Chapter 11 - Not another dusty old pile of rocks

Athens

I had not planned to visit Athens on this trip, as I had been there about 15yrs ago. A big part of the reason I change my plans and headed to Greece was to spend more time with Nirmapal, which I am very glad I did. As a result of changing my plans and leaving Gran Canaria early, I arrived a day before the Atlantis Cruise that Nirmalpal and his friends Curtis and Keith were on.

The last time i was here was about 15yrs ago. Some things had not changed others had. The impact of the Euro certainly has made things more expensive, the Acropolis is under a lot more restoration construction; a lot more people seem to speak English, which is not always a good thing – although a lot of signage and metro system announcements are made in both Greek and English – which does make getting around a lot easier. But the hubbub, heat and grit of the city remained relatively unchanged. Athens as a city is nothing special; it’s a big, sprawling, crowded, dirty, hot and humid – which pretty much does describes most large cities in the world. The metro system has improved significantly since I was there last, there are now three lines instead of one - although it was reasonably easy to walk to most of the places we wanted to go. What makes Athens spectacular is the abundance of ancient sites that can be experienced and explored.

Since I had arrived a day earlier than Nirmalpal, Curtis and Keith, I decided to go meet them at the port. Catching the metro down to Piraeus, the port of Athens. As I was waiting for them to disembark I got chatting with someone (randomly) who had already disembarked (it takes a long time to get 2000 people of a boat). It turned out this guy was from Sydney, lived in Newtown. We were chit chatting about this and that, told him I was here to meet this wonderful man I had meet in San Francisco etc. Then I finally mentioned his name – his eyes lit up and he goes – “I know him, I meet him in San Francisco long time ago, friend of a friend. He was in the hypnotist show on the ship. The hypnotist called him Bill because he could not pronounce his name and he had him dancing as a ballet dancer”

Since Nirmalpal was not expecting me, (I like surprising people – as some of you know), I snuck up behind him and said “Hello Bill, hows my pretty ballerina”. He was not only shocked to see me, but shocked that I knew about something that had happened on the ship. It was a great way to start our time together. I introduced him to Phillip Ruble from Newtown and the two worked out where/when they had last meet, which was some time ago.

We headed into the old part of Athens, called the Plaka, which is situated next to the ancient Acropolis. This is part of Athens that is of most interest. The Acropolis is a huge piece of rock, a high point on the Athens landscape, not so large as Uluru, but reasonably large. The acropolis contains the remains of the entrance to the Temple complex, the Parthenon, the temple of Athena and a rebuilt amphitheatre - the temple sections of the Acropolis remain standing in various states of disrepair. The original site would have contained several temples. There is a significant amount of construction work going on at the moment, so there was a lot of scaffolding around parts of the complex – but it was still impressive none the less.

The Parthenon itself was pretty much intact until 300 years ago. The Turks were using it as a storage facility for ammunition. The Venetians invaded and managed to fire a canon and hit the ammunitions depot, with disastrous results. So after a couple of thousand years of surviving the ravages of time, weather and humanity, the temple exploded and was almost entirely destroyed. They are now attempting to piece it back together. In addition to restorative work using stone from the site – they are also carving out new pieces to complete the structures where necessary. I am somewhat torn about this restoration work, torn between the desire to see the temples as they were and how they are now, or have survived over time. The photographer in me is drawn to the expression of time, as depicted by 2000+ years of carved stone. The romantic in me wants to walk amongst the temples, as the Greeks would have done 2000 years ago.

Around the Acropolis are a number of other temple complexes, the most complete been the Ancient Agora (market place). There is a Greek temple that is nearly complete and there is a building that was reconstructed in the early 20th Century with money from the Rockafeller family. This part of the Agora has lost its ancient feel, but it does give you an idea and feel for how these building would have been in ancient times. They certainly understood the importance of wide and airy verandas with high ceilings.

Everywhere we went we encountered what I termed the ‘Whistle Witches’, these were generally middle aged greek women. Every monument or ancient site you went, you would find at least one, but usually there were several, often hiding in hidden bunkers. If you so much as stepped on an ancient pebble – the whistles would start shrilling, usually accompanied by wild hand motions – ‘get the feck off that piece of rock’. It was a little comical and annoying at the same time. One of the other interesting things was that in the museums they did not mind you taking pictures (no flash), but you were not allowed to take a picture of your friends or loved ones with a statue, so no posing beside the torso of Apollo or any other Greek rock for that matter.

Athens was in low session at the time of our visit – a large percentage of Greeks taking holidays in August and heading to the islands or other destinations. But despite this, it was still pretty crowded with tourist around the Plaka and visiting the ancient sites.

I enjoyed immensely spending time with Nirmalpal and getting to know his friends Curtis and Keith. It was a wonderful bonus to my travels around the world.

