Inter Rail Diaries: Kirsty's Inter Rail Diary

Although I've known about my Inter Rail trip for about a month now, I'm still a bit nervous - particularly when it comes to writing an interesting diary. I've decided to just focus on enjoying myself, in the hope that my life-long unlucky streak (falling over/losing shoes...) will provide entertainment. It's doubtful that I can return from Western Europe without a few stories to tell when I can have a Laurel and Hardy style adventure simply catching a bus. Luckily my travelling buddy Ben is less prone to such behaviour, but usefully, he's a bit of a historian - so I'm relying on him to provide me with interesting local information throughout the journey.

Packing, unpacking, and then packing again...

Three weeks ago, all I did was daydream that travelling would be walking off a train, onto a path that weaves between charismatic buildings and staggeringly beautiful historical landmarks; then it ends conveniently at the cheapest hostel where dinner is ready...

Since then I've considered route, accommodation and timekeeping. I've even researched destinations. I have packed, unpacked, then packed again, after finding what I thought I'd forgot was there all along, right at the bottom of my rucksack in an irritatingly well-concealed compartment.

The Route Plan

I have written my route plan with the locations in order. Also, I've added a few words that I presently associate with that particular location. This probably shows how ignorant I am, but in a month or so I'll be able to make up my mind with experience.

Brussels: Expensive with a big fish market. Bruges: Horses wearing nappy-like garments to avoid messy streets. Amsterdam: Naughty museums, people and restaurants. Bavaria: Beer, sausage, and fairytale castles. Verona: Romeo and Juliet Bologna: Spaghetti Bolognaise Rome: Romulus, Remus and Russell Crowe. Nice: Nice. Barcelona: Architecture, drinking and dancing. Madrid: Drinking and dancing again. Gibraltar: Monkeys. Marks and Spencer's. Marrakech: Dress codes and harassment. Cattle ridden public transport. Valencia: We're going to La Tomatina! (A fight using tomatoes) Andorra: Nice scenery. Very small. Paris: Restaurants, romance and tourists.

Useful Information

DieBahn travel service

I was advised to purchase a copy of the Thomas Cook European timetable, which is probably very good. However, I found a free website that includes all the information required. I planned my whole route location to location. I know times, changes, when to reserve, duration and even what platform to go to.

eBay.co.uk

Rather than blowing all my spending money on travel guides at £15 - £20 a time, I turned to eBay and ended up with six quality and up-to-date guidebooks at very little cost. The one I've found particularly useful was Lonely Planet - Western Europe. I also bought an MP3 player (£7) with 2GB memory card (£22). It won't be the end of the World if it gets lost or stolen, and is much smaller and cheaper than my original one.

Map of Europe

I paid 5.99 for a Michelin map of Europe from Waterstones. It was ideal for planning a basic route. Also the destinations are spelt originally (e.g. Munich - Munchen) so I won't get confused if checking timetables abroad.

Boredom, over production, and killing two birds with one tomato.

I have a theory that would explain the bizarre ritual that took place today. Imagine a non-descript Spanish town, characterized by its traditional image and peaceful tourist-less-ness. It's a place where old men may play dominoes freely whilst sat on deck-chairs outside their houses with a beer, and children roam safely on a clear sloping road without cars. It's a simple life - a little too simple...

So one day, a bored and mischievous member of the community has an idea that changed Bunol forever - to promote an event, one in which none of the locals would actually take part. Instead, at the expense of thrill-seeking foreigners and fools, the town would remedy excessive tomato production and boredom by holding the biggest food fight the world has ever seen. It would occur in the last Wednesday of August, and keep the smiles on the faces of the Bunol-folk constant all year round in a way that Christmas never could. And thats my theory - the fabulous and fruity, Festival La Tomatina was born.

Ben and I stayed in the soulless yet convenient Hostel Terminus during our one night stay in Valencia, fifty Euros a night and placed outside the train station - an ideal starting point for travelling to Bunol. Now regular and experienced users of train station locker rooms, we revelled in our genius idea of storing our luggage there on the day of the La Tomatina festival. Our plan unfortunately had two flaws - firstly, everyone else had had the same idea, and secondly, all the lockers bar about five were broken. The helpful attendant shrugged his shoulders and directed everyone to the uninhabited area of the station, then disappeared, probably to go and eat doughnuts. Ah well. Closely following the information provided in my trusted tour guide, we refreshed our plans beleiving that Bunol had nowhere to store luggage. Ben kindly suggested he would watch it whilst I took part, so all was not lost. I was actually a bit suspicious Ben had never wanted to get involved anyway...

Not everyone speaks English, love.

Despite the frequency of the trains (approximately every half hour and running all day), the short journey to Bunol was even more cramped than the once-a-day train to Marrakech. Trust me - thats very busy. We sat on our backpacks and witnessed with sheer joy as an American girl kicked off at chain-smoking spanish boys whom retaliated, much to her annoyance, with great bursts of laughter. It's not that I promote smoking, but after four weeks of listening to various travellors ranting on like they rule the world, I felt like sticking ten Bensons in my mouth at once and asking her for a lighter. Upon arrival, a few hundred people began to queue to use one of the two toilets. While waiting for Ben to get back, I saw some very entertaining sights. The crowd had accumulated rapidly, mostly it was young travellers dressed up like they were going to a rave back in the early nineties. More interestingly however, Elvis Presley was there in his famous white silk outfit, along with a woman who appeared to be getting married, and various groups of beer bellied blokes prancing around in dresses. When Ben finally vacated the loos, we followed the crowd towards a small square, finding stalls selling overpriced tomatina goodies, beer, and oh - what a surprize, a storage area. It's official, I'm more observant than the journalists for a highly commended travel guide book, who claimed otherwise...

Tomate Tomate!

