tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68128859564494327492024-02-07T21:16:44.081+08:00Magazine Theory"Our stars say that we were never meant to be.
Maybe we shouldn't rely on magazine theory."MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-68981534848323091122009-05-10T23:27:00.005+08:002009-05-11T00:36:19.594+08:00Ends and BeginningsHi there folks. I've been sitting around for hours now trying to summon the energy to start summing up the most important 6 months of my life so far for your reading pleasure. And in these hours it's occurred to me that I just can't do it.<br /><br />There are so many things that happened to me. So many stories that I'm aching to tell you. But some things can never be. Those months were my own, and mine alone. Even if I could somehow harness language and memory well enough to retell everything it would be for naught. Already trying to tell stories to friends and family is frustrating me. I can't do them justice. People can't understand. It doesn't get me down though. It's just the way of things for the weary traveller.<br /><br />So I thought about posting about my favourite cities, or telling some of the memorable moments, but I get the feeling it'd be too banal. This blog has always been about me going with how I'm feeling above all else, and I feel that now's the time to say goodbye. So I'll keep this short.<br /><br />To the readers out there, thank you for reading. It means a lot more to me than I'd care to admit that there are people out there perusing my humble collection of words.<br /><br />To my family and friends from home, thanks for supporting me through the tough times. Thanks for taking my skype calls and responding to my emails, and helping me get through the ice and rain.<br /><br />To the friends I met on my travels, thankyou for making my trip that little bit more interesting and for being yourselves. Many of you were so different to me, and I loved meeting you and seeing a different side of the coin. I hope we can keep in contact.<br /><br />A million more things need to be said. Another million don't. Thanks again everyone. This is the end of Magazine Theory, but I'm sure another few blogs are on the horizon soon, knowing me.<br /><br />Take care now,<br /><br />MC.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-1574240479397923622009-05-05T13:29:00.003+08:002009-05-05T13:47:52.684+08:00DetailsI'm in Singapore for one more day. Tomorrow is home time. It's hard to imagine that 6 months has gone by, and that I've seen and been through so much since then. It's crazy to think that back then I was a kid who'd never been out of Australia, and 6 months later I've seen 3 other continents, 17 countries and almost 100 cities. That's something.<br /><br />So what have I been doing with myself in Singapore? Nothing really. I've been asleep for maybe three quarters of the time I've spent here, and that's just fine by me. Getting past the jetlag and the lingering cold. That being said, I've been enjoying it here. The weather would be unbearable for me to live in, but it's fine in short bursts. And what a relief it is to be able to walk around a city where everyone speaks English, where no one hassles you for money, and where cars drive on the left! And I'm the only white guy in sight: just like home.<br /><br />Q: Does it freak you out to be surrounded only by Asians?<br />A: No, but it does freak me out to walk down streets full of Asian drivers.<br /><br />Yeah, the traffic situation is pretty amusing.<br /><br />So I've been thinking about how I'm going to wrap this whole thing up. I started this blog before the trip, but it seems to have evolved into a travel blog of sorts, and even though I didn't intend this, it now seems the natural thing to close the lid on this one soon, and move on to making the next blog. So after a bit of R'n'R back home, I think I'm going to write a series of summary posts and then close shop on Magazine Theory. You know, like about trip highlights, favourite places, what I learned, those sorts of things.<br /><br />So stay tuned a little longer folks, and thanks for reading.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-76982553722814844762009-04-26T21:22:00.001+08:002009-04-26T21:22:47.826+08:00OsweicimToday I saw Auschwitz.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-25616955898028363622009-04-26T02:21:00.003+08:002009-04-26T03:46:25.322+08:00Black Holes and RevelationsI've been doing a lot of thinking this week. Time is running out but it's not moving very fast. The number of days remaining on the the trip trickle down the drain but get stuck there, like so much pubic hair. Damn hostel bathrooms.<br /><br />So I've been wrestling with a lot of things. I won't bore you with all the details. I just wanted to make a point about one of my many revelations, which, like most, always seem to strike me in the midnight hour (or later) when there's no one else around. So here it is:<br /><br />I am grateful for all of the trials that I have endured and will continue to endure, because no matter how shitty they might be, they grant me two gifts. They give me inspiration for my writing, and they equip me with knowledge which can be used to help prevent my brothers going through some of that suffering.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-21165216493182981002009-04-24T04:13:00.003+08:002009-04-24T04:14:53.990+08:00New Lows.I've done all my washing. There's no dryer here. Everything is still wet. Only now do I realise I have nothing to wear to bed. Only now do I realise I have no underpants other than the ones I'm wearing. How did it come to this?MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-77781304816772389682009-04-20T02:53:00.001+08:002009-04-20T02:55:47.469+08:00Uncomfortably NumbToday there are 17 days to go until home but I can’t see it that way. Instead it’s only day 3 of no Emma. It’s hard. I feel weird.<br /><br />I don’t feel the way I expected to. It hasn’t been killing me up inside like I thought. I watched the sunrise over Burgundy while the tracks pulled me away, thinking everything was going to be okay. Then the weight of the day crushed in on me and I got frightened. The last time I really felt afraid was the night I arrived in Chicago.<br /><br />I’m moving in circles. I don’t want the hostel life anymore. Outside the void is cold and solitary. Look everywhere and see arms but none of them are out to hug me. If they were I wouldn't want 'em.<br /><br />I’m drawing out tasks to stop myself being bored. I could see Warsaw in a day but I won’t. I’m trying to think about home to distract me but it isn’t working. I’m looking at photos from Thuy’s party but I can only smile with half my mouth. That twisted feeling’s back in my stomach. In Decize every thought of home made me so happy. Every skype call a chance to showcase. Everything excitement.<br /><br />Everything was better.<br /><br />Now I’ve gone backwards. I’m not ready to go home again. The thought of it frightens me. I start thinking real loud. How am I going to cope with the return? I’m sick and feverish now, my boosted travel immunity eroded. What if I’ve lost other things? What if I lose my immunity to poison people? There are a lot of them out there and they know where I live.<br /><br />Emma’s left on her trip with Elodie. Makes things harder somehow. I feel further away then ever. Imagine how I’ll feel in a few weeks. I don’t like this but maybe it’s a price I have to pay. Maybe nothing’s supposed to fit so easily. Nothing’s supposed to be so perfect. Maybe we’re paying for it now in installments of months or years.