Delphi

On Monday we headed to Delphi. Delphi is another ancient site, about 2.5 hours drive from Athens. It contains a large temple complex with a main temple dedicated to Apollo, amongst others and a large sport stadium/arena that is relatively intact. The site itself was lost for a long time, which I could understand, being situated on the rocky side of mountain. Not many people would venture up that way. What amazed me the most, was that ancient Greeks would have made a rather long and arduous journey from places like Athens etc to this temple complex, to give worship to their gods.

On the way we visited an old monastery, unfortunately we arrived about five minutes before it closed for the day, so only got to see a small bit of it. Our driver, who had been to Delphi many times, had never been to this monastery, so we had some trouble finding it and then he joined us in looking around the grounds, when we did eventually arrive.



Mykonos

On Wednesday Nirmalpal and I headed to Mykonos. We took the ferry, which takes around 6 hours. It certainly was an experience, but not one that I would care to repeat in a hurry. Although there were some cute boys to look at, Australian boys that were doing their best to pick up girls before they had even made it to the island.

The island of Mykonos is stark, rocky and there is little vegetation. Once again I encountered eucalypts (what is it with the gum tree that it has gotten around the world so much – it has done more travelling then I). The old port/town of Mykonos is reputed to have been a fishing village, but another story I heard was that it was actually a village mostly occupied by pirates. The town itself is a labyrinth, more than once I found myself lost. As the story goes the town was built this way so that the pirates could easily disappear into the narrow streets and evade the authorities, a very believable story. According to one Greek I meet (a cruise ship captain), the descendants of these thieves are still ripping of the tourists today – his words not mine. It is an expensive place to holiday - so make sure you have well stocked credit cards.

The town has the narrowest streets I have encountered to date, and I seem to keep encountering narrow winding streets. But in many places it would be hard to walk two abreast. Mykonos has a reputation, as been THE gay island destination. Well it is also the island holiday destination of every Greek and Italian person under 25 as well. The lonely planet describes the island as a place of debauchery. I am not so sure of that, or my idea of debauchery is somewhat different to that of the lonely planet writer. August as I discovered is the WORST time to be on the island. Or best time if you want to party hard and spend all night Raving on the beach or in small cramped clubs. In Europe many people take summer holiday at the same time, so all of Greece and Italy take a part of the month of august off. In August Mykonos is inundated with vacationing Greeks and Italians and a fair number of Australia’s (I discovered), if fact Australians were the third largest group of people I encountered, after that, lots of Americans. I was told by some locals that the best time to come to Mykonos is either late May early June or early September, note to self – book next vacation in the off season.

For the first couple of days Nirmalpal and I hired scooters to get around the island. This is the most dangerous thing one can do on the island of Mykonos. There are thousands of people riding scooters around the island, many of them having no previous experience with riding before, many of them doubling another friend (both having no experience on a bike). I saw a family of four on a single scooter, two adults and two small girls. I saw people riding while holding up a video camera pointed back at themselves – going ‘Look Ma – no hands’. They go to the beach, lie in the sun, get drunk and then get back on their scooters and head to their hotela. Needless to say there are a large number of accidents involving tourists and scooters and i saw a large number of people with arms and hands bandaged. Thankfully we both avoided any serious encounters and have lived to tell the tale. I must say, it was a lot of fun….

Even as a pedestrian you are not safe. Imagine walking through the narrow streets of the Rocks in Sydney on a busy summers sunday, hordes of tourists pressing around you as you bustle your way from shop to shop, enjoying the hubbub. Then beeping and pushing through the throng of people, a scooter appears, then another, then a motorbike, then a small vehicle delivering beer – then a posse of five scooters appears and bears down on you. It’s chaos, madness and oh so much fun…. Although after the third time a scooter wheel bumped into me – I was starting to get a little annoyed.

Working around at 2am in the morning is nearly impossible with the crush of people on the streets of Mykonos, most of them headed to there favourite nightclub to experience some of the famed debauchery ie get drunk, dance and throw up.

The buildings of Mykonos and i am sure you have all seen photo's are whitewashed, most places have brilliantly painted door and windows with a deep blue colour. I learnt that this blue was a colour used to ward of evil. You can readily buy a pendant made of blue glass with a eye in it - to ward of the evil. Many of the cobblestone (large cobblestones) are also whitewashed, the grout between the stones been painted almost nightly by shop owners to give the street a fresh clean appearance.

The beaches on Mykonos are beautiful, or more accurately the water is beautiful, crystal clear blue/green water, that you only tend to see in Australia up around the barrier reef. The beaches themselves are gritty cat litter like sand. And the popular beaches are covered in permanent umbrellas. So the vast bulk of the beach is covered with umbrellas and deck chairs. Which of course you need to pay to use, three euros for an umbrella and three for each deck chair – it starts to add up. The water is a lot colder than I was expecting, which considering how hot it was, was very refreshing.

Delos

About twenty minutes by ferry from Mykonos is the ancient island of Delos. This island was a centre of commerce and worship in the Aegean. It is said to be the birthplace of Apollo and his twin sister. His sister was born first, matured into a fully grown women in a matter of moments and then helped to deliver the infant Apollo.

