Prague: Beer becomes very cheap, mayhem ensues..

With the Sammyd slush fund becoming what would be best described as 'precarious,' it was fitting that the end of this European tour would be in the reasonably cheap city of Prague. Tom and I arrived into Prague to be greeted by Archie - the owner of our rented apartment. Through an exchange of broken English (Czenglish?) we received the keys and were duly led down into the heart of historic Malostranska for what would be the first of many fine pilsners. It was here we learned very early on that Archie was partial to more than a few beers and we spent our first afternoon in Prague with our heads spinning.

Although we reached Prague in the lowest trough of the tourist season, we couldn't have arrived at a better time, with clean and fluffy snow draped all around the city. I can think of few cities in Europe where you can affordably see so much and varied architecture in the one place. Wonderful examples of Rennaissance, Gothic, Baroque right through to Art Nouveau and Deco can be seen rubbing shoulders with each other in the city. Prague's formidable artistic heritage is still very much alive, as Kaz and I experienced. We enjoyed a very special performance of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik in the Alphonse Mucha designed Municipal House concert hall - a stunning example of Art Nouveau.

As a steady trickle of friends (those trickles being Kaz, Cade, Dylan, Nick and my brother Jack) from around Europe came to stay at our little pad, the Prague nightlife began to claim us as its own. After sensibly ejecting ourselves from one establishment we came outside to find a large fresh dump of snow. Promptly taking leave of our senses, a fearsome snowball fight erupted which wasn't over until Tom had been forced to eat a pint of snow, Dylan had nearly had an eyeball removed, Nick (bloodily nosed) launching snow-mortar attacks on the locals and I had copped an absolute thumper to the back of the head. It's amazing how much snow likens to a heavy rock once it's compacted enough. Great days my friends, great days..

Australia Day arrived and thanks to Cade, a six pack of Coopers red was specially imported to mark the occasion. Why we were bringing more beer into the country that basically invented the stuff, I don't know. Ironically, I was to mark the occasion with a more venerated Australian icon - the mullet haircut. In preparation for a job interview I had scheduled in London the following week, I had gone to get a haircut in an attempt to fool any potential employers into thinking I harboured a sliver of respectability. My requests in broken English for short back and sides came to nought with my barber. Despite my protestations, I returned home to be greeted by many a laughing face and pointed finger. A transcript of my immediate reaction to the mullet incident can be found on Amanda's blog here.

On my last day in Prague, I awaited our landlord and sometime drinking buddy Archie to pick up the keys. My phone rang and I had the following conversation:

Archie: ...euhhh
Sam: Hello?
Archie: It is ... Archie
Sam: Hello Archie, we're about to leave. Are you coming to take the keys?
Archie: Sam ... you should know ... last night
Sam: ...
Archie: This morning ... I wake up in vomit.
Sam: Right. I might leave the keys in the letterbox for you then.
Archie: I think ... this is best.

Poor old Archie.

Filmed in amazing Prague-o-vision:

Prague also suffers from the kitsch that afflicts much of Europe. This little marionette did make me go all gushy though..


One of my favourite photos, the view of the Prague high street from the national museum.


Cade, Jack and I went to this positively kooky 15th century bone church on a trip to the Czech city of Kutna Hora. Instead of burying war casualties and plague victims, some half blind (half mad?) monk named Henry decided to build a church out of their bones. 40,000 of them. It seems Henry wanted to bring the sense of impending death a little closer to his parish, instilling in them a sense of mortal fear and an urgency to repent. That's cool and everything, but cherubs become slightly less cherubic when they are surrounded by grisly human remains..


So here we are on the Charles bridge, surrounded by some of the best views of Prague and historic monuments. At this time, the sun was setting on the river and snow was just starting to fall. Do you think people are interested? No. To the side of the bridge construction was underway and a pole was being driven into the ground, captivating the minds of everyone who walked past. This is affirmation of my central thesis, that most people are morons.


Praguers get straight to the point, as demonstrated by this etching of a nationally celebrated event. The Thirty Years War (1618-1648) was touched off by an incident called "The Defenestration of Prague". The Bohemian nobility was in more or less open revolt against the Emperor, and, at a meeting of the Bohemian Estates at the Hrdcany Castle in Prague on 23 May 1618, the assembled Bohemian nobles took the two Imperial governors present at the meeting, namely Wilhelm Graf Slavata and Jaroslav Borzita Graf von Martinicz, and threw them out of a window of the castle and into a ditch. So popular was this method of deposing political leaders that it has been repeated several times in Pragues's history.

In other words, 400 years ago in Prague, the appropriate treatment of politicians was refined to perfection.



Australia Day 2005. My hair, my shame.

Once I had been follicly-sabotaged, the only thing for it was to don a singlet, pound back a few antipodean ales and say 'maaaaaaaaaaaaate' a lot. Relax, since this photo was taken, I have undergone mullet surgery and my coiffure is now peachy-pie once again.


Thought Prague wasn't ghetto? Wrong. Just to let the rest of the world know how it is, two statues were erected at the parliament gates. One is of a man bludgeoning another man in the head, the other - a man knifing another in the neck. It's basically the city saying 'yo, this is how we roll.'


Mon frere Jacques and Cade in the beautiful cafe of the Prague Municipal House, designed by Alphonse Mucha. The interior had all the simplicity of Deco but with the romance of Art Nouveau. Even though the coffee was terrible, we couldn't help but keep coming back.

Well thats it for now! I think I'll post one more update with my current living details here in East London in a few weeks. That'll be it though. I'm back at work now and have no time for such frivolous activity..

Cheers,


-dymmas

The Deutsch, the Dutch, writing too little and eating too much..

