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"

God said let there be Tesla, and Tesla said Let there be light,

I had come to Belgrade to see the Niklo Tesla Museum. He was a Serbian American inventor about 100 years before his time. Wifi, Wireless electricity, X-ray, remote control, the radio, the ray gun, the electric motor, bladeless fan, all dreamed by him. And he really did just dream them up. Whats left of his papers, the majority are in the museam, are almost incomprehensible. Tesla said the ideas came to him almost fully formed, building his inventions in his mind before he ever put pen to paper. Like Mozart the masterpieces were often complete, before either wrote them down for others. He was a Genius, What a monumental Genius.

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.

Constantine's Bulgaria: The Natural beats the Brutal at Veliko Tarnovo.

I found it, the beautiful country, Constantine's Thrace, about an hour out of Sophia. This was what I had come to see.  Id be quick and harsh to judge Sofia and consequently Bulgaria. Of course I shouldn't have, something I knew at the time. The Australians and I were going to Velkio Tarnovo, their idea not mine. But it was a good one.

We took the bus I fell asleep,  I awoke in Illisaim, Fields of Gold. I think the flowers were Oil Seed-rape and they stretched on and on for eternity, really as far as you could see. Golden Sun, blue skies and of course I the stunning Australians. Bulgaria is gorgeous.

Bulgaria is poor, it has  poverty in many senses of the word. On the border of East and West, this place has been ravaged by both, it does not have the depth of either and of course,  fiscally the pot is half empty. The only time, they seem to get ahead is when they do it themselves, or when they were under Rome. Everyone got ahead then though. They are in the EU now, the New Rome, and like everyone else in the club, they'll get rich.

On the Bus I saw ploughed fields, but they were ploughed shallow, in England, the fields before seeds are sown the fields are canyons. I saw the reason why, Horse and plough, farming hasn't changed here for centuries, but it looks fertile, Bulgaria could be, and will be a  bread basket for Europe. We passed three men, Step-toe and sons, in a battered cart pulled by an old horse. Of course that quaintness will be lost, good riddance, the sacrifice will be worth it.

Velkio Tarnovo, is in the North of Bulgaria, snaking round steep gorges and through the high relief that the river Yantra river, has carved from the rock. It is a city of magnificent natural beauty, and it is understandable why the the emperors of Bulgaria made this place their capital. We had come to see the ruined castle of the Tsarevets, it took the Ottomans three months to subdue the fortress and us a few hours to wander round, I could easily have spent longer. In its heyday, some seven hundred years ago, the citadel was pinpricked with the domes of twenty churches and the bell towers of four monasterys. I could only find one Church and it wasn't impressive, but if you wanted to see any "Glory of God" you only needed to look around. In Bulgaria, the great Cathedrals are the Canyons and rivers, the mountains and fields it Churches, it could have come from the mouth of Charlamagne.

The stones that are left represent a distinctive Bulgarian architecture, whoever built this place had an aesthetic eye missing from the communist work in Sofia. Now I know I badger on about how bad the communists were (and the really were awful), but I level the same criticism at Fasciesto monstrosities of Rome. They were all a bunch of thugs and they both built buildings with two interests Utiliy and Power and of these Utility was always secondary. You cant get inspired by the projection of Power alone, be it "the will of the people" or the "Superman", that is not enough to do anything of any worth. Neither provide a grand vision except utopia, but one mans utopia is always another's slavery. All of this implies the same Power without Beauty is no better than Fit Wit Wea. That's not me but Virgil, "A way is made by Force" - Brutality, A Hammer to the face rather then a Karate Kick, a heavy weight boxing bout, rather than a fencing match. Building needs finsecces and elegance to work, they have to take the inspiration of the real humanity, not a flawed concept of an unworkable philosophy. The very best like Verasiile, only attempt to adjust the buildings to our place in nature. The Pantheon in Rome, the building is the light of the Occulus, it is how they use the missing that matters. not the concrete Gargantuan fallacy of size. Communism and Fascism ate the soul, and only provided pain to the world. What either built impressed, but only in terror. Like a Bacterium under the microscope under close scrutiny, their constructions revealed themselves; in one, the Ant collective in the other the Ubermanchen, both illicit the same, gut wrenching, shoulder shirking, hair raising, response. "The Horror, The Horror."

The Bus dropped us in a suburb, this was the up and coming Bulgaria all new apartments and flats. It looked ok. The castle was missing we couldn't find it. The Australians asked a Bulgarian chap, he pointed us in the right direction but it was a long walk. We moved on, but he pulled up in a Lada.

"Get in. I will take you".

The Girls looked ambivalent, I was too, but only about the car.
I got in the back and they followed.

"This is good we couldn't have got in without you".
"Ha Ha, he wouldn't have offered without YOU "

Male and Female. The oldest and most complimentary cocktail. This chappie was lovely a real dose of Bulgarian hospitality, and it was enough for me to retract everything I had said about the Stasi like inhabitants of Sofia.

The citadel is tremendous the scenery spectacular. Its as if the city was built in a wild meadow. You have to see and smell it to understand what I mean. In London we conquered nature years ago, but here it looks like the countryside only needs to flex its muscles, to just hunch its canyon shoulders and it could remove all Thrace of man. I was a voyeur of the force of nature.