<br /><br />Don’t worry anybody. I’m fine. I just don’t know how to feel. I’m restless and numb and I can’t explain. Adjusting to this isn’t something I could imagine. It’s like trying to learn to live without skin.<br /><br />… and in today’s ironic moment, as I finish this blog my iTunes on random plays ‘For Emma’.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-13580851956592365892009-04-13T22:19:00.008+08:002010-04-13T22:11:49.967+08:00Speak, MemorySitting at a table in an apartment with two French women and my girlfriend. The halting flow of semi-translated conversations. Jokes about me, about us, fly past me in another language. I try to grasp them as if trying to catch the wind in my hand. I watch the faces, the gestures, the expressions. I look at eyes. I listen to the animated stories with eyes, not ears.<br /><br />Elsa mimes playing a violin. Now it's years ago, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table at Nonna's house in Elizabeth Street. The gaudy, colourful tiles surround me, comforting me on some level. This place is like a second home, in a way no other place has ever felt before or since. Mum is there, next to me at the table. Nonna is behind my mum, at her usual spot at the stove. Maybe she's making lunch. Maybe lunch is over and she's cleaning up. Nonno sits in his chair, the one closest to the door to the dining room. Behind him on the wall is the funny photograph of the pig, with the caption "Those who indulge bulge."<br /><br />Nonno lights a cigarette and Nonna scolds him. Maybe in Italian or maybe in English. Scolding sounds the same either way. Nonno blows smoke rings, little circles expanding into infinity. Kieran is looking at the smoke rings with a strange look on his little face, his big glasses seeming to magnify it. I watch the smoke in amazement even though I've seen this trick before many times.<br /><br />Everyone's talking but I don't know what about. Someone must have been complaining about something, and Nonno stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and carefully draws an imaginary bow and plays a tune on an imaginary violin. Mum makes the face of a thousand memories, going further back in time then I can imagine possible at that age. Nonna shakes her head and says something. I can taste the smoke lingering in the air.<br /><br />Now I'm 14 in the hospital seeing him for the last time. So much is happening in my life and I can't concentrate. This is the first time that I really have no grasp of a situation. Nonna is there fidgeting in the chair next to the bed. She gets up and moves around a lot. Nonno makes several lewd jokes about the nurses and Nonna tells him off half-seriously. The look on her face is hard for me to understand. My brothers and I are all pretty quiet. I guess we always are.<br /><br />Nonno is wearing striped pyjamas. I think. I remember dark colours, like red and brown. I remember him leaning forward and sitting up in bed, and the gap between the buttons on the pyjama pants showing me a flash of pubic hair. I am acutely aware at this moment that I've never seen him or maybe anyone so exposed. I still can't make sense of anything. I'm shut off inside.<br /><br />I can feel the sharp bristles of his unshaven cheek as I kiss him goodbye for the last time. At that moment I think to myself that I can't remember ever having kissed him before and I wonder why. I remember his smell that day more than any other day. For years afterwards I hold on to a jumper of his that Nonna gave me afterward. It was ugly and too big but it smelled like him still. I wore it to bed a lot until one day Mum threw it away. I was very sad that day.<br /><br />Now I'm in an apartment with two French girls and my girlfriend. I'm quiet but I guess I usually am, especially in this context. Still, perhaps picking up on something, Emma turns to me and asks if I am okay.<br />I nod.<br />"I'm okay."MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-52644160371157639602009-04-11T07:00:00.004+08:002009-04-11T07:25:29.225+08:00In Decize, 1 amCan't sleep. Everytime my head touches the pillow I hear my heartbeat pounding through my skull. Doesn't matter which side of my head. All sides equally amplify. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the cheese. Cheese is probably not the best idea before bed. Maybe I'll have nightmares again.<br /><br />These days are passing too fast. It only occurred to me 5 minutes ago when I realised it is now the 11th of April. I have less than a week. God damn it.<br /><br />It's funny how certain numbers are time thresholds. In this instance, it was the calendar getting to 11. Not the jump into double digits but the number 11. Another example is when I consider it to be 'late' at night. It always happens at 37 past. The hour varies depending on when I have to be up. On a night I had to work in the morning, it became late at exactly 12.37am. On a normal night it would be 1.37am. Sometimes 2.37am. Probably more often it's 2.37. It's always at 37 past. I don't know why that is.<br /><br />It's a good thing I came here. Aside from the obvious reasons, I'm just glad I've had France redeemed for me. Paris ate my soul in January and I had to get back into this country to get it back. The French outside of Paris really are better in every way. It can be tiresome at times I suppose. The double-kiss hello grates on me sometimes. On the whole though, I've been liking the feel of the culture. The food has been good. I've had a few home cooked meals with French families that have been delicious. Eating copious amounts of bread and cheese has been good too. It stirs up a lot of memories of home, and a happier time before Grant Street got out of hand.<br /><br />I went and helped baby sit some French kids which was a blast. I'm not sure whether or not to be proud of the fact, but I totally kicked one of the kids asses at Mario Kart Wii. I was going to let him win, but he was trash-talking me in French so I rose to the occasion. After that things got physical. Spent a few hours having kids piling on top of me on the floor. Then I had the bright idea to start picking them up, throwing them up, spinning them round, hanging them upside down, and all the other tricks in the repertoire. They got a little over-excited. It'll be interesting to see how it goes down when I see them again this week.<br /><br />So it's Easter weekend now. For a change this is a public holiday weekend where I'm not feeling alone and homesick. Nothing will go wrong for me this time. This last week has been without doubt the only time in this whole trip that I've felt truly 'at home' someplace. Even in Letterkenny with the family it wasn't this good. I'm almost too relaxed.<br /><br />I wonder how I'll go for the last phase of my trip: Poland and Singapore. I guess it would be natural to think those would be two separate phases, but I'm not thinking of things in geographical terms. I have an overwhelming sense that I've found the last piece of the Triforce (if I can go all Zelda: Ocarina of Time on you). I've found so many things on this trip. So many pieces of myself that I had unknowingly scattered across the world. I've reached the end of the road of self-discovery for the time being. My quest is over. Now the last phase left is the homecoming.<br /><br />Of course, that doesn't mean I still don't have a few more adventures to have along the way.