Croatia

Northern Italy had been a bit of a let down, but now I was headed to Croatia, a country outside the schengen region of Europe, and to be honest a bit of an unknown. Croatia has turned out to be the biggest surprise of my trip so far. I had expected an eastern bloc country, with some beaches, cheap everything, and a bunch of massive guys guys whose names ended in –ic. While there were some distinctly eastern bloc aspects (they drive Lada’s!), things were cheap, and everyones name did end in –ic, Croatia turned out to be spectacular. 

I ended up visiting the cities of Rijeka, Opatja, Crikvenice, Zadar, Split and Dubrovnik, and the islands of Hvar, Korcula and Kornati national park, and they were all beautiful, vibrant and immaculate. All the cities were beach side towns perched on steep mountain faces, with red roofed and white walled houses crowding up the slopes, usually up to a castle or church of some kind. The islands were all tropical paradises, with laid back lifestyles, beautiful old city centres and the clearest water you’ve ever seen. 

The people were also great. Interestingly, for a country that makes a lot of money through tourism, they don’t really like tourists that much. Apparently they sort of got over them a few years ago when they started buying property and driving house prices up. So the service could be a bit hit or miss, but this didn’t matter as they’re all such nice people anyway that their version of rude, was the equivelant of the best service in Australia. The physical appearance of the people here is definitely unique. The men all start adulthood as the most gigantic strong strapping units, then at some point around the age of 40 they shrink by a foot, develop extremely impressive beer bellies, grow moustaches, and start donning budgy smugglers and strutting the beach with hubric levels of pride. 

Ladies, the captian is here. Climb aboard the love cruise.

But there’s something about the big fat Croatian men that is funny and respectable all at the same time. Fat people in America, Australia and Britain just seem revolting, and I think it’s because they tend to wear it with such shame. As a result what we see are unhappy pale white blobby people who sit stuffing their faces with Sundae’s which no matter how delicious and chocolatey can’t overcome the misery that is their obesity. Croatia’s fatties just say ‘screw it’ and sit proudly sunning their mighty bellies until they are dark brown, while munching on an ice cream in one hand, and knocking back a 600mL Croat beer with the other. Also they have moustaches. Maybe that’s the key. 

Yep, definitely the moustaches.

 Another unique feature of the men here involves their hair lines. Western men’s hairlines are shaped by genetics. Croatian men’s hairlines appear to be shaped by knife wounds. Nature generally doesn’t work in straight lines, but I’ll be damned if the Croatian men’s scalps don’t. 

The woman have less of a mid life mutation, and more of logical progression. The girls here are stunning. Tanned, tall, and either topless or dressed in Fluoro. All these are great things for the immediate future, less great after decades of these trends. Tanned, topless and fluorescent eventually turns into leathery, droopy and age innappropriate. But again, they love it, and strut their stuff for the moustachioed men on the beach just like they were back in their 20s again, fluorescent thong and all.

Another great/potentially dangerous thing about the Croats is their love of Grappa (probably spelt wrong). Grappa is home made liquor, which is made by fermenting pretty much anything you want. The rule is, if it’s got sugar in it, it can be grappa. It is usually flavoured with herbs or fruit, and served in extremely tasteful bottles shaped like naked women, wild animals, or my favourite: a chicken, but at the end of the day it just tastes like rocket fuel. And they love it! Here are some of the times I was offered grappa:

After a lovely meal at a very nice seafood restaurant

After agreeing to the price of the room I was renting

At a bar after the owner poured me the wrong drink

At 9am on board a ship as we headed out to see a national park

At 10am on board a ship as we headed out to see a national park

And my personal favourite, by a lady who was washing my clothes for me after the washing machine took a little too long to finish. I ended up having three shooters with her between 11:40am and 12pm, just an hour after I’d woken up, and before I’d had breakfast. 

I would have fallen in love with Croatia even if I’d been travelling solo, but I was lucky enough to have great company the entire length of my stay. The first person I met up with was my one time high school sweet heart and now very good friend Tabea. Tabea is from Switzerland, and was an exchange student at my school, and while we’ve both been bouncing between different corners of the world, and leading very different walks of life, we’ve stayed in touch, and are still great friends after all this time. Tabea was just taking a week off work to get some much deserved rest and sun, and as somewhat of a foodie, was looking to sample some of Croatia’s delicious cuisine. Here’s a top traveller tip: If you’re backpacking, meet up with friends who work with world class chefs for their job, who are looking to pamper themselves for a week. Thanks to Tabea I ate so unbelievably well during my week in Rijeka, Opatjia and Crikvenica, living off Seafood, rissottos, long island iced teas (I lived mainly off these), and of all things I tasted truffles for the first time in my life. You know you’re really roughing it as a backpacker when you’re sitting discussing the subtler overtones of the Croatian wine you’ve just been handed, and how it complements the seafood rissotto’s liberal use of truffle oil. 

