In Decize, 1 am

Can'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Of course, that doesn't mean I still don't have a few more adventures to have along the way.

Deutsches Museum

Today 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mood Swings and Angry Cooking

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This day was a mess. When I get back I'm going to cook something real.

Somewhere between Buda and Pest with a fistful of Florints

Left 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Premature 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.

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.

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.

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.

Travel dreams

These 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.

It's weird.

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.

It's really weird.

Venice Part 3 – Matt's life becomes a bizarre, surrealist drama

So 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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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."
"That easy, eh?" I laughed. "Why don’t you do it?"
"No," he said. "I am 50 today. My time is passed. Now it’s your time."

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.

I had some strange dreams that night.

Venice Part 1 - Matt gets wet feet

After 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.

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.

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?

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 . 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

One sausage goes a long way.

Sometimes I have no idea how I do it.

Last night I stressed myself out majorly trying to plan parts of my trip, booking things on hostelworld.com and trying to figure out awkward train routes. I ended up being so mind-fucked by this that I went to the hostel bar to get my free beer and just chill the fuck out. Having spent a quiet few days in Cologne I was feeling the need to socialise but I didn't like my chances. It was still early, about 6ish and even though happy hour is from 6 to 8 there weren't many people around and everyone was speaking German and I just couldn't bring myself to approach anyone. After a few minutes a couple that spoke English came in, so I went up them and it turns out they were Irish, and the bloke was born in Letterkenny. We had a time talking about Ireland and trying to figure out if we knew any of the same people. I've never felt so Irish in my life. Ha.

Anyway we got to drinking and we each got a pitcher (for 5 euro) and drank and drank. At some point things must have got livelier because I ended up talking to all sorts. People are so fascinating. So at some point the cute German girl who checked me in that day comes in, so I start hanging out with her, doing more drinking, etc.

I ended up out with her til 4am drinking in various hostels along Senefelderstrasse.

Let me pause here to reflect on something. I am really tired of my inability to get girls. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong, or if it's just the temporary nature of the traveler that puts people off, but I am so over it. Seems I spend so much time and effort talking and hanging out all night and buying drinks and being the nice guy and walking her home or to a bus or train or whatever and not getting anything for my troubles. Not that I expect something. I guess it's just been so long that I really miss physical contact.

Putting on the positivity glasses for a second; maybe it's a good thing that I'm not getting anywhere. Shows I'm going for the right sort of girls. By that I just mean that if you do find somebody who's fairly forward it's pretty obvious that it's a once off thing. And I really don't do one night stands. Maybe when I get back home, or settle somewhere and make a new home then I'll know if my approach is any good.

Anyway, back to the story. So I was out til 4am, drunk as anything. Got up just in time for the free walking tour at 11am. So I'm dehydrated but I don't have any water, and I don't have time for breakfast. Just a quick coffee and a red bull and away I go.

Somehow I managed the 3 and half hour tour in the almost freezing temperatures on no sleep and no food. At about the mid point of the tour we stopped to get some bratwurst and a so-called 'breakfast beer' in the markets. This is a wheat beer which is less gassy and hence more suitable for the stomach in the mornings. Madness. A single sausage in a tiny bun and half a litre of beer to kick off the day. Anyway, the tour was awesome and Munich is gorgeous. Afterwards I gunned it down to the BMW complex, the Olympiastadium, and back again to buy a train ticket and run some other errands.

All this and I wasn't even hungry, wasn't even tired. I went and got a Whopper for the sake of common sense, but I really didn't feel like I needed it. I don't know how I do it sometimes...

On Deutschland and moustaches.

Germany is the best. I'm buzzing. Everything is great. I'm walking the street and I see old people actually sporting Kaiser moustaches from another era! This is the greatest of joys I can imagine. At the crosswalks the people stop and stand there until the man goes green, irrespective of whether there are cars coming or not. I'm not used to that level of obediance, so I must stand out. I just cross the street when it's safe like in most countries. When I do that though nobody follows me. They wait. It's not like anywhere else.

Everything here is cheap and beautiful and wonderful. I went to the city's most famous landmark: the giant Dom cathedral. Climbed right to the top of that thing, huffin', puffin' and hobbling up the 500ish stairs in the narrow, winding case. Wow, what a view. It's gorgeous. The afternoon sun blazing a path over the Rhine and into the city streets.