It's impossible not to feel part of something exciting on the walk down to the square. The scantily clad crowds equipped with goggles, beer and sparkling white La Tomatina T shirts, march down through the village overlooking its natural prettiness and the line of excited local spectators in order to meet thier fate of a few-thousand tomatoes. The eye-wateringly strong stench of tomatoes rises up through the town as do the first victims of some serious splatting, and provide a warning for all those not yet trapped within the crowds of the square. Of course, most visitors of the La Tomatina are absolute nutters so the sight of grown men dyed red plastered with seeds and sore eyes only encourages them to continue. Ben and I arrived in the square as the final tank of tomatoes ploughed through the heaving crowd, and immediately I felt my skin itch with a mixture of tomato juice and human sweat. Five men laughed as they hurled great handfuls of tomato into the crowd and the crowd just screamed out for more. I received a pounding in the ear by a tomato-soiled t-shirt, and Ben's long-hair provoked an attack from some giggling short-haired pretty-boys. It was all in good humour though! The clapping of the locals from the balconys above was answered by the jumping of all to the chanting of 'Tomate, tomate!' until the tank emptied its entire contents into the street. I put on my goggles, and hoped for the best. What an incredible experience. When it was over we squelshed back up the hill like conquered soldiers allowing the locals to hose us down. The majority of participants were now very uncomfortable as they formed queues by any available wells or wall taps. The smug old giffers seated outside their homes were at this point absolutely beside themselves with glee, but being covered head to toe in red slime I was hardly in any position to voice my annoyance and be taken seriously.

Top tips for La Tomatina...

Follow for optimum enjoyment,

In terms of clothing, put comfort first, closely followed by comedy value and splat-displaying. I find its more fun to laugh at others than be laughed at, but again it's all down to personal preference. Take a fun camera in a clear plastic bag for protection. My reasons for not doing so were down to my impression that persons carrying a camera are prime targets, but I don't think it makes a difference. Make sure you drink plenty of water. Dehydration, food poisoning, and two pints of lager were all contributory factors to my near faint whilst queing for the train - I thought I was going to die at the time - don't let it happen to you! Carry a change of clothes in a plastic bag. You could even consider wrapping your feet in plastic bags. You're going to stink and look stupid - but so is everyone else. So just enjoy yourself! You could perhaps save some tomatoes to throw at spectators on the journey back to the train station - but that would be wrong wouldn't it...

La Tomatina is by far the most bizarre, smelly, messy event I have ever experienced. Strangely, it was also one of the most enjoyable. I'd recommend it to both the thrill-seekers and the squeamish, but if you are the latter, take a deck chair, park yourself next to the locals and get ready you sissy. I'll be after you next year!

The Runaway Train to Marrakech!

I had expected Morocco to be the most challenging of my destinations, but while walking off the Ferry at 9pm the fear of how potentially disastrous it could be sank in. The warnings recieved from loved ones replayed in my mind, conscequently I became a jumpy, paranoid wreck. The Morrocan Ferries website described how Tangier was like another world. It had failed to point out that this other world was one where road rules, taxi meters, and honest tradesmanship are non existant. But if it had I may have chickened-out, and missed a great adventure!

We were offered lifts to the train station by numerous taxi drivers, all of whom seemed to own conked out 80's style Mercedes without seatbelts or workable doors. Ben and I made friends with two like-minded (i.e. terrified) German travellers named Elmet and Isa; we got in the taxi and after that took the 14 hour train journey to Marrakech with them. The taxi man could only be described as a maniac rally driver having a very bad day. Thankfully the local music blasting out of the radio partially concealed his road rage and the strange engine noises. We swerved narrowly missing other cars and groups of people through the bright and bustling streets by the sea. I laughed nervously to myself, aware that my place in Tangier was not as an observer, but as a participant - there was no escaping the chaos.

The over-filled high speed train was crazier still, with its broken doors remaining open for much of the journey and toilets that smelt so bad I would have sooner soiled myself than visit.

The four of us eventually found seats in the first carriage, squished between four local, youthful men. Three of them eyed us warily but the fourth talked enough for all of them together. He ignored me but told Ben about his love of MSN messenger, his home town and how he was trying hard at University. Hearing that was a first, most people brag about how they spent three years drunk and never attending lectures. I suddenly felt spoilt and ungrateful. University clearly meant a possible crawl from poverty for him, and to me it was just a good laugh.

After about three hours, the train stopped and the locals piled off. I smiled at the thought of sleep without having some randoms feet in my face. Unfortunately the reality was that the already full train splits in half, one carriage remaining in the station and the other to transport all the passengers to Marrakech.

Naturally it was our carriage being deserted, and as I relocated to the only available area outside the toilets I knew the journey was only going to get harder. The cool breeze from the broken doors was sadly missed for the next few hours - the air was by no means fresh.

I wasn't the only passenger in distress; the emergency stop button was pressed before all the men got off and fought with the staff. Those still on board peered out of the window excitedly, and a young woman approached me. She tapped me and said 'would you like a seat? You just look so tired...' She moved her belongings to make room, then offered us all biscuits. I forced back the lump in my throat as my faith in humankind was restored.

The train dropped us in Marrakech at ten the next morning. For stories of snake charmers, spices and the best hostel yet, watch this space...

Redefining Words

The Taxi driver threw our backpacks into a car boot that wouldn't shut, and fastened it up with rope before pushing us inside the back of the car. It was a white knuckle ride without a safety belt, a fierce battle for road dominance that he was winning by cutting off all the other equally reckless drivers ahead. He swerved the final corner into the central square then waved happily to a policeman through the window. The policeman laughed, knocked playfully on the bonnet and watched the other un-roadworthy vehicles pass by. After falling out of the taxi Ben and I scuttled like wide eyed new school children, unsuccessfully avoiding the horse manure that lined our path. With my eyes plastered upon our hostel, I redefined my understanding of the words heat, thirst and fatigue. It was my weakness and not my will that kept the calls of the locals at bay, I was incapable of communication.