Pictured: Backpacking sellout

It was a great week, and it was the first part of my trip that I would say was 100% holiday. We made a token effort at culture vulturing by checking out a castle on the first day, but after that we just sort of figured, bugger it, the locals are at the beach all day drinking cocktails, that’s just what Croatian culture is.

Some highlights of my time with Tabea were:

·       
       * Going to Plitvice Lakes National Park. The lakes are absolutely stunning, and the fact you can’t jump in these crystal clear tiered lakes is a shame, but unfortunately that’s the only way to preserve them. Unfortunately the only way for us to see them was with a tour group, and by tour group, I mean Germans. It kind of sucked having to walk at such a slow pace, and have to wait for the rest of the group to catch up, and it also meant we couldn’t hike the more challenging but also more scenic routes around the park. But the tour guide was cool, and quite funny, and we did get to taste some more Grappa with the group when we made a stop at a road side stall.

Tabea getting arty.

So clean and pure. Shame about the Swiss girl next to it.

       * Waiting to catch our bus from Crikvenice to Rijeka and having the Bora kick up, while a bushfire burned up wind from us. The Bora is a wind that occasionally kicks up and absolutely batters the north of Croatia. You know in movies where there are people clinging to poles and being blown parralel to the ground. You could very easily do that. It was quite cool when we got to our destination in Opatjia later that day because the town itself was quite sheltered from the wind, but the waves hitting the shore were quite huge by Croatian standards and so we got a bit of a show while we lay by the beach.

·       
        * Renting a room from an old lady who loved Tabea and gave me greasies every time Tabea turned her back. In Croatia there are barely any hostels, an hotels are quite expensive, so you generally get rooms of people who are renting out part of their house. You can’t book these ahead of time, so you just rock up in town, get off your bus, and there’ll be a whole bunch of hawkers greeting you as you step off, with little photo albums of pictures of rooms and beds that are usually from different places, that you haggle with and then after you agree on a price, get driven bythem to your new room for the night. It actually works quite well, and you generally can get a room for about $20-$25 a night, which is brillant when there’s two of you, and not too bad when it’s just one. The only really bizarre thing about it is that apparently there's a law dictating that each room must have a picture of a child holding an animal on the wall.

·     * Watching Tabea wrestle with a fish that had been cooked whole while we were at a fancy restaurant. Tabea had been under the impression we’d be getting fillets, but nope. Whole fish, eyes, head, fins and all. We left the restaurant with me stuffed silly, and Tabea craving a kebab.

Apart from that it was just a great week hanging out with one of my best friends in a tropical paradise, eating good food, drinking good drinks, and laughing our asses off while we slowly turned the colour and shape of the locals. 

The time with Tabea was brilliant, but unfortunately all good things must come to an end, and I had to return from the heights of being a champagne backpacker. After Tabea left, I stayed in Zadar with an awesome couchsurfing host called Boris. Boris is Zadar born and bred, and he was an absolute gentleman who showed me around, watched the olympics with me, cooked me some amazing food (first night he had like 5kg of mussels cooked in olive oil, garlic, and herbs waiting for me which we downed with some local wine), and taught me about Croatia. We also ventured out into Zadar at night to check out the local scene and he gave me some Croatian woman appeciation lessons. Once again, an amazing host who was extremely knowledgable and proud of his part of the world.

Boris and myself at the very scenic Zadar bus station.

View from Boris' roof. The juxtaposition of the world's prettiest sunset and the world's ugliest handstand.

 While I was in town, I managed to snag myself a free haircut (they were giving free haircuts on the street, what a country!) which turned out brilliantly after I told the hairdresser who spoke barely any english ‘Sexy!’ when she asked me how I wanted it cut. 

She really had to concentrate to even get close to sexxy.