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-11191536269270062932009-04-03T22:34:00.004+08:002009-04-03T23:37:06.628+08:00Soldier of FortuneToday I can't stop thinking about the way things change. It was only a few weeks ago that I was walking around Rijeka in a state of solitary delusion, thinking about buying Croatian porno magazines. Tomorrow I'm going to be in France with my girlfriend. It doesn't seem real.<br /><br />I should probably pause here to mention to anyone reading this that doesn't know me very well, that I am not and have never been a 'porn guy'. This fact might give a little more insight into just how drastically different I felt a few weeks back. I've never owned porn. Never bought, stole or borrowed any. Never even downloaded any on the internet. You could say I'm the antithesis of Ian, who is probably at this very moment working on some sort of radio device to implant into his dental plate that can vibrate pornographic images through his ossicles and directly into his brain.<br /><br />But enough about porn.<br /><br />The important thing is how I'm feeling right now: peaceful. I feel like I'm standing in a fixed spot, watching the world turn slowly on its axis, pushing me slowly into the sunlight. This trip has really taught me to enjoy the moment. There's no more fears or anxieties. There's still a future or many futures, but I'll take that as it comes. Right now I'm content to bask in the sunshine. It feels wonderful.<br /><br />I feel like I've stopped resisting some half-imagined force that's shadowed me for years. And when I stopped pushing, it didn't overwhelm me, didn't crush my bones into the dust. It stopped pushing too. A stalemate. A balance point.<br /><br />I'm free-writing again and I'm a little surprised myself at what's coming out. I just feel good. I feel like I can do anything again. I've felt like this so many times during the trip. Each time I feel it I grow that little bit more in confidence. I have to hold on to this feeling. I have to apply it to other aspects of my life beyond the personal.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-81311498386114509542009-04-03T00:45:00.003+08:002009-04-03T01:10:51.764+08:00Cheap ThrillsAbout an hour ago I was walking around Unter den Linden thinking about the crowds and experimenting with body language. It's amazing how much your body language can influence those around you. Sick of getting stuck behind slow-walkers and bumped out of the way by bull-walkers, I decided to shake things up. Stuck my chest out and my shoulders back. Got into character. Set my eyes kinda hard-like and walked with a slight swagger. Suddenly I had right of way. It was beautiful.<br /><br />It was in this assumed tough-guy stance that a gypsy boy tried to attach himself to me like a parasite. I had my headphones on but he didn't mind. Asked if I could speak English. I shook my head and kept moving but he fell into step, with a smile and a laugh. Started to say something else. Knew I was an English speaker. Lucky for me, unlucky for him, I was too far into character to even be thinking. I just reacted. Burned a hole in his little head with my eyes. Stuck my finger in his face and told him to Fuck Off.<br /><br />Should have seen the look in his eyes. Like he'd just been slapped. Took him a few heartbeats to get his head around the situation. Fell out of step with me. I had already won. Still, he had a little fight left in him. Caught up to me with a little skip, bounced his hands off his chest and threw his arms out. "Yeah... yeah... well fuck you! Fuck you!" His creaky adolescent boy-voice let him down. I laughed at his quavering, gave him a sideways glance and was gone. His feeble voice echoed after me down the street, each repetition a little more pitiful.<br /><br />I walked home grinning.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-64599362204846211402009-04-02T19:42:00.003+08:002009-04-02T19:53:23.892+08:00Double HappyThe blood of the road still pumps through these veins.<br />The end is in sight but it's not here yet.<br />It's been a long cold lonely winter, but here comes the sun.<br />My listlessness and lethargy disappeared as soon as I got to Berlin.<br />The TV Tower looks down at me with it's ugly cross-shaped smile.<br />I stood on the dirt above where Hitler blew his brain out, and smiled.<br />I have a bottle of cherry-flavoured shower gel.<br />Yesterday I saw Bob play.<br />That sack of bones has still got it.<br />I have a train ticket to see my baby.<br />I can see the 'Die Welt' balloon rising into the skyline.<br />Tourists stand, looking out at the city.<br />Die Welt.<br />The World<br />is mine.<br />I can do anything and nothing can stand in my way except my own shadow.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-65373323942412309302009-03-23T07:53:00.000+09:002009-03-23T07:54:19.346+09:00Mission Accomplished.Nervous breakdown avoided.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-89518827253803874982009-03-22T17:22:00.003+09:002009-03-22T17:47:01.245+09:00Hello again, old friendIt's been a few weeks since we last crossed paths. I think maybe I was avoiding you. I don't want to say I missed you. That would mean I'm getting dependent and that's the last thing I need.<br /><br />In any case, you're here again now, back in my life as if you never left in the first place. Your voice is hissing in my ears like static buzz. It's making me dizzy like I'm watching the test pattern on the tv at 4am. You've turned me upside down again like you always do. I can already tell that any vague ideas I had about plans for the day have gone out the window. When you're around I can't think straight. I'm just gonna sit here awhile and try to stop the edges of my world from spinning.<br /><br />You're giving me a headache. I'm not stressed out, but I can't relax properly when you're around. I want to just lie and listen to music, but I can't concentrate with you there. There's a sour taste in my mouth because of you. The people in my room aren't too happy about you either. You're too disruptive.<br /><br />But I can't stay mad at you. I know we're going to keep doing this to each other. Always coming and going. You're never fully here but never quite gone. I'm glad when you're not around, but I still think about you.<br /><br />Maybe it won't last forever. Maybe it will. In the meantime there's nothing for it but to welcome you back into my life, old friend.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-5278734793152508112009-03-20T23:38:00.032+09:002009-03-21T04:27:15.867+09:00Deutsches MuseumToday I went to the Deutsches Museum, not really knowing what to expect. Museums can be hit or miss. I hadn't been to one in a long time, so I was prepared for the worst case scenario: seeing the exact same things as any other museum. Things got off to a good start when I pulled off my usual 'I'm still a student' scam, and got in for 3 euros instead of 8. I wandered inside, cheerful to be out of the bitter cold and cheerful to have enough change to catch the U-Bahn back again later.<br /><br />The place was enormous. I didn't know where to start so I just walked. I found myself in a hall full of engines and motors, electrical equipment, cranks to turn, buttons to press, explosions going off in the distance, electricity dancing off coils. It was like being in a mad scientist's laboratory. I was entranced. I hadn't expected this at all. I wandered around, and gazed for a time at a massive Porsche engine that could get a 1 and a half tonne car to 100km/h in 5.9s. I stared in wonder at the poorly translated information, and I marveled at the contraption itself. It's strange metallic parts. Pistons and pumps and all things that I don't know the slightest thing about. Not for the first time in my life, I felt that strange pang, that wistful fleeting feeling, that wish that that spark of interest was just that bit bigger and I could be more like Dad and be into the car thing.