In the space outside the Dom, a street performer was wandering around dressed as Charlie Chaplin, doing the schtick to try for tourist tips. It looked like the guy had gone to great lengths to get his moustache just that little bit longer than would be historically accurate. I guess that look isn't as popular in Germany as it once was.

I walked back home to clear my camera. Ah, the joys of walking distance. Got back in no time and headed out again, checking out the Roman ruins that can be found throughout Köln. Found a space invader along the way. Then I went to EL-DE building: the former Gestapo prison. Wow. Real cells, real incriptions in the walls, the last pained thoughts of innocent inmates scratched in with anything from lipstick to fingernails.

This is what it's all about.

Battle Scars 2

For some reason I forgot to mention in my list of ailments that I'm pretty sure there's a hole in one of my teeth, or there will be soon. The whole set are looking pretty bad right now, which I'm attributing to poor bristle strength. I need it hard, baby. I could use a good floss as well. Also, my upper lip is massively swollen with some sort of pimple, which I am attributing to clogged lip pores after gunning the lip balm for 3 days.

Battle Scars

I'm deep in Euro territory now and the injuries are starting to stack up. My right foot is totally fucked right now. Struggling to walk on it the last few hours. Not sure what I did to it. It's funny the whole injuries thing. Seems almost every fellow traveller I meet is carrying some niggle or another. There's always someone who's got a chronic cold, somebody with a limp, somebody coughing out a lung. It's the way of things.

Me, I'm doing okay about it all. Rode the train into Köln from Amsterdam. My streak of strange encounters with mildly famous Australians on trains has continued: first the Howling Bells on the train from London to Paris, and today I was in the same car as The Umbilical Brothers. They were mildly amusing to observe.

Train had tech problems so we had to switch, end up stuck on a cold platform, eating the skin off my dry lips for a good half hour, and late getting in but what does that matter. Köln is a lot warmer than Amsterdam. Amsterdam was like ice in my underpants. Couldn't walk the streets it was so bad. Plus there's that foot thing.

Goes nicely with my other injuries: mystery burn scar on my hand which looks increasingly worse, my usual skin irritation thing on my hands which is in full swing now, stiff neck and my cracked up lips.

Köln is pretty cool. I'm glad that I got clean linen this time. I was on a bad streak til Amsterdam. Seemed every hostel I went to I had to sleep in somebody's shadow. What can you do? Maybe my luck is changing.

I'm glad to be out of Amsterdam. I loved it there but I need to keep moving and it's nice here too. And it's quiet. I need to chill out for a while, get my mind back. Start concentrating now that I've got some space. Need to get writing again and leave behind all the mixed up thoughts I had in Amsterdam.

The beauty of travelling

The beauty of travelling is that one minute you can be sitting around on a filthy, smelly couch doing nothing, feeling isolated and alone on Australia Day and not wanting to have anything to do with the yobbos downstairs, feeling so low and depressed that the suicide thoughts start creeping into your mind like Nazis on the Night of the Long Knives,and the next minute you're getting high in a hostel room with a gorgeous Argentinian girl, laughing yourselves stupid because neither of you can understand what the other one is saying.

Driving buses and being an arsehole: when two vocations combine.

Another exhausting travelful day for me today. Went from Liverpool to Hammersmith in London, with a few stops along the way in Birmingham and at Heathrow. Devoid of an alarm clock, my body had to figure out for itself what time to get up to make the 9 o'clock bus from Liverpool, which it did nicely. I walked it to the bus - a bit of a challenge with upwards of 30kg in your bags - and it was especially grueling given the rain.

Made it there no problem, and rode out the day, sleeping a few hours here and there, reading, and just gazing at the uniform brown towns. Surely they were all manufactured in one place and shipped out to be assembled across the landscape.

Leaving Heathrow at 16:25 is where the trouble began. I guess my guard was down. After the kindly gentleman bus driver who took me from Liverpool airport to my hostel when I didn't have enough for bus fare, and the jolly jesting fat man who took me from Liverpool to Birmingham, I was starting to get used to all the friendliness.

