Photos - Finally!

View of Parliment House, Budapest, from the Buda Castle



View from the grounds of the oldest church in Szentendre - you can see the Danube river



Me in the castle at Visegrad



On Margrit Island: this vehicle has astonishingly sturdy wheels; you wouldn't believe where Zsofi and I drove it.

If You Fall, Remember to Relax

Another day, another train ride. From Bratislava I went to Poprad Tatry, and from this small town I went to an even smaller one named Zdiar, where the tiny grocery store closes at 3.30, and the ride up the mountain is in a ready-to-be-retired bus that has the same petrol smell as the old trucks I took rides in once on my grandparents‘ farm. Along the way I think I spy a man pulling a car; as we draw nearer I see that it is a home-made trolley for wood with a car door on either side to keep the contents orderly. The bus is filled with noise, everyone seems to know everyone - that, or this is an incredibly friendly mountain. I sit right up the front so that the bus driver won’t forget me, clutching my pack to keep it from sliding off the seat as we round bends and pass up and down slopes. I go to exit the bus and with a downward swish of his hand the driver has me sitting once more; he drives closer, the reversal hand gesture meaning I’m to get off now.

I arrived at 3.15 so am able to dash to the tiny grocery store for supplies. The offerings are meagre, but I uncover orange juice, yoghurt and chocolate - foods I‘ve been craving. I met Australian Andrea on arriving and learn she is about to attempt the two-hour river walk with the resident dog Wally so I join her, and spend my evening trying to avoid mud, snow and ice, and fail miserably: my boots will never be the same, but another gorgeous memory is installed in the library of my brain. The High Tatras still have snow on their peaks (and at their base too) and the beauty of this mountain range is wondrous. We sit for a while on the dry grass staring out and marvelling at the magnitude of these mountains - we are only seeing them through a small window. I trace them on a map and they seem to run on indefinitely. Briefly, I pretend that Heidi was actually set in Slovakia and not Switzerland. There are ski runs ringing circles around us, but the snow isn’t as thick here and only in patches, so there are no skiers, though Andrea says there were some on the weekend. Wally has gone off out of sight.

Back at the hostel I eat dinner with Andrea and our hosts, Jess and Sean, who cook the biggest pot of stir fry I‘ve seen, and as I sit in the kitchen it feels like I’m sharing a meal in someone’s home - always a special feeling when one is living in hostels.

My brief encounter with a fellow Australian will end tomorrow as Andrea moves on; there are two other guest in the hostel, though I haven’t sighted them yet as they’ve been out in the mountains trying to snowboard (seeing as I don’t know them, I can’t attest to their snowboarding skills). I think I’ll leave snowboarding alone - I had enough trouble staying on two feet during yesterday’s walk. Andrea who, in one career, cared for old people, advised, if you fall, remember to relax. Falling isn’t on my agenda but I do intend to spend this week relaxing, and I couldn’t have picked a more perfect spot.

The Problem with English

As I was sitting on the train to Bratislava, the person sharing my compartment - a Lebanese man living in Slovakia - asked me which languages I spoke other than English. He spoke four. It’s hard not to feel ignorant, uneducated even, when I meet people who collect languages like my mother collects handbags. And I have to wonder, or perhaps I can safely assume, if it would be an all together more thorough experience if one could converse in the language of the land one is in. I often feel as though I’m standing in front of a locked door with the wrong set of keys. Hand and face gestures only communicate so much.

It’s easy enough to think I’m going to learn another language - but even if I did go to the effort, it would be months before I could actually hold a proper conversation where both parties understood what was being said, and I have serious doubts about my language skills as it is. All those years of Japanese and French at school, and all I can really say is hello and goodbye. So I decided that the next best thing would be to pick up a book written by a local author and read myself past the language barriers, which was an excellent plan only I’m still reading Polish authors and I was in Poland two countries ago. In fact, I'm on to my second Ryszard Kapuściński, who writes about his own language difficulties, though he spoke more than one, on his travels.

Last night I went to see Serenada and Raymonda, and while it might not break down the great wall of language, everything seems better at the ballet. The woman in the box next to me was having the same experience I was, that she was having it in Slovak and I in English didn’t seem to matter so much. (Yes, you read that correctly - I did say box! I bought my ticket at the door moments before the performance began and the usher asked me - sweaty (I’d been running, sprinting actually, all over town in search of a square with a theatre) jean-clad, frizzy-haired me - if I would like to sit in an empty box.) Unfortunately this is not a sustainable experience - it’s not like I can attend concerts every evening. So I’ve reached an impasse - I guess England and my mother tongue aren’t too far away; actually, speaking of, my mother will be here in less than ten days so I’ll have someone to talk to who understands me - a thrilling prospect.

