life in norway, finland, portugal and beyond...

Back to mine

2008-07-31T19:43:00.000+03:00

.
With the long (thrice delayed) trip from NYC to Melbourne having finally been made, I’m now happily and safely ensconced back at home. Tomorrow I restart my job – the final proof that the two year adventure that I’ve undertaken is coming to a close. And what a good two years they have been. I can’t see the point in trying to summarise such a lengthy trip which contained such disparate experiences, and nor do I currently have the energy to reflect on anything in particular. I learnt a lot. I met a lot of amazing people. I saw some fantastic places. I’ve gained some wonderful friends. That’s it really. So instead I will simply say farewell blog readers – thank you for your time and your comments – they were very greatly appreciated.

I’ll leave you with this final explanation of the titles behind the blog entries. We left off back in January, so in reverse order from today, here are the explanations:

Back to mine is a compilation album made by… just about everyone.
The fortunes of solitude is a play on the Brooklyn themed novel “The Fortress of Solitude” by Jonathan Lethem.
Big exit is a song by P.J. Harvey.
Culture snub is the second time that Culture Club got a reference in the blog titles!
Ecstasy and wine is the name of a compilation of two obscure My Bloody Valentine E.Ps.
The French Connection is a film, isn’t it!
Ålesund’s starting to dampen is a riff on the Lemonheads song “Alison’s starting to happen”.
Midsommar Nights is a variation on Swedish outfit Sunday Brunch’s “Midsommer nights”.
Bleaker streets? is a reference to the Simon and Garfunkle song “Bleeker Street”.
Hey, that’s some way to say goodbye! keeps the folk vibe going with a poorly reworded tribute to the Leonard Cohen track “Hey, that’s no way to say goobye”.
Defender is the title of a Svek Records compilation.
The Graduate is a movie. I think you knew that.
We the people who attend gigs at Blå is a tribute to the late, great Curtis Mayfield and his song “We the people who are darker than blue”.

.
The golden age is an album by American Music Club
Happy Trieste Friends and Friends is actually a TV reference (Sound the alarm!! A naming rule has been broken!!!). Yes, a TV reference to the bizarre animation show “Happy Tree Friends and Friends”.
Grand parade is a song by The Reindeer Section
Where do we go now but nowhere? is a cheery little Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds song.
Children stay free is an album by the Telemetry Orchestra.
Parklife is a song, album and perhaps way of life. By Blur.
Bygdøy in the Norge is a little bit similar to the Black Grape song “A big day in the north”. Well, it is if you can’t pronounce Norwegian words properly. And I can’t. So there.
I started something I actually could finish is a riff on the Smiths song “I started something I couldn’t finish”.
I want to sing that rock and roll is a song by Gillian Welch.

.

.
Hello Opera-tour is, I believe, a rather clever variation of the White Stripes song “Hello Operator”.
Trying your luck is a song by The Strokes. Where have they got to these days? Seriously, I’m starting to worry…
The unbelievable truth is of course a work of genius film-making by Hal Hartley.
Totally confused is a song by Beck.
A wonderful life is a classic dance track by Carl Craig
The dinner game is a great French farce that still cracks me up after a million viewings.
It’s acclaim about Rey is another Lemonheads tribute, this time to their album “It’s a shame about Ray”.
Walking in my shoes is a Depeche Mode song.
Festen er ikke over is the title of a CD I won in a quiz in Norway. It’s not very good.
Tues Life invokes little of the generational zeitgeist that the “Choose Life” speech (and subsequent song) from the film Trainspotting managed to capture.
More news from nowhere is yet another Nick Cave song title to make it into my blog.
What I do in my bedroom is what DJ Shadow once called an album of his.
Blown a wish is a My Bloody Valentine song.
‘løkka star gets all funky as it references the Basement Jaxx/Dizzee Rascal collaboration called “Lucky Star”.

.

.
Slip inside this student house is a bit like the old Primal Scream dance classic “Slip inside this house”.
Undersea community is an old, faded moment of glory from Melbourne’s own Avalanches.
Blue Monday was a song by some 80s chancers from Manchester. I think.
Oh delay is a beck reference. Odelay was the source. Geddit?
Long time fan is a reference to the Nick Cave song “Long time man”.
Red Roo Land… Nick Cave… yes I know… lack of blog title imagination… guilty… 12 months hard labour… fair enough… where’s my spade…
Match point is the only good film Woody Allen made during an 8 year barren stretch.
Taxi diner is the clever and not all that subtle play on the great film, “Taxi Driver.

And that is all from nordicgreg.blogspot.com

Ha det, moi moi and ciao to you all.

The fortunes of solitude

2008-07-26T20:02:00.002+03:00

.
Solitude. On one level solitude is not an easy thing to come by in New York City in July. The heaving mass of people that pump through the veins and arteries of this city night and day see to that. The beeping horns and sirens, the late-night road works, the packed subway: all of these things re-emphasise the inescapability of other people. Staying, as I am, about 50m from Times Square exacerbates the feeling. Yet on the other hand, travelling to this city on my own, has left me very much alone. I’m drained of energy and desire to meet new people at this stage of the trip home, so my efforts to chat with others at my hostel have been a little half-hearted. So my meals and days have been spent without company – happily enough – and devoid of much interaction. This is a fine but somewhat strange situation to find yourself in in one of the western world’s most densely populated areas. Solitude is simultaneously impossible to experience and utterly unavoidable. Such is life in NYC.
.

As this is my second trip to this unique city I have much more freedom to do and not do than I realistically possessed on my first trip here. While no gun is held at the first-time visitor’s head requiring them to go up the Empire State building, there is a checklist of 5 or 6 things which it would be difficult (and ultimately self-defeating) to avoid doing. Seeing the Met and MOMA, wandering Central Park, taking the Staten Island ferry, and so on. These things are all great but having to pack so many essential sights into a few days when I first came here left me feeling a bit overwhelmed by the city. On this visit I definitely still feel overwhelmed, but this has more to do with the fact that I’ve become accustomed to living in relatively quiet places like Oslo where the machete attacks on asylums seekers and drive-by shootings outside hospitals are still viewed as something of an oddity. New York is rather different.

.
No, this time around in NYC I’ve had relatively little pencilled in on the must-do list. There was the Frick collection and the desire to make an effort to extend my horizons a little further than last time I was here, but that was all really. It felt quite liberating. Extend my horizons I have however. I’ve wandered neighbourhoods far and flung. Brooklyn Heights, DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass), Park Slope, Boerum Hill, Harlem, Morningside Heights, East Village, Nolita, Soho, Greenwich Village, West Village, the Meatpacking district, Chelsea, the Upper West-side and of course Midtown. My poor little abused feet haven’t always enjoyed my adventures, but my other senses are getting a lot out of it. Actually my nose also has some complaints – he feels that the odious odours of New York are reason enough to side with my feet in some regard - however the other senses remain loyal. Some of the neighbourhoods that I’ve visited are vastly over-rated. DUMBO is a poorly executed idea – one that seems to have leap-frogged part of the coolification process and proceeded directly from dingy, noisy hole to real-estate agent wet-dream without actually making any alterations whatsoever. Chelsea too was a disappointment. To me it looked a lot like Harlem, albeit with people busy appropriating black culture rather than having many actual black people. The East Village has also disappeared even further up its own collective arse than it had on my last visit here 3 years ago (when I stayed in the area) and is in rapid danger of becoming a self-parodying district of self-obsessed try-hards who have no idea who they really are, who they want to be, whether they can be bothered with… you know, life and stuff, whether they actually exist or what they want to drink at the bar. Boring freaks…

Otherwise its all been pretty good. The oppressive heat of the first few days has given way to simple, regular heat. Not too hot to be too stressful, but warm enough to remind me that the northern hemisphere does get some warm weather now and again. The food has been good (there is a great, if somewhat overpriced deli downstairs), the Frick Collection was excellent, and the walking good. I had a great day out in Brooklyn taking a Jonathan Lethem-inspired self-style walking tour along and around Flatbush avenue and all the way out to Prospect Park (better than central park and 1% as crowded) and Park Slope. I've also enjoyed ood little things like hanging around the playing field at Central Park, watching overly-competitive company teams play softball and kickball. Not serious fun but actually an enjoyable thing to do - and quintisentially New York! I had a good trip to fantastic Williamsburg (also in Brooklyn) and also like the confusingly labelled streets and alleys (how can W 4th and W 10th streets cross at a 90 degree angle!!) of the West Village. And I’ve just generally enjoyed the vibe of the city. Or rather I enjoy the vibe in certain places at certain time of day. If I’m in the right mood. Yeah, NYC is a lot of fun, but more of in a sideways glance kind of way rather than via the full-frontal sensorial assault that the city seems to fling at unsuspecting visitors.

.

.

Of course my entire perspective of the place has been hampered/altered by the fact that I’ll be home to lovely Melborsk in just two days. My excitement about going home is probably making me a little impatient with New York. I think a similar thing happened a decade or so ago in Vancouver, which I visited hastily en route home to Melbourne, and which pretty spectacularly failed to hold my interest, leading me to believe that perhaps Vancouver is the universe’s most over-rated city. So I’m aware that any negative judgements passed on NYC by me now could well be influenced by my relative proximity to my return home rather than any particular flaw on the part of the city as a whole. I mean, it’s not a particularly attractive place for the most part, but it is hard to argue it is anything other than beguiling for a visitor. I have less than But my overwhelming thought now is that I have just 24 hours left here and then I make my long, slow way home. A happy trip (providing that my QANTAS 747 doesn’t develop a massive great hole!). Home to a place which I don’t plan on leaving for a good long while to come….

Big exit

2008-07-22T00:48:00.001+03:00

.
It’s time to go home. After 24 months of travels, 21 countries, numerous studies, beers, bands, cod served 25 different ways, student houses, one big thesis, countless new friends and enough rain and snow to last forever, I’m heading back to my favourite place of all: Melbourne. I have a little detour via New York City for four days en route back to Melbourne, but the packing up and boxes around me suggest that the trip home is very much underway. I’m thrilled to be going home. The last two years have been brilliant, fantastic and an almost unbelievable opportunity to live and study in Europe. But after a while the lure of home grows from a happy background buzz to an undeniable roar and that’s the stage I’ve reached now. The comforts of my own home, and being amongst my family and friends from home seems so incredibly appealing that I feel 100% ready to leave Norway. I’ve had a nice last few days: a few museums, some souvenir shopping, and a nice final night out at jazz club Blå. I have mixed feelings about Oslo. On some levels I feel at home here and know my way around the place quite well. But on the other hand it’s hard to deny it is an expensive and not overly interesting place with truly appalling weather. The amount of rainy miserable days this summer is almost comical! I’ve certainly had a great time here overall and it’s my second home after Melbourne, but right now the year (all up) that I’ve spent here is enough for now.

So – onwards to NYC and then home. Away from the dreary Norwegian weather. And what’s the forecast for New York? Storms every day. Oh dear…

Culture snub

2008-07-17T17:57:00.006+03:00

With less than a week to go, time to cram in the various cultural offerings of Oslo is rapidly running out. I’ve been waiting for a nice day (well, perhaps more accurately a non-dismal day) to visit the Folkemuseum – the world’s oldest open air museum. This wait has been quite a long one. We had some nice weather here in May and early June, and apparently there was a nice week while I was away, but other than that this has been the summer that never came. I have been hailed on twice and possibly snowed upon in the last month! Drizzly grey days of 14 degrees have been the norm. It’s been rubbish. But today saw Oslo blessed with at least a few hours of sunshine, so off I went by ferry over to the Bygdøy peninsula to see the old buildings and “culture” of the Folkemuseum.

.
If you, dear reader, find yourself en route to the Folkemuseum there are several things you could do. You could proceed to the museum, take in the sights, enrich your awareness of Norwegian culture and history and have a smashing day wandering around in the sunshine. Alternatively you could stumble around, wonder where the actual culture is, and gorge yourself on boiled sweets. Or you could get back on the ferry and go right back to whence you came. Now I love morose cows and small wooden buildings with grass on their roofs as much as anyone, but I’d have to advocate the latter option every time. This is one crappy excuse for a museum. I just couldn’t get into it. It was like a low-rent version of what “Sovereign Hill” would be like if they’d never found gold in Ballarat. Poor. In fact it was so poor that it nearly put me off bothering with the second museum I’d planned for the day, the nearby “Fram” museum. Luckily I did put in an appearance as I got to see the "Fram" itself - the actual ship that has sailed further north AND further south than any other vessel. Impressive. After that, with heavy clouds predictably gathering, I decided to put in one last visit to my favourite Norwegian cultural institution : the Nasjonalgalleriet.

Norway’s national gallery is ace. I’ve been there before, a few years ago, but it is worth a second look. They have, predictably enough, a great collection of Norwegian art. The Munch room is great, and fantastically it appears that the authorities have now managed to avoid having “The Scream” stolen for at least 6 consecutive days now, so I caught another glimpse of that. There are some other great works their too from a range of artists, and the many landscape meant more to me now than when I saw them in my first weeks in Oslo back in 2006. Time spent there is spent so much better than wandering around some frankly dull old buildings. And with that I conclude my tourismy type activities in this city. Now I just have to start packing up all this junk I've collected over these past few years...

Ecstasy and wine

2008-07-11T22:01:00.003+03:00

Last entry left off in the sunny environs of Dijon. While Dijon is lovely, it wasn’t quite lovely enough to prevent Liz and I choosing to hop down the road 30 km or so to the wonderful town of Beaune – unofficial capital of the Côte-d'Or and wine capital of Burgundy. Beaune is great. Well – it’s great if you like wine, as the town seems 98.44% occupied with matters wine and has sod all to say about anything else. So as I said – Beaune is great! We had just five or so hours in town, so after a fortifying late-morning rosé, it was down into the cellars of the Hospices de Beaune to do a little wine sampling. And of course when I say “do a little wine sampling” I actually mean consume great swathes of wine. The sommeliers of Beaune are accommodating folk. While they do roam the cellars in search of Australians and Canadians quaffing too much happy juice, they generally do leave you alone if you pander to their ego by asking the odd inane question here and there. The wine was great. The cellar is set out to allow a self-guided tour, with a stop every few metres to fill you tasting glass (more like a tasting saucer, actually) with some very tasty drops indeed. So, three whites (all Chardonnay) and fifteen (yes that is 15!) reds (all Pinots) later I was a rather happy chap. There were some pretty ordinary wines in the mix of course, but I’d say about 5 of the reds were really top notch, and another 7 very good indeed.

After all that wine there was little left to do but roll back to Dijon to collect our belongings and then head up to Paris! Ah, lovely Paris. We were staying with my sister Ngaire, in Paris attending a conference for the week, who had rather cleverly booked an apartment for the week on the rather cool Rue Mouffetard. Mouffetard is on the bottom edge of the Latin quarter in the 5th arrondissement. It’s only a little, cobbled thing, but after spending 5 days there it’s definitely my favourite part of the city. It has charm, it has that elusive trait “character”, it has good restaurants, it has crepes, it has decent metro connections. It also has noisy garbage collectors, but nowhere is perfect I suppose! Rue Mouffetard is just around the corner from the Pantheon and within 15 minutes of casual strolling you can find yourself in the Luxembourg gardens, the Île de la Cité or at the Gare Austerlitz, which conveniently was where we arrived. Over the course of the day various combination of me, Liz and Ngaire took in all the classics (well, only the outsides of some of the classics): the Lourve, Notre Damn, Montmatre, Marais, Arc de Triumph, Tour Eiffel, and many others. The 5 (nearly 6) days I spent in Paris this time was by far the longest I’ve spent in that city and I really loved it this time around. The hordes of people do bring me down a little bit, but given that (a) I am clearly part of the problem, and (b) I had my Mouffetard retreat to escape back to whenever the noise got too great, I can’t really complain. I even got to catch up (briefly) with my old mate Amelia! I got some pretty nifty photos of the Tour Eiffel one night too which made me happy. I’m easily pleased…

.
And having mentioned food in the previous post it would be remiss not to touch on the topic once more. The big surprise was price! Liz and I both found that in general, Paris was far cheaper to eat in than our previous destinations in Burgundy, Alsace and Lorraine. Odd. The food was possibly a bit more gimmicky in Paris too – escargot was served in snails, rather than the little pots that are use elsewhere. More tourist menus were to be found (not always such a bad thing) and the wine wasn’t as good. But in general the gastronomic feast of the first week of France continued while in Paris, with more pastries seafood, desserts and cheeses.

.
We did also take one daytrip out of Paris, to the city of Dieppe. Dieppe is a nice enough little town on the channel, and was the site of a big battle in World War II in which a very large number of Canadians were killed. A few hours there was enough to see the sites – the church and castle on two different hills, the white cliffs, the long pebble beach. And to have lunch of course too. Given that mussels were literally lapping around the town’s bridges it seem churlish not to partake, and once again the non-Parisian cuisine shone through as the very nicest.

The final highlight of my trip suitably came on my last night in Paris: the My Bloody Valentine gig. I prattled on about MBV before when I bought the ticket back in February, so I won’t do that again, but I must write about it a little. The band was amazing! It wasn’t as noisy as promised (more about that later), but the performance of the band and the set-list that they chose to perform was flawless. They played equal numbers of songs from their two famous albums, plus a smattering of b-sides. The vocals were mixed extremely low, but even that worked out OK as the waves of guitar flooded over the venue.

.

.

The sound problems emerged in the last song of the gig. MBV apparently require venues to sign a contract guaranteeing that they can perform at 120 dB, but French law prevents artists from playing louder than 105 dB. Singer/guitarist/genius Kevin Shields doesn’t speak during the gig (no “hello”, no “goodbye”) but did break his silence mid-set to apologise for the fact that the PA system had been turned down lower than they wanted. In the final song of the night, the immense You made me realise, the band launch into what has been dubbed “the holocaust” in which the middle section comprises of a 20 minute extended feedback assault. This is supposed to be very, very loud, and is the climax to the whole thrilling evening. It didn’t work out so well. Three times during “the holocaust” the sound from the PA system dropped to about 20% of what it had been. The band’s own amps were still working, so they played on oblivious. Each drop in sound lasted 1-2 minutes, until about 10 minutes into the feedback the entire sound cut completely with a clean break. I’ve read since the gig that the band was in fact playing throughout the gig at a volume of around 110 dB. The suggestions is that to stop the noise limits being exceeded that French venues have sensors that cut in at a prescribed volume to limit excessive noise, and after multiple infractions cut the power to the speakers completely. This sounds about right to me, as the other theories (blown amplifiers, engineers using their discretion to reduce the sound) don’t really add up. Needless to say the band weren’t happy. After some pretty dejected looking wandering around and arguing with sound technicians and miscellaneous others the band were eventually persuaded to finished the song, albeit plagued by yet more sound problems. So the grand climax was ruined, but if that final 15 minutes is ignored, the gig was absolutely blistering.

Oh - I believe the set list was pretty much as follows:

Only shallow
When you sleep
(When you wake) You’re still in a dream
You never should
Lose my breath
I only said
Come in alone
Thorn
Nothing much to lose
To here knows when
Slow
Blown a wish
Soon
Feed me with your kiss
Sueisfine
You made me realise

So, in summary – France was great. Liz was a great travel companion, the French were lovely, the food was great, the wine even better, and it was fantastic to see Ngaire. All in all a fantastic two weeks away. Now I’m back in Oslo for 12 days to pack my life up, say goodbye to my friends, say goodbye to the city and head for home. And eat vegetables – God knows I need some vegies!!

The French connection

2008-07-04T14:58:00.003+03:00

France is really nice - I don't know why more people don't choose to come here! It's an interesting little country nestled between Luxembourg to the east and Andorra in the south-west, but from what I have seen so far it is well worth dropping by for a few days to see what you can see. Come and check it out before word gets around about what a great little country this is!!

.
I've been here for just under a week now and I'm really enjoying pretty much everything about France. It is crowded, yes, and rather hot, but these are issues for which I shall not hold the country itself exclusively responsible. The scenery, architecture and most of all the food and wine have been brilliant. Even language has not been too much of a problem - I am travelling with my friend Elizabeth, who speaks fluent French, and my own bumbling attempts to speak the language have so far also been treated by one and all with good humour. So far we have been travelling in the east: Lorraine, Alsace and Burgundy. Our plans to travel south to Bordeaux were thwarted by the bizarre policies the French rail use regarding their fast TGV trains: they sell rail passes that require the user to make a reservation, but then release only a tiny number of reservations for such a use. So despite having a ticket, travel by TGV around France has proven super-difficult (and sometimes impossible) necessitating some ingenious and circuitous re-routing by yours truly, as I endeavour to find us a way to travel on regular trains.

But enough talk of trains. The highlight has been the food and drink. The names Petit Chablis, Sylvaner, Auxerrois blanc and Pinot Gris , amongst others, will live as long, if not longer, in my memory as the names of the cities and regions in which I have travelled. And the food! Escargot, flambayed prawns, mustard-marinated mussels, escalopes, the wing of a stingray (yes!), amazing pastries - France has been a culinary dream come true! And there is of course so much more to come.

.

.

The cities themselves have been really good too. I actually started my trip in Trier, south-western Germany, which claims to be the oldest city north of the Alps. Regardless of the truth of that claim, it is rather nice and has a nice mix of Roman and German influences. Next was Metz, which is a calm and relaxing city, and then we moved on to Strasbourg. While the name, location and history of Strasbourg suggest a strong Germanic influence, I wasn't really prepared for quite how German Strasbourg would feel. Petit France, the centre of the tourist area of Strasbourg resembles a stylised German pavillion in Disneyland more than a "little France", and the centre of the city abounds with German architecture and restaurants selling wurzt, saukraut and other Alsacian specialties which are very German by nature. Now, after a welcome cooling in temperature, we are in Dijon. Dijon is excellent. It has a nice centre, great little hidden districts with distinct personality, more great food and a very nice atmosphere. Tomorrow we will day-trip to Beaune before heading to Paris in the evening. I'm loving France and happily still have 6 more days here before returning to Oslo!

Ålesund’s starting to dampen

2008-06-26T17:28:00.003+03:00

“Midnight’s Chilled-man”, “The frozen one”, “Raindrops keep pounding upon my skull like 7,431,626 angry bullets despite the fact that it is allegedly the middle of summer”: these were some of the apt yet ultimately rejected alternative titles for this blog entry. For despite purposefully delaying my trip up from Oslo to coincide with long days and supposedly warmer weather, my trip to Ålesund was punctuated with storms, cold air and biting wind from start to finish.

.

After celebrating Midsummer Swedish style in Halmstad a few days earlier, I hoped to double up on the fun by seeing the Norwegian version of the same festival in what I had heard was one of Norway’s most beautiful cities. Ålesund is on the west coast of Norway – about halfway between Bergen and Trondheim. This means that at this time of the year it never gets completely dark, with the sky settling for a deepish dusk for an hour or two in the middle of the night before the sun rises once more. Perfect, you’d think. But you’d be so very, very wrong. Over my three days in Ålesund the temperature peaked at just 10 degrees. It rained, with no more than the odd hour or two’s respite, from when I arrived until about 3 hours before I left. It was cold. As I sat atop a lookout at midnight on Midsummer the rain lashed down in a biblical storm, smashing chairs against the balcony walls and sending people scurrying for shelter. I’d climbed the same hill 3 hours earlier in similar weather, and for about 2 minutes, I am 90% certain that it snowed. If not snow then very soft hail (and what is snow if not softer, colder hail?) Did I mention that it was cold? I’d refused, on principle, to bring my winter coat to Ålesund on the grounds that it is actually summer. This was stupid of me. Midsummer: Norwegian style. Bizarre.

In any case I do agree that despite the more than inclement weather that Ålesund is a pretty spectacularly situated town. It stretches along a series of island that pop incongruously sharply out of the Atlantic ocean, looking for all the world like the plates of a half submerged Stegosaurus. To my eyes the scenery around Ålesund has an ancient air – it looks like it will remain, relatively unchanged, for millennia to come. Attempts to conquer it, such as the farms placed on absurdly steep cliffs, have been defeated by nature and with storms of the ilk that I witnessed, you wouldn’t bet on humans ever coming to grips with the stark and intense grandeur of the region. Ålesund itself is mostly built on the more welcoming bits of flat land that ring these mini-mountains. The town was largely destroyed by fire in 1904, but thanks to a construction depression that was occurring in Norway at the time, was rebuilt quickly and beautifully in an Art Noveau style, using bricks instead of the timber that was fashionable at the time. The centre of the town is now really rather lovely, bending around hills and waterways and being pretty much in tune with its surroundings. Away from the centre the good old fashioned Norwegian functionalism kicks in and the buildings are less nice, but this is a functioning town and it is churlish to complain about that. There’s not a lot to do in Ålesund itself, but to be honest, if you come to Norway looking for exciting metropolii then you’re going to be solely disappointed – it’s all about beauty, calm and nature.

.
And so to the nature we proceed. One of Ålesund’s most useful features is that it is the nearest decent sized town (and airport) to what is considered Norway’s most beautiful fjord: the Geirangerfjord. Having been messed around by a bus driver who was intent on confusing me with a misinformation campaign, I eventually made my way by a combination of public bus and ferry down to the town of Geiranger, at one end of the fjord. It was bucketing down with rain of course, but the trip down to the fjord was really impressive. The final stretch of road is known as the “Eagles road”, presumably because the sounds of all the package tour buses ploughing up and down its twists and turns is marginally less irritating than listening to “Hotel California”. But I digress. Geiranger itself is a nasty little place infested with woollen-sweater/troll-doll/flag selling tyrants, but happily enough I didn’t have to linger there long. It was pretty much straight onto the ferry for me, where I was squeezed in amongst the loudest group of Russian tourists you’d ever be unlucky enough to meet. Elbow to elbow we were, with nary the room to swing an over-sized camera lens, let alone a cat. Scarily enough all of these Russians looked exactly like 1980s Australian nurses union leader Irene Bolger (men and women alike!), which is enough to give all but the hardiest of souls enough nightmares to last the next decade. The trip down the Geirangerfjord was nice. It should have been outlandishly spectacular, but couldn’t attain this status due to the fog and rain and wind. I stayed outside as long as I could survive the temperature and took lots of photos, but to be honest they’re not great. I did however get a feel for what the fjord is like and I am happy that I took the trip – it’s just that when I show my pictures to anyone else they’ll probably wonder what all the fuss was about. Something worth comment is the delicious local sweet that I had inside while warming up. My host in Grimstad a few weeks ago (Mr Sævareid) had tipped me off that I should try the Svele, a sort of folded waffle. Very good it was. Without my coffee and Svele I may well not have survived the cold.

