If It's Tuesday This Must Be Vancouver.

Canada Tuesday. Sometimes I stop and wondering if I'm actually doing all this or if it's really just a psychotic episode. Maybe it's a result of talking about it for so long.

You are here.

Well, I am, at any rate.

Apology

I've realised how negative my travel posts are sounding; sorry 'bout that. It's not that I'm not glad to be out here, I guess it's just that human inclination to pipe up when things aren't to our liking. I've started several very positive posts, but have been too lazy to finish them. :)

Arrived in London, safe, sound and snowy. OK, I'm doing the divey London backpackers thing... so this means it's checked off the list and I don't have to do it ever again, right? Right?!

Suicide Modern

I've not been to Berlin's Tegel airport, but having now visited its other one, Schonefeld, I'd say that the latter was the one servicing the East in days gone by. Just a wild guess here.

I arrived at the airport an hour earlier than I needed to, partly to compensate for any idiocy on my part in negotiating the train out there and partly because I find large international airports endlessly engaging. An extra hour watching the comings and goings and wading through wave after wave of tourist tat is no chore whatsoever. I'll not be making that kind of decision quite so lightly again. Schonefeld would have to be the ugliest, most soul-destroying shithole I've ever been miserable enough to visit (and I've been to Indonesia, remember). Ugliness of this magnitude doesn't happen by accident; it's surely not a case of a difference in taste or point of view. Schonefeld hasn't been whacked with the ugly stick, it's where they're manufactured.

What was it with the Soviets and architectural brutality? I completely understand the Communist leanings towards utility, but it's just as easy to design a pleasant structure, or at least a bland one, as it is to create one so offensive that clawing one's eyes out seems a reasonable option. All over Berlin I've seen this Suicide Modern School of Design, and many times I've stood with my eyes wide and mouth gaping whilst flailing around in my bag for the camera. Perhaps it was all a part of keeping the population subdued. It's certainly one of the reasons the Soviets failed to win over the people, in my opinion. Imagine if Sweden had been the seat of Communism. The industrial design would have been simple, stylish and timeless. All the Ikea-style arrows on the footpaths may have worn thin, but the light, airy and functional surrounds would have been some compensation, surely.

The oppressive environment seems to be having the expected effect on the people who are here every day, too. The airport staff, without exception from what I can see, are surly, aggressive, listless or all three, as I'm sure I would be having to spend eight hours a day in Satan's waiting room. It's like a Cold War museum. My spirits are a little lighter knowing that in an hour I'll be boarding a flight out of here, and will never have to see this place again.

Unless, of course, I feed my last few Euros into the razorblade vending machine I noticed just near the main entrance.

Now for something completely different

Friends, you'd expect that I'd be sitting here telling you how jaw-droppingly cool Berlin is, given that I've been here a few days now and am seriously plotting how I can spend the rest of my life here, but no. Today I am going to share Sacfree underwear with you. This is partly inspired by Cheryl's cutting-edge investigation into the backless g-string of December last year.

As with the backless g-string, I maintain that a fumble on the sofa would result in a good deal of explaination when the shedding of layers revealed a garment like this. (Or maybe I'm telling the world too much about myself by saying that.)

Snow shots

Suzette (wearing a tea cosy) and Billy (dressed sensibly)


Billy, Anna, David

Danskelaff

How do you make a Dane laugh?
a) Slip over and break your arm
b) Hurt a small dog
c) Choke on a sausage

It's not that I think the Danes are hard and humourless... I'm sure it's just the weather.

Cookspurt

My excursion to the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde was postponed today due to snowy conditions... what better way to while away an otherwise listless day than to cook stodgy, fatty food and then stuff your face with it?

I made potato and leek soup earlier today. So many things are just different in other places; the potato flesh was bright yellow, and the soup, once blended, had the consistency of melted cheese. I kept diluting it, but still the rubberiness remained. Still, it tasted good.

Currently in the oven is Mrs Beeton's Bramley Apple Pie.