I'm still alive!!

Now that I've got the important stuff out of the way, I'm now faced with a difficult task of describing quite a few months of travel around Germany and the Nederlands. I'm unlikely to be able to do justice to the experiences I've had, the people that have helped me along the way and what I've come to learn - but I'll have a red-hot crack at it. I'll try to keep it brief because I know most of you are reading this on company time - slackers that you are.

I'm rolling Germany and the Nederlands together in this blog, so that they may share the various snipes, secrets and shenanigans I have to extol in this diatribe. They have much in common anyway, a heritage of marauding Germanic barbarians, pork, phlegm hawking language and an inherent dislike of each other. Did I mention pork? there's so much of it, it probably deserves mentioning twice..

Pork (three times, even).

After a 3 week stopover in London spent feverishly job hunting (more on THAT later) and staying at Cade and Gerv's pied-a-terre, I was off to Heidelberg in Germany. Here I was reunited with long-running travel partner Amanda who was posted there on an IT contract. Heidelberg is an historic town featuring one of the oldest castles in Germany and a university that has been cranking out generations of smarty-pants since the 14th century. This was the place that fostered the likes of Max Weber and Georg Hegel, allowing them to inflict their brow-furrowing philosophical texts on generations of confused students like myself. After shaking my fist at the place, I discovered the amazing library and vaults with texts dating back to the 12th century. The late return fines on these books alone run into to the tens of thousands..

Although years of being a staple on the international tourist trail has dragged a pall of kitsch over the town, Heidelberg was picturesque and a quiet place for me to escape the stresses and burdens of my hectic lifestyle. If you were able to circum-navigate the package-tour crowd and souvenir shops, some fantastic ruins and countryside could be enjoyed. Our adventures in West Germany extended up to Köln (sweet baby Jebus, they gots the biggest church I ever done seen) and Dusseldorf (currywurst is to Dusseldorf what Boeuf Bourgignon is to Burgundy - for real), thanks to Susanne and Peter for the hospitality there!

While I generally found ze Germans afflicted by the same ubiquitous melancholy that follows the winter in this part of the world (see my post below about the gloomy Swedes), there are few people more ecstatically cheerful than a German at a christmas nachtmarkt clutching a steaming gluwein and half a metre of bratwurst while the snow is falling. The colour rushes back into his jowls, his voice raises to a shout, his chest heaves with laughter - all is well with the world. Except in Berlin, of course, where to smile (or to express anything other than intense reflection or aloof bemusement) is to betray yourself as a tourist.

If Heidelberg was kitsch, then Berlin is its antithesis. For a city that is bankrupt and still coming to grips with reunification, the vibrancy of the city is tangible. It has the presence of a city that used to be the centre of Europe and in many ways is still years ahead. Some brilliant record stores, rock gigs, boutique fashion (in store screen printing!) and art galleries attested to this. Uber kudos goes to Kat and Mat who were brilliant and very charitable guides to their city and gave Amanda and I a roof to sleep under. Unable to resist a second trip here, on return from the Nederlands, Tom and I stayed with Zarven (card magician) and Matt (horn blower) in their place in Friedrichshain. This was a fantastic taste of old skool east-Berlin living, with coal that needed to be lugged from the basement each morning (Karl was cranking!) to feed the burner, a shower that needed to be pumped for twenty minutes before use - and not to forget playing about a million hands of 500 to keep the fingers warm... all we needed was some secret police to burst through the door and arrest us to complete the experience!

Reluctantly leaving Berlin, Amanda and I hurtled towards Maastricht in the Nederlands for a Christmas rendezvous with other Antipodean refugees (amongst whom, my brother Tom). Seeking refuge at the very charitable home of Senors Charles and Owen, we were glad to hear some other Australian voices and experience some thickly spread Christmas cheer. Heading north to Amsterdam, Tom and I had a joyful reunion with me old mate Kaz who is now kicking goals with Plugger-like consistency there.

Amshterdam ish crayshee, if only becaushe everybody speaksh like dish! Maybe itsh becaushe dey put mayonnaishe on everyting!! Ash tempting ash it ish to write like dish for de resht of the blog - I'll stop now. With the highest population density in Europe, Amsterdam is a heaving town with some amazing sights. The best times were had bypassing the city's seedy areas, and rolling around in De Pijp and towards the Oud West. To be experienced truly, Amsterdam must be seen as a passenger riding side-saddle on the back of a bike. Better still, chaperoned by a caffeine-charged Kaz who proudly showed off her new home, riding through the beautiful city with the fiendish zeal of someone who has just fallen completely in love with it.

New Years Eve saw the city erupt into a frenzy of celebration and the streets filled with revellers. We soon discovered that the Amsterdamers have a penchant for throwing very loud firecrackers at each others feet during the festive season. As one might expect, the combination of NYE, legal sale of fireworks and liberal drug laws culminated in 48 hours of mayhem and street explosions - a la Gaza Strip. I even caught an impish pre-teen kid throw a cherry bomb at my feet as he rode by on the back of his mothers bicycle - cackling as I jumped a metre in the air upon its explosion. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get my hearing back and track the wee bastard down. I still can't help but scream like a girly-girl when something rolls by my toes..

No trip to the Nederlands would have been complete without hooking up with my uni buddies Erik and Niels who lived in Rotterdam. It was great to see those guys and have a cruise around Rotterdam and its surrounds before leaving the country.

From The Nederlands I headed east, so stay tuned for the Prague update. A swashbuckling tale of snowball fights that spiral into bloody shambles, accidental mullets, alcoholic landlords and the usual tomfoolery and intrigue that seems to befall me wherever I hang my hat...