In other news it was the Slovakian marathon today so as I was walking the tourist route - sipping thick hot chocolate in a cosy cafe, ambling through Hrad Castle’s grounds, roaming the cobble stone streets sighting churches and convents and cathedrals - lean, fit bodies (young and old) were breezing past me. Dark clouds threatened heavy rain, but for once the weather was generous and this afternoon was delightfully sunny.

Bratislava is unexpectedly small (I feel I’ve conquered her in a day) and Slovakians are unexpectedly nice, the friendliest Europeans I’ve encountered so far, so I’m glad I have six more nights in this country. Tomorrow morning I travel to Zdiar in the High Tatras where you will find me relaxing in a mountain cabin and doing my best to read myself another layer of this fascinating continent.

I Think I'm Turning European

Fickleness knows no bounds. I seem to have more than a handful of favourite cities. Well, add another finger to the fist - Budapest is the new Krakow.

I went from Poland to Hungary by bus, a more relaxed way of travelling than train: you know you’re in the right seat, no part of the bus will break off in a new direction, and did I mention the free hot chocolate served on the hour?

I was lucky enough to have my very own tour guide for the first three days. I’d met Zsofi briefly in Barcelona, and she’d offered to show me round her home town. We conquered the highest point in the city, toured the Buda castle, explored the underground cave system, feasted on a Hungarian meal all on the first day. The following afternoon we met up to explore Margaret Island, which we did by four-wheeled bike - very fun, if shockingly hard (the peddling as well as this driving on the right side nonsense).

On day three Zsofi took me and Timi, whom I also met in Barcelona, on a road trip through the neighbouring towns. We visited Szentendre, one of those cobble-stone street villages lifted from the pages of a book, then Esztergom, which sits against Slovakia with only the Danu as a border, and on the return trip we stopped at Castle Hill, Visegrad, in Duna Lploy Nemzeti Park, where we were given free entry to explore the castle: to gain free admission one must stand around looking anxiously at the price list. This attracts the attention of kind elderly gentlemen who lets us through the gates. An excellent day’s work.

Yesterday was my own, so I decided it was time to visit one of Budapest’s famed baths and see what all the fuss was about. Two hours of soaking in 36 degree waters has me ready to join the fuss brigade. A truly excellent way to spend an afternoon, and even if we didn’t talk, I had the company of a seventy-year-old Hungarian who had lost his elasticity some time ago.

One of the many good things about Budapest is that even though it’s a foreign language city, most people speak English or can point to some one who does. In part this is because to graduate from university, students must pass a second language exam. Can you imagine if we tried this at home? We’d have perpetual students or none at all.

Today I planned to tackle the Esceri Markets, an English second-hand book shop if I could locate it and my biggest challenge: navigating the inner workings of an Hungarian post office. I achieved the latter two but the former proved too far away so instead I roamed Falk Miksa where one finds antique shops in droves, and middle-aged shop attendants who treat customers (or me) with a good deal of suspicion.

I think I’m turning European - this afternoon as I was sitting eating my Hungarian pizza and listening to a saxophonist play show tunes in the square, a tourist came up to me and asked if he could take my picture to which I asked, why, thinking perhaps I looked like his second cousin or something and he wanted photographic proof. Instead it was because he wanted a photo of a Hungarian enjoying life. And I am enjoying this nomadic existence if, on that rare occasion, it seems to lack purpose. But then I discover a new food and I'm back on track.

Tomorrow I go to Bratislava, so goodbye until Slovakia.

A Room with a View

I’m staying around the corner from the Krakow Philharmonic Hall, and the 10th century Wawel Castle, home to royalty for 500 years, is practically in my backyard. Every one said that Krakow was a beautiful city but I wasn’t expecting a view like this from my window.

An hour away by bus is Auschwitz, which I visited yesterday: probably the last thing I wanted to do. When the bus pulled up outside the museum, I was ready to return to Krakow. I left only two hours into the three hour tour. It is the saddest place I have ever been, though I don’t know how you could come this close and not visit - perhaps visit isn’t the right word but I'm not sure what is. I can’t fathom a job as a tour guide. It would be heartbreaking.

