Adventures in Backpackistan

Yeah that title got your attention. It's two kisses when meeting someone in France and three in Switzerland.

So Guillame and I headed up Lake Léman (also known as Lake Geneva but the locals get very upset at this) to the town of Lausanne to see the Olympic Museum and then I went on to Bern. Don't bother people. Having realised the error of my ways I headed off to the fabled mountains so talked about. Hitchhiking out of Bern I'd gone 5 meters from the hostel when a friendly Irish American pulled up.

"Names Charles young man, where you headed to son?"
- Interlaken
"Well gee kid jump in"

Despite having lived in Ireland for 22 years Charles was most definitely an American through and through. During our hour long trip he regaled me with tales of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane, neither of which I'd ever heard of. Turns out Wild Bill is the origin of the dead mans hand in a poker game - eights and aces. This story turned out to be but the first in a line of hints which pointed towards Charles having a closet gambling problem. The second of which was when, having decided to stay at the same hostel, while checking in, Charles asks the receptionist if there are any Casinos in town. Now bearing in mind that Interlaken has a population of 5000 people I thought this may have been a sign of desperation from Charles.

The hostel turned out to be the congregation point for people under 30 in Interlaken, Charles was at least 30 years past this cutoff, but he didn't seem to mind. A section of the Swiss army was "training" in the hostel bar and they proved to be great value. Their commander, the drunkest guy there, wouldnt let them go home so we had a conscript party. One of those random memories that you wakeup with the next morning was of this Irish guy in tights and a pink g string standing on the top of the bar. That and a behemoth called Brittany who had given the Irish guy her underwear. Crazy.

Leaving Interlaken I decided to explore the mountains. Despite the cost of the train I headed up the Juangfrau with Charles in tow. Charles had turned out to be rather useful at this stage having saved me the cost of a train trip to Grindelwald and driven his car up there. He then gave me his spare key so I could leave my stuff in his vehicle for the day. Very generous and trusting given he didn't actually know my last name. Anyway to get to the top of the Juangfrau you have to go up by train inside the Eiger mountain. Its 0 degrees at the top but the most incredible view. Being the highest railway station in Europe at 11,000 feet its a) cold b) slightly difficult to breathe. This last point could well be to do with my diet of late and my fitness being seriously lacking. Hardly an advert for the heart foundation, my time in Italy eating Pizza for three meals a day definitely wasn't something I'd recommend to people with cholesterol issues.

I don't know if they're all trying to get on postcards but as you look out of the train its frequent to see a farmer wearing luderhosen, red braces and a felt hat with a feather in it. Much like squirrels in the summer these farmers are making hay as fast as they can, to the point where the sides of the road have been perfectly mown.

I spent a night in the mountain chalet of Gimmelwald. Only accessable by cable car its perched right on the edge of a sheer cliff and looks down the valley 800 meters below. Gimmelwald saw me sharing a room with two US Marines from Alabama. Picture deep south red neck and you're not even close.

One of the joys of travelling alone is the spontenaity with which you can make decisions. Waking up in Gimmelwald to low cloud and light drizzle my plans of paragliding had been thwarted so instead I decided to part ways with Switzerland and head back to France. My perfect run back to Paris was too good to be true. After travelling for three months I have become a firm believer in Karma. If you get a perfect run something is about to go wrong.

I made it to the D-Day beaches and spent some time wandering the beach heads only to find that in doing so I had missed the ferry to Brighton and the French didn't have another one going to Britain until 5pm the next day and that one was headed for Portsmouth. The most exciting thing to happen in Caen was the D-Day invasion of 1944, admittedly a pretty big day by anyones standards, but since then they really haven't moved on. So basically I sat in a place I was over waiting for a boat to a place I didn't want to go to. Karma.

I know this is out of order but the Paris blog will come.

So Paris was incredible but have you been on the TGV. Clicking along at 576kms/hr at its top and averaging 300km/hr I sat there soaking in the French countryside from my window seat. As best I could tell at that speed western France looked like a worthwhile return visit. Anyway after extracting myself from the imprint in the seat cushion I alighted in Geneva. A city which proudly declares its greatest attraction to be the water jet in the middle of the lake. It reaches 130 meters... I know I was impressed too. Walking out of the station I was met not with soaring alpine views but a cloud base of 500ft. Guillame, a Swiss guy who came to stay in Tasmania some years ago was returning the favour and we headed off to his farm.