I sampled Bulgarian Cuisine, it was cheap and delicious. A primary ingredient being an unknown white cheese that was a little like mascapone. I washed it down with a glass of Bulgarian red, which was as pleasant surprise as Bulgaria had become. The Austrialins concurred. We took the bus back to sofia, it was gloomy and muggy.  I had about enough of this so I decided to go to Belgrade.

The Balkan Express

I was pushing out of Istanbul on the Balkan Express, 22:00 to Sofia. It was another sleeper. Istanbul had been a whirling Dervish of an experience and I was sorry to see the back of the great city but I had to push on. I was reluctant and lethargic as if I had been sampling some of Istanbuls once legendary opium dens.  Everyone was leaving, it was exodus, the Americans who I had met in Athens had flown home and the Aussies had made moves to recapture Galliopli. It was the time to leave.

I was in a three sleeper bunker, with a couple of German hikers. They had brought their dog too. Either he, or the Germans smelt, so I forced the window down, it was unfair, like implementing the Peace of 1919.  It came back to bite me, the window not the dog, I'd brought the international copy of the Times and settled down to do the cross word. At four in the morning the window must have slipped down and I woke up in a whirlwind of paper blowing round the compartment, I tried to collect them in the dark but it was tricky as getting the gold notes at the end of the crystal maze.

At five some men with automatics and silencers, breezed through the train, it had the look of a shake down but it was only visa inspection. I handed over my passport and fell back to sleep. I shouldn't have bothered, the dog started barking. I really missed Istanbul.

The first impression of Sofia were and are bleak. It looks drab, the buildings are as grey as the weather, and the weather as bad as the faces of the inhabitants. Id been warned  "dont got to sofia" but I thought I should check it out. Of course like everywhere behind the iron curtain you can tell the communists have been at the controls. The rail in was dominated by great whales of decaying industry. Rusted factories, long obsolete, electricity pylons leading to vast abandoned buildings that probably used to make soviet tractor parts. It looked like its heyday was thirty years ago and even then I don't suppose it had ever been particularly beautiful and now it looked like it was shuddering through a long slow death. Its supposed to be in ascendancy. Electric trolley buses are the main form of transport, presuming you couldn't afford a Lada, and they looked as old as pleasant as Brechnev.

Id booked a hostel next to Ceasers Casino, but this casino shared nothing with the one in Vegas. The hostel was pleasant though, I had read it was an old Greek affair which had miraculously escaped the modernisation drive of the communists. I met a pair of Australian-Italian girls, who shared my sentiments on Sofia. They had come from Istanbul and we all missed the great city. We planned to get out the town tomorrow to get into the countryside. The emperor Constantie who made Istanbul , had prefered sofia to the city of his namesake, he called it "my rome", hopefully the rest of Bulgaria hadnt been ravaged by his modern heirs.

We went for a wadner, I was contented with the attractive female company and they were happy to walk round what looked like a seedy city with a hard as nails man. Of course the Aussies got the raw end of the deal, Im as much use as a rubber knife when it comes to violence. There is a large orthordox cathedral in Sofia, The  Nevesky cathedral. Its pretty impressive, and dark inside, you can see the influence of Russia here, and this time not the communists. I was in eastern Europe and was of course moving around in the old Tsarist sphere of influence. A pleasent market selling Icons, and paintings was just outside, you can pick good things up for only a few Bulgarians, but then you'd have to come to Sofia first and Im not convinced thats such a great trade.

Agrophobia at The Grand Bazzar.

Hunched up shoulders, I kept on being knocked into. "Holy Jesus, who were these Animals?" Everybody was pushing. Errrrr. I was sweating. Beads of water, that ill saline that dribbles off your head. I had a chill on my back, water on my spine. I was deep down in a funky rhythm of Nausea, surrounded by a god damn, mass of people. The bats where all over me. Vipers trying to nip my heel. The creeps were shouting at me for business. Or others were trying to take part in it. I hate the Grand Bazzar. Its the biggest Bazzar in the world, you have to see it to believe it. Some people love it, I cant imagine who, its a hive. Hell on Earth. Get out. Escape. Its escape or suicide. The only thing worse would be a bad trip on acid. I got lost in it too. Stuck somewhere in the leather section, a tannery of fake handbags that act for some like a sirens call. I escaped, but the labyrinth of lamps and the maze of tat sucked me back in, I also got ruined in the Ray ban section but stumbled my way into some plates and head scarves.

"Hello Sir".
Jesus I was being talked to.
Fuck I was panicking.

I headed for fresh air, I really could see the light at the tunnel. I ran into the person in front of me. He had suddenly stopped, the god damn Bat was taking a photo of a sign. The Coco-roache. I pushed past him and ruined his photo. He chriped at me, but I couldn't understand what the insect said. Errrr man, it was all bad Karma. I was in an ants nest; breaking out the termite mound. I stumbled down the hill, breathing heavy. I ran into a shop and got a coffee, lit up a Cheroot, the panic was subsiding, my pulse falling. I think I had lost those vipers in the crowd, but I was lost in Istanbul. I asked a man how to get back to the grand bazzaa, I had come so far I was about twenty minutes away. That place was awful. I walked all the way around it a tremendous loop. It was Fear and Loathing in foreign places. I brought a G&T for a calm down. Im never going there again.

