Guten tag, Germany!

Berlin... Berlin was too perfect for words. 

If I could relive my time there on a repeat loop I would. My very own Groundhog Day fantasy. Maybe a few years from now, I will tell you the story (who knows, I might even blog it here if "Buzzing about..." still exists) but for now, I can only show you a few photos.

1) View from atop the Berlinerdom. Maybe it was a sign...

2) Not just an ordinary car park - this used to be Hitler's bunker.

3) Nothing is as it seems in Berlin: this "Police" vehicle is actually a stripper van. 

4) And these "guards" at Checkpoint Charlie? Strippers.

5) The Berlin Wall. 6) And the Berlin Wall Bear.

7, 8) Berlin's idea of an art gallery. Too awesome. A refreshing change from the Van Goghs and Botticellis.

9) Riverside lunch: beer with "banana juice"
(the Germans are fond of their mixed beers). My tastebuds approve. 

10) Just one of a few city gates at the Pergammon Museum. *jaw drops*

11) The haunting Jewish Monument. 12) A different look at the Berlin Wall.

13, 14) Repainting history. 

15, 16) Two dress circle seats at the Berliner Staatsoper (Berlin State Opera) to see Leonard Berstein's musical adaptation of Voltaire's Candide.

I normally don't have too much trouble saying goodbye, but this one was hard. It still is hard. My days in Berlin were some of the best I spent in Europe, and that's saying something.

And to think I wasn't even going to go to Germany...

Guten tag, Germany!

Guess spraining an ankle does have its perks after all... Wheelchair tours of the airport, having an entire row of the plane to myself, door-to-door chauffeuring, delicious meals placed at my fingertips and even increased water-saving capacity (you try showering on one leg for more than five minutes, dear reader – I just about killed my other ankle too).

But I’ve been productive. Oh yes, less frolicking time equals more time for serious things. You know, playing violin, making dumplings, baking biscuits, eating dumplings, eating biscuits, cutting hair, watching movies... Alright, finishing uni assignments and starting exam revision too. But now, it’s time to blog. Oh wait, cushion for the cankle: check. Mug of rose, papaya and mango tea: check. Bach’s cello suites: check. Ok, now it’s time to blog.

So it’s about time I filled you in on the second leg of my backpacking trip. I arrived in Bavaria on a grey and drizzly afternoon, completely unsuspecting of the fact that I would fall madly in love with almost everything I was to find in Germany during the next week. I had originally intended to skip the country altogether, wanting to focus mainly on the Mediterranean, but exams finished earlier than I’d anticipated and Germany was scrawled onto my Eurail pass.

The first thing I did in Munich was visit the Viktualienmarkt. Even knowing that markets never disappoint, I was surprised at the goodies I found here. I munched happily on my Bavarian burger with sweet mustard as I wandered the stalls of beer, cheeses, meats, breads, olives, dried chilli and handicrafts, listening to the beautiful voices around me.

Call me crazy (even half the Germans did), but I actually do love the sound of the language. So it doesn’t have the seductive flow of the romance languages – those six haughty queens: Italian, French, Spanish, Catalan, Portuguese and Romanian – but to me, German is handsome and majestic. And it’s just so satisfying to pronounce. Remember when I would read every French sign in Lausanne just to feel the words on my tongue? Well, guess what I was doing in Germany...

I digress – back to the markets: there was even a honighäusel – a honey house! And for dessert, I sampled Turkish delights of every imaginable flavour: kiwi, pomegranate, coconut, peach, chocolate... The Germans may not be too impressed with the Turkish immigration, but I wasn’t complaining at all.

A family friend kindly offered to put me up in Munich, and we decided to meet in Marienplatz so I could watch the famous Schäfferltanz (cooper’s dance) on the glockenspiel. I thought it was a little overrated until I learned that the first performance took place in 1517 to commemorate the end of the plague...

Then, after a visit to the beer hall in Munich, Hofbräuhaus, where I vowed to return for Oktoberfest one year, and a climb up the 306 steps of Peterskirche (St Peter’s Church), we were ready for dinner. For some authentic Bavarian cuisine, we arrived at Sommerresidenz beer garden in Löwenbräukeller. I already knew what I wanted; I’d seen a table of big German men tuck into it at the beer hall earlier that afternoon. Pig’s knuckle. The Bavarians call it Schweinshaxe (see why I want to speak German now?) and it tastes spectacular with a pint of local Weißbier. So that’s what I had.