Small isn't little enough to describe Switzerland. While its no Lichtenstein it was considered a big trip by Guillame when he came to pick me up in Geneva, a whole 13 kms from his door by freeway. Guillame is a farmer, his farm is 24 hectares and he larger tractors than we have on our property at home. Not only are they bigger, he has more than one which in itself is ridiculous. If the class turns its attention to the economics of this little example all you Ag Economists will be able to clearly see how the EU subsidy program provides for its own.

Picking a fight with Switzerland always seemed to me like throwing rocks at a retarded kid or snatching handbags from old ladies. Huh. Turns out his cheerie little chocolate haven is armed to the teeth and ready to fight to the death to protect its Jew gold. My image of Switzerland had always been one of cowbells, mountain horns, chocolate, watches and multitool pocket knives with a lot of blonde women called Heidi. The sight of an automatic weapon on the kitchen table and stories of mountain airbases that can be sealed within the Alps had never really been associated with the little red fence sitter half the size of Tasmania. Despite the sleepy apperance Switzerland can mobalise a million men overnight if need be. I have no reason to doubt this stat as I saw the family assult rifles in the broom cupboard.

Clichéd though it was we sat around and drank white wine from shot glasses and had cheese fondue for dinner. Guillame had Soccer practise so I was left with his non english speaking parents for 2 hours. Monty Python would have loved this. Sitting in a room with two people who dont speak your language, you've never met them and you feel the desperate need to make polite conversation given your sitting opposite them in their living is awkward to say the least. There was a lot of hand gestures and sound effects but eventually they understood that we had sheep on our farm in Tasmania, no aboriginals (they seemed genuinely upset at this fact) and I was travelling around Europe for 4 months.

Trained it to Bern this afternoon where right now there really doesn't seem to be a whole lot going on.

So Mirande is a must on any trip the readers of this may take to France. Its everything you imagine about a quiet country town set in the middle of Southern France. On a clear day you can see the Pyrenees to the south and the countryside is one of rolling hills with churches on top overlooking fields of sunflowers and corn. In terms of countryside France is a definite medalist and in fact I'd go so far as to say it edges out Tuscany for the gold. With long time friend Luc Barbour house sitting a two story farm house 10kms south of Mirande (Google map it) it was pretty much a perfect couple of days. With the local markets abuzz and a jazz and wine festival on up the road we piled into an aging Renault and took off exploring.

The day before I arrived Lucy and another Lucy who we both went to school with had been hitchhiking and were picked up by a Scottish guy named Dave. Dave turned out to be a jovial fellow and numbers had soon been exchanged. The girls just happened to leave a bag in his boot so with much arranging off we headed to pickup said bag from Dave who at this time was now holidaying on the the coast at Contis Plage north of Biarritz. Three hours later we're sitting on what has to be the best beach in Europe.

That night we get a call from Dave inviting us all to stay with him and his wife at their house in Bordeaux and not being the sort of people to look a gift horse in the mouth we gladly accepted.

So there we are sitting in Bordeaux after driving through the rolling french countryside, passing châteaux and vineyards all day. You walk into a supermarket in Bordeaux and wine is cheaper than soft drink. Not only is it cheap it's the same stuff that Michelin restaurants are serving at home for $200 a bottle. That's markup if ever I've seen it. Red wine, cured hams, baguettes and stuff called Foi Gras which is a duck liver paste were the items of the evening. And as we sat around on a picnic rug with a Scotsman and his French wife beside the river the local fire breathers association began to practice.

The French have earned themselves a reputation that in my opinion is unjustly deserved. The women dress with style and panache and the men have not been rude and abrupt but rather friendly and helpful. I know they were bidding for the Olympics and lost but surely this can't have affected the national psyche that much.

It's blue murder with the charges on the on the french train system, but there really isn't a lot of other options. So on reaching Paris we were set up with one of Capi's friends. Awesome contact. Florence turned out to be an awesome tour guide and took Soph and I around the city stopping in at beautiful side cafes and cool little cocktail bars, finishing with a picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower.

No doubt about it though the French just get it. Style, sophistication and all with an effortless ease. Whats more their food is unbelievably good too. Take their president for example, while his approval ratings aren't flash he's so typically French - snappy dresser, well spoken and married to a supermodel. Paris is easily the best city I've been to.

The French seem to love their military which is strange since they've lost the last three wars that they attempted to fight and had it not been for the support of the British and Americans in the first two cases they would now be speaking German. Its perhaps interesting to note that these are the two nations the French seem to hate the most, more even than the Germans. Strange. Eurodisney may however have a lot to answer for for some of the transatlantic hostility.