So I approached my bus and showed the guy my ticket. He looks at it in disgust, looks at me and says something lie "Hammersmith? You must be joking." I start thinking maybe I have the wrong bus, but apparently my confusion didn't show. The guy went on about it being Friday and the traffic would be a nightmare. I shrugged and got on the bus and sat up front, right behind him. As we drove, he starts shaking his head and muttering to himself. When we get to the turn off for Hammersmith I could see why: the traffic was backed up as for ages. The coach driver, frustrated, hits the gear stick, turns around and points in my face and says "See?" I said I did see. Then he starts blaming me, for the fact that the almost full bus will be late for its arrival in Central London.

I'm not angry, or sheepish or embarrassed or anything at all really. It occurs to me that this jerk is asking for it, but I stayed cool. Didn't want an escalating situation or anything. As we're sitting in the traffic he asks me if I know my way around Hammersmith. At this point he's thinking of getting me off the bus now, so he can get back in the main lane and head in. I say no, that I've never even been in London before. Apparently with my new attire I'm not so obviously a tourist. The guy is incredulous. He asks me if someone is picking me up or if I know where I'm going. I smile and say I have no idea, even though I do. This enrages him further. He's mentally swearing and driving like a sooky toddler.

How long did we end up sitting in the traffic? About 5 minutes. Yep. 5 minutes. And when we got to Hammersmith, 3 other people got off the bus with me, whereas he had me thinking I was the only one. What an arsehole.

So I wandered the streets lost. I had directions from Google Maps but they were inaccurate, and I hadn't written down the hostels address. This always happens to me these days. As I was walking I started thinking about how I've come a long way from the scared kid that Chris would have seen at the O'Hare airport. I wandered a strange city without a clue but I wasn't worried for a second. I ended up walking right past the hostel (St. Christopher's Inn), kept on going and hit another St. Christopher's Inn in the next suburb over. The girls told me which bus to get on to get back to Hammersmith but I didn't use it. I walked straight back and found it easy.

I must have walked over 2kms today with all that heavy gear, in bad weather, tired and hungry, having subsisted only on bus station sandwiches all day. And lost. But not a worry in the world. I've finally done it. I'm not afraid anymore. I don't worry about anything until it's right in front of me and I'm a million times happier for it.

On praise and encouragement

One of the things I've found strange is the acceptance I get if I tell people about my writing aspirations. Back in Perth I wouldn't dare tell anyone I didn't know about it. Somehow it seemed like something to be ashamed of back there. It probably isn't. Maybe I was always just too shy before and traveling has opened me up enough, given me enough confidence to just be me.

Still, I'm sure if I did say such a thing in Perth, I'm sure it wouldn't get the same reaction there as it gets over here. In Perth I imagine a person mumbling: "cool" as the best reaction I could hope for. Not that I think people in Perth are any more indifferent than other folk, I just think it surfaces in different ways from place to place.

In any case, people in this hemisphere seem genuinely interested, even excited at the prospect of a wannabe writer. Some express wonderment, wishing they had it in them to do the same, or something similarly creative. The relations took this to a new level. They really took things to heart, took me to all these Irish writer places (restaurants, pubs, etc) and got it into their heads that I'd be writing about them in someway. Some of them had similar interests and wished me luck, telling me not to miss my chances like they had.

It's all a bit overwhelming. In other cases I might have felt it appropriate to remind myself not to get a big head with all this praise around, but I'm not really in any danger of that. I've been so down about myself and my uncertain future for so long, that all this encouragement is kind of exactly what I need to get myself moving in the right direction.

I have to wonder though at the impression I make on people. I'm a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but not too friendly. Open to those around him, but not one to actively seek out others. I wonder what I'm projecting in my appearance and demeanor. I mention this because the other night I was in a pub somewhere in Galway, probably Fibber Magees (and boy would I like a penny for every time I've been inside a Fibber Magees!), and my cousin Gareth introduced me to a friend of his. The name eludes me now, but he was an older chap, a professor at the local university and a bit of a character. I think his accent was English, but I was pretty drunk at the time, so I could be mistaken.