We had booked the Hostel Riad Omar through hostelbookers for 50Euros a night. It was a like a palace, the most charismatic accommodation I've stayed in my entire life, let alone my trip so far. Exotic plants wrapped themselves around the vibrant mosaic pillars and provided shelter for the dining area below. The suns rays crept through the leaves and bounced off the trickling fountain where tiny birds bathed freely. It was therapy; doubly welcomed after the trauma of Moroccan transportation.

The light of day

Despite what I had heard, Marrakech is relatively safe as long as you keep your valuables close and avoid going for long walks down lonely backstreets alone. The salesmen, the waiters and the beggars are all after the same thing, and I found myself constantly dodging them and feeling guilty about it. I felt ashamed for being so privileged, yet annoyed when I was short changed.

The city smelled like rotting meat and horse manure, but it's surprisingly easy to get used to. The main road leads off into wonderfully vibrant streets where seeds, shoes and enormous machetes are for sale. It was fascinating, but worryingly, I noticed early into our explorations that Ben had disappeared. His kind-old-Yorkshire-man nature made him an easy target; for as I turned around I saw that he had been grabbed by a local man insistent that we go 'look at his spices.' This guy was a fantastic sales-man; we ended up following him for twenty minutes. He told us all about the city and where to buy things. He even told us how to say hello and thank you in Moroccan. I got the impression that he genuinely wanted to be our friend, but also wanted some money and thought we were typical ignorant tourists. Unfortunately he was right. We ended up having to make a run for it, but promised to look at his spices some other time. We never did.

Ben was pretty tired out after his practical kidnap, so he went for a nap and I trekked on alone. For some reason I saw much more this way. The enormous square, which is interrupted by the odd stray man on a donkey, is scattered with orange stalls, snake 'charmers' and women trying to coax you with Henna. Strangely drawn in I walked forwards, by a woman lying in the street with one frail hand open for coins while she clutching her baby with the other. Numerous cart-horses with bones bursting out through stretched skin ignored the flies and an old blind man paced up and down spreading imaginary seeds chanting 'Allah...Allah...' I wanted to take pictures but it felt wrong, this was how these people lived; it wasn't an exhibition for westerners. (I've since been informed that the locals do not allow photographs anyway). I considered how I must look to them, could it be as strange as them to me? I was dressed from head to toe in unflattering clothing with a sweaty face and greasy hair, yet received comments such as 'Oooh beautiful stylish woman,' from the men in the street. Ordinarily I would assume comments such as this were in cruel jest, but it was impossible to tell how I appeared, or how they would act if I did respond. I wanted my dad to hide behind, for someone to come and save me. I speed walked back to the hostel trying to look strong, even though I felt like a lost little girl.

A cure for insomnia

A lone walk around Marrakech had totally wiped me out. My sore, dry eyes were saucer-like, and the pain increased each time they tried to close. Still they kept trying. Not even the cold water of the shower revived, it soothed my hot skin and I craved sleep even more. If I were a doctor I'd prescribe Marrakech to cure insomnia. 'A tour of it's streets before bedtime for a deep nights sleep guaranteed.' It worked for me, and it was only three in the afternoon.

I woke at seven after a sleep so good I'd forgotten where I was. Ben was still totally conked out, so I used a stray ball of unwashed socks to revive him. After making an angry sort of noise he mumbled on about being hungry. I realised I was too, extremely. We hadn't eaten a meal for a long time, and its certainly not a factor I would usually forget. But the truth was that I was scared. The way the meat was hung from the stalls crawling with flies and the probable state of the kitchens fuelled my suspision. Again, I was behaving like an ignorant Brit, but it meant less to me than getting yet another batch of the evil food poisoning. I fought with myself for a bit, then went for a kebab. Only kidding! A cooked potato salad from the restaurant. Mmmmm!

The immaculate rooftop restaurant was a place of pure calm, full of different travellers looking a bit mashed. With it's sheltered tent area and enormous couches with scattered pillows, you felt rude not putting your feet up. Alcohol was forbidden and there were no suspicious smoky aromas - I asked myself - how was this collective state of hypnosis being acheived? Halucinagenic (is that spelt right?) drugs? Horse tranquliser? Thank fully not - It became apparant that everyone was just naturally mellowed out, happy to be up there, raised for a while from the chaos of the streets below. Soon enough I was like it too, sprawled out watching the tiny red sun going down to the mesmerising sound of Muslim prayer. Incredible.

Ben expressed feelings of dislike and fear when I suggested exploring the Marrakech nightlife, but he knew as well as I that we had to make the most out of our visit and just brave it. We put our trainers on as they are much more convenient when walking through piles of donkey excrement, fastened our possesions tightly in my handbag, and off we went.

Marrakech transforms with darkness, from a comparitively steady market town into one hell of a crazy entertainment fest without the usual aid of alcohol. The only consistant feature is the blind holy man, who was still sprinkling imaginary seeds and chanting 'Allah...' as he had been five hours previously.

The scent of spices and smoke replaces the daytime wafts of rotting meat and manure, and the mass of mingling tourists dilutes the beggars. But concentrate your breathing and your eyes and both can still be seen.

From a distance the square appears to be on fire. Spiralling white smoke rises from the stalls forming clouds and the dull glow of the colourful market behind allures the onlooker. Just the sight of it stings the eyes. Upon closer inspection it becomes clear that the smoke is a result of an outdoor food market, with each stall cooking wonderfully unusual dishes. A waiter withdrew his spoon from a barrel of snails and tipped them generously. They fell with a tapping and a blast of steam onto the plates of the smiling customers. I never expected snails to look so delectable. There's also the option of fish, spicy vegetables, or even boiled lambs head - Nice! If nothing else at least they all smelled delicious!

The short walk back to the hotel took about fifteen minutes, but in this time I crossed snake charmers at work, blokes trying to coax passers by with flea-bitten monkeys wearing little jackets, and numerous demonstrations. The healing show was particularly ridiculous, but the majority of the audience with thier amazed gasping seemed to beleive what was going on.