<br /><br />I wandered through every field of science, a new one in each room. It's easy to see why so many scientists (or 'natural philosophers' as it were) were multi-disciplinary beings, following their diverse interests to wherever they took them. The world's too damn interesting to specialise in just one thing.<br /><br />Then I found the good stuff: the aviation section, and the space section. I wandered around taking photos of flying things like my life depended on it. I felt a bit giddy, and I must have been grinning like an idiot.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU0ezAMR6g0Z3swaEhs1WsWjVwKTcNfM4aVY9crmOD-JbmQGYquBz4eBAwcPpme2i1an4L73rpwR24cUrfh9dziUu4dA0-5bCemUf_SV7C_0QrS9zSG7O2aT9Maaq8WK_07T5LKJWBxk/s1600-h/P1010033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU0ezAMR6g0Z3swaEhs1WsWjVwKTcNfM4aVY9crmOD-JbmQGYquBz4eBAwcPpme2i1an4L73rpwR24cUrfh9dziUu4dA0-5bCemUf_SV7C_0QrS9zSG7O2aT9Maaq8WK_07T5LKJWBxk/s320/P1010033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315346579487821314" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6j8iOxrtSoUwdd4kSuHcXH0MxM4qw_TUObkESf0zGr7wgkSJUslwhqviPzqLJs4Tq4EP6yeXFhl7JdZAPYK-v731I4Bhzw-0FLyHPTz_x95nckKfZgy-sWQ5dI5W6PuaVVuSU_99mrM/s1600-h/P1010044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6j8iOxrtSoUwdd4kSuHcXH0MxM4qw_TUObkESf0zGr7wgkSJUslwhqviPzqLJs4Tq4EP6yeXFhl7JdZAPYK-v731I4Bhzw-0FLyHPTz_x95nckKfZgy-sWQ5dI5W6PuaVVuSU_99mrM/s320/P1010044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315346580593049170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzwg4kuHjQGbddg0L-ay70UPV-Bx0j-dTZGMmyNqCuNzfyAxZt139VElhwQrVCqW7Y96rXuFx0rQjge1NFIf4c94oK7A2WAwmQ0Qc8_h4CfQgCbTRyUUCJfX552Eaiyae6Q_web4Pmmk/s1600-h/P1010048.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzwg4kuHjQGbddg0L-ay70UPV-Bx0j-dTZGMmyNqCuNzfyAxZt139VElhwQrVCqW7Y96rXuFx0rQjge1NFIf4c94oK7A2WAwmQ0Qc8_h4CfQgCbTRyUUCJfX552Eaiyae6Q_web4Pmmk/s320/P1010048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315346585175416034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJA9bT7OlAAeGveeCYSvsY1KVR1iqyqEf2fCccX2jO-dCCjyPJ1Egn8_0f_PC8-sD8H-o6tA0Jsxp1ID48Zc3ztOjbNl6iktuzbiN_l0PGTVEH3DQUxgPhQyt0wHublNTdEEm_ZAde4s/s1600-h/P1010053.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJA9bT7OlAAeGveeCYSvsY1KVR1iqyqEf2fCccX2jO-dCCjyPJ1Egn8_0f_PC8-sD8H-o6tA0Jsxp1ID48Zc3ztOjbNl6iktuzbiN_l0PGTVEH3DQUxgPhQyt0wHublNTdEEm_ZAde4s/s320/P1010053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315346589641038498" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmwFrdSPaUYN5ZfMtIxXlowqATmqUhA1tC0uIIk4oD2uBHxR7Lp322mSv11QECeTeaHR9BbjL5Y5eb0PeHyJ3zX8tqExy_eaLR2QXPY8-du2b-cwh7CWIkSJVjnDMKVdimUpsAlIBbYk/s1600-h/P1010058.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmwFrdSPaUYN5ZfMtIxXlowqATmqUhA1tC0uIIk4oD2uBHxR7Lp322mSv11QECeTeaHR9BbjL5Y5eb0PeHyJ3zX8tqExy_eaLR2QXPY8-du2b-cwh7CWIkSJVjnDMKVdimUpsAlIBbYk/s320/P1010058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315346591340241122" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArqenP9-SrY7QbrUOVTqKdOx12FfVmfO4efgLpaMZy2MNh4UsuG2gd2Sp70L1bsXy88FOoXW5yWU0HN95SoVeMuVcEkntXzL6IYTVCWbTJGSur_WGqbcPtoHjon0QwJLIJN4-XKnZKNY/s1600-h/P1010059.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhArqenP9-SrY7QbrUOVTqKdOx12FfVmfO4efgLpaMZy2MNh4UsuG2gd2Sp70L1bsXy88FOoXW5yWU0HN95SoVeMuVcEkntXzL6IYTVCWbTJGSur_WGqbcPtoHjon0QwJLIJN4-XKnZKNY/s320/P1010059.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315350313955700306" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzvV6h4xmEE5eDvhdDLdIruBSOTrcf7JQWMo0GXX04ZT0croSb2vT3xiaoeluB5u8-euEw0fpfqKjg0lTFz8Cj02KNT1IdHVi_mRCNEOY11BSO78eLMH0DUbjhUKDCfb0-f78FoipIj0/s1600-h/P1010082.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzvV6h4xmEE5eDvhdDLdIruBSOTrcf7JQWMo0GXX04ZT0croSb2vT3xiaoeluB5u8-euEw0fpfqKjg0lTFz8Cj02KNT1IdHVi_mRCNEOY11BSO78eLMH0DUbjhUKDCfb0-f78FoipIj0/s320/P1010082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315350339418604162" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5H194ovihfv4inYNYYVz1fePzC86Z2TisU-hzb1QuN1JXa_pAWBikj4NKxjjf5-eCnmqfuJ3HbGDpdlZGaOxSj0ssF5umUWYmJafnby7A_Rapv3KuGAdFnSDnjlPPLxo6xpq_TGtzLg/s1600-h/P1010084.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5H194ovihfv4inYNYYVz1fePzC86Z2TisU-hzb1QuN1JXa_pAWBikj4NKxjjf5-eCnmqfuJ3HbGDpdlZGaOxSj0ssF5umUWYmJafnby7A_Rapv3KuGAdFnSDnjlPPLxo6xpq_TGtzLg/s320/P1010084.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315350347958438914" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc1z0C4CzQ4iLqsVYMxknHMWGKjWejFfMf8H0TmX9Q9PStKktoLhbqCoT1uEwYxO265ltCCG99S3ZM_AkJcFlN7BIa9BJrAuJYubsB8MMfLw7i_mBZClHTP9LCUlpylfLFBVr9Y124wo/s1600-h/P1010095.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuc1z0C4CzQ4iLqsVYMxknHMWGKjWejFfMf8H0TmX9Q9PStKktoLhbqCoT1uEwYxO265ltCCG99S3ZM_AkJcFlN7BIa9BJrAuJYubsB8MMfLw7i_mBZClHTP9LCUlpylfLFBVr9Y124wo/s320/P1010095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315350753243166610" border="0" /></a><br />I don't know how many hours I wandered through that enormous place... more than 3 but I'm not sure how many more. It was a good day. After that I went walking in the soft snow-flaky air until I found myself at Odeonsplatz. I bought a hot chocolate at a Starbucks to warm my hands, and kept walking towards the hostel. In an underpass a young German-speaker approached me asking for help. He didn't know how to get to Ostbahnhof. What is it about me? I always get asked these things. Matt the Integrator. He was a cute kid, roughly my age, and I tried to help him out as best I could. I walked on, whistling to myself and passing the hot plastic cup from hand to hand.<br /><br />I think the reason I enjoyed the museum so much is that it made me remember something about myself. Something I haven't thought about for a really long time: that I am such a boy sometimes. Haha.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-27327676986264429302009-03-20T17:49:00.001+09:002009-03-20T17:50:29.301+09:00I knew I should have got drunk last night.Apparently some Asian dude from California got into a fight outside the hostel bar this morning at about 4am. I got up and found blood on the stairs. Apparently the cops came and hauled him away about 7am, shortly before I got up to the sound of heavy drills and Bavarian construction worker banter.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-34269090842994369022009-03-20T06:56:00.002+09:002009-03-20T07:01:54.298+09:00Analyse my stream-of-consciousness if you dare.There was always going to come a time when you had to make a choice, but how could you ever expect it to be so hard? The last thing on your mind that night was the view from your bedroom window, and the first thing you remember when you woke up was the cold numbness of my hands in the soft morning. The kaleidoscope life wasn’t for you, but you couldn’t help but twist. The last time you felt this way was watching the sun rise over the bird’s flute solo, the gold light bouncing off tomorrow’s hope, the tear in your eye drying in the wind on Hobart Street. It wasn’t a beginning and it wasn’t an end but at least the sound of your heart beat in time to the steps on the asphalt.