And now it ish photo time, ishn't dat fantastisch?

Unfortunately, I'm still trying to track down most of my photos from Germany, I'll post the good ones when I get a chance..


This is the (now defunct) student prison at Heidelberg University. Built in 1778, it was used to house rascal students for drunkenness (some things don't change) and unauthorised duelling (some things do). As a freshman in the 18th century, you weren't worth your salt unless you'd squared off with somebody and attempted to fill them with buckshot or hack at them with a rapier. The walls are covered in 250 years of graffiti from students who were kept there for up to a month. It sounds brutal, but I can't help but feel that my student life was a little empty because I never had the chance to cooly look somebody in the eye and say:

'Pistols at dawn, you rogue.'


Christmas night markets like this were ubiquitous throughout Germany and the Nederlands.


Kazzy with apple pie in Amsterdam. This was the greatest slice of apple pie ever created - period. No correspondence will be entered into, our decision is final.


Christmarket delights in Maastricht. First, the waffle is made from a mixture of egg, flour, sugar and butter. After being fried in more butter, melted white chocolate and hot caramel is liberally poured over the waffle. Served with sprinkled chocolate, you can actually feel your arteries hardening before you've taken the first bite..


The dead zoo in Maastricht. For reasons that only our twisted tour guide can answer himself, on a night time tour of the city Owen took us to a very strange zoo. Seeming to be a memorial to the animals that existed in poor conditions before zoos of the modern age cleaned up their act, we saw a huge enclosure with sculptures of a dead giraffe, a depressed bear, tasmanian tigers and others. And a girl in a ballet outfit. It was verrry spooky and not completely understood.


Erik and Niels (aka The Dutch Touch aka The Proppers) gave me a brilliant tour of regional Holland, with a walk through these beautiful fields outside Rotterdam. It'sh jusht like in de poshtcardsh!

-sammyd

RIP hst

Sweden: Pretty people. Lard balls. Ice.

There must be something in the water in Sweden.

I'm not talking about good tasting - although it is crystal clean and sweet, having been trapped in glacial ice for yonks before melting into a reservoir. There must be something in it that creates an über race of aesthetically stunning people that are able to run an ultra-liberal social democracy without much of a hitch. The last time Sweden picked a fight with anybody, it was with Finland in 1809. And they lost that one. I guess they smartened up to the fact that they're not much good at fighting and decided to develop world class modern social welfare, education and a strong economy instead (and spawn a million Ikea stores worldwide). I think there's something in that for all of us...

To throw another herring on the sprat pile, they're charming, intelligent and generous too. It makes you just wanna hate 'em...

Stockholm is a stunning city. Arriving on the cusp of Autumn, the classic architecture was covered in the yellow of oak trees shedding their leaves, creating a very serene cityscape - sans tourists. I met with my brother Tom who journeyed down from his ice haven in Piteå to greet me, and Staying at a 40 roomed hostel boat moored in the harbour (tres cool), we poked through old antique mariner stores, creperies and bookstores. I saw Lydia Lunch (Nick Cave's old flame) play at a bar called Debaser (name like that, I HAD to go..) and had a rocking time. It was a great gig.

From Stockholm, we flew north to Luleå and coached it to Piteå. This was the town where Tom has been studying for the last 3 months and has very nearly robbed him of a sane mind.

I pity ya, if you live in Piteå..
Piteå. As much as I enjoyed kicking it with mon frère, I need to set a few things straight with the Pitea tourist commission. Those of you that have been concerned that I have been uncharacteristically upbeat and happy on my travels can rest assured that I finally have some vitriol to publish. In particular, the tourist guide 'Piteå Presenterar' details various misleading facts that I would hope to set straight for future travellers to the region. My humble opinions respond to the various ludicrous statements made in this publication:

"Valkommen is the word we love to say in Pitea, and often do! Experience Pitea in the yar of 2004, the best town in the whole world for both short and longer visits." -Katarina Johansson, Piteå Turistbyrå

Thanks for the vilkommen, but it is an ambitious claim for, not only the best small town IN THE WORLD, but for both 'long' and 'short' visits. I had only a short visit to Piteå, but if I had stayed much longer, I think I might have chewed my toes off in boredom. Piteå is about 50kms from nowhere. Despite the university (reputable) and paper mill (smelly), there is very little going on here. Granted, there are few towns that have a snowmobile drive-through McDonalds, but even East Keilor would give you a run for your money in the 'best town' stakes. I mean, at least East Keilor is 'east' of something...

"To stay the night in Piteå, inexpencive [sic] or more luxurious is no problem, it's Your choise [sic]."

No Katarina, it's not my 'choise.' Nothing in Sweden is 'inexpencive' as you claim. I could hear my wallet creak in agony everytime I opened it to pay for something. I had to stop mentally converting prices to the old AUD when I bought things because it kept making me dizzy. To be fair, herrings were cheap and good. But how many herrings can you eat? I'm not a seal.

"A great number of restaurants are waiting for You in Piteå! Pitepalt is our own national dish and the Paltzeria is the first and only one in the world. Enjoy!"

Enjoy? Unlikely. The reason why it's the only restaurant in the world is because I doubt there is anybody else that would inflict these boiled lard balls filled with reindeer fat on anybody else. Yuck. If you ask people outside Piteå what Pitepalt are, they'll almost always have no idea (although, being generous and charming Swedes they will apologise for their ignorance and offer to phone somebody that does know). Folk that did know what I was asking about usually looked away in shame, likening it to eating a ball of tar.