I checked out the most beautiful sunset in the world (according to Alfred Hitchcock). At the vantage point for the most beautiful sunset, they have a ‘sea organ’. What it is, is a series of pipes that run from just near the water level to the pier surface. When the wash from the waves, or a passing boat hit these, they push air through and the pipes emit chords of music. It’s a simple but really beautiful idea. They also have massive lighting up disco dance floor that turns on right after the sun sets. Not quite as beautiful and simple an idea, but still very fun.

I also ventured out to Kornati national park which is a bunch of islands just off the coast of Zadar. The were seriously beautiful archipeligos, surrounded by crystal clear waters and some towering cliffs. One of the islands has a lake about 20 metres about sea level which makes for some pretty cool photo ops. I actually ventured up a mountain in my very old thongs (flip flops for the seppos reading this) in my latest edition of ill prepared hiking adventures. The view from the top was definitely worth it, but walking along razor sharp rocks with thongs that were blowing a plug every 3 steps was a bit of an ordeal, especially as I was walking through relatively thick scrub with no defined track. 

Tears

But worth it.

 One other major highlight of the day was another ‘never in Australia’ moment. The cruise ship we were on was a four story boat about 12 metres high. We were pulled into port at our last destination, a cute little town whose entire economy was based on selling ice cream to tourists. I wasn’t too keen on an ice cream, so I asked the captain if I could jump off the top of the boat. Expecting a no, I thought it was hilarious when he said ‘Yes, but only once’. When asking why only once he said ‘because if you do it multiple times you’ll get the ship wet and someone else might slip. You have to dry off before coming back on’. I love it. So simple, very reasonable, and also, really really fun. I even convinced them to let me do it twice after I dried off, and this time got a 55 year old Norwegian guy to do it with me.

The only other incident of note was during lunch when they served us their home made wine. I was sitting with a family of German’s (of course) with 4 quite young kids, aged between about 6 and 10. I cracked open the wine that was in an unmarked brown long neck bottle and gestured to the German couple, who spoke no english, as to whether they wanted wine. They nodded and I poured three glasses. The Dad then looked at me a little confused, and then proceeded to pour four more glasses for the children. I went to gesture that ‘no this is wine, they are kids’ but then remembered this was Europe and this family probably diluted their baby formula in beer. Anyway, the kids being kids grabbed it and downed it pretty quickly, especially the youngest boy. The parents then took a sip, took another sip, looked very concerned, then took another sip before quickly grabbing the glasses off the kids and glaring at me like I’d made the kids drink it as a practical joke. The best bit was when the youngest yanked the glass away from the mum as she tried to grab it, and downed the last of his glass before she could get it off him. 

From Zadar I then travelled to a couple of the Islands, the first of which was Korcula. There I was staying with a guy who I’d found on couchsurfing.com. During the summer he offered discount beds for couchsurfing members, and he said I could crash in the storage room for about 8 euro a night. The guys name was Dragan and he turned out to be a bit of a character. And by character, I mean sleazy middle aged island dude. He fancied himself as quite the lothario, and he hit on every girl who stayed at the hostel. If the girls were playing in the pool he was in there in a flash playing very physical (ie handsy) defense in water basketball, and then once he’d creeped everyone out of the pool, he’d start doing laps of butterfly to show off his skills. Tragically the pool was about 5 metres long meaning he just sort of looked like he was flapping about like a special kid. He was also incredibly shifty, charging people full price then when they got there chucking them in the broom cupboard with me. We averaged 5 people in my room per night, which funnily enough was exactly the room available on the floor. My favourite moment I had with him was one morning where he came into my room and told me ‘Hey couchsurfer, you need to clean this room up, it’s a fucking mess…..and you need to put your bag against the wall so we can clean the floor, it’s a fucking mess…..and dude…..clean your fucking feet man’.

But funnily enough Dragan ended up making the whole experience really fun. For one the hostel was packed full, and anyone who was a little precious left immediately and headed into town to pay a little more money for a lot more luxury. And he was a trooper with driving us around to different places, like to a cliff we could jump off into the sea (although we had packed about 20 people into a van made for 7 with two on the back and one of them may have fallen off a little bit). But most of all, he gave everyone a common enemy, and we all sort of banded together and quickly became really good friends. Among these friends were a group of English girls from Leeds, a mental bunch of Irish girls from Dublin, and a few Canadian and American guys, and one extremely cool Aussie girl from Rockhampton. Everyone was really cool, and we all ended up partying every night on 15 kuna ($2.50) litre bottles of wine, and generally causing hell, doing things like jumping in the ocean at night, breaking into really nice hotels so we could use their pools for a few minutes before inevitably getting kicked out, and pole dancing in the night clubs which for some reason all had multiple stripper poles. The days in Korcula were absolute bliss, and the island itself was simply paradise. 