Its impossible not to get swept away with the night-time crowds of Marrakech. Its best to walk fast, stay alert, and take in as much as possible. Ben was as pleased as I to have ventured out in the end, we both felt that little bit more alive afterwards.

Nice Nice baby!

Sexy Love in the seedy side of Nice

The city of Nice is well-renowned for its long stretching pebble beach, typically French patisseries and the colourful market of the old town - or so I've heard. Ben and I arrived (and departed) knowing very little about the place and didn't really care due to a desperate need for sleep.

Anxious by the likelihood of homelessness, I pushed my way out of the surprisingly busy train station and marched toward the rows of flashing lights. It was so convenient, but nothing like what I'd expected, probably because we were in the seedy side of Nice. Intoxicated Frenchmen with vacant expressions staggered in and out of the strip-clubs swigging bottled beer, blocking the otherwise clear route ahead. Bars advertising 'Sexy Love' buzzed above, and I laughed in spite of my sleep-deprived state of misery as the recently released song of the same name entered my head. Unfortunately it remained in my head till the next day, which was not so funny.

Nine hours is not enough...

Many of the Hostels in Nice cost 32 Euros for a double room, The Faubourg Montmartre is a popular example. Conveniently they were right outside the train station, but the cheapest ones were all fully booked so we ended up paying a little bit more. Being in a fairly desperate mood it didn't faze us much, we hadn't had a bed in two days so decided to treat ourselves to the Antares at 60 Euros a room. It was ok, nothing about it seemed more spectacular than all the others. Booking beforehand once again would have saved us money...

Nine hours sleep was not enough, I awoke minutes before kicking out time and seriously considered staying another night. However, failure to keep to budget was a growing problem so leaving the hotel clueless as to where we could go was the only option. The morning consisted of aimlessly dragging our backpacks around, buying a breadstick from one of the many pleasant little patisseries, and settling into an internet cafe for a cheap rest. (At one Euro an hour its better than a hotel!) We were wasting time, a decision needed to be made but neither of us had the strength. After moving onto the beach front and watching the holiday-makers enjoying themselves, I wanted to abandon my rucksack and go for a swim then a five star...

The absence of TV, screaming children and a storm.

There are over thirty campsites around Nice; tourist information provided us with a map to find them. We needed to travel on the train to Cagnes Sur Mer, catch the number 500 bus then jump off directly outside the campsite. It was relatively straightforward as the passengers were all willing to help.

After demonstrating truly rubbish French speaking skills in reception yet again, we pitched our tent under a tree in a secluded spot and went in search of food. The restaurant bar was grossly overpriced, so I bought bread, ham, rubber-like cheese and plenty of alcohol. We sat by the tent and talked for hours; I realised at that moment how the absence of TV really improved Ben. When it got dark we hung a torch from the tree, got steadily drunk and played noughts and crosses with sticks and stones before going to sleep.

I woke at three-ish with a premature hangover to the sound of rain slamming against the tent. Lightning could be seen through its flimsy fabric and I lay awake until the flashes united with deafening thunder. It was right above, the scariest and angriest of storms and cries of children could be heard between its blasts. The inside of the tent was growing soggy, along with all my belongings. I spent the next morning damp, cold, caked in mud, and moodily marching off to leave Ben to tidy everything up.

I thoroughly enjoyed Nice, but not for obvious reasons. The beach annoyed me because I couldn't lay on it, the shops because I couldn't afford them. I never saw the old town because I didn't know it was there until after we'd left. Oddly, playing with sticks, the massive storm and a bottle of Rose wine are what did it for me. It was a testing, yet strangely happy time.

Training day

Tapeworm sandwich, anyone?

After a night of the worst symptoms of food poisoning I'd ever experienced, I wasn't looking forward to getting on a train. I was tired, really hungry, but too scared to eat. Ben ordered a bacon sandwich in the station which made me quite jealous, until it arrived raw. Absolutely convinced that he was about to tuck into a tapeworm sandwich, I sent it back for him, twice. I've since been informed that this is just how bacon is served outside Britain, I must have looked quite stupid.

We caught a residential train as our mistaken ride on the Eurostar to Rome had set us back almost a days budget. This meant a longer journey with constant changes, but I didn't care as long as there were toilets.

There were no workable toilets, so I was pretty worried for the first hour or so. It was full too which meant we had to sit by the out-of-order door attached with tape. If I were in England on the train to work, I'd probably be furious. But for some reason the whole experience was quite calming. We sat on the step with an earphone each, held on tight, and watched the beautiful Italian countryside through the window.

The train eventually emptied out so we moved to the carriage which contained just four other people. Due to the heat every single window had been opened, the curtains flapped about it a blue blur and a woman smoked at regular intervals through the window. I was quite enjoying the absence of a conductor, everyone was more relaxed.

The Italian coast and a mass of travellers

After changing at Pisa, we immediately jumped on our second train to Genova. It lasted two hours, and was uncomfortably full. I can't remember falling to sleep, but I can remember being tapped repetitively by an annoyed Italian man. I looked at him gormlessly as he continued to frown. Ben stated the obvious fact that I had failed to notice - I was sprawled across the seat which his wife was attempting to sit on. Feeling rather rude I smiled at them both as much as possible for the rest of the journey, they clearly thought I was a bit odd.

At least there were the views; I wished I could have stopped off at every station for a holiday. There were people sunbathing on the private-looking beaches, or lounging in the staggered hillside bar areas. I've never seen sea-side towns so peaceful and empty; I'd love to go back there one day.

Arriving in Nice

The final train took us to Nice, and for once whilst in a crowd I didn't feel like an outcast. It was full of other travellers who were happy just to talk to each other about where they were going, and where they'd been. We lent our map to some French guys planning their trip and they told us where to stay in Nice. I realised we didn't look like new travellers anymore, we were talking to anyone about anything without hesitation. As a result I felt like when I get home I won't be intimidated by anything. This trips obviously doing me some good!

