My new boyfriend

It is my habit to finish my blog with the best photograph that I took. I just LOVE this guy. You can't have him I saw him first!
Thanks for reading. A special thanks to those of you who let me know you were reading, I really keeps me bouyant.

The last dumpling

Ethnic Unrest
I got more news about the massive ethnic uprising in the province of Urumqi by reading a daily newspaper in Spanish newspapers than I did in China. Even the English language newspapers had very little more than the obvious line. Of course, no one wanted to talk to us about any such matters, and that is fair enough. Perhaps if we spoke Chinese, if we had been in the country longer, if we knew someone, then we could develop some sense of the matter, but alas, none of this is true.

Going native
Debbie was happy to embrace Chinese culture thus: sucking on chickens’ feet, ordering catfish (tasted like carp to me), enjoying pork and roe dumplings with slurpy wetness on the inside, partaking the pleasures of a squat toilet, bartering, sweating and shopping. I, however was willing to go the extra step, I threatened to wear my pyjamas out in public. Please do not be mistaken, I do not mean a Mao suit (we saw not one of these) but actual pyjamas - the striped poly cotton suit type that your grandfather might have worn. Debbie declared that she had enjoyed travelling with me well enough, but it would be the end of the friendship if I donned the pink striped PJs and headed out the revolving door of the 5 star hotel. The Chinese, like the Vietnamese do not discriminate between day wear and pyjamas. People happily stroll the streets wearing their cotton stripes and no one bats and eyelid. When you think about it, it makes sense ; it is a neat outfit, the top and the bottom match in a formal type of way, it is comfotable and washable. At Kingswood the senior students have no uniform and thus wear tracksuit ponts, hoodies and ugg boots to school. Essentially what I consider to be their pyjamas, so I guess it is all perspective.

It is quite funny when an ultramodern tall stick insect style girl in hot pants, high heel gladiator boots and a funky angular haircut crosses paths with a grandma in her cotton jammies. This intersection of cultures and ages can be seen all over Shanghai in every aspect of life; architecture, food, transport, building practices.

I did not see the maglev (360kph) even though Debbie tells me is went right past. I, apparently blinked (really literally: blink and you miss it.) I also did not see one Chinese person walking around with their name tattooed on their bicep in roman letters. So, somehow the fashion is not reciprocated. I really want to come back to China, but next time I would like to come with someone who can help me see a few more layers.

The last bite
The final leg home meant out 10th boarding pass was collected and we spent a few hours queuing at Sydney airport and a mind-warping black hole of time at Canberra airport. It seemed such a long way from where we had been, and ironically such a long way from home and hearth. Eventually the novelty Chinese gifts were distributed to the offspring the, new suit was tried on by the husband and my own bed welcomed me back.

Shanghai

Social networking sites are hard to access in China: so I email Tony and he uploads

Expo

Shanghai is hosting the Expo next year, which means that right now the whole of Shanghai is getting ready. Roadworks, building works, ripped up streets etc as she gets ready to put on her best dress. This means that the olafactory assault is massive. At most points in time, I can’t identify what we are intaking as animal, vegetable or mineral. Often, I think it is the mineral, industrial, possibly toxic stuff that turns my stomach. Shanghai ’s greatest attraction is The Bund it is a beautiful promonade, so the guide books tell us. We have tried and tried again, but it seems that it is inacessabile due to the remodelling.

A Persistence of Touts

Debbie and I have gone completely Chinese, we have converted. This means that we have given ourselves over to the desire for consumer goods. We went to the clothes market, the department stores, the street shopping strips and big famous garden. All of this, including the big famous gardern, it turns out, is one big point of sale paradise. We know that there is another Shanghai, not underneath this city, but on top of it. There are thousands of touts, all of whom seem to have one job, which is to get the customer to go up the narrow staircases to "Shanghai on the second floor". Tomorrow we may do this, there we expect to find hundreds of touts enticing us up the narrow staircases to the goods on offer on the third floor.

After adjusting ourselves to the reality of our novice status, we shopped like fools. Bags, nic nacs, really stupid toys, novelty items, wallets, pearls, pearls and more pearls. Right at the end of it, we willingly put ourselves into the hands of a tout who promised us that the quality of the bags we were looking at was absolutely inferior, copies of copies, rather than the infinately more desirable copies of the orginal. He led us to a secret bag shop with a 30cm thick door which was locked behind us. Debbie started muttering about the white slave trade, I started in on the leather goods.

First the Devil, now Debbie and Greta

We were later led down a back alley, past a litlle girl and her father washing cockles, and mussels alive, aliveo. This might have been their kitchen, then around a dog leg turn, and possibly an actual dog leg and into another secret shop. The same group of tourists who we had seen in the first secret shop were also there. By this time, we seemed to have collected a small group of touts. I don’t know if there is a collective noun for tout, but there should be. In the end, both groups of shoppers had whole entourages (or should that be entoutrages) in tow. This meant that there was not enough room to swing a cat, much less an orange Prada handbag with both long and shot straps, a neat outside pocket and a matching wallet.

Dinner

We discovered another secret: the English menu and the Chinese menu. I discovered this when a girl smiled at me as my eyes popped out of my head when her dish arrived. Quick as a gluttonous westerner, I was at her table asking her to point to the menu to indicate what she had ordered. Quick as a Chinese restauranteur, the boss had a whole posse of waiters accompany me back to my seat indicating that her food was not for me. Eventually, we were given the Chinese menu which came untranslated, but with big glossy pictures. We were allowed to order, but were not allowed the same beer as all the other patrons because ”they had run out”. In the end, we ate heaps and drank lots of beer to cope with the chilli.

Shanghai = Bladerunner.

There is limited blogging, Facebook, Twitter, and social networking in China . Therefore, Tony is (hopefully) posting this for me.

Much as I try not to describe the flight to the holiday, as if it were part of the holiday, as if I am a bogan character from The Castle; something remarkable did happen in the plane. It was not the films: Antwon (whatever his surname is); really ordinary, Men of Honour; less than ordinary and Sunshine Cleaning (cute but still not extraordinary); nor was it the lovely Finnish rye bread nor the towering mass of aryian humanity that each Finnish person represents.

The amazing part of the flight was the end part. We we told, ordered actually to stay in our seats for the mandatory individual temperature taking. Two teams of Chinese infection contol police aboarded. They were wearing surgical disposible boots, white disposable jumpsuits (hoods pulled up), a masks (of course), and armed with a forehead scanners and thermomoters. They took the temperature of each and every passenger by scanning our foreheads. It was very "Minority Report". Even I was too stunned to take a photograph.

Shanghai is too much to process. It’s modern and ancient. Or as Tony so succintly puts it: Shanghai = Bladerunner.