He was quite a talker, and he spoke at length about soccer with Gareth, and rambled on about a lot of other things too. We exchanged pleasantries and spoke a little when Gareth was in the bathroom. He ribbed me for looking like such a student, wearing a scarf in a pub. Made a mental note of that one. In any case, we didn't know all that much about each other, and as the night progressed we both became increasingly smashed. At some point he asked me what I studied and as I answered Gareth chimed in that I was trying to write a novel.

The old man was in to it. He starts going on about how he can tell I'm a smart guy and that I have it in me, and all this stuff. Maybe it was drunk talk, but it's something I've been hearing a lot lately. It kind of scares me because I really don't consider myself to be all that smart, or all that capable. Then he starts telling me to send him the manuscript when it's done and he has contacts and he'll let me know if it's good or not and he can hook me up with other university and publishing contacts.

Now, that's a lot to process. Who do people think I am? And am I that person?

Accent confusion in the Northern hemisphere

There was a time where I entertained the notion of putting on different accents as I traveled the world, seeing if I could pass myself off as a local, or as a traveler from somewhere else entirely. As it turns out, my regular accent can be just as confounding. Back when I was Stateside, most people I spoke to couldn't tell where I was from, on the streets or in the hostels, and I'm finding it much the same in Ireland.

Most commonly I am mistaken for being from a posh area of England. I'm starting to think that maybe I do, because the people that have said it are fairly reliable types: relatives in Letterkenny, and some of the smarter people I met in America, like James.

In America I was surprised that some people would ask me which State I was from. In that situation I would usually affect the appropriate accent and say "I am from Minnesota" which occasionally received a laugh, but was once or twice taken to be fact.

On occasion people have thought I was from New Zealand. Apparently that's a common mix up around this part of the world, but I would have thought the differences were pretty full-on. Kiwi's sound closer to South Africans then Aussies in my opinion.

On that note, sometimes Australians don't even know I'm Australian. Now this might be partially because I am subconsciously altering my voice to avoid dealing with me fellow countrymen. Most of the time I try not to even speak when I'm around Australians and just let them assume I'm some standoffish non-English speaker from somewhere nera the Mediterranean.

It's not always bad. I generally have an affinity with Melbournians. They get it. And they can almost always tell where I'm from. As for the rest of the Australians, I generally try to stay away. Last night a group of American girls who have recently started studying in Cork took me for a Dubliner. When I told them I was from Perth they told me that there was a couple from Perth staying in our room. Naturally I was later forced to interact with these people and that was a mistake. Everyone else I've met from Perth has been terrifying in some way. This time the 'Perth' label was something of a misnomer. They weren't from Perth, they were country folk that now lived in Perth. You know how it is with country folk. It's one way or the other, and this time it was the other.

It's all part of a collage of cultural confusion. I'm doing everything backwards and mixed up. In America I was reading European writers and now I'm reading all the Americans. In the States I mixed mostly with Brits and French, now I'm surrounded by Americans. Strangely enough all the Americans I've met here seem a lot less crazy / more normal then a lot of the people I met in the US. I don't know if that's a case of travelers having a certain mindset that can be easily related to, or if it's just that a whole country full of Americans was a little intimidating at the time.

In any case I feel like I've been hitting the right balance of people. In America it wasn't always easy to talk to locals, and I usually kept to the hostel crowds. In Ireland though the hostel crowds contain so many diverse characters that are local, as well as the usual mix of foreigners.

My tips for anyone who goes to the United States

Before I left Perth I tried to get as much advice and information I could out of everyone I know who has traveled, and didn't get much out of them other than the usual stuff about being safe, keeping your wallet protected, etc. Now that I'm a man of the world I feel it's my duty to give prospective travelers a few clues you can use if you come to the good ol' US of A.

1. Always keep in mind that the word 'Starbucks' is actually code for 'public bathroom'.

I can't stress this enough people. The coffee is dreadful, and they're more numerous than rabbit offspring, but you'll be thanking your lucky stars for Starbucks when you've got a bladder full of soda, which will be all the time considering you're in America.

2. When ordering fast food, always ask for the small size.

When the food arrives, you will realize you actually have a large. Get used to it. And throw away the rest of your soda / give it to a homeless person. No body needs to drink that much in one sitting.

