dont think they are special at all. I told this too, to the Sloveians who agreed and said Serbain women in The Balklands, were famously attractive. Really you have to see for yourself.
To underline, this dichtomy between beauty and niceness, I'll tell you about one of the strangest things I have seen in my life. In central Belgrade there is a fountain and everyday while I was there on the steps of the fountain there were over one hundread adults swapping football stickers. Thats right football stickers. About seventy percent of these swappers were men, but the other thirty percent were women. There is no doubt that this is a geeks hobby, and geeks aren't famous for there looks. I asked at the hostel and the receptionist said, that it was a geeks hobby in Serbia too. So here you have over thirty Serbian female geeks, swapping their stickers and half of these were really fit. Really, really fit, about another quarter were pretty, and I didnt see a single horror show there. I cant imagine you would find those conditions at a Sci-fi convention in the UK or for that matter anywhere in the world.
Belgrade is pretty ugly, some of it still looks bombed, but the women outshine the city, they are its absolute light, its sirens call. I have a further suspicion of my own. I loved Belgrade, I had a great time, I can't but my finger on why, I think it could be the clubs or the food, but I think deep down I know, it might just be the Biological drive. Darwin never sleeps, Freud would have agreed, I think I might just like this city because the women are so fit.
Serbia has so much to offer, as do all the Balklands, they are so rich with life and history. Still, you can't escape the conflict, it lies just beneath the surface ready to bubble up. Muslim V Christian, East V West, this could be as much a battle ground as Afghanistan if you added a little more fuel to the fire. Its tragic, both communities have been here for centuries, mutually influencing each far more than either realise and would ever care to admit. This endless circle of conflict and hate, mutual suspicion. There is no consolation except that of Philosophy.
"What God has set such enmity between two truths that established desperately they refuse to bare the common yolk"
Thursday, 29 April 2010
God said let there be Tesla, and Tesla said Let there be light,
The museum was triumphant, as was the tour, I paid 300 Serbians, that's about 2 pounds for a run through of his life and achievements. They are numerous and miraculous, he is a pillar of the modern age. Its a travesty he isn't better known or that he never one a noble prize. He wasn't a publisist, though, but a scientist. He had a vision of free electricity, by creating standing waves of electromagnetic force in the earth's ionosphere, or in the earths soil.
His business partner was J.P Morgan, the founder of the emponomusly named banks. He saw money in everything but value in nothing. The partnership was a disaster like the C.I.A merging with Amnesty International. Morgan was hard nosed, Tesla, naeive to the extreme. As Morgan realised the scope of Teslas plan he withdrew his backing commeting "If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?"
Tesla pantented a ray gun now called a rail gun, using charged particles, a pacifist for life, he thought that arming the world would create world peace. Uncommon genius missing common sense. When he died the U.S Military took these papers, some still haven't been released.
I really cant sing his achievements enough and the superb job the museum had done at presenting them. He is one of the 20th centuries most fascinating characters. In 1888, he demonstrated a radio controlled ship in New York, Horse and carragie was still the primary form of transport, sail still played a roll on the seas, and here was a man, demonstraing a radio controlled electric powered boat. The top scientist of day couldn't understand what they had seen, they couldn't even gather understand the concept. Some even suggested that he might be moving it by the "force of his mind".
At Colorado springs he famously lit 200 light bulbs wirelessly 40 km away from his power station. Noone really knows what he was doing. He was a magician, a master electirican, a conjouer of the electromagnetic force. If science had a bible, it would start with this.
God said let there be Tesla, and Tesla said let there be light.
Belgrade rising; reading Erotica in the late-day Sun.
I went to the fortress, Belgrade's citadel on the hill. It was more than pleasant, its a national park now, which is what we should all do with all, old and new, military bases. It sits on the meander of a river, that looks like it almost became an ox-bow lake, it is the watchmen over its city. Its full of old militray hardware, guns, tanks, R.P.Gs. When I was a child I would have loved it, but you see on gun you, have seen them all and the whole thing was pretty droll. So I brought an orange juice and fell asleep in the sun.
I woke up a little later and a little red. I strolled in the old town and breezed around. I wanted to buy books for the train. Theroux's, the Great Railway Bazzar, I had over-read and over enjoyed. A very good friend of mine, one of my best, and maybe the best man I know, had given it to me before I left. I'd chewed though Tolstoy's Anna Karenia, which I had meant to be saving for Russia. I fell in love with Anna somewhere in Switzerland, but she was dead now, suicide by train, not something I wanted to know.
I found a old second hand bookshelf minutes out the centre and inside a 100 Serb English language book bin. It was all Mills and Boon pulp, Andy McNab Bang-Bang crap. I'm a literary snob and I will never apologize, the cannon is the cannon because its quality has been condensed and distilled by the passing of years, it is an example of conservatism working at its very best. Bestseller lists on the other hand are aggragated by people who know the least about books, it is the problem of positive re-enforcement. If you read books infrequently, you buy best-sellers, so by definition the people who determine what books become bestsellers are in the main those who are least qualified to do so. On the otherhand those who read most and therefore more broadly than a top ten, airport shop book stand, would probably never pick a book on these lists as their favorite.
It was looking pretty bad after five minutes I still couldn't find anything. As expected they were all best-sellers, but I burrowed to the bottom and suffocated by the overbearing Tom Clancy and behind the engimas of Dan Brown, nestled on the wood at the bottom of the bin was a treasure trove of good literature. I found some Fitzgerald, a copy of Shakespeare's Julius Ceaser and and absolute Erotic cracker: Emmanuel.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Of course it was the cover that caught my eye, flesh always does. At first I thought it was Mills and Boon. Its good desighn, superb, just a woman's, red- rouged lipstick lips, on a black back ground. No man and probably most woman would not have the strength to resit picking it up. My paws passed all over it, flicking it open, my index finger caressing the words between its covers. I have seen snippets of the the film but of course, literature is always better than the movies. I think it was penned at the end of the Sexual revolution and with the Story of O it has cemented France as the naval of the body erotic.