The one thing I do have to report is that we are a slumming it, (insert sarcasm here). The hotel is plush: bathrobes, slippers, swimming pools, massages, a Japanese bath house, steam, sauna, wood panelling and a whole tray of bathroom products.

Back to Barcelona

The Costa Brava pulled us to the east, Barcelona called us southward. In the end, Barcelona won. Our last day was wonderful. We found a lovely new hotel with beds for five, tried them all and made our selection. Then back in to the centre of the city for one last trek. Off to Casa Batllo, then the Palace of Catalan Music, down to the beach for dinner and back to Montjuic so see it lit up at night with a series of ever more impressive fountains shooting enough water into the air to make all the Stage 4 drought restriction sufferers spit (except we don’t want to waste the fluid).

Those of you who know me well will know that I have been restraining myself. I have tried to not write about the food I ate and saw in every single blog entry. But like a dessert (postre in Spanish), I will allow myself one last indulgence. Fittingly enough, it will be our last meal. If you find descriptions of how wonderful someone else’s life is just stomach turning then look away now.

First, we were sitting at a seaside café at Barceloneta, the beach front of Barcelona, it was light until at least 9 o’clock when the sky slowly turns a royal blue colour that we simply don’t have in Australia. We had a really good bottle of riesling, a slight breeze blew up and, for the first time in ages our first inclination was not to remind each other how very hot we were.

We ordered potatos brava which is usually stewed, but in this case big pieces of fried potato with sweet red pepper sauce and aoli, then fried little fishes, we thought they were most like sardines, but were twice told that the name of them is actually “little fishes”, marinated grilled cuttlefish, deep fried small red peppers and salad. It was just too good and we almost managed to finish it. We rode the train home in the rush hour (about 10.30pm it seems) in a cacophony of end-of-the-day conversation. Debbie and I kept our mouths shut because we had just consumed enough garlic to ward off even the most persistent vampire, much less an innocent commuter.

Get thee to a nunnery

Mont Blanc
In Mont Blanc, it is the low season (even though the hotels still charge high season rates) because Mont Blanc is inland and almost everyone heads to the beach. Almost everything seemed closed almost all of the time. On the recommendation of our hotelier, we headed to Poblat to see the monastery. Everyone filed up some stairs to put their hand on a cup held out by baby Jesus. Debbie said a prayer; I took a solemn vow. Debbie prayed for directions, (the map was starting to get confusing) and I vowed to stay an aetheist all my life. The place was beautiful and peaceful. A small handful of priests still live there, but the real money is in the merchandising.

Monserrat
After this, we headed to Monserrat monastery which sits on top of a mountain. Debbie drove, I kept my lunch down. It turns out to be a whole village of a monastery with its own tourist hotel, finicula, museum, choir boy school and more. Some cute little nuns swans around, and for all I know they might have been actors dressed as nuns, sort of like they have actors dressed as gold miners at Sovereign Hill in Ballarat.

Girona
Getting to Girona was not hard, getting into Girona’s old town was a real trial. A walled medieval city with a rabbit warren layout of tiny streets inside a modern industrial city is a navigator’s nightmare. We eventually disobeyed several traffic rules, found a hotel, a car park (not together of course) and declared ourselves heros. Dinner was a picnic of the food and beer we had accumulated.
The morning was wonderful. A huge outdoor market sprung up like Brigadoon, we found our way to the Arab Baths, the top of the wall for a big walk, the catheral, the cafes and eventually all the way back to the car. It seemed Debbie’s prayer had worked.

Our little car

Hi to Michele, Alex and Colette. I´m enjoying your blog. Keep it coming.

Today we got a car. It is a lovely orange colour. She is a ripper. The region on the map in red is Catalan, just in case you are wondering: Where in the world is Greta Caruso?

Debbie, who is really hopeless on foot, has a wonderful sense of direction when driving. She understands the color-coded road system, the wrong side of the road thing, the impossibly confusing left hand turn, the primary, secondary and tertiary roads, the ring roads, the manual transmission, the various routes to the destination, and even which roads have tolls and which don´t. Her phenomenal skill on the road makes no sense because every single time we walked out of the hotel room in Barcelona, she turned the wrong way. So, how does she do it in a car? Wonders never cease.

We are paying homage, and when I get back I am going to read George Orwell again. I did go to the Geroge Orwell memorial in Barcelona, but it is not much.

If you want to follow our travels with your finger on a map then the circuit so far is Barcelona, Sitges, Tarragona, Mont Blanc.

Still Dancing
Catalan dancing apparently helps keep the idea of Catalan independance alive. Folk dancing done in unison with the town´s people holding hands will have a bonding effect, I suppose. The dance is so complicated it keeps out the non-Catalonians but does not require a level or excertion that would exclude the elderly or unfit. We wandered around the seemingly dead town on Mont Blanc, til we found what seemed to be the whole town gathered for an afternoon of dancing. The band was up on a stage and they played clarinet style horns that I have never seen before.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ri5XY9f3alI
And here, in Mont Blanc we stop for the night.

Swimming in Euorpe. In Sitges, we went for a swim and people could barely tell us from the locals. The few give away signs were

• We were wearing wide brimmed hats that kept the sun OFF our faces.
  
• We tried NOT to get burnt. (The Spaniards it seems are completely resistent to skin cancer; not one mother chasing an escapee toddler trying to slap on sunscreen, not a rash vest, nor hat, nor sun glasses)



• We COVERED UP with sarongs pretty quickly after actually swimming rather than just standing in the knee high water and having a mini-conference with our friends.



• We actually IMMERSED ourselves in the water and got our hair WET.



• We did not wander about TOPLESS (even though many our age put all the rolls and wrinkles out for display with not a care, and good on them I say.)



• We are not GAY. (But we are pretty happy that we came here.)
  
  The perfect outfit for a hot day.
  

The flipside of holidays

Today, Barcelona put us to the test. Footsore, hot and tired we ventured forth on an expedition. The first thing on the agenda was not Gaudi, Picasso, George Orwell, a gallery or museum. It was a trek to the car hire office. I didn’t cry, but not because I didn’t feel like it: hot, uncomfortable, footsore and weary. Of course, our travels were in vain; they had run out of cars. These are the things that the flip side of holidays are made of.

It did give us the chance to see he really elegant business/banking sector of the town and it was pretty. I did get a packet of siliconia curitas for the ampollas on my pieds. Debbie was feeling left out, so she is now complaining about her feet as well. (Don’t listen to her, save all your symathy for me.)