3. At traffic lights, ignore the crosswalk lights and just cross when it's safe.

This is one of those things that makes you look less like a tourist. Too many people stand around waiting for the 'walk' sign, and it can really clog the sidewalks in a big city. Just always be aware of your surroundings and get a move on. Sure it's technically jaywalking, but all the cool people do it.

4. Walk fast and be nimble.

This is another important one in big cities, especially New York. You'll get around faster, and you'll piss off less people. Also, you'll look less like a tourist. Which brings me to a related point:

5. If you get lost, keep walking.

Don't even break stride. Nothing is more infuriating then when people stop suddenly to check a map, blocking everyone behind them. You really don't want to look lost. Most places are pretty safe, but you never know. Try to keep walking and get indoors, perhaps at a local 'public bathroom' to check a map or change directions.

6. If you're young, always claim student prices wherever you can.

This has saved me so much money. Most museums and art galleries are half price for students, so you can really save those pennies. I used my expired UWA card whenever asked (it's not dated, and they never checked the guild stickers on the back). But seriously, 9/10 times they don't even card you.

Well, that's all for now. Perhaps more will come to me later. Adios.

Fuck this hostel for a joke.

If it wasn't bad enough with the snoring, the loudness, the inconsiderateness of other guests, number of beds to a room (14), the projectile vomiting off of the top bunk (yes, one guy caught the splash-back), the shortage of power points, the shortage of towels, the loudness of the music in the common areas, the closing off of the basement lounge and filling it with beds so as to make more money over the New Year period, the dictatorial staff who won't let you hang around the common area at night, the awful breakfast served way too early in the morning, the decision to paint all of the bathrooms in the building at the same time except for the one on my floor and the general overpricing, now these fuckers are charging people 25c for an EMPTY FUCKING CUP.

AN EMPTY PLASTIC CUP.

Fuck off.

Experiences in the Empire State Building

Here are some stories which I hope will sum up the tourist experience.

Today I went to the Empire State Building. I managed to sort of sleep-in this morning, so I figured if I went to the ESB it'd probably be the only thing I would end up doing that day. I had seen how bad the line could be from the last time I was in the area. So I wandered down there, and in my customary fashion, accidentally came at the building from the completely wrong side and had to walk all away around to get to the end of the line. This can be a good thing. It lets you know what you're in for.

I had come prepared with a novel, my mp3 player, half a bottle of water and a medium coffee from Dunkin' Donuts.

I got to the end of the line at about 11 o'clock and prepared for a long wait. It was one of those lines that struck disbelief into the hearts of bypassers. Several people stood in it for awhile thinking it was just regular foot traffic for the area. Others stormed off in a huff at the thought of a line so long. I read patiently.

As we inched up the line, we had to endure the gauntlet: a bunch of people on the street from one of the bus tour companies. They begged, bargained and cajoled anyone who would listen, promising that for a nominal fee we could jump the queue on their particular tour, and be able to see the observation deck and more! Some people went for it. To entice the others they tried scare tactics, telling us it would be a 3 hour wait on the line. That seemed to not help their cause all that much but it helped mine, as some people would throw up their hands in digust, whip their scarves around their necks and head away from this madness.

I am not as opposed to waiting as some are, but then I had come prepared. The tour people started telling us to ask the ESB staff just how long the wait would be as if to justify themselves. One lady did, and they told us it would be about 45 minutes from now. At that point we were at the entrance to the building. Ha! I thought. 3 hours my arse. Not that I would have minded all that much. I had come prepared.

The line twisted and turned inside the building like the lower intestine of a metal giant. Each time I turned a corner I smiled as the people around me groaned. It went on and on. Thankfully I had come prepared. At about 12 o'clock I passed through the metal detectors. During the wait to be processed by security, I looked out one of the second floor windows and saw something in the third floor window of the building next door. It was a man in a turban, speaking on what looked like a walkie-talkie and looking in my direction. An old English couple nearby spotted this also and started talking and joking about terrorism in hushed tones.