While we are on the topic of disgusting exports of Northern Sweden, you can't go past snuss for a good laff. Snuss is effectively a teabag of very strong tobacco that is inserted between the gumline and the lip, where the nicotine is absorbed extremely efficiently into the bloodline. It is the sophisticated and entirely legal alternative to smoking in Scandinavia, with a much higher rate of addiction. Apart from giving its consumers 'snuss drool,' one of these teabags is the nicotine equivalent of filling your fireplace with lit cigarettes, climbing onto the roof, wrapping your mouth around the chimney and inhaling. As such, it wasn't for me..

"Gådgatan is Sweden's first car-free street from 1961. It has been much improved since then and is now profiled as Piteå's own 'walk of fame.' "

Well, it's a walk anyway. Fame eludes both this street and its visitors.

"One of the main attractions and reasons why people flock to Piteå is the wonderful bathing and beaches, not to mention the warm water and sun that never fails us."

Firstly, by all accounts, people flock from Piteå. Piteå is 100kms from the ARCTIC CIRCLE. So, like most people in Sweden, you are probably more likely to go to, I don't know, Spain or Greece where the temperature is more reliably ABOVE freezing point. And has LESS ICEBERGS. What's more, I would humbly suggest that a sun that rises for 5 hours a day before plunging the country back into darkness - is one that fails you. Tremendously.

So, apart from tourist advice that hinges on lunacy, I had fun here (I love being angry!) and Piteå isn't so bad. It´s a great place to, i don't know, hide bodies or something (if thats what you're into). I learned that saunas are great places to have a beer. I met some cool people (hej Peter, Annie, Conor et al - word to your mums). I spent some time with my brother who is the current darling of the Pitea electroacoustic avant-garde and saw him perform his chamber piece, played by the Pitea music school. I was sorry to miss the finished piece performed by a full chamber group to much praise in Stockholm later in the month. You can now see his latest works and news at http://www.tomdunstan.tk/. Represent!

The only souvenir I take from Piteå is a bruise the size of a cricket ball on my leg. Tom corked me an absolute beauty when we were bored one night. Tom, I have not easily forgotten that wound and will return the sentiment when we meet again in Holland. Touché, mon ami!

-sammyd
samueldunstan@hotmail.com

Proof I was there:

At the magnificent Royal Palace in Stockholm, we witnessed all the pomp and national pride that comes with the changing of their royal guard. In a tradition of kitsch (think ABBA) nearly as proud as their millitary, they followed their drum exercises with a medley of John William's Star Wars themes. Tom noted it for its flawless percussion, which is something I guess.


This is Tom, Lotten and I enjoying the local Stockholm boheme. Tom and I are happy because we haven´t received our bill yet. It was the size of a small mortgage. Lotten didn´t mind so much because her student allowance from the government is the size of a small mortgage.


Once the scourge of Europe, Vikings invented terrorism and had a monopoly on looting and pillaging for hundreds of years. Now they make pizza in sleepy Pitea and aren´t nearly as scary. They even give you garlic bread for free.


Swedish forests are very serene places. The moss and brush covers the ground in an intricate carpet and you can walk for ages without seeming to have travelled any ground at all. In fact, I got really lost after taking this photo.


If you're thinking 'Sam and Tom seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time standing in forests' - you'd be right.


You know what? It didn't happen. I felt so cheated.


'Hurry up Fidö, we haf to get home to our pitepalt!'
'Woof!'

Barcelona: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain but definitely not in Barcelona where the weather is bloody beautiful and thanks for asking.

After a brief stopover in London to see the lads, I packed my swag for Spain. Staying mostly in Barcelona, I was determined to soak as much of the Mediterranean sun and saltwater into my bones as possible before the cold kicked in. Fortunate enough to catch the lingering tail end of summer, I earned myself a nice little brown tint on my skin and had an awesome time to boot.

In Barcelona, I quickly learned the difference between Spain and Catalonia - the northwest region of Spain, where separatist sentiments are still maintained. The Catalan people are fiercely protective of their culture, with not only their own dialect but traditions and practices. Much of this is largely derived from the Spanish, with a smattering of Portuguese and French for good measure. I don´t advise visitors to point out these sometimes obvious similarities. For example, ordering a creme Catalan and remarking that it is no different to a French creme brulee will cause an outrage, as it looks NOTHING like a creme brulee and ANYWAY the creme Catalan came FIRST and what would you know stupidé tourista etc...

What else? The jamon (cured ham) here is incredible. Sliced so thinly, as soon as it touches your tongue, it evaporates into a salty perfume. In fact, all the food here is plentiful, fresh and delicious. So much so, that I'm growing a portly belly that is significant enough now to warrant his own name - 'Little Sam.'

I was struck by the large South American population within Barcelona. This significant, and growing, number of South Americans moving to Spain has created a tension with the locals. I first noticed this community as I used internet around Barcelona, where the internet cafes here double as phone centres. More often than not, they were teeming with Colombians, Argentinean and Brazilians speaking rapidly loved ones and wiring precious Euros home to their families. Spain spent 100s of years conquering the Americas, gutting precious minerals and shipping wealth home to make Europe wealthy. It would seem that more than a few of the colonials are traveling to the continent to return the favour! You only have to see how many Canadians, South African's and Australian's working for the pound in England to realise this phenomenon is not restricted to Spain...

Taking advantage of the sun, Mar and I ventured up the Costa Brava and checked out the beaches all along this beautiful strip. One of these sleepy coastal villages, Cadaques, is reknowned as the place Salvador Dali lived and called his favourite place on Earth. It´s also the place where, after inviting a friend and his wife to stay, Dali seduced the woman and ran away with her. It is said that he called over his shoulder to the confused ex-husband, 'how do you like them apples!' The elopers lived here for many years. It was in this town that Dali was also inspired to do much of his painting and was visited regularly by the other surrealist luminaries. Similarly, I was inspired to reach new levels of gluttony and sloth by gorging myself on the local paella and Catalonian wines before falling asleep by crystal Mediterranean waters. I haven't relaxed as much as I did in Barcelona for some time.