We did make our way through the Gothic distirct. I even got to see the Catalan dancing outside the cathedral. It is really funny. Lots of people gather to do it. They are all very straight-faced and thoughly Catalonian. They gather in a circles of about 20-30 people and hold hands. They wear lovely little runners or ballet slippers that do up with criss cross ribbons. (yes even the men) It seems a democratic affair with young and very old all joining in. One person in each group makes the call as to what to do next. There is much gentle pointing of toes and it all seems quite restrained. As the band moves through the paces, the dance becomes more enthusiastic and the movements become bigger. At certain points, the arms were all raised to shoulder height, then up above the head. Tourists stand around and try to mimic the steps, but we have not been inducted into the process, thus our participation is limited to throwing coins into the tray of the grandma who goes around and collects the money. I am not sure if the dance has religious meaning, but I think it does.

The streets of Barcelona are cram packed with people doing their bit to help turn around the economy. It was the first day of the sale season and every shop has a discount. From our vantage point, Spain has the usual four seasons, plus an extra one. Sale season is apparently responsible for the fact the most of the hotels in central Barcelona are booked out. It is all shopping bags and girls on mobile phones and bored men waiting it out. There is colour aplenty and lots of fun designs.

Here is the maths for the day. A fan from a street vendor usually costs about 2.50 euro. Greta got a plastic/bamboo fan imported from China at a bargain price. Debbie got a wooden framed, silk lace, hand painted Spanish original. Any guesses?

Mad dogs and Englishman: Greta and Debbie

This is Debbie speaking.
Enough of Greta’s perspective for now. First of all, it’s very HOT. We can drink absolutely litres of water and not feel the effects at all.

Here’s what we think about the conference:
Which is the best conference you’ve ever been to? A Victorian Association of The Teaching of English (VATE) Conference.
Who looks after delegates and presenters best? VATE does.
What is the best conference food you’ve ever had? Steve and Mary at VATE Conferences.
This conference could learn a lot from VATE. They are really disorganised.

Today we went to a whole lot of sessions at the conference. During the break we went to Gaudi’s Parc Guell. Not wasting a minute. It was about 100 degrees. Mad Dogs and Englishmen were out in the midday sun. Also Greta and Debbie. Blisters, heat rash, sunburn, heat stroke – constant companions.

Back to the conference. Quite a lot of sessions from 5.30pm onwards (to 7.30pm) were cancelled – either presenters didn’t turn up or there was no audience. Thank heavens we were not on after 5pm. It must be very demoralising for those who have prepared.

Tonight we had dinner at the oldest restaurant in Barcelona. (to be exact it is 2 years older than Australia). It was the best dinner I’ve had so far. Between us we ate: suckling pig; goose; wild boar, prawn mousse. This restaurant is ony open for 2 hours in the evening and you can’t book – you have to line up outside. But it was worth it. It has been around for 233 years. Impressive.

Now this is Greta
In Spain, unemployment is apparently, offically higher than in the rest of Europe. We are in the centre of Barcelona mixing it with the tourists and conference goers, so our observations are entirely unreliable. I do remember though, that when I was in Hong Kong, the hotel desk guy, every shop keeper and the locals on the bus all talked incessently about the effects of the recession. The designer shops were empty and even as passing tourist, I could see what was going on. In Spain, so far, my powers of incite are limited by my actual observations and they are limited by location (for the moment.)

I have read a Spanish newspaper, and apart from a demonstration on the environment, there seemed little else. No strikes, or articles about people doing it tough, or unemployment. There were articles on the elections in Honduras and bits and pieces about swine flu. Perhaps I was looking at the wrong paper.

I did see something on the television about the currency. The Euro is now so devalued that the coins are worth more than their face value. If you melt them down and sell the metal, you will get more than the monetary value. Unfortunately, we do not have a forge. (I knew I forgot something.) Anyway it is too damn hot to be working at a smith.

New vocabulary

Because I have had more emails on the issue of my lower limbs than any other aspect of the blog, I will satisfy the demands for more information. But, because I do not really want to really want to tell the tale, I will leave that task to you. There have been a few other issues to deal with. Below are some words that I have had to learn. There is the English list and the Spanish list. Those who are bored can play a match up game. Those with an inkling for narrative can string the words together and deduce the story. I remember trying to write stories from lists of random words at primary school. If you remember that exercise then you will know how to play the game.

Truth be known, I am having a lovely time and nothing bad has really happened.

Spanish Words
aire condicionado
alergia
ampolla
antihistimina
caliente
calor
cucarachas
curita
debil
erupcion
pie
reaccion
suboroso

English list
air conditioning
allergy
antihistime
bandaid
blister
cockroaches
faint
foot
heat
swollen
hot
rash
reaction
sweaty

Not more germs

Sandy (from Oxford) has asked a good question. Because I am enjoying the role of talkback radio host (by podcast), I shall field all questions.

For the sake of those up the back, I will repeat the query.
She has heard that in Barcelona people are required to wear surgical gloves when they select fruit in shop. She wonders if this is true and what the possible reason may be.

Indeed, it is true and Debbie and I caused quite a kerfuffle by selecting fruit ungloved. I am sorry to repeat the reference, but the the world's most famous glove wearer (ABC, it's easy as one, two, three, as simple as doe rei me) seems to have had quite an effect all around the world. So, while the people of Spain are happy to eat an absolute bucket of bacteria in every bite in a bar, (snacks made from meat, fish and creamy dressings kept on sitting on unfrigerated and uncovered on the bench at the tapas bar) they harbour a mortal fear of the microbes that the previous fruit handler might have deposited on the apricots.

Unemcumbered

Just in case you have forgotten, (as I have tried to do for the last few days) the purpose of our visit to Spain was to deliver a conference paper. For those poor souls who have missed a discussion about my enthusiasm for the pedagogical value of podcasting , just let me know of your interest and I will email you all the slides, film footage, podcasts and complete bibliography - enjoy!
Debbie and I have given our presentation and at least some of the things on the list below are true. Again, I am going interactive. Each of you has to decide for yourself which of the following things actually happened. You can comment in the blog or email me with your guesses. The first correct entry wins a personal reiteration of our presentation.

1. A good crowd showed up to our presentation.
2. We were foisted above the masses in attendance and crowd surfed out the door in a blaze of glory.
3. A few people thought we delivered the best session they had ever been to.
4. The technology failed us.
5. People followed us, plying us with almost embarrassing congratulatory remarks.
6. We have both been offered jobs.
7. I got nervous, but I don’t think it showed.
8. The Spanish national anthem was sung (in Catalan).
9. We ran out of handouts.
10. We have been invited to make a series of podcasts for Barcelona University.

So you can decide for yourself.
The real news is that we are freed of our obligations and now feel positively unemcumbered. Free at last. Free to do what you ask. Well, it is Barcelona, and we are over 21.

San Sebastian

Those of you who have been there will know.
Those of you who have not can only dream about it.
There is not a great deal to do in San Sebastian, but it is the most beautiful little town.