.
After an hour on the ferry the least fun part of my trip began. Because of the aforementioned disinformation from the mischievous bus-driver, I’d taken the reverse route to that taken by most tourists visiting Geirangerfjord from Ålesund. This meant that my only option had been to take the various modes of transports at such times as would leave me with a 3 ½ hour stay in the town of Hellesylt. Hellesylt is not the sort of place one chooses to spend more than 3 ½ minutes in. Lonely Planet lists the town of Geiranger as having 270 inhabitants. It doesn’t say anything about Hellesylt. I’d estimate that Hellesylt is about 1/8 the size of the former, so I’m going to say it has about 35 people in it. There is a petrol station, a hotel (appeared to be closed – after all, the day after Midsummer could hardly be considered “peak” of the summer season, could it!), and luckily for me, a kebab/ice-cream/pizza café. Bless that café’s little cotton socks. I stayed there for about 3 hours slowly eating my kebab and drinking a beer. 3 hours. Who knows what the owners thought I was doing there. To make matters worse it was just after I left the ferry in Hellesylt that the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that day. Three or four minutes after the boat trip ended at most. Do you know what happened then? A rainbow. A stinking, scummy, Greg-mocking rainbow. Bastard. Rain and fog all the way up one of the world’s most beautiful fjords and then afterwards, in the one horse town, I get a rainbow. The trip back to Ålesund ended with more bus related shenanigans – this time the bus driver decided that because the bus wasn’t very full that we could all get off about 15 km from town and catch a taxi (paid for by the bus company) instead – God help any poor sod waiting for the bus (the last bus of the day) at any of the other stops on the way into town, as we took a shortcut and bypassed them altogether.

Wednesday left me with a whole day to do nothing, as my flight home to Oslo was not until eight in the evening. I awoke to more rain, which somewhat limits options in Ålesund. I couldn’t even take the trip to the island of Runde (home of hundreds of thousands of migrating birds, including Puffins) because… it is not yet “season” for boat tours out there. The birds have been there since May, but not the boats! I find it hard to believe that in late June, after the freaking Midsummer festival, that Norwegian tour operators still don’t consider the summer “season” to have started. It is preposterous! So with rain falling down, no tours to be had and no other interesting towns within striking distance, I reverted to what I now know to be the main Ålesund summer tourist activity. I sat in a (very nice) café with a blanket over my legs reading my book. 25 June. Norway. 10 degrees. Rain. Book. It was a very good book, thankfully. I was reading Will Self’s latest, “the Butt” which makes an interesting juxtaposition with “Carpentaria” by Alexis Wright, which I have been reading, but put on hold. “The Butt”, you see, is set in a re-imagined yet undisguised dystopian version of Australia. It uses this ridiculous version of Australia (parodying everything from the accent, to the geography and through to the tourism campaigns of recent years) as the backdrop to a social commentary about cultural paternalism, racism and liberalism. It’s interesting to see Will Self twist Australian culture like this, and even more so when read alongside (or back to back) with “Carpentaria” which portrays life in rural Australia in an altogether different manner. I’m glad I had “the Butt” with me or my trip up north would have been considerably more boring than it was.

Finally, as mentioned earlier, the sun cam out for a few hours before I left for Oslo. I scurried back up the mountain for a third time (at 420 steep steps each occasion, this is a reasonable feat for my feet) to catch a glimpse of Ålesund from above bathed in sunlight. Compare and contrast the picture below with the rainy midnight view from two days earlier. It was bittersweet, as although I was glad to have seen this magnificent view with some sunlight, it made me regret how nice the whole two days could have been if only the weather was a bit nicer. In summary, I’m pleased that I went on this trip. Weather is what it is, and no time of year guarantees sunshine and warmth. The town of Ålesund is indeed beautiful and its setting spectacular. The Geirangerfjord is quite majestic. Hopefully my poor luck with weather on this trip will be reversed in France next week.

Midsommar Nights

2008-06-22T17:33:00.005+03:00

When I look up to see the dark brooding clouds, am buffeted by the gale-force winds, am rained upon at 30 minute intervals, watch grown adults dancing around Maypoles and am surrounded by alcohol and fish it can mean just one thing: the middle of summer. This combination of weather and tradition is how Midsommar is celebrated every year in Sweden, which is where I’ve been for these last few days. Apparently the weather is always on the crappy side of the equation, yet the Swedes (or at least the ones I met) weren’t discouraged by this and celebrated in style. I was in Halmstad, on the south-west coast of the country, and got to celebrate in both the traditional and modern ways.

I’d been invited to Sweden to celebrate Midsommar by my friend Kerstin. Kerstin invited her friend Eleonor and I to celebrate with Cornelia, her good mate who is from Halmstad. Halmstad seems like the perfect place to celebrate this occasion, which is possibly the biggest festival of the year in Sweden. Halmstad is big enough to have stuff to do, but small enough to retain a sense of local communities hanging out together. So first up, we climbed to the top of a hill to a little area where old Swedish buildings had been rebuilt to make a little mini-medieval Sweden. This was the location for the traditional festivities. When we arrived the locals were still building the giant Maypole, decorated with flowers. Lots of kids (and some adults) had floral wreaths in the hair, and people were dressed in traditional costumes and doing local dances. Then there were the waffles - glorious waffles! And beers down by the water. And lots of smiling, happy people. No time to linger however as we had to head out to a dinner hosted by our ridiculously lovely and generous hosts whose names I have embarrassingly forgotten. Terrible, I know, but I had been sleep deprived and drinking for far too long, so I will partially absolve myself of the blame. So much delicious food! Three different types of fish, salads, loads of Schnapps and much more. A really good, relaxed night.

Before going to Halmstad I spent two fun days in the south-eastern town of Växjö, where Kerstin lives. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more intimidating and unpronounceable town name in all my life!! Apparently the correct way is something like Vecq-wah, but it’s bloody lucky I didn’t have to ask anyone for directions on the way there, as in my mind I’d been trying out various combinations of Vack-shur and Veks-jor. Swedish – one tricky bugger of a language to learn. Anyway, Växjö is a pretty quiet little place, but I did have fun there. I arrived 15 minutes into the first half of Sweden’s not particularly pleasant 2-0 loss to Russian in the European Championships. I watched in a student pub filled with face-painted and dressed up Swedes and the mood in the pub afterwards was not the best. Everyone left pretty quickly though, and the abjectness of Sweden’s performance has since been cast in a better light by the fact that those self-same Russians dismantled the Dutch last night in an even better performance.

.

The next day I saw all of Växjö’s tourist attractions. There’s only one actually, the Castle, and seeing that took approximately 194 seconds. It’s a nice castle, but only about 100 years old, so in the ranking of the world’s great castles, it comes somewhere below Newcastle, Kryal Castle (google it non-Australians, your lives will be enriched!) and that nasty South African Castle lager. That said, I do enjoy seeing a town for what it is, and had a nice walk around the place before meeting up with Kerstin and friends (Eleonor and Hillevi) for a pub quiz which we somehow didn’t manage to win. It was fixed, obviously.

After an outrageously early start we headed for Halmstad and the aforementioned Midsommar hijnks which lasted through until Saturday morning, when I negotiated my way home. It was much harder than you’d think. I’d bought a horribly over-priced ticket for a train that apparently doesn’t exist and then had to talk my way on board an already sold out train to get back to Göteborg and then onwards back to Oslo. I eventually made it to Göteborg 4 minutes before my connecting train left, and after a mad dash made it just, just, just in time. I have just 36 hours back in Oslo though, as tomorrow I head up to Ålseund to celebrate Norwegian midsummer (which is confusingly called Sankthansaften, and held 3 days after the Swedish version) and visit the Geirangerfjord. Surely there is some Norsk god I can pray to for sunny weather this time?

Bleaker streets?

2008-06-16T23:34:00.002+03:00

Grimstad needs a name change. Despite the best intentions of school teachers the world over, we all know that not only can you judge a book by its cover, but it’s a bloody useful time-saving device when you’re looking for something to read. Anything with a glistening knife on the cover is immediately ruled out on the grounds of outrageous cliché. Anything that resembles a hastily thrown together still-life (with apples/pears/deceased poultry) – out. And so on. If the publishers don’t have the wherewithal to find a decent cover for the book then they sure as hell won’t have stumbled across a talented author, or so my internal logic states. And what of the slim paperback that is Grimstad - it has a woeful cover.

The word “stad”, as in many other languages, means “town” in Norwegian. And "grim"? Well, it means… grim. Depressing. Dull. Harsh. Bleak. So, Bleaktown it is. Enticing, isn't it! It’s some of the worst town naming seen since the good people of Kent came up with the cheery Gravesend or the pessimists of Kentucky called a town Disappointment. It makes the morons who named Townsville in Australia look like creative genii. At least they just re-stated the obvious rather than sabotage the tourism dreams of an entire region! Grimstad, as a name, is just plain stupid.

I raise this all as I’ve just spent a lovely three days in Grimstad. It's a sweet little place situated on Norway’s south coast and I'm happy to say it isn’t the least bit grim. Nor is it depressing, dull, harsh or bleak. It may have been a bit rainy, but that was unusual as Grimstad has more days of sunshine than anywhere else in Norway. And it’s hard to complain about rain when huge bushfires burn nearby. Actually, Grimstad is rather lovely. I went down there with my friends Kristi and Margrete to stay with Margete’s family. The Sævareid’s (for it was they) were incredibly hospitable and looked after me amazingly well. I met a tonne of people – from great-uncles and grandparents down to tiny babies. Actually, hanging out with babies works rather well – a 13 month old generally speaks about as much Norwegian as I do, so I feel less guilty about my ridiculously poor language skills in their company. Takk, little ones! I also ate like a king, learned all sorts of interesting things about the region and had a very relaxing weekend.

As well as being treated to a lovely glimpse of family life in a smaller town than Oslo, I saw the town and its beautiful surrounds. I’d never been to southern Norway before, and hadn’t expected to be greeted with the huge array of lakes and forests that I saw. It was quite beautiful. I went out to a pølsefest (literally a “sausage party”!) in perhaps the most spectacular house I’ve ever seen. I saw the quaint town centre, full of whitewashed wooden buildings, and some nice bars and cafes. I saw 900 year old churches, lush forests, and sparkling lakes. Grimstad is a very nice place.

Hey, that’s some way to say goodbye!

2008-06-11T23:52:00.004+03:00

The goodbye season has come around. Not for me, but for many of my friends here in Oslo. I hate being one of the last to leave – it means you say goodbye far too many times to far too many people, rather than getting it all over in one or two occasions and leaving with a bang! But such is life, and I’m happy to have enough time left to do most of the things I’d like to before I leave Europe. Last night was the farewell party for two of my housemates, Donata and Stéphanie. Donata leaves tomorrow and Stéphanie in a week, but a combination of travel and other people heading off to their home countries will mean that lots of people won’t get a chance to catch up again. So we threw what was a pretty damn fine party last night to send them on their way. It survived until 6:00 am despite a visit from security at about 4:00, so we did well I think! I don’t have too much to say about it – what’s there to say about a good party – but here are some photos of the new friends I’ve made over these past few months. Adjø, people…

Defender

2008-06-09T16:20:00.001+03:00

Today marked the final chapter of the lastest installment of my education. After being grilled for an hour like a particularly vulnerable sausage, my thesis defence was finally over. I now have a Master's degree! The thesis defence was considerably harder than I’d guessed it would be. I thought it would be challenging, but the sorts of criticisms I received were harsher than I’d expected. Nevertheless something must have gone right, because I received an “A”. I’m very, very pleased about that, but feel quite drained by the whole process. And so it is a tired and happy me who can now look back quite contentedly at the last few years – now from an academic perspective as well as a social one.

This is no suitable photo for this blog entry so instead please enjoy the disturbingly accurate artist’s impression of me at the 42 minute mark of my defence.

The Graduate

2008-06-05T23:54:00.003+03:00

Well, I'm not quite the graduate, but close enough. Tonight was the joint-graduation dinner for the four education Masters courses run through the Faculty of Education at Universiteit i Oslo. There was my mob, the Oslo-based Hedda higher ed students, and then the special needs and comparative education students also. I didn’t know a lot of the students from the latter two courses, but about 10-12 of us from the HEEM and Hedda courses gathered with academic and admin staff to mark the end of our two years of study.

The venue was the top floor of the University administration building, which surely has one of the best views in all of Oslo. Panoramic 270 degree views of the city, the fjord and the neighbouring mountains. It was really rather lovely. The uni had put on a nice meal for us and it was nice to see a few faces that I’d not seen for quite a while – some since back in first semester in 2006! My actual thesis defence is still a few days away so it not quite time to relax just yet, and for quite a few of my classmates the thesis might not be complete for another 6 months. Despite all this it was good to get a bit of closure and at least have one ceremony of sorts to mark the end of the degree.

We the people who attend gigs at Blå

2008-06-02T02:12:00.006+03:00

You’d never guess it, but Oslo has a very funky little blues club perched on the banks of the river away from the (relative) excitement of its main entertainment districts. Blå (Blue) is a converted warehouse which has a brilliant location just a hundred metres from a whole slew of other venues, yet somehow feels a world away. It’s big outdoor terrace and cool inside room, full of exposed beams and funky decoration, plays host to a free Sunday night session that is pretty popular amongst both a group of locals and also international students studying in Oslo. I’ve headed down a few times now to see the Frank Znort quartet (well, they say quartet but there are about 9 of them really) do their thing and it is always entertaining. There can’t be many jazz bands in the world that play songs by the Andrew Sisters and the Dead Kennedys back to back! On nice nights like this evening the band play their first set out on the terrace by the river before Oslo’s messed up licensing laws force everyone to sweat it out inside to hear their second set. A shame really, because listening to the band while having a beer by the river under a sky that never really gets dark anymore is a really rather lovely experience.

Anyhow – it’s a surprisingly fun little night out down at Blå and quite different from anything else I’ve encountered in Oslo. The quality of the recording isn’t great (nor was this song a highlight of the gig), but here’s a little clip I captured.

The golden age

2008-05-30T23:49:00.001+03:00

It’s Friday night and I am currently 5 episodes into my own private West Wing Season 4 re-watching extravaganza. I am not at the party one building across and two floors up. I am not at any party. I am not out dancing. I am not out drinking. I feel good about this fact. I have West Wing Season 4. I have overwrought opening titles music. I have pretentious brooding Toby. I have over-written Sam. I have my slightly nerdy crush on Donna. I have lashings of American flags and apple-pie philosophy. I have Kumari invasion forces mounting outside Israel. I have a murderous executive branch of government. It feels good.

I have been sick this week, but I can’t shield my middle-aged Friday night behind the pretence of illness as I’d most likely be sat here anyway. Was this illness the world’s first case of self-poisoning via home-made Bolognese sauce, or perhaps karmic retribution for my country’s rejection of a Bologna process of a different kind? Who knows. But as I slowly recover from my tummy bug, right now I’m content to enjoy this golden age of early 30s sitting-in-front-of-screen-not-out-partying lifestyle while I wait for President Bartlett to, you know, makes things right.

Happy Trieste Friends and Friends

2008-05-27T22:37:00.002+03:00

Trieste is lovely. It’s a medium sized city nestled up on the north east border of Italy, a few kilometres from Slovenia and just an hour’s drive from Croatia. It was my destination for a little 3-day break with my fellow Aussie Karen, who lives in London these days. We’d picked it pretty randomly – neither of us had been there before, but it seemed suitably exotic and promisingly sunny. A cheap airfare and the news that Trieste is the home of Illy coffee sealed the deal!

Trieste has a sort of faded grandeur and elegance that fits its brilliant location and difficult history. While it is currently very Italian, this incarnation is relatively recent. Between 1382 and the end of Word War I Trieste was the major seaport of the Austrian/Austro-Hungarian empire. The region has been settled continuously for over 5000 years, and was occupied by the Illyrians (some sort of army of caffeine-freaks I presume) and the Romans. The architecture around the city is a mix of styles – some of it looks quite Italian for sure, but other parts did remind me more of Ljubljana and Budapest. After fighting to become part of Italy after World War I (and somewhat upsetting the 25% ethnic Slovenes in the area) the city seems to have accepted its downgrading in importance from key port to outpost. This perhaps adds to its current charm. Nothing is too ostentatious, and the locals seemed pretty content to enjoy their home and give thanks that the swarms of tourist that descend on much of Italy are, for now at least, leaving Trieste largely untouched.

Karen and I therefore enjoyed a leisurely three days. There are some sights, such as an old castle, and numerous grand buildings and churches. But mainly we enjoyed strolling around, stopping for coffee, gelato and spritzers (campari and wine cocktails which everyone seemed obsessed with) whenever the mood took us. The food was excellent too. I branched out beyond the traditional Italian staple and had very tasty meals of beef, grilled tuna and super-fresh baby squid cooked in a thick tomato and olive sauce – really good stuff. I did try some pasta and that was simple and delicious as well. On our last day in town we jumped on a local ferry and headed off first to the little town of Barcola and then to Grignano, both further around the coast towards the bulk of Italy. Grigano is next to the Castello Miramare, a 19th century castle built for an Austrian duke, which was a nice place to visit. We didn’t have time to head in the other direction down to coastal Slovenia, but it didn’t matter as the weekend was suitably relaxed and calm and wouldn’t have benefited from racing around trying to see too much.

Either side of the Trieste trip I had a few days in London – my last visit to London for quite a long time I’d imagine. I got to watch the Champions League final (brilliant!), meet Karen’s housemates, catch up with Vanessa and generally enjoy the comforts of being in an English speaking environment for a few days, which is always a nice change. I think it’s the 4th visit to London I've made during these last few years in Europe and I can’t say I savour the prospect anymore (other than seeing friends of course), so perhaps giving it a rest for a decade or so is a good idea! Now I’m back to looooooong (and hopefully sunny) Oslo days and some relaxation as I head towards 9 June and my thesis defence. That will mark the end of my degree and signal one final month of travels and Norwegian fun before heading home.

Grand parade

2008-05-18T09:25:00.001+03:00

On May 17, 1814, the Norwegian Constitution was signed, declaring Norway to be an independent nation. The Swedes had something to say about this however, and entered into a war with Norway that led to a union with Sweden that lasted until 1905. Despite this 91 year setback, May 17 is celebrated with fervour throughout Norway, with flag purchases and sausage consumption alone surely propping up the economy for the rest of the year.

Yesterday was my first chance to experience May 17 in Norway and it was quite interesting. Not necessarily fun as such – the good weather of recent weeks has turned for the worse to snow and rain – but it did provide a cultural insight. Many, many locals take the opportunity to dress in their national costume and join in or watch parades that take place all over the country. In Oslo there are at least three parades which wind around the streets and past the palace. Oslo was absolutely packed full of people. The rain surely kept some away, but I can only imagine the chaos if we'd had the same beauitful mid 20s weather of a week ago! I’m told that the King and Queen braved the rain and were out waving to the crowd for quite a while, but they’d popped back inside by the time I arrived. I did run into several classmates and one of my housemates though. Not a bad consolation.

The Norwegian national costumes are great. I’d seen some of these costumes before, but many being worn today were quite different. The colours and designs differ quite markedly between the various parts of the country, with more black in the Oslo region, blue out west, and red, white and other colours and designs from the rest of the country. Everyone seems to take it very seriously, and about 90% of the people carried Norwegian flags. Many buildings, buses, trains, cars, baby strollers, etc were also decked out with ribbons and flags, making it quite a spectacle. It made me a bit sad about the way the Australian flag has become used in recent years and the negative connotations that it has in many contexts. I didn’t get any negative nationalist vibe today at all – just positive pride in a relatively young and recently prosperous nation. Good on ‘em.

There are only so many parades I can manage to feign interest in though. There is a children’s parade, folk-dancing, the “Russ” parade (Russ are the almost-graduated high school kids who have a month-long party prior to exams who all seemingly possess an intensely irritating fascination with whistles) and lord only know what else. It was really miserable weather though and I wasn’t dressed for the cold snap, so I was happy to retreat to a café with friends before heading off home and letting the Norwegians get on with their celebrations.

I’ve included a little video of some of the parade – it was the kids' parade, but some of those sneaky Russ have joined in (they stand out in their red or blue overalls). The coming week sees a trip to London/Trieste for a total of about a week – I can’t wait for some sun, sea and Italian/Slovene food.

Where do we go now but nowhere?

2008-05-16T23:56:00.007+03:00

Tonight I saw one of the best Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds gigs I’ve seen, but also perhaps witnessed the beginning of the end. It feels strange even though I had a fantastic night. The show, at Oslo’s Spektrum Arena, was intense and amazing, but something wasn’t quite right.

I’d arrived nice and early (6:30!!) in anticipation of the very early start to the gig. There was a little slice of Melbourne in Oslo as the rain and wind outside gave way to Ed Kuepper and Jeff Wegener playing support. Effectively those two together made this a Laughing Clowns gig, and the duo played a nice little set of songs that I know from countless RRR repetitions, yet could struggle to name. In fact the only song I could place was their eponymous song Laughing Clowns which was excellent. Sadly there was no Saints material, but it was a fine support slot anyway.

Nick and the Bad Seeds came on around 8:45. I’d managed to get myself on the crowd barrier, second from front and about 2 metres left of centre – a great spot. It did get a bit squishy, but not too bad – the audience here was a lot younger than at Melbourne Nick Cave shows. Nick probably spent about 1/3 of the show within 3 metres of where I was standing which was brilliant. It was the closest I’ve been to the front of a Bad Seeds gig since the first time I saw them live back in 1993, and it had both benefits and detriments to how much I enjoyed the show. Firstly you get such a good look at everyone! Nick Cave is a very skinny man. He looks even more angular and wiry than he previously did, and his performance was quite manic. The ridiculous moustache and receding mullet make him look more like a deranged preacher than ever. He was far shoutier than other times, and clearly placed more of an emphasis on energy than style in his performance. His incredible energy, the look in his eyes and his body language got me thinking about him and his past performances. This Nick Cave is far more like the 1993 version than the 2002 one. Nick was wild. He struggled to remember words (he had all of his lyrics on a music stand near the front of the stage), and wouldn't start The mercy seat until he could locate the lyrics. Some timing was also off, which lead to strange moments such as at the end of the chorus of The ship song, where the band were about 2-bars ahead of the vocals. After thinking about it for a while I think, hopefully in error, that the man is back on some particularly meaty drugs. I could be very wrong and perhaps he’s just written an intense album that he enjoys performing, but there was something a bit different about Nick tonight.

It was interesting to watch the other Seeds though too. Mick Harvey looked particularly unimpressed with the evening. He wasn’t helped by faulty equipment in the first 1/3 of the evening, but he had a slightly lonely and marginalised look to him throughout the night. Now to put him in context, Mick Harvey has been in the Bad Seeds forever, predating this musical incarnation as a founding member of the Boys Next Door and the Birthday Party as well as the Bad Seeds. He is the glue to this band, and quite probably responsible for Nick Cave’s musical success and fame. But he looked quite over the whole thing. Not so much bored as disappointed. He’s a renowned multi-instrumentalist, but as he shifted between the second drum kit (yes, there were 2!), the bass, the guitar and keyboards he kind of looked like the lost link in this musical experiment as Nick deflected off and had fun with…

… the mad man that is Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis really does look like he was born to be a Bad Seed and between his maniacal grin, huge beard, convulsions all over the stage and his gobbing into the wings he really is quite a sight to behold. He has taken over the Blixa Bargeld role (ie providing atmosphere and a counterpoint to Nick, as well as guitar) and then some. He is clearly Bad Seed #1 in the pecking order on stage, which might explain why Mick looked so miffed and isolated. Warren Ellis is great of course, although almost all of his time is now spent abusing his guitar and electric violin, with only very rare moments where his achingly tender violin moments can be heard. Which is a pity. The other seeds do there thing with little fuss. Thomas Wydler, Martyn P. Casey and Conway Savage are all still going strong, but they weren’t overly demonstrative or enthusiastic about their performance. In that respect the gig was really more about the outrageous flamboyance of Nick and Warren, coupled with the business-like performance of the other Bad Seeds. Which is not a criticism of anyone in particular, but perhaps to my eyes evidence of a band that might be pulling in different directions. This would be sad after they have survived as a relatively cohesive unit for around 30 years.

Despite that gloomy analysis the show itself was great. The latest album, Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, follows on in the tradition of some of the Bad Seeds early 80s work – an Americana underbelly, full of freaks. It’s an atmospheric album full of stomping guitars and pulpit sermons, with an air of unease. I had a feeling it would translate very well live, and that it did. The choice of older song complemented this mood well too. A big cranking version of Tupelo near the start, Deanna mid way through, and my favourite, the brilliant Papa won’t leave you, Henry near the end of the main set. I’d yelled out a request for the latter a few songs earlier and even got a reply – Nick said “We could play that one. But we won’t”. Thankfully he was joking, and it probably got one of the best crowd responses of the night. I was also very happy to hear I let love in. Lowlight was The mercy seat. It was a languid, boring version, apparently played for the first time on this current tour. There’s a reason for that – EVERYONE IS SICK OF IT! Clearly the band was bored and they should do their fans a favour by retiring this awesome song rather than droning out a shoddy version.

I also bought a new Nick Cave t-shirt, keeping up my tradition of having one since 1993. The last one died (a death of a thousand holes) in November and never made it home from Portugal. This one will hopefully last another 5 years or so. So all in all it was a really good gig despite the strangeness that I saw on stage. I have a feeling that this latest rock incarnation (incorporating the last album and the Grinderman side project) will run out of steam pretty soon and another direction will be taken. I hope so, as despite the thrill of this gig I think much more of whatever’s going on will lead to the end of the Bad Seeds.

Here is the set list:

Night of the lotus eaters
Dig, Lazarus, dig!
Tupelo
Today’s lesson
Red right hand
Midnight man
I let love in
Deanna
Lie down here and be my girl
Moonland
The ship song
We call upon the author

Papa won’t leave you, Henry
More news from nowhere

-- (encore)

The lyre of Orpheus
Get ready for love
The mercy seat
Into my arms
Stagger Lee

Children stay free

2008-05-14T23:36:00.000+03:00

I just watched the scariest film I’ve ever seen. Compelling and terrifying. It’s called Jesus Camp, a documentary focussing on evangelical Christians in the USA. It came out a few years ago but I've just now got around to seeing it. And it is frightening stuff. Watching the parents and “pastors” indoctrinating these otherwise sweet and passionate kids and turning them into little hate-filled vessels of intolerance is horrible. The film centres on the “Kids on fire” bible camp in South Dakota, where the children, approximately 7-12 years old, are taught, encouraged, pressured and effectively compelled into speaking in tongues, embracing Republican politics, crying about their “sins” and praying for “righteous” government. It made my flesh crawl more than any number of slasher flicks or generic horror movies.