So the French shut most attractions on Mondays, I know work that out for logic. Instead Soph and I walked the gardens of Versailles and went up to the top of the Eiffel Tower in a thunderstorm. Versaille being that modest retreat where the signing of that little document that screwed the Germans over took place. Very cool gardens though. The Eiffel tower is tourist central surprise surprise, even in a storm. Standing on the top of the worlds largest lightning rod with a large amount of electrical activity around probably wasn't the brightest idea but hey there were 200 other people that you were going with us.

Anyway Soph went back to England the next morning at 5am and I headed for Switzerland.

So I was joined by one Jack Greenwood in Rome. Despite his appearance his youthful exuberance was quick to come to the fore and before you could stay 'thats a buy' he'd whipped out the shorts and was proudly displaying the moon tan.

Jacks arival was a welcome change having spent the previous nights either alone or out with various dorm mates. One particular evening I went out for dinner with 2 cousins from California. I have no idea how the conversation deteriorated to the point it did but before it they could be stopped I was receiving a lesson on the finer points of cage wrestling and the damages their brothers and boyfriends come home with. Note to interested participants, this sport is apparently big money if you have the 'right stuff'.

The Colesseum, while having to use your imagination somewhat, was an incredible sight. I quickly decided I'd pay good money to see a guy fight a lion or hippo. They should definitely bring this back in, the broadcasting rights could be huge.

After spending one night in Rome with Jack we trained it to Florence.

Being the romantics that we are we decide to get out of Florence for a day and tour the Tuscan countryside. Now we read about the road toll every day and the dangers facing the youth of today on the Tarmac.. well lets say we nearly became one of those 'did you hear about those guys in Italy who...'. Talk about near death experiences. On that note I have never laughed so hard as I did at Jacks missfortune. When I go back to see what's delaying him there he is peering forelornly into a small blackberry filled ravine with just the top wheel of his scooter showing. Priceless. On trying to do a swift tail flick on the dirt road in order to turn around he'd completely f#*ked it up and put his little Honda into a ditch.

My own scooter was controlled by demons for that's the best excuse I can come up with for the ridiculous set of events that lead me across 4 lanes of traffic and barely miss a parked Alfa, all with me running alongside my wayward steed.

On returning our machines of death the owner took one look at jacks and exclaimed "man with broken scooter make no money". Bullshit mate the thing looked like you'd been playing demolition derby long before we got hold of it.

We had picked up two bottles of wine from a little vineyard during our tour. Despite the owners age, which would have suggested they'd been doing it a while, it was still s.h.i.t. Proof that you are never an objective judge of your own toils. Either that or they'd just got into the wine game which only adds weight to the saying that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Despite speaking no english we were able to ascertain that the rocket fuel was €3 and the premium stuff which they called merlot was €7. I really shouldn't be complaining I know. In this capitalist
world you get what you pay for. Needless to say we did splash the cash.

Wine bars were definitely the theme in Florence with some excellent hole in the wall type vino shacks. With a combined mental age of 80+ we relished in this scene. It was compensated somewhat with a huge night out with three american exchange students. Waking up 3 hours after our train departed for Pisa we made it to the famous town abeit rather hurridly. Having taken the obligatory shots for posterities sake and the fact that we had spliting hangovers and weren't going to remember it with any sort of clarity anyway we reboarded for La Spezia.

The Cinque Terra is very pretty. With pastel coloured buildings set into the cliffs the five fishing villages of the Cinque Terra are not to be missed if you're on the west coast of Italy. Many a man date with pasta and wine on a rock watching the sunset was had. The wine being that variation on dishwashing liquid from the aforementioned vineyard.

Given Jacks penchant for cutting around in his budgie smugglers and our regular romantic dinners I'm pretty sure we gave up any viable claim of heterosexuality. In response to the image that we were portraying I think jack said something along the lines of "it's just European" hhhmmmmm.

Lake Como is a cyclists paradise so walking along with Jack is kinda like being with kids at the zoo. To be fair I was equally as enthralled at St Tropez but we'll come to that later. We're sitting in a hostel on the edge of Lake Como when I look over and classic Greenwood is in action. He's having an in depth and animated conversation to a 50 year old mother of twin daughters. I have absolutely no objection to this as the twins turned out to be great girls but I can say with confidence the parental approach is one that you rarely see implemented. I think the home viewers need at this stage need to be informed that the twins were 23 and easily able to fend for themselves. We were definitely not hitting on jailbait.