My sympathies go to the Catalan people. Despite ardently maintaining their culture through the ages under the shadow of the Spanish flag, it would appear that Catalonia will never be recognised as a republic. Not only does it drive much of Spain´s wealth through the agricultural and tourism industries for Spain to let it go without a fight, but I the people are too chilled out to stage a revolt. It´s hard to organise an overthrow of government in a community where it is common to have beers for breakfast and snooze in the middle of the day. If I could give a few words of advice in solidarity and gratitude for the hospitality that has been shown me while I've been here, it would be thus:

You must get yourself a tougher national mascot than a donkey.

Think about it, Spain has the iconic bull as their national emblem - Catalonia has a donkey. What do donkeys do anyway? What defences do they have against predators? Nothing. A bull would gore a donkey to death in 5 seconds if they ever were to fight. Moreover, I´d feel a bit silly if I was charging into battle with a donkey as my guiding beacon. I'm sure others share these sentiments. When I put this to my Catalan friends, they protested that the red and yellow Catalan flag represents their other icon of St George and the Dragon. Dragons are cool, breath fire and can eat anybody, so thats a way better option.

A special mention and lotsa love goes out to Erin and Mar, my Catalan benefactors. Instead of sending me running down the street under a hail of Spanish invectives and crockery, they were perfect hosts. Petonets!

Adejo Barcelona, and now up north. With the lack of daylight, my brother Tom has gone a little loopy while studying in the remote town of Pitea, Sweden. He has feverishly told me of his plans to scoot over to the north pole and rob Santa Claus´ house while he's away delivering presents on Christmas Day. Poor, crazy kid. Any fool knows that Santa has an advanced laser system protecting his headquarters. And that Mrs Claus sits by the front door, ready, with a shotgun. Next post will be from Pitea!

-sammyd

Catalonia, I done ya. Photo time!


The Costa Brava, which is the coastline along the north east of Spain and at the foot of the Pyrenees, has dozens of towns which are nestled in coves like the one shown here. Port Lligat was spectacular. Judging from the ubiquitously spoken Catalan, it's still a reasonably well guarded local secret.


Here is my boy, Dali, kicking it fuh R-E-A-L in Cadaques. Just as we snapped this photo, he was doing this mad freeze - completely still. I dragged him out for a drink, but he just stood there and didn't touch a drop. I never understood the surrealists anyway..


Rolling her eyes, a local told me that the Fontana Magica in Barcelona is rated amongst the top ten kitsch tourist things to do in Europe. It is a fountain that coordinates its jets to various soundtracks that are played over the nearby loudspeaker. Not only do Ravel and Beethoven have their symphonies complemented by an amazing display of aqueous drama, but Freddy Mercury's lesser known Olympics-inspired track 'Barcelona' also gets a working over. It might be kitsch, but it was so beautiful, I blubbed like a little girl.


I took this photo at Park Guell, the famous park designed by the resident crackpot Antonio Gaudi. The park is adjacent to the Gracia precinct, which is home to many rundown buildings that are used by squatters. In response to a recent purge by the government to empty unused buildings of squatters, these residents articulated their sentiments ('Occupy and resist!') on the rooftop..


It's serious business relaxing in Barcelona. In a place where it is not only accepted, but encouraged, to drink a beer at breakfast, you have to scope out and get in quick for the best place to lazily spend the rest of the day. This woman, enamoured of her chair in the sun, has clearly made a stuffed model of herself to mind her spot while she ducks out for some more vino...


Too my very great amusement, I had the fortune of being in town during the biggest Catalan festival of the year. Celebrating Catalonia's traditions and culture, the good citizens of Barcelona congregated in these large squares to perform their traditional dance - The Sardanas. And what a dance it is. If you can imagine these folk hopping from one foot to the other like a mountain bear on a hot skillet, you've got more than enough of an idea of the skill involved here. When pressed on the issue, my Catalan companions agreed that it is amongst the silliest dances in the world. At the climax of the dance, the band ups the tempo and our proud shimmiers start a hopping frenzy. This, apparently, is the most difficult part as 'their arms get tired.' My body wracked with laughter, I had to be escorted from the scene.


Looks like the perfect way to relax? It gets better. Slightly to the left of this photo is the chiringuito - or beach bar. These mini bars will, for a small fee, wake you up every so often to offer you another slug of sangria. Great Buddha says that profound tranquility is found with the quietening of the mind and focus of the spirit. Wrong! It's found here, snoring loudly, on the Mediterranean beach of Calella.


Churros - my secret shame, my private joy.

I developed an unhealthy addiction to these donut like delicacies, which, are traditionally eaten at breakfast. At breakfast! The donuts are served in a strip that maximises the amount of fat that is retained. And as if they weren't fatty enough, are served with a cup of cocoa so thick, you can stand an upright teaspoon in it when it cools. This volume and strength of cocoa (upwards of 80% pure cocoa mass) packs a caffeine kick strong enough to, not only start your heart again after eating the artery-hardening donuts, but could power a bull to feverishly rampage all the way from Seville to Valencia. Yeeha!

NY2: Dude, where's my rock scene?

Jump off the subway at West 4th st. Pass through New York University and down to Hudson st. Turn on East Houston and keep walking (past CBGB's on your right) through to the Lower East Side. You know you're there when you can see a Puerto Rican grandpa drinking a forty ounce on the street corner and all the kids are covered in tattoos - only two reasons why I liked this corner of Manhattan the best.