It is the largest archaeological site in Greece. It is extraordinary, like many sites in Greece it is another pile of dusty old rocks – but here you get a sense of streets, homes, shops as well as the temple complexes. In the homes of the ancient Greeks, you get to see WC’s and water cisterns for storing water. Some of the homes still having their original tiled patterned atriums. The atrium floor was always covered with a couple of inches of water and open to the sky. The homes did not have any windows, to block out noise from the streets, so the open aired atrium provide both light and air for their homes. A lot of reconstruction has taken place on Delos, the site been work on by the French for a couple of centuries now - how much reconstruction is a closely guarded secret.

One of the great things about Delos was the absence of whistle witches. You are pretty much free to explore the ruins and experience them first hand. There are some areas that are locked or barricaded to prevent access - but for the most part you had free run of the place. In addition to this - there were not hordes of people, most of them not getting out of bed early enough from the previous night of partying to make the trip to Delos. The island is only open until 3pm, which is when the last ferry leaves to head back to Mykonos.

If you are ever in the vicinity of the Delos, then it is a must see.

Chapter 10 - The Best of Times The Worst of Times

I wondered the beach this evening deciding whether I should even write this Blog entry. I grew up with the adage, if you have nothing good to say, then say nothing. So should I just skip this entry altogether and pretend I was never here, or should I warn the people of earth.

DANGER!! DANGER!! People of the Earth – Listen to my tale of woe … well those that might have the sense to listen – the rest of them are here in Gran Canaria, or more accurately Playa Del Ingles – which I think translates to “Place of the English”. Or more accurately “Place of the English and Germans”…. This is the stuff of adventures!!!

As I flew into the airport of Gran Canaria, my first thoughts were; desolate, arid, stark, but quickly progressed to shit-hole. The airport itself is not near any of the major town centres, although since it is a small island, it does not take too long to get to one. I was headed to Playa del Ingles. The signs were there at the airport really, if I had cared to look – plane loads of English and German tourists with snotty screaming children, disembarking and getting onto large tour buses. I hired a car, deciding that I wanted to the freedom to explore the whole island.

I am trying not to be judgemental, its not my way generally, but its nearly impossible not to be. So before I really get started, I thought I would give you the upside, there is always an upside, you just sometimes have to look really really really hard. I was upgraded to business class for the flight from Barcelona to GC – there is a silver lining after all.

Additionally I was able to book a flight to get me the hell out of here, early Saturday morning, limiting my time here to a little over two days instead of the intended six.

The island has a terrific freeway, nice tunnels and almost makes it’s way around the whole island. The islanders appear to be reasonably eco friendly, with farms of wind turbines dotting the landscape, particularly near the airport. My rental car is a diesel engineered vehicle, which does not consume quiet some much petroleum.

Some parts of the island are magnificent. After making my flight changes, I headed for the hills. Gran Canaria is a mountainous island, and when I say mountainous, I’m not kidding. When I finally did reach the highest point I could find, not only could I see the top of the island of Tenerife off to the north (which is the only part of the Tenerife I could see), I was also looking down on a layer of clouds. I really don’t know how high I was, as there were not the typical markers that give you this information.

The interior is stark, arid; stunningly beautiful – as well it needs to be, to make up for the horrors that are the coastal towns. I have assumed from the discovery of pine trees, the height of the mountains, and the damns built on the sides of the mountains – that it snows up here are some point. The dams catching the snowmelt run off. I even came across an old well, its historic plaque described a day when the well was filled with snow. I am not sure if it’s a regular thing, or just happens once in a blue moon – and to be honest, could not be fecked finding out.

There were camping grounds up here in the mountains, and I spied a few stoic souls camping amongst the pine trees. If I had a tent, I probably would have joined them.

As I was driving back to Playa del Ingles, two young girls where hitch hiking from the bus stop, since I had had such a great experience in Brazil with this, I decide to return the favour and give them a lift. They off course did not speak a world of English and I – well my Spanish consists of the ability to count to nine and answer the question “how are you?”, oh yes I can also order beer – which is ironic considering I hate the loathsome ale. It was sort of strange that they did not speak any English, as everyone I have come across on this island so far, speaks a little. Every restaurant delivers its menu in German, Italian, French, English and of course Spanish – with pictures of course, what else would you expect. It kind of takes the fun out of ordering. Half the fun of ordering from a menu in another language is trying to decipher the code, ordering something, Pollo for example, and getting something you were really not expecting – well it was still chicken, but did it have to come covered in mayonnaise with a single, lonely, sad looking olive on top for garnish. The menu’s are definitely designed for the British palette, these people know which side their bread is buttered on, and is cooked with all the skill of an English chef. I had to climb a mountain to find a local speciality!!