Like I said: Paradise

Lairy Aussie

Lairy Irish girl

Lairy Poms

No, that's not a midget on the left, just a proper sized Croatian beer.

After this I headed to the island of Hvar, where I stayed with a couchsurfing host a couple of nights in his half completed beach front villa (it’s been half completed for about 20 years now, so I guess it’s completed but very very rustic). It had no running water or electricity, but when you look out over the Adriatic every night you don't sweat these sorts of things. 

You also don't sweat piling into a car with a belgium guy, two Ruskies, two Scots, an Aussie and a Lithuanian, despite the care having no suspension and barely fitting 4 normally.

 My host was a cool lad from Belgium, who was also hosting a couple from Scotland who were very cool, and also a few of his friends, and for my last night a kind of annoying couple from America. The American girl had this pearler of a quote while trying to figure out the 24 hour method of keeping time:

‘Soooo, it’s 1:30am in America time, sooooooo that makes it 25:30 right?’

I actually didn’t end up spending too much time at this place though, as the main city of Hvar (which was confusingly called Hvar) was on the other side of the island, and the crazy Irish girls from Korcula were staying there, and had invited me to come stay at theirs and attend the full moon party at a nightclub on it’s own private island. When seven completely insane but absolutely lovely girls ask you that, there’s really only one answer isn’t there. Anyway, I ended up hanging out and getting lashed with them in Hvar, and was priveleged(?) enough to witness 7 mental irish girls dissect the incidents of a lairy night the morning after first hand, which was quite an experience. It was especially fun considering that by their own measurement system, these girls were a 10 on the banter scale, and it’s nice to know that guys are actually the more innocent gender when it comes to discussing sexual exploits, at least when compared to Irish chicks. 

For a good time call these girls. Wait, not like that!...... OK, probably like that too.

Sadly after this I had to bid the girls a sad farewell, and then travel onwards to Dubrovnik for one last night in Croatia. I genuinely didn’t want to leave. I had not had a bad day in this country and could’ve stayed on those islands for months (it would’ve actually done wonders for my budget, because it’s insanely cheap). Not only had I been partying, and having a great time, I’d been swimming a couple of km’s every day or two because the water was so perfect and clear, and there weren’t any sharks to worry about, so I was actually getting some proper excercise for the first time in months, and apart from my liver was feeling fit as a fool. But I had places to be, sights to see, and so I soaked up one last night in my new favourite country. And to see off the country with Dubrovnik was like a olympic gymnast doing a flawless routine and then sticking the landing (man what a great analogy). Dubrovnik is incredibly touristy compared to the rest of Croatia, but with good reason. Its’ old city is postcard beautiful, with gorgeous limestone buildings surrounded with a huge city wall, with another dramatic coastal mountain rising in the background, and more small green islands dotted around the harbour. And the newer suburbs surrounding it were equally beautiful, and full of the same friendly locals as everywhere else in this country.

As you can guess from this blog, I’d highly recommend Croatia as a stop for anyone travelling near this part of the world. The food is great (I didn’t even mention the pastries. My diet was 50% seafood, 50% puffed pastry delights while I was here), the climate is beautiful (one windy day and then the rest of the time blue skies and mid 30’s during the day, but low 20’s at night), the entire place feels as safe if not safer than anywhere I’ve been in Europe, and the locals are comical but lovely, and on top of this it is so cheap that even a backpacker can live like a king. Anyway, after this I headed to southern Italy to see if it could make up for the disappointing north, but that is another story for another day.

More about → Croatia

Le Tour de France and Northern Italy

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 After leaving Pamplona, I was completely spent. I really wanted a bed and a good nights sleep. I desperately wanted to eat something containing vegetables and drink something that wasn’t sangria. And for the first time all trip I really just wanted to go back home for a few home cooked meals and to just chill out in Bowral for a couple of weeks. I think the desire to want to be in Bowral instead of southern europe is the exact definition of clinical depression/insanity. I was pretty homesick and sort of over this whole travel thing. It also didn’t help that my overnight bus ride seemed to be doomed. Have you ever gotten on a plane or a bus and it’s felt like the opening scene of Final Destination? On my bus there was a group of students on a school trip, a sad looking pregnant lady, a couple of bratty Italian children, and enough young adults to make up the main characters in the movie once a few of us survived. There was just no way we could possibly make it to our destination without at least a few gruesome deaths, and a couple of us falling in love.