<br /><br />The scarf around your neck held on for dear life, but rigor mortis had already set in on your coat. The pockets wept out your belongings. The dizzy gypsies followed your futile fluted song and wept tears of disbelief. The salesman looked on in disapproval, adjusted his tie and stepped backwards on to the train tracks. The train danced by and stole his soul. The salesman got up, dusted himself off and ran a hand through his toupee as if combing a camel. He had to get to work. Yesterday the children ran through the streets singing kindergarten songs and beating up Arabs. Tomorrow the songs will have their revenge.<br /><br />The balcony crumbled inwards as I scrunched up the piece of paper. The words on the page were already sure of their fate. Theirs was a cruel life. They were born knowing. They weren’t bound for glory, weren’t bound at all. Not even stapled. Just tossed, but saved the indignity of shredding.<br /><br />Blake went down to the grocery store but nobody loved him so he bought a razor sharp pineapple and sat in the aisle trying to eat it skin and all. The spines stuck into his face and he looked like a puffer fish, if puffer fish could bleed. He died there but no one noticed. The old man complained but he couldn’t get the discount he rightfully deserved. Just take my own damn money old man. Just take it and shut the hell up.<br /><br />They can’t do this to me. They can’t do this to us. We have rights and we will march into the streets and shout It in the faces of the clocks. The babies will be peeled from the prams and shaken, shaken, shaken, not stirred. Fuck the hell off with your headscarf. Go back to your own goddamn country and just shut the fuck up. Circumcise your women and sacrifice your lives for nothing. Live in fear and ignorance, just stay the hell away from us. We’re innocent.<br /><br />Power to the people. Power to the masses. Power to the dangerous lunatics. March on. Don’t let the dogs catch our heels. Gas them, shoot them, hit them with your riot shields. We’re not stopping for anyone.<br /><br />Billy fell in love. He couldn’t believe she felt the same way. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve someone so precious but he couldn’t waste time thinking about that. They ran away and got married. She was unfaithful and he knew but he loved her so he learned to deal with it. Once he was unfaithful too and then she left him.<br /><br />Why can’t I write anything happy tonight? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I get my head on straight?<br /><br />Emma<br /><br />Just writing a 4 letter word and my heart goes bang bang bang like it’s trying to escape. Pericardium. What are the odds of two best friends from Perth both falling for girls from the Midwest that they met in Europe? I’m not copying him.<br /><br />Why is she different to the rest of the Americans I’ve met?<br />She seems honest. She laughs at me but in a good way.<br />I can be myself around her.<br />When I talk to her I feel good about being Australian.<br />She listens and pays attention far more than most people.<br />She is so sexy. It’s like a crazy energy field I can almost see in a glow or taste in the electricity in the air. It’s something about the way she carries herself. She exudes… something.<br />She’s passionate about life.<br />She’s confident but not at the expense of other people.<br /><br />But what do I really know? Julia thinks I’m crazy to have feelings for people I barely know. But how the fuck else do you ever get anywhere with people if you don’t start somewhere?<br /><br />Keep your mouth shut. Keep your chin up. Take heart. Smile more. Don’t be afraid of getting hurt. Take more chances. Don’t take risks. Keep a regular diary. Have a plan. Have goals. Have a Career. Check that you have your wallet and credit card. Don’t look at anyone the wrong way. Don’t look at maps. Don’t look lost. Don’t start trouble. Watch out for dog shit in the street. Don’t fall for the scams. Don’t admit you can speak English to anyone in a train station. Don’t get too involved. Don’t let it get you down. Take deep breaths. Take time to yourself. Take care. Mind the gap. Don’t have hurt feelings. Don’t worry.<br /><br />Will this clear my head, focus my thoughts, level my head, ease my mind? Maybe I should have just got drunk tonight.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-291311612534122692009-03-05T04:03:00.004+09:002009-03-05T04:43:10.982+09:00Mood Swings and Angry CookingI don't know what my problem is today. I think the sleep deprivation might have finally pushed me over the edge. I've been sitting around rainy, depressing Zagreb doing nothing and hating on myself.<br /><br />I managed to get real sleep last night, which is perhaps why I'm really annoyed now. I thought I'd feel better, but apparently the sleep debt still has a few repayments due. It might even have accrued interest. In any case, I got up determined to do something with myself, so I ate 4 bananas (the only thing I had that resembled a breakfast) and disappeared into the city streets. I should have known right away that something was wrong, but I still had residual happiness lingering in my psyche. I thought it'd be enough to get me through.<br /><br />So I'm walking down the street and I'm thinking about throwing myself in front of a speeding tram. Then I'm thinking about beating the hell out of a gyspy in the street, crying out for change. Then I'm drifting through history thinking about the violence in human nature. Then I realise I'm lost. How did this happen? I only took one turn and yet I'm hopelessly awash at sea. The rain is in my hair and in my shoes. I feel like shit. I hate Zagreb and I can't be fucked with any of this tourist shit any more.<br /><br />So I rally. I go through the motions of all the things that usually cheer me up. I pick a goal and follow it through: get something to eat and get back to the hostel. I do this, but it isn't enough. I hit the computer and I want to write something but I'm just so damn sick of myself that I sit impotently at the blank screen.<br /><br />I get on the internet and talk to pretty much every friend I have in this world on a combination of Skype, MSN and Facebook chat, and impossibly, I still hate myself. What is going on here? I try another walk and nothing. I start stewing in it. I think awful thoughts, and I think them real loud. I want to get back, get on the blog and just rip myself apart for everyone to see. I guess in a way that's what I'm doing now, even though I no longer intend it.<br /><br />I realise that I need to get some dinner so I go out to find something. I don't want to eat out, I don't want to be around people I don't want anyone looking at me. Somehow I can't find the supermarkets, even though I've been to two just the day before. I'm getting really worked up. There's a storm inside me that's far worse than the weather outside.<br /><br />Eventually I find the stores and I calm down enough to walk inside in a composed way. Inside a crazy woman is wreaking havoc with the staff, making outrageous demands in Croatian, scratching her hands, her string-hair shaking. I want to just snap her neck.<br /><br />Later I've calmed down. I'm in the hostel chatting with a nice Canadian guy with a cool sense of humour. We seem to 'get' each other. After a chat I decide to make myself dinner. I've picked up some rice, some frozen vegetables and some kind of Asian mystery sauce. (I can't read the label). For some reason whenever I'm feeling angry, sad, self-pitying or self-destructive I end up attempting to cook. So far everything I've made is edible. It shits me not being able to make anything decent. I hate having to buy minimal and shitty quality things. I have no choice. No storage space, can't take things with me, can't trust people not to steal my shit.