The trip was going rather uneventfully, narrow, narrow, winding, winding roads. The road signs would indicate a gentle curve, the next thing you know your braking into a hairpin bend. I was reminded of the car scene from Cary Grant’s movie ‘To Catch a Thief’ (I think) where he is racing along mountainous narrow roads dropping off to spectacular Italian coast lines below, his speed and driving skill completely out of touch with the reality of the road conditions – off course Cary Grant had a stunt double and a green screen, I on the other hand, well lets just say, I made it home alive. Earlier in my drive I had come across a bunch of cars stopped by the side of the road, people were energetically getting out of their cars and going on a short hike up a precipitous path. I would have joined them of course, except my sandals were hardly conducive to a mountain hike and I lack the required amount of water. This meant that the road now had become one-way traffic only, it barely two way to begin with. So I took my life in my hands and cruised down the road, praying that no one would decide they needed to come up the road. Not far out of San Bartolome, where I had picked up the hitchhikers, let me digress for a moment, when I think of hitch hikers the picture I usually have in my mind is couple of lads, with long bedraggled hair, a hefty backpack and possibly even a small dog named Toto. These young ladies were dressed, with a capital D. There were definitely headed for a night out on the town, and the only conversation that I actually had with them, was when they asked me if I was staying in an Apartment or Hotel. My answer of hotel seemed to disappoint them greatly and no more conversation was to be had. I was somewhat perplexed – but will have to chalk it up to one of life’s mysteries.

As we were coming up a very steep incline, with hairpin followed by hairpin we came across a number of cars parked by the side of the road and people sort of milling about – I assumed that they were getting out to look at the stunning vista, or deciding whether a hike was in order, despite the heat and blazing sun. So I carefully negotiated my way around them, I started getting filthy looks from the drivers and passengers of some of these vehicles. I suddenly occurred to me that maybe these weren’t Sunday drivers after all – but something more serious had happened on the road ahead – and we all know about my track record with vehicles and shear drops. I pulled over, the two young ladies promptly got out of the car and we headed up round a bend in the road. A minor car accident had taken place. Somebody told me that two Germans had run into each other and were not moving their cars until the police arrived. Two buses were stuck in the traffic, and the tour guide had tried to explain to the Germans “Look do you think that police give a flying monkeys arse, that two German tourist and possibly a lonely goat herd, have had a dingle on some mountain top” – but the Germans were not moving and neither were the rest of us. The police did eventually arrive, the vehicles shifted and the traffic flowed – I never did see my hitchhiker friends again, must have been something wrong with my hotel.

I did see a eucalypt tree, alone, crying in the breeze. But where there is one old gum tree, there are bound to be more, and I did come across a small grove of them somewhere on the other side of the mountain. I wondered more than once that day, how did an Australian native gum tree come to live here, just off the coast of Africa, not far from Morocco.

As a testament to the harsh environment (probably why the eucalypt is thriving here), all the crops are covered with tents, tomatoes are the specialty of the island – although they are losing out to cheaper Moroccan imports – some farmers have given up their crops all together. At first I thought they were grown poppies or marijuana plants ( I later found out I was not far from the truth, particular on some parts of the island), but I think its just protection from the winds, the ever constant wind that drive the turbines, and the unrelenting sun. I would imagine that when it rains here, its pretty wild. As I was out driving, on Friday, I did spy one hill covered in green, my heart leapt, my soul soared – but alas it was a hillside of carefully cultivated cacti.

I arrived back in Playa del Ingles, which I had only seen by moonlight the night before – the cold harsh reality of daylight doing nothing to improve my previous judgement. It is nothing but low-rise apartment/hotel buildings. I have always disliked Surfers Paradise, that bastion of the holidaymakers in Australia – where families go to while away their vacation days, pretending they are having a good time, or losing the Christmas fund at Jupiters casino. But this place makes Surfers look like the Buckingham fecking palace. Every building needs to be torn down and preferable never replaced. Let nature reclaim its island. There is nothing redeeming about this place. It is Gaudy, and I don’t mean in the Gaudi sense of a genius architect, with an overactive imagination creating ethereal masterpieces to enthral future generations. I mean Gaudy, tacky, tasteless, hideous, horrid creations, slapped up to take money from unsuspecting Germans and Brits. Now if you’re a landlocked German or a Brit that doesn’t understand the meaning of the words “Hot Summer” and “Lovely Beach, and look no pebbles” – then it’s possible this place holds some appeal. It is, in spite of everything, relatively cheap, the food is decent and also reasonable priced.

The sheer brilliance of this place is not the great weather, or the stunning scenery inland, but that some Marketing bozo has pulled off the market coup of the century. It takes a brilliant, truly brilliant mind to convince people to come to such a hideous place and be grateful for the opportunity – I am sure the local people of the Canary Islands are paying this brilliant bozo a lot of money, to keep up the good work. It is also a good sign for the local economy that the vast majority of taxis are fairly new Mercedes Benz vehicles. Playa Del Ingles is a fairly new environment, until the 1970’s it was farmland belonging to one man, then the first hotel was built – and the rest of the hideousness followed shortly afterwards.

I did learn that Playa actually means Beach, so Playa Del Ingles is Beach of the English. According to the history of the island, the man who owned all this beautiful land (with acres and acres of rolling sand dunes – all but gone now), was tall, blond and blue eyed, although a native of the island. The other islanders thought he looked English – so his beach was named … Playa Del Ingles.