Roaming around Rome

I felt relieved as the train pulled into Rome's central station - my Dad had booked us into the Hotel Cristina previously so finding it was the only problem remaining.

However, upon arrival an incredibly short-tempered male receptionist claimed no knowledge of us. He went very red in the face and charged us more than we originally agreed to pay. Thankfully I refused, as it all turned out remarkably well in the end. He realised his mistake and suddenly became very friendly, but by this point, I thought it best to leave. Ben and I went for a campsite instead - just outside Rome and much cheaper - so it was all for the best!

Camping Fabulous

Camping Fabulous can be reached by the metro (destination Euro Firma) followed by a number 709 bus. Nobody appears to pay on buses in Rome either, which of course is a bonus. The campsite is a budget-friendly 22 Euros a night, situated amongst ancient ruins in a lush woodland area full of intoxicated Australians. Our difficulty pitching the tent on dry dirt, root and rock provided the evening's entertainment for many of them, using stones to hammer in the pegs was particularly crowd pleasing. After looking like a pair of monkeys for quite some time, a lovely couple eventually took pity and lent us their hammer.

A three night stay saved us money and gave us time to relax in the glorious sunshine with all the luxurious facilities you'd expect from a 5* campsite. Unfortunately though, the restaurant wasn't good - I discovered this after eating a dodgy carbonara. The toilets however were excellent, I noticed this after spending two hours looking at them shortly afterwards.

Collosseo!

The Coliseum was just a few metro stops away from Campsite Fabulous - it's a practically untouched ancient Roman city. I felt like I'd gone back in time when I ignored the loud-mouthed tourguides and pushy blokes selling batteries.

Ben and I were offered 'queue-jumper' tickets, straw hats, and photographs taken with 'authentic' ancient Romans. Rather than accept any of them, we saved 11 Euros and queued, got a hot head and took pictures of an ancient Roman with a camera in his hand looking very angry - which was much funnier and free. With ID proving my age I only had to pay 6 Euros to see the Coliseum - under 24's get in on the cheap - woo hoo!

The Coliseum was a skeleton of what I had imagined, but its size and lingering grandness left me feeling humbled. I imagined where I would fit in its ranking levels and maze-like underground back in the days when the building was central to society. I'd probably be at the back - a mere peasant! Maybe even worse - a prisoner to be savaged by lions for failing to pay on public transport, if there was such a thing in those days...probably not.

The ancient city ruins are like a different world, there's still a sense of greatness in the buildings even though the trees have had time to grow taller and block out their glory. Ben and I walked around for hours, trying to imagine how it all looked many years ago. There is something very pure about the place, with its spring water fountains and crumbling-cream stony views. I was surprised by how unspoilt it was.

I'd certainly visit Rome again, as three days just isn't adequate. I felt satisfied to have seen the ruins, but a bit disappointed that time could not allow a visit to the Vatican. I don't really regret not educating myself in the museums; Rome is so nostalgically beautiful I'm happier using my imagination...

Bums in Bologna

I'd never heard of Bologna until very recently, as it's one if Italy's less famous cities. It's been referred to as the red city - but it's not really red. It's also where spaghetti bolognese was created, but I didn't see any of that either. It was still a fun place though - so much so that we stayed for two nights.

Beds in Bologna

After the remarkable service at Munich tourist information, my hopes were raised too high for the Bologna branch. They turned out to be pretty useless on the whole, all we managed to blag was an Italian street map. I managed to contact the youth hostel who actually had space - woohoo! But they don't consent to mixed sex travellers. I sat on the floor with the scabby pigeons and an unsuccessful homeless DJ. Ben joined me, and we talked about how miserable we felt. I thought the feeling would never go away... after ten minutes, we were bored of being miserable, so I suggested that we simply embraced the fact that we had no where to sleep or wash. We would be bums for two more days! We would be bums in Bologna, then spend another night on the train, then be bums in some other city the next day - yeah!

I finally felt like a 'proper' traveller and the mood kept me sane for at least half an hour. However, in our state of optimism we stumbled across The Hotel Cuarva, a three star run by numerous disapproving old ladies. It was above budget, (70 Euros) and luxurious and it had vacancies. Oh well. We've plenty more chance to be proper travellers some other time...

Ooooh, rustic...

Bologna is certainly a very busy place, and theres no shortage of designer boutiques, trendy dining areas, and incredibly beautiful people. In fact I added ugly and poor to my previous personal states of sweaty and irritable and simply spent more time looking at the cities wide range of buildings and monuments.

Bologna's landmark buildings have obviously received less care and attention than those I've encountered so far on my travels. I preferred this - without trying hard to impress, it did. When I mentioned this to Ben, he sort of sneered and said 'Oooh, rustic...' in a sarcastic tone. He's clearly more into gobsmackingly grand than down to earth and charming.

My favourite statue was in the town square - it's of Neptune, the god of the sea. He's surrounded by half-naked mermaids with...erm...interesting fountains. Neptune doesn't need a horse, frightening creatures or even clothes to be powerful - he's hard as nails all on his own!

Other interesting sights include Bologna's very own leaning tower, buildings that appear to have been partially saved from ruin, and the numerous tributes to the resistance fighters of World War II.

Don't expect to get a spaghetti bolognese though, we searched all day, and when we did find one it turned out to be made with tuna not mince, so Ben had a cry and I ate both. Mmmmm.

Boozing in Bologna

After a glorious shower I felt like a different person, and to celebrate, Ben and I went out for some refreshments. The streets of Bologna buzzed with an easy going atmosphere set by wandering drinkers, gossiping diners and people sat alone reading. There is a no smoking rule in all bars but it's pretty laid-back about attempting to sell class A drugs on the street, as two desirable young boys proved twice! Drinks are expensive, but ridiculously strong, I ended up wasted on just four gin and tonics. Our late, drunken return to the hotel was the main downer of the day, as we found ourselves locked out. We eventually got in, but the next day whilst eating our breakfast the dissaproving old ladies looked considerably more disapproving as they topped up my orange juice.