You'd think that that was enough to last me a while, but you obviously don't know my metabolism very well, my dear reader. The very next day was spent discovering more Bavarian treats at the English Beer Garden. I was tempted to get the foot long pork ribs, but I settled instead for a modest sausage and a not-so-modest pretzel. And beer, of course. Don’t forget the beer. Thank goodness I'm only in Germany for the week...

Meet My Cankle.

It’s only 10am, day two of my house arrest and I’m already bored out of my mind. 

In the past twenty-four hours, I have watched Slumdog Millionaire, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Dylan Moran’s What Is It show, drawn Audrey Hepburn, organised my emails, checked Facebook a dozen times and eaten half a block of dark chocolate (amongst various other self-pity foods).

So, why my sorry state you ask, dear reader? Well, it all started with a sip of sangria...

...and ended very quickly with my spectacular fall down a step to the bathroom.

I sure hope this falling down steps business doesn’t turn into a habit for me. To be fair, this step – yes, one single darn step – was concealed behind a heavy door and a miniscule “mind your step” sign in a very dimly-lit restaurant. Still, here I am, sitting at my desk with my legs raised above heart level and my left ankle wrapped and iced and rewrapped. It’s not broken; it just resembles a Christmas ham with toes poking out the end.

Rotten timing, really (or terrific, depending on how you like to fill your glass), having just finished two huge assignments and started mid-semester holidays. I can hardly stand up to shower or cook, let alone go shopping and dancing. Did I mention that I live in a two-storey house and have to jump on a plane to Melbourne tomorrow? This is going to be a long week...

We're going to Blackbutt!

Another weekend of music and fun – this time, in good ol’ Blackbutt. Yup, that’s the name of the town (and nope, I don’t know what they were thinking either). Location: 160km northwest of Brisbane. Population: 3,000.

So what’s a big city girl doing in a small country town, you ask, dear reader?
The sponsor-approved answer would be bringing classical music to the people, young and old, as part of the Brisbane Philharmonic Chamber Orchestra. The less glorified response: paid accommodation and transport to play easy music with fun people seemed like a decent form of assignment procrastination. 

Saturday’s children’s concert starred our BFG (in this case, Big Friendly German) trombonist in floppy grey ears and elastic-fastened trunk as The Elephant in Saint-Saens’ The Carnival of the Animals. Needless to say, the kids loved him. There was also some violent bow-snapping (sacrilege, I know), resulting in a One Bow Concerto. Then, a sing-along rendition of Old McDonald not only had the poor old man abandoning his farm for a band, but also somehow realising that “on that band, he had an orchestra”... But no biggie, the kids didn’t notice a thing. And to go out with a bang, the twelve of us played a Gaga medley in sunglasses that would have made the Lady herself proud.

After that, the evening was ours. I learnt a new game called List 10 in which you choose a category (or five) and list up to ten things in each until the first person finishes and calls stop. Sounds simple enough, right? But to make it more interesting, your word doesn’t count if another person has written the same or a more specific answer. So, in our attempt to be as obscure and specific as possible, we came up with some pretty interesting answers: “waterproof electric-blue eyeliner”, “fluffy purple handcuffs”... And in a moment of sheer panic, or genius, as I choose to interpret it, the only native Australian animal I could name was the Dropbear. I scored the point. The evening continued at the pub downstairs with many intense rounds of Quoits, free-flowing cider, beer and wine, and talking into the not-so-wee hours of the morning. 

But after a plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs and several cups of strong, strong tea, I was ready to play our second concert at the Bloomin’ Beautiful Blackbutt Festival. Oh no, back up, I forgot Garry!  He was the host of the reptile show that all the girls were getting a little smitten over. Tall, tanned, passionate but well-spoken... A spunk even without the gorgeous reptiles.

I also lightened my pockets for some new music pegs. Got to support the local economy now.