It would be easy to dismiss the film as the soft-target, Mike Moore-ish shooting of fish in a biblical barrel, if not for the fact that there are approximately 100 million evangelicals roaming free (yes free… without restraint!) in the USA. That is not an insignificant number. These freaks hold power and can influence far and wide, and even non-USAians ignore them at our own peril. The documentary is also presented without voice-over, leading to the starting revelation as I write this that it is plausible that some viewers would see the film as a positive advertisement for evangelism rather than the horror story that it is. Jesus, when not watching over the cardboard cut-out of George Bush that appears in the film, must surely weep! Watching as adults manipulate these little kids, and hearing the kids themselves evangelise about their desire to be part of an “army for God”, was enough to make me feel physically ill. It is hard not to gasp aloud at the apparent ease at which these adults are prepared to steal away their children’s lives. My heart nearly broke in two as one child, eight or nine at most, sat on the floor speaking of how hard he found it to believe in God, as his peers looked on in horror. “Go on, little kid”, I yelled at the screen. “Get out! Your brain is still functioning, your life is still your own”. But alas, no. Later, amongst a forest of tiny arms and a veritable river of tears he could be seen forcing himself to conform and embrace the group-speak and brainwashing that the others had succumbed to. Maybe he’ll go to a liberal arts school one day. Maybe he’ll protest in front of abortion clinics. Or perhaps he'll just read Harry Potter ("WARLOCKS ARE EVIL"!!!!) when nobody's looking.

Watch this film. It’s great.

Parklife

2008-05-11T12:27:00.005+03:00

Idleness is the preference for the habitual student of what is known as (parklife!);
And mornings too can be avoided if you sleep through til noon in what is known as (parklife!);
I’ve got time to spare, intimated that I’d do a bit of BBQing – I love a bit of that (parklife!);
What’s cooking today? - I should cut down on the pork life mate, get some exercise (parklife!);

All the people
Sunbathing people
And they all have a beer in hand
A beer in hand through this parklife!

Know what I mean?

I get up when I want, except on Wednesdays, when I get up even later (parklife!);
I put my trousers on, have a cup of coffee, and I think about leaving the house (parklife!);
I ready The Guardian, I sometimes read The Age too – it gives me an enormous sense of well-being (parklife!);
And then I’m happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge there will always be another BBQ tomorrow… (parklife!);

All the people
Sunbathing people
And they all have a beer in hand
A beer in hand through this parklife!

Parklife – parklife!
Parklife – parklife!
Its got nothing to do with your poor sausage turning technique you know!
Parklife - parklife!
And its not about those frisbees that spin round and round and round and round...
Parklife – parklife

All the people
Sunbathing people
And they all have a beer in hand
A beer in hand through this parklife!

Bygdøy in the Norge

2008-05-08T13:39:00.002+03:00

Being a man of leisure as I now officially am, I can finally say “yes” when invited to do fun things by my friends. Fun things such as a BBQ at the beach on the Bygdøy (pronounced sort of like “big day”, but not quite) peninsula. So that’s what I did yesterday evening. The event was a belated birthday celebration for my housemate Donata and her friend Veronique, as the first attempt had to be cancelled due to poor weather last week. Luckily for me though, we had a glorious day yesterday with lots of sun, a lovely BBQ and good company of about 15-20 people. It is still (a little) light as late as 10:30 pm now, so we got good value for our expedition down to this peninsula which juts out into the Oslofjord, allowing nice view of islands, boats and the fjord itself.

To top it all off the evening finished with a beautiful sunset, which you can see below. Happily more fun in the parks and islands around Oslo is planned for the coming week. The city really does change character in the warmer months. As we caught the bus to Bygdøy yesterday the parks throughout the city were crammed with people enjoying picnics, BBQs and just lounging around enjoying “ute øl” (outside beer). Very civilised indeed!

I started something I actually could finish

2008-05-06T12:38:00.002+03:00

Typical me, typical me, typical me…

Yes, I have finished my thesis. It is done. Over. Dispensed with. The time/space convergence that was a thesis, 2008, me, a computer, a whole pile of articles and much, much coffee is no more. 40,000 words and 6 months later it is finally completed…

…and I’m very happy about it!

Isn’t the picture for this entry cool! I wish I could credit the creator, but I’ve no idea who made it. It wasn’t me of course, but whoever you are – nice work!

I want to sing that rock and roll

2008-05-01T23:11:00.005+03:00

Venturing downstairs to the Education Faculty bar last night, I was lured into a trap. What I thought was going to be a dodgy but fun 80s night at Oslo’s least glamorous student pub turned out to be a fun 80s karaoke night at Oslo’s least glamorous student pub. Crikey! With many of my friends dressed in their finest 80s attire (hats off to Kristi with her excellent Madonna stylings!) and the cheap beer flowing freely, this unplanned night of singing turned out to be just the break from thesis-induced madness that I needed.

A small but committed (in the attitudinal sense – no one was institutionalised for their bizarre outfits and dancing as far as I know) bunch of Norwegians and foreigners gathered to murder an array of 80s (and 70s) songs deep under the university. While I missed Kristi’s Bangles opener, I did see an impressive array of my classmates belt out the classics. I’ve never even been to a karaoke bar before, let alone contemplated singing a song, but last night I broke my karaoke duck. Sometimes you have to embrace the embarrassment, and I decided that a dark cellar on a rainy Wednesday was as good a place as ever! The song I chose was The Clash classic, “Should I stay or should I go” and apparently I wasn’t terrible. It helps of course that the song itself involves almost no actual singing, but regardless of the lack of challenging high notes, I’m pleased to say I can cross karaoke singing off the list of embarrassing things I’ve yet to do! I even scored a free beer for my efforts (not for any talent – it was just because I was the 20th person to sign up to sing)!

Oh… and that is an ironic slide to the knees, people. Ironic rock cliché moment. It looks a bit like I'm crooning a power-ballad, but trust me it was more "spirit of Joe Strummer" than "spirit of Chris Rea". Just thought you should know.

Hello Opera-tour

2008-04-28T19:51:00.004+03:00

When a great, white marvel, much anticipated by all, comes rising from the water’s edge, people naturally want to come and have a look. They gasp in wonder. They strain for a view. They exhort its beauty. Poems are written. The pride of the nation swells as one. All of which explains why so many people were watching me with awed expressions as I emerged from the Blue Lagoon a few weeks ago (ba-da-boom!!)… but what does it have to do with opera? Well it appears I am not the only white marvel in town, as a few weeks ago Oslo’s brand spanking new Opera house finally opened to the public. It’s been a while coming. Back in 1811 the people of Oslo bought land for the building, only for the government to fail to deliver. Nothing happened until the late 1990s when plans for this new building came together. The result – a very nice new centre for Norwegian opera, finished ahead of schedule and (officially) 300 million NOK (about $60m) under budget!

My friend Anja has been working at the Opera House for the last 3 months or so. While the outside is Norwegian designed, the stage was all done by a German company. Anja, being a German who speaks fluent Norsk, was the perfect fit for a job there. Today I finally got around to getting a tour from Anja. I got to go front stage, back stage, up amongst the lighting rigs, down under the pneumatic floors and revolving stage – everywhere! It was really cool. The unexpected thing for me was just how massive the backstage areas are. It’s all super-high tech too. Just about every bit of the stage moves and the amount of electrical gear hanging around the place was impressive. The outside is quite striking also. It slopes gradually out of the water and features lots of white marble and strange angles. The comparisons with Sydney are obvious and while the Oslo house is not as strikingly different as its Sydney equivalent, it is still pretty nice.

The grand opening occurred just over 2 weeks ago, when the King and Queen of Norway hosted what was apparently quite an extravaganza. It’s proving to be a popular place with tourists and Norwegians – you get some great views from the top of the Opera house, and it is built in such a way as to allow lots of different vantage points. As I mentioned, the Opera house is right on the water, but in a fairly unexciting part of the city, so the idea is that this new development will spur on a bit of urban regeneration – it could be quite nice if it works out. Perhaps they’ll cover over the railway yard and link the city together a bit better – that would be nice.

Other than the Opera it’s been all-systems go on my thesis. I’m getting down to the final week or two and working hard. It will hopefully come together in time, but it won’t be a minute too soon for me! I’m battling dwindling motivation and a rising word count and right now yearn for a bit more sleep and a lot less writing!

Trying your luck

2008-04-20T23:44:00.008+02:00

Vålerenga Fotball is nearly one of the luckiest clubs around. Despite playing like a bunch of blind club-footed oafs with the tactical nous of a dead horse and the skill of an old refrigerator, they nearly, so nearly, managed to come away with a victory against Rosenborg Ballklub. But they didn’t. This was a big game tonight here at Oslo’s Ullevål stadion. It was the 2nd biggest crowd ever for a Vålerenga league game, and the opponents were one of the most hated rivals, the team that won 13 consecutive Norwegian titles in the 90s and 00s. Vålerenga was 2nd in the league tables and coming off a victory over other fierce rivals Lillestrøm the previous weekend. Everything was set for a huge match.

And they bottled it. Really badly. Vålerenga were 1-0 up after about 25 minutes when new local star (and lifelong ‘Enga fan) Mohammed Abdellaoue, or Moa as he’s known by all, scored a beautiful strike from the edge of the area. The crowd was pumped. When Rosenborg’s brutish striker Yssouf Koné was sent off for with a straight red card five minutes later, the celebrations began. Despite the sending off, the Ref was in a strange mood, denying three clear penalties (two for us, one for them) and letting the very physical Rosenborg players push the 'Enga guys around. A goal and a man up on the enemy, and all seemed well for Vålerenga. Which it should have been… but for the fact that ‘Enga are useless!!

The team came out after halftime looking like they’d all eaten a five course meal and knocked back a few pints of ale. Lethargic and bored. Despite playing with an extra man, they never found space, passed poorly and looked like an amateur team. Worst offenders were two of our stars: Freddy Dos Santos and new player/manager Martin Andresen. The former, a full-back who has also played as a striker, simply refused to run and make space for his team mates, while Andresen gave the ball away time and time again. The new American keeper, Perkins, was really good, until the final 15 minutes. Now call me cavalier (go on, I’d really like it), but when you’re playing at home, a goal up against your toughest, weary opponents who are down to 10 men, you don’t start running the clock down and time wasting. Yet Perkins started this messing around with 15 minutes to go, which bothered me at the time. I’m sure it was a psychological boost to Rosenborg, who realised Vålerenga were still scared of them. They rallied late on, and with less than 10 minutes left they scored with a well-taken goal and that was that. 1-1. Not a happy crowd. There are highlights in amongst the interviews (in Norwegian) here if you're interested. There was one funny moment near the end too. Thirty-nine year old former Manchester United Champions League winner Ronny Johnsen (who I am sure has retired about 3 times already) came on for Vålerenga to replace 17 year old debutant Harmeet Singh - yes that's a 22-year age difference between the two players. There can't be many times that's happened in professional football!

The Klanen once again sang right throughout the match. They make the sometimes drab and frequently frustrating play of the team more entertaining. I’ve posted two videos I made at tonight’s game – both focussing on the crowd. The first is 40 seconds of the Klanen, scarves aloft, singing “Vålerenga Kirke” which is sort of a pre-match hymn for the crowd, being as it about the church in Vålerenga that burnt down in the 1970s. The second video is the goal celebration after Moa’s brilliant goal.

It was a nice occasion and my first Vålerenga game against once of their fierce rivals ( the others being Lillestrøm, and the world’s first football team with possibly more players than actual fans, Lyn Oslo). It’s fun sitting amongst the Klanen and singing away, but ‘Enga need to learn how to kill a team off before they’ll win another title.

The unbelievable truth

2008-04-16T22:54:00.012+02:00

About a month ago a US judge sentenced a guy named Diego Pillco to 25 years jail, no parole, for the murder of actress Adrienne Shelly. He killed her in 2006, when she’d caught him stealing money from her apartment. He murdered her and then tried to make it look like suicide. He eventually confessed. I mention this because Adrienne Shelly was for a time one of my favourite actresses. She’s the star of two of the best movies by my favourite film-maker, Hal Hartley. Shelly certainly wasn’t the greatest actor going around, but her style suited Hartley’s dialogue-heavy and self-consciously stylised films perfectly. Or perhaps Hartley moulded her style, making her into the actress he wanted. It’s hard to know.

Truth be told, I haven’t seen much of Adrienne Shelly’s acting outside of her Hal Hartley work. She’s popped up here and there, but never really cracked the big time as an actor. That made the association that I drew between her and Hal Hartley seem all the stronger. Truth be told, he hasn’t made a really good film in over a decade either, and Shelly’s career matched his trajectory in a sadly similar way. The same can be also be said to a slightly lesser extent for Martin Donovan, Hartley’s male muse. Donovan, while not dead (as far as one can really, you know… tell), seems unable to be a very good actor outside the warm yet fuzzy boundaries of Hal Hartley’s filmic worlds. Watching Hartley’s first post-Donovan film, the woeful Henry Fool (1997), you could almost see the absence of Donovan, and feel the emptiness of the scenes. In any case, I acknowledge this isn’t a great thing for any of them – having a symbiotic artistic relationship - but it’s just how it seems/seemed to be. To be fair Shelly had just finished writing, directing and starring in a film Waitress, which premiered after she died at the Sundance film festival last year. I haven’t seen this yet, but will be sad when I do. All of this is rather morbid, but reading about Adrienne Shelly’s murder and her murderer’s sentencing in the news lately got me thinking about old Hal Hartley films. They were really good. They’re not for everyone, sure, but I believe they walked an accessible enough line between arty pretension and comedy. As clichéd as it reads, it is true that you could approach his films at different levels depending upon your mood and how much you felt like concentrating. Nothing much happened, but the dialogue was the key.

So, this week nordicgreg (that's me - on the internet and everyfink!) brings you a series of great clips from Hal Hartley movies. I couldn’t find proper clips from The Unbelievable Truth, Surviving Desire or Amateur, and had no interest in putting in clips from his crappier films (although Flirt is a terrible film, I do like the scene included here). These little videos that I’ve gathered off youtube are, nonetheless, representative of the Hal Hartley style and mark my own little tribute to the late Adrienne Shelly. Enjoy.

Here are the clips:

Trust:
A cool little scene starring both Adrienne Shelly and Martin Donovan (and also featuring Edie Falco, who played Carmela on The Sopranos)

Television makes these daily sacrifices possible.

Simple men (Yes, three scenes from this one, but they’re all essential):
The greatest dance scene of any movie ever made (probably!)

‘Be good to her and she’ll be good to you”
Protection

Flirt:
Am I wrong to want more time?

Faith is an ability.

The Unbelievable Truth:
Montage
(This one is a bit odd – someone has made a music video for a Sebadoh song using clips from the film – it kind of works though. Edie Falco again as well).

Totally confused

2008-04-12T15:50:00.008+02:00

OK – something just happened that is very, very strange and has totally thrown me. One of my flatmates just accused me of having a loud conversation around 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. last night in which I apparently said all sort of terrible things about him to someone. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to have said, but judging from the look on his face it must have been pretty bad. He seems to think that I was on the phone to a friend, or outside his window (!) ridiculing a Norwegian guy who matched his description. He is REALLY upset about it. Says the person talking had an Australian accent. He came and knocked on my door and demanded that I step outside to admit what I’d done. He looked like he wanted to flatten me, which in all honesty he probably could do. I’m not convinced that he’ll get over whatever it is I apparently said – he looked massively pissed off about it all.

The really messed up thing about it is this: I really liked this guy. We had good conversations, chatted about football and whatever, and generally got along well. I have never uttered a bad word about this person to anyone. Promise. Last night, I didn’t even speak to anyone! So dull are my Friday nights at present that I studied until 11, played on the internet for about an hour, and then watched a movie (2046 was the film – which is great by the way). I didn’t make any calls, didn’t have any visitors, didn’t go outside. I didn’t even speak!!! It is just really, really odd. He is 100% convinced that I said something, and there is nothing I can say to convince him otherwise. I’ve looked him in the eye, swore on whatever is available and promised him he’s wrong, but he doesn’t believe a word of it. He seems absolutely sure that I have said something outrageously bad which is the most unsettling part of the whole thing.

I really don’t know what I can do. This is likely to completely mess up the atmosphere of the apartment, and I now have a next door neighbour who thinks I’m a complete bastard for no reason whatsoever. He doesn’t even seem to have considered my complete lack of motivation for saying anything unpleasant. I mean, it was just a week ago that we were downing shots of Brennivin and getting along really well. I feel quite angry and sad about it all – the injustice of being accused of something really horrible with absolutely no cause.

Did he dream something and get confused we he woke up? Did he hear someone else talking and turn that person into me? Did he just imagine the whole thing? My guess is that it was a dream, because he mentioned the Australian accent. As far as I know there are no other Australian around here, so I doubt he heard someone else and attributed their comments to me. I don’t know, but it is bloody weird and unsettling. I just tried talking to him again (about an hour after his original accusation) and his says he “knows what he heard” despite not telling me what I apparently said and started to make some vague threats of violence. The fact that his accusation is completely illogical doesn’t seem to worry him at all.

This has really thrown me completely. Being falsely accused is terrible. Do any of you have any advice?

A wonderful life

2008-04-09T23:56:00.006+02:00

I have been listening to a lot of the immense and wonderful Carl Craig as I study away in the wee hours over this last week. His soothing sounds have been the perfect counterpoint to days of slogging away typing word upon word as I turn this thesis of mine from an under-ripe potato into something resembling a disfigured turnip. Carl Craig is from Detroit and as I listened to his track “A wonderful life” and my mind turned over as I contemplated what to write the blog about this week, I was drawn to another icon of the American Midwest. I decided to write about another wonderful life that has be entertaining and enthralling me for about the last 12 months: the Chicago Public Radio documentary show and podcast called “This American Life”.

This American Life is the brainchild of Ira Glass. Ira is a likeable guy. He’s funny and urbane - the host with the smooth voice that glues together “This American Life”. Ira and his team have been presenting radio documentaries for over a decade. Each week the show has a different theme, presented in three or four acts – little stories which are based in some way on the main theme. It might be funny, thought provoking, reflective or just outright interesting. The themes themselves are varied. For example, one of my favourite episodes of recent times was entitled “Tough room”. Tough room featured four (tough) acts. One was about the tough comedic room that it is the editorial offices of the parody newspaper, “The Onion”. Another story was on the on the tough room that is a bar carriage full of adults on a commuter train in New Haven, Connecticut, as perceived by a teenage girl. The third act focussed on two Mormon missionaries trying to drum out business on the streets of New York City: outside the American Museum of Natural History! Get the idea? Other great episodes have focussed on the allure of mean friends, Guantánamo bay, 24 hours at an all-night diner, the experiences of an American Muslim family in the living in the US after the September 11 attacks and the incredible experience of an Irish quiz show winner. It’s a mixed bag… but a mixed bag thematically rather than in terms of quality, which is ridiculously high.

The show is quite left wing but manages for the most part to avoid heavy-handedness when dealing with potentially partisan topics. The theme for each week always seems carefully thought out and manages to avoid cliché and over familiarity. I think with a poor theme the whole thing could fall flat very quickly. After all, who wants to listen to an hour of pontificating about the plight of blind mice or the perils of desalination? Listening to this show may sound like hard work, but really it isn’t.

I find it quite hard to pin down exactly what it is I love about This American Life. While each episode lasts just an hour, meaning in turn that each act lasts an average of just 15-20 minutes, the joy of the show is the level of detail the show delves into. I sometimes find it quite amazing to consider what I’ve learnt and discovered in an episode. I’ve found myself to be moved by the shows sometimes – by the horror of the story or by being able to empathise with something that has been said. In turn, it can be equally shocking when I realise how little I actually knows about certain things!!

The great news for us all is that the episodes are archived on line. You can listen for free, download for a fee, or have you own copy on CD. I have to thank for my friend Laura for introducing me to This American Life (via the very fun “Squirrel Cop” story) back in Finland last year. In my opinion this podcast is one of the real treats out there in the world of radio and something more people should know about. Listening back to the very first episode Ira interviews a man who hosted a TV talk show on local TV for over 40 years. Here’s hoping that This American Life has similar longevity.

The dinner game

2008-04-03T16:49:00.003+02:00

The dinner game is a great little French movie about the events that occur surrounding a group of friends’ plans to host a dinner party at which each attendee brings an “idiot” as their guest. This scenario was re-enacted, in a manner, when we decided to have a little dinner in our apartment to get to know each other better. Except in this situation I was the only one who decided to bring an idiot to dinner. And the idiot that I brought to dinner was me.

Actually, the idiot was a split-personality partly comprised of me and partly comprised of BrennivínMan. BrennivínMan is an alcohol-fuelled antihero. He drinks for truth, he drinks for justice and he drinks at the prospect of yet further shots of Brennivín, an Icelandic schnapps colloquially known as “Black Death”. BrennivínMan and I get along fantastically. I pour him drinks, he entertains the crowd. It’s a perfect relationship. We make a great team. BrennivínMan and I were allegedly so entertaining that one of my/our housemates refused to go to bed in case she missed yet more crazy BrennivínMan/Greg antics. Oh BrennivínMan, I think you’re swell! The only downside was that BrennivínMan must have walloped me on my head before I went to sleep as I somehow awoke with quite a headache the next day. How could you do that to me, BrennivínMan?

The actual dinner was very nice indeed. Once again we adopted the tried and true method of cooking something from our own country so that everyone could try so new types of food. Being Australian isn’t easy at times like this: last time I had to serve “Australian” food I coopted a toaster, a tube (yes, tube – so wrong) of Vegemite and served up toast for the slightly confused looking masses. The time before I pretty much opted out altogether. This time though I invoked the spirit of my distant relative Georgiou Tramandanis and decided that for a Melbourne boy, the most Aussie food you can get is actually Greek. Souvlaki for everybody!! It wasn’t too bad either, considering the ingredients on offer. My housemates served up some very tasty food indeed. We had traditional Mexican, Italian, Chinese and Norwegian dishes. And yes, of course, Brennivín. The clean-up was epic. I could have suggested we left the mess for our Mum to clean up or that we all dance around smashing the plates on the floor, but there’s only so far a lazy Greek stereotype can take you. And I’d already reached that point!

It’s acclaim about Rey

2008-03-31T15:02:00.004+02:00

It’s acclaim indeed about Iceland and it’s lovely, charismatic capital Reykjavik. Having just returned from a wonderful four day break in and around Reykjavik I can happily report back that this is one of the most fun countries I’ve visited. Reykjavik is a tiny place with a reputation for fun that precedes it; the Blue Lagoon was better than expected and the natural beauty of the countryside exceeded any expectations. In short – it was fantastic. It is rare that a place can exceed the hype and really deliver on its promise, but Iceland certainly came up trumps.

Left: "Kaffibarinn"

Right: Me with a sculpture

First thing first: Iceland is a misnomer. Those natty Vikings cunningly decided to call Iceland “Iceland” to deter unwanted visitors. Instead, those clever, marauding, axe-wielding bearded folks conned Europe by naming freezing, desolate Greenland with the more attractive name thus saving Iceland for themselves. These were wise men, because the truth is that Reykjavik is not that cold. The wind is indeed biting, but it rarely snows in the city itself, and the average temperature in winter is a relatively warm 0 degrees. Anyway, Iceland has come a long way since those heady Viking days, although I gained a sense of continuity between modern and ancient Iceland. Certainly Icelanders are proud of their history. It’s hard to move without running into some reference to The Sagas, the epic tales of Vikings, exploration, Iceland and Germanic myths. While some of that is for the benefit of tourists, their influence lingers in the many street names that reference the Sagas and the many statues and monuments around the city. The Celtic influence is also notable. It is said that pre-modern migration Icelandic DNA was Viking/Celtic in about an 80/20 percent mix, meaning that Reykjavik can be one of the few cities outside of Ireland that can lay such a strong claim to legitimacy for its Irish bars! It’s a young city too. One hundred years ago this city had just 5000 inhabitants – which, along with the wind and penchant for earthquakes, explains the lack of old buildings.

Where tectonic plates meet: Þingvellir national park

Enough with the anthropology and history lesson – on to my trip itself! After landing in Keflavik airport on late afternoon on Wednesday and taking good advice to stock up at the duty-free, I got my first real jolt. The landscape in that area (called the Reykjanes peninsula) is like nothing else I’ve ever seen. It’s just rock; hard lava with no more than the odd smattering of moss and not a tree in sight. It really is quite surreal. Then there is the distant background of snow-capped mountains. It is strange and beautiful – a good primer for the rest of the country. The next day I headed on a tour to the so-called “Golden Circle”. I’m not normally an organised day-tour kind of guy, but March in Iceland offers few options, so take the tour I did. The tour takes in quite a few stops and happily for the first-time visitor it provides a nice little sampler of the delights that Iceland has to offer. First off was the Þingvellir national park. This is no ordinary National Park. It’s the site of Alþingi which is where the Icelandic parliament was founded back in 930 AD. This arguably makes the parliament one of the oldest ongoing institutions in the world. There’s nothing there now barring a flagpole to mark the sight, but the park itself is beautiful. Even more interestingly the park is built along the join of the American and European tectonic plates. I could actually walk around in the gap between these plates (which is currently about 5 km wide, and growing at a rate of 1 inch per year) which is quite a cool thing to do if you think about it.

Gullfoss

Next stop on the tour is the amazing brilliance of Gullfoss! Gullfoss means “Golden Waterfall” in Icelandic and it deserves this name 100%. Seeing the waterfall, partially frozen, surrounded by snow and ice as an absolute gale blew around, was one of the highlights of my trip. Yes it was freezing cold, but the way the snow framed the scene and the physical discomfort of being outside watching the waterfall made it seem all the better – liked I’d earned the right to be there. To me Iceland seems quite well suited to extremes of nature, such as the lava fields near the airport and the ranges of volcanoes and mountains. Seeing Gullfoss in the winter seemed natural and perfect, and seeing postcards of it taken in the summer sunshine later on made me doubly happy to be there in winter.

The Strokkur geyser

After a little break to warm up, the tour headed towards Reykjavik to stop at a dormant volcano. Iceland has hundreds of these (and quite a few active volcanoes too). This particular one was pretty small, and had a frozen pool of water at the bottom of the crater. Apparently Björk played a gig there in the summer a few years ago on a floating stage. Quite a show I’d imagine – apart from her over-hyped, irritating shite music of course!! Next stop was another highlight of the trip – the geothermally active valley of Haukadalur, and in particular it’s geysers. “Geysir” is one of those rare Icelandic words (like Saga) that has become used throughout the world in a whole pile of languages. The source of this word – the great Geysir itself, is sadly pretty inactive these days. In it’s prime it shot 60 metres high every few hours, but it has been irregular since the 1930s and almost completely inactive since 2003. Happily however, about 20 metres away there is another geyser called “Strokkur” which erupts every four or five minutes. Strokkur erupts up to 25 metres high, shooting boiling water out in a loud short burst for a few seconds. This might not sound too exciting, but it really is quite compelling. I got very close (upwind of course) and was able to watch the whole thing from 2 or 3 metres away. Trying to get the perfect eruption photo was hard indeed, but I did get some nice pictures. In the split second before the eruption the geyser forms a bright blue bubble about 1metre high which looked like an alien head bursting through the ground – cool! The valley has piles of little thermal pools bubbling away around fields, which leaves a layer of steam hovering above the rocks and makes everything look pretty eerie. After a worthy but dull stop in a geothermal power station on the way back to the capital, I returned to Reykjavik after a tour that was far better than I’d hoped for.