Its steamy, I can tell you that, pure french filth. I brought a beer in the old town and opened it at a random page.
"Between her joined thighs she felt a liquid flowing like the saliva that was now bathing his apoplectic member in her warm mouth"
Phworrrrr! I was hot under the collar.
Its a superb and graphic paragraph. Pg 56 section Green paradise. I had to order a coffee and pause for a cigar to calm down.
I'm an not a virgin to erotic literature. In my second year, swapping books with a house mate, she owned a book called "Play the Game". I picked it up innocently, like Emmanuelle it was the cover that had caught my eye. A woman's heel with a lowered sock. (The chaps who make these covers should be paid more.) Well it went all round our eight person house, we all had a few quiet minutes with, reading enough pages to get and finish the Horn . Unsurprisingly, so incredibly predictable, it disappeard. I know I don't have it and I would tell if I did, and I know the woman I took it off doesn't have it either, she would have told me if she did. Which means one of my other old house mates must be reading those, over read, well thumbed, seedy pages, good for them. I hope they do it late at night and use the light of a red lamp. This kind of wiriting deserves as much.
But there is more, this had happened to me before, reading erotica while travelling. I had once backpacked across parts of Asia, and myself and a very good friend of mine used to read sections of erotica to each other on long train journeys. I reccomend that too, it passes the time like no other, well almost no other. Its word porn, flesh for the mind, meat for the carnivores, carnal soul, it is the animal in civilization, the Belgrade soul.
Between page 12 of Emmanuel (She was on a plane, getting naked) and page 40 of Fitzgeraled (I can tell you Daisy is no Emmanuel), I realized I was drunk, with the Beer and the sun and the walking and the blood flowing I was tipsy. I told you, the curse of the solo traveller. It was a good thing though, I am unrepentant. I am in love with this city. It might be my favorite. Something I thought about Istanbul. But I am head-over heels in love with Belgrade. I will come here again and probably again and then once more. If I had money I would buy property here, to live in and to invest. It has Zeitgiest, it feels like the flavour of the times. In contrast to Sofia, its a thousands of voices silently screaming "Look at us,We are on the accesdeancay!". It had a vibe, good Karma, that goes beyond its meager sights. In short its happening.
The demographics are set right for it too, a young educated population, open economy and they are going to be in the E.U. sooner the better please. I cant believe N.A.T.O bombed this city, I really can't, its too nice. The people are to pleasant for war? And the women are suerly far to pretty for the men to get board enough for Guns. The food is good and cheap, the night-life heaving, the bars friendly. I guess Genocide is the reason and I hope N.A.T.O bombs all Europe if we ever start that nonsense again. We won't though, its unthinkable. Belgrades rising.
The worst train ever.
The train from Sofia to Belgrade was abysmal. A dreadful experience. It never got moving. It would start then stop, like a fat man chasing a bus. Its pace was a few short strides just faster than a jog. It was a local train on an international route. About 3 minutes out of Sofia it stopped for 40 minutes. No explanation was given, although I thought an explanation was necessary. It was supposed to arrive at 19:20 it sauntered in at 22:20.
Belgarde looked good you couldn't tell N.A.T.O bombed it. It Serbs Sloberdan Millovcivic right of course, we cant have genocide in Europe in this day an age. Belgrade was young a vibrant city,everybody was out. Students everywhere, loads of pretty girls, really sincerlerly loads of them. I caught the end of the Barca game too. It looked like I hadnt missed much though. For the two days I had in Belgrade I had far to much money. I had got confused by all the zeros on the currency and withdrew the equivalent of 150 pounds. A fistful of Serbians went a long way too. Serbia was cheap. I arrived at the hostel and it was empty. This was fine by me, I had a few busy days in Sofia and wanted some alone time.
I always brought a bottle before a train ride, with a book to read and a few cheroots, a couple of bottles can really make a train ride superb. That was half the problem with Sofia- Belgrade travesty, I hadn't bothered. That was a mistake. Once again, I had been hit by the curse of the solo traveller, if you travel on your own, you lose track of time. You have a glass of wine with late breakfast a beer with brunch, You have to watch it you know, or you end up tipsy by Tea. It could have happened tonight in Serbia, but I ran out of Beer to early.
Belgarde looked good you couldn't tell N.A.T.O bombed it. It Serbs Sloberdan Millovcivic right of course, we cant have genocide in Europe in this day an age. Belgrade was young a vibrant city,everybody was out. Students everywhere, loads of pretty girls, really sincerlerly loads of them. I caught the end of the Barca game too. It looked like I hadnt missed much though. For the two days I had in Belgrade I had far to much money. I had got confused by all the zeros on the currency and withdrew the equivalent of 150 pounds. A fistful of Serbians went a long way too. Serbia was cheap. I arrived at the hostel and it was empty. This was fine by me, I had a few busy days in Sofia and wanted some alone time.
I always brought a bottle before a train ride, with a book to read and a few cheroots, a couple of bottles can really make a train ride superb. That was half the problem with Sofia- Belgrade travesty, I hadn't bothered. That was a mistake. Once again, I had been hit by the curse of the solo traveller, if you travel on your own, you lose track of time. You have a glass of wine with late breakfast a beer with brunch, You have to watch it you know, or you end up tipsy by Tea. It could have happened tonight in Serbia, but I ran out of Beer to early.
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