Luckily I had some sleeping pills, Futurama on my computer, and some chocolate, and so that cheered me up enough to stop stressing for a second and I drifted off into semi satisfying sleep (you never sleep ‘well’ on a bus, only adequately). By the time I’d gotten to Lyon I felt a little better, and after doing some laundry life looked a bit rosier (there’s something inherently depressing about your cleanest option of clothes being a thrice worn pair of underpants, a sangria stained shirt, and a pair of boardies you’ve been wearing as pj’s the last week). My next stop was the tour de France, and I could finally stop feeling sorry for myself and begin getting excited about an event that I’ve wanted to attend since I was a kid.

Two other things that made life better was that I had wheels again, even if it was a dodgy Seat as opposed to the VW Golf I’d been promised, and I was being joined by my Finnish friend Elina, who I’d met on the Geriatric Orgy Cruise from Hanko to Stockholm. Elina was working in Switzerland and as a keen camper and hiker thought ducking down to the French alps sounded a good way to spend a weekend.

The two stages I’d decided to see were stage 10 and 11. Both were mountain stages, and we were going to watch from the Col du Grand Colombier on stage 10, and the Les Seybelles ski resort in Le Toussuire which was the finishing mountain for stage 11. I was in the town for stage ten the day before the race came to town, and had the chance to drive the Col du Grand Colombier, which according to Phil Ligget was the toughest climb of the tour that year (which means it was; Phil Ligget’s word is gospel!). The hill was enourmous. It took me 40 minutes just to drive it. It was a lot of fun driving the hill as the road was already packed with camper vans covered in flags and banners, and there were people everywhere painting messages on the road for friends back home.

Also got to see the biggest French flag I've ever seen. This was about as big as the average Walmart USA flag.

 The next day after Elina arrived on the train, we hiked up the mountain to a spot where the road got extremely steep and snaked back and forth about 8 times in a row. The view here was amazing as we could see the cyclists come up from the town below and for most of the climb before our spot. 

Not a bad seat to watch sport from

The race itself is only a short and small part of the days festivities. First of all everyone’s in party mode, with people drinking, picknicking or barbecuing from early in the morning. Then comes the cavalcade of sponsor vehicles. These are hilarious, as they’re all mounted with ridiculous designs ranging from a giant yellow jersey wearing cyclist, to a basket of baked goods. They throw shirts, free samples, key rings, frisbies and many other matter of pointless marketing crap from the cars, but thanks to everyones drunken excited state, the skuffle to claim the prized keyrings thrown from the vehicles is quite lively. Watching 60 year old men dive for a pink skoda key ring is just one of the many spectacles you’ll witness while waiting for the riders to come.

She smiles now, but Elina had to fight off three grandmas for that shirt and hat.

 It’s pretty fun in the minutes immediately before the first cyclist comes past. The swarm of helicopters that approaches is a Nam veterans’ flashback nightmare. I think we counted about 12 swooping over our immediate area. One ended up perching about 50 metres away from us to video the S bends. The first day was great as Cadel was still with the lead riders as he came by. And the crowd all went absolutely batty and a few courageous individuals even had a bit of a run next to the cyclists. I was scoping it out this day and seeing how it all played out, in preperation for my attempt to feature on world wide television.

 After the sprinters pack and the couple of strugglers who can’t even keep up with Mark Cavendish go by, everyone packs up their camp, downs their remaining beers and begins the chaotic stream of cars, buses, campervans, bikes and pedestrians back down the hill. With the exception of one car which almost clipped a 12 year old girl in front of him before I banged on his hood, everyone was extremely jovial and polite and the mood of everyone was great.

That evening Elina and I drove the amazingly scenic route to La Toussuire. There were dramatic cliffs, crazy geological formations, beautiful streams, and sweeping vistas every turn. It was up there with my drive across Norway for postcardiness (officially now a word). We tried to scam a shower at a camp site at the base of the mountain but got stopped by a very pissed french lady who didn’t really buy our whole ‘Oh, we were trying to find someone to ask if we could pay to use the shower’ line. Abandoning any hope of a proper shower (and extending my streak of days without a proper shower to about 8) we headed to the top of the mountain. The view of the sun setting as we snaked our way up the mountain was simply breathtaking. Everywhere you looked there was another stupendous mountain about three times taller than Australia’s highest point. After a backpackers’ shower (more effective than a mexican shower, but not quite as good as a bushmans shower), some delicious french cheese, bread and wine, and setting up our tent on about a thirty degree angle, we crashed out completely knackered.