The Blue Lagoon

Friday saw another excellent day. First up – the Blue Lagoon. The Blue Lagoon is a huge pool of milky blue water, heavy with the scent of sulphur. The lagoon is heated from a nearby power plant, which draws the water from an area vented by a lava flow. Which means it is hot. Really hot. It averages 40 degrees celsius apparently, but there are a whole lot of hotspots and cooler areas throughout the pool, some of which are almost too hot to stay in. But floating around the lagoon, looking up at a bright blue sky and the sun shining, while the air outside of the pool hoovered at just about zero was an almost perfect experience. Almost. I have very few points of comparison. The temperature, the colour of the water, the backdrop of snow capped mountains and the moon-like lava field and the realisation that you’re floating around in ICELAND made me a very happy guy indeed. Everyone in the pool had a huge smile on their face. There’s stuff to do in the pool – mud masks, a waterfall, bridges and alcoves and a sauna off to one side, but really – who needs distractions when you have that water and that view to occupy (or perhaps clear) your mind! In a word – brilliant.

Reykjavik

After returning to Reykjavik and taking a good solid walk around the city, it was time to rest up for that famous Icelandic institution, the Runtur. The runtur is a city-wide spontaneous pub crawl that occurs between 1:00 am and about 6:00 am on Fridays (and sort of) Saturday nights in Reykjavik 101, the centre of town. It actually centres on just one street (which changes its name 3 times purely to add some variety to the addresses of the bars concerned). It is true that Icelanders like to drink, but I can’t help but feel that the whole thing has been played up a wee bit too much by the Icelandic tourist board. In reality, the runtur is not much different to what goes on in other Scandinavian cities. Alcohol is expensive, so people drink at home, arrive at a bar late and already drunk, and then party away for a while. Same concept occurs every weekend in Oslo too, but no-one makes such a fuss about it. Actually, when you come from Oslo you join the privileged few who find Reykjavik to be both cheaper and warmer than their home city!! The reason that Reykjavik’s nightlife has become so renowned throughout the world is not 100% clear to me, but I have some theories. Firstly, Reykjavik is a cute town. The bars are often inside battered and bright red or yellow tin buildings. The city is also tiny. Because of the small population, and the fact that 90% of the bars are concentrated in a 1 km stretch of road means that everyone sees everyone else all the time. It gets a bit weird, but in a good way. This of course would not occur in Paris or New York or even Adelaide, where things are on a much bigger scale and you’re not going to (literally) bump into the same people in the same 5 bars in the one night. Secondly, the locals are relatively good looking and friendly, and speak excellent English. They don’t go out often so when they do hit the town they dance and drink and generally party pretty hard. Consider that beer has been legal here for less than 20 years and that explains part of the party fervour! Thirdly, most tourists come here in summer when it is light 22 or so hours every day, which disorients them and just generally makes people happy. So while the nightlife in Reykjavik was definitely very, very good indeed, the myth of Icelandic nightlife turns out in reality to be not so different to the rest of the region. It’s impressive that a city of 200,000 can muster up such a good night out however. I’ve no idea how many places I went to over the course of Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, but I went to all the cool places (including a few visits to Damon Albarn’s quite nice bar, Kaffibarinn) and plenty of uncool places too. I must have met about 15 Icelanders who were a diverse an interesting bunch. I had a great time.

Icelanders out on the town

All that partying left just a few afternoons to see more of Reykjavik itself. That’s lucky, because there isn’t all that much to do there! I wandered around the pond, saw the famous church Hallgrímskirkja, gazed out at the mountains, saw original manuscripts of the Sagas, drank good (and cheap, yes cheap!) coffee, ate fantastic local seafood and Iceland lamb (sooooo tasty), avoided the ubiquitous Australian wines and enjoyed being in a brilliant little country near the top of the world. I’ll be back one day for sure.

Left: Hallgrímskirkja

Right: Downtown Reykjavik

Walking in my shoes

2008-03-21T17:16:00.004+02:00

With climate change being what it is, it should come as little surprise that while Norway may struggle for white Christmases, a "White Easter" is not such a tricky request. And so it has been that buckets upon buckets of beautiful powdery snow have floated down from the heavens these past few days, covering Oslo in a bright and beautiful layer of white. This city looks so nice covered in snow! I decided to take this all too rare opportunity of a wintry visage to document the interesting sights that I walk past on my way to the university every day. Every day?!? Well, maybe once a week. Perhaps. It’s an interesting walk though and doubly so with the snow, so without further ado I take you dear blog reader on a photographic tour with me from Bjølsen to Blindern…

First stop on the magical mystery tour is Bjølsen park. I like this park. It’s understated and a bit crappy, but it is a good park nonetheless. It has kids riding sleighs, old people walking, and a creepy guy with a huge beard who likes to jump up and down and spit at people. Nice! It’s right near my house too and definitely adds to the neighbourhood feel of the place.

Next, we have Hjemmets Kolonihager. A Kolonihager is a garden allotment, and there are a few of these scattered around Oslo. They’re cute little places full of brightly coloured timber buildings that vary in size between small cottages and large sheds. These make a great deal of sense when you consider that the vast majority of people in this part of the city live in 4-6 storey apartment blocks, which don’t have private gardens.

Down the hill and around the corner we come to the Nordre Gravlund, the northern cemetery of Oslo. It’s possibly the least spooky cemetery on the planet but maintains that air of serenity that makes walking in a cemetery so soothing. Maybe I’m weird, but I think cemeteries provide an understanding of the essence of a culture and can be a great way of learning about a place. Highgate cemetery in London remains one of my favourite places to visit in that city. The street bordering the northern edge of the cemetery (for it is this street on which I walk to the university) also has some great houses – like bigger versions of the Kolonihager houses pictured earlier.

Speaking of houses, the real fun starts 5 minutes further along (and up the hill) when we reach Ullevål Gård. Ullevål Garden is one of the most salubrious parts of town. They don’t do tall apartment blocks here – just mansions and stately townhouses with big private gardens. The property here is insanely expensive, as it is in a brilliant location, close to down town but with the feel of a little village. The building pictured is one of the grander residences and has the best location, overlooking a square and pond, but other houses probably fit with the description I've given a little better than this. On most days when I walk though here it is pram and stroller territory – lots of exceptionally wealthy young mums wheeling their little ones around. This is notable too, for in most of Oslo you see a huge number of dads out looking after their kids and taking an equal share of child rearing duties. But not in Ullevål Gård. Young mums only, and while the self satisfied smirk they wear may not be mandatory, the designer clothes and fashionable post code most definitely are.

Just five minutes further along the route and here we are at Blindern, the main campus of the Universiteit i Oslo. It’s quite a nice campus. Even the 70s brutalist buildings aren’t too horrible, and they’re offset nicely by the gorgeous library and nice open space. When lit up in the evening I think the library is one of the prettiest modern buildings I’ve seen. And with that we have traced Greg’s lovely little walk to uni. It beats sitting on a train or bus. Just 30 minutes door to door and the chance to breathe in some fresh air and grin to myself abvout how lovely it is to see Oslo in the snow.

Festen er ikke over

2008-03-15T20:21:00.000+02:00

On Friday night I wound down the week by going out to celebrate y friend Veronica’s birthday. Actually, it isn’t even close to her birthday, but she and her friend have a joint celebration and Friday was the chosen date. In any case, I took myself along and arrived to find that I was the only non-Norwegian! Fun – I love nights like that! It was at a cool little bar called Verkstedet, which is Norsk for “workshop” which is what I imagine the place used to be before the part of town that it’s in became popular. It was a great place – little rooms to the side, a bit of a dance floor, alcohol and people. All you need, really. They even let Veronica provide her own music which was a nice touch.

While I’m still not happy about having to stumble into conversation with a few awkward words of Norwegian before forcing the natives to speak to me in English, it doesn’t really slow the social side of things down too much. I made some new Norwegians friends, caught up with some others and had a great night. The walk home in the surprisingly cold night wasn’t even too bad. I’m enjoying Oslo quite a lot at the moment. The gorilla of a thesis is still something to be dealt with, but slowly and surely I’m getting it done.

Tues Life

2008-03-12T01:43:00.002+02:00

Choose life.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family,
Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose leisurewear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of freakin’ fabrics.

I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got Tuesday night parties?

Yes, there has rarely been a better reason to have a party than the fact that it’s a rainy Tuesday night in Oslo. So that’s what we did tonight. Courtesy of Kristi and Margrete and their lovely Tøyen apartment, a smattering of Norwegians and other folks who currently call Oslo home gathered to have a few beers and celebrate for no good reason.

Tues life!

More news from nowhere

2008-03-08T11:25:00.003+02:00

Greg’s no-way-travel-inclined-could-be-written-in-a-bedsit-in-Clayton music blog this week brings you an exclusive piece of industry news from the world of Australian popular entertainment. A shocking exclusive. An outrageous outrage. A ludicrous ludicrousy. For this week has seen an usurping of a throne. The elevation of an icon at the expense of another. The committal of a mad man. The guardian of madness in Australia has changed and the bar for silly behaviour raised.

For many a year the Aussie Battlers™ of my great country to the south of this inverted world have had certainty. The hard working, Donald Bradman fearing, Neighbours watching Mums and Dads that populate the clichéd suburban wasteland had slept soundly at night safe in the knowledge that mental illness in Australia was a secure and indeed humorous topic. It was not to be feared. Psychosis was not something to be worried about, but merely the prelude to remarkable whitegoods discounts and infuriating advertisements. Yes, Ken Bruce HAD GONE COMPLETELY MAD, but frankly that was something we were comfortable with. But what happens when Ken is no longer the maddest pumpkin in the vegetable patch? What happens when a musical genius dons a moustache for just that teensy bit too long, poisoning his already troubled mind. What happens when one day a legend reveals that he’s completely flipped his lid? What happens when Nicholas Edward Cave finally turns to youtube?

Nick Cave and the various Bad Seeds have just released their 743rd album. It’s pretty good. It is also accompanied by just about the strangest set of trailers/advertisements that have ever been released. Ever. A strange and alien venture into a youth culture where he simply does not belong. Videos that serve no purpose, that have no relevance. Videos where madness itself can be observed. Video with moustaches, yes, but is that really enough? What Nick has done is to release a series of 7, minute-long video clips on youtube to promote the new album. This is fine if you’re Britney Spears or Diddy Spice or PAUL FREAKIN’ MCCARTNEY, but what on earth does Mr Cave thing he is doing? Little clips of he and his mates hanging out with ouija boards. Seriously! Don’t get me wrong, they’re pretty funny and happily deranged, but what’s happening here? Is he trying to appeal to the kids? Given that the average Nick Cave fan is 124 years old and wouldn’t know youtube if it kidnapped them and held them prisoner on a secluded volcanic island, the effort seems slightly misplaced. Unless a collaboration with Kanye West is planned then I’m a little confused! And then there is the content of these videos. It looks like the execution of an idea formed after a 30 hour mixing session and many bottles of whisky that somehow still seemed fun the next day. The scary eyes of Warren Ellis is the third clip alone are enough to frighten anyone!! And then there’s Martyn P Casey sitting to the edge of the scenes, who goes along with the whole thing with exactly the same enthusiasm and scared acquiescence of Francis Begbie’s mates in Trainspotting. These little videos have the same slightly unhinged, desperate quality of the album they accompany, but seriously, I worry that exposure to moustachioed, balding, calmly mad Nick Cave on youtube could have dire effects on society as a whole. This is from a man who should know better. After his high-selling collaboration with Kylie Minogue, Nick famously said that his albums were now “in a lot of houses where they shouldn’t be.” Too true. But now, I worry, some poor schlep of a teenager who was innocently trawling the internet for bomb making recipes or devil worshipping websites how now been confronted with the truly terrifying site of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on youtube playing with ouija boards.

Here are the clips in full:

1: Lest I shiver.
2: Place your hands upon the table.
3: Is there spirits in the room?
4: Place your fingers upon the planchette.
5: Dim the lights!
6: Blindfold me sir.
7: Can you feel the spirit?

What I do in my bedroom

2008-03-02T00:52:00.006+02:00

It’s quite hard to write an interesting/entertaining blog with a couple of happy snaps at the moment. As mentioned several times previously – I’m in a bit of a slow patch right now. Self inflicted, naturally(!), and necessary in the whole scheme of this Masters that I’m undertaking, but slow. Writing thesis, saving cash, blah, blah and indeed blaaaah. I promise I won’t go on about it, but it does leave me with a dilemma. I want to keep the blog regularly updated, but I don’t want it to descend (or would that be ascend?) into weekly scribblings about the minutiae of my dull little life. I've been getting desperate. I was THIS CLOSE to writing an entire entry about the (probably evil) crème brûlée with self-hardening sprinkle-top layer that I bought at the supermarket the other day. I will say that the frankly disturbing way in which the powder that came with the dessert hardened, once sprinkled, into a gruesome parody of an actual burnt layer of a traditional crème brûlée kept me up all night contemplating the sheer horror of modern science, but I’ll leave it at that. Anyway – I’m aware that it’s a slippery slope from discussing dessert to ranting about how difficult online sudoku can be and complaining about the weather, so I will cease and desist immedi…

I’ve been on a bit of a Nordic music kick of late. One album I’ve been listening to a lot is “Jygri” by Norwegian band Gåte. Gåte’s wikipedia entry labels them as “progressive-folk”, which is surely the result of a vicious internet attack by a vindictive former lover or possibly just someone who ate one too many of those crème brûlées. Gåte are simply a folk band with a guitar plugged in and the rather talented Gunnhild Sundli (see top of page) singing away quite loudly. But they’re quite good and I like them. Progressive-folk indeed – whoever wrote that has been smoking too many mushrooms. Which leads me nicely to… Röyksopp!* Röyksopp are either one of Norway’s coolest electronic acts or particularly clever advertising executives engaging on a worldwide viral marketing campaign. You decide. Their first album is unnerving in the same way that Moby’s album “Play” could really freak you out – not for the content of the music, but for the fact that virtually all of the tracks have been licensed for one advertisement or another. Listening to that Moby CD is like watching a giant commercial for kidney beans and Volkswagens. Thankfully Röyksopp haven't gone quite that far yet.

Next on the playlist are Icelandic noodlers Sigur Rós and Múm. I’m more than likely attracted to these bands right now due to the fact that I’ll be heading off to Reykjavik in a few weeks! They’re so chilled and lovely. These two bands fuel this preconception of Iceland that I have (and which yes, is clearly just itching to be shattered) as a place full of beautiful looking women with excellent taste in music who will be just dying to buy me expensive drinks while I munch away at a Puffin terrine in a cute café overlooking outrageously blue pools and hot-springs. Sigh. From Iceland we move to the post-indie and decidedly Puffin-free offerings of Sweden’s The Cardigans and the various side-projects of their singer Nina Persson. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the Cardies, seeing them live back in Melbourne in 1997 despite their ill-judged and overexposed song “Lovefool” which is completely unrepresentative of their work. The last few years has seen The Cardigans release much more introspective music and Nina Persson’s side-project A Camp even features a high credibility collaboration with one of the guys from Sparklehorse. So there you go! Finally, there are a whole lot of sappy Norwegian bands who sound quite a bit like Simon and Garfunkle and are so wimpy that they would probably get their lunch money stolen by Belle and Sebastian if they were ever to cross paths. I introduce to you the good-in-small-doses sounds of Kings of Convenience, Minor Majority and Magnet. Sadly, another Norwegian band starting with an “M” are no more. Madrugada, who I saw live in 2006, lost their guitarist to a drug overdose in 2007. They released one final album in January this year and as sad as I am to say it, that self-titled record is just about the most turgid piece of crap I have ever heard. Sad, because the album before that was great! And that wraps up my Nordic musical musings. There’s nothing here from Finland or Denmark of course, given that both are musical backwaters that make Canberra look like a thriving hotbed of creativity a la Seattle or Bristol in the early 1990s. With the notable exception of Denmark’s Aqua, of course. Now THAT was a proper band!

So there you have it. What I do in my bedroom.

*That asterisk marks what is possibly my first English/Norsk multi-lingual joke. It’s a special moment for me.

Blown a wish

2008-02-24T07:04:00.006+02:00

I’ve been pretty lucky with the gigs I've seen over the years. I’ve had the chance to see most of the bands that I have adored growing up. The Stone Roses, David Bowie, Sonic Youth, the Beastie Boys, Nick Cave (five or six times!), Mark Gardner from Ride, Morrissey (well, seeing the whole actual Smiths remains an impossibility), Pulp and countless others. There really are few holes in my music experience that eat at me. Elliott Smith is one regret. Nirvana would have been great. Perhaps Primal Scream playing “Screamadelica”. But the musical regret that has plagued me most has been that I was too young to see My Bloody Valentine play when they toured Melbourne back in 1991. For those not familiar with MBV, they are a truly unique band. That word, unique, is thrown around quite a bit, but My Bloody Valentine were truly genre defining, genre defying sensations. They made an entirely new genre of music, and they did it over the course of two albums and three EPs. Well, the actually had a few more, but they didn’t hit their strides until they ditched their old singer and brought his holiness Kevin Sheilds on board. It was sooooo loud, yet soooo melodic that it defies proper description. My Bloody Valentine were truly amazing. If I had to draw a parallel, in terms of influence, I could only suggest The Velvet Underground - another band who sold little but changed the face of music. While Laurence Colbert of Ride (a contemporary, nay follower, of My Bloody Valentine) once described the sound of his band as “the Beatles crossed with the sound of an aeroplane taking off", MBV sound more like Brian Wilson abusing five guitars with a broken brick. Simultaneously.

My Bloody Valentine is the brainchild of Kevin Shields and his assorted chums. They’ve done bugger all since releasing their critically adored album “Loveless” back in 1991, bar the odd remix and some noodlings from Kevin on the “Lost in Translation” soundtrack. They’d been given up as genius that had burnt out before its time. “Loveless”, that last album of theirs, is mistakenly thought of as the genius moment, but in reality 1988’s “Isn’t Anything” is actually the superior record. It takes many listens to get there, but once you get through the abrasiveness it is the epitome of beauty. But I digress. Nothing much has happened for 17 years. Recordings were made and then ditched. Rumours of new material came to nothing. The band appeared to have died.

But no! For tonight, I got wind of a reunion. My Bloody Valentine are back! They’re playing a series of gigs in the UK, a few festival appearances around Europe, and… a show in Paris. Now, my French is not good, but such was my excitement at finding out about the existence of this show, that I managed to negotiate the website and get myself a ticket. I AM GOING TO SEE MY BLOODY VALENTINE! And what is more, I am going to do so in Paris! In July. I can’t recall ever being so excited about a forthcoming gig. It has somewhat overshadowed my excitement at getting a ticket for Nick Cave here in Oslo for this May. For me, the chance to see My Bloody Valentine is like others may feel about the chance to see Elvis or John Lennon. Seriously! My. Bloody. Valentine. Unbelievable.

For the uninitiated, your chance to both hear and see heaven exists in the following places:

You made me realise.
Soon.
Feed me with your kiss.

See you in Paris…

‘løkka star

2008-02-19T11:53:00.005+02:00

When I’m not writing my thesis, I tend to be spending a lot of my time in the cosy environs of Grünerløkka – Oslo’s answer to High Street, Northcote. I go there because the company is normally pretty good, the coffee is excellent, the beer is plentiful and, most relevantly, the walk there is great. From Bjølsen it’s a quick 20 minute walk down along the Akerselva river to ‘løkka. This to me is one of the most scenic places in the city. This river is of course not new to readers of the blog – I’ve already written about a great walk that I took along the river with some friends on the night of the equinox in September 2006. But rediscovering the river walk, along with the Møllerfossene waterfall that interrupts its flow, has been one of the quiet treats of my time back in Oslo. I find myself wandering down for a coffee or beer with friends, or just to get out of the flat and away from the tedium of this thesis. The walk also includes a lot of early 18th century wooden houses in the Sagene region, and looks out over a lot of old factories, one of which is about to become the new premises for the National Academy of the Arts. Lucky people. It is quite possible to get a sense of what the city would have been like a few hundred years ago – if you can overlook the cars and some of the uglier new apartment buildings!

As for Grünerløkka itself – it’s a cool place. The name means “Grüner’s Paddock” for it did indeed start life as a plot of land bought by a guy called Friedrich Grüner, who bought it from the King of Denmark back in 1672. Since then it has been a heavily industrialised area, a densely populated working class suburb, and has lately transformed into a rather expensive and cool part of the city. There are bars and pubs galore, and a whole swathe of restaurants that I can’t afford to eat at! But I do like the atmosphere and I enjoy the public squares and parks that are scattered between the streets. I can’t wait until May when I can start to enjoy this area all the better without study looming quite so large in the rear-vision mirror!

And with that… it is time to head back to Thesis-land, for a little less daydreaming and a little more writing.

Slip inside this student house

2008-02-13T21:29:00.001+02:00

As has become customary when I settle somewhere new, I thought the time right to write about my new surroundings. And while Oslo itself is not new to me, where I’m living is much nicer than the ghetto non-chic that was my previous abode here. So first up – the location. Bjølsen is the name of the suburb. It’s a cool little spot in the sort-of inner northern suburbs of the city. Not too much seems to happen in Bjølsen itself, but it is close to lots of other interesting and useful places. I live in one of about 12 student housing blocks here, each one between about 5 and 10 floors high. There are about 6 supermarkets as well as a few cafes and restaurants nearby. It’s a short walk or bus ride to the t-bane (metro) station, there’s a bus every 7 or 8 minutes heading downtown, and best of all, it is just a 30 minute walk to either the university (boo) or to Grünerløkka (yay), my favourite part of town. Actually, the ice that covers so much of the ground makes those trips a little longer at present, but I won’t complain about that. These is even a Vinmonopolet (the only shops where wine can be bought) within 10 minutes walk! So, the location is excellent.

As for the room itself… well, it’s all down to context. It certainly isn’t palatial, but as far as student housing goes it would have to be in about the top 1% of the planet. It’s clean, I have my own bathroom, there is plenty of storage space, decent desk, good mattress, etc. The kitchen is shared between 6, but there is plenty of space there too, as well as a big kitchen table and some couches. It’s going to make my apartment back home appear like a mansion when I return, which can’t be a bad thing. I’ve bought some pot plants and have also hung the Map of Temptation™ on my wall, both of which provide far more distraction than you’d think. I have decided against getting a TV this semester. Who needs TV when you have pot plants! I don’t have much of a view from my window, but I do have a little canal and some snow to gaze at while procrastinating, so that’s not too shabby. .All in all, this place is 10 times better than Kringsjå (where I lived in 2006) and I’m pretty pleased about it all.

In much anticipated meteorological news, the days are getting noticeably longer. Sunrise is officially due at 8:00 am tomorrow and sunset will be at exactly 17:00, so that will be 9 hours of sunlight. That’s almost normal! It is getting a bit colder though. Six below zero today and it’s tipped to get to -10 tomorrow. Not real, nasty, Finland cold yet, but cold enough for me! I write of the weather because there isn’t a lot worth writing about going on right now. Mostly my life is filled with slightly mundane pursuits such as breathing, eating and generally just existing. That’s OK. There is the study of course, but given how challenging writing this thesis is proving I dare not tempt fate by writing about not writing the damn thing, lest I make things worse. Actually, I’ve guessed (and this really sums up how well my time is spent right now) that this blog will contain far more words than my final thesis, which can either be interpreted as (a) an interesting commentary on what has mattered most to me over the two years; or (b) an example of what an enormous waste of space I am currently proving to be vis-à-vis actually learning something while living here at the pleasure of EU tax payers. Or both.

Undersea community

2008-02-07T23:26:00.000+02:00

Oslo has an undersea community. It’s hidden from view; shunned by the masses, loved by the devoted few. They have secrets. They harbour hidden desires. Hidden in the snowy hillside suburb of Sant Hanshaugen, the community meets twice per week to share its secret and indulge in unusual pleasures with the tang of salt in the air and a backdrop of diving bells and rusty old sea dogs. Or something.

The community I talk of is Oslo’s pub-opera aficionados. Yes, pub-opera. It’s a phenomenon I’ve not encountered before: groups of people going to the pub to hear operatic performances. Yet twice a week in the “Underwater Pub” (honestly, your guess is as good as mine as to why this nautical theme was chosen), the punters cram in to hear local opera singers strut their considerable stuff. It was to the Underwater Pub that Anja and I ventured this Thursday night. Word had it that an early arrival was necessary to get a good vantage point, yet even arriving two hours before the performance started saw us crammed into a corner. This is certainly a popular little venture. And while hearing live opera in a bar where you’d imagine sea-shanties were more to taste is an odd experience, it was also a very good one. The combination of pub and opera works pretty well because the singing is kept short and sweet. The pub demands silence during the singing, but each set lasts just 10-15 minutes, meaning no-one’s stamina is tested too greatly. And while being no expert on the subject, I though the singing was pretty good. We got to hear two sets, the first being excerpts from “The Marriage of Figaro”, with the second featuring “The Barber of Seville”. I enjoyed them both immensely. Tonight was also the first time I’ve reacquainted myself with Oslo bar prices since I’ve been back. It’s been said a million times before, but… ouch. Seriously ouch. If I wasn’t so busy poisoning my liver I’d be inclined to sell it to fund my nights out. Oh well.

As a postscript I should add that the luggage woes of previous posts have now happily resolved themselves. Everything has been found and delivered, and the horror trip has become a slightly wordy anecdote rather than a current concern. Now I have more mundane problems to deal with, such as university canteen food that would rightly be described as inedible, but for the fact that I ate it, and exactly how to negotiate the icy footpaths without falling on my arse/face every four to five metres. Wish me luck!

Blue Monday

2008-02-04T23:59:00.000+02:00

My luggage is still lost. The donkey I fear to be dead. Just like this particular imagery. Although I reserve the right to resurrect it at some point in the future, should my propensity to flog a horse rather too much lead to it dying as well and thus leave me with little option apropos a suitable mount but to caress that donkey's head and whisper Nick Cave lyrics into his ear (Dig IN, Lazarus, Dig!) until the breathe of live doth pass through his lungs. But we can cross that bridge when we ride to it.