The Lower East Side seems to have changed a lot since Rudolph Guiliani was elected mayor in 1992. In an effort to combat rising crime in NY, he embarked on a relentless campaign to ´clean up´Manhattan. The new laws and greater powers to enforcement agencies saw homeless people driven off the streets and greater penalties for ´undesirables´(ie graffiti writers, hawkers, buskers). Arriving at the Lower East Side, I struggled to find the fertile and street culture that had attracted me here. Reducing the crime and ´edginess´of this area in a bohemian precinct makes it more attractive to investors, who, in buying up property also push up rents, forcing out the community that make the area what it is. Already Starbucks and GAP stores were springing up everywhere..

However, Guliani's legacy of establishing prohibition era liquor licensing laws made for some interesting nights out. During his time as NYC Mayor Rudolph Guiliani re-enacted a 1926 prohibition era regulation on nightclubs, a law originally passed to clamp down on the jazz clubs that were spreading across the city. Ambitiously designed to stop illegal activity in nightclubs, the law specifically requires a 'cabaret license' for dancing in establishments that:

" . . . sell to the public food or drink, except eating or drinking places, which provide musical entertainment, either by mechanical devices, or by not more than three persons."

In other words: No DJ's. No dancing.

As they did 60 years ago, bar owners now have to pay a premium for a 'caberet' licence - legally defined as a venue where alcohol is served and patrons engage in 'hip swaying movements to contemporary music'). To avoid this expense, many bars around NY have hidden entrances to nightclubs operated by the same venue. I went to a bar called 'Happy Ending' near Nolita which used to be an old Chinese massage parlour that has converted to become a late night hangout for hipsters. After trying to leave through a fire exit, I followed the stairs down to a basement where they had another bar and dancefloor to a bona fide prohibition-era style speakeasy. The joint was not only crammed full of people dancing *gasp* but also smoking *shock, horror*, something else that has been almost entirely outlawed in NY. Strangely enough, people were enjoying themselves in spite of these heinous crimes being committed. Another bar I visited had apparently had a policy that was strictly observed by regulars - When councilmen or police officers were observed approaching the bar from the street, a secret alarm would sound and the DJ panel would disappear, rotating into the wall. Dire Straits' 'Money for Nothing' would start playing over the soundsystem and the sweaty patrons would quickly stop their 'hip swaying movements.' How funny is that? Pretty funny.

While I was here, I came and saw End of the Century: The story of The Ramones. For those who don't know The Ramones, their albums were in the record collection of every US punk rock band that came after them. You may, unfortunately, also know them from the faux-punk Sportsgirl t-shirts being worn in the streets of your town or heard their legendary guitar riffs on a sports car commercial - both recent phenomena that are probably contributing to the premature deaths of the remaining band members. Seeing this film a stones throw from the legendary CGBG's rock venue where their (and Blondie, Patti Smith and Talking Heads) powerful shows catapulted them onto the world stage, was a special experience. This felt even more real with the scores of local aging rockers that had come to the film and were nodding heads to the soundtrack. The early rock scenes and soundtrack was punctuated with their nostalgic sighs and chuckles that seemed to suggest their own recollections bubbling to the surface.

RIP to Johnny Ramone, the latest to drop off just a month back. May you continue to powerchord on those funny little harps they give you in heaven.

At a rare performance by Suicide, an underground art-punk band in the same vintage as Blondie and Talking Heads, I met a 40ish English guy filming the show. I recognised from the (awesome) Trans Am gig the night before. I had a beer with him and enquired about the shows that he had filmed. He said that he had visited NY 15 years ago and, caught up in the fertile art and music scenes, had decided never to return to England. With a growing desire to stay in NY but restricted by visa laws, I was interested in how he had managed this. Easy, he said with a toothless smile. All one has to do is avoid the cops, don´t open a bank account or hold down a job, avoid a consistent place of residence and it´s entirely possible. In this particular case, it also meant not wearing shoes and growing waist length and matted hair that smelled like bovril. I believe the immigration department in NY has declared him dead or missing.

As admirable as his effort was, I reckon I´m going to hold out and try and get legitimate work instead.

He gave me some great bootlegs though and you can check them out at http://pinstand.com/vcd/vcdlist.html. Everything you buy keeps him one more step ahead of US Customs. He might put the Trans Am one up soon and you´ll see me, right up the front. I'm the guy with the big smile on his face...

So how did my camera get stolen? Well, i don't directly blame Joey Ramone's ghost. All I know is, that i entered the cinema room with the camera and it was gone when I left it. Coincidence? I don´t think so. With every chain fashion store and TV commercial cashing in on the Ramone´s punk authenticity to sell products, I guess Joey decided it was time to take something back. Starting with my camera. Also, with the media coverage and fame that contributed to the spiraling demise of the Ramones, it seems to make sense. Joey, if you´re reading this - just remember that you always have to manually adjust the exposure for outdoor photos.
<>I found Giuliani's 'clean up NY' legacy is something that seems to be a double-edged sword. While I felt safe walking around most parts of Manhattan, much of the 'edginess' and bohemia seemed to have moved on. By most accounts you can find it in Brooklyn, where the rents are cheaper and the artist population has just topped 5000.

There's too much in NY to talk about and I wish I could stay here but I can't, so Spain is next up..

-sammyd

Photo time!

Here is my father, happily wondering how a small tub of lobster chowder could taste so damn good.



Many pilgrims visit this important spiritual site every year..