<br /><br />This day was a mess. When I get back I'm going to cook something real.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-62490565618124811712009-02-28T01:56:00.006+09:002009-02-28T02:27:04.751+09:00Somewhere between Buda and Pest with a fistful of FlorintsLeft things a bit late chatting on facebook and had to run to the train station in Vienna. Caught my train to Budapest with seconds to spare. Rode along with Radiohead in my ears, trying to catch my breath and sucking down apples like some people do cigarettes.<br /><br />Got into Budapest and felt that electric buzz in my heart that I haven't felt about a city since Munich. Went and changed my 200 Euros for something like 60,000 Florints, feeling like a high roller. Caught the metro to the hostel and even the subway winds smelled good to me.<br /><br />Got to the Goat Hostel and was greeted most warmly by Steve. Gave me the low-down, hooked me with maps and suggestions and I took off for the markets with a grin on my face and a scarf on my neck. Everything is good, everything is cheap. Eastern European songs playing in the background, groceries plentiful and the people friendlier than I'm used to. Makes me want to go all the way to Russia just to see if it gets any better. Between France and here, it just gets friendlier the further East I go.<br /><br />Decided to climb the highest point in the city, the hill with the citadel at the top so off I went, racing against the sun. I won. Photos, photos, more photos. Couldn't get the grin off my face, crossing the bridge, thinking about New York and so grateful for everything on this trip. Budapest is on the list of favourite cities.<br /><br />It's like someone up there is looking out for me. Yesterday I was real low. Made an idiot of myself in front of new friends because of it. I always say to myself that tomorrow will be better, but who could predict I'd feel this good?MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-89294370533695504122009-02-17T04:16:00.004+09:002009-02-17T04:29:00.688+09:00Premature Thoughts About 'Home'The other day I was thinking a lot about the forecast depression that supposedly awaits me on my return to Perth. Being the emotional, susceptible person that I am, it wouldn't surprise me if said depression does eventuate. For a time I was sure that it would. Then I went through a phase of being so excited about the future, so ripped and ready and roaring to go, so full of plans, full of beans, footloose and fancy-free, that I was sure that I wouldn't.<br /><br />There are about a million things I want to do when I get back. And all these plans and schemes and hopes and dreams are THE thing that is pulling me back to Australia. It occurred to me then, that this might be the way that the post-travel depression was sneakily preparing an attack on my flank. Perhaps all this exuberance is what's going to ultimately destroy me? Maybe the confidence that I can make things happen the way I want is going to turn out to be my Achilles heel.<br /><br />This is probably truer than I'd care to think about. There's been plenty of times in my Perth life that I've had great ideas and felt highly motivated and have ended up doing nothing with them. Often it seems that my ideas require the input of others that are equally motivated, and when I can't find that support, I crumble. Maybe the person I am now can make things happen, can keep the momentum rolling through whatever obstacles. Or maybe not.<br /><br />Long story short, when I get back, if things aren't going the way I want them to, I think I'm going to move away. If I can't start the new life I want in Perth than that's too bad. I can't wait any more.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-31255199675586721622009-02-15T00:48:00.002+09:002009-02-15T00:51:03.287+09:00City Expectation Reversal # 1So Rome is everything I thought New York would be and vice versa. Rome is the dirty, intimidating, frightening city, with filth and graffiti in the streets, dodgy looking characters, and mysterious dead bodies outside the Termini. Frightening, but broken up with extremely beautiful architecture. Meanwhile New York was the safe, fun, beautiful place, that seemed like some kind of magic.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-54513537545802207912009-02-14T05:42:00.003+09:002009-02-14T05:49:49.718+09:00Travel dreamsThese days it seems there's just two types of dreams that come to me late in the night. The first is I'm walking endlessly through the streets of the city I'm in, just walking and walking. Searching maybe. Tired. It goes on and on. Sometimes I get lost and panic, though that never happens to me in the waking realm. It's all so vivid and real, like my mind photographed the streets and played them back to me. Often this dream happens on the first night at a new place, when I literally have only seen streets once. Sometimes when I wake up the next day I go to somewhere I've already navigated in my head that night.<br /><br />It's weird.<br /><br />The other dream is that I've gone home. Not to stay. I just dream that I go home for a little while because I'm so tired. I dream that I've just stopped over in Perth on my way to the next location. Sometimes this stresses me out in the dream, like I'm calculating how much money and time I've lost flying all that way out just to return to Europe in a few days. Other times I don't mind so much.<br /><br />It's really weird.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-32446492208538704472009-02-13T04:01:00.003+09:002009-02-13T04:11:31.240+09:00Venice Part 3 – Matt's life becomes a bizarre, surrealist dramaSo having seen pretty much all there is to see in Venice in about 2 hours, I had to figure out things to do that weren’t going to kill the budget. This can be challenging in a city like this, totally geared towards the tourist industry. It’s crazy the variation in prices you see. I’ve been going pretty well so far though.<br /><br />So a couple of American girls showed up and I took them around, being the tour guide. I got a real kick out of it, because it was only a day ago that I was hopeless, lost, depressed and wet-socked. Now I was the master, weaving through the streets, teaching them what to look out for, and how to navigate. Taught them a few Italian words. Took them to the Piazza and took more photos there, because the weather was a million times more beautiful. We walked for hours, just hanging out.<br /><br />During the walk I thought a lot about Australian-American relations. I just don’t feel like I can fit in with Americans. I don't really know why, but I really struggle. It's not like it's hard to find things in common, but I just feel like somehow I don't belong. I don't know, maybe I'm nuts.<br />I thought that one of the girls, Kimberly was particularly good-looking, so I was thinking a lot about her but I soon stopped that. I think I've finally given resigned myself to solidarity. Even if it wasn't for my impossible situation as a tourist, I don't think I fit in anywhere anyway.<br /><br />We returned to the hostel and the girls went somewhere on their own for awhile. I drank a 2 euro bottle of wine and made a sandwich from the groceries I had to re-buy thanks to mystery food-stealing jerk. The Canadian girls from the night before showed up. Their food had been stolen too so we related. We hung out for a bit and made plans for a piss-up that night. They left to get wine. I was drunk already (it was maybe 5 o’clock) so I figured I’d better make the trek to the supermarket to resupply the wine cabinet.