Since I last wrote I have indeed made it to Oslo and all is relatively well. It’s nice and cold, and has in fact snowed every day since I arrived. I’ve moved into my lovely new student home in Bjølsen, which is a semi-bourgeoisie area a short walk from the funkier environs of Sagene. I’ve got nice, friendly neighbours (three Norwegians, one Italian and one Mexican), and the room itself is rather excellent. I’ve started to sort out all the tiresome yet necessary things like food, phones, internet connection and a few basic items that I need while B*****h A*****s try and find my bag. My optimism for it’s return was not helped when a call to the tracing office on Saturday resulted in them telling me that it wasn’t uncommon for bags to be lost for several months at Heathrow. Great. But yeah, I know, it doesn’t make for interesting blogging. That’s life sometimes. If you think back, you may recall that there was indeed once a time when people didn’t have to do interesting things to write blogs about. It was called 2004. Remember that reader. It’s not all beer and skittles; it’s not all donkeys and horses. No no.

More exciting than the Cervantesesque drama that is my luggage problems has been the chance to catch up with friends. First I’ve visited the PALACIAL new abode of my friends Kristi and Margarete in the very cool area of Tøyen. What a great place! Think heaps of room, polished floors, lovely fittings, and a great balcony. This was quite a find. We even took the obligatory trip to IKEA together today, where amongst the Smak, Lakk, Takk, Bakk, Crakk, and Kjkaak, the sound-system regaled me with an odd and entirely unwelcome mix of INXS and Cold Chisel while I bought ice-cube trays and hand towels. Glamorous is my life. Tonight I went to visit Anja and Alex in their equally cool apartment in Sant Hanshaugen (and yes I know these place names are meaningless to you all, but I like writing them!) where we ate burgers, listened to Alex’s amazing music and agreed upon how amazingly great it is to not be living in the soul-sapping Kringsjå student village.

And now it is late Monday night. A not altogether Blue Monday, but blue enough. If New Order had written a song called “Blue Monday (with patches of sunshine)” or even a b-side called “Mauve Tuesday” then that would have served better, but you take what you can get. In truth things are mostly fine, but at the risk of sounding like a whinging child - I really want that bag back! It’s not the clothes, but things like vitamins, contact lenses, camera stuff (no pictures for the blog for potentially a very long time!), research materials and MOST IMPORTANTLY the two Cherry Ripe bars and a packet of Twisties that I had carefully packed away. These things are harder to replace than clothes, although if this whole thing lasts much longer then I’ve decided that the people at B*****h A****s will be paying for some rather expensive designer jeans and shoes. My patience is running out…

Oh delay

2008-02-01T12:02:00.000+02:00

Long distance travel is all about perspective. Reality bends in a peculiar way. What was once a luxury becomes a necessity; what was meaningless become essential. When sitting on the couch watching the cricket, for example, having a few extra centimetres of legroom is the last thing on your mind. You’d more likely daydream about potatoes or hum Elvis tunes than thing about legroom. But if you’re stuck in seat 71J on a flight from Melbourne to London, it is quite likely you would sell your 1st, 3rd and 7th born children for the chance to stretch out just a teensy little bit more. If a shot at a 1st class upgrade arose, you’d throw in eternal damnation as a sweetener. Travel is funny in this way.

My own trip back to Oslo from Melbourne is proving rather interesting. I use the present tense as despite having arrived at Melbourne airport over 54 hours ago, I’m currently sat on my backside in a horrible little room in an airport with little hope of getting anywhere fast in the next. It’s not been stress free. So far I’ve had a three hour delay, a 22 hour flight, a missed flight, a simple re-routing denied, another three hour delay, another flight, my luggage lost, a seven hour wait in Berlin, an unpleasantly thorough frisking by a security man with a thin moustache who thought my bloodshot eyes meant I was drug effected rather than sickeningly tired, a flight cancelled, an overnight wait in Berlin, my luggage failing to be unlost, a complicated re-routing planned through Frankfurt, another flight cancelled and my bloody luggage continuing to prove more elusive than Osama Bin Laden if he was hiding in a dark abandoned warehouse smeared in baby oil playing a particularly rousing game of British Bulldogs against a group of old age pensioners with bad knees and no arms. To top it all off I am currently awaiting to be re-routed via Copenhagen with the suggestion that I might reach Oslo by about 18:00… in April, I presume. If that goes to plan then my trip will be about 62-63 hours long. Not so much fun really. It is possible that I may be delayed so long here in Berlin that the donkey on which British Airways have presumably strapped my luggage will eventually stumble into town. It would be helpful if the donkey had a barcode stamped on its Ass though (sleep deprived, lame pun very much intended!), as BA have about as much idea of where my luggage is as I have about quantum physics.

It’s not been 100% bad though. For the first time ever on a long haul flight I scored the exit row seat! QANTAS and Lufthansa have both given me food vouchers after their respective delays, the lost baggage people here in Berlin have been pretty sweet and tried their best, and the Lufthansa people, despite working at the pace of disconcertingly arthritic snails (trust me – it IS an unusual ailment in a creature without bones), did eventually get me a room in a decent hotel and have made an attempt to help me get to Oslo. The student house in Oslo has even agreed to make arrangements for me to pick up my key after hours tonight, meaning I won’t be homeless for the next three nights. It could have been even worse. But then again, by the time I get there, it might well be.

Long time fan

2008-01-24T16:07:00.000+02:00

Given the number of Nick Cave references cast throughout this blog of mine, it should be no surprise to discover that I’m a bit of a fan of Australia’s greatest ever song-writer. Nick Cave, without being too dramatic, changed my life. He changed my life in so much as that without Nick Cave a whole series of events may not have unfolded or may have unfolded in such a resolutely different manner that I’d not be who I am today. Mr Cave was responsible for two of my formative music experiences which I still remember vividly. Formative moment #1: I was up late one night as a 13 year old watching Rage, the iconic music video clip show which runs all night long on weekends Australia’s ABC television channel. Rage was, and probably still is, great. You could see all sorts of alternative/underground/strange music videos which would NEVER make it to commercial television. Sometimes they’d have guest programmers – usually touring bands – who would play anything from 70s hip-hop to baggy to indie to grunge to whatever. When you’re just starting your teens and getting excited about music, the impact of such a show can’t be overstated. So – I was watching Rage one night when the video for “The Weeping Song” by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds came on. This is a fantastic song, and the video was like nothing I’d ever seen. The song is a duet; a father/son dialogue about misery and woe. Nick sings it with fellow Bad Seed Blixa Bargeld who has a very deep rusty voice, and sounds like a man who looks deep into the eyes of a kitten and sees evil. The video sees this jaunty pair mock-rowing a little boat through a sea of black cellophane and paper, drinking cups of tea and generally hamming it up. They’re wearing suits, having a ball and the whole things just oozes cool like nothing else. This video came out in early 1991 and when you compare it to a lot of the generic trash in existence at the time, it was quite remarkable. In any case it had quite an influence on 13 year old Greg, and led me to become very interested in Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, whose records I started buying, and which leads me into formative moment #2.

Formative moment #2 was my first music festival, the 1993 Big Day Out. The Big Day Out was pretty much my favourite day of the year for a decade or so. After starting up in Sydney in 1992 (and featuring Nirvana and the Violent Femmes) by 1993 the BDO (as it’s know) had become a 4 city extravaganza. So on a rainy January day I went with my sister to my first BDO to see a line up that included Nick Cave, Iggy Pop, Sonic Youth, Carter USM, TISM, Helmet, the Underground Lovers, the Beasts of Bourbon and The Clouds. While it poured and poured with rain, I’ll never forget the moment that Nick Cave came on stage. A massive storm was brewing and the wind was driving the rain sideways. The crowd had just witnessed a manic set from Iggy Pop, who screamed out his vocals while tearing cuts into his body. I was in the second row of bodies from the front of the stage, just a few metres from the band. And then Nick walked on. He’d just released his “Henry’s Dream” album and when the Bad Seeds launched into the opening notes of “Papa won’t leave you, Henry” I remember being physically lifted off my feet and swept sideways by the surge of the crowd. It was truly electric. Howling wind, drenching rain, and my music idol going nuts as he played all the classics. “Deanna”, “Tupelo”, “From Her to Eternity”, “The Ship Song” and an epic closer of “The Mercy Seat” amongst the many highlights. Nick was to say in an interview years later that it had been one of his best gigs, and after that night I was utterly, utterly hooked. In the years that followed I spent every spare sent from my casual jobs on CDs, read as much music press as I could find, went to countless gigs and clubs, had my own university radio show and generally devoured music. While Nick Cave wasn’t my first musical love (I’m embarrassed to admit an early obsession with Queen, but a much cooler 12 year old obsession with mid-70s Bowie!) his was the music that set the tone of my teens and early 20s. And he’s still great today, the “Nocturama” album notwithstanding! Who knows, without Nick Cave I could have become something unspeakable, like a Pearl Jam fan, or an ardent admirer of Sixpence None the Richer! The world works in funny ways…

With all of this rather elongated back story in mind, you can imagine that I was rather pleased to discover that “Nick Cave – the Exhibition” had been arranged (no doubt!) to coincide with my visit to Melbourne. Yesterday I went along to check out what they had to offer. What I saw was amazing – mostly because it brought back such excellent memories. The exhibition consisted of a range of notebooks, photos, video clips, documentaries, books and paintings. Most fascinating for me were the old handwritten notebooks. Some contained scraps of lyrics for songs, and you could see all the errors and changes made throughout the writing process. Other books contained handwritten dictionaries of strange words. At one stage of his career whenever he looked up a word he forced himself to examine the entire two pages of the dictionary on which that word was contained, and make note of any unusual words he found there. Fascinating. There was material related to his novel and movie scripts too, and there was also live footage from early Boys Next Door and Birthday Party gigs in Melbourne and Berlin. Some of the photos were pretty amazing, spanning all of the eras of the Bad Seeds work from St Kilda through to Sao Paolo and London. It was quite a collection. They even had some of Nick’s suits and the famous “Kylie” bag that he was carrying around for a tour or two!! Overall it is excellent, and I’m proud of a pretty mainstream space like the Melbourne Arts Centre for staging such an exhibition on one of the country’s greatest ever artists.

Red Roo Land

2008-01-22T11:32:00.000+02:00

Struth mate! Being here in the land of Oz, you do find yourself throwing some weird tucker down your gob. I was down the pub with me mates last night and some flamin’ gallah of a drongo served up some grilled ‘roo and a glass of some new fangled drink they’re callin’ “wine”. They’re tryin’ to pass that off as fair dinkum tucker these days! Strike a light! Still, the eatin’ was half alright and while this “wine” stuff ‘ll never take off (you can’t even buy it in stubbies, or so I’ve been told!), this sort of grub beats whacking a dingo between two slices of sunnicrust and calling it a sausage sizzle, believe you me. Bruce and Shawneela couldn’t make it to the pub, but me mates Vonno, Saro, Big Al, other Saro and Lacho all got stuck in, and there weren’t a meat pie in cooee of us lot. By the end of the meal I was as stuffed as a wombat on a Wednesday. Goin’ be weird going back to Norway soon and eatin’ regular foods like rotten fish again…

Match point

2008-01-16T23:58:00.000+02:00

Given that as yet Scarlett Johansson has yet to become a professional tennis player, the closest one can come to such glamour in the field of racquet swinging is to watch Maria Sharapova strut her stuff around centre court. And unlike Scarllet, Sharapova has the benefit of not having her every move controlled by an (albeit great) Woody Allen script, meaning she can play however she likes. And without worrying about creepy bespectacled men trying to climb through her dressing room window. Pace, power, finesse. Masha has it all. I think she’s unfairly maligned by some as some sort of Anna Kournakova #2, who has looks but not the talent to be an excellent tennis player. But what is the point of all this? I write of such things because tonight I finally went to the Australian Open for the first time. Despite liking my fair share of sport, until tonight I’d never witnessed this big sporting event, one of the two big highlights of the Melbourne summer sporting calendar. And I picked a great night to make my first appearance.

With excellent centre court seat behind one end of the court in hand, it was off to centre court I went. The first match of the night was Lindsay Davenport (former number one player) versus the aforedrooled-after Sharapova, who is the 5th seed at the tournament. A pretty good match on paper. Could Davenport continue her comeback. Would Sharapova stuff it up? Does anyone care? The answers are no, no and quite possible no, but nonetheless I had a really fun night. Davenport tried hard, and had the crowd on side, but that was about all. Sharapova was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY to good for her, and it was with collective relief that the crowd cheered when she finally won a game. It was pretty much a dismantling of a former great by a newer player, and the whole match was over in just over an hour.

Match number two featured the horribly monikered “A-Rod”, otherwise known as Mr Angry, or perhaps known to his mother as Andrew Roddick. His opponent was the little known (and hopefully not horribly nick-named) Michael Berrer from Deutschland. The A-Rod hits the ball bloody hard. His serves got as fast as 235 kph. Intriguingly, that is the same speed that hot air exited his ears as he blew of steam by throwing around his racket after messing up the odd easy point. Berrer serves hard too, but not quite as fast as Roddick. Happily thought both players have a bit of class in their shots and while the match lasted only three sets it was surprisingly good tennis. Poor old Berre even broke Roddick at one point before ruining his good work later on with comedy volleying errors. Poor lad.

And with just five sets played over the two matches the night was over. Thankfully actually, as despite being in the midst of a rather hot summer it gets really cold in the stadium at night with the roof open. I was chilly, which is just not right. And with that I will tick off another Australian sporting/cultural milestone. All that remains is to get myself to Melbourne Cup day one year and I’ll finally be able to participate in civilised society.

Taxi diner

2008-01-08T13:54:00.000+02:00

While I pretended to many that my trip back home this summer/winter (take your pick) was in order to buy a rather nice one bedroom apartment in Ivanhoe, the truth can now be revealed. It was not for the Melbourne heather that I returned. It was not for the Christmas spud. It was not for Twisties (Green or Orange). It was not for the comfort of a proper haircut. No no. The real reason for coming home was to celebrate with my family the 40th wedding anniversary of my Mum and Dad. That’s them up top.

We went for an excellent celebratory dinner at what must now be christened the “better-than-Paris” end of the Yarra river, at a very nice restaurant by the name of “Taxi”. This restaurant is not small and yellow, doesn’t charge you by the kilometre of food digested, doesn’t feature beaded seats or even the vaguest hint of vomit, so exactly why it is called “Taxi” remains something of a mystery. What was not mysterious however was the quality of the food. I think every course eaten by all seven of us present was amazing. The food is a mix of Japanese and that beloved yet ill-defined gem, “modern Australian”, cuisine and included all manner of scallops, salmon, steaks, zucchini flowers, duck and fois gras, and the desserts were intricate and excellent. My passionfruit spill had just about the nicest presentation you could imagine, tiny little meringues resting on the smooth passionfruit custard as it snaked its way from my glass. Once Dad had negotiated his way past the helpful yet wordy sommelier we also managed some pretty brilliant wine including an Alsace which I could surely never afford in this lifetime or the next. Yum.

But the real point was 40 remarkable years. A very good innings indeed. So congratulations to mine Ma and Pa for a wonderful marriage and double thumbs up for celebrating in style!

Groovy is my name

2008-01-03T14:33:00.000+02:00

Well we’ve done this once before, but with the New Year upon us I thought the time right to unleash the second blog-title explanation list. As you may recall, all blog entries must have a name that is somehow related to music, film or literature. Sometimes it might be a straight steal. Other times a horrible pun. Other times a slightly less horrible pun. Sometimes it may just be horrible without a pun anywhere in the picture. This is part of the great mystery of my blog.

Without further ado, here we go:

Groovy is my name is a song by Pizzicato 5, who in-between baths and delicious eel-based meals spearheaded the “shibuya-kei” movement of Tokyo in the 1990s.
A place called home is a song by P.J. Harvey.
Faux professor brings the flood looks like, but sounds nothing like, the name of the Neko Case album “Fox confessor brings the flood”.
Took the long way home is almost exactly the same as a pretty artless piece of music by Faithless called "Take the long way home"
Time to go is a cheerful little ditty by the mostly forgotten Oxford popsters Supergrass.
Steps up to my Monastery doesn’t really work as a title, but it has a similar rhythm to the Belle and Sebastian song “Step into my office, baby”
That yoke isn't runny anymore refers of course to the Smiths song “That joke isn’t funny anymore”
When love comes to town is a song by modest Irish songsmiths U2.

Postcards from Italy is a track by indie-super-wunderkid-boy-genius-one-man-band-no mates-actually-quite-sad-but-trying-not-to-show-it act by the name of Beirut
Night vision is a rocking little song by the Super Furry Animals
River of Douro apes the Antony and the Johnsons song “River of Sorrow”
Weak become superheroes is pretty similar to The Streets song “Weak become heroes”
By the sea is a song by Suede, or London Suede if you happen to be North American.
More and Faster brings the harsh sounds of K.M.F.D.M to the blog, being, as it is, a song by that self-same band.
We're going to Ibiza is a poem by the Vengaboys

The Vengaboys: poets

Time Gregum Transeuntum Et Non Riverentum... to Coimbra sees Greg playing the role of Jesus in this tribute to the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds/Dirty Three song “Time Jesusum Transeuntum Et Non Riverentum”
Ritual devo habitual parodies the Jane’s Addiction album title “Ritual de lo Habitual”
Million tiles takes out an “m” and adds a “t” to the Bob Dylan song “Million Miles”
The purple prose of Aveiro adds some Woody Allen to the mix, paying tribute to “The Purple Rose of Cairo”
Supercostanova is a more expensive version of the Underground Lovers song “Supernova”
Fine string serenade is one letter away from the Mazzy Star song “Five string serenade”
In my room is a big brooding epic by Depeche Mode
Way Out West is the name of a formerly rocking and now somewhat less rocking electronic band.
Summer's gone is a song by Placebo
My wandering days are over is a fine early classic by Belle and Sebastian
Rugged up (with books) is yet another Belle and Sebastian reference, this time to their song “Wrapped up in books”
Me, Cluj and somebody I know is a little bit like the movie called “Me, You and Everyone we know”
Infamous Pest is a play on words of the David Foster Wallace novel “Infinite Jest”
Slovaki Ace Nation plays on the title of the Slowdive album called “Souvlaki Space Station”
The Birthday Party were a band until they became a different band
"Greg Donaghue presents:" Krakow Dawn is a tribute to the film “Alfred Hitchcock presents: Crack of Dawn”

Down by Wrocław is a tribute to the Jim Jarmusch film “Down by law”
O´lomouc, here art thou! is a bit try-hard, but nonetheless was a reference to the film “O Brother, where art thou”
When Krumlov Sighs sounds a tiny bit like the Prince song “When doves sigh”
Vary Monetary is a reference to the Herbaliser album called “Very Mercenary”
Czech your head gets down with the Beastie Boys album called “Check your head”
The highs and thrall of Leipziggy Stadtlust and the finder of bars is close enough to touch the lycra of the David Bowie album “The rise and fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars”

Leipziggy!

The Dresden Souls references those glam piano wielding folk called the Dresden Dolls
Potzdamer, Berlin latcher is a pretty shoddy effort at making something scan, in this case the Belle and Sebastian song “Piazza, New York catcher”. Sorry!
Since I´m wet through refers to the rather ace Avalanches album “Since I met you”
Bamberger Chill is pretty damn similar to the movie “Hamburger Hill”
So Hvar gone references early Teenage Fanclub b-side, “So far gone”
Dubrovnikaceandnoredtan is a fine piece of wordfoolery (which is a great new word I just invented) and does of course pay tribute to the classic Underworld album “Dubnobassinmyheadman”
Stories from the city, stories from me is another P.J. Harvey reference, this time to the album “Stories from the city, stories from the sea”
Pounds and pouts in suburban London is a reference to the great George Orwell novel “Down and out in Paris and London”.

Fin.

A place called home

2007-12-27T22:41:00.000+02:00

While I may have pretended to many that my trip back home this summer/winter (take your pick) was in order to see family and friends, the truth can now be revealed. It was not for the Melbourne weather that I returned. It was not for the Christmas pudding with brandy butter. It was not for Coopers (Green or Red). It was not for the comfort of a proper bed. No no. Within my first busy week back in Melbourne a lot has happened, but the crowning moment was the purchase of my first ever apartment! While others have successfully been buying and selling property for years, this is my first time so I think I’m entitled to have a bit of a buzz about it. And I do.

So here’s the low-down. It’s in Ivanhoe (which is about 8km north-east of the centre of Melbourne for those of you who aren’t from ‘round here). It has one bedroom, an open plan living room and kitchen, and a big bathroom/laundry. It doesn’t have a balcony or courtyard, but I can cope with that. There is plenty of light too (it’s a top floor apartment) and the block it is situated on isn’t too dense either. The Ivanhoe shops are about 7 or 8 minutes away, with the train station another two minutes. It’s a pretty bourgeoisies area, but there are some funky cafes and shops around, and I think it will be more than OK to live in for the foreseeable future. Well, once I’m back in the country that is. I’ll rent it out for 6 months while I’m back in Oslo.

If you can’t tell by now I’m rather pleased with myself. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a while and now that it’s happened it feels rather good indeed. A place called home – all of my own.

Faux professor brings the flood

2007-12-21T11:29:00.001+02:00

Here I am, typing away, trying to write my final essay for the semester. Location: Melbourne. Melbourne, Australia that is. The self same Melbourne that is allegedly in the midst of a 476 year drought, or something like that. Yet in the 7 days since I returned, it has rained nearly every day. Last night I got caught in mini flash-flooding, and right now it is absolutely bucketing down with rain. It’s been like this for hours. Being a humble and simple man I couldn’t possibly attribute this run of wet good fortune to my own presence in this dry, brown country.

Or could I?

Faux professor has indeed BROUGHT THE FLOOD.

Fear him. Fear his powers. Fear his RAIN OF TERROR!!!

Took the long way home

2007-12-17T07:27:00.000+02:00

There are many ways to get from Aveiro to Melbourne. Many expensive ways. Many VERY expensive ways. And as far as I can tell there is but one cheap way, which involves a lot of mucking about and enough sleep deprivation to justify a fact-finding trip for any Guantanamo guards looking for something to do in-between torturing folk. Of course I, being a cheap and thrifty student, chose this cheap route to get myself back home to Melbourne. The trip went as such: train from Aveiro to Porto, train from Porto to the Airport, plane to Mallorca, plane to Berlin, overnight sitting around Berlin airport, plane to London, plane to Hong Kong and finally plane to Melbourne. And how long did this little journey take: 50 hours. Yes, that is 50. Hours. O, if you prefer, two days and two hours. 3000 minutes. My God it was a long time.

The whole trip provided a sense of closure to my semester in Aveiro. As I was flying home on that last leg of the trip, I reflected a little on the semester. The fun, the crap, the food, the wine and the noisiest library on this planet. I thought about the good friends I’d made. Just as I started to think I’d miss Portugal, I got yet another swift kick to the back of the seat from the little brats behind me. And the language that these kids and their mother was speaking? Portuguese. Of course.

Time to go

2007-12-12T00:15:00.000+02:00

Tomorrow I leavo Aveiro for goodo. It’s been a strange little stay. I’ve made some great new friends and lost some other friends. I’ve eaten some fantastic food and drunk amazing wine, while also surviving the sort of deep frying nightmare that keep nutritionists awake late at night. And while I’ve enjoyed lots of aspects of Portugal, it is definitely time to leave.

The semester wound up without last classes and a farewell dinner on Friday. The dinner was the example of all that is right and wrong with Portuguese food. I had a particularly nice dish of “frog-fish” (I’ve no idea what the Portuguese name is) garnished with shrimp. It came with a side salad. Great, except that the lettuce had been fried. Yes – fried. They have great seafood in this country and then they go and ruin things by serving food in such a way that a heart attack is more or less guaranteed by the time you reach 60. Such a waste. It was a fun night though, and from the reactions of the class, quite emotional for some. We have, you see, now finished all of our classes, and have just our thesis to write next semester. My group is being dispersed amongst the three locations we’ve visited so far, so for some this may be the last time they see each other. I also had my own farewell drinks on Sunday which were nice – a good chance to have a more low-key occasion to say my goodbyes. And after a few last coffees, lunches and touristy things which I’ve neglected to do so far, it is finally time to leave. I had a hellish schedule to get home – two trains, five planes and a total of 48 hours from leaving Aveiro to arriving back in Melbourne.

Steps up to my Monastery

2007-12-08T23:54:00.000+02:00

So as I was saying, I just got back from a day up in Braga. Yessir, Braga. Brag-a. The big “B”. The smaller other four letters. The enigma. The open book. The cheapest place half-worth being that I hadn’t visited yet. Braga. And what can I say about Braga?? It was quite OK. Yeah, that’s about it. Quite OK. Not very OK, or even sort of quite good. Quite OK is the baby bear’s porridge of descriptions as far as Braga is concerned, and I’m going to stick with it. Going to Braga on a rainy day with the mother, father, great aunt and second cousin of all hangovers after a night of celebrating my final class was probably not the wisest of options. But if watching the Sopranos has taught me anything, it’s not to be a wiseguy! And hey – what’s a large headache and a bit of bad weather when your destination is one of the oldest towns in the country? The spiritual home of Portugal’s ummmm… spirit? The ancestral home of Portugal’s ummmm… ancestors? The sporting home of Portu… etc and so on??? With my daytrippin’ mates Klaudyna and Monika in tow, it was off we went to see what the fuss/lack of fuss was all about.

Braga’s prominence started all the way back in the 6th century. which coincidentally is about the same time we seemed to start drinking last night. The Portuguese were fighting the Visigoths back then you see and the whole war was proving rather tiresome. After a frightening amount of time swinging nasty things like swords and large axes at each other, the Portuguese sensibly decided to fight the ‘goths with a barrage of relentlessly upbeat dance music. The hills became a sea of raised hands and gurning smiles, while the night sky was lit with the horrific aura of glowsticks. This confused the Visigoths greatly, and caused just the sort of eye-watering cross pollination of musical genres that eventually led Depeche Mode to go from “Just Can’t Get Enough” to “Enjoy the Silence” in just four short years. Now you must understand that eye-watering of any sort is bad news for Goths - be they Visigoths, Quasigoths or just plain Teeniegoths. So once the mascara started running it was only a matter of time before the Visigoths had all been temporarily blinded and accidentally-on-purpose wandered out into the Atlantic Ocean in search of a genre that truly understood their unique brand of pain and, like, what they alone were going through right now in their odd-smelling bedroom.

All of that left the Portuguese rather chuffed with themselves. It was no great surprise then when they took time out from fighting the Moors 400 years later to dabble in a spot of church building. Ah the arrogance of it all. Fight a Moor in the morning, and carve an altarpiece after lunch. And so it was that just under 1000 years ago that those clever Portuguese built the famous Braga Cathedral. And what of the Braga cathedral? It’s alright.