Bologna is the perfect place to relax, I loved it's natural beauty and carefree atmosphere. An ideal breaking point before Rome...

Fairytales in Fussen

Fussen is not your average Alpine destination. I discovered this after spending just one night there, a night which proved to be the most eventful of my journey so far. This entry includes a hero, a tragedy and even a spooky house - quite appropriate for a town with fairytale associations.

Finding Fussen

Ben and I decided to avoid the organised trips to Fussen from Munich, mainly because of the extortionate price of 49 Euros per person. Instead we caught a train to Fussen; it took just over two hours and was very quiet - probably because most people opted for the overpriced tours.

Our late arrival meant that staying the night was inevitable. This worried me slightly as Fussen is a small town with a big attraction and only one youth hostel - which predictably turned out to be full.

I prepared myself for a long, drawn out and expensive day...

Welcome to the Hotel Elizabetha...

Ben and I were relieved to find a run-down looking hotel just outside the centre; with our tight budget in mind we decided to enquire. The closer we got to the door the more it appeared to be an abandoned house, but it seemed pointless to turn around without trying...

Immediately upon ringing the doorbell, an ancient, German lady opened the door. Taken aback by her sudden response, I asked nervously if there was room. Ushering us inside, she informed us that the rooms were all vacant and 25 Euros each per person. I should have been ecstatic, but glancing around 'reception', with its wonky table and two empty beer bottles, I was convinced that nobody had stayed there for at least twenty years. She then instigated a tour of the house, which I accepted fearfully.

We followed as she hoisted herself up the spiral staircase with impressive speed, passing mysteriously bolted up areas, windows that seemed to repel daylight, and a life-sized Christ on a cross. Upon my refusal of one room she pushed us into another, and another. On her third attempt we accepted in defeat, and unpacked in silence.

Misty mountains, monastaries and memory loss in the morning

After escaping from the horror hotel, we decided to explore Fussen and get a bite to eat. I also made the decision to drink just enough to numb my genuine fear of waking up with either no fingers or to Ben's head on a stick...

Although small, Fussen offers enough shops, restaurants and attractive scenery to keep its visitors well entertained. From its close-set residential area, to the monastary which rises majestically out of the misty mountains, Fussen is unspoilt, well-kept and slightly spooky. Deceptive shadows and windows are painted upon the walls of many of its buildings which make the onlooker uncertain of what is real.

A storm to end all storms cut our explorations short, and we searched desperately for food and shelter instead. It took a while, my socks were saturated well before reaching the restaurants in the centre of town. We ate, drank and dried for less than 30 Euros, then Ben enquired why I was drinking at such a rate. I told him of my fears, he laughed and said, "It´s only an old lady trying her best". He was right of course. My fear was replaced by guilt: good old Ben.

I awoke from the most peaceful sleep ever, in the World's most comfortable bed. The old lady had forgotten who we were and that we had ordered breakfast, then charged us 15Euros less that arranged. We gave her the original amount, and left feeling sad about how hard it must be for her.

A ceiling of stars, mountain of debt and mysterious death

The Tours to Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau castles are unmissable if you travel to Bavaria, despite the most popular tour (Neuschwanstein) being overpopulated and rushed. I walked around ignorant of the guide anyway, open-mouthed at the magificent pictures painted directly onto the walls, lavish fabrics and unbeatable views. I just couldn´t get my head around the perfected detail of every room: it's impossible to describe it in a way that does it justice.

The only aspect more interesting than the buildings themselves is the lives of the Royal family that lived there in the 17th Century. The Ludwigs consisted of an arranged marriage, a beautiful queen and both princes declared insane. The character I warmed to overall was the eldest prince who went on to be king (before he went insane). He had stars painted on his ceiling as a child, and his servants held lanterns by his bedside due to his love of sleeping outdoors. As he grew older, his ecentric behavior increased and he made himself bankrupt having Neuschwanstein built. He drowned before it was finished, along with the man who declared him insane. It shows what can happen if you have enough money to get carried away with your dreams!

Fussen has been my favourite place so far. I feel lucky to have seen the fairytale castles and heard the real story behind them. I can´t imagine seeing a place more captivating than Neuschwanstein, nor as creepy as the Hotel Elizabetha again!

Mad for Munich

Munich: Capital of Bavaria

As Bavaria was a state on it's own up until the mid 1800s, Munich has all the characteristics of a capital city, despite being ranked only third largest in Germany today. It lacks the backstreet cafe charm of Brussels and Lille, but makes up for it with breathtaking architecture, powerful statues, and a strange infatuation with lions - they're everywhere!

Ben and I arrived in Munich from around 9am, and once again faced the task of finding accommodation. As with Brussels, all the youth hostels were full, so a hotel was our only realistic option. Lack of sleep made had made me grumpier than usual, and I found myself wanting to scream at people who got in my way, or stopped suddenly and without warning directly ahead. Ben was also behaving strangely, his random and frequent outbursts of laughter were hardly fitting and I started to worry that he was going insane. For three hours we walked around in this state, and discovered that it's quite easy to get lost in Munich. Then Ben, having not spoken a word of sense for some time, came up with a fabulous idea...

Tourist Information to the rescue!

It turns out that the Munich Tourist Information Centre is even better than the one in Brussels - which is an acheivement in itself. An English speaking German lady with the shrillest voice I've ever heard found us the cheapest hotel, booked it, and then gave us a map to find it. I wanted to kiss her, but instead said 'Danke' about six times. It's the only German word I know. Within twenty minutes we were settled in the Herzol Wilhelm Hotel, a centrally located 3* hotel costing 26 Euros each. It was excellent, particularly breakfast which was fresh, varied and (more importantly) there was no sign of blood-style writing on the walls.