<br /><br />On the way I decided to get my first gelato. Now I’ve heard so many people sing the praises of gelato that I assumed it would be overrated. After all, I’m the kind of guy who finds that mostly, things taste the same wherever you are. Oh boy was I wrong. I don’t use the words ‘food orgasm’ often, but wow. Wow. I don’t even know what else to tell you. I’m going back for more tonight. I need to experience it sober so I can describe it better.<br /><br />Anyway I got stocked up, came back, fucked around for a while waiting for everyone to show up. Soon the party was going. The French Canadians, the Norwegians, me, the Turk, the Americans. All was going well. Drinks all round. We decided to go to a “bar” around the corner so the Norwegians could watch the soccer. There really are no bars in Venice. Don’t expect a nightlife if you ever come here.<br /><br />Anyway we made all kinds of new friends. Some French, some English, some Spanish. Facebook exchanges all round. I can’ speak for everyone, but I’d say we pretty drunk. At some point things got weird, but I didn’t realize this, or fully comprehend it until the next day. You see, at some point, a masked and costumed Venetian was incorporated into the group. He had a bottle of Champagne that he wanted to share with everyone. It was his 50th birthday and he needed friends. Join the party!<br /><br />So I’m talking to this guy, not at all finding it weird to have a mysterious masked man with us. He wouldn’t take it off. Looking at him, I got the impression he might have been horribly scarred beneath it all. It never occurred to me that he could be trying to rob us or anthing. Anyway, I spoke to him at length. He told me he was from Geneva and he had just decided to do something different for his birthday, so he came to Venice, got a costume and a mask and played a Venetian for tips in the street. We laughed uproariously at the idea of the tourists paying an authentic non-Italian. We drank some more.<br /><br />So all sorts of things were going on. More drinks, more friends, more fun. At some point, the masked man says to me, whispers in my ear: “she is very beautiful”, nodding in the direction of Kim, the American. I wholeheartedly agree with him, and then he starts telling me that I have ‘the power’ and that I should ‘take her’. I laughed and asked him why he thought that. He said, “Look at you! You are the Casanova, I can see.” I was in hysterics.<br /><br />I said, what about that guy? (She was talking to Espen, one of the Norwegians). The masked man laughed. “No, look at him. He has no chance. You. You are the beautiful one. Just take her.” I was losing it. I can’t remember if I started telling anyone else about the conversation. I do recall somebody saying that Kim had a boyfriend. The masked man said, “It doesn’t matter. You have the power. Just make her laugh and you will have her. That’s all you have to do. Just make them laugh. Always works."<br />"That easy, eh?" I laughed. "Why don’t you do it?"<br />"No," he said. "I am 50 today. My time is passed. Now it’s your time."<br /><br />Absolutely nuts. And I didn’t even think it was weird until the next day. I ended up going back to the room and having a good laugh about the conversation with Kim, who it turns out doesn’t really have a boyfriend.<br /><br />I had some strange dreams that night.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-17004700181029284022009-02-13T03:47:00.004+09:002009-02-13T03:58:42.416+09:00Venice Part 2 - Matt gains confidence from languageBut once again, everything can change in an instant. At the hostel my keen ears picked up Australian accents in a nearby room, so I marched in and introduced myself. Four young Melbournians, exactly what I needed at the time. They really helped me out. They showed me the ropes of Venice, taught me how to get to the supermarket, the train station and told me what they knew of the places to avoid, flood wise. Most importantly they were company that I could relate to. They were good fun, and best of all I should be seeing them again in Rome. They’re at the same hostel as me for the same amount of time. Awesome.<br /><br />They were uni students and were on a budget that might even be tighter than mine, so it was hilarious and cool to hang out with them. We went to Billa, the supermarket, for cheap wine. It’s a funny thing to be in a place like Venice. The most basic meal you can find is going to cost you between 15 and 20 Aus dollars, but you can get a bottle of wine for as cheap as two Australian dollars. Madness. We polished off god knows how much wine from the region, reds and whites. We made friends with a whole bunch of people from the hostel, French Canadians, Norwegians, a Turk and a Japanese guy. Hostel parties are the greatest, especially when you’re united by the fact that you’re staying in a dive.<br /><br />Now let’s talk about language for a little while. You see I have a problem. Whenever I first arrive in a country I’m typically starving, exhausted and hung-over, and my brain isn’t at it’s sharpest. I usually try to practice basic language stuff on the trains and prepare myself as best I can but I almost always get a bad case of the blanks, and I often feel so overwhelmed that I might not even try (see Amsterdam and even Germany to an extent.)<br /><br />Coming into Italy though, I thought: “Surely this time I’m gonna get it.” But for whatever reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to try. I know all the basics like the back of my hand, but each time I would go to buy some food I would chicken out. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” I thought. I tried harder to get my nerve up but I just couldn’t.<br /><br />Here’s where it gets interesting. Now some of you might know that I’ve been thinking a lot about getting into performance of some sort when I get home. Maybe acting, maybe stand-up comedy, I don’t know yet. Now, I had been feeling like crap being too nervous to attempt to speak Italian, and then me and the Melbournians went to a restaurant. I was the last person to order, and of the four, 3 just flat out went English, and one made a slight attempt in Italian. When it came to me, I seemingly effortlessly ordered in Italian, impressing every one else, and possibly shaming them as well. I also went to the supermarket for more wine with the two guys, and got through that fine as well. I find it really interesting that if you put me in front of some random people I suddenly have more confidence.<br /><br />Anyway, from that point on I’ve been flying. I’m ordering all my food in Italian. I reserved my place on the train to Rome largely in Italian (only switching to English to double check that I hadn’t booked the wrong time or day) I’m teaching people in the hostel some basic words and expressions. I even have a little bit of nerve. Today I had lunch in Padova, and after a brief moment of confusion when I came in, the waiter brought me the English menu, so I turned the tables on him and ordered it in Italian. I guess it isn’t really all that impressive to be able to figure out that sandwich = panini, that mushrooms = funghi, and stuff like that, but at the time I felt like a pretty cool cat.<br /><br />All that being said, I wouldn’t at all say I know what I’m doing. I still have all kinds of embarrassing moments. And, you guessed it, people keep approaching me thinking I’m Italian. I must have the ultimate chameleon appearance. Every country I go people think I look like I’m from there. Here’s an interesting fact though. Most English speakers that I’ve met tell me that when they try to speak another language to somebody, that every time they just get spoken back to in English. This has NEVER happened to me. Not once. Not even in Paris. The only time it turns to English is when I have to ask them because I don’t understand what they’ve said to me. I think that’s pretty weird. I can’t imagine that I’m even half decent at speaking other languages. Maybe they just appreciate the effort.