There is no surf to speak of, the waves, if you could call them that, approached the beach with all the enthusiasm of an Amazonian three-toed sloth. Sloshing themselves upon the shore with a melancholy sigh. The sand is black sand, very fine, but nonetheless black (well maybe a sort of muddy ugly grey that turns black when wet), although I did discover a few seams of white sand, but the white sand was doing its best to escape back out to sea. I wanted to join them, swimming for Africa – it’s only 100 Km (60 miles) away, part of my brain was trying to convince me – thankfully there is another part of my brain well aware of the fact I can’t swim fifty metres. You need to walk out at least 100 metres before the depth of the water reaches your knees. There is a large area of sand dunes that I discovered this evening as I wondered down to the beach. Very lovely to wonder upon the dunes at dusk, but the intense heat of the days sun, had baked and caked the ground where once water sloshed about. I can only assume that at high tide a reasonable amount of water floods into the dune area, the daytime sun evaporating it – my other thought, was that this is the towns sewage treatment system and I just happened along on a particularly pleasant day. As I was walking along the beach, headed back to town, I noticed that I was getting peculiar looks, the sort of once over you’d give a psycho, serial axe murderer, just before he lops off your head. I think the fact that I was walking alone was the give away that I was the strange one – not the countless couples strolling the beach at dusk. “Watch out for your children my pretties, I will come for them at dawn,” I cackled under my breath…..

Coming back from the beach it is easy to get lost (this is a very small place), all the streets look the same, the same horrid concrete apartment buildings blurring in to a seething mass of, I was trying to think of some clever metaphor, but really – its just a seething mass. There are no landmarks of note, no cute Spanish churches, no stunning sculptures just left lying about, no spectacular street lamps to divert your attention from the hordes of screaming children, no museums. It is a place devoid of any culture whatsoever. I did see a sign for a park and zoo – but I am afraid, so very afraid.

I am apparently here during low season, I cannot possibly imagine what it would be like, yes I can…. Arrrrgggghhhh, somebody kill me now.

On Friday I drove to San Nicolas, it’s a small local town, surround by tents (presumably crops). Only the hardest and most adventurous tourists drive there, so it was devoid of germans and brits. The drive is about and hour and half from Playa Del Ingles, the nice new freeway ends after about the first 15 minutes of driving, and you left to drive treacherous narrow, hair raising, suicide roads, that for a short while, provide you with a breathtaking view of the coast line – as well as more ugly places to contain the tourists. Then it heads up into the mountains, this is suicide driving at its best, to arrive safely at your destination all your powers of concentration are required to ensure you stay on your side of the road and not head over a cliff – its mesmerising and it really becomes the only thing you can think about, gripping the steering wheel, “will I – won’t I” .

I often despair when driving fantastic roads like this, I am not the world’s best driver, well OK yes I am, I was taught by my father. I play a little game, to distract me from the driving off the edge scenario thoughts, I count the number of times the driver in front of me crosses the centre line into oncoming traffic as they round corners etc. I usually lose interest after 74. These people are a danger to themselves and the oncoming traffic and other Germans in larger vehicles. I want to pull out my police badge, pull them over, take their license and give them a colouring in book – explaining that they will get their license back when they can successfully colour all the pictures without going outside the lines. Listen to ME …. The lines are there for a reason people!!!

They also come for the nightlife, somebody told me, or I read it in a book. The bars, clubs, sex shops, arcade game shops and night time frivolity all seem to be located in the commercial district, which is a large shopping mall complex. Yes that’s right, right next door to your tacky arcade game establishment, your green grocer and bread maker, is a decent array of sex shops. I have decided to be prudish and not venture in, most unlike me I know, but I strongly suspect that like the rest of this horrid little island I would just be sadly disappointed. The arcade game centres are all over the mall, the noise and flashing lights assaulting you, as you walk by. They are just tacky and ugly, but they keep the wee little ones occupied for hours on end – and I am not necessarily referring to the children.

The nightlife goes until the morning hours, so early morning shoppers are greeted with the sit of leather-clad homosexuals staging from the late night bars that pepper this shopping mall. Not that I really have a problem with leather clad homosexuals, but really, leather in such a hot climate – where is the sense and think of the cows (that ones for you Robert)

If you want a cheap family holiday, with lots of beaches (although they ain’t worth shit if you ask me), loads of very cheap beer and a ton of tacky nightlife, surrounded by harsh sounding Germans and ghostly white British lads – then this is the holiday destination for you. If on the other hand, you would like to experience some places with some interesting culture, great art, spectacular beauty – then please refer to all my previous Blog entries (Rio, Albuquerque, even Dallas has more going for it, San Francisco, London, Madrid, Barcelona – even the little known Caldes on the way to Girona had more style and grace), this place is NOT for you.

Why I hear you ask, did he go to the Canary Islands … that’s a damn good question. So I could write this blog of course!!