I'm going to end up like the side of a house living in this climate, and I'm not remotely concerned about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Danish and English are both Germanic languages, but on completely different branches of that particular family tree. As a result, both use similar letter and sound combinations at times, but with entirely different origins and meanings. Some Danish phrases are more than a little jarring to the native English speaker's eye. To wit:

slotshave: part of an address, something to do with "castle" ("slot").

slutspurt: as seen in shop windows at sale, or udsalg time. Apparently "slutspurt" means something along the lines of "final clearance".

so baadfart: ummm, no idea what this means.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My hosts have lived here in Lyngby for three years and have not seen snow anywhere near as deep or long-lasting as this in all that time.

Of Mucus and Misery, Transactions and Traffic.

The inevitable has happened: Mr T and I have come down with nasty, nasty colds. Far from being joyful and carefree corks on the tide, we are bunkered down in the lovely Anna and Damien's house clutching boxes of tissues, cups of hot tea and clawing for sympathy.

I, brave soldier that I am, managed to get out into arctic Copenhagen today, quite possibly against my better judgement. At -2 to 2C I'm not sure if this is the coldest day we've seen since venturing out, but it certainly felt it in the deep ravines of Copenhagen's business district today.

I was absolutely pathetic today. I ventured out solo, and within 15 minutes of leaving home became quite disoriented and lost. As I made ever-smaller circles on the streets of Lyngby I began to seriously doubt my ability to survive for long in countries which persist in this irritating custom of driving their cars on the right-hand side of the road. You'd think it a simple thing to adjust to; perhaps I'm a bit of a simpleton (heightened by aforementioned illness) but the instinctive knowledge of which direction danger is coming from when negotiating a thoroughfare is deeply ingrained. At every single road I approached during the course of my day I had to consciously look at the road and work out which way the traffic would be hitting me from. At times I even used hand actions when making this complex physical calculation.

There's really nothing like travel to put you in your place, is there? As well as the frankly humiliating traffic conundrum, there is the issue of dealing with a new and unfamiliar currency every few days. It's hard! The logic of denominations one grows up with simply aren't applied universally. So I am becoming used to holding my hand out and allowing the cashier to take the required coins out, possibly allowing themselves a generous tip for all I know. Or care, for that matter.

Every day I give heartfelt thanks for being born into a culture which speaks English as its first tongue. How much harder must travel be for native speakers of other languages? The Danes, bless them three times around the carpark, mostly speak excellent English, which has made my adventures here not only easier, but -- in a couple of instances -- possible.

I had the infinite pleasure of visiting the Danish National Museum during the course of my day. Unsurprisingly, their collection of Viking artifacts is really something to be seen. The Vikings are one of my special favorites, so having free run of such an astonishing collection of pieces, especially the wealth of metal work there, made dragging myself out of the house absolutely worth it.

Urgh. Don't you just love cold-induced hallucination? Time for another cup of tea and handful of tissues.

Touchy feely take-off

London => Copenhagen

I was frisked while going through passport control at Stanstead airport today. A no-nonsense woman asked me to stand with my arms up at 45 degrees while she ran her hands firmly and thoroughly over my body. She wasn't rough at all and although she didn't make eye contact with me once throughout the operation it was the most intimate physical contact I've had in some time. I'd always expected to feel violated if searched but I walked out of the security area with a satisfied glow.

I guess you've got to take it where you can get it.

Go directly to gaol, do not pass go, do not collect £200.

London

If I were playing Monopoly and owned all the properties I'd visited in the last couple of days I'd be in an unbeatable position. Adding houses could be a problem, though, considering I can barely afford a cup of tea in this town. Ye-e-e-es, I knew it was expensive before I came, but, hell, until you see it for yourself it's difficult to conceive of a world that asks three times as much for everything in sight. Fortunately, I am travelling with a fellow stingy bastard, so free diversion has been the order of the day.

One surprise has been the variety of languages we've heard spoken since we've been here. I don't think I'd be exaggerating if I said that we've heard as much English here as we heard in Tokyo. Where are the English folk? (Oh, hang on, they're clogging up the Australian bars and beaches. I'd forgotten for a moment.)

There are a couple of myths I'd like to discuss before I close here today:

1.) The English are extremely polite.
Ummm... no. Quite the opposite. "Rather fucking rude" is the suggestion I'd like to put out there.