On Thursday nights at my hostel a free dinner is offered. There are two parts of the hostel and dinner was in the other building, a ten-minute walk away. Never one to turn down free food, I trekked over at 8 o’clock in search of company and found Columbians, French and Turkish travellers, plus the resident Poles, two kilos of pasta and a smidgen of Polish vodka.

Today I walked down Ul. Kanonicza, the oldest street in Krakow where most of the houses were built in the Middle Ages - and one was home to Pope John Paul 11. I strolled all around Kazimierz, the Jewish district, and across the Wista river to a bench in an unnamed park where I sat in the sunshine. I could taste spring in the air - the high of 13 today had me leaving behind my usual winter armour of coat, gloves and scarf.

Just a few other things to add: you know how at home if there are road works blocking off half the road, we have men in vests who direct the flow of traffic? Well, Poles don’t have this ...

And I forgot to tell you about the food theft in Warsaw - how I forgot, since I was feet stomping mad, I will never know. Twice! I fell victim to food thievery in my hostel. Not satisfied with just taking my orange juice, they came back a second time for my whole bag of food supplies I’ve been carting around. Just writing this makes me mad. At least the jar of nutella was almost empty. Still, a pox on those who stole.

Envious that Margs will get to see all of you so soon, but the excellent adventures shall continue on.

Love Mad

Supernatural Salzburg

Well while Mad has been freezing in Poland, Ive been freezing in Austria, although today is unseasonably warm. I suspect the weather man knows I'm on the verge of leaving. Fortunately I haven't had much time to wander around outside. My first day here I did a bit of sight seeing, including dancing around the gardens where they filmed 'Do Re Mi' in the sound of music. The conference was meant to run a tour that evening, but when no tour guide showed up me and Scott (fellow conference delegate and former private investigator turned academic) went and had a look around one of the old castles, discussed focault while throwing snowballs, and set out on a self devised tour of salzburg's pubs.

Before the conference began the next afternoon I went with some of the other delegates on a tour of the st. Sebastian church and cemetery, where perecelcius (not sure I've spelt that right) is burried. Grave yard wad very creepy--lots of hourglasses with batwings, snakes sliding out of skull eyesockets, etc. It was, however, eerily beautiful to watch the snow falling on the tombstones.

The conference itself was great. There were papers on everything concerning magic and the superntural from ancient Greek sourcerers, to alchemy, to witchcraft, to Harry Potter, Narnia and Terry Pratchett. I was a little concerned that there'd be a whole lot of people there who believed themselves to be practicing witches and magicians, but there was only one guy who, rather amusingly, kept insisting magic was real. Although I did have my tarot cards read with rather frightening accuracy one night after dinner.

There was a really strong focus on 'networking' (which apparently translates to everyone getting sloshed at the hotel bar the minute the lat session of the day finishes) and I've met some amazing people that I'm very much going to miss.

There are, however, people I'm missing even more, and that's all of you. So I'm packing my bags, and tomorrow I'm starting out on the very long journey home. Am sooooo excited to see you all when I get back!

Love,
Margs
xo xo xo

P.S. I think my paper went okay : )

A Room of One’s Own

I’ve been riding clouds since I made it to Warsaw: having a room of one’s own is mood uplifting - the best thing a girl could ask for. It turns out that being on the third floor isn‘t so great, but all the climbing I’ve been doing can be overlooked because I also had my very own bathroom, and that just might be the nicest thing that’s happened this trip.

In a peanut’s shell, Poland is colder than the Walkerville IGA in winter. And here ended my love affair with snow. Every time I stepped outside, the sun was shining, the skies were blue, and I knew it would be a perfect day. And every single time I had this thought, I would arrive back to my hostel icing white, my teeth a perfect match for my new winter’s coat.

I spent as much time knee deep in snow as I did eating - and that’s saying something.

Milk Bars. Now my guide books had nothing complimentary to say about such places, other than that they were cheap (words that clung to the fluff of my brain - milk, bar and cheap rolling around and around until I knew I must visit). These places are left over from the communist era, diners where at one time most of the meals were milk based, hence the name. Now I have no idea if this still holds true as the menus are in Polish, but my faith in guide books has taken a downward spiral. I ADORE milk bars. Not only are they cheaper than a bus fare but they also offer cold-weather-comforting food.

Through a guessing game where finger pointing is key, I ended up with a big bowl of hearty - or as close to hearty as food’s likely to get - mushroom soup and potato dumplings, and on another day, pancakes with onion, potato and quark, and then the next day I had a plate of spinach with my soup, as the girl who sat opposite me had a plate of spinach and some type of body-cleansing beans, and this scene made me think that perhaps some vegetables, as opposed to dumplings, weren’t such a bad idea.