Enjoy the photos; they were taken to prove my point about the Marketing Bozo….

I am now in Athens, and have kissed the ground many times – which is something you really don’t want to do here. Ah the Acropolis, how I have missed thee … but that is another entry – stay tuned.

Chapter 9 - Gaudy Gaudi – An Unfettered Genius

As I mentioned in my last entry, I had decided to travel to Barcelona by train. WOW!! What a great decision that was, am hooked on train travel. There was so much to see, a ruined castle here, a field of sunflowers there, a ruined farmhouse sped by, a ruined village blink into and out of existence and whole new towns being built from scratch. The trains, even the local trains, metro and regional, make the trains in Australia seem like lumbering dinosaurs.

Every five minutes I was yelling (in my mind) STOP THE TRAIN!! I have to take a photo, but at 200Km/hr (120miles/hr – for my American friends), I did not think the passengers or the staff would appreciate me yanking on the emergency stop ripcord. The scene would probably not be unlike the taxi ride from my hotel to the Barcelona airport. Body parts in all directions, baggage slamming into the back of the trunk (my seat), swearing, cursing (all in Spanish, of course), irate vesper riders bashing on the windows, near misses with side of much larger heavy vehicles.

Unfortunately I did not get any photos from the train ride, apart from been glued to the window for 5 hours, watching the scenery whisk by, it’s pretty hard to get a decent picture when your travelling at that speed. Bring on the Bullet Train in Japan and the Train from Brussels to London – can’t wait.

I arrived in Barcelona – WOW what a difference. Where do I begin to describe Barcelona. The first couple of days were a bit strained for me and I was a little stressed out – a number of stupid things going wrong, I won’t bore you with the details, except to say I have learnt the following valuable lessons. 1) Don’t withdraw money from an ATM unless the bank itself is open (so they can retrieve your card, should it become stuck) 2) always ask your prospect home-stay hosts the following questions; Do you have toilet paper? Do you have air-conditioning, failing that a fan? Do you have somewhere I can secure my valuables (camera, laptop, passport)?

Barcelona was HOT, HOT and I again repeat HOT, but unlike Madrid there was HUMIDITY in bucket loads, and it did not help that I had arrived in the middle of a heat wave. The metro system is efficient like Madrid’s but unlike Madrid’s it is dank, dark, humid and hot. There are two things I find interesting about cities like London, Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, that all have efficient, effective metro systems, one why would anyone own a car and secondly that I find myself knowing the city better underground and getting around it than I usually do up on street level.

I moved accommodations three times in as many days, finally settling in a hotel in the heart of the gay area. The Hotel Axel, home to Europe finest poofters, I really am trying very hard to be gay, but the best I can manage is homo. The room was extremely comfortable with an enclosed balcony, a king sized bed (how I love a king size bed), working shower, and the all-important air-conditioning. There was a roof top sundeck, small swimming pool and reasonably sized Jacuzzi. A small fortune was paid for these 4 days of luxury, but it was my birthday and I deserved it!! Said the Leo to rabbit …… taking the thorn out of my big toe. Yes for those of you who missed it, my birthday was the 30th July, you know who you are and you’re off the Christmas card list.




Barcelona, Barcelona, Barcelona – what an AMAZING city, and I have only scratched the surface. I will be coming back here again. Barcelona was founded as a Roman city, this was buried beneath a newer city, which in time is likely to be buried beneath another city. The Gothic quarter now lies over the ruins of the ancient Roman town. I took a walking tour of the Gothic quarter on my birthday, and as luck would have it was the only person on the tour, which meant it was just me and the guide. Narrow, cobblestone streets, medieval aspects everywhere. Part of the old Roman wall protecting the Roman city is still intake, although they had recreated a small portion of a viaduct, for the benefit of the touristas.

There is beauty everywhere you look, every street lamp is a work of art, every avenue lined with beautiful green trees.

Barcelona was home to an architect by the name of Antonio Gaudi. His genius is unparalleled and what is even more amazing is that at the end of the 19th century the people of Catalonia had accepted his quirky ideas and new age of design. This man was 200 years ahead of his time and his influence on the world of design is seen to this day. He took a lot of his design ideas from nature, using the shape of a nautilus shell to design a staircase, the design of a door handle from the shape of a wasp’s mud laying shell. He designed weight-bearing structures, not with completed mathematical formulas, but by hanging pieces of string with weights to simulate the weight of a building, then viewing this structure in mirror to see the final result. I suspect that he did not even use the mirror, his mind capable of seeing the spatial elements required to build a cathedral or any structure for that matter.

Sagrada Familiar is the cathedral that Gaudi, partially built. He was run over by a thoughtless tram in 1926, when stepping out on to the street from the cathedral to, presumably, take a café. Most of the architectural design was in head, which was now crushed upon a Barcelona street. There were a lot of drawings and he had made a significant number of models, so despite a number of set backs such as the Spanish civil war, a couple of world wars, a falling from grace, the Gaudy Gaudi period and the Franco dictatorship, his work has survived and they have continued to build the cathedral. It is truly a sight to behold, the climb the steps of the towers a pure privilege.