Getting my sweat on in the Hamam

I was feeling pretty shoddy, the dodge food had got to me and I had only myself to blame. If you cause a problem fix it so I self medicated with half a pack of Imodium, and a grande pot of yoghurt. Im not a doctor, but my brother almost is, which still counts and I figured if I ate enough good bacteria it would out compete the bad.

I was only in Istanbul for a few days and I didn't want to waste time, illness or not, so I took an late night trip to a Turkish bath. I wanted to get the whole deal, the fat man soaping me up and scrubbing me down, but I couldn't afford it, so in the end I gave myself a rub down. Sounds seedy? Its not.

The Turkish bath we went too, had been built in the 15th century but it was in immaculate condition, the Americans and I went together and we didn't really know what to do. Its like a Sauna and a steam room in one. (An historical aside, supposedly the Ottomans Jannersairies that famous warrior order took refuge in the baths hot pipe rooms when the order was dissolved). Its so hot too, I lay down on a slap of marble, on my back first, I tried my front but I thought I would singe my nipples. I started sweating grime out, Its horrible, Im very grubby and within minutes a muddy, black slime was peeling of and from in my skin. Yuck.

I went for a cool down and washed off in one of the alcoves, I watched one of the turks give another a massage. It looks vigorous, too vigorous. Im sure there is skill in it, but it looked like he was tenderising meat. Some of them can stay in these for a couple of hours, getting soaped up and scrubbed down, beaten by fists and elbows, we lasted forty minutes, I did say it is very hot, besides I had food poisoning. I took a shower, it had a normal shower head and an extra, a crotch washer which believe me, came as a lively surprise. Afterwards, I felt high, the heat had got to me as had the nausea. So on the advice of the Americans I had a pomegranate Juice, then I was sick.

Bosporus to the Black Sea

It was independence day in Turkey and everything was covered in flags. I didnt know this and at first thought that everyone was just nationalists; which allows me to clarify that this country wasnt what I had expected. Actually thats not quite true. I had expected Istanbul to be like this but I suppose a bit shabbier and a little less cosmopolitan, and a lot less tolerant. I took a boat from Europe to Asia. With a strong arm I might have been able to throw a stone, from one continent to the other. Istanbul is a garden city, walking through the streets like in rome, one can smell wysteria everywhere. Tremendous. From a boat on the Bosphprus, the city looks more than pleasent, a megalopolis, of buildings and parks, the old spliced with the new.

The Boat was a public ferry and the six hour journey took us to the mouth of the Black Sea. Istanbul never stops, it continues on both the European and the Asian sides from the Sea of Marmaras to the Black Sea, although the density and quality housing declines, from Stone to metal and metal to wood to the constructions that are the most primitive shelter. The Banks of the Asian sides near the main city are covered in summer palaces. The four floor mansions in the sun, with their boats look purr-fect and expensive one even had an infinity pool.

The Bosphorus is shallow, in some places just 36 m deep. Some people think that the opening and closing of this straight is the inspiration of the Noah's flood, the Great Deluge. The Boat stopped at a village called Anadolu Kavağı and hunkered down on a hill above the village are the ruins of Yorrus Castle. The ruins were an old Roman,Byzantine, and crusader castle, but parts of it looked Anti-Deluvian. It over looked the black sea, which was called the Black sea by the Greeks because it was inhospitable; it looks daunting now. The Byzantine and the Ottomans used to pull a metal chain across the Bosphorus here, preventing ships from attacking Istanbul. 


Later when I looked at pictures and thought about the narrow strip of water that divides Europe and Asia, which for so for so long under the rule of Imperial Rome my Shakespeare came to me. Europe and Asia used to be so close under the dominion of the Empire.


"Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colllosos and us Petty man,
We look around his his huge legs and peep about, to find ourselves dishonourable graves"

Its a sad fact that we have grown apart.

There was a man blowing glass on the side of the hill, its a skilled job, I know. When I was a child my parents took me to a glass blowing factory but this man was pumping out glass bubbles as if they were party balloons. He was selling them for about a two pounds, which seemed to cheap to even meet the labour and materials, Id have brought one but I know I break everything. 

On the walk back to the village I saw some Tukeys. I know, unbelievable. I almost wet myself, this was the kind of stuff that really tickles me. Turkeys in Turkey, I took about 30 photos for later viewing, but had to delete the worst few because I had filled up my memorary card. You can imagine, I was distraught.

Some of the best things abroad are the unexplainable, in this village, a fishing village in the middle of nowhere, there was a shop selling Pinochio dolls. Just Pinochio dolls. Like the dolls, the shop too was for sale, so I imagine trade probably wasn't roaring, but only in a village of widower doll makers would it be. Or outside a house on the Asian side of the Bosporus there was a house whose inhabitants were identical mannequins, not statues but actual shop mannequins. I can offer no explanation.