 The next day we did some hiking, saw some cows, took some photos of ourselves jumping in front of some more amazing views, then got back to camp so I could begin filling myself with some courage (ie Rose wine) for when the bikes came later. Elina was also nice enough to write ‘Bonjour Les Stinsons’ on my front and god knows what on my back (shouldn’t have made so much fun of Finland). Watching the road train of sponsor vehicles while a little drunk and topless with something written on your chest is much more fun, as you get everything thrown at you, and thanks to being drunk it all becomes treasure that needs to be collected at all costs. Once the cyclists finally came I grabbed my gopro camera, did a couple of token stretches, and then as soon as the police motorcycles passed took off at full speed up hill clapping and grinning like an idiot, and possibly uttering the word ‘Wooh’. It was everything I imagined it would be and more.

Sadly these cows easily made it to the summit before Cadel.

Consumer whores

Feeling swift.

 The rest of the time we spent bumming around the village the race had finished in, watching the team crews work on their bikes, and watching the US coverage team shoot their interview in the freezing cold in their outdoor studio.

The day after we drove back to Lyon, with a major highlight being driving down the hill with the team cars and race motorcycles in the morning as they tore through the turns (possible new career: tour de france support car driver. Hell last year the drivers ran over the cyclists a couple of times, how hard could the selection process be?). We then spent the day wandering around Lyon before our respective departures. Lyon is a really beautiful city. The middle is very typical historic French city, with old buildings everywhere, very clean beautiful and grand sandstone houses, and a beautiful river flowing through the middle. I also found the house I want to live in one day when I’m living in Lyon.

Now to learn French...

After that, I had to say goodbye to Elina. It really made the tour fun having someone to hang out and hike around the mountains with. She also reminded me of the how much I loved travelling again and got me in a great mood heading onto my next destination.

The next stops for me were Milan and Venice. I only had a few days before I headed to Croatia and so I had two pretty rushed stops. However I think it worked out quite well. Milan is a nice enough city, with a beautiful Duomo (cathedral) and some good bars and restaurants, and a cool centre near the canals, but to be honest it’s nothing special. For one, it’s extremel fashion obsessed, and with that comes a massive amount of shallowness and soullessness. The people aren’t that friendly and there’s no real energy. I love NYC because you feel like if anything were to happen in the world, it would happen right where you are. In Milan you feel like if Paris Hilton were to do something, she'd probably do it near you, and you probably wouldn't be able to escape. It also has the most terrible and unimaginative street art; just tags everywhere, with no wit, imagination or creativity. I donìt know why it annoyed me so much, but I think it was because it was the most obvious sympton of a town with no actual substance. Even their grafitti was only obsessed with labels. The other thing that bothered me a bit about the Milanese was they’re such cliche Italian skeeze bags. A Milan couple going on a date make eye contact with each other only once: when they first greet each other at the beginning of the night. After that, they both spend the rest of the night checking out everyone else. If you followed the guys’ gaze it was inevitably directed at another girl, and the amount of times I received saucy eye contact from a girl holding a guys hand was very disconcerting. It even happened with a girl who was making out with someone.

The one thing I absolutely loved about Milan was my couchsurfing hosts. It’s impossible to get a couch in Italy if you’re a single guy because all the guys are using it to meet women, and all the women won't host guys because they think they’ll just be looking to score. Luckily my host was a lovely girl from Bulgaria, and her Persian housemate. Gina and Mommad were very cool, and I spent most of my time hanging out with them and laughing my ass off. Mommad totally reignited my desire to go to the middle east, and Gina was the most energetic tour guide/host and showed me how to dine for free (it involved running away before they bring your drinks but after you’ve eaten at the buffet), how to ride the tram for free (no one checks tickets), and all the sights and sounds worth seeing.

Got to love the guy who parks a Lambo out front of the Ferrari store.

Geri outside her former employer.

Polizia trying to move on a busker, and pretty much the whole of Milan turning out to abuse them and trying to incite a riot.