From Como to Nice it went from quiet and super expensive to loud and super expensive.

Fast cars, super yachts and supermodels. Where else would a bonds trader holiday really. So with one eager
young investment banker and aspiring owner of the above posessions beside me we set off in search of riches. This lead us to the famed Monte Carlo Casino. I know, I know, at this stage your thinking steady up big spender, but with a martini in one hand and Jack, aka the shark, Greenwood standing next to me you can get caught up in the moment okay. That is until the croupier brings you swiftly back to earth. Our experience playing blackjack was short, so short in fact I think play should be re phrased to business transaction. We put down money, he took it, showed us the cards, we walked away. We did see a couple of guys playing hands of €100 000, they at least got their drinks for free, oh and the amazed looks from mere mortals like ourselves.

While in Nice we took a day trip to St Tropez. Turns out it was a national holiday the next day and the French airforce was practising their aerobatic routines. So with the scream of fast jets in the air I was as happy as Larry, which brings me to a question I've been pondering for sometime... who is Larry and why is he always so damn cheerie, but I digress. With superyachts moored for Dior, Dodi Al Fahyied, Greg Norman, Sting, Carla Bruni (take a bow Mr Sarkosy) and every other magazine name and headline act it really is totally different world.

The time had come for departures and so with two weeks and many kilometers under the belt Jack and his lightly browned legs headed for Milan and home while I took off on a train bound for Southwestern France and a little town called Mirande.

On arriving an hour and a half late to the port of Bari on the east coast of Italy I had my first taste, sorry I should say my second taste given the transport was late, of the Italian culture. Coming down off the ferry deck we were met with a large Italian man and 6 old women in black going troppo at the ferry concierge. Playing a supporting role in this fiasco were two 80 yr old men, their sticks in the air, vocally remonstrating the old women. All in animated Italian. Welcome to Italy said Gangles. Turns out the man had lost his wallet, can't wait till something really goes wrong.

In typical fashion I'd failed to book accomodation in Bari and we didn't get in till 10:30pm so I decided to get straight on a train to Naples. Being to tight to book a guaranteed seat I was soon kicked out of the cabin and spent 4 hours on a corridor floor being stepped on or over. Shitty train trip... tick. Just another day in the life of a backpacker.

Getting off the train in Naples you're greeted by the sight of rubbish. I don't mean a bit here and a bit there, I mean it looks like they held Italy's New Years Eve celebrations and no ones bothered to clean up in the last 10 years or so. Chunks had said it was a shithole, always listen to the man with connections. Quickly took a train to Sorrento.

I've been reading a book called Gommorah. It's a book written by an investigative journalist on the Naples Mafia, the Camora. It names names, addresses, kills, financial transactions etc and as such the author has multiple contracts out on him. Since arriving in southern Italy the book has remained in the bottom of my bag.

Spent an afternoon in Pompeii on Tuesday. Arriving at Pompeii one thing strikes you, a bloody big volcano in the background. Doing the usual mingle and attaching myself to a tour group I heard the guide start out by saying that many Pompeians couldn't read or write and as such didn't know that there was a volcano nearby. To use a quote from that time immortal film Snatch, 'it aint exactly a packet of f#*k'in peanuts'. I fail to see how an education forewarns you that the very large hill nearby with smoke coming out of it isn't exactly normal. Anyway as evolution predicts, the weak and stupid die out and thats exactly what happened to the citizens of Pompeii.

The predictability of stupidity should never be underestimated though because Naples, a city of 1 million people, currently resides in the shadow of Mt Vesuvius, a volcano that geologists say is well overdue for another large eruption and the same one that wiped out Pompeii. To top it off, word on the street is that Naples doesn't have a disaster evacuation plan and the main highway and train route cross the western slope of the volcano. Real smart move guys.

After Sorrento I shifted across to Positano. Established by a herd of mountain goats and mules, Positano has become the jewel of southern Italy. The physical exertion that is required in this town however is grossly understated. The guide book describes the trip from the hostel to the beach as a 'short 5 minute walk'... for who, Tenzing Norgay? Such statements are like describing the ascent to Everest base camp as a light jaunt through fields of wildflowers.

I was in Croatia, Georgio Armani was in Croatia. Both of us were in Split. I got to Hvar and there he is again. On arriving in Dubrovnik guess who's waiting and just when I thought I'd shaken him he pops up again in Positano. He's persistant I'll give him that.

Anyway headed for Rome where Mr Jack Vincent Greenwood will take over the commentary box.