But, though you may doubt me (and I‘ve given you good reason to doubt; this seems to be more a food blog than a travel one), I didn’t spend my days in Poland just eating. I paid a visit to the Warsaw Uprising Museum, which was achingly sad. Dates, facts and names drilled into your memory during high school history lessons only outline the story; the colour comes from walking Warsaw’s streets. The Stare Miasto -
the old town quarter - was completely levelled during the War and has since been restored brick by brick to replicate the original - as if to prove that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men really could put this place back together again.

I spoke to a girl over lunch at the milk bar, who, besides wanting to know all about my travels, wanted to know what I thought about Polish people. I said those I’d met had been genuinely friendly - nice - helpful - a true, if hollow-sounding, description. What about sad? she asked. Do we seem sad? To which I said: not that I’d observed - even amongst the older generation.

Perhaps I haven’t been looking closely enough or in the right direction, but the resilience of these people astonishes me. I would have been born mad had I been born Polish.

Looking for some lighter entertainment, I decided to trek 10 kilometres to Wilanów, home to historic Wilanów Palace (the Polish Versailles) and home to my destination: the acclaimed poster museum.

The sun was shining, the skies were blue and I knew it would be a perfect day. Eight kilometres in I hopped on a bus as my footpath appeared to have run out, cut off by the merging of new roads, and snow was beginning to tumble down and I was feed up with the wind’s whipping of my hair. Then the snow really started to fall: the museum was closed for an exhibition change, a fact some one had failed to disclose on the website.

Now it’s when I’m all alone, grumpy and wearing wet socks that I make rash decision. The problem with backpacking is that you can only shop for ephemeral things: when the cold pushed me in through the nearest set of doors, I emerged in the hair dye section of one of the biggest supermarkets I’ve been in yet. I didn’t want a hair-changing experience, just brighter, happier-looking hair, like what was promised to me by the model on the packaging. She looked ecstatic and her hair was awfully pretty; I wanted what she had. Unfortunately a combination of Polish instructions and me not paying attention to the clock has ended with my hair being the nearest colour to black you will find - which doesn’t make me a brighter, happier-looking or even ecstatic person. Lesson learned.

I went across the river a few times to visit Praga, the only district untouched by war, but other than the really old vodka distillery, which gives the impression of being maintained, all the buildings are hard done by, as if they know everyone has given up on them.

I also did my tourist duty - followed the trails mapped out by the guide book, took photos of the statues and the buildings, wandered through the parks until my feet refused to wander any more. And before I forget, I found a terrific English second-hand bookshop, right around the corner from my hostel so I’m fully stocked up.

I made it to Krakow - grey skies all around - and after a harrowing bus experience, I’m sitting in what just might be the nicest hostel room I’ve seen. If I can work out how to put photos up, you might get to see just how nice.

Love to you all - I hope none of you has done anything silly like dye your hair black.

Mad xox

Fragments from Italy

Righto, I'm back online. I have to just start out by saying I totally get Mads's train issues. The overnight trip from Paris to
Rome was hands down the worst bit of the trip for me. I was squished into a compartment with five other people, none of whom spoke English. One was a little crazy and kept talking to himself and another took out the world record as the stinkiest man alive. Trying to enter a disassociative state, I dived into Patricia highsmith's strangers on a train. Dumb idea. An eternity later when I was finally nodding off to sleep, havingfoused my scarf in perfume and draped it over my face like a shroud so I could breathe and feeling more than a little jumpy from reading about psychopaths plotting murders on trains, the police burst in, wake everyone up and prompty arrest the stinky guy and drag him from the train.

Needless to say, by the time I met up with my tour group I was in need of a stiff drink. Fortunately for me, heavy drinking is pretty much compulsary on contiki tours. I remember raising my glass to toast the group on the first night then everything got a little hazy until I found myself rather hungover and on a train to Salzburg this afternoon.

A few memories have resurfaced: I had a wonderful roomate on the tour, Becca, who was from London and worked for a fashion company. There were some rather attractive Italian men in the nightclubs. A very gorgeous medieval town in the Tuscan hills where new moon may or may not have been filmed (there was some confusion about this). wine tasting in the chianti region. Amazing traditional four course dinners in each of the cities. A romantic gondola ride in Venice. Belinis at harry's bar. Being blasted with black eyed peas 'meet me half way' (our official contiki song) every. Single. Morning. A LOT of churches. And heaps and heaps of pretty scenery.