What was more than alright though was the fantastic Bom Jesus do Monte, which almost directly translates as “Good Lord - what a large mountain that is!” but unfortunately lets itself down at the latter part of the phrase. The BJdM (as it shall probably not become known) is impressive indeed, and it was thanks to Klaudyna’s devotion to swanky Catholic churches that we bothered to make the visit at all. After a short bus ride out of town, we were deposited at the base of a rather large set of steps. After winding our way up the mountain for a while, we emerged at a plateau with a rather breath-taking view further up the hill to the Bom Jesus church itself. The stairs are a series of cutbacks, decorated with statues and fountains. It’s all pretty grand and despite the gloomy weather made for a great walk and some even better photos. We are talking about a LOT of steps here though. Many, many hundred of the things, but it was certainly worthwhile. The inside of the church was great too - behind the altar they even had a small sort of stage with 3D depiction of the crucifixion, complete with soldiers and grieving women at the bottom of the hill. No statues of Robert Smith or Siouxsie Sioux unfortunately – the ‘goths don’t even rate a mention!

After that it was back down the hill to Braga to take in their array of Christmas lights, natty blue trees and a nativity-themed light display where to my weary eyes it appeared that the Virgin Mary was lining up a 9-iron chip onto the green using baby Jesus’ head as the ball. Well – they are my weary eyes and I’ll see what I want with them. And with that it was back on the train for the long ride home – my touring of Portugal complete. I’ve seen quite a lot of this country – covered it all with the notable exception of the Alentejo and Algarve regions. One day, perhaps.

That yoke isn't runny anymore

2007-12-03T00:07:00.000+02:00

Ovos Moles is the name of Aveiro’s dubious culinary claim to fame. Fame, that is, in the sense that if anyone in Portugal by chance knows anything of Aveiro, then Ovos Moles is likely to be the first thing that spring to mind. The name means “soft eggs” or “smooth eggs” and these little morsels are often served as an accompaniment to coffee. They hardly sound the most appetising of sweets though. Surely “delicious eggs” or “particularly tasty sweet food that just happens to contain eggs” would have been a better name? I’m actually amazed that they don’t call them “sea-side eggs” or “let’s pretend Aveiro doesn’t smell atrocious eggs” in line with the usual pretence that Aveiro is a delightful little seaside village. But in any case, Ovos Moles it is. They’re amazingly simple: egg yolks, sugar and rice-water, cooked and whipped into a thick paste. Then that yoke isn’t runny anymore. You can actually buy them near my house (next to a little butcher), so you could almost say they’re too close to home, and too near the bone. Too close to home and too near the bone. Too close to home and too near the bone… more than you’ll ever know!!

I’ve seen them eaten in other people’s lives, but now they’re eaten in mine, eaten in mine, eaten in mine…

Morrissey: his only desire is to dine… on Ovos Moles

When love comes to town

2007-11-29T01:20:00.000+02:00

Amarante is the home of Portugal’s very own St Valentine, São Gonçalo, and as such is the spiritual home of greeting card writers from all over the Iberian peninsula. As can be seen from reading my blogs, I clearly aspire to join that profession one day, so it was with a spring in my step that I headed out with my new friends Monika and Klaudyna to see what inspiration I could absorb. São Gonçalo, incidentally, has he feast day on 13 January, which is the same day as my parent’s wedding anniversary! Could this be a sign? Resolutely not, but hey, I’m not one to let my Wikipedia research go to waste! The name “Amarante” even has origins to do with love. If you squint and know as little as I do about linguistics, you could even believe that Amarante is a version of the Latin “Amour”, and that the name stuck even after the Romans upped and left. Amarante actually has a pretty interesting history. Settled in 360 BC, it was then a Roman settlement. Not much happened for a few thousand years and then in 1809 the locals held off Napoleon’s troops for two weeks before being defeated. The French then burned down most of the town, not that you’d know it from what is on offer today.

Amarante is situated quite high up in Eastern part of the Douro valley. Those of you who are keen and willing blog readers [anyone…? anyone …? … tumbleweeds watch on from the sidelines, to proud to contemplate even a brief, sympathetic roll…] will remember the Douro as the river which sidles by Porto in a particularly Portuguese manner. That is to say it is rather slow paced, is often loaded with Port wine, has some serious curves and absolutely refuses to travel in a straight line. The Douro valley, which stretches east to Spain, is also rather pretty. As we took the train up through the hills the sight of entire valleys full of red and orange leaves was quite spectacular. Amarante itself is pleasant on the eye as well. I wouldn’t call it spectacular, but it has a great square, an excellent old bridge (originally medieval, but rebuilt a few hundred years ago) and best of all, a fantastic, riverside setting.

After a surprisingly good lunch (soup, octopus, green wine) in a restaurant selected after not one but two English speaking strangers had offered us unsolicited advice, it was time to explore. The tourist office was uninspired in its suggestions, so we instead chose to simply wander around. The town’s big attraction is the monastery and church of São Gonçalo. Nice enough, but hey, I could have missed it. Then we walked some more before making our way down to the river bank which was my personal highlight. The three of us got some great photos as we strolled around and across the rocky banks of river. The fact that the leaves were in full colour and the sun was shining brightly helped of course, but it gave the whole day a calm and relaxing feeling. It was a long four hours of train travel back to Amarante, but I’m very happy to have visited this little gem hidden away in Portugal’s north.

Postcards from Italy

2007-11-26T16:21:00.000+02:00

The Galleria in Milano

Northern Italy has held a somewhat enigmatic place in my mind. I was full of ideas of what it would be like: grand and aloof, busy and fast-paced, stylish and chic. And rainy. After just returning from a three day trip to Milano, all of this has been confirmed as true. After a couple of near misses over the summer, I finally got myself on a plane to visit my dear friend Bennedetta, whom I met on the trip to Russia early this year. Benny is pretty much the friendliest and most fun person you could meet, so the chance to hang out with her, her family and friends was too good to miss. Milan in late November might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but despite the rain and cold I had a brilliant time there. The city is as I thought – cool, big and grey. That doesn’t sound all that appealing written down, but the combined effect is pretty good. Benny showed me around the boulevards crammed full of chic designers, uber-cool bars, peaceful cloisters and understated buildings. The clichés that I’d heard about Milano seemed to be true – it DOES feel a lot closer to London than it does Rome, and DOES seem a world away from the rural, rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany. But underneath its superficially harsh exterior, all of that the people I met were great. No-one seemed to even mind too much when all I could contribute to conversations was my woeful, primary school level Italiano!! Why was I taught little more than how to count in 7 whole years!!

Benny and I

As well as seeing the sights of Milano, such as the amazing Doumo and the impressive Galleria, Benny took me to other parts of the region as well. One night we popped up to Bergamo for dinner! We met up with two of Benny’s friends, one of whom coincidentally was also living in Finland earlier this year and was on the same Russia trip! Bergamo Alta (Upper Bergamo, where the old town sits) was very nice, and I took the opportunity to eat a traditional Bergamese dish of stuffed polenta with a truffle infused tomato sauce. Yum! After making it back to Milano at around 2:30 in the morning, there was little option but to hit a rather cool little club called Mybali. I haven’t been to a decent club in a while, and this one was rather nice. Ornate design, lots of people and outrageously priced drinks mean I feel I’ve really “experienced” another aspect of this city. Beautiful people inside too…

Milano

Saturday meant sleeping off the clubbing exploits, before heading north to Como. Como and its lake are famous for being a bit of a hang-out for the rather rich and famous. While I didn’t stumble into Cate Blanchett, Giovanni Ribisi or even an F-list celebrity, I did get to see the lake and have a wander around the town. Great little squares, great pastries and a great atmosphere. It even stopped raining while we were there. We didn’t have long to stay in Como though, as we had to head back to Milano to have dinner with Benny’s dad. He took us to a wonderful little place that had both Milanese and Sardinian specialities. Beautiful pasta and a scaloppine so heavily doused in garlic that my grandchildren will be reaching for the breath mints, all topped off with brilliant dessert and excellent wine. Ah, Italian food. I know it isn’t witty or original, but good Italian food must be the best in the world, mustn’t it? And then there is the coffee…

The rainy streets of Bergamo

Great coffee was a recurring theme. While Portugal has decent coffee, they don’t do a cappuccino half as well as the Italians. From my first cappuccino on the swanky, glassed in café on the 7th floor of a shop overlooking the Doumo, to my final coffee by the train station, I indulged as much as possible. In fact the quality of the coffee was one of the many, many things that reminded me of Melbourne. I know this is a curse of the travelling Aussie, and that comparing things to home is slightly lame, but the parallels between Melbourne and Milano are strong. They are of equal size, are equally confident despite being slightly overshadowed by their bigger sibling, they both feature stately old buildings, have a sense of style and revel in their cultural side. It might be an “M” thing, given that I have felt (in different ways) that Manchester and Madrid also have a lot in common with Melbourne. I’ll see if this holds true if I ever end up in Mogadishu!!!

I must again thank Benny, her mother, her father, her friends and Miko the cat for being so incredibly hospitable. This was a wonderful weekend.

Left: Benny in Moscova Square

Right: the entrance to the Galleria

Night vision

2007-11-19T14:11:00.000+02:00

Not much is happening in Aveiro. Life rolls along. Sunny days have given way to rain, and the inside of my apartment is very much like a fridge. Essays come and go. Portuguese supermarket cash registers remain lost in some dimension where time slows to an unfathomable extent. Students still gather in the streets to drink at night, ignoring the chilly mist. Green vegetables remain a concept that exist only in mythology or within complex underground nutritional resistance networks. T.V channels still promote upcoming shows with a welcome if not peculiar mix of P.J. Harvey and Sisters of Mercy songs running in the background. Paper and chemical factories still exhale an ever present yet mercifully faint odour. Yes, life rolls on. It makes for a terrible blog, but as the locals say… onde posso jogar voleibol?

I was going to write an entry about the little idiosyncrasies of the Aveiroese people but it’s harder to do than you’d think. There is a lot of material – trust me – but it’s hard to write about it without looking either like (a) you’re some whinging expat who misses the whole point of cultural interchange or (b) incredibly bored. So I decided that I’ll restrict myself to one specific example. Roundabouts. Yes I speak of that marvellous traffic-flow device so helpfully invented by Dr. Round van der Bout in Antwerp in 1875. While most of the world has mastered the concept of driving one’s car/bike/horse/tractor around the circley thing in the middle of the road reasonably well, they just don’t seem to understand how it’s supposed to work here in Aveiro. I know this because I see the horror every day. At the front entrance of my apartment block is one of the largest roundabouts I’ve ever seen. Thousands of cars go around this three-lane monstrosity every day. And I would guess less than 25% of the drivers know how to navigate this little traffic device! Last Sunday I saw three albeit minor accidents on different parts of my particular roundabout within 4 hours. People randomly cross lanes at will, sometimes starting in the outside, cutting two lanes into the middle, and then exiting back out the outside lane. It’s like there aren’t any lanes marked. Also, the Portuguese have a peculiar penchant for stopping and parking on the roundabout’s outer lanes. It’s not unusual at my roundabout, or at one of the others in town, to see two or three cars stopped while the drivers go for a walk. Maybe I’m missing something, but if an Aveiroite told me to meet them at the edge of the roundabout at 10:00 I don’t think I’d batt an eyelid. I’m waiting for the day when a donut shop or flower stand actually sets up shop on the edge of the roundabout for full-scale anarchy to break out, but for the moment be very, very afraid if you ever come across an un-traffic lighted intersection in this country.

Anyway – Aveiro looks pretty at night at this time of year. Christmas lights, decorations on the boats and on the trees, so on and so forth. So I took some photos. Here are those photos. Enjoy these photos. Hopefully they compensate for the whinging of this particular expat!

River of Douro

2007-11-13T12:15:00.000+02:00

Porto is a brilliant place. I’d never imagined that such an awesome little city was sitting just 70 km north of Aveiro. I’ve been living here for nearly two months but this was the first time I’d made the trip up there. The weather here is still unfathomably good, and given that the last few weeks of hard work are now behind me, I took advantage of some free time to explore Portugal’s second city. And while Portugal is smaller than Lisbon, it has an excellent atmosphere and might even be a more fun place to hang around for a while.

So where to start? Well the Portuguese have this thing about building their cities on bloody great big hills. Lisbon is hilly and Coimbra is vertiginous but for some reasons I’d imagined Porto to be a flat little place. Not so. Exiting the Parisian-style São Bento train station in the middle of town, I was immediately struck by how hilly the place was in every direction. Porto was obviously designed to be a grand sort of place, but its charm is in the juxtaposition of intricately designed facades with the more run-down barrios and falling down buildings. In some ways the architecture is reminiscent of Melbourne’s older buildings, if Melbourne was lucky enough to have a genuinely French influence (as opposed to the slightly disingenuous “Paris-end” of the city). It is full of the same big, solid, stern looking grey buildings on wide boulevards, but also has an air of indifference and introversion that creates an interesting atmosphere. While the avenues are pretty and reminiscent of Paris, round a corner and the vista is suddenly distinctly Portuguese. The intricate yet sturdy iron-work of the bridge and elevadors, through to the uneven heights of the rooftops of the multi-coloured apartment blocks. Porto’s streets, like those of Lisbon, seem to reveal more and more as you look into them a little further, and the laneways and winding streets have a lot of character.

After a few hours of this wandering I found myself at the Igreja de São Francisco, a deconsecrated church in the Ribeira region of the city. It was amazing! While it’s pretty average on the outside (y’know, just your bog standard 400 year old gothic masterpiece!), the interior is excellent. Almost every centimetre of the walls and ceiling is covered in gold leaf. Apparently there’s 100 kg of gold leaf in the church, which is quite a bit if you think about it. I mean, my palatial Portuguese abode probably boasts less than 25 kg of gold leaf and I rule over a small fiefdom here in Aveiro, so the thought of four times that amount is rather exciting! Anyway – it’s all rather nice. The catacombs were OK too. Did you know that Portuguese didn’t have public cemeteries until the mid 19th century? It’s true. People (…meaning Catholics, …meaning everyone) were ALL buried inside churches until the sensible folk of this country decided in 1866 that this was not such a brilliant idea and stopped the practice altogether. nordicgreg.blogspot.com – entertaining AND informative! Well, informative. Sometimes…

All that leafy goldness made me hungry. Money hungry. Not being in possession of a bold plan for instantaneous über-wealth creation or even a spot of alchemy, I had to settle for lunch down by the Douro river. Happily, my new Portuguese favourite dish of peixe espada grelhada (that’s probably not how it should be spelled, but grilled swordfish is the food in question) was on the menu. Delicious. Doing things the Portuguese way, this lunch of mine lasted a good 2 hours and contained an unspecified quantity of the excellent house white wine. This all primed me nicely for my wander along the river taking some actually rather nice photos.

By mid afternoon it was time to head across the Vila Nova de Gaia, the separate but not actually separate town that sits across the river from Porto. Gaia is home to Porto’s biggest drawcard – Port. Yes, this is where the twenty or so Port houses that produce and export massive quantities of that sweeeeeet fortified wine are situated. It’s quite a sight, actually. A lot of the companies have their names emblazoned across the hillside in big white letters, a la the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles. The names seem incongruous for Portugal too, being as they are mostly old English names such as “Taylor’s”, “Cockburn” or “Croft”. The English, you see, were the people who plonked themselves down in this part of the world and decided to make a mass industry out of sweet wine. Port was actually developed by accident, when the Brits started adding brandy and grape juice to the wine they were exporting to Britain to help it last longer. Horrible technique, but great consequences, so we won’t dwell on their meddling too much. I took a tour at Taylor’s – the oldest of the wineries – and it was actually pretty informative. The tasting wasn’t too shabby either. I stopped by for a tasting at Croft too – not as good as Taylor’s, but hey, it was free. After a walk back through the insanely hilly Ribeira region to the station it was back to Aveiro for me. While there is still a bit of work to do in the next month, I hope I can get back to Porto to explore a bit more. An excellent city that I can highly recommend!

Weak become superheroes

2007-11-06T01:24:00.000+02:00

Aveiro isn’t necessarily the heart of Portugal’s underground music scene. In fact as far as I can tell it isn’t the heart of any music scene whatsoever. So it was a bit of a surprise that an EXCELLENT Spanish/French duo called Loser Superhero turned up to play a very good gig last Sunday night. In the small band room of Mercado Negro, Aveiro’s coolest bar, the guys (one guitar, one bass) played a short set while a projector looped old black and white images in the background a la the Cinematic Orchestra. The visuals were good but it was the music that was key. The sound can best be described as a bit like Godspeed! You Black Emperor!! crossed with Mogwai crossed with My Bloody Valentine. The hardworking little mac that accompanied the guys provided beats that veered between flamenco and harsher sounds reminiscent of Aphex Twin or µ-Ziq. All up it created a nice effect. The crowd of around 40 people or so seemed to enjoy it too. I spoke to the band after the gig and they were lovely guys. While they’re not ever going to get rich playing this kind of obscure music, I think it’s pretty nice that a my-space page and a bit of word of mouth publicity can lead to them having enough fans to leave Barcelona for a tour of Portugal. And it is good for Aveiro, which is a student city after all, to have something a bit more cutting edge than usual.

By the sea

2007-11-04T20:53:00.000+02:00

Aveiro’s underachieving second division footballing representatives are a blessed bunch. Firstly, they play in possibly the swankest stadium of any 2nd division team in the world – the gleaming new 35,000 capacity Municipal Estadio on the outskirts of town. It was built to host games in the Euro 2004 championships, but is something of a white elephant given that Aveiro’s only team can best be described as “challenged” when it comes to thing like kicking the ball and staying upright. It looks pretty interesting from the outside though. The locals describe it as “the circus” because of it’s bizarre, bright colours, but I kind of like it. It has character. Warped, carny character, but that still beats the library-meets-morgue “atmosphere” of Tampere’s stadium. Secondly, the club here has a nice name. And what is said name? Is it FC Aveiro? Is it Aveiro Athletic Futbal Club de Portugal? Não, those things it is not. Aveiro’s football team somehow ended up being rather charmingly called “S.C Beira Mar”, which translates as “Sporting Club By The Sea.” Nice, eh? Conjures up images of well-dressed, genial folk playing racquetball or riding penny-farthings. Lovely. It is totally misleading nomenclature of course. I presume that “Sporting Club By the Sulphur Smelling Swap” was already taken, because I aint be seeing no seas around here! Actually, the part of town across the canal from where I live is called Beira Mar, so the collective disillusion that Aveiro is a sea-side town is not only confined to its football denizens. It’s a large scale confidence trick being played on the residents, confused tourists, and foreign students alike!

So, it was with my Portuguese friend Sandra that we drove out to the edge of town to the circus-like stadium to see what the sea-siders could offer in terms of footballing prowess. You see despite languishing mid-tale in the Portuguese second division, Beira Mar are one of the nation’s yo-yo clubs – zinging around between the first and second divisions every other year. This means that as well as featuring a lot of young Portuguese players they also have a smattering of Brazilians and Cape Verde players left over from happier days. A long time ago Beira Mar had even been the club of Portuguese legend Eusébio, who spent his final footballing days here. So having been up in the top division last year, I’d hoped that some small vestiges of class and talent may have clung, barnacle-like, to the hull of this slowly sinking ship. And to some extent, yes, that was the case. To a tiny degree. More generally these guys were rubbish. From our brilliant row “A” seats, just behind the home dugout, we witnessed a first half featuring football so uninspired that a whole generation of muses slit their own throats in despair. Balls were played carelessly behind team-mates, players’ movement rivalled the pace of continental drift and the plentiful diving was so theatrical that if there’d been a plausible balcony or Danish castle nearby we’d have been forgiven for thinking we’d gone to see Shakespeare by accident. It was horrid. 0-0 at the break. Beira Mar’s opponents, Varzim, weren’t much better. Both teams were thoroughly booed off by the 4000 or so fans who’d made the effort to stop eating pastries for a few hours to come and watch this dross. Pleasingly the second half was much, much better. Beira Mar snapped into action, a Varzim player got sent off for diving, posts were hit, shots on goal were created and the players actually looked vaguely interested. We didn’t get any goals until the last 5 minutes, when both teams scored one each, but it did leave a much better impression of Portuguese football than the first half had. On the evidence of this game however, Beira Mar will be languishing in the lower divisions for a while. Aveiro and its circus stadium will not be short of clowns.

More and Faster

2007-10-29T15:27:00.000+02:00

Sunday morning in Lisboa

This weekend I went on a whirlwind tour of central Portugal, organised by the university. It took in five towns and cities, and while being pretty hectic, provided a fantastic view of these places that I could not have got to very easily on my own. Leaving rather too early on Saturday morning, our first stop was Nazarė. Portugal has quite a few places scattered along its central coast with some form of the word “Nazarė” in them. As far as I can tell it is to do with the belief that a statue of the Virgin Mary which was brought back from Nazareth and then promptly lost in the 4th century, was finally rediscovered here. Or at one of the other Nazarė-named places! What a thing to squabble about! In any case, Nazarė is a nice little place. It’s half fishing village, half low-key beach resort. It has sweeping beach views, lots of tiny little lanes, a funicular leading up to a cute town square, and more sun-dried sardines than all the cats in the country could even contemplate eating.

Next up was the medieval village of Óbidos, which is eerily similar to Dubrovnik in size, atmosphere and layout, if not volume of tourists. It’s like a postcard of one found its way to another and someone said “alright, we’ll have a bit of that thanks”! Óbidos is definitely more rundown than Dubrovnik – the city’s enclosing castle walls, for example, are without hand rails for the most part, and the rooftops and streets don’t sparkle and dazzle in the same way as the Croatian version. But it was certainly worth a brief visit. It’s quite a hard place to get to as well, making the trip with the uni group all the more handy.

Nazarė

Lunch was at a nice little place in Continental Europe’s westernmost city – Peniche. The food was great. Despite the tour-lunch bizarrely including some very average pork dish rather than the sensational fish that is caught so nearby, I did manage to nab some swordfish which was excellent. Really good. And vegetables too – what a treat that is in this country. Lunch tends to be a pretty boozy and long affair here in Portugal and this was no exception. Although we didn’t sit down to eat until after 3, it was after 5 by the time we made it out of the restaurant and over to the Cabo Carvoeiro. Cabo Carvoeiro is a pretty little peninsula which looks kind of similar to the Great Ocean Road in the Great Australian State of Greatoria. Spiky pillars of rock climbing out from the ocean, and inlet-dotted coast. It made me a little homesick to be honest. Given the day was spectacularly blue-skied and warm it was no problem at all to brave the winds out on this peninsula, starring out into the Atlantic.

Me, Emnet and Jason in Óbidos

By about 7:30 that evening we had finally made it to Lisboa. There was a pretty odd bit of programming which saw us have dinner in a suburban food-court. I suppose that was a, ahem, cultural insight of sorts, but not quite the one I was after! Entertainment for the evening saw us braving the sort of cheesy nightclub that I’m pretty certain The Crusades were fought against, and saw me survive a vicious opening gambit from the evil DJ that included not only the Grease mega-mix but the aural assault that is “It’s raining men”. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder. If you ever need advice on where not to go out in Lisbon, I can email you my three-part report entitled 'Shrug your shoulders indifferently for Detroit'.

The Carbo Carvoeiro near Peniche

Rising, and to a lesser extent, shining on Sunday morning, it was time to wander the old town. Lisbon has a slightly run-down charm. The classic old buildings, the Eiffel-designed elevator, the steep hills and the ever-present drug-dealers give it an interesting atmosphere. You’d certainly get fit walking round mountainous Lisboa on a regular basis! After a few hours of that, we were off to Belém, perhaps Lisboa’s most touristy district. Belém features not only the Jerónimos Monastery, the Discoverers Monument and the Belém Tower – all of which are pretty grand and interesting in their own way – but hosts the patisserie which produces the best nata in all of Portugal. Think of a nice crispy pastry shell and a warm custard filling. They give you your own mini-sachet of cinnamon and icing sugar to complete the effect. Brilliant, and just the thing to make braving the crowds seem worthwhile. Once again the weather was great, and the Belém monuments, which all sit by the river, had the great backdrop of a large yacht race.

Yachts sail past Belém Tower

Sunday afternoon saw us chilling out in the mountain town of Sintra. Like Lisboa, I had visited Sintra on my previous visit to Portugal in 2001. I’d remembered it as a stunning little place but this time I found it a little flat. It is insanely touristy – the winding little laneways are crammed beyond full with tourist tat and cafes. It is still a nice place in some ways, but perhaps the fact that everyone was pretty tired, and that the coldness set in that hour earlier as a result of the end of daylight savings, meant that the whole group seemed ready to leave sooner rather than later. And with that it was back to Aveiro. It was a very fast-paced trip to a lot of places, but I couldn’t think of a better way to see the four small towns that we went to. The next few weeks feature a lot of actual real-life 100% genuine quality STUDY, so there aren’t too many travels on the agenda. But for now, I have a weekend of good memories of central Portugal.

Left: The Discoverers Monument in Lisboa;

Right: Alley in Sintra

We're going to Ibiza

2007-10-25T18:48:00.000+02:00

Actually, we're not going to Ibiza. Well, I'm not, and no-one I know is planning on going. Are you going? If you are and haven't mentioned it to me I'd consider it rather rude, living as I am quite close to that part of the world. No, I'm not going to Ibiza but over this last year I have been subjected to an awful lot of Euro-pop. The "Barbie-girl" song lives on in Europe, along with an array of brain-numbing odes to things like umbrellas. There is one Euro-pop classic that transcends this malaise however. Beneath its veneer of mindless inanity, the lyrics yield a harvest of universal truths and insight that beggars belief. That heads so young and tanned could provide words so wise is inspiring for us all. So without further ado I bring you:

"We're going to Ibiza": a consideration.

Whoah! We're Going To Ibiza.

Whoah! Back To The Island.

Whoah! We're Gonna Have A Party.

Whoah! In The Mediterranean Sea

Ioh Ioh, Away Away!

Ioh Ioh, Away Away!

"We're Going to Ibiza" by the young post-colonial Flemish-Dutch pop group "Vengaboys" offers hope and inspiration to the disaffected youth of the world. In this song, the Vengaboys demonstrate an acute awareness of the inherent difficulties in assimilating nationhood, the go-ahead multicultural urban society and the universal dreams of the young. They are articulating the desire to unify the youth of Europe and the world in the face of adversity and to cast off the cultural deadweight of years of conflict, despair, hardship and nationalism of the late 20th century. In this entry I shall examine the subtly with which the Vengaboys reach through barriers of language, cultural experience and fashion retardation to enthrall the world with their song of triumph, hope and ultimately, freedom.

When the Vengaboys burst into song and exclaim "Whoah!", its a call to arms for young Europeans to throw off the cultural baggage that divides Europe on the sub-national political level and to embrace the universal youth zeitgeist of energy and freedom. "Whoah!" means the same to the Turkish political science student as it does to the insurance company secretary in Essex, and unites them in the bid to overcome cultural, linguistic and ethnic barriers in their search for freedom and well-being. "Whoah!" is the sign to stand up. "Whoah!" means that the wheel is turning. "Whoah!" means 'we have something to say world – you'd better listen." "We're Going to Ibiza" has now begun, and all who listen cannot help but be alert to this new message and new voice on the scene. The stage is set.