Tall, skinny, colourful, buildings in winding streets with no traffic, delis dripping with ham and cheese, wild hydreageas, that display saturated color, as opposed to the faded, soft, lilacs of ones that grow in Australia.


We decided to do all the tourist typical things. A little list
1) eat an ice-cream on the promanade,

2) walk the old town in circles thinking we had entered a new street when really we were just walking up the same street in the other direction

3) drink coffee on the promanande

4) walk up to the top of the the park to be blessed by Jesus. (It turned out to just be a giant statue.)

5) Stare at the beach, mountains, town, boats, sea, river, people, making ho-hum noises of satisfaction and awe.

6) and last: sit at a beachside cafe and eat seafood (sardines and mussels) with un-ashamed licking of fingers and mopping up of sauces with bread.

Education in the Basque country. I met a teacher on the bus who was on her way from San Sebastian to Bilbao to defend her English teaching program in order to attain a permanent license to teach English. The things that annoy her are that the syllabus gets changed everytime there is a new government, the program defense is an oral exam and she was very nervous, it took a lot of time and preparation, but she did not think it made anyone a better teacher. She was forced to reinevent her teaching a bring it in line with competencies, but was pretty convinced that the next government would just change things again. SOUND FAMILIAR ANYONE?

She liked the fact that Basque is the language of instruction, but pointed out that that this makes things difficult for the migrants from Venezuela, who come to Spain because they can speak the language. She was a tall, skinny and colourful, just like the buildings of her home town.

Julie has suggested that I take photographs of my rash and blisters, but I realise that some of you may be eating.

Germaphobia

I have not revised my position on germaphobaphoboia, but.....

Apparently, Spain is microb-resistant. Dishes of warm beef cheeks, tuna with mayonaise on crosscut bread, little curls of jamon (that’s ham to you) sit artfully perched on top of slices of boiled egg garnished with a bit of smoked salmon, all day, possibly for many days. People enter the many bars of the old town of Bibao, buy a beer and swallow down a vertible hoard of bacteria. The pickled calamari rubs shoulders with the blood sausage which eyes off the stewed red peppers. They know each other intimately because they have been togeather for such a long time: they have fomed a relationship, a biological relationship. Nobody can explain why everyone in Spain does not constantly have some sort of stomach ailment. Perhaps germs are a myth, or perhaps after Guernica, nothing can hurt these people.

In the Basque country (which is where we are right now) they have another word for tapas; it’s pintxos. I am not sure of the literal translation, but the idiomatic translation is mashed fish substance mixed with creamy stuff marinated at room temperature for a long period of time.

But tonight’s dinner was spectacular. Rather the eating pintxos, we had a proper meal at La Delicosa and it lived up to its name. There was duck, crab stuffed peppers and medallions of foie. I drank a dry sherry and loved it.

Debbie did not kiss the guy who presented her with her bag, firstly because he had the audacity to ask her for her passport number in order to receive it (the gall) and secondly because Julie and I held her back. So voting blog members, she is out of the running for longest suffering member of the girl band. I, on the other hand have taken the lead with a rash that is so remarkable that Juile and Debbie banished me to the bathroom when they saw it. Exiled to the en-suite, I was instructed to put my feet into the bidet to try to settle the red, blotchy, raised hot welts that are creeping up my ankles towards my knees. (Sexy I know.)

Bilbao is the town of flowerboxes overflowing with geraniams, street lamps, great coffee and streetlife. We still love it.

Blistering Bodies in Bilbao

The blog is now interactive, you can vote one of us out of the dorm room.
We are having a competition involving the readers as to who is suffering the most.

The status of the three players is as follows:
Greta: blisters (all seven of them) have been burst, feet are stinging and oversized, only the day ahead will tell if I should be put down or not.
Debbie: luggage is lost, she is now forced to entertain the idea of spending time naked. Her suitcase including her contact lenses and her orthotics are gone. I offered to rent her single items clothing for a substantial fee. Julie has tried to undercut that fee. Wisely, Debbie has selected the multipurpose sarong from me and the runners from Julie. She is also using the airline supplied toothbrush and I am thinking of selling her the Cathay Pacific socks that I put in my bag.
Julie has a permanently raised core body temperature, and it is really hot here. It turns out that the hotel does not actually have operational air conditioning, instead, it has a non-oscilating fan which is situated under the skylight and blows air straight out into the Spanish sky bypassing us all together.

Who do you think can stand the challenge of the day ahead?

Bilbao

Debbie and I have been joined by our friend Julie who has spent a day in Finland and will be a part of the gang for a few days at least.

Bilbao is gorgeous! If you read no further, then remember this: Billbao is a little sweetie of a town. The Guuggenheim is the best building that I have ever, ever, in my long legged life, seen. Way, way better than the building Guggenheim in New York, which is pretty good, even better than the Sydney Opera House, it rivals the cathedral at San Miguel del Allende in Mexico which those faithful bog followers will remember. All superlatives aside, it is so good that it is pretty much indescribable. It goes under bridges and juts out like a wave and stands at geometrical angels, all, incongruously at the same time.

I have got myself a mild sunburn, which is a constant friend and reminder that I am not in Melbourne anymore. I have drunk alcohol in the daytime and sat in Plaza Nuevo eating more fried calamari than is recommended by the health authorities. Just as I could only vaugly imagine the heat before I got here, I can hardly remember being cold in Melbourne, just a few days ago.

Our hotel is in the heart of the old section of the town and we and ensconced in the garrett. It is hot and a bit like a dorm. I have suggested a pillow fight, no takers, I have suggested that we tell each other the man of the boy we really like, no takers, I have suggested that we do each other’s hair, no takers.

What I have learned something that I already knew. Almost everthing in life that happens, depends on how you look at it. Here is the example. When two young lads sidled up to us and started a serenade, Debbie thought they marked us as deperate middle aged women in Barcelona in search of something better whilst on holidays. This is not true. We are in fact desperate middle aged women in Barcelona in search of something better whilst at a conference.

My feet are a source of amazement. Debbie and Julie have taken photographs of the soles of my feet. Julie has every legal drug known to St Christopher in her pack, but nothing that can relieve the bubble of pus that I now have to walk on. My blisters are planning on joining togeather in a kind of United Republic of Blisters. They are coming together to form a giant pillow on the bottom and sides of my feet.

Debbie has had her luggage misplaced by Click Air and we a trying to workout what to do. This might be possible except for the bottle of Brazilian rum and Mateus that now both sit half empty in the bathroom sink.

Hola Barcelona

I left my home, 32 hours later I put my bags down in Eurostars Gaudi Hotel.
From our hotel window we saw the towers of the Sagrada Familiar, we went downstairs for beer and almonds at a hole-in-the-wall bar, probably indistinguishable from any other of the thousand small bars that are all over this city.