In terms of aesthetics, Italy has probably been my favourite place and I definitely want to go back! Though I've thought that about most places.

I've now got a day to recover and turn my paper into a presentation for the magic and te supernatural conference on Monday. Hostel in salzburg us lovely and there's a few conferences run by the same group and all the younger delegates seem to be staying here, so we're all frantically working on our presentations together.

Exactly a week till I'm back home! Can't wait to see you all!!!
Margs

xoxoxo

Ahoj! Mluvite anglicky?

It’s strange. Some of Prague could be the setting from my favourite fairy tale, then I turn the corner, duck under the bridge – even though there’s no need to duck as I’m not six feet tall, the looming concrete causes my chin to tuck to my neck every time – and I leave fairyland behind. My hostel is in the poorer district of the Bohemian capital but there’s no need to feel sorry for me. Despite the worn, depressed state of the architecture, or perhaps because of it, the fare on this side of town is kind to a backpacker’s budget. A block of chocolate is 50 cents cheaper. An hour’s massage will cost you $26 Australian. Other items, less important in my scheme of things, are at reduced prices.

And it’s only a ten minute stroll to the genteel part of the city, where I’ve spent the last week in constant exploration. It is the Art Nouveau buildings that draw me, though there are many other architectural gems around, and my hand is forever reaching for my camera to snap just another memory. Thank god for computers as my brain has limited capacity.

I’ve been sick this past week - for those of you who haven’t heard my complaining from all the way over here - so I was moving in slow motion those first few days. I’ve been living in an 11-bed room, which could have been horrid but was saved from being so by the people I shared the space with (even if some of them didn’t believe in showering). Most of the people I’ve met are solo travellers and there seems to be this innate bond, as if we’re all sharing the same experiences, so when I come home after a day’s sight-seeing there’s always someone to chat to or share a meal with or complain about how darn sore my feet are.

On my second night I thought I was attending a contemporary ballet performance – the girl selling tickets at the National Theatre Box Office assured me it was an excellent show, incorporating dance and film so just imagine my excitement and expectations as I trotted off to the theatre. Can you picture me? Now then, imagine my feelings of utter betrayal after watching an hour’s performance by an amateur theatre group of which three members could passably dance, but really shouldn't have bothered.

Determined to see the real thing I tried again, this time booking tickets for the Tsar’s Last Daughter: Sleeping Beauty at the Opera House. It was a magical evening and if someone could only have explained the presence of the shiny blue couple, who appeared on several occasions to dance and bow, I would have been utterly content.

I played tourist most of the week, following all the routes my guide book laid out: the Museum of Contemporary and Modern Art was excellent, five floors of paintings, sculpture and decorative arts, as was the little coffee shop across the road where I was served better-than-Enid-Blyton-descriptions homemade cake for 8 Koruna.

I loved the Mucha Museum, though it was tiny and parting with that much money caused some sharp pains to shoot up my arm. Prague Castle is staggering on the skyline and walking around the grounds took an afternoon, even though the gardens were closed for winter. But my favourite place, the spot I’ll forever remember and yearn to return to, is, as seems natural with me, a food palace: Klub Architektu. Within skipping distance from Old Town Square, this cosy haven is tucked beneath a church and design shop, and each day offers a lunch special from 12 to 4. I liked it so much I think I must have eaten there five times. Chicken, lentil, potato soups, special bread dumplings, dumplings with strawberries and sweet cheese, potato dumplings with smoked meat and sauerkraut, steamed broccoli with cheddar cheese were just some of the meals I absorbed.

I also went on a FREE tour, which was rather good. Tipping was optional so I did a runner, which left me feeling both guilty and happy, and had me pondering my moral compass. I am ever skeptical of tours but it did provide me with some valuable information, like, did you know that contact lenses were invented in the Czech Republic as were plastic explosives?

The oddest thing just happened - I'm sitting on the train to Warsaw and I'm sharing my compartment with five other people, all of whom are playing with their phones, and I thought back to a time when I was attached to my phone and on trying to draw its image from my memory came up blank. Isn't that bizarre? Two and a half months is all it takes to wipe something from my memory. Isn't that scary? I have less than a two and a half month memory recall!