<br /><br />So after the shaky start, now I’m loving Italy. The weather’s been beautiful, and since that first day I haven’t seen any flooding. I finally feel okay about speaking to people, and it makes everything a million times easier. I’m loving just strolling through fruit markets and bakeries. I’m really looking forward to Rome tomorrow. Padova today was really awesome. It must be such a great place to live. Friendly people, lots of young students. Good vibes. Hilarious graffiti on the streets. Beautiful. It really gave me an idea of just how much of a rip-off Venice is, and it should all be becoming cheaper from here on. Excitement building… Nothing is going to bring me down now. Even the fact that somebody stole my 6 Euros worth of bread, cheese and salami that was going to be my breakfast wasn’t going to bring me down.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-45287859815045935672009-02-13T03:22:00.002+09:002009-02-13T03:40:59.163+09:00Venice Part 1 - Matt gets wet feetAfter the best time of the trip so far in Munich, I hit the rails and prepared for the 6ish hour journey to Venice totally physically destroyed, more alcohol in my blood than platelets. I didn’t expect to be able to sleep on the train, so I wasn’t disappointed. Truth is I didn’t want to sleep. I just couldn’t get enough of the view, crossing through the mountains. It was incredible, the kind of beauty that makes you just ache. It’s too perfect. Makes you think you might have died.<br /><br />I did nothing but stare out the windows the whole way through Germany, Austria and into Italy. At one point a little cynicism crept in and I thought to myself, gee I really thought the Alps would be a lot bigger than this. About a minute later the train rounded a bend and then I was looking at a mountain that had a layer of clouds less than halfway up the thing. I was blown away. Then I saw a mountain that was higher than two layers of cloud. Unbelievable.<br /><br />So I was in fairly good spirits as I left Germany. Along the way though, I started to get into my usual nervous / intimidated mood. It seems each new country brings me down a peg because I’ve just gotten used to one language and culture, and suddenly the music starts playing and I have to get off the chair again. And who knows if I’ll get a chair the next time the music stops?<br /><br />Things weren’t helped by the speed with which the staff on the train spoke at me. Italian or English, they were spitting out words as fast as <insert> <damn>. So I got to Venice in darkness, a hung-over, hungry mess, and it’s always when I’m in this state that I feel really intimidated by the world around me. Following my directions to the hostel, I took the water bus to San Polo, costing me some 6.5 Euro (if you have bags they massively charge you) and was so pissed off when I discovered days later how easy it would have been to walk. I also got screwed another 2 Euro buying a map, which in Venice is about as useful as car.<br /><br />So I got to the hostel and discovered it was the biggest dive imaginable. Despite being a Bed and Breakfast I was told I couldn’t have breakfast because I’m in a dorm room. Right. The shower alternates between trying to shrink my testes to the size of peas and trying to scald my skin off, and boy is it filthy. The shower curtain is less a fabric and more of a fish-print mould tapestry. I took some photos of this so that I can show them to Grazia later and teach her a thing or two about travelling.<br /><br />So I hit the hay for an early start. I woke up to fairly miserable weather and no breakfast. I wandered around looking for somewhere cheap to eat and was bemused at how many of the Italian restaurants are run by Asians. The food is pretty amazing though. No more bullshit fast food for me. Though still not as good as Nonna’s, (Jimmy if you’re reading this, that’s Nonna, not Nando’s.)<br /><br />So I went off to check out the Piazza St Marco and take in the tourist sights. As I walked I noticed the water was lapping over into the streets in some places and thought that was pretty cool. I got to the square to find it totally submerged. Huh. That’s awkward. Now all the wooden boardwalks that had got in my way on the way to the hostel on the first night made sense. So I took some snaps and was getting too hungry to think so I left to finally get a breakfast. I turned back the way I had come to find the streets flooded. This wasn’t good.<br /><br />The Venetians in their gumboots were out in force. Some of those gumboots are total thigh-highs that go right up to your arse. Nuts, but essential it would seem. I was starting to panic. Trying to find an alternate route was useless. So many dead-ends, so many flooded streets. A mad, senseless, labyrinthine city. It shouldn’t be habitable. What will they do in a few years when it all crumbles? Already there’s leaning, crooked towers and buildings. Maybe they could put the whole place on giant stilts. That’d be cool. Or maybe do an under-the-sea type of thing.<br /><br />So I was trapped, hungry and frustrated. All the places around the Piazza are way more expensive and anyway I just wanted to go home, so I had to do it, I had to wade through the water. I managed it on tippy toes. Thank God I didn’t throw out my boots yet, or I’d have been a goner. As I’m crossing a particularly deep part, the liquid finally penetrating my socks, a gum-booted, crotchety old Italian man walks past, splashing me, and mocking me in Italian. Great. I already had a nemesis.<br /><br />And I do mean this. I have encountered this guy again. I was taking a photo of a statue, a typical thing that everybody does, and he starts walking past. I was waiting for him to walk out of my shot and as he passed me he muttered something quite loudly in Italian. What an arsehole.<br />Anyway, I made it back to the hostel, got some pizza and then returned to the hostel to mope around. I was starting to hate Italy already. Great.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6812885956449432749.post-85803756177039927742009-02-09T00:50:00.003+09:002009-02-09T01:03:00.323+09:00Thoughts on DachauAs I get on the bus to leave Dachau, I reach into my pockets for my mp3 player. The journey back to the hostel will take about half an hour, on both the bus and the U-banh (and a short walk). The bus chuffs, jolts once and starts moving through the suburbs. I still haven't pressed play on anything. After a while I hit the random button. I guess a few songs must have played but I couldn't tell you what they were. I couldn't stand them. After a few minutes I turn the thing off.<br /><br />I gaze out the window for a lifetime. Outside are people walking dogs, elderly people going for a stroll, and children playing basketball in what was once an SS training camp.<br /><br />When I get to the train station, I stand on the windy platform, waiting. I think I need happy music to distract me, so I flip on some Beatles. I can't even listen to the whole length of Love Me Do before I turn it off again. The train wooshes up and the people get on.<br /><br />I ride home in silence.MChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04567891567047090043noreply@blogger.com0