Everytime we turned a corner, we turned in the wrong direction. Two middle aged women who have devoted their lives to starving the numerical-spacial part of the brain to make way for the language part of the brain creates a situation whereby no amount of looking at streetnames and turning the map will help.

The flea market we visited was full of stuff that we cannot be bothered carrying back, but fun all the same. we did however, buy hats because we can carry them on our heads. Eventually we got the to the beach, and after walking from the giant golden/bronze fish sculpture/building to the inverted D-shaped hotel at the other end, we settled in at a bar on the beach for some very slow beers. From this vantage point we could scan the topless girls who impressed us until we saw the bottomless men! We tried to act cool about it and I refrained from pointing, holding up score cards, laughing and other inappropriate behaviour. Like many other European beaches, the bikini is by no means limited to the young, slim and beautiful. Good on those grey haired grandmas who let it all hang out!

On the walk back to the hotel, we stumbled into a wonderful produce market. The fish made me hanker for a fry pan, my urge to live up to the name of this blog was powerful.

Germaphobaphobia

I have a new condition. I just invented it. Perhaps you have it too. It is: germaphobaphobia. The symtoms are:

• increased stress levels when surrounded by people wearing face masks
• a noted disinclination to accept the offerings of flight attendants wearing face masks
• a refusal to even acknowldege the existance of the person sitting next to you on a plane, simply because they are wearing a face mask
• a desire to cough, sneeze, sniff and blow you nose just to annoy people who are wearing a face mask.

On the flight from Melbourne Hong Kong and at Hong Kong Airport, Debbie and I shamelessly walked around with our facial orifices on public display. Wierdly enough, we learned that while we were both in the throes of an allergic reaction to those who wear face masks, the world’s most famous face mask wearer was dying in his home in Los Angeles. Rocking robin is gone!

In the tradition of The Castle, I will include a full report in the movies I watched on plane trip, as if this were a part of the holiday. Here are my film reviews.
The Wrestler
Mickey Rourke looked like he was wearing a fake “He Man and the Masters of the Universe” prosthetic chest”. The movie has a stripper with a heart of gold, a wrestler who seemed to let everyone down but was really lonely on the inside and his daughter who wanted to believe her dad could change, but really he couldn’t. A Hollywood movie but thankfully not a Hollywood ending.
Milk
Terrific. It is hard to say a bad thing about Sean Penn. He captures the time so well and manages the role without too much affectation. Even though I lived through the time and knew about the assasination, it was good to see the characer and the events leading up to it.
Defiance
A really wonderful story, even if you already know about the Jewish partisans, it’s terrfric. Terrible sentimentality in the shooting though, which was a pity because the story is already about people doing the impossible. Showing enormous courage, starving and freezing to death while they lived in the forest and took waged warfare against the German forces. Thus, the story did not need to be embelilshed with slowrolling tear drops and moments of fraternal reconciliation. and I felt Daniel Craig was miscast.
The Class
A French Cannes winning film. But really a bit boring or me. A classroom of naughty, lippy, multi-ethnic, underprivledged kids and a staff of teachers who try really hard to reach them. I think it was only interesting because it was French not British or American.
Sixty-six
The was a pretty funny, quirky story about an English/Jewish kid approaching his Bahmitzvah. Cute and funny.
The International
Clive Owen: thinking woman's crumpet, or for that matter, breathing woman’s crumpet, Naomi Watts: what a honey, and other good actors were not nearly enough to save this dross. The whole film is a international spy thriller where you get to learn that banks, governments and police agencies are bad. It has one central good, even interesting idea stuck in the middle. The idea was that the banks will do anything at all to control conflict because whoever controls conflict controls debt and whoever controls debt controls everything.
Seven Pounds
This is a film about redemption, I don't need that. Possibly is is more about atonement than redemption, but I don't need that either. Will Smith plays himself as a character who has accidentally caused great grief to himself and others. He tries to make up for it in a curiously mathematical way. It is a soft film that does not stand critique, but does pass the time on a long flight.

Here's Cheers

Well fellow travellers, here is another adventure over. Lucky me to have friends to put me up and look after me. I have loaded up the photographs that I took, so if you have a quick glance back through the blog you will see photos of some of the highlights.

In Portugal, I had a sort of rest. Perhaps it is no coincidence that this has produced my favourite photograph. It really captures, the moment, the trip, the friends and all the corney stuff.

In Finland they drink Karhu.

In Spain they drink Amstel.
In England they drink Speckled Hen.

In Scotland they drink Fosters and Guiness.

In Hong Kong they drink Carlsberg.

In Portual they drink Superbock. And that is what the photograph is of.

Splitting hairs

I had a really bad night's sleep and did not feel up to dealing with Hong Kong. I was starting to feel like I was stuck in an oversized version of Chadstone. So off to the Central Library. The reading lounge on the 5th floor is beautiful, couches, newspapers from all over the world, people reading and snoozing. It was just the ticket. After I began to feel less like I had been assaulted by the sensory information overload known as Hong Kong, I realised I did not have the energy to take myself on an excursion, and sitting still would be a sort of comotosed death that would only prolong the jetlag agony. So I did my very own "when in another country and you get a look of yourself in a mirror" trick, that I recommend to the brave: go and get a hair cut. It was lovely, they washed my hair before and afer they cut it, matched the color (almost) and did as good a job as I have done in Australia.

Feeling revived I wandered down a side street and found a small "wet market" (fruit veg, fish) and street stalls selling all kinds of stuff. It put me in a good mood because I was not in a mall. I angered one little cafe waiter by only ordering the greens with oyster sauce, then had an orange for dessert. Hong Kong had restored itself in my mind and heart and I set off for the airport.

Three puzzles, two answers

In Vietnam
The last puzzle: In Ho Chi Minh City our big question to all the tens of thousands of people on motor bikes was "Where are you all going?"
The solution: We never found out.

In Hong Kong
The first puzzle: Outside some shops huge crowds gather and stare at the shop. They are only interested in that one shop. The people do not go into the shop, nothing much is bought or sold, they just stand rather quietly, not talking on their mobile phones and stare. They do this for quite a while then at some signal all move quietly off in different directions. I went into one such shop but there was no countdown, no lucky ticket draw, no super give away.
The method: In the end I decided to just stand and stare at the shop as well until I worked it out.
The solution: After a while, I realised that the shop had a television screen facing out to the street and Hong Kong's favourite soap opera was on television. Everyone had just stopped to watch it.