Speaking of trains, now I've completely deviated from my blogging task, I suffer travel anxiety, obviously inherited from my mother. (Also note the jump in time - I write this a few hours later as my battery died.) After having my ticket checked on boarding this morning, the attendant told me that I would have to move to the front of the train by 2pm as these carriages would be separating. So I had at least 4 hours to relocate myself and belongings up front, and I honestly tried to wait it out. I was very comfortable; I even had a little table all to myself. But after 15 minutes I was practically running to get to the right carriage. And it didn't let up: what if I missed my train stop, what if I got on the wrong bus, what if I didn't get off where I was supposed to - this constant litany of nervousness bothered me until I arrived at Tamka Hostel, Warsaw, where I have my very own room, my very own bathroom ALL to myself, which is a delight. I can't wait to explore tomorrow as the nighttime glimpses I caught of the city were promising.

Before I go, I read a terrific book on the train this morning. Eva Rice's The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets. Rather an odd reading experience as I'd previously listened to this as an audio book while travelling to Melbourne with Rach, so I had the narrator's voices in my head - which might sound awful but it wasn't as the reader was as a good as the book.

Good night, must go collect my laundry - I didn't have to pay to do my washing! Luxury.

I hope you are all well - or at the very least are eating good food.

Love Mad xxx

The Great Train Debacle

The strangest thing: I could completely disappear (let’s just ignore that I've been blogging my whereabouts all over the Internet); no one has checked my passport since leaving Spain. I went through no checkpoint at the Vienna airport and on arriving in Prague, I could have been invisible.

I spent my last days in Vienna with an insatiable appetite: I mulled over the great art collections in Kunsthistorisches, confirming my feeling that I don't like Brueghel’s or Rubens', or even Rembrandt's (though I have read a terrific book titled Rembrandt's Daughter). For all those horrified people - I look at these paintings and think, these boys sure could paint, but nothing echoes inside of me, nothing compels me to stand for hours staring in wonderment as it does others. I do like Greek statues and carvings, however, and while I want to run away from Egyptian mummies, I covet their jewellery and marvel at their ingenuity.

I went to the opera to see Medea with American Dina and just as I was beginning to loathe the whole experience - standing for an hour hemmed in on all sides by great beasts of human beings with scissor-sharp elbows - Dina had the brilliant plan to venture to the top floor and see if we could commandeer spare seats. Not only did we find these empty luxuries, we also uncovered the light-shedding English translation machines. I suppose I shouldn't complain about standing: we only paid 4 euro whereas the people in the front rows, according to the program, parted with 240.

I had lunch with another of Doris' friends, the incredibly friendly Katrin, who took me to a Chinese restaurant for a buffet lunch, where we tested the all-you-can-eat theory, and I discovered some of the best Chinese food around. I also went to the famous Hotel Sacher for the Sacher Torte (thank you, Trav). This establishment is the very height of opulence. They demand (very very politely) that you take your coat to the cloak room (a cost of 1 Euro to retrieve item) and then you are seated in a room where gold and crimson colours blind you with their brilliance. The coffee is served on a silver platter and the torte on a plate that rivals the room for shininess. I left some time later so spellbound that I didn't take note of the price I paid to play princess.

I liked Wein so much I'm going back for three nights over Easter; I have to be in Austria then as I'm meeting Mum in Salzburg! and needed to be in throwing distance so I could compete with the hoards of Europeans travelling the railways over the holiday.

In my eagerness to avoid calamity I was an hour and a half early for my train to Prague. I made it to the correct station (number 7) and at 12.43 (the train was due to depart at 12.33 but was running ten minutes late, the board told me) I boarded a train leaving from said platform. It still baffles me that I boarded the wrong train, heading to the south of Austria. According to the very nice man who helped lift my whale of a pack to the top shelf in the cabin, the main train station in Vienna is under construction and so all the lines are being diverted to Meidling, where I boarded, and one of these diverted trains made its way to my station just before the Prague train arrived.

Still there are worst fates than being lost in the Austrian countryside, and one (small) block of chocolate later I wasn't too anxious. I was redirected to another train at the next stop, easy enough, but on boarding this I learnt that it was a reservation only train. The conductor assured me this was fine, as I could buy one in the Czech Republic for 50 euro! or get off at the last stop before entering the country to catch a later train - which at the time seemed an excellent, if stingy, idea. Thankfully, it turned out that I could stay on my train for a mere 8 euro, a happier prospect than waiting 4 hours on an ice-licked platform for the next train (at one point I'll look back and curse this decision: 8 euro, what on earth was I thinking - that's a book; that's my week's washing, that's a day's meals). We travelled at high speeds through storms of snow - I saw animals fleeing for cover – but Prague seems empty of the white stuff, for which I am thankful. It’s cold enough.