2.) London is filthy.
Absolutely. If you added up all the vomit I've seen in my 35 years and compared it to that which I've seen here over the past three days I'm not sure which would be the greater volume. Although, having eaten here for three days perhaps I can understand it.

3.) The Tate Modern is innovative and impressive.
Ya-a-a-awn. Sorry, but I think these artworks deserve a little more respect than is afforded by this pretentious and obnoxious institution. And so do the patrons.


The balance of the mythology will have to wait for another day. Jetlag is a great excuse for getting out of anything.

On Changing Climate

When I boarded an aeroplane on Monday you could have been forgiven for thinking that it was merely a journey from one city to another, exiting a familiar culture and plunging into an alien one. It was, of course, both of those things, but moreover it was a catapult ride into a frigid and foreign climate.

I've lived all over Australia, but have spent most of my years in South East Queensland. It's not quite the tropics, but what the locals try to pass off as winter there is an enviable summer in many other parts of the world. What I'm getting at in my round-about way is that cold weather behaviour is something I need to concentrate on to get right.

I didn't realise how much about the art of staying warm I'd forgotten, as is evident by the contents of my backpack. The cut and weave of the clothes worn in Queensland render them as good as useless in anything under 15C. To wit: I have four t-shirts with me; only one of them will stay tucked in -- if I don't move around much. Another comes close, but is laughably thin. The other two are boarding a flight to poly/cotton paradise before I leave this city.

You'd expect my body to be grateful for my relieving it of the burden of having to lift its limbs and produce sweat in such prolific volume in the tropical conditions. That assumption would be quite incorrect. It's in uproarious protest; skin flaking, hair wirey and erratic, lips chapped, cuticles splitting painfully. I realised tonight that my eyes and face have both reddened terribly, and are now roughly the same colour -- much more and they'll blend in with my hair, making me The Human Matchstick.

Clothing management is another issue. Wearing so many garments requires no little attention to logistics, and, quite frankly, more effort is due on my part. I am used to one layer only, and even then an incomplete one. Board shorts, bikini top, end of inventory. Or maybe underwear,pants, shirt, sandals and that's it. Currently I'm wearing:

• underwear,
• bike shorts,
• long johns,
• another pair of long johns,
• jeans,
  
• socks,
  
• boots,
• singlet,
• t-shirt,
• thermal undershirt,
• fleecy vest,
• mohair jumper,
• neck gaiter,
• scarf,
• gloves,
• jacket,
• beanie (borrowed).

Anyone for pass the parcel? Some previous experience in event management comes in useful when dressing of a morning. And a useful tip for other tropical travellers headed for frosty climes: pulilng up four layers of pants at once doesn't work. Try it and you'll agree.

The layers themselves aren't working as I'd hoped they might, either. The jeans I packed were clearly quite spacious -- OBVIOUSLY ample room for a pair of two of long johns beneath. Perhaps I would have done well to have tested this theory prior to allocating them precious space in my pack. With layers underneath they look... well... a little... *ahem*... slutty. So I've condemned myself to travelling the world looking like Pinky Tuscedero after an obscenely large feed of ravioli. A look recommended for travelling women in all reputable guidebooks, to be sure.

Tokyo: Unsure If You're Japanese Or Not?

You know you're not Japanese when...

• Your knees touch the opposite wall when you sit on the toilet.
• Your head scrapes the ceiling in the shower
• Bicycles weaving at high speed through crowds alarm you
• The smell of sewage every couple of blocks makes you gag
• You'd prefer your food not to drip with sickly mayonnaise
• You're not heartbreakingly, radiantly, lickably attractive
• You are the centre of idle attention on the Tokyo subway
• Locals speak to you like a three-year-old
• You hit your head on street signs
• A speaker blasting the sound of running water when you pee in a public toilet startles you
• You've never seen 'Whale Bacon' before
  
• You find violent Manga porn disturbing
• You don't look like you've just stepped out of a fashion photo shoot
• Constant exposure to earthquake information disturbs your sleep
• Heated subway seats feel creepy
• When you greet someone you're actually saying 'yes'.
• You don't spend half an hour applying makeup and fixing your hair -- one hair at a time -- in public
• Beer from a street vending machine is novel