In the Village me and the Americans brought a fish menu meal. My stomach was in turmoil, my intestines in revolution, whatever I had eaten the previous day must have been revolting. In this village, though, the fish was fresh and in-front of you and only 7 Turkeys, I was too weak not top be tempted. Calamari, Bread, Salad, Macrel, Muscles, Sardines, it was a feast and gave the Black Sea expedition a Mediterranean flavour. 

We came back to Istanbul and met some Canadians. Americans get criticised for rudeness abroad but I think a lot is just enthusiasm and naivety. The Americans I had met told me that Canadians were smug purely because they weren't American. I didnt believe them until we met this pair. Jezzee it was like talking to the personification of "I told you so". They were so smug, not for being Canadian but for not being American. Which is ridiculous, its like the Scots supporting Portugal in the world cup, a nationality based on a reaction to someone elses. As we left I told them they sounded American, It shouldn't have done, but I bet it ground their gears.

A day and a night in Istanbul.

The first thing I did in Istanbul was buy a Kebab. I strutted out the station it was 10:30, turned left and used two europes to pay for it, I didnt even change currency. I was told it would take ten minutes to cook but im an impatient person and after five I said that the meat looked good enough and I would take it there and then. This decision would turn out to be a mistake. It was still 11:00 on the 21st and what was going to turn out to be a mighty affliction was currently a greasy after taste.

I had met three Germans on the train they had made a pamphlet for a four week holiday. This pamphlet was something to see, something to write home about. Extremely impressive, itinerary, bookings, timetables, even directions from stations to pre booked guest houses. But the Germans couldn't have planned for the ash cloud and of a group of five only three had made it.

They had two spare reservations and after seeing the travel rubrix they had constructed, I trusted their good judgement. The Hostel was in Suhltamet in the old city just behind the Blue Mosque and Aya Sophia. It had a roof terrace with a view of the Bosporus. Well done Germans.

I checked in dumped my stuff and headed straight to the Aya Sophia. I bum ancient rome, and classics, I really do, its a sad, pathetic, pleasure of mine so I couldnt wait to the old cathedral. Built in 532 finished in 537 in an unbelievable five years, on the orders of emperor Justinian, the church of Holy wisdom is an incredible achievement and a awe inspiring building. The great dome is so high and so massive, one cant really gather the scale, except feel it. The mosaics are rich and ornate, the light warm and golden, this was Byzantium at its best. The Mosque which was a Church is now a Museum. Its a great shame it is not some religions place of worship as its a bit like bells without ringing, but like Jerusalem, everybody wants a piece.

The Aya Sophia leads out onto the old hippodrome of Constantinople. You would have to know it was there to see it. Not much is left except the track which are now roads, and its centre is now a  long thin park. In the middle, in what was once the spine of the Hippodrome, three columns, the most interesting being a spiral column cast by the Greeks from Persain weapons and dating back to 2,487 years old; which exemplifies the age of Istanbul.

I went back to the Hostel and had met a pair of Americanas studying in spain, but travelling europe. They brought some beers and I brought some wine and we headed up to the roof terrace. It was going to be a short night but the bars kept getting re-booted. The Bayern game was on and the Germans wanted to watch it. In the lobby they met us. "Ve have made reservations for 8.45" Superb. They were like my own personal holiday PA.

It cost 10 Turkeys for a pint, which is 5 Europes, which is about 4 Europes more than I was willing to pay. The Americanas weren't happy with the pricing either so we headed into Taxim, It was here I made a further dietary mistake, I saw a man selling Oysters for 1 Turkey. I brought a pair then slopped them down with some lemon. They were lip smackingly good but turned out to be gut wrenchingly bad. No problems yet, so we hit another bar, and drank some more booze, we were all sozzled, I was steaming.

We left and went for some shisha, I ordered a lemon tea, then a mint tea. With the booze and the tea and the smoke, I was pretty relaxed but Istanbul waits for no man. We crammed six into a taxi and headed back to sultanhamet. The city had got under my skin and on the way back an Amercana and I went to another bar, we brought the group with us. This action and the drinks we brought were completely unnecessary and we paid for it in the morning.

Istanbul is feast for the sences, it is sensational, one of the great cities of the world. That evening as I lay in my bunk, with the visions of four people savouring a sloppy but enjoyable evening, I felt a twist in my gut, like a man making a fist in my stomach. Thats odd I thought, must have been the booze.
It wasnt the booze.

The Night Train.

Just before Thessalonoki, I saw Mt. Olypus, the home of the Greek Gods. It plunges out the plain, its top covered in snow and cloud. Its Green too, a deep beautiful green, but it was gone almost as soon as it was there. And then I was onto Thessalonoki.


This was the second city of Byzantium, they have beautiful beaches, and a grand mosque. It was here that Paul wrote his letters to the Thessalonians. The Americans talk about the old world, but this it  OLD world and I was on the periphery. Of course, I cant tell you anything about the beaches, the mosque, the history, the lives of the early Christians because I had a train change of an hour.


I can tell you about Z00M, though, a fast food joint about five minutes from the station. There is nothing to say, except it was fatty and cheap. A Gyro, a kebab, my last in Grease, it was pitta overloaded like they all were with meat and veg falling out the paper almost as quickly as I could put it in my mouth. Delicious.