I finally made it to my hostel, bag and all, and decided to head out again as I'd noticed a Thai massage place on the corner, and my back and rest of self has been in a perpetual state of soreness. After being manipulated into every conceivable position - she sat on me, stood on me, pulled my arms and yanked my legs this way and that way - my body feels remarkably better if my head does not (I'm getting a cold and I have that niggle in the throat). Any one that knows me well knows how much I complain when I get sick and how much I like to complain so having no one around to complain to is very hard indeed. I must have known that I’d fall sick as I've booked seven nights here so I have plenty of time to be sick and still explore the city.

Love to you all – I hope none of you have a niggle (I have American Chad to thank, who from the bunk opposite me must have projected his germs into the air currents, lovely thought).
Mad xox

Just a quickie to say hi before I board the train for Rome.

Last couple of days in Paris have been pretty hectic, but in a good way. I met some Americans and a fellow Aussie at my hostel and have spent my evenings swapping stories and sharing a bit if wine with them. Yesterday I caught up with Ella's friend, Ali, who is pretty much the nicest person on the planet! We met up at notre dame and she showed me where she's studying at the uni here, then we tackeld the metro to have coffee in the square where Victor Hugo lived before spending the rest of the afternoon iceskating, which was awesome. There were lots of tweenagers showing off who almost got us killed on multiple occassions, but we didn't stack it once! Go us!

Today I toddled down to musee d'orsay: an art gallery hosed in an old train station showcasing some of the most famous works from the 19th and early 20th centuries, and which, just quietly is so much cooler than the louvre.

For the next week I'm on a contiki tour and don't know whether or not I'll have access to the net, so, devistating a it may be, you may not hear from me again until I reach Salzburg. Don't worry, Mum, I'll text you every day!

Well, time to once again shoulder my pack (I hate that thing so much and am considering burning it when I get home) and set off for the train!

Much love to you all,
Margs
xo xo xo

PS - Very excited, the family have picked out a new puppy, a black lab. We're naming Moet. They get her a few weeks after I get back! So excited!!!

In Wonderland

I said goodbye to Barcelona for the second time, leaving behind the now familiar city. These last few days have been fairly understated; since Margs and I had already played tourists I busied myself with mellow activities: street strolling, market visiting, park-bench reading, hostel friend making. I went to the Harlem Jazz Club with some fellow hostellers and witnessed a sublime show: Latin American jazz and a singer with a dreamy chocolate-smooth voice.

I left on a cold morning and had to navigate my way from bus to plane to bus to train to tram, by which time I was feeling the weight of my pack. Vienna looked dreary and tired Sunday evening, matching my mood when I arrived at 10 Myrthengasse. I was dismayed by the outer shell of my hostel: a worn building with a dark, dank entrance hall, one end covered by a sheet, and by the time I’d climbed the curving staircase I was beginning to wonder if I’d been duped.

But light and heat beckoned me inside and I discovered the cosiest of nooks. There are only two bedrooms: one with four beds and the other an eight-bed room made spacious by a loft dividing the sleeping area. The first floor beds are set up like a ship’s cabin, and the beds are deliciously soft and warm, making for the best sleep in weeks. Each guest is assigned an alphabet letter and has corresponding items that belong to him or her. I have a D towel, a D locker, a D umbrella and even a D cupboard in the spice-and-pasta-stocked kitchen. If I put my laundry in a little drawer, the laundry fairy will deliver me fresh clothes the next morning.

I took off my first night determined to find a supermarket, even though Argentinean Emmanuel assured me nothing but the small deli across the road would be open. My determination failed and I arrived back at the hostel, 8 euro poorer – jipped of my money by the kind old lady at the nearby deli. Then to my horror I discovered my over-priced soup was in fact liver dumpling flavoured, and after a tentative sip down the drain it went.

Monday morning, in defiance of the previous day’s gloom, was gloriously sunny so I set out, spring in my step, in the wrong direction. Half an hour later, spring slightly deflated, I righted my course. I had decided to walk the Ring roads, which cut a square out of the city’s centre, and this route took me on the prettiest sight-seeing tour imaginable. The range of architecture - Baroque, Art Nouveau and Deco, Renaissance and Gothic - bewitches me and makes me feel like a fairy tale character.
By midday I was at Naschmarkt, which is smell paradise, snacking on a spinach strudel and lemon pastry. I walked on to Scholl Belvedere and toured the gardens, finally settling down to read on a sun-drenched bench.