Cherubs, dragons and patrolling pet lions

The urge to get into bed for a week was strong, but not worth the guilt I knew would closely follow so after a quick shower and shockingly overdue change of clothes, Ben and I left the hotel to explore Munich properly.

The best place to start a tour of Munich is the Marienplatz (the town square), which beautifully combines interesting architecture, tourist information and amusing men who dance in the clock tour hourly. The City Hall is it's most redeeming feature, a gothic building that serves as both a tourist information centre and a meeting place for organised tours of the city. What I liked most about the square, was the placement of mythological creatures within the buildings and monuments. Look out for the helmet-wearing cherubs fighting snakes, and the ferocious wall-climbing dragon!

The Felderherrnhalle is the second (and most memorable) building I encountered. It's basically three towering archways, three statues of men under them, and two lions on either side of the middle statue in a patrol-like fashion. Ben informed me that it is a monument for the military leaders Count Tilly and Prince Wrede. I found it incredibly intimidating - those lions really work!

The third and final Munich attraction I would like to recommend is the Schwabling. This is a long, spacious road which begins to the north of the Siegestor. Past this you will walk by various stalls, artists and grand buildings, all of which look sand-blastingly clean. Ben reckons it may be a result of buildings destroyed during World War II rebuilt in thier old style. If you're too tired to walk, hitch a ride with the guy who appears to be carting a bench-on-wheels up and down - it looks brilliant.

Munich by Night

I was in bed by nine, but still experienced some of the Munich nightlife (sort of.) There is a great selection of restaurants, most of which are surprisingly cheap with main meals starting at 4.50 Euros - just make sure you check the menu ouside first. On top of this, there's likely to be an reasonably priced extensive beer menu - yummy. It might be worth noting that the best/cheapest restaurants get so busy they will fill larger tables with members of different parties to save space. I thought this was a very sociable idea, providing you are not seated opposite a clacky/dribbling diner.

I'd reccommend a two night stay in Munich, as there is so much to see. Anyone who loves either buildings, shops beer or food will love it. Just look out for those lions!

 

 

An evening in Lille

Lille - A Late Arrival

After arriving in France a day before our Inter Rail passes were valid, Ben and I decided that it would be a good idea to stay in France rather than travel across to Belgium. So we caught a train to Lille and arrived there at 10pm, deeply thankful that it was more lively than the ghost-town aka Calais.

Immediately upon leaving the station, the lights flashing 'Hotel' caught my eye. Determined to find the hostel, Ben and I avoided the temptation to be lazy and began our search of Lille... after about fifteen minutes I couldn't find the hostel and was getting worried by the time. Feeling like a bit of a failure, I picked the cheapest looking hotel situated right by the train station - Hotel Angleterre. Oh dear.

The advantages of looking like a tramp

Upon entry, a young male receptionist raised his eyebrows suspectly, and immediately my well-rehearsed sentence turned into a mish-mash of languages mumbled in a French accent. Luckily (but also a clear indication that my French was horrific) he answered in English. He explained that there was room with a 12pm curfew. He then looked at the price list, looked at us, and deducted 16 Euros. It was at this point that I realised there are distict advantages to looking like a tramp.

The room was fantastic for thirty Euros each, despite the somewhat naff 80's interior. It even had a built-in hairdryer. The best thing though had to be the view. A pair of enormous glass doors opened out onto a balcony overlooking the train station, a stunning 19th century builing which towered above a cascading water feature and a semi circle of quaint bars and flashing lights.

Cheap chips and dear beer

With only an hour left to find some food before closing time, Ben and I went in search of something quick and cheap. Taste was not a priority. We settled for a portion of chips from an establishment one usually only visits after excessive alcohol consumption. After this we walked past numerous pretty-looking bars before settling at one next to our hotel. Although the two 500ml lagers came in snazzy enlarged wine glasses, they tasting of sweaty feet and cost 12.70E. It's no wonder there were no drunk people about.

After checking train times the following morning, we decided to explore Lille, get a paper, and some decent food. I felt pleased that at last I had done something properly - eating in a really pleasant, traditional French cafe called Paul's for breakfast. However, halfway down the road we saw at least two other Paul's, must be more like a French version of Greggs - nevermind...

Whilst buying a paper, Ben noticed that In France they don't have 'Nuts' Magazine, they have 'Guts' magazine. Pretty random I know, but Ben and I found this really funny and wanted to share it with you.

Back in time with Ben

(As my fellow traveller has an interest in historical buildings, I'm relying on him to provide me with interesting information on each place we visit...)

The main square is contained by a number of grand buildings, with curious pathways leading off to a number of tempting bars and cafes. The tourist information centre can be seen from this square, it is situated just off the main street in the remains of an old church. Its definately worth a visit for swotting up on local knowledge - I enjoyed exploring the buildings and monuments - but it means much more to actually understand why they are there...

1. Lille is where Charles du Gaulle was born. (leader of French forces in World War II.)

2. It was part of the Spanish Netherlands for a time but Louis XIV won it back.

3. Amalgamation of a number of towns with Lille in the middle of the 19th Century made it double in size and it became an important industrial town. This is demonstrated by the impressive period architecture.

Catch us next time in Brussels - You'd be guts to miss it.

Hassles in Brussels

In case you didn't know already, Brussels is the capital city of Belgium, and home to the European Parliament. Interesting stuff I know, but it was the gothic buildings, bright bustling street life, and carnivalesque atmosphere that caught my attention.

Ben and I arrived in Brussels at around 2pm, after a relatively quick and comfortable journey from Lille. I instigated an immediate hostel hunt on account of the weight of our backpacks, which began at the tourist information centre in the heart of the old town centre. The staff here will book you into a hostel for a mere 50 cents, then provide you with a map on how to get there. Being somewhat of an amateur travellor, I refused this offer, walked to the nearest hostel only to find it fully booked...oh dear.