I was catching the Night train, to Istanbul. The Night train is true train travel, making progress in your sleep. I was pushing away from the dust and ash, and would soon be breathing breezy air up from the Bosporus. 


I shared a cabin with a Greek fireman. A greek fireman called Geroge. He was taking a 10 day holiday in Istanbul and he spoke superb english. He said to me, "The thing about us Greeks were are not East we are not West, but we are more than then in between" A wonderful insight.

I got a bottle of wine on the train and met a German and an American travelling together. They were friends but it looked like something was going on. I think he, the American was trying to sleep with the girl , "Ze German". They had three more days travel together. I don't think it was going to happen but Im not a cock blocker man, when a man is trying to work his game, so I said my goodbyes and left them half the bottle of wine. Every little helps.


There were a load of Australians and Kiwis too, all heading for ANZAC day. That antipodean tragedy played out on the Beaches of Gallipoli. At the station, change had been burning a hole in my pocket, and now I wanted to burn the Cheerots I had brought. I asked an Aussie for matches or a lighter.


"Smoking is the Devil" was his reply.


"Very good" I said and left his cabin.


But,


He came into mine, I think he was trying to start a conversation, but he had started badly.
"Smoking is a massive turn off for me."
"Im not trying to pull you, so don't worry. I only wanted a lighter".


George the fireman was on hand. As good at starting fires as putting them out.


"I like smoking" Of course you do George. He passed me his lighter, and then lit a cigarette with another, that smoked out the Aussie. Good riddance pal.I brought a Chai, dissolved in a lump of sugar. Puffing on my cheap Cheeroot, sipping on my tea, chatting to George, the rail became pleasant.

The Night train is the way to travel, streaming out through the night. I was woken up at four in the morning, for visas. I was told to get off the train but the man in the visa office asked to get back on, when I did I was sent off again and the process repeated itself. When the third revolution was about to take place, I said to the official,


"Im getting back on the train and you call me when you're ready"


He didnt understand me, but fifteen minutes later, he knocked on my door, with the Visa man. Job done.


We pushed into Istanbul, on the last gasps of what was the Orient Express. Its all gone now and what's left is a memory of the train. In Istanbul station, a bar is marked with its name, it looks old, 1890 I think was the date. That was the heyday of train travel, but this was still not bad. The Night train is a good train though, through beautiful countryside, and in through the old walls of Thesodius 408AD. You can tell Istanbul is old from the side of the rails. It has that density and depth of buildings, that juxtaposition of Ancient and New Architecture that tells you "I was here long before you"


It'll be here long after me too.

Cultural clarification: Its all Greek to me.

13:21. Athens to Thessaloniki, the train looked circa 1950. This look was endemic in Greece, that shabbiness, of age and over use. Like the bestsellers in the public library, all covered in thumb prints from to many eager paws. It doesn't have to be like this, paint works wanders, as does effort.

Maybe its because the Greeks really don’t care, or maybe it because they are just a little poor, but I have a sneaky suspicion that it might just be lazyness. In buildings, windows that aren’t fitted properly, door frames that aren’t quite straight, exposed brick work. The buildings  are shells, complete at 97%,  and look like they have been built with money but no care.

It might just be the fashion of the times though. But if fashion is a sign, the Greeks, I think are behind. Stone washed jeans with large pockets on the rear. Jackets with too many zips and trainers that would only be worn to and from the gym. The men wear the wrap round sunglasses of the late 90s the women boots that I don’t think ever had style. Its all opinion of course, and Im not famed for a fashion conscious eye but I do know you cant start trends, or even be part of it you don't try. Which I suppose is pleasant enough in itself.

And of the Greeks I met and I had met several  they seemed not to try, a reclined look on life, that is admirable and also contemptible. My host left half an hour late for work on the day I left him. He said it wasn’t a big deal. The shops all close at three. A girl I had met at the beach party told me she never brought tickets to festrivals as it would raise her expectations.

She would just sneak in instead. Something I wish I could do but never would. Its a nice quib, about paying raising expectations, but with no payers there would be no festival.

On the 13:21 there were Greeks who hadn’t brought their ticket and were getting fined. Why bother to make make all this effort not to pay. The Greeks have just been lent 32 Billion by those savers of Europe "Ze Germans", the Greeks I spoke to said they didn’t want to pay any debt back.

32 billion Europes is different to rail and festival tickets, but what do I know it could be like the marbles, we all no they are never getting those back.  In Greece I noticed they love the collective but are obssed by the individual. The dichotomy means that they operate with the benefits of none.

The communists are still here too, my host I think may have been one. I saw their KKE hammer and sick al graffitied on walls, and posters, there was a Branch building in Ominia. I don’t know if they are the cause or the result of the attitude; this determination to not pay. But I do know, the revolution is never coming, the only certainties are death and taxes and Greece, a wonderful place would be better if they learned it.

What foul Dust floated in the wake of his dreams.

The Volcano was hunting me. Its odious ashy shadow, coming after me and Europe. As fast as I could travel, it came on relentlessly; it was ever the bearer of the long delay. I tried to leave Athens yesterday, but had been bumped by holiday makers travelling across Europe, using trains as their second choice and ruining my first.