Gaudi seemed to have an innate understanding of design, architecture and even such things as ventilation and air flow, as can be seen the towers of the cathedral and the houses he designed for others, where there are ventilation shutters in the doors separating each room. His attention to details was extraordinary and I have no doubt that he drove the artisans of his day, crazy with his micro management of the details of each piece he had built. Blocks of stone turned into waves of the ocean, lizards and frogs leaping from the sides of his cathedral.

Parc Guell, was another of Guidi’s ideas, this was the first and original gated community. He designed the parkland, landscapes, community areas, such as a market and walkways/aqueducts to get from one area of the park to another. Unfortunately this was one of his ideas that did not fly. And not a single lot sold. Fortunately, this area has been preserved as a park/museum. The sculptures, the landscaping and the communal areas, all testament to his genius.

Barcelona is a city of beauty, a city that has inspired genius, such as Gaudi and Joan Miro, another famous Spanish artist. I had the opportunity to visit the Joan Miro foundation, his modernist style is something that intrigues and draws you in. Some of his work is very childlike and not at all what I personally would classify as art (If I can do it – it isn’t art). But much as his work is awe-inspiring. He worked in various mediums, switching from painting to weaving to sculpture. I also had the opportunity to visit a Picasso museum, and I am about to commit art heresy here, DID NOT LIKE IT – apart from his early landscape work, very small pieces, could easily have slipped one into my back pocket. I am sure Picasso was some sort of genius – but to me, he just seemed like a tortured soul expressing his immense pain – and maybe that is the point – but personally did not find it inspiring or interesting.

I visited two other Gaudi museums, both of them apartment building that he designed. WHOA!! Again his use of nature, form, function, ventilation, light – just amazing. One of the homes has an array of chimney pots on the room (if one can call them that), Polynesian warriors come to mind. The other home has this room on the room with a small water feature inside – when the door is kept closed – I forced it closed, keeping out the rest of the public - to get the photograph I wanted, then ran for my life before the insults and security guards could catch me….. The centrepiece chrome dome water feature reflects light from an overhead source onto the surround dome shape walls. The room itself, despite the heat outside was remarkably cool










I had the fortune to meet a wonderful man, on my birthday, who decided it was his mission, despite his poor English (much better than my Spanish I have to say), to be my personal guide. Javier, it turns out, used to be a well-known and respected art director in Barcelona, 6 years ago he got jack of it and gave it all up. And has done odds and ends since and recently retrained as a natural therapist. Javier took me to Girona, via Caldes. Girona is about and hour and a half north of Barcelona by train. We stopped in Caldes so that Javier could drop of his Resume to a couple of Balneari – a hotel/resort with a thermal hot spring, where people go for the regenerative power of the water. At first I thought we had entered an old folks home, there were people with white hair to the left of us (sorry mum and dad) and white hair to the right of us, if there had been a beach, there would have been white haired people fighting on it, I’m sure. There were white haired folk staggering around on canes and wheeled around in chairs, by nurses. I asked Javier if we were in a retirement village – which was no mean feat, as I don’t think he understood the words I was speaking or the concept. No he assured me, these people were just having their summer holiday, the young people come in the winter months, presumably during skiing season, but I decided not to ask

The town also boasted a couple of water bottling facilities in the town, Vichy Catulan, if you ever come across the brand, you can now say with certainty you know where it’s bottled.

As we were entering one of the Balneari, Javier spotted his old music teacher. She taught him for six years when he was just a wee lad, music, singing, dance. One of her daughters is now married to the owner or manager (I could not quite nail down his exact position, again language and concepts getting in the way) of the Balneari. The other daughter and Javier spent a lot of time together. So we sat with them for a fair length of time taking coffee and them listening enthralled to Javier catching them up on 20+ years of life – all in Spanish of course. It was actually quite wonderful to sit and listen to them speak, listening to the emotion of the words, the life behind it, rather than the words themselves, as I simply did not understand I word that was spoken. Occasionally I would here a word I would recognize, like Australiano (and a hand gesture in my direction). Occasionally one of the daughters of the teacher would explain something to me, about the conversation or the history of these people, in English. Javier told them about his recent endeavours into natural therapies and all of a sudden there was health related question after health related question.

As we were sitting there, I saw the most marvellous little creature. It appeared to hover like a hummingbird, it moved like a hummingbird, it hunted for nectar amongst the flowers like a hummingbird, but it had a long proboscis, unlike a hummingbird. I had recently read about these moths, which are often mistaken for hummingbirds because of there behaviour. But it was indeed a moth – which when I have a moment on the Internet will track down its name. So between the lyrical musical song of Spanish voice around me and the dancing of hummingbird moth about me, I was mesmerised, it is a wonderful state to be in, highly recommended.