At 12.33 I bought my entry ticket. Here I ran the second gauntlet: the EBS staff trying to sell us city maps and audio guides. I waved one of them away and she started sassin' me.
"What you gonna do then? When you get up there you'll see there ain't no signs or nothing. How you gonna know what you're lookin' at?"
It seemed scare tactics were the order of the day. A lot of people, unsettled by this threat of lost knowledge, reached into their wallets and purses to fork over 8 dollars for a map, 8 dollars for an audio guide, or 13 dollars for both.

At 1 o'clock I finished my novel. For this I was not prepared.

At 1.30 I got onto an elevator and thought "this is it!" The lift took me from the 2nd floor to the 60th floor in no time at all. I stepped out into the upper intestine of a metal giant. The line stretched on endlessly. I was now out of reading material, out of coffee, out of water and a little tired. My bag strap cut deeply into my shoulder like it was a spongecake. Now I was groaning along with everyone at each turn of the line. I started getting really angry inside at the people around me. Kids kept getting into my personal space and being little shits. Old people walked to slow when the line was moving. People were stepping on toes and heels. In a controlled environment, with security and concierge's everywhere, people are still hopelessly unorganized. Disorderly. As we climbed a set of stairs I pondered this, and, thinking back to my trip to Ground Zero yesterday, I had a real sense of just how horrifying it would have been trying to get out of the towers on 9/11. If people are this bad when nothing's wrong just imagine the worst nightmare of a situation.

Eventually I got on to a second elevator. I was skeptical, but this time I was pleasantly surprised to be actually on the observation deck on the 84th floor. The elevator from 60 to 84 took only about 5 seconds.

The view was pretty amazing, but was it worth it? I felt like the day was a bit of an anti-climax. It was good to do, but I didn't have that sense of wonderment I had in Chicago when Chris took me to the top of the Hancock Observatory. I guess that was because it was the first time I'd been to the top of a building like that. Still, the ESB was cool. It was different to be outdoors that high up. Windy as hell, freezing, but pretty cool. There's a certain satisfaction also in surviving the lines, and achieving a goal after enduring huge waits. I think what satisfied me the most though, was finding out I was right not to purchase a map - on each of the coin-operated binoculars up there was a list of what sights you could see from that spot. No signs up there my arse. There is a lesson in this: don't give in to terror.

After about 20 minutes up the top, I got out of there. It was too cold to stay too long, and it was pretty crowded up there. I headed to the exit signs, and discovered a queue to exit the building. I was not prepared for this. A concierge said we could walk down 6 floors to the next set of elevators which would be less crowded, so I did that. 6 floors later I was sitting in an even longer line. I groaned. What a day.

Thoughts on a city.

What determines whether you like a city or you don't? I have no idea. I've been on the road 6 weeks, and seen about as many cities, but I still can't put into words why I feel the way I do about a place. Often I don't even realise I feel anyway about somewhere until after I'm gone. I thought I had a ball in LA, but after leaving I realised I hated it there. It's strange. But it's even more strange how much I love New York.

I feel really alive here. I feel like I could live here. I feel at home and not at home at the same time. And I can't really explain why. A woman asked me the other day what I thought about NY compared to the rest of America that I'd seen and I told her it was a million times better but I couldn't explain why. I guess that made me look kind of stupid considering I also told her I wanted to be a writer.

Some guys in the dorm were talking last night about what makes a good travel experience. The consensus was that any place on earth could be great one week or awful the next, and that it all depends on the people you're with and the people you meet. Everything about an experience will boil down to the people involved. Normally I would agree with this. The people around me made my experience in New Orleans awesome. The people around me in Miami made it shit. But that theory just isn't stacking up for me here in New York city.

Here's why. I'm avoiding everyone. I haven't made any friends here. I'm not trying to. I'm avoiding everyone, especially other Australians (shudder). And yet, I'm enjoying this city at least 10 times more than the rest I've visited.

I definitely need a new city theory.

All I can come up with though is gut instinct. I don't know what it is I love about this place, but the important thing is that I feel it. And I feel it. Just seeing the city as I flew into LaGuardia had my heart pumping. Seeing the Statue of Liberty today sent a charge through me, and seeing the skyline, sans the WTC makes me feel hollow inside. Tears welled up in my eyes at Strawberry Fields. Seeing the buildings, the streets, the incredible diversity makes me smile inside every day.

I <3 NY