So I booked for the day after and went back into Athens. I took a Hostel in Omiania. It is a desperate place, the life and soul of an addicts squat party. Its a bad place to be and worse place to live, especially if that's on the streets. Here Hustler’s hustled, pimps pimped and junkies, mainlined Brown, just of main streets all of this done with the habitual ease of another lighting a cigarette.

In places like this where you become ruthless, a cut your throat for a fiver mentality. I went to a cafe and sat outside on a table next to prostitutes, we were both watching a thirty man brawl outside the crisis centre. Men trying to get beds for the night. It was all elbows and knees, like an endless desperate ruck. I took another sip of my coke and a bite of my kebab. A man, walked up to me and asked for a Europe, I gave him fifty cents. He was shued on by the cafe owner. The prostitutes cackled, they all looked worn out, there was no secret diary of a call girl here. It was all open and all tragic.

In Omnia, the poverty means that people specilaise in the individual sundry product. I had seen this thing before. One man sells just AA batteries. Another Combs. A lady selling one type of slipper and another selling pens. They have all cornered the markets in markets that have no profit to be cornered.

Dont think I didn’t enjoy it, by Zeus I did.  Im a voyeur, the observer, and I like seeing the darkerside of life, but the man injecting, heroin in his toe, that was too Bull for me.

In the evening, I went down to the Hostel Bar, I shouldn’t have bothered. There was an Austrailin women in her late thirties,  I tried to make conversation, but she was a slippery as a greased eel. She gave answers that invited questions, but when asked offered none.

“How do you like Athens?”

“I hate it to many sad memories”

“Then why are you here?”

“You know.... She looked into the middle distance...To...Travel”.

Please this was all getting a bit much.

She didn’t ask, but I told her.

“Nice. Im having a blast round Europe, hitting all the tourists sites and getting boozed on the way, I cant be arsed with any of that hippy crap though.”

She looked at me with cold disdain, but I love being a twat to pretentious tossers and I was beginning to enjoy myself. I added more fuel to the fire.

“What do you do?”

“Travel”

Jesus Christ, I thought

“Where do you get your money from then?”

“Here and there”

I had, had just about enough of this Bullshit. She was paradoxically, loquacious and reticent, I had no patience for this.  If there hadn’t been a touch of historical-fitness about her, I would have chopped it there and then. I ordered another Ouzu and a Beer.

“Cheers then“ I cried boorishly. I tried for another ten minutes, she was going to India, Ha ha, of course she was. But  she was fifty years to late for all the other hippies and about twenty years to late to be “finding yourself”.

Grow up, you fucking child.

I took my beer and went for a night stroll. I am the watchman. It was bad at day worse at night, I got loosed and thought I would probably be mugged. I took my money out my wallet and put it in my shoe. A pimp offered me his  girl, several men offered me “Cocaine, marijuana”. I brought none.

I started walking in ever increasing circles, like the spirals on a snails shell, I use it all the time when I get lost, and I get lost all the time. I found my way back to the square and from there, back to  the hostel. On the way back I had to walk through a group of loiterers. They exist in all cities, young men who just sit around with nothing to do but stare. I looked them all in the eye, my hand tightening around the neck of my beer, I do it in England too, I think it lets them know Im not a pussey. But I am.

I'm a  massive pussey.

Greece is Banging. Pericles the fish and the Best man in Athens.

The Greeks have the most sex in the world. As ever I wouldnt know. But, Athens is Banging, in every sensce of the word. Id taken the train from Patras a port city on the ithmaus of Corinth and then on a thin gague railway, ripping up tp to Attica leaving behind the moutains of the Pelopenese.

Lemon trees, and mountains was all I could see. Sun drenched lemon trees, green leaved garden of eden trees, they became Olive trees and then into Orange trees. The train accelerates transformation; the moutains persisted. On the left was the Azure Blue of the Adriatic, and on the right Bryon's moutains. In Greece, the Moutains look down on everything and everying looks down on the Sea.

I had taken the boat from Bari just underneath Brundisici with a brace of Americans. They had, had a horrendous trip through Italy with land slides and strikes chewing up their plans. It had culminated on a night outside, sleeping on the docks. Mine hadnt been much better, with missed connections and cities missed, a night train, I was depressed.

But I was estatic now and so were they; misery loves company and when we all met, unlike Atlas, the burden was lifted . I loved being on the Boat. I was back with my lonely sea and sky. Salt water gets under you, into your skin, if you live by it, sail on it you love it. Like being cut from the main, I feel lost without it. Thalassa! Thalassa! It felt like home.

We brought a gallon of wine for a eleven eurpoes, and a some bread for two. Set for the boat, we spent the night boozing. I met an Australian Greek whos parents had given him a name which seemed to me, to be a patiche of both coutries: Hercules. Superb. He was a master painter relocating his family to his second marriage in Athens. He seemed ecstatic, but his family didnt. You meet them on travels, those people who are running not travelling. Having failed in one country oppressing another. I hope it works out for him.