As you walk the city you come across parks specifically for dogs - fenced in squares that are curiously designed so that you can relocate your dog to an outer square if it doesn’t get along with a particular inhabitant, which from ten minutes spent watching dogs socialising, occurs quite often. This made me wonder if cats were given the same consideration, but so far I haven’t actually sighted a Viennese cat, which made me wonder about the fate of cats in this city and then, as I don’t particularly care for cats, I washed them from my mind and began to wonder about times when these magnificent palaces were fully functional and how extraordinary it was that certain individuals called these places home, which caused me to wonder about a social experiment involving me calling a palace home - by which time it was time to return to my lodgings.

Back at the hostel I met up with my friend, Russian Olise, and we set out on a dinner mission (strangely enough a couple from Adelaide had checked in). After mood-warming goulash we wandered over to an Austrian fairyland: the most awesome ice rink I have seen – instead of your typical oval shape, this rink winds its way through the park giving the impression of a race car track. Backdropping this icescape is the Rathausplatz, the town hall – a building directly from a Disney princess movie – which is lit up with colour-changing lights.

Today I spent at Scholl Schonbrunn, examining the gardens at length and I proclaim them perfect and suitable for my social experiment. I also managed to locate my wayward Eurail pass, which had been lost in the Viennese postal system. So was in a particularly cheery mood when I set out to meet Gerlinde, a lovely Austrian woman who works at the University library, who through a strange chain of events was elected my tour guide for the evening. My dad, as well as being a parent, is also part-social coordinator and sent out a call to workmates for information on Vienna, which put him in contact with Austrian Doris, which put me in contact with Gerlinde who met Doris through the gym.

Gerlinde was the best introduction to this city. She named all the beautiful buildings I’d admired but not really understood, and showed me where the National Library was (which was particularly exciting) and how to buy standing tickets for the opera, and even secured me a pass to a museum exhibition night this Thursday with free drinks. The best part of the evening, though, was when she took me to a Viennese coffee house and I tried for the first time the famous apflestrudel.
Much love to everyone back home; if it was possible to successfully post food home, I would.

p.s. latest book recommendations: The Elegance of the Hedgehog (brilliant) and the thought-provoking Bee Season.

I'm not dead. Thought I should put that out there. According to some very worried texts from mum, Paris has been gripped by a storm that has so far killed 45 and is said to be getting worse. I was sitting on my balcony this morning, soaking up the sun and thinking that I was enjoying the best weather of the trip so far when I got mum's paniced text. There was some rain last week, but horrific, city-destroying storm? No.

Yesterday actually marked the first official day of spring. To celebrate, I found what my guidebook promised was the best patisserie in Paris and spent the afternoon reading and munching macaroons in Parc Monceau, yet another of Paris's gorgeous public gardens. I've really fallen in love with all these gardens, they've been my favourite places to visit in Paris so far. I've got some good photos too, but am still having to use my phone for the Internet, so unfortunately can't upload any of them : ( Today, a little drunk on springtime, I decided to take in the mother of all these parks, the gardens at Versailles. Sprawling lakes, mazes of trees, rolling lawns and clipped toperies, I was, without a doubt, in heaven. I spent about three hours just wandering about gawking at it all before stopping to enjoy a coffee at the little cafe overlooking the main lake. Honestly, I think that coffee has been the best bit of the trip so far. Just being in those gardens being waited on by waiters in black tie makes you feel like royalty!

The palace itself was also pretty amazing. The excessive luxury France's monarchs lived in is just incredible! Unfortanately thousands ofother people seemed to think so too, the place was packed with tourists and school groups making it very stuffy and often difficult to see much of the rooms, but it was still pretty awesome to find myself standing in the hall of mirrors where they signed the treaty of Versailles and in the king and queens bed chambers!

Yesterday morning I also did the touristy thing and finally worked up the courage to tackle the louvre. That place is damned intimidating, but definitely worth it! Highlights for me were the Greek and Roman statue galleries and the hall built for louis xiv where the crown jewels are housed.

Other than that, I've been getting a bit of reading in. Finally braved Virginia Wolfe, as, apparently I'm teaching mrs dalloway this semester. I'll be honest, I didn't think I was going to like it, and didn't think much of it to begin with, but ended up totally digging all the modernist melancholy. I'm now back on my highsmith bent with The Cry of the Owl, and enjoying muchly. Very inspiring stuff, I've replotted the entire second half of my novel since I started reading it. No one does crime like her. In fact, I'm itching to get back to it, so I shall bid you all goodnight!

Margs
xo xo