In demonstrating a political directness not often associated with Netherlandish dance music, the Vengaboys cut straight to the title of the song: 'We're going to Ibiza!". The "Ibiza" referred to in the title is, of course, not the Balearic island situated of the central east coast of Spain. No, "Ibiza" in this context means a place in the hearts of young Europeans in which the sun shines on the dancefloor of the soul and music resounds in the collective inner ear. This is a place where young people meet not in an orgy of physicality and movement to loud music, but rather meet in a consensus of empowerment, a spirit of unity, and a commitment to ideology. 'Ibiza' means freedom. 'Ibiza' means life.

But why 'Ibiza"? The answer is of course both obvious and obscure. In modern European culture, Ibiza represent accessible freedom and the casting off of inhibition. The drinking not just of pint of beer, but of glasses of tolerance and shots of empowerment. The Vengaboys are screaming that WE can achieve freedom, that WE can break the shackles and that WE too can metaphorically dance all night to uplifting repetitive house music. Ibiza perfectly represents that freedom and joy can be obtained by diverse groups, some of whom may not even know where within their hearts they are actually heading. More obscurely, the Vengaboys are paying homage to their roots as hard hitting pop agitators in the industrial heartland of Flanders and Zeeland, where in-between telling it how it is (and indeed, remains), they dreamt of spreading their message. With the Spanish near-conquest of post-medieval Holland in the mid 16th century fresh in their heavily pierced heads, they devised a plan to spread their message beyond their immediate urban ghetto. In a gesture of warmth and magnanimity that serves as a telling precursor to their later work, the Vengaboys embraced their would be oppressor and traveled to the warmth, sun and sand of Spain to reach out to their amigos and to dream of freedom together. The 'boys have dedicated themselves to reconciliation between these two regions of Young Europe ever since, and the concept of 'Ibiza" was born as a result.

The fact that the song states that "We're going" to Ibiza is an acknowledgement that we have not yet arrived at this blissful state of body and soul. Had we in fact attained this Nirvana, the song would more appropriately have been title "We've just been to Ibiza and we can highly recommend it as its quite ace". But its not called that. Ibiza is still something to be sought after and fought for. Other metaphoric holiday destinations may be passed through in transit - they are not the hub of youthful European hearts - but it is not until we have indeed arrived and are no longer "going" that the cultural barriers will be removed and the Vengaboys will be able to relax in their relentless mission of salvation. That moment is still several releases and possibly a Greatest Hits album away.

In the somewhat controversial second sentence of line 2 of the song, the 'boys refer to going "back to the island'. This phrase has caused consternation amongst academics for several years. To the question "Is Ibiza truly an island?" one can only help but answer an emphatic "No!". Ibiza is the very antithesis of islandom - it represent the bridging of raging seas and the ability to love other people in both a very physical and spiritual sense. Ibiza cannot be an island, as all are free to make the pilgrimage to its buoyant vitality and haven of freedom merely be embracing the Vengaboys anthem. It is landlocked by youthful love! By singing, and truly believing, that one is 'Going to Ibiza" one is instantly there. Therefore no, Ibiza is not the island being referred to. What then, does 'back to the island" actually mean? The island of this second line is of course all in the world that is not Ibiza! The Vengaboys reveal themselves not only to be a clarion call of hope and inspiration, but thoughtful and selfless pilgrims, willing to tirelessly return from Ibiza to the "island" of Europe, and indeed the entire world, to spread their message to those unable to hear their words of freedom! With the understanding that the Vengaboys have both attained "Ibiza" but have nevertheless deigned to leave this state to return to the "island", we can appreciate the true lyrical depth of this song, and the sacrifices they have made for us.

Next, after another invigorating "Whoah!", the Vengaboys invite us to a party! And what a party it will be! Here, the Vengaboys are unambiguously stating their support for a pan-European socially progressive political party to advocate for the rights of disaffected youth, internally misplaced peoples, and for the advancement of a single Young Europe. Interestingly, if the letters of this line are translated into the Vengaboys native tongue and rearranged, they read "Also, we'd rather not be in NATO if its all the same to you" – a clever signifier and restatement of their overtly pro-Europe and anti-American stance expressed in their early material (see Donaghue, G. "Boom Boom Boom – recurring themes in Netherlandish house and commercial dance" 2001). By inviting the newly liberated youth of Young Europe to become actively involved in the political process, the Vengaboys hope to use word of mouth, and repetition of phrase, to galvanize their audience and instigate revolution. So not only are we "Going to A Party" – the listen is invited to become the "Party".

The 'boys create yet further confusion through their reference to the "Mediterranean Sea" in the fourth line of the song. Some (see Deejay, Alice. "No seriously, this is just too much!" 2003) viewed this as a literalist red herring in an otherwise churning metaphorical ocean. But the wave that is this phrase crashes down with an important stabling effect on the remainder of the lyric. With audience in tow, freshly liberated from their staid cultural malaise and enlisted as Party members to spread the message of the Vengaboys, the song stoically prepares the listener for the inevitable come down that accompanies such self-questioning. "But how do I personally, as mere listener, return to the Island and invite people to the Party?". A strong heart is nothing without a network of veins and arteries, but the Vengaboys, as ever, remain several steps ahead. By recognizing that much of the world's historic migration had emerged from southern Europe, the 'boys are cleverly guiding their listeners to 'Migrate The Message' and spread the word of youth and freedom! While staunchly rejecting colonialist attitudes of the 14th through 21st centuries, but embracing multiculturalism through voluntary migration and open border policies, the Vengaboys are acknowledging the rich migration and exploratory tendencies of peoples from the Mediterranean region. They are using history to say "board a ship from Athens to Melbourne if you so desire, but please take with you an Ibiza of love and hope! Spread the word brothers and sisters. From Rome to New York, from Marseille to Hanoi, from Malaga to Tangier: leave no-one untouched by Ibiza!"

With the core of the message imparted, the Vengaboys change tact. By boldly proclaiming "Ioh Ioh, Away Away!" the Vengaboys have challenged those who would stand in their path, and have invoked a blunt chant of empowerment for use by their listeners. "Away imperialist government!" "Away stifling Nationalists!" "Away border guards – we are Young Europe!" Ioh Ioh. Away Away. This change of emphasis eases the listener into a proactive state, and provides respite from the complex political and sociological message of the first stanza. Careful to avoid overload, the Vengaboys move on.

The power and ultimate factor that elevates "We're Going to Ibiza" beyond pan-European political agit-pop sensation to a global movement of empowerment, is the judicious use of repetition to reinforce commitment to the attainment of 'Ibiza'. While youthful and invigorating, Vengaboys are mindful of the political tools of the past, and gleefully turn them upon their detractors. By sweeping the listener into a frenzy with their easily remembered and frequently repeated Nurumbergesque call to arms, the 'boys ensure that their message will remain imprinted upon the otherwise unseeing eyes of a Young Europe suffering a pandemic of overexposure to cliché and commercial manipulation. "Whoah!" they say – we're in town now. "Whoah! We're Going to Ibiza!"

In conclusion it is easy to see with even a casual glance that "We're Going to Ibiza" is one of the most important songs of contemporary times. A delve into the hidden surfaces and complex subtleties however reveals the song to be more message of empowerment than medium of enjoyment. "Ibiza", symbol of youth and freedom, is the thing which we all seek, if we have the courage to try. Daring to vocalise the pressing needs of Young Europe to go to Ibiza, to then go back to the Island, to be a part of a Party, and then to spread that message throughout the world is a colossal task. Luckily for us, the Vengaboys are a colossal band.

Time Gregum Transeuntum Et Non Riverentum... to Coimbra.

2007-10-19T14:32:00.000+02:00

I was called to visit the city of Coimbra, so I took a train down. The wind blew hard, not unlike an elephant. I was searching for the secrets of the university. Rather than rounding up students and forcing me to tell them what it all meant; tying them to trees, breaking them down one by one. I merely walked around as the sun shone through the trees.

On a scrappy blog I wrote these words: “Dread the passage of Greg, for he will not return… to Coimbra”.

I headed back to the civilian world, leaving the university behind - head spinning with all the knowledge above. Somewhere, somehow I lost the verve of Coimbra along the way. When I got tired I bought myself some coffee. I bought a beer that I did not need. I plagiarised Nick Cave and morphed his singing words. As I heard the mournful student song – the fado of broken worlds.

There, the streets they are all angled wrong. Alongside sun-struck courtyards where the people learn. Yet still the blog takes tangents, weird and long. “Dread the passage of Greg, for he will not return… to Coimbra”.

Nick Cave - Time Jesum Transientum Et Non Riverentum Lyrics
We were called to the forest,
and we went down.
A wind wind blew warm and eloquent,

We were searching for the secrets of the universe,
we rounded up demons and forced them
to tell us what it all meant.

We tied them to trees,
and broke them down, one by one.
On a scrap of paper they wrote these words:

(And as we read them, the sun broke,
through the trees.)

"Dread the passage of Jesus, for he will not return"
More Nick Cave Lyrics...

Ritual devo habitual

2007-10-17T21:01:00.000+02:00

The students here in Aveiro love their rituals. I’ve already written about the serenata and the student tuna bands, but there is a lot more to the student rituals that occur here. Being a student town the students are always pretty visible, but no more so than the second year students, who dress pretty damn snazzily. Second year students at the Universidade de Aveiro are allowed to shell out for special formal black suits and a badge/patch adorned cape, which gives them licence to inflict pain and humiliation on the semi-willing first years. The look they sport is a little similar to that of a bunch of Harry Potter obsessives let loose on an unsuspecting populace. They’re not cheap outfits either, but most of the second years seem willing to splash the cash to get into the spirit of the rituals. I’m sure a psychologist could have a field-day analysing the allure of these outfits, but to my untrained eye it appears the opportunity that the outfits gives to inflict humiliation is the single biggest drawcard. And that is where the mob mentality kicks in…

This whole hazing process is rather drawn out. It’s been going on since before I arrived here, which is nearly a month ago now. From the moment the students register at the university they are subject to the various whims of their Potteresque keepers. The range of molestations the newbies are subjected to is quite varied, and depends a little on which faculty they belong to, and therefore which group of second years is devising their initiation. Sometimes the first years might be drawn or written upon, sometimes forced to sing and chant, or perhaps jump like a kangaroo (they did that for my benefit – how touching!). But other times the activities are a bit harsher, and in my eyes… sinister! You see on occasion the Potters let themselves get a it over excited, and make the first years assume semi-tortuous poses of a kind last seen in “The Road to Guantanamo” or your nearest USA-sponsored internment camp. Then there are the dunking in ponds, and other messier forfeits. Things like blowing an egg down a road and drinking insane amounts of beer might be fun for a little while, but if the rumours of what happens later into the night are true also, then the whole ritual seems a little more unsavoury and degrading. To be fair most of the students seem to enjoy the whole thing, but neither is it too uncommon to come across a bunch who look like the fun has long since worn off and they’d rather be just about anywhere else.

Today is the culmination of the last month’s hazing events – the baptism of the first year students (see the bottom photo). This involves much singing and chanting, and of course, the interface of student with water. It will no doubt go on and on into the early hours of the morning (which here means 6 or 7 am) but hopefully after today the whole tedious process will be over. Fun’s fun and all that, but really, a month of hazing is surely enough and they can all move on a bit with the year now. I know I sound like a grumpy old bastard, but hey, if the shoe fits! Aveiro is as I said a student town, but I’m craving the opportunity now to experience it without the extreme antics of the younger students. With a bit of luck the rituals, from the harmless to the more sinister, will now be over.

Million tiles

2007-10-11T16:50:00.000+02:00

Portugal is a country of many tiles. Decorating houses, walls, street-signs - wherever I look I see azulejos, glazed blue and white tiles. While these azulejos are by no means unique to Aveiro, they are particularly prevalent here. Aveiro is a windy little city that sits right by the Atlantic. Given that two if its major industries are salt production and seaweed harvest (yes, it smells as bad as it sounds when the wind changes!), the tiles serve a useful purpose here too. All that salt and wind means that painting a house here is about as useful as trying to sell solar panels in Texas, so the locals use azulejos to cover their walls instead. Keeps the house cool and requires minimal upkeep. Genius… except for the fact that the little buggers fall off from time to time!

Given that Aveiro’s major selling points are the fact that it is a cute place (undisputable), that it has good food (undisputable), and that it has access to excellent and pleasingly cheap wine (absolutely undeniably, unconditionally true!), it’s nice to see something so different lining the streets around town. It’s these tiles, the canals and the slower pace of life which distinguish Aveiro from many of the other places I’ve been during this last year or so.

The purple prose of Aveiro

2007-10-06T18:56:00.000+02:00

Well, it wasn’t actually Deep Purple, and technically it wasn’t in Aveiro either, but there was a show, there was singing and dammit THERE WAS PROSE, and that’s got to count for something, right? You try shoe-horning Woody Allen references into your blog titles- it isn’t easy! Hiding to nothing if you must know, but In any case Friday night saw me in the nearby town of Gafanha de Nazare to see a local 70s rock cover band at work. Not my normal way to spend a Friday, but when in Portugal, one must do as the Portuguese do, which means forget your Fado or traditional music, forget your piri-piri chicken and port wine, and bring on the smokey bar, cheap beers, and the extended drum solo. In Portugal it actually is 1973 sometimes and there’s no point in trying to resist!!!! In Gafanha on a Friday partying is all about this cover band, so with my no little glee I jumped at the chance to check out the scene. Although I don’t know the name of the band, I’m hoping it is something like “Smoke on the Water” or “Hey João” – straight-forward and to the point. But I digress. This unknown band was actually pretty good! As they whipped through a set of Deep Purple, Santana, Hendrix et al I felt an overwhelming desire to end the war in Vietnam, where brown corduroy trousers, and to you know, peace-out. Man. It had everything. One band member had a bit of a perm. One looked like a slightly friendlier Tony Soprano. Their version of “Black Magic Woman” featured a pair of tediously democratic bass and drum solos, but even that couldn’t dampen my spirits too much. They seemed like nice guys too, chatting with their mates in the crowd in between their three sets.

Anyway, it can’t all be about drum solos and screeching guitars. Soon the proper uni work will start to kick in a bit. I’m changing my thesis topic, which requires a bit of effort, and have to find a thesis supervisor. My scheduled 4 hours of Portuguese classes this week resulted in only 15 minutes of teaching, but that should change this week and I might start learning the language beyond my current shoddy level. I also want to travel a little bit – Porto and Coimbra are both easy day-trips, and going back to Lisbon (where I was briefly in late 2001) would also be good. As for now though, I’ve enjoyed seeing a slightly secret and distinctly non-touristy part of Portugal.

Supercostanova

2007-10-05T16:12:00.000+02:00

Thursday saw we Erasmus Mundus students happily surprised by a trip to three of the beaches that are nearby Aveiro. The international office decided that by way of orientation we should be treated to a little trip and some lunch, given that most of us had arrived too late to participate in the general Erasmus welcome and orientation. So with the weather gods deciding to halt the rain that has been pouring down all week, it was early that we set of to the beaches of Vigeura (well, it was called something like that), Costa Nova and Barra. These are all pretty nice long, sandy beaches, which makes a nice change from the rocks and pebbles I’ve seen during the summer. These are really Aveiro’s beaches. While Aveiro is sought of located by the sea, a big storm in the 17th century deposited huge piles of silt out to see, which in turn blocked of the natural coast line, which has turned what would have been Aveiro’s seafront into a gigantic swamp. Which smells. So when the locals want to go and gaze into the Atlantic while being blasted by cold winds, it is (primarily) Costa Nova and Barra to which they head.

Costa Nova is quite nice. There’s a small town there, with rows of vertically striped buildings, little cafes, and some of the best nata (Portuguese tarts) in the country. Barra is a little more built up, but it was the venue for a fantastic lunch, put on by the university. Delicious grilled meats, plenty of wine, and even some seafood. Even some champagne, which was a nice and unexpected touch! It set us up nicely for the night ahead. Thursday night is party night in Aveiro, as many students leave the town on Friday afternoon to return home to their respective family in other parts of the country. So partying has to be done other than on the weekend. This particular Thursday night was one of the biggest of the year, falling as it did during the commencement party week. The party mostly happens out on the street as the bars spill over. There was an allegedly horrible Portuguese boy-band playing in a big marquee, but I gave that a miss and stayed in the various bars until some ungodly hour. I have little option but to stay out celebrating however, as my window faces the centre of town and gets just about ALL the bass from the temporary stage that has been set up for the raucous students. It should quieten down a little after this week, which will be good for me as at some point or other I will actually have to sleep!!

Fine string serenade

2007-10-01T00:46:00.000+02:00

The serenata is a nice student tradition in Portugal. The serenade in question is a song to the city of Aveiro itself, performed by the students of the Tuna bands – traditional groups of about 12-15 boys or girls who sing sort of folky ballads. It’s a sort of gift from the students to the city and last Sunday night, the eve of the commencement of the academic year, was the occasions for this year’s serenata in Aveiro. Thousands of students and locals lined the canals to watch the bands sing from the deck of a couple of the gondola-type boats that line the banks.

I obviously don’t understand the lyrics but the general consensus was that most of the lyrics are about girls getting the boy, boys getting the girl, and everybody getting the wine. What you’d expect really. The outfits are not bad either. All throughout the last few weeks the streets have been filled with the rather noticeable sight of the second-year university students wandering around in fall academic garb. This consists of black suits with huge patch-adorned robes. The patches can represent anything – from flags to hobbies, beliefs and religion to beer and football. But it makes for quite a site. The students wear the robes out of pride at no longer being first-year students, and also because they can only dish-out hazings to the first years while they themselves are wearing their robes. The kids in the Tuna bands wear their robes and jazz it up a bit with funky hats or other accessories, making it all look rather impressive.

In my room

2007-09-27T19:25:00.000+02:00

The saga of finding accommodation here in Aveiro is finally over. When last I wrote I was on the verge of signing up for a nice but expensive apartment and had the dubious fall-back position of accepting a place in the univeristy student residence. Things have changed. The nice apartment fell through due to a dodgy contract, and about 3 hours at the student residence cured me of any delusions that I could have any sort of decent time staying there. So, with a little mre pressure to find something decent it was with what you could called renewed vigour that I hit the notice boards yet again in search of a decent room. I found some new adds and this time got the assitance of a Portugese friend to make phone calls to potential landlords on my behalf. The results were staggeringly different to when my Brazilian friend had helped. This time 70% of the places called responded positively, and all of a sudden I had 5 appointments to look at rooms. Was this because I got lucky, or was it because the landlords don't like Brazilians? I can't be certain by I definitely have my suspicions.

I ended up taking the first room I saw - the top floor of a split level apartment near the centre of town. My landlord lives downstairs in the bottom level of the apartment with his dog, Balthazar. There is a kitchen and lounge I can use down there, and upstairs I have my own bedroom, terrace and bathroom. The walk to the centre of town is 5 minutes along the main canal, along little bridges and with great old buildings all around. There is a surprisingly upmarket shopping centre a few minutes further away, as well as the older part of the town on the other side of the canal, where there are winding streets and the small shops, cafes and bars you would expect in Portugal. Near the centre is the fish-market, which while still being a market during the day, become the party centre of the town at night. I've also found some excellent low-key places where I can imagine chilling out. Internet access at my house is erratic at best, so finding nice places in town where I can use wireless connections is a good thing! And then finally there is the view. From my little enclosed terrace I look down along the canal, past palm trees and old buildings. They call it the "Venice of Portugal", but really there aren't THAT many canals, so having a view of one is great. Check out the view in the top and bottom photos.

As far as the university is concerned, I think that will be OK. It is only about 15 minutes walk to the uni, and closer to some parts of it. I should start classes some time next week. I've signed up for Portuguese lessons, which will be necessary as my landlord/housemate speaks some English, but not a lot. My other classes may be in turmoil, as the coordinating professor of this course sadly died of cancer last July. So I anticipate some confusion and the like in the first few weeks. The university is also pretty relaxed - as are the Portugese people in general. The culture here is quite different from the Spanish - more subdued for sure - but the Portuguese still have the same culture of "manyana" (tomorrow, tomorrow - everything can be done tomorrow) and things generally happen quite slowly. I can get used to that I think!

Way Out West

2007-09-23T22:37:00.000+02:00

After much messing about in the more eastern and northerly parts of Europe, I've finally arrived in Aveiro, Portugal. After a relaxing week in London and 12 weeks of travels prior to that, it was with a dose of reality that I arrived here on Wednesday night. I now have some another culture and language to try and learn, and some serious study to do. Ali and Jo are already here in Aveiro, making me transition much easier. They met me at the station and took me to the youth hostel where I spent my first three nights. After managing to avoid crappy "Hostel International" hostels throughout my travels, I unfortunately got stuck with a really terrible one here. Institutional atmosphere, disgusting bathrooms, and the classic old-skool 12:00 pm - 6:00 pm lockout. It's like something from the mid 1980s, and is a practice that belongs in some sort of artsy museum installation only! The inherent shiteness of the place wasn't too traumatic though, as my only priority for the first few days is finding a place to live. Which has proved, and could potentially still be proving, bloooooooooooooooody difficult.

The university has helped out with my housing problem to a degree. They have assigned me a "buddy" (called Heber) who has tirelessly helped me in my house-hunting endeavours, albeit with limited success. Most rooms are rented via room-available ads posted around the university, but others are placed on the apartments themselves, meaning some leg work is required. Unfortunately for me, many Portugese students arrived a lot earlier than I did (although we Erasmus Mundus students were told not to arrive until 20 September), meaning lots of rooms have been snapped up. We walked around the entire town about 3 times and my "buddy" made about 35 calls to apartments which lead to only two viewings! I got a little concerned, because with so few rooms available, my plans to have a great, central apartment were rapidly evaporating. Eventually, late Friday, I saw an apartment rented by an agent, which was great. It's expensive for Portugal, but is rather nice and is in a decent location, so I'd be happy to get it. Unfortunately, agent-let apartments come with a contract. In Portugese. The university warned me not to sign anything without them checking it first, so tomorrow the university will tell me whether my contract is kosher or not. Fingers crossed. If that doesn't work out the head of the international office has reserved me a room at the student residence, which I hadn't previously realised was an option. I'm not too keen on that, but it is a fall-back so I shan't complain. I would have been very much stuck without the help of Heber, so kudos to him. He also introduced me to some more people and got me invited to dinner with a bunch of Portugese people on my second night here, which was lovely.

It hasn't all been house-hunting. There was a surprise orientation session (the timing of which is unfortunate for the 15 out of 18 Erasmus Mundus student who are not here yet), and a tour of the uni. During orientation, the hundred or so international students all had to introduce themselves by stating their name and country. I was one of the last to introduce, and my announcement that I'm from Australia actually earned me a cheer from the crowd! I had to literally take a bow! Most of the interntional students are from Spain, Brazil or Poland, and it was interesting that of the students here so far (and there are quite a few more to come) that I am the only native English speaker. I'm amazed that there are no North Americans, British or Irish here, although obviously my two colleagues from the US will change that in a few weeks. No Scandinavians (apart from Jo) or Dutch either, which is unusual. With the hard work of house-hunting sort of over on Friday night, it was first to Jo's place (which is really nice) and then out to m first Portugal student party. Good fun and nice to get back into the swing of student life again. Unfortunately I awoke with a hangover on Saturday morning to discover my hostel was now booked solid and I was sans room for the next two nights. Jo is putting me up in her spare room thankfully, and has given me the chance to have a stress-free weekend. All I need now to start settling into Portugese life is for the house situation to be rsolved happily tomorrow, and to FINALLY lay down some roots some 3 months since leaving Finland.

On a practical, blog-related note, all the photos for the trip are now updated. That means they're mine. So I can claim credit for them all now, good and bad.

Summer's gone

2007-09-18T11:08:00.000+02:00

With so many places visited over the summer and occasionally limited blogging time, I thought it might be good to reflect on my travels. Draw a few things together, comment on the best times, the most interesting experiences, and end it all with an incisive and frankly intellectually intimidating observation on the nature of central European societies, the role of the traveller in influencing the development in rural Germanic communities or why it is so difficult to get a decent tasting beer in Poland. Or I'll just end with elipses like I usually do - I haven't decided yet...

In any case, the trip took in a huge variety of landscapes and cultures, local cuisines and fascinating history. Most of it was great. I'd researched quite a few of the places and mostly they turned out to be as good as I'd hoped. But of course some of the most memorable times are when random, unexpected things occur. So below is a summary of the good, the not so good and the weird.

Best restaurant
A few contenders here, particularly as my trip moved towards its end. Honourable mention to Szana in Krakow, Menza in Budapest (see above) and Krcma v Satlavske in Cesky Krumlov, but the two best stood apart. Both were birthday-related. First, there was Cul de sac in Krakow, which I described at length in an earlier post. Great food, excellent waiters and a really nice room to boot! It got rave reviews and it lived up to them. The wine could have been better, but given we were drinking by the glass the options were limited and the dessert wine was sensational, that is a small complaint. Dinner number two was just a few days ago. Vanessa took me out for a belated 30th birthday meal and it was breath-takingly good. Hakkasan is the name of the restaurant, just of Tottenham Court Road here in London. It was traditional Chinese food and everything from the cocktails through to the duck salad starter, jasmine-tea chicken and stir-fry beef mains, and chocolate dessert was top notch. I was quite spoilt!

Strangest events
There were the over-dressed evangelical Christians packing out the Nurnberg football stadium, the night-time finals of a world-championship kyaking competition in Ljubljana and Bobby Farrell from Boney M turning up in Cluj. Nothing outrageous, but a welcome change from the usual backpacker routines.

Favourite place
Loket, in the Czech Republic. A tiny little village of 3000 people, few tourists, friendly people, good restaurants, secluded riverside walks, beautiful buildings and some intangible, special atmosphere that makes me want to go back. It was a little cold, but nothing stops Loket as being my favourite place on this trip.

Best view

There were plenty of castles and palaces, crumbling buildings and churches, mountains and sunsets, but the best view was the simple one in the photo at the top of the page. It is a photo of the Danube river, where it forms the border between Slovakia and Austria, at Devin castle just outside of Bratislava. Dasa and I had been wandering around the city and climbing the castle in 30 degree heat all day, and the pleasure of sitting under a tree with a beer watching this late afternoon view was my favourite.

Least favourite place
This one is a three-way tie. Sopron, the rainy, cold and uninspiring town in Hungary. Zakopane, the tourist-trap of southern Poland, with too much tack and not any real substance. And Bremen, the simply not so interesting city in northern Germany.

Ugliest building
This little treasure (below) from the not so pretty part of Olomouc takes the cake!! Architecture in its darkest day. Many would pick the estates of Bratislava, but I think of it fondly, so nah - Olomouc's answer to the Eiffel Tower wins the ugliest building award.