In athens I arrived late, and stayed up later. I was couch surfing again and lady luck had landed me with a Greek who loved to party. We headed down to a beach just outside Marathon and I thought I could still smell the Victory of 490 BC. It was all europop of course and some awful greek techno, but I found a bottle of gordons and got stuck in. We ripped up the floor boards of an abandoned house to get a fire going. If it sounds grimey, it was. There was another couch surfer staying with my Greek, who like the Chicagoan was buying a bike. I had had this converation before.

But in contrast to the American I had met in Paris who had been succesful only in failure, this Parisian had ordered negoaited and was leaving for Bulgaria on Monday. I went to bed late and got up early. The night before I had been at like the God Bachus, but in the morning the Gordans had turned sour on me and I knew I was mortal.

I headed down to the Acropolis, perched on the top of the table top mountain of greece, this is where it all began. I love Pericles. At home, I named a gold fish who is actually black Pericles. He is not really my fish but he shares the same indisiputable spirit of that Great Athenian and Great man.  Pericles the fish and the man are both good chaps. If you love demorcary you must love Athens. I saw the streets he walked in and the theartes he sat in. The first man of Athens was my man of Athens. It all began here, even if the history we write is more glorious then the history that happened. Whats truer than truth? The Story.

I brought tickets to the thearte but I was 2200 years lates for the show. I knew my Oeidipus Rex, the best things die hard, Aeschylus was with me. To have seen it live in Athens, would be a worthy task of any mans time machine. It gave me goose bumps thinking about it. What an absolute Tragedy.

I lied and brought a student ticket to the acropolis museam, its superb. The lie and the Museam. I highly recommend it. The Marbles, the ones which aren't  Elgins, are displayed in the white light of Greece in the positions in which they would have been seen. The plaster casts of the ones we stashed in the British museam are glaringly obvious. Of course we should give them back; we never will though. Some things are too good to share and like every country in the world we all want a bit of Greece.

Tommorow I roll out to Istanbul, to go see the Turks, those great rival of Greeks, across to that city on the Bospherous. Founded by Constantine, one of our Boys from York. I'll miss Athens. The marbles, the greeks, the Gyros, the oranges, the lemons the olives, the mountains. But Ill miss that light, that white, white, light of Greece.

Sparring with the Tyson of Translators.

At Lausanne, the pramid scheme collapsed. The tetonic efficincey of the TGV I had so quickly admired was vapourised , the train arrived late and I missed my connection to Geneva. I ran to the office with my back pack, I fucking hate my backpack, and in broken German tried.

“Entschulgung, mein bahn von Paris var langsmear. Wann ist die natshcie bahn vor Genva”

The teller scrutineds me with an expression of an oriental wise man.

“Repete en Francis?”

“Mein Deutsch is nicht sehr gut und mein Fransoizche ist fuctbar”

He smiled:

He smiled amused: “Hablos Espangol senor?” Both he and I were grinning it was like trying to spare with Tyson.

In French I said “Je suis desoli mosuier?” I shrugged my shoulders and said the few spanish I know.

“Espanol, Une poquitoo,, une puquito,” As if I was trying to stop a friend pouring a shot of drink.

I looked  him in the eye and both me and him started laughing?

“You want to go to Geneva yes?” He said in English with just a wafer of the continent about it.

“Oui” I replied.

Platform 4 12:47.

Transit

The TGV rolled on and we were quickly out of Paris, the flats stopped the hills started. The ground turned from green to beige. We passed Dijon, the staion was flying the swiss cross, the tri-colour and inexplixably the Japanese red Sun. It looked pretty dull to be honest, I dont have much to say about Djion except that I once met a man who went by that name.

We had met only once and and it allowed me to make the poorest quib of my life.

“I’m Djon” he said.

My eyes lit up, I went moist at the lips, I pumped up my chest with pride and amusment and giving him a knowing eye.

“Ha Ha, like the mustard aye?”

Originality is so hard to come by and as soon as it was out of my mouth I regretted it.  He had the manners to laugh in a good natured way but the damage was done. I sat down and over  the course of an eveing watched five of my friends say the same thing. Awful, truly awful. Credit to the man, he grinned and beared it every time as if we were all true wits.

Some time after Djon I fell asleep. That light sleep where you wake up for a few seconds to look around and drift off again. My memories of this part of the rail are like those of an old hand cranked film, the  story is simple, open green fields getting slowly browner, the occasional town, a slight increased in an germanic influence, but most of the frames are missing, the body of the reel gives the mass to the film and I only knew the story because I was in it.

Apres Paris

Apres Paris I was haggard. To much wine guzzled over to few nights;  to little food farmed out over to many days had begun to wear me down. My clothes, were begining to look and like they were cut from the finest quality potato sacks, and I was beginning to smell.

After the other Couch surfers left Paris, it was to late to make new friends but still to early to leave. I had originally hoped of catching the sleeper down to Nice and then to Bologna, via the riveria. I had even considered a short sojourn in Provance, but Paris had hammered both my time and budget.

Instead I was taking the TGV from Paris to Lausanne in Switzertland and from there a local to Genva, to pick up a connection in Milan and finally a sleeper in Bologna down to Bari. I had created a pyramid scheme of train reservations and connections.