That afternoon’s concert was another success, despite a small audience. That the girls managed to stay upright while playing standing on our three-inch heels was an accomplishment in itself. We may, however, have been swaying a bit more expressively than usual. All in the name of good musicianship!

So after the Opera at Jimbour (another dot on the map 240km northwest of Brisbane) a few months ago, which brought 8,000 people to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, and now Blackbutt, I feel like I’m ready to perform anywhere! As long as I have bug spray and mobile reception, of course.

¡Buenos días, Spain!

As much as I loved his work, Barcelona wasn’t all about Gaudí.

There was also the majestic Palau Nacional, which houses the MNAC (Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya) but also boasts one of the best views of Barcelona. So, having had enough of art galleries for the time being, I chose to sit outside and observe the hustle and bustle of Espanya Square instead. And it was from atop these steps that I watched my first Spanish sunset and finished reading the second book in Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy, my only constant company while backpacking across Europe.

I managed to behave myself in the artisan workshops in the Poble Espanyol (Spanish Village), but couldn’t resist the chocolaterie... No surprises there. I also saw an amazing glass-blowing demonstration which I happily captured on my brand new shock-, dust-, freeze- and water-proof camera. I had learned my lesson in Venice!

One of my favourite places in Barcelona was the picturesque Port Vell (Old Port). It has a bit of everything that the city has to offer – beautiful architecture, bustling restaurants, flowing palm trees, Jack Sparrow-worthy boats and the bluest of seas under a white hot sun. It also leads straight into the famous La Rambla, the place to go for shopping and tapas. I enjoyed the latter with a fellow backpacker (a German who spoke beautiful Spanish, as they seem to do with all the languages that they learn), and he told me the origin of the famous snack’s name:
 

One day, King Alfonso XIII stopped by a famous tavern in the windy Andalusian city of Cádiz where he ordered a cup of wine. To protect it from the beach sand, the waiter covered the glass with a slice of cured ham before offering it to the king. And so the tradition of serving wine with a cover, or tapa, was born!

My adventures in this lively city would not have been complete without a visit to the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueria (La Boqueria Markets), which date back to 1217. And like all good markets – Melbourne’s Queen Victoria, Brisbane’s West End, Rome’s riverside and Athens’ Monastiraki just to name a few – they made me supremely cheerful.

So it was with a huge smile, wide eyes and itchy fingers that I squeezed from stall to stall, tasting local delicacies and letting myself get lost in the exciting buzz of exotic voices, fragrant smells and vivid colours...

Happy.

¡Buenos días, Spain!

Or rather, bon dia, Barcelona. And since I never ventured out of Catalonia in Spain, my French actually turned out to be far more useful here than my Spanish pocket dictionary.

In many ways, Barcelona was reminiscent of Miami to me, and it was with nostalgia for my early teenage years that I walked through Les Rambles. There they were again – the bustling streets, the dancing palm trees, the Hispanic heat... 

But my favourite part of Barcelona was something that cannot be found in the States. Gaudí’s architecture. God, I have so much love for that man’s work. The Sagrada Família is one of the most amazing places I have ever set foot in (and if all goes according to plan, I will be able to say that again for the completed version in fifteen years time). 

The façades, the doors, the pillars, the ceiling, the stained glass windows, the spiral staircases... I don’t even know what to write about first, let alone which words might do them justice. It was just so completely unlike anything I had ever seen. They say that you either love Gaudí’s architecture or you hate it. Well, I guess they’re right, because I never even felt I'd been given a choice. 

I loved the way he drew inspiration from nature, shaping the pillars to imitate trees, modelling the ceiling above to resemble a canopy and positioning the windows to let light stream in like sunrays through a forest. A man with an appreciation for music (tick!), Gaudí also took great care in designing the church to produce the best acoustics possible. I cannot wait to hear the voices of a full choir accompanied by an 8000-piped organ ring out from the naves at the top of the temple. Getting goosebumps already...  

Later, in the Parc Güell, I fell in love with Gaudí’s mosaics, especially the reptilian features: the serpentine bench and his beautiful mosaic dragon. There were also the magical colonnaded pathways and the “bird nest” terraces lines by palm trees... And a perfect Spanish sky to boot.