The second puzzle: In Hong Kong there are few public places to sit, but apparently you are allowed to sit at Victoria Park. Not on the grass though, just on the concourse. I know this because I went there on Sunday and there were thousands of women sitting. The women had all brought big plastic sheets to sit on, little lunch boxes, tea in a thermos, magazines, nail files and polish and they just sat. I walked around but kept returning to the park to keep an eye on them, and they seemed to be there all day. They were not selling anything or buying anything or doing anything. They moved slowly, chatted freely and just spent the time in small groups. What were they doing?
They were all women, they were all Indonesian, Thai or possibly Filippino, not a Chinese face in the crowd. They were all aged 20-40. Where were their husbands or even brothers? Where were their children? It was not Friday, so it was not a muslim occasion, it was not a celebration of any sort.
The method: Two days later, I looked in a real estate agent's window and noticed the price of apartments. One was quite a bit higher than the others because it came with three bedrooms and "servant quarters". Bingo!
The Solution: They are all the servants (maids, cooks, cleaners, nannies) of the rich Hong Kong business people. Sunday is their only day off so they are not going to spend it at their place of work. Their place of work is actually someone else's home, so they cannot invite friends over or go to a friend's house because they too are immigrant workers. They have no desire to spend their time in shopping malls trying on the little Donna Karan or Vivienne Westwood outfit that they will never own. They do have husbands and brothers, but they are back at home. They do have children, but they are staying with grandma or auntie for just a few years while mummy goes off to Hong Kong to work.

Hong Kong today (not yesterday though)

Double decker trams!

Yesterday I arrived in Hong Kong after taking two over-the-counter sleeping tablets that worked so well on the way to London, only to realise that they do not work in the other direction. So I was drowsy, stupid, sleep deprived and had a massive headache. I spent my time walking within about a 2km radius from the hostel fighting off the urge to sleep. With the help of my lovely 20 something solo world traveller, women of the world roommates, I managed to stay awake til about 10pm.

Today was Hong Kong tourism with a vengeance. I even did what real Hong Kong people do and had Japanese food at a chain store in a mall. I went up to the very top of Hong Kong on the Peak Tram, what a ride! This puts that mini Portugese finicular to shame. Then over to Kowloon in the ferry. What a view looking back at Hong Kong Island! Then back and all the way across the island to Port Stanley on a bus. What a view and what a ride! The whole island is an architectual impossibility, but quite breathtaking. The apartment buildings stretch up further than I can tilt my neck. The smallest apartment block I have seen was about ten stories and that was way out of town. There are public outdoor escalators that go up hundreds of metres because the hills are just too steep. Almost everything seems new.

They say that Hong Kong does not care for history, particularly when it comes to the buildings. The old women dressed in black pyjama type suits with big bamboo hats that I remember from my last stop here have long gone. There are no street stalls, no noodle slurp shops where you look out at the passing throng of humanity, just malls, miles and miles of malls. I have seen more plastic crap for sale that you can imagine the whole poplulation of the world will ever want. There are no motorbikes, no push bikes and no certainly no makeshift stalls. Everywhere except around Victoria Park it is forbidden to sit down in public. There are no public seats anyway and just you watch out if you sit on a ledge or window sill to look at your map. They don't tell you to go away, the literally sweep you away. Apart from the look of the people, the only sign that you are in asia is the bamboo scaffolding and even that is not the norm. (That is the only sign, because even the street signs are in English.) The city is all around the harbour and yet very little of it looks out at the harbour. What a waste. I have found only one ocean side promanade type walk where you can get a drink and watch the sun set and that was way out on the tip of Port Stanley and only about 100 metres in length. Still there is something exciting about being in such a big crowd all the time, just participating in it all, even if it is going to the supermarket or the ferry terminal is a thing worth doing (if you are not jetlagged).

For those old enough to remember the days when Australians came to Hong Kong to go shopping: forget it. There are big brand name shops everywhere, so if you are in the market for some Yves St, or Fendi or Burberry, then maybe. Apart from that, everything costs the same or more here than it would in Australia. Everything, that is except for public transport, so I am patting myself on the back for braving three types of transport in one day. Tomorrow I will ride on one of the wooden double decker trams, because this is the last place in the world to have them.

Finnished with Finland

Here is a joke: I was so cold I got in the freezer to get warm. Only in Finland it is not a joke, it is actually warmer in the freezer that it is outside.

I followed the advice I had been given before leaving Australia and took a bus trip out of Helsinki. I went to a town called Poorvoo. I went there on a motorway bus and came back on a bus that went through all the little towns. Poorvoo itself is the only remaining wooden town in Finland. The rest of the towns burnt down at one time or another. In the case of Helsinki it burnt down five times before they decided to choose another building material. (slow leaners)

It was really quaint, cute as a button, elfin even, with ski runs around the town and people sitting on frozen rivers fishing in little holes they have dug out, or people lazily skating over frozen lakes with no evident intent, or people furiously playing ice-hockey evidently with the intent to kill. It really was more like a movie that I can possibly say, and I am good at exagerating. The bus trip back was a little excursion through Father Christmas-land. The towns along the way had 10-20 houses, all covered in snow, with barely a soul moving about. The trees stand tall and white, and there was no wind. The lights were all on in the houses, the snow glistened and the sleigh bells tinkled (well the bit about the bells is not true, but the rest is.)

The things that Finland has too offer include

• reindeer motifs and novelites


• reindeer pulling sleds


• reindeer on the menu including reindeer salami


• almost everyone speaks English as a third language and I have less trouble communicating than I did in Scotland where they were all speaking English as a first language
  
• bikinis on sale for A$12 (supply and demand)
  
• gloves on sale for A$60 (supply and demand again)


• lots of fish served cold
  
• really good heating everywhere indoors


• very long words with lots of vowels


• lots of vitimin D medicinal products with the word "Sun" in the name

Not Finnish yet

Look at Helsinki on the map; see how far north I am. The only capital city north of here is in Iceland and they have been bad lately, (silly Iceland). It was 10 degree below when I walked back to the hostel and I was fine except for my face. The people of Finland are tall strapping folks who are healthy and hardy. The men have big faces and big hands and many of the women look like they could happily unload a few tonnes of salmon from a boat. I thought that I would fit right in and was secretly looking forward to being mistaken for a Finn, but no such luck. Everybody spoke to me in English before I even said a word. How did they know? I am the right shape and size and I have matching facial features. It took me a while to work out. No fur! Not on my cuffs, or my gloves, or my coat, or my hat, or my boots, not even around the edge of the hood of my jacket. Therefore, I simply could not be Finnish.

Today I went to a market where the most popular stall was the sushi shop. This makes sense when you consider that they seem to have an abundance of fresh fish right at the front door. The skies were blue so I disregarded all the public health warnings to be out of doors and went shopping. (You are supposed to soak up the rays at every possible opportunity and take a vitamin D supplement in winter.) In the malls, everything was 70% off, but most of it was still ridiculously expensive given the lousy Aussie dollar. The Finnish girls in my room tell me that Norway is in fact more expensive, but as far as countries goes Finland is number two for the cost of living.