This is a photo of Herman Israel, the inventer of the greatest donut of all time. His grandson, when cleaning out grandpa's attic found his traditional Jewish recipe for making donuts, which Herman had perfected as a cook during WW2. When he discovered that these particular donuts tasted better than anything else in the world, he opened Plant's Donuts south of Delancey st in the Lower East Side. I will never forget that Plant donut, it was like eating a squishy cloud that an angel had sat on. Thanks, grandpa donut.


Even the noodle shops in NY have attitude. I don't know what Momofuku means in Japanese, but it sure sounds like some other word I heard in this city an awful lot.


I came to Queens to see the Museum of Modern Art centre here and found this. A puddle of blood that trailed from this street pole more than 500 metres down the road. I guess people get hurt in Queens sometimes.


I didn't see nearly as much graffiti in NY as I hoped to, but there was some cracking street art like this piece in Soho.


This is a photo of a room full of people getting manicures on their way home from work. There's no real reason to include this photo, except to show how ridiculous men and women look when they're getting pampered like this. Yeesh.

'Noo Yawk, Noo Yawk, It's a helluva town..'

I first learned that the Republican convention was in town when the NYC police used barricades to cordon off the street I was staying in.

There's plenty for me to say about NY, but given Manhattan was completely consumed by this event for the week it was on, I've chalked it up below. Apologies in advance to Hunter S Thompson and serious political journalists everywhere..

This convention was held as part of the hype machine that builds up to a US election, but essentially consists of a few thousand wealthy southerners (not exclusively Bush family members and/or related businesses) flying up to New York City in cowboy hats and having free run of the town while patting themselves on the back about the great job the Republicans have done in 'Irack.' In return they pledge millions of dollars to the presidential campaign to get Messrs Bush and Cheney re-elected (see, you can even buy anything in this country, even a PRESIDENT!). In a post 9/11 world, this also involved the extending the police force by 10,000 to a total of 37,000 for the week of the convention to help keep an eye on things. Not surprisingly 'Dunkin' Donuts' recorded staggering profits during this time.

With most of midtown Manhattan streets barricaded and 10-11 police officers posted on every street corner (I kid you not), NY seemed a little less fun all of a sudden...

For the number-crunchers out there, here are some figures:
Total number of people that were expected to attend the convention, including protestors: 250,000
Actual number: closer to 500,000
Number of those who are delegates: 2,509
Accredited members of the media: 15,000
Capacity of Madison Square Gardens (where ALL the protestors ended up): 19,763
Number of presidential conventions held in NY city before this year: 0
Number that were Republican: 0
Number of hotel rooms booked by the RNC: 18,000
Number of hotels: 43
Number of these that are outside Manhattan: 0
Broadway tickets freely distributed to delegates: 13,373
Number of cops on duty in the Madison Square Garden area during the week of the convention: 10,000
Average cop's shift: 12 hours
Number of lap dancers at each franchise of 'Scores Gentlemen's Club' on a typical night: 100
Number of lap dancers scheduled to be at each franchise for convention week: 125
and finally, ratio of Democrats to Republicans in NYC: 5 to 1

August 29 saw almost all of Manhattan at a standstill as a largely peaceful march walked up 6th Avenue and back to Madison Square Garden. Approximately 450,000 people eventually shut down the city centre to protest against the Bush administration, with the city of New York clearly showing where it stands in the upcoming election. I had some great shots of cops with huge automatic rifles walking around times square, arrested protestors and various other shenanigans but with my camera stolen by the ghost of Joey Ramone, i can't show you them (more on that later). With the power vested in the NYPD to summarily arrest and charge people without cause, I didn't get too involved in many of the protests. The last thing I need right now is to be questioned at every border in the world as to why I got deported from the United States...

With only a small number of formal protest licences approved prior to the rally date, it seemed that some serious trouble was going to go down. Strangely, for a protest of this size, only about 1000 people ended up in the clink. That was enough to cause the NYC Council grief however, as the NYPD had only developed the capacity to process 250 arrests per day. As a result, overnight imprisonments frequently turned into 2-3 days for those arrested. The last I checked, the class action against the city of NY by those unfairly imprisoned was due to win a whopping $US1000 each for every hour protestors were unfairly kept in jail. Not a bad little earner!

In less politically charged news, I spent way too much cash.

As I had been frequently warned, NY has the ability to suck the money straight out of a wallet - and it certainly did mine. I sure have done some cool stuff though. In an effort to keep my costs down, I've practically lived off the cheesey wedges of pizza that are available on every street corner. I'm sure New Yorkers have biologically evolved to obtain all their nutritional requirements from these things, as everybody has one in their hands after 7pm! After some digging around, I also discovered the Chelsea market and have had amazing lobster bisque and clam chowder for only a few dollars.

Next update :
* Down down down town - Looking for rock n roll in NYC
* Licence to dance - I go to a speak easy and have heaps of fun.
* Queens - I think I found a place where somebody got killed

-sammyd

Sick of reading? I'm sick of writing too. Here's the ballot for NYC...

Votes For #1:

Take this scene, multiply it by a lot and that's what Manhattan was like on the main day of protest. My favourite slogan was 'Bush: Let's not elect him in 2004 either.' That, or the guy i saw holding a giant pretzel aloft - claiming it to be the 'Pretzel of Truth.' Everybody has their own thing going on.

Votes For #2

My friend Hannah and her NY public arts group established this 'Speak Up' monument on the street - a giant speaker directed at the NY County Court House to symbolically encourage people to express their concerns about the city's judicial system. This guy got up with his own loudspeaker as well which was really just being greedy.

Freedom of speech in this country also means little kids climbing up there and shouting 'I want ice-cream!' to everybody.