From here I continued my ‘Single Guys’ Tour of Romantic European Cities’ by going to Venice. I’ve got to say, Venice is absolutely beautiful. Some of the old buildings with high ceilings which are right on the canals would be amazing places to live. And it’s a pretty fun city to wander around, but I think the one and a half days I spent there were perfect for seeing and experiencing everything it has to offer. It was just a city full of doe eyes couples, wandering around hand in hand, eating gelattos and basically waiting out the guys refractory period before heading back to their hotels. It wasn't exactly the best place for a lone backpacker to visit. Pretty much the only people who weren't there for a romantic getaway were frustrated single girls who hoped that maybe some of the romantic magic of the city would allow them to find their prince charming. Like I said, not a great place for a lone backpacker....

On that note, I think I’ll leave you. Next stop Croatia. Here's some photos of canals:

This statue represents....no clue. But it must be important coz there are cops guarding it literally 24/7.

Great thing about wide angle lenses is it makes people who cash your photos look fat.

Not a bad table for dinner.

More about → Le Tour de France and Northern Italy

Running of the Bulls Pt 2

THE BULL FIGHT

That night all of us who ran that morning headed to the arena to watch the bulls we’d run with fight. Watching a bull fight was every bit as amazing as running with them, and I actually think the experience of running with them amplified that experience and definitely gave us an enhanced perspective. Just a quick warning. The videos and descriptions below aren’t exactly light entertainment, and if you really can’t stomach animal cruelty, just skip it.

The atmosphere in the stadium was amazing. It was absolutely packed, there were marching bands playing, sangria being shared around (you could BYO because it wasn’t Australia and fun over profit was actually encouraged), and people starting chants (seven nation army again). This was all before the first bull even came out. While the crowd piles in, the matadors all stand out in the arena practising their moves and airing out their fancy suits. The first bull is then released and the fight progresses as follows:

First, the bull runs around charging at the matadors. There are four assisting matadors for each fight and one main guy. The assistants tire the bull out at first, and spend alot of time hiding behind the barriers built into the walls. Once the bull tires  a bit, the bastard on a horse (I’m sure he’s got a different name, but it must translate to that in english) comes in on his armor plated steed. The bull charges the horse and tries to gore through the armor, while the bastard on top stabs through the muscle at the top of the bull’s shoulder blades. This happens twice, once for each shoulder. If the guy stabs too long, and the bull isn’t able to be distracted away from the horse the crowd start whistling (Spanish booing), as this means the bull will be too weak for a fair fight. The stabbing of this muscle apparently makes the bull’s head drop and means he focuses more on one matador, rather than chasing after random targets.

After this, the assistant matadors keep running the bull around and making it do passes. They then bring out the crazy stabby acrobats (again, believe it or not, not their official title). These guys get the bulls attention, then as the bull charges them, run at an angle and dodge the bulls horns while stabbing two batons attached to spears into the bulls back. Stabbing both in and making them stick while keeping your intestines in your torso pleases the crowd, and draws much applause. Missing, or failing to attempt to put both in draws more whistles. 

After this, it is then the main matador vs the bull. The bull makes charges at the cape, and the matador dodges and pulls it at the last second. Sometimes the matador does this while sitting on a chair, or while on one knee, or with the cape behind him, so show just how massive his cajones are. 

This whole time, the bull is bleeding quite heavily, and is getting very tired. Once the matador sees the bull is knackered, he swaps swords (previously he had an aluminium one under his cape) and after a few more passes he goes for the kill. The aim is to stab the bull straight through the spine, causing as little pain as possible and resulting in a quik death. A miss causes the crowd to get extremely abussive, and people actually throw stuff at him. A direct hit and a quick kill gets a standing ovation and flowers and the odd bra to be tossed from the crowd. Once the bull drops, one of the assistants comes with a small blade and fully severs the spinal cord. Again, if he does this first go people clap, if he takes multiple stabs the crowd jeer. 

Finally, the bull is dragged from the stadium by horses, and the bull fighter takes his ear as a trophy.

From watching and reading that I could understand if you thought this was either surreal, awesome, barbaric, despicable, or have had any range of emotional response. And I think that’s what made this such an unforgetable experience. Having run with these bulls, and seeing what they are capable of doing, gives you an unbelievable respect for them. They are huge animals, can move lightening fast, and have a terror inducing amount of aggression and power. This respect also extends to the matadors. To let these animals pass so close time and time again is truly one of the ballsiest/most insane things you could do. While it is a bloody conflict, and inevitably the bull almost always dies, there is a certain level of almost gladiatorial respect for the bull shown by both the crowd and the bullfighters (except the stabbing horse rider bastard…what is it with horse people!?). If the bulls are to be killed anyway, there’s something honourable about them going out living to their potential, being able to use every ounce of their power until they literally can barely stand, rather than being unceremoniously put on a conveyor belt and waiting in line to get a bolt to the head.