I went to the city museum and saw a film about all the things that can go wrong with trams (which Helsinki has). Here are some of the problems that they saw fit to document:

1. The driver might be sharing a cigarette and flirtatous conversation with the conductress with the well turned calves whilst driving the tram. They might be enjoying each other so much that they overlook a passenger at the stop.


2. The driver and the conductress with the come hither smile might have stopped the tram and got off for a cigarette and a coffee, then a teenage boy might jump on the tram and have a turn of driving it.


3. The tram might come off the rails or track, or someone might fall over getting on or off the tram or a car might crash into the tram, or someone might try to overtake the tram and sideswipe another car or someone might get their arm stuck in the door etc.

It was just hilarious. Why bother making such a film? (But they did.) Why bother showing it? (But they did) Why bother watching it? (But I did!)

Touchdown Helsinki

Hi to Debbie, Janny and Marion down at the beach.
It is all ice hockey and frozen lakes here in Finland. I am staying at the Hostel Stadiom, this is the Olympic stadium built for the 1952 Olympics and I am right in the middle of it. I can see all the fields and tracks right from my window. I am thinking of taking up one of the many sports on offer for the duration of my stay. All the lights are on at the playing fields and they look really beautiful. The lights are not on to make them look beautiful, the lights are on because it gets dark at about 4 in the afternoon. The hostel is amazingly good, huge, really well heated, half empty rooms with tables and chairs and couches in the dorms! It is fresh sheets and plump towels for all who enter. So far my layers comprise: thermal singlet, t-shirt, polar fleece jacket woolen coat, two scaves, stockings, jeans, socks, boots, hat and gloves but I was soon too hot. Sure it is cold, but it is not windy and after dragging my bags from the bus stop I worked up quite a sweat.

The Finnish accent is really funny. I think that the terrible TV show that Charles made me watch where Finnish men think up painful, playful practical jokes to play on each other has influenced my ear. Anytime anyone talks all I can hear is those stupid guy playing jokes with chili sauce or whatever.

I have already asked questions about the educational achievements of Finland and the Finnish seem to think that it is a bit of a myth. The one thing that they all want to stress is that it is mono-cultural and that means education is single track. This means that the seemingly fantastic results are at least an anomoly. Finland is almost mono-racial and was not ever a colonial power, only ever a colony itself. Always the underdogs apparently. They pay high taxes and they pay high prices for everything. Already I have been lectured about how Finland is one of the most expensive countries in the world.

Scotland the brave

Well, Scotland is where scotch comes from so it makes sense that there is quite a bit of it around. There are whisky bars everywhere all inviting you to differentiate between dozens of types. I have not particularly noticed drunk people or enormous amounts of drinking, but I am told that it is happening right under my nose all the time. Having just learnt the difference between a single malt and a blended whiskey, I am seriously out of my depth. Apparently though Scotland is one of the most alcoholic countries on the planet and all attempts to change this are simply laughed at.

There are tartan stores up and down the high street all the way from the base of Arthur's Seat to the Edinburgh Castle, but I have not seen many Scottish people decked out in it. In fact I have only seen one person actually weaaring a kilt and nobody wearing those really bad tam-o-shanter hats. Still William Wallace and Robert the Bruce loom large and the point of every story from Scottish history seems to be that the English are really nasty. The Scottish seem to enjoy telling stories of how badly treated they have been, and the whole thing reminds me of home.

When a bunch of Scotts stole the precious Scottish Stone of Destiny from Westminster in the 1950s, Scotland didn't quite know what to do with it so they gave it back and waited for Tony Blair to come along and officially give it to them. It is a bit like Australians who finally got the chance and then don't vote to become a republic.

More on the Franchesena

Here are two photographs of the earlier mentioned Portugese dish, the Franchesena, or "little French girl". Sandy sent me these with the update information that the Franchesena is all about the sauce.

Apparently the Scots will fry anything. They claim to have invented the deep fried Mars bar and the deep fried hamburger. I was told a story about someone who deep fried a lobster, just for fun. I might introduce the Franchesena to them and see if they would like to try deep frying it.

And yes, for those who read about al the things I did in Portugal, I did order one and I did eat more than half of it.

Bobby the most important creature in Edinburgh

You people out there who are reading my blog need to make a comment or two to let me know that I am loved.

A few hundred years ago a policeman was on graveyard shift which meant that he had to watch the graveyards at night to make sure that nobody stole the bodies, which at the time was a lucrative business. He got lonely and so got a little Scottish terrier and named him Bobby. (This seems a rather unimaginative name, given that the guy was a policeman.) The policeman dies, the dog sits by the grave for the rest of his life waiting for his master's return. It goes on for 14 years when Bobby himself dies but he cannot take up his rightful place buried next to his master. He has to be buried just outside the church yard because he might not have been a Christian.

There are pubs and cafes named after him, there is a statue of him and even though I have only been in Edinburgh for two days, there have been big articles in the daily paper about him both days: that makes a 100% hit rate. Yesterday's article was about a little Scotts terrier who has been trained to leave a wreath on Bobby's grave and today's article was about the gall of the Walt Disney company who are going to cast another type of terrier in the role of Bobby in their upcoming film. I don't know that I want to go and see a film about a dog that sits still for 14 years, then dies, but you never know.

I told two very sweet teenage boys about my theory that Bobby was really just a bit stupid and they said I was breaking their Scottish hearts. I told them about the equally moronic dog on the tucker box and then they they appointed themselves my guides for the day. This meant a huge walk up Arthur's Seat where King Arthur is buried if you believe that. The stopped and put their arms around me and took photographs, they laughed easily and seemed to enjoy the irreverence of not honouring little Bobby.

Wierdly enough, the Melbourne string orchestra was in town giving a recital at the University of Edinburgh. It was just fantastic. The crowd were all music students or lecturers, or supporters. I think I was the only man on the street type to go. I later met one of the orchestra members on my hike up to Arthur's Seat with my two young pals and she told me all about how wonderful the trip through Europe has been except for the permanent hat hair she has developed. I too have been suffering from bad hat hair, but since all of northern Europe has the same condition no one really notices.

Edinburgh: The First City of Literature

Haggis

I love haggis. I don't love it because it is gross, or different, or Scottish, I love it because it is delicious. (Delicious when fried as it turns out.)