Votes For #3

In the week leading up to the September 11 anniversary, two giant spotlights were erected in the site of the former World Trade Centre. These vivid beams of light were a breathtaking memorial and visible from all over Manhattan. It's not too visible in this photo though - sorry.

Votes Against #1

Here's what street corners look like circa Republican convention time. How could you not feel safe with this kinda security? These guys had utility belts with so many goodies in them (mace, plastic cuffs, guns, batons, etc) that they made Inspector Gadget look unprepared.

Votes Against #2

Sometimes it's just not enough to have liberal laws on gun ownership. Sometimes you need to have missiles - yes, missiles on your ute. Further, you need to be able write how you feel on your missile so whoever is on the end of that sucker knows what you're on about. That's important.

Votes Against #3

This man is the MOST PATRIOTIC MAN IN THE WORLD. Even his shoes show his love for his country. I saw a lot of people with 'I Love NY' T-shirts, but Captain America here put them to shame. He sure did scare the bejeezus out of that poor kid though..

USC frat boy hell -OR- My trip to California

"Let me serenade the streets of L.A.
From Oakland to Sacktown, the Bay Area and back down
Cali is where they put they mack down, give me love..."
-Tupac Shakur ''California Love"

My experiences with international departure lounges at airports are pretty miserable. You're either sad about seeing somebody leave or sad to see somebody stay, and either way you're surrounded by kids screaming because they don't know when they're going to see their mum/dad/uncle/baggage clerk again. the only thing worse is a 14 hour flight to LA from Melbourne when you realise that you've left all your good music at home. With your sleeping tablets. These things make for a painful flight.. but we got to LA eventually.

I didn't see anybody put their 'mack down' in California as Tupac had once observed, but one of the locals we met told me did tell me how his car broke down in the precinct of Compton in the previous week, causing him to leave it there and get a bus ride home an hour away. When he came back for it several days later, it was 200 metres further down the street - stripped, windows broken and blood on the seats... he left it there and got the bus home again, as you do.

California is a place that is governed by SUVs (Special Utility Vans) as much as it is by a slow drawling Austrian. If you can imagine everybody driving around in black vans that look like the truck they used in "The A-Team" TV show then you're halfway here. If you're still wondering, see them at www.hummer.com. Hummer make not only military vehicles for the US Army, but are a popular domestic SUV manufacturer and have just launched the new highly sought after SUT. It's a tank, minus a gun turret. Everytime one of them pulled up next to us at the lights, I half expected Mr T to wind down the tinted window (chewing a cigar) and say 'I pity the fool!' Spooky? You bet.

After a few days in the city. Amanda, Donna and I hooked up with Heather, a very gracious local Los Angeles girl with whom Amanda had travelled through Europe with. After staying in the concrete jungle of West Hollywood, it was a interesting change to drive an hour out of town into the manicured suburban lawns, housewives and lifestyles of suburban northern LA (Laguna Niguel), where Heather was living. This gave us a chance to do some surfing at San Clemente (pronounced San Clemenny by its constituents) - one of the kindest surf beaches i've ever been to. Sitting up on my board, I called over to Heather to ask why there were so few people out in the water. She pointed behind me to a massive powerplant based on the beach and said "Most people are like, kinda freaked out by that thing."

I haven't started glowing in the dark yet, but give me time.

The beach at San Clemente also afforded me the rare pleasure of realising a lifelong dream. As a largish wave got the better of one of the surfers and tumbled him in the white wash, I shouted out "Hey! Go back to the valley, man!" - re-enacting flawlessy a scene from the the classic LA surf film "Point Break." Understandably, he gave me the finger and told me what i could do to myself.

Heather also took us to the island of Catalina, a fantastic and surprisingly clean place just off the coast of LA. We were introduced to her old University of Southern California (USC) college fraternity group - a group of guys who were on a dedicated mission to drink the island dry of cocktails. Unable to match the liver punishing frenzy that followed, I largely watched as these guys ran from bar to bar in Hawaiian shirts and leys drinking fishbowl sized cocktails and performing devastatingly bad karaoke. We did manage to escape and see the rare orange fish that only live in the waters of Catalina and swim in the pristine beaches there.

LA was a lot of fun. Pretty seedy in the city, but i now know why the Beach Boys gave it props.

Coming soon:
- Republican convention in NYC and 10,000 cops eating donuts
- The ghost of Joey Ramone steals my camera

California: Bogus or Totally Awesome? I make the call...

Totally Awesome #1

Surfing is like, a way of life here dude. This girl must only have been 9 years old and she carved up a tube like a pro. What's more, her mum was out there with her. As i have always maintained, a family that surfs together, stays together..

Totally Awesome #2

This was a bona fide surfer graveyard just off the beach from San Clemente. Crosses were supported with surfboard tombstones and little notes and flowers. I didn't get close enough to see the inscriptions but i imagine they read like "Johnny K: Now surfing the big tube in the sky. Bad wipeout dude, the sea was angry that day - RIP."

Totally Awesome #3

Girls in LA have heaps of tattoos. Only one has the sleeve art from Duran Duran's Rio album on her shoulder. I asked her to marry me, but she said no.

Bogus, dude #1

The only time my high school was cordoned off with police tape was due to a student prank. I got the feeling that Fairfax High School in West Hollywood had less funny stuff going on..

Bogus dude #2

Attention window dressers everywhere: If you want to give your Summer ensembles that extra eye-catching flair, stick a Colt .45 down the front of the pants. It gives the model that 'thug chic' look..

Totally bogus #3

If you look closely you can see the lyrics to 'Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler in the background. Enough said.

Goodbye for now, or as Keanu Reeves said in Point Break.. "Vaya con Dios, Brah"

-sammyd