After a number of cigarettes, boy can the Spanish smoke – it’s a national treasure, like soccer, we said our goodbyes. Javier was over the moon with joy, and it was hard not to feel his happiness and jubilation. He was so excited to have reconnected with these people, particularly his music teacher as she had had a profound effect on the course of his life. He also felt very confident that he would get a job at their Balneari.

The Romans had also found the hot springs a draw card and we visited the ruins of an old Roman bathhouse. But then the Romans liked to get naked and run round bath houses long before the rest of the civilised world even knew what a bath was. So we went to visit the ruins of a Roman Bathhouse – I wish I could report how terribly exciting it was, but alas it was just a bunch of stone steps, using my imagination I could have filled in the blanks, the Roman columns, the hot spring water bubbling up from beneath the ground, the semi clad Romans gathered round socialising and occasionally dipping casually into the warm waters, but my imagination was still fluttering around the flowers with the moths.

I have to say, that there are ruins and then there are Ruins. I discovered this many years ago on my first big overseas trip, which involved visiting Turkey, Greece and Egypt. Now the Egyptian know how to do Ruins. The dry dry dry climate in Egypt, as well as all the sand covering the Ruins has done wonders for preserving them, as well as that the Egyptians did everything on a grand scale. Turkish and Grecian ruins on the other hand, pale in comparison. Subjected to years of tourism, a climate that does nothing to help preserve and people who would often tear down an ancient site, because other building material was very scarce, have left there Ruins – well ruined. The bathhouse ruins in Caldes, where paler than the palest white…. Gothic/Medieval architecture – now that is where the action is, in Spain.

We arrived in Girona, by train, and made our way to the old city of Girona. Which is a small hike from the train station, crossing a beautiful river flowing through the centre of the city. The old city of Girona, was stunning, Gothic, medieval architecture everywhere the eye could see. Narrow cobblestone streets, stairways leading up to more stairways, medieval courtyards, with there balconies and steps down into the base of the courtyard to allow the lord and ladies to exit their carriages and genteelly arrived into there welcoming homes. It was magical, and if you are ever in Barcelona it is well worth the trip.

The following day, my last full day in Barcelona, we headed to Sitges (pronounced Sid-ghes, as best I make out). Sitges is about ½ hour by train from Barcelona, it is a seaside city, where people go for a weekend, the day, an hour, to lie in the sun. Sitges is a beautiful little city, small, compact, with narrow winding streets that sometimes lead nowhere and sometimes into a broad park. I did dip my feet in the Mediterranean sea finally and I do mean dip. We laid out on the beach for a while, watching as a massive storm from rolled in from the north. Lying on the beach, dark, brooding, black clouds marred the eastern end of the beach, while to the west, the sun was shining gaily in clear blue skies. It was a sight to behold. We made it off the beach and to a burger king, just before the heavens opened and it poured for the next half hour or so.

Sitges is mucho gay…. Oh lord, if ever there were a gayer town in the world you would be hard pressed to find it. Maybe Province Town or Fire Island in the US, but in Europe I think it is possibly the gayest. Which was fine for short while, handsome men to look at, but I found it mucho strange that people would sit in seats in a bar outside, and stare across at the patrons in an identical bar across the narrow street, who were staring back at you, or watching the parade of people going by, judging them on their lack of fashion etc etc. I have tried to be more gay, I even had a lisp as a child, which I discovered in Spain would have been a major advantage – no speech therapy for you young man. I missed out on the fashion gene, I couldn’t decorate my way out of a week paper bag, I don’t give a toss about smoking, drinking, clubbing every week night and weekend. I have on occasion partaken in excessive amounts of drugs to dance all weekend long, only to regret my choice for the next month. Did I only get half of the requisite gay genes, which would enable me to fully appreciate my gayness. I think a quest to discover these deep answers may be in order – but I couldn’t give a rats arse.

Speaking of Rats, did you know the Spanish word for Computer Mice/Mouse is Ratolin… I discovered this today, while in a computer stores buying some DVD’s – it was most amusing, and a great change of subject to escape Sitges. It was a beautiful town and well worth the visit.

I am now headed to Gran Canaria, which is officially part of Spain, but of the coast of Morocco, Africa. So the next adventure awaits, although what I am hoping for is a small island with not much to do, so I can relax on the beach for a while and get some writing done.

I have to say the absolute highlight of the trip was getting to spend 24 hours with Nirmalpal. And knowing that in a few more days we will be meeting up again in Athens and heading to the Greek Islands for a few days together.

One final observation before I sign off, flying into and through and Spain and I suspect the rest of Europe, security is well, not so paranoid as the US or Australia. In Australia I had to take my shoes off, which is now the norm in American as you go through security, I was all but stripped searched, twice, because as we all know, us Australian’s are all secretly plotting the downfall of the American Imperial Empire. I waltzed through security at Heathrow, Madrid train station was a cinch and I almost feel like saying what security checkpoint at Barcelona. I am sure that trained dogs and heavy x-rays are bombarding my luggage, but it does make you stop to wonder why Europeans are not so paranoid…..


Some additional photo's to enjoy.... click on the photo's to get the full view....