However, as you can see in the video above, the Matador once he’s made the kill celebrates a bit too conceitedly. There’s something really off about a poncey man in a ridiculous suit standing so proudly as if he truly is mightier than this impressive beast he’s just killed. Like I said above, there is no doubt about it, the matadors have cajones the size of grapefruits, but the bull is the only true warrior in this fight. Only if you took to the arena alone and mastered the bull should you be entitled to such a self satisfied celebration. The moment that truly showed this for me was when one of the fighters performed a set of very impressive passes. As the crowd cheered he walked away to grab a drink. The bull noticed his back turned and charged him, only for one of the assistant bull fighters to run and distract the bull at the last moment. So after the bull was stabbed twice, tired by your four friends, and then stabbed another six times, you still required someone to help you avoid the bull killing you, and then you opulently celebrate your domination, all while wearing pink three quarter pants? A feat of courage and bravery it may be, but it’s definitely not a duel.

While I was watching I kept recalling a conversation I’d once had about the movie Blue Valentine. My friend Joey had watched it and didn’t enjoy the movie. ‘It was so depressing, I felt so crap afterwards’ she had said. But my friend Bella’s Italian boy friend piped in and said ‘Yes, but it made you feeeeeel’. I think that is exactly what was so brilliant about bulfighting. It’s not an easy experience. You will feel pretty much every emotion you’ve ever experience simultaneously, while getting a go at a few new ones at the same time. Some people just can’t handle it. One kiwi rugby player in our group just went completely grey and didn’t say a word until we left. I think the whole crowd cheered for the bull, and really would’ve loved one, especially the lead bull from that morning, to have won their fight. The cheers that went up when the bull first entered the ring and when it narrowly missed the matadors while slamming into the barriers around the side were spine tingling. Conversely, the feeling that swept over you as you saw the impressive beast that had narrowly spared your life that morning being dragged through the dirt, toungue out, ear removed, with a marching band playing a song more befitting of a touchdown than an execution, was one of complete hollowness. I completely understand why people want it banned, and I have no argument against this opinion, but I definitely see why the Spanish would leave the EU if bullfighting were banned, and why they still do it to this day.

NON OPENING DAY FESTIVITIES

The rest of the festival was just a bombardment of sounds, sights, smells, all experienced through a sangria induced fog. My daily schedule generally consisted of a couple of hours of sleep at night, wake up for the bull run, grab breakfast, sleep for an hour until my tent heated up to about 300 degrees, then sleep in the shade for a few minutes until someone arrived with beer or wine, then drink and party until about 4am, and repeat. Each day as the sun set the town would come alive, as everyone (still dressed in white) would pour into the streets to dance, drink, eat, and celebrate. There were marching bands each competing against each other which would travel around the streets playing songs that all the spaniards seemed to know, and which they would try to teach to us. The winning band each day was the one with the biggest group of people following them through the street. There were also drumlines playing all through the city. Combine this with the music blaring from the bars and it meant you were never short of a rhythm to dance to. 

Each night at 10pm, the kids got their turn to run with the bulls. Don’t worry, they’re not that crazy here. They just ran with a guy who had a wooden model of a bull pulled over his head and shoulders that the kids would run alongside, so nothing dangerous or scary about it for the kids….except for the 10kg of fireworks that were strapped to said bull. The fire bull ran a few times each night, and the parents would eagerly propel their kids towards the fiery embers. There were just as many drunken revellers also running (I may have been one of them), and in true San Fermin style it mixed pain and pleasure perfectly together. 

Apart from that there’s not much more I can tell you. I will definitely come again (I’ve got to get my gopro video!). I will definitely be organising a group of mates to come with me next time. I will never forget the fear of running with the bulls, the feeling of utter exhaustion combined with desperate homesickness I felt after sleeping about 10 hours over 4 nights and abusing my body like it’s never been abused before, the smell of urine under the shelter at the bus station that was so overpowering you couldn’t stand within 10 metres of it, how exquisitely beautiful spanish girls can be, and how easily this can be ruined with the mullets that some of them were sporting. And I will definitely never forget the impact of that bulls head on that spanish mans’ torso.

Till next time Pamplona….

More about → Running of the Bulls Pt 2