Then, on Barcelona’s most famous street, La Rambla, I saw his Casa Batlló – a building that, for me, practically screams Tim Burton. And in case you weren’t sure, dear reader, that is a good thing. A very good thing indeed. The colours, the kookiness, the movement, and just the pure genius of Gaudí’s work – I would go back to Barcelona just for that. 

But of course, that’s not all that this beautiful city has to offer. And you know what you have to do to find out, dear reader: stay tuned!

Buon giorno, Italy!

Well, what have we here? Sure didn’t think I’d be hitting the big five-oh of blogging in just ten months. Guess that goes to show how much I actually like writing when it’s not affecting the future title of my name. I feel like I should say something funny/clever/profound to mark this historic occasion, but it will probably just come out soppy and nostalgic. So let’s just continue our journey through Europe, shall we, dear reader?

Ok, next stop: Firenze.

Florence was my favourite Italian city. She doesn’t have Rome’s constant hustle and bustle, Milan’s stylish shop windows, or Venice’s mask-adorned alleyways, but I always felt so at home here. It’s a feeling I like to call the ‘Lyon Phenomenon’. If Marseille was replaced with Milan, Montpellier with Venice and Paris with Rome, then the way I felt about Lyon in France was exactly that of Florence in Italy.

One of the first things I did (which began in Milan and turned into a habit for the rest of my trip) was climb to the dome of the largest cathedral I could find, happily burning off a few gelatos going up the almost-vertical staircases. And when I saw the beautiful Florentine rooftops, I forgot all about needing to catch my breath.

The basilica’s dark pink and green marble façade is bordered in white and carved into the most intricate designs. I couldn’t stop taking photos! It faces the impressive golden doors of the Battistero di San Giovanni (aka Florence Baptistery), which I was thrilled to finally see in person after hearing so much about them back home.

I did go see Michelangelo’s David, of course, but the real highlight in the Galleria dell'Accademia for me was The Rape of the Sabine Women, by Giambologna. Although this was only the gesso (chalk/glue replicate), with the real statue in the Loggia della Signoria open gallery across town, I must have walked around it, staring wide-eyed from every angle, for a good twenty minutes. The struggle of each of the figures – the older man, crushed under the strength of the younger Roman as they both fight for the young Sabine woman, desperately resisting his grasp – was exquisite.

I wandered the warm cobblestoned streets for hours on end with no destination in mind, making up for my earlier exercise with sweet Florentine cannoli and fresh basil and mozzarella pizza. Later, I found myself by the river, walking through the craft stand-filled arches to the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge). It is by far my favourite bridge in Europe. If only I could afford the sparkling things on display behind the windows! One day...

Even though I was reluctant to visit Venice alone, I arrived in high spirits after my time in Florence. They continued to soar as I set off through the endless streets of elaborate masks and delicate glasswork. I didn’t even mind watching the happy couples rowing toward eternity on their gondolas. I thought Venice was just lovely...

Until I fell into a canal. And destroyed my camera, phone and iPod. ARGH.

So, long, embarrassing story short, wanting to snap a good photo of one of the pretty Venetian bridges, I decided to walk down a set of gondoliers' steps to get closer to the water. It was only after my foot landed on the algae-covered platform that I realised my mistake. Too late! I was already flying through the air in my own rendition of the iconic cartoon banana peel slip by then... Well, I sure got close to the water alright – the completely submerged kind of close. To make matters worse, a gondolier rows past at that exact moment (of course) and informs me rather seriously: "You're not meant to walk on those steps, you know!" Yeah, thanks mate, I know that NOW. A sign or railing would have been greatly appreciated! But yes, I know, even silly tourists aren't normally that silly.

And in case you were wondering, the water tastes slightly salty. It is also very deep and every bit as disgusting as it looks. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t die of a few nasty waterborne diseases. Especially after shivering all the way back to the hostel and taking a cold shower. Brrrr-yuck!

So that put a slight damper (no pun intended) on the rest of my holiday in Venice. I swear the sun came out the next day just to mock me. Ah well, it does make for a good story though, if nothing else. I can’t count the number of times I have heard the sly remark: “So, I hear you went swimming in Italy...” or the glee with which my friends retell my story.

Definitely one for the grandkids, I’d say.