"Haggis is typically served on Burns Night, January 25, when Scotland celebrates the birth of its greatest poet, Robert Burns, who was born in Ayrshire on that date in 1759. During the celebration, Burns poems are read, and the haggis is addressed by a member of the party, ceremonially, in the form of verses from Burns' poem, 'Address to a Haggis.' A typical meal for Burns Night would include Cock-a-Leekie, Haggis with Tatties-an'-Neeps, Roastit Beef, Tipsy Laird, and Dunlop Cheese."

http://www.smart.net/~tak/haggis.html

Robert Burns

And here is a little bit of what Robert Burns wrote in honour of the hagggis. This is only the first on nine stanzas:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

There are whole programs available for how one should run a Robbie Burns night, and I am sure that someone in Melbourne sells haggis. Part of me is a little bit tempted to try to make it. This year is a very special 250th anniversary of his birth so someone might want to start planning. Every man, woman and child in Edinburgh is ready for it.

City of Literature

When you stack up the writers of Edinburgh as the first City of Literature against the famous writers of Melbourne as the second City of Literature, we look a bit thin on the ground. I will have to offer my services as liaison for the two cities and fly back of forth exchanging ideas. Edinburgh is all Burns, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Scott, great names huge and lyrical, then there is Ian Rankin who apparently can be spotted in the bars and cafes around. And of course there is the whole Harry Potter Industry, a wired blend of modern merchandising and the magic of the olde world which seems somehow to still exist when you look at Edinburgh Castle.

Is Scotland a country? It depends who you ask.

The only reason I did not get hit when I asked this question in Edinburgh is because I was excused on the basis of my idiot status, otherwise known as 'tourist'. Benny says no, Sandy says they don't have an army, I say they don't compete in the Olympic games in their own name; but just hold on a minute. They do have a parliament sort of, and the got back the 'stone of destiny' which apparently to the Scots means they are a country.

Darwin's birthday

The last museum in London for me was the Museum of Natural History where they have a special exhibition for Darwin's birthday. Of course, every natural history museum in the world is really his, but this exhibition was particularly well put together. The stories were lovely. He was only 22 when he set out on The Beagle and lots of the notes captured Darwin as a bit of a lad rather than the sage, bearded image that we tend to be presented with. He rode on the backs of the Galapagos tortoises but had trouble keeping his balance, pulled the tails of lots of animals and repeatedly threw iguanas back into the sea to try to work out why they kept returning to him so he could do it again.

They had lots of contemporary stuff, sadly enough still defending common sense against 'intelligent' design, a nice film of the path he walked for years while he was thinking it all through, and the two finches (hummingbirds as it turns out) that started him thinking. They were tagged and presented on a velvet cushion in pride of place. One highlight was the little scrap of paper where Darwin sketched out a tree and comes up with the model of branches for evolutionary science. This is the first codification of the idea of the tree of life.

Christine and I then went to Lynne's house and I made the shredded kale and potato soup that I had eaten in Portugal. It worked just fine. Finally I trudged off in the night to my train to Edinburgh where I found two empty seats. This mean a lay down on the train and a patchy but passable night's sleep. I finally looked out the window in Carlisle but could not workout why the train was going that way. The announcement was the we were diverted in the middle of the night because of flooding. I contented myself with staring at the white sheep with black faces (just like in the cartoons) and the wonderful green of everything until the train pulled in at the station in Scotland.

War Museum

The drive back from Birmingham to Oxford was late, the roads were slippery and the temperature was minus 4. I was okay because I was not behind the wheel. The motorways behaved themselves and I got home to Oxford with Superbock (Portugese beer) and octopus behind me.

So back to London to finish the museums. Today was the Imperial War Museum. A pretty impressive place but no mention of the current war, of course. There were many effective maps, photos interactive displays and quite shocking stuff. The weaponry was huge, but I don't know enough about it to really understand what I was looking at.

Dinner was a pizza place called la Porcheta. For minute I feared that it might be the Melbourne chain spreading out, but thankfully not. The food was just lovely and after dinner Christine and I sat up talking over old times. Tomorrow night I am off to Edinburgh. I will revert to my maiden name (Mckay) while there and see if it does me any good.

Port, Porto, Portugal

Porto is the second biggest city in Portugal and I went there. It is built on a very steep hill like the towns along the Amalfi coast or Taxco in Mexico (but now you will just think I am showing off.) It is a major port with a beautiful river running out to beaches and beyond, and it is where port comes from. The apartment provided a wonderful view across the river and the Gaia Bridge (for those who want to look it up). Occasionally a team of 8s would row past or a military band would drum up a procession for no reason that we could understand. These events puncutated the mournfully relaxing sight of a summertime holiday town in sleep mode for winter. Here are some highlights.

The city

Tall thin houses, with tiles on the outside, most often blue and white floral inspired patterns, but sometimes yellows, greens and reds stand on streets/laneways that are far too narrow for cars, but then you would occasionally and impossibly see a car winding along. Sandy kept pointing out the art deco features, I was stumped by the hieght/width ratio and the question of where the staircase might be.

The market
All was good, even if we got there when it was half closed. Butchers, line up to sell more meat than you can imagine a town needs. Lunch was crunchy fish from a cafe in the middle of the market. When we ordered the fish, a woman went out, bought it from a fish shop and cooked it for us. Life can be so simple.
Here I was stumped by another curiousity. They were selling a meat product that I could not identify. I had ticked off evey organ of every animal that I know, but still a dark red sticky mass (not liver) was before us. At one point we saw it in a bucket and it was steaming. Finally, Sandy pointed to the stuff for sale then her innards then gesticulated a question by raising her shoulders. The woman answered by miming the cutting of her wrists and we knew what we were looking at. Blood sausages don't come from nowhere.

Custard tarts
It is said that in London you are never more that five metres from a rat. I posited the idea that in Porto you are never more than five metres from a custard tart. Benny is not sure if that is true, but I am going to stand by this until someone proves me wrong. A pastisse de nata (that's Portugese for custard tart), with a little shaker of cinnamon and a coffee makes a treat that can be eaten at any time of the day or night.

Franchesena
The Franchesena is Portugal's answer to the French croque monsiuer. It literally means "The litttle French girl" and as you can see, the word "little" is sarcastic. It is a sandwich of bread, peppered ham, veal cutlet, sausage, ham, bread again, smothered in gooey cheese, all grilled in a creamy tomato and wine sauce.

The sculptures
Our focus on food was occasionally interupted by some cultural events. We saw a gallery of good stuff, but best of all were the sculptures and the busts. We tried and failed to hear some music, and we sat and sunned ourselves on various public seats, bars and cafes. We noticed that few people wear crusifixes, no one crosses themselves when they pass a church, the city is very slow, possibly even hibernating, the waiters are so bored that when you ask them where a bar might be, they take off their aprons and want to come with you. (Those of you who doubt me need to check the validity of this story with Sandy and Benny.)

The transport
Apart from the attempt to march to the beach past the fishermen cooking their sardines on a dockside grill, and the many calf building stair climbs, we road trains that become trams, buses, and best of all a finicular. Guess which part I liked best. The public transport was remarkably clean and available.