The transfer in Lausanne to Geneva was just  six minutes. One of lifes natural panicers I was panicing.  I had left the Hostel at 6am, and I was running on just a hostel room of sleep. The nigth before an international conspiracy had kept me awake. My Brazilian, American and Singaporean room mates had synchronised their breathing into a continuous, gutteral growl. It was like listening to some avant glass classical, at first it amused but not for long. The American had the heavy laboured breathing that was as good as a confession for fried foods and state fayres. The Brazillian was a cough, cough, splutter sputtler, teeth grinder, who  acted as precussion. But the star, the prima donna, was the petite Singaporean who slept like a middle aged man after a large curry.

I’ve never been one to bury the hatchet, to  turn the other cheek. So  I set my alarm for six, awoke from the doze, blazed on the light gathered my my things and as I marched out the door.

“Au Revoiur mon Amies” was my parthian shot.

My extra days in Paris had reinforced my belief in the brilliance of couch surfing, its aims, its goals and its achievements.  I had met a Chicago-American, who had been working on a commune in Israel on a right of birth project. He had been in Athens for a month attempting to buy a bike, but become frustrated with lack of progress , the greek way of doing business. He told me that the frame arrived, the forks, then they disappeared, to have the wheels delivered a few days later.  I laughed at the image of this straight talking, American – Isralie, the two bastions of the “Deal” trying to do business in Greece. He had come to Paris with the belief that his luck would be better here. It wasn’t. And I presume this was predicated on his refusal to speak french while ordering, assemling and negoaitng.

He told me he was going to Berlin where he had a “Good feeling”. He spoke no German either and I got the impression that his band luck may follow him.

At the Couch surfing party I had met a Serbian-Swede who had grown up in America. She was surfing in Paris and  we all met her host. Sleaze is international and it dripped of this chap. As I was talking to her I saw a flash of claws wrapped round waist form behind. He said something to me in French but I didnt understand it.  It didnt matter , my eyes could translate any real meaning, verbal or not. I have always been plagued by foot in mouth  and as he went to the Bar, like a spasam, I said

“God he looks a bit Seedy”.

She replied “Really? no way he’s lovely”.

I was begining to doubt my intution, afterall these French chaps are such elaborate lovers, but the American cyclaist had seen it too and added:

“Nah, he is definitely going to try it on”.

It became the talking point, the joke of the evening, in the way that drunk people often take things too far. I was concerned though and as I left the bar I slurred after the lady.

“Be careful”.

I woke in the morning and tried to go to breakfast but the booze still had the better of me. I recalled that I had arranged to meet the couch surfer, but when I tried to email her.

“You still alive?” The email bounced back. I had taken it down drunk and used the one eye trick to help me focus , but it hadnt been enough. So much for the vigulant Watchmen.  I dozed in and out of sleep, my laptop balanced on my chest, with the large american and wallowing around in the bunk above me. Sometime before mid day, his lamb shank legs dangled down and brought me out of my sleep. I had a message and after a quick phone call the Serb and I had arranged to meet at two.

Ever the gentleman, I arrived at 2:48. I was still, drunk you must understand and as often happens to me I had lost a Lyons, share of the day. She was sitting on the steps smoking Dunhill menthal, I whole –heartedley approve.

I made a genours stab at conversation, I really did, but while the booze had aided me last night, its residue was now an inhibitor. I was sweating too, that sickly post drink sweat.  Enough was enough.

“Look, do you want to get a couple of bottles of cheap wine and just get boozed?” I asked.

“Definitley”. Good girl, I thought.

We brought two bottles and the three spot four five Europe’s bottle opener came to more than the bottles. We went back to Sacre coure, my hands were pawing at the bottles, like a horse panting after a gallup I was desperate for a drink. It  was all to much though, I was to heavy handed for the bottle and in my bear like grip I broke the cork screw. I was distraught, heavy with dispear; she was too.

A grand french madmosellie had been eyeing us, and I thought she was about to rebuke my behaviour and rebut my antics, she grabbed the bottle, it was all going wrong, but with the inteligance of Astrix and with the strength of Obelix she showed us how to pop the cork.

With Sun shinning, the wine and hence the conversation flowed. The bottles picked me up like a double expresso in the morning. When you travel, especially if you are on your own, making friends is easy; doubly so if you are still on the good side of youth. Opinons havent been callsified, opennes is de-facto, no one knows if they will be the hero of they’re own lives, so everyone is just concerned with having a good time.

 I asked about the lizard last night and said I was glad she wasnt in a body bag.

“Ha Ha, you made me so parinoid the whole night. I was terrfied when we got home”

I am such a massive arse hole sometimes. 

“He did try it on though”.

I refute my previous statement.

BAM. There is nothing like you gut feelings.  We spoke about why we were abroad. Neither knew, you either want to travel or you dont. For some people though the purpose of just wanting to see what is around the bend is enough.

We exchanged details and pushed off. It must have been the sun and the wine but I had a great day. Friendships established on the road dont always last. The knowledege that chances are you wont be seeing each other again can add an annonymity to conversation that makes all participants open and intimate, but the friendships not always enduring. I hope this one does though as I had a blast.