The Aristole Hotel and Brussels accommodation

Kirsty in BrusselsThere are four hostels in Brussels, and at 22 Euros per-person-per-night, they are undoubtedly the cheapest and most pleasant of the budget accommodation available. Aside from this, there are a number of basic flats situated above the shops and bars of the old town - costing just 49 Euros per double room. The convenience of their location is lessened by the absence of a shower, which is why I opted for the Aristole Hotel instead, costing 55 Euros a room.

The hotel is situated on Stalingrad Street - accommodation here is generally cheaper as it's a short walk out of the centre. Ideally, it had no curfew, a breakfast, en-suite facilities and pleasant staff. It's only downfall was the dining room's bizarre decor - seemingly inspired by Dante's Inferno. I nibbled nervously on my ham and cheese sandwich breakfast and tried to avoid glancing at the words Inferno and Purgutorio etched in blood-style writing across the walls. I have gathered already that religion is taken seriously in Western Europe. Don't let it freak you out, but don't visit the churches or cathedrals while baring too much flesh.

Dancing dollies, the Main Square and urinating in public

The three hour search for accommodation would have been unbearable if not for the vibrancy of Brussels streets and the smiling faces of both its tourists and residents. Without spending a penny I was entertained by a parade of jolly old men playing trumpets, dancing dollies swirling in time, and seemingly pointless men inbetween suddenly breaking out into dance taking reluctant members of the crowd with them. I felt full of energy just watching, and found myself smiling dumbly like everyone else.

Alternatively, if noise and dancing aren't you thing, I'd recommend the main square. There is a comfortable quietness about the place, that can only be justified as a collective state of speechlessness at the incomparable splendor. With each towering building joined to another, its hard to tell which is the most beautiful. The air of vanity is overcoming, it's as if the square is the result of a a fued between rich men of the past battling to produce the grandest town house.

Finally, for the more crude tourist, why not visit the urinating statue boy? It appears that here in Brussels acts of indecency such as this are not in any way discouraged. I fought my way thorugh a mass of frantic photographers desperate for a picture of the cheeky chappy - they should try Sheffield centre on a Saturday night for more of the same!

Brussels nightlife

We set out in search of cheap bars at around 7am, but didn't expect much luck as we had heard reports that Brussels was very expensive. However, it's all dependant on what you do and where you go. To sample the finest food and wine, it'll be expensive, but no more so than in the UK. It's reasonably cheap to have a few beers in a few bars. The cheapest bar we found was called Celtica, an Irish bar with a live acoustic duo called The Frets. It was 2 Euros for a pint of decent lager and seemed to be the livliest bar in the centre. We spent a good few hours in there, but to find it we first braved the packed-out streets of fish restaurants and shops, loud with the conversations of busy waiters and diners alike, one of whom found time to tell me to smile, even though I already was.

I'd definately recommend Brussels, not only for the attractions described but also for it's simplicity - you don't need to travel far to find anything. I was told by someone at home that it was boring - but I can confidently say that they are wrong...

The road to Munich

A change of plan

I realised whilst walking through Brussels city centre with a stonking hangover, that although going out of an evening is a lot of fun, restrictions had to made on alcohol. I felt truly poo - and it just wasn't worth it. However, determined not to write the day off completely, Ben and I made arrangements to travel to Munich a few days ahead of plan (all the hostels at our original destination in Amsterdam were booked up - we will visit later instead).

The wrong train to Koblenz

To catch the night train to Munich, we needed to get to Koblenz from Trier. There were two possible trains, one direct, and another that calls at what seems like every third house in each nearby town. Of course, we foolishly caught the latter, which took about three hours altogether. I was pretty pissed off, partly due to the fact that we would probably miss the connection, and also our 19 Euro reservation fee. Then there was the added inconvenience of having to wait four hours into the night for the next train.

Within about ten minutes, I'd forgotten my anger, as it turned out to be the most peaceful journey I'd ever taken. Our carriage was empty, allowing us the freedom to jump from one seat to the other depending on which side overlooked the most spectacular view. While following the curve of one side of a valley, we rolled past magnificent countryside and Sylvanian Family-style houses. Miles of luscious, healthy greenery was seperated only by a river which sparkled with all the colours of it's surroundings. It felt like a great escape, or a setting from a James Bond film minus the explosions. If you get the chance, catch the wrong train to Koblenz from Trier at 6.25pm.

Awake and alone on a packed-out train

The night train was delayed, so we managed to catch it in time. I sank contently into a reclining seat instead of the station bench - glorious! The train was full of tired and irritable people, so Ben and I tried to be as quiet as possible. I was quite releived when a bunch of rowdy young teens swigging beer got on after us, it meant that I could wander about, rustle my bags and listen to music as loud as I wanted.

However, they eventually shut up and went to sleep, and I found myself awake and alone. I didn't like it. The anxious hungover feeling returned, and even though sleep was the only cure it didn't come, it took a few hours before I finaly dropped off...

I awoke as the train was pulling away from Munich - whoops! After nudging Ben to let him know, it was clear that the both of us were too tired to really care. Ben fell straight back to sleep but I found myself wide awake once again. One of the rowdy teens kept rushing to the toilet, so at least I wasn't alone in my sleeplessness. However, It meant that the toilet was a no-go area for everyone else for the rest of the journey.

Dozing during rush hour

The next stop beckoned, and with everyone awake by now I felt better - even though the train door refused to open at Salzberg and we ended up further from Munich than we ever imagined possible. To get back it involved two trains, taking about four hours. I wanted to kill the German boy listening to extreme trance full blast on the first train. Then on the second I fell asleep. Funny that. I couldn't sleep on a sleeper train, but a packed out train during rush hour in a sitting up position while dribbling on my frightened neighbour was not a problem. We arrived at Munich at about 9am grateful, but only half alive. It was both the best and worst train journey of my life!