Best Detour

Criss-crossing Germany to make sure I could meet up with friends was a great idea. It gave me more time in Dresden (which I loved) and then lead to a great weekend in Leipzig staying with three lovely Germans. A nice little detour, which finished with my mate Sandra driving us down the autobahn at 165 km per hour en route to the Czech Republic. Great fun!!

Best evening hanging out with three lovely Romanians and a spritely 3 month old German Shepherd puppy?
Cluj.

And there we have it. A few high and lowlights of three months in central Europe. I of course don't have any real insights to offer. It is a diverse region and I experienced a wide range of things. I suppose if anything the trip taught me even more about how big Europe is. I've seen a pretty fair chunk of it now, and the more I see the more I realise that it contains so much contrasting history. Each country I visited has, within the last century, been divided up, conquered, beaten down, redrawn or partitioned. I spent pretty decent amount of time with people of German, Hungarian, Czech, Slovak and Austrian backgrounds, and talking to them was perhaps the most interesting part of my travels. Hearing about cities being traded between victorious powers is one thing, but then seeing these actual places and (sort of) understanding that this is all so recent and real is a different experience altogether. I suppose that the seven countries I visited were at the centre of several huge empires, two world wars and god knows how many other conflicts. Starting in Dubrovnik, the site of such a recent war, and ending in the hills surrounding Vienna, where the Ottoman empire was faced down, was a reminder of just how many different cultures and people share this relatively small area.

I think it is probably true that people crave on their holidays what they don't have at home, and it is this diversity of cultures and incredibly rich history that I loved the most. Even more than the admittedly beautiful countryside. And while I can't imagine wanting to do another 3 month backpacking trip, I would highly recommend a visit to central Europe.

My wandering days are over

2007-09-13T13:21:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I arrived back in London, a home away from home during this two years in Europe, where I can relax and recharge the batteries. My final stop was Vienna. I'd visited Vienna before in January 2000, and it had... meant nothing to me, it meant nothing to me, ooooooh Vienna. Sorry about that - had to be done. But it's true - Vienna had struck me then as sterile, cold and a little dull. A life size museum piece that was nice to look at but ultimately unengaging and lifeless. I'm glad I've been back though, because this time around I very much enjoyed myself. It was still quite cold and wet - not as bad as Sopron though - but the chance to stay with my friend Kathi and her family really made the trip. Their hospitality was incredible! I was cooked delicious schnitzel and traditional Viennese foods. Kathi and her father took me to the beautiful wine-growing region of Grinzing and Sievering in the north of Vienna, where Wolfgang, Kathi's dad, gave me a history lesson and we drank early season wine in a Heurigen (a traditional wine tavern). I also finally made it out to the Schönbrunn, the Habsburg's summer palace, which has brilliant gardens. Sitting having a coffee at the Gloria monument overlooking the palace and the gardens as the storm clouds rolled in was rather nice.

I didn't really go back to the centre of the city, but to be honest that was fine. Before staying with Kathi I had met up with my friend Liz from Plzen who was also down in Vienna and we had wandered around the nice buildings of the Ring Road, and visit some bars. So overall I now have a much better view of Vienna. The people were lovley (although Kathi insists that is just a cover, and that they are actually incredibly rude!) the bars were great and I saw a warmth to the place that i had missed last time. But despite all that it is good to be finished after 13 weeks of travel and to just sit and relax again.

Rugged up (with books)

2007-09-06T11:53:00.000+03:00

Where has the summer gone? I don't mean metaphysically - I'm not having some crisis of confidence wondering whether my travels have been a fruitless and frankly pointless waste of time, and wishing to have my time over to open a cafe or write poetry. No, I am asking "where has the summer, with its promise of sun and warmth, of wandering around in shorts and getting sunburnt, of cooling down under trees with a beer, of feeling drained just by moving a single muscle, gone." Wherever it has absconded to must be a long, long way from Sopron, Hungary. The weather here is inspiring poetry in my chilled bones - new ways to describe "shite"; new depths of analysis of what "windy" can entail. It really is that poor. Considering that it is the first week of September, and that this is Europe, I feel entitled to expect a ray or two of sunny warmth during daylight hours. Instead, I have felt rain stinging my face, wind blowing me off course, and air so cold even a snoman might find it a tad crisp. Yesterday the temperature reached the heady heights of 9 degrees, but it was already as low as 6 by 2:30 in the afternoon. It also rained for about 30 hours solid. Today it is still raining, AND we have the delight of a top of 8 degrees to bask in. This is the first week of September. This is Hungary. This is my summer holiday. It's enough to make Finland look appealing, and I woulsn't ever say that lightly.

The number of things to do in Sopron when it is raining is only narrowly outnumbered by the number of things to do in Sopron when it isn't raining, but outnumbered it is. On the face of it, this should be an interesting place. Smack bang on the border with Austria, this is an old Hungarian town, featuring lots of medieval buildings (the Turks never made it this far north), interesting history and so on and blah blah. But for the life of me I can't get into it. It's old section meanders around, but it is not particularly beauitful or striking. There are a few nice courtyards here and there. The parks are small, the gardens are limp. There is a creek. It is not a great creek. It is a dirty creek. I do not like the creek. But while the weather is undoubtedly making me grumpy, I do think the town is pretty light-on with regards to exciting attractions and interest-grasping exhibits. With the weather as it is, the appeal is even more limited. Almost all movies are dubbed. Internet cafes are in short supply and rather expensive. And thus it has happened that my only fun way to spend my time has been to consume books and wine - in plentiful amounts, but not necessarily in that order. There are no English newspapers in town, so it has been with reluctance that I've had to splurge on over-priced English books in the town's one decent bookstore. I have had a chance to finally read DBC Pierre's Vernon God Little, which is excellent, and I picked up a Nick Hornby edited collection of short stories from the likes of Zadie Smith, Irvine Welsh and Colin Firth (?!? - is there more than one Colin Firth, or does he write too??). The wine has been great. More Tokaij at a decent pub I found, and bottles of Kékfrankos (some of which comes from the Lővér Pince winery, situated about 11 metres from my youth hostel) and the very tasty Egri Bikavér, better known as Bull's Blood. These books and this wine has helped me to at least partially enjoy an ultimately rather average time in Sopron. The youth hostel hasn't helped - it is a souless, institutional place on the outskirts of town, but it was my only option as the pensions were all full. Soon I leave for Vienna which will hopefully be more fun, and a hell of a lot warmer.

Me, Cluj and somebody I know

2007-09-03T20:52:00.000+03:00

Strange things can happen in Transylvania. Strange things indeed. One can be wandering through the leafy back streets, admiring the complex remains of an interesting shared Romanian/Hungarian history, taking in the relaxed atmoshpere and enjoying the vibe, when events so random as to be straight out of a very odd film can take place. And so it was last weekend in Transylvania's biggest city, Cluj-Napoca.

On Friday evening, after meeting up with Zsuzsa, my friend from Finland and Cluj-Napoca resident, we went for a walk. Zsuzsa showed me some of the interesting statues, buildings and churches, and took me past the university buildings. It was then that we heard a concert going on and poked our head inside, but seeing nothing, walked on. A minute later we ran into a school-friend of Zsuzsa, and we were informed that the concert we had heard distantly in the university auditorium was by none other than the former lead "singer" of Boney M, Mr Bobby Farrell! Yes, Mr Boney M was putting on a performance and it was free! Who could resist the opportunity to see a small scale concert by such a disco luminary?? So it was without a second thought that around we turned, to crash the gig and see what we could see. Sure enough, in a 1/3 filled auditorium, Bobby Farrell was doing his thing with a 10-piece band. He played some soul, he threw out a new track, and then, in the undisputed musical highlight of my trip, ripped into "Rivers of Babylon". Excellent!! Oh how we danced. There is a little video clip I recorded below. Now, you might think that a washed up former disco star playing a gig in Cluj is not THAT strange, and you'd be right. But why was he in Cluj? Why was he playing a gig in a uni hall? Why, he was there to promote the Romanian government's new policy of deducting an additional 2% super-annuation surcharge from salaries of course!!! I mean WHY ELSE would he be there!! I kid you not - Boney M's lead singer now does concerts on behalf of governments wishing to promote particularly unpopular financial policies!! What a life. The man himself, having finished the gig and leapt off stage, was bounding back on for an encore when he was cut off by the erection of an overhead projector screen so that a powerpoint presentation on superannuation could occur. You couldn't make this stuff up. I see it as the future of public policy innitatives in Australia. Wheel out an old singer (I'm now thinking John Farnham could add a whole new string to his bow), get him/her to whip through some classic hits and then talk finance for a few hours! Genius!!! Happily we slipped away before the powerpoint presentation began, past the disapproving stares of the crowd, and avoided the sermon on super. Very strange!

Now Cluj is not ALL about disco. There is the interesting history (back and fourth between Romanian and Hungarian rule), the lovely architecture, the brilliantly friendly people, the unique culture and the delicious food. Over the course of the four nights I stayed, not only was Zsuzsa a fantastic host, but I went to visit her brother and his wife, where we played cards and drank excellent alma (apple) and szilva (plum) flavoured Palinka (a sort of schnapps), I was shown all overt the city and told about the many famous people who had lived or been born in Cluj. For instance, Mattias, of the statue and church in Budapest castle fame, was born right near the centre of Cluj. The cemetary is full of famous Hungarian writers and intellectuals too. I suppose my impressions of Cluj were biased towards the Hungarian side of things, as Zsuzsa is part of the Hungarian minority in Cluj (or Kolozsvar, as it is known in Hungarian). But I did try and sample some treaditional Romanian delights, such as the amazing dessert that is Papanas (too good to explain!) and did my best to speak a word or two of Romanian every now and again.

I think it was an interesting time to visit Cluj too. I am certain it will change very soon. While Romania is still a very poor country, Cluj is its wealthiest city. It has a certain energy about it, several big universities, and is the geographically closest big Romanian city to the powerhouses of central Europe like Budapest and Vienna. It looks very well poised to take advantage of the opportunities that Romania joining the EU will bring - already international companies are setting up in Cluj, hoping to utilise the relatively cheap labour market and the multi-lingual locals. The population is interesting too. I knew before I cam that Romanian was a Latin language, but I wasn't prepared for the people to look and sound so southern European! Seriously - they drive like Italians, look like Italians and sound like a cross between Italian and French. The coffee is great and the pastries are plentiful! It is like a little slice of the south of Europe has been transplanted. And that is before even considering the Hungarians, who make up a large minority in Cluj and other parts of Transylvania. It is an interesting mix. Lots more people than I expected spoke some English, and Hungarian and Deutsch are common too. I can't see how with all of this as a basis to start from that Cluj (and indeed Transylvania, if not Romania as a whole) will become something of a boom town in the next 10-15 years. It was interesting talking to Zsuzsa's brother Hunor about my conceptions of Romania. It seems that Transylvanians, like all Romanians, suffer from many stereotypes abroad. People assume it is a dangerous country, full of Roma, full of crime and light on the happier side of life. This couldn't be less true, and I'm glad I've now seen at least a small slice of this country for myself.

For the moment though there are plenty of reminders that this is still very much an Eastern Europe. As I left Cluj this mornig on a 5:00 train through the pre-sunrise countryside, a very simple side of life was revealed. Horse and cart mingled with semi-trailers. Mist was broken by the occasional burning pile of rubbish. Old men on bicycles moved slowly through the lanes. Romania may well be in the EU now, but it remains a world away in some respects. Hopefully it can retain it charms while giving the people new opportunities and freedoms.

Infamous Pest

2007-08-30T12:04:00.000+03:00

Pest and Buda, Buda and Pest. This huge monster of a city, with its loud traffic and busy footpaths, is my current home. After the relatively subdued surrounds of Slovakia, Budapest seems like a thriving metropolis full of almost too much life and energy. I like it here a lot, but I haven't been completely blown away by my time here. That is not to say that my days haven't be filled with fantastic things - they have - but I haven't had that inexplicable feeling of excitment coupled with satisfaction that this Budapest has become one of my most favourite places. I think my problem is tiredness. I am officially tired. This can be refelected in the fact that my happiest times here have been in the Turkish thermal baths and in cafes and restaurants, eating goulash soup and drinking local red wine and tokaij. The baths were pretty much my first destination. after arriving lateish on Monday evening, I found my lovely little hostel. This one really is a good'un! I am staying in the "Zen" room, complete with candles, low lighting, chinese walls, etc. Very soothing. But on Tuesday morning I had no inclination to muck about with castles or sights - I wanted a thermal soaking endulgence. And that's what I got. Although rather pricey, the baths were well worth it. i got the use of two huge spas/baths of different remperatures, the swimming pool, another spa, a steam room and a plunge pool. I went to the Gellert baths which are apparently the oldest and most famous, sitting as they are inside a rather grand old hotel. the architecure of the baths is just as it should be - big arches, old tiles, mosaics and the like. There is onlt so much time one can soak in public though, so two hours at the baths was enough for me.

My other favourites moments have had to do with my tastebuds! Quite a shock - Greg interested in his food and drink! Hungary has pretty good options for both of these things, so I have allowed myself plenty of time to sit in cafes reading newspapers and drinking a nice local red wine, a Sangiovese or, when I am feeling extra indulgent, a glass of absolutely sumptuous Tokaij (and yes, I will use pretentious local spelling whenever I can!!). Yesterday I had a quite sublime lunch at a great restaurant championed by, unbelievably, Lonely Planet. Normally their food recommendations are so shooking as to constitute black comedy, but this time they got it right. The place was called Menza, and along with funky 70s brown decor, served brilliant Golays (Goulash - see, I did it again!) which incidentally is a soup here rather than a stew, veal stew and excellent house wine. Delicious!

In amongst all this eating and sitting around, I have actually seen some of the rest of the city. I went to the castle, which I found impressive despite my severe bout of castle fatigue. The Mattias Church and the Fishermen's Bastion were highlights, despite the driving rain that started while I was there. Earlier I went to the Szobor Park (Statue Park) which features a collection of old soviet-era statues that were rounded up once the iron curtain fell. I walked the many cool streets and sqaures, including Andrassy street, Heroes square, Lizst Ferenc square, Vaci street and others. So while I have not been completely lazy, not could I say I have been altogether busy. A nice balance I suppose. In about an hour I head off on a far too long train trip to Romania. I'm very excited about that. Not the train trip mind - the destination. Then I will be back in Budapest for a night, giving me the chance to reassess my opinion on the city.

Slovaki Ace Nation

2007-08-27T20:49:00.000+03:00

Slovakia is quite a place. Beautiful scenery, nice towns, mercifully few tourists, awesome castles, Bratislava and loooooooong bus rides come to mind. It really engaged me as a country and I'm a little sad that circumstance dictated that I move on quite quickly.

First stop was the little east Slovakian town of Levoča. Levoča is only a little place - it is still enclosed in its old city walls and has just a few streets each direction from its lovely square. And it was on this square that I stayed. Levoča is without youth hostel, so water better opportunity to live it up and enjoy the comforts of a hotel. Good lord it was nice to have my own bathroom, a nice big bed and a view over the square. The food was good there too - luckily for me, given that there are very few options as far as eating was concerned! After arriving late on Wednesday, Thursday saw me head out to the town of Spišske Podhradie and its famous ruined castle, Spišský hrad. And that castle is huge!! The fact that it is largely ruins makes it all the more atmospheric and intriguing in my opinion. After a long walk uphill to the lower gate, I entered into the grounds where it was so easy to believe that big armies had gathered and fights had been fought. Although I have seen a lot of castles, few gave the impression of being proper military fortresses like Spišský hrad did. Unfortunately as I was leaving the castle walls I stepped badly and sprained my right foot quite badly. Thankfully the walk back to town was downhill, but I had to hobble over rocks for about 45 minutes to make it to the bus. That pretty much wrote off the rest of the day and meant no further exploration of Levoča was possible. It also meant a change of plans for the next day: it would be straight to Bratislava to meet my friend Daša, rather than spending time in the ancient city of Nitra first.

I had an absolute ball in Braitlava!! Daša helped me with a trip to the phramacy first to help sort out my foot (which is now 90% better - thanks for asking!) and then we were off to Devin castle on the outskirts of Bratislava. This is another ancient castle, sitting in a brilliant location where the Danube and Morava rivers meet. You can see into Austria and the Czech Republic from the top, and it is also just 25 km from Hungary, so it is easy to imagine why such an impressive castle was built here. It also gives perspective on just how well positioned Bratislava is within Europe - pretty much slap bang in the centre! After touring the castle in 30+ degree heat with a friendly couple we had met en route, we joined a friend of Daša in having a beer while looking out over the Danube in the late afternoon. Paradise! That evening was dinner in the old town and then drinks with more of Daša's friends. I think every Slovak person I met was charming and friendly, regardless of how much English they did or didn't speak. Daša's friends in particular made me feel very welcome.

On Sunday we went to the top of the UFO-like Novy Most (New Bridge - see below), before walking to the top of a very large hill to see the slovak liberation monument, and then on to Bratislava castle. So much walking, but such a good overview of the city. Bratislava gets some bad press for having ugly buildings - particularly the Petržalka high-rise area. To me that area is not so different to the outer edges of Praha, Brno or Olomouc - they all have these types of housing estates. The dormitory that Daša lives in is on one edge of Petržalka, and in many ways is very practical. It is apparently the densest concetration of people in Central Europe, and allows a huge number of people to live very close to the centre. Today after a walk up to the TV tower through a nice bit of forest it was time to say goodbye. I was sad to go. Such wonderful hospitality, such a great country. I have just arrived in Budapest now - not such a bad place to come - so we will see what awaits...

The Birthday Party

2007-08-21T15:51:00.000+03:00

While Nick Cave's early days in The Birthday Party were full of angst-ridden rants and impenetrable moans, my own 30th birthday was a much more subdued occasion. As mentioned previously, celebrations started a night early. Kristi and I found an excellent restaurant in the Jewish Quarter (Szaca, I think it was called) and I ate delicious steak and vegies. We then found an excellent bar to while away the hours until the clock hit 12:00 and I reached the beginning of my fourth decade here on the planet you people call Earth. And so the night did progress. Comedy photos, to be uploaded later, exusy showing the transition between 29 year old Greg and 30 year olf Greg. See the energy drain from his face. Watch as his youth passes before his eyes. Laugh at his stupid expression. All this awaits once I update my pictures in a month or so...

Celebrtations proper began on Saturday morning. That's the pancake brekkie I already described, and the stop for a quick beer mid afternoon that somehow resulted in me drinking a stein of lager and having five polish waitresses singing me happy birthday while I ate a struddle. Odd. For dinner we went to a pretty pricey place I had seen described by a very critical magazine as Krakow's "definitive dining experience" that I had scoped out earlier. I had a DIVINE meal! Wonderful food and excellent service in an excellent meal. Grilled camembert and beetroot salad for starters (with a glass of flavoured vodka!), grilled prawns with fish dumplings in lobster sauce for main, and creme brulee and a glass of muscat for dessert! Then it was time to head out for drinks in the Kazimierz region (where all the best bars are) with Kristi and two girls from Northcote/Clifton Hill who we'd met back in Olomouc, plus a Polish guy one of them had met in Krakow. I drank G&Ts and that tasty Polish vodka all night and got home about 6:00. Then on Sunday we did very little, and I had another nice time re-meeting three English folk we'd also met in Olomouc. More good food and drinks followed and that was that as far as the celebrations went. A good solid 54 hours of celebration though, so no complaints from me

Kristi headed back to Oslo on Monday morning meaning it was time for me to renew the solo part of my travels. Bye Kristi - thanks for being a great travel buddy!! My destination was Zakopane, at the foot of the Tatra mountains in southern Poland. What a disappointing place! It has a hugely fake vibe to it. About 75% of the restaurants feature waiting staff in tacky costumes, the streets are packed with tourist junk, the markets are over-run with tatty looking souveniers and I just generally don't like the place. The hostel is OK though, and the food not too expensive, so I am using it as a useful place to unwind, detox and relax with my books. The Tatra mountains look lovely too, but unfortunately the weather is too unstable to contemplate a hike. There was a massive storm last night and it has threatened to bucket down all day. I did take the funicular up to Mount Gubalowka, a smaller mountain facing the Tatras. It gave some great views but probably crappy photos due to all the clouds and a bad angle of the sun. Oh well. Enjoy the photo I stole off the internet instead!! I am looking forward to crossing the border down to Slovakia tomorrow, where I will hopefully get to Levoca. Levoca has no youth hostels so for the first time this trip I've splashed out on a hotel. In the main square. Very excited by that, let me tell you. After that it will be time to meet up with my friend Dasa in Nitra and Bratislava, which should be lovely.

"Greg Donaghue presents:" Krakow Dawn

2007-08-18T17:03:00.000+03:00

Cracking Krakow, home of the best vodka around and my current place of abode. It's my second stop in Poland and its proving a nice, if not somewhat disjointed place to visit. Kristi and I are staying in a hostel mid way between the Old Town and Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter. I MUCH prefer Kazimierz: it's cooler, less crowded, more interesting, and not entirely covered in posters/flags/flyers/handbills/tissues/comemorative hats/mugs/tat proclaiming the 750th anniversary of the city. Which is a good thing. Obviously. And while there is little physical distance between these two areas, seperated as they are only by Wavel hill, they feel like very different places indeed. Despite having spent a decent amount of time in both the Old Town and Kazimierz, neither of us really feels like we've got a grasp on the city yet. It feels disconnected in some sense. Great and everything, but not like a whole city in the same way that others places have done after a few days. Perhaps that will change over the next few days.

The Old Town is very impressive though. The square is huge (although not THAT much bigger than others I've seen) and the buildings suitably pretty. But when every spare metre is covered by performance artists or outdoor seating for restaurants it becomes a little difficult to lose yourself and enjoy it on any sort of non-commercial level. Mind you, the commercial level can be enjoyable. Such as good food and drink! Thinking we were heading to a student squat sort of restaurant on our first night here, Kristi and I found ourselves being shown to a table in an ornate restaurant by a white gloved waiter. Food was good, service fine, and it was dead cheap. Last night featured another great meal - one of the best of my trip. Scoping out cool places in a local guidebook, we headed to a small street in Kazimierz and found a gem of a place. Such great food! A wonderful steak, tiramisu, beers, coffee etc and all still under 20 euros. Got to love Poland for that sort of luxury.

We had felt the need to chill out last night after spending the day at the horror of the Auschwitz and Birkenau concentration camps. It was a frightening experience. Auschwitz shows in excruciating detail the extreme horror faced by individuals, and has a lot of displays and information about the fate that befell different groups imprisoned and killed within its walls. Seeing the pictures of faces, one by one, was incredibly saddening. Birkenau, which we visited second, put the detail of Auschwitz into context, by showing the massive scale of the holocaust, and hurts in a way even more as I associate the intimate detail of what had happened to building after building crammed full of prisoners. And that was just those who weren't executed on the spot. While much of it has been destroyed, Birkenau originally was about 12 times the size of Auschwitz. Walking through the surviving buildings and grounds there, with few other people around, is very, very depressing. And eerie. Hard to understand that it was so recent, so local and so incredibly evil. It's not a trip I'd ever like to do again, as image after image of torture, death, starvation and hatred was getting very hard to take by the end of the day, but I am nevertheless grateful that I got to see what I saw, as I certainly won't ever forget it.

Today, thankfully, has been a different type of day altogether. I turned 30 today, so lots of relaxing and being pampered has been in order. Kristi and I have been tourists around Krakow today too, as we hadn't really seen much of the tourist fare on offer here. So after starting the day with pancakes (and here I confess this really excited me), FRESH ORANGE AND GRAPEFRUIT JUICE, which I have craved decent juice for many months now, we have visited the magnificient St Mary's, Wavel Hill (which is home of the castle, but we just wandered the grounds, due to castle fatigue) and the bizarre exhibition inside the Old Synagogue. Tonight will be birthday celebrations, and tomorrow my head will feel as though it has been smashed in with a brick. If I'm lucky. It may lose patience with me, sneak out of my ear and go and play chess and decide never to come back, so we'll see. Some friends met along my travels will be in Krakow tomorrow (and possibly tonight too) so we'll have birthday celebration part III then. This 30th birthday just keeps on giving. But all that will be the subject of another blog...

Down by Wrocław

2007-08-14T23:56:00.000+03:00

After nearly three lovely weeks in the Czech Republic, Monday saw me pack my bags and say goodbye for now at least. I was pretty sad to leave. Olomouc grew on me the longer I stayed, and Kristi and I both enjoyed the very relaxed atmosphere of the place. The time to walk the streets, eat the chocolate pie, sample the tea-houses (one of which had an impromptu performance from a fantastic singer/guitarist who had a beautiful voice - a cross between Cat Power and Jose Gonzalez) and just generally soak up the good life. But good things generally turn bad or come to an end, so happily it was by choice that we hopped on a train and headed to Poland. First stop: Wrocław. Wrocław (yet another one that is tough to say with an Australian tongue - it's pronounced "Vrots-wav", with that little cross in the "l" making all the difference!) is a pretty amazing place. It has changed hands between various empires more times than I care to count, been bombed to bits, rebuilt, passed around, passed over and generally treated pretty darn poorly for quite a while. Yet despite all that it has a really happy vibe, a massive square (some claim it's the second biggest in Europe), great architecture and nice weather. Viva! It's not a small place either (about 800,000 people live here) so it is kind of strange that it is not more visited. There ARE a huge number of people out and about during day and night - nightclubs pumping all the time, galleries crowded, etc, but despite all that no-one seems to have heard of the place when we mentioned that we were coming here. Their loss!

Wrocław has the usual array of pretty buildings and churches, but it's number one attraction is the Racławice Panorama. The panorama is a 360 degree painting of a famous battle between Poles and Russians. It measures 15m x 120m and is housed in a building designed specifically for the purpose. It used to live in Lviv/Lvov/Lvuv (take your pick), a city that is now in Ukraine but used to be in Poland. When the Poles living there got the boot in 1945, many ended up in Wrocław, and they arranged to take their painting with them. Clever, eh?? Given that the painting shows a Russian defeat they were too nervous to display the thing until the mid 1980s, but happily (or perhaps temporarily?!?) that threat has passed so now all who want can see the picture. The painting is displayed really well too - the use of props and different height viewing areas in the centre of the painting gives you the feeling of really being in the middle of the battle, and the audio guide was unusually helpful too.

After seeing that cultural delight it was time to see another: the Simpsons movie. Yes, it may seem to you like a waste of time, but I've been travelling for two months and the chance to see this film, without dubbing, was a rare one I didn't want to miss. Kristi was up for it too, so happily we took in two ends of the cultural spectrum in one day. I won't bother saying which was more fun! Another day in Wrocław awaits, and then its off to Krakow.

Finally, I have uploaded my own pictures to a disc for the first half of my trip. I have therefore been able to edit my old blog entries and swap my generic internet photos for pictures actually taken by me. So if you're interested go back and check the London through Karlovy Vary blogs for the new pics.