Cutting the ribbon on Spanishness Day (October 12)

To be Frank – which, y’know, sometimes can work for me too – I don’t know where I was, somewhere in Europe - could’ve been Belgium, Austria, Hungary, Monaco, Andorra, France, Norway, Netherlands, Denmark, Faroe Islands (well named, they’s far alright), Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Iceland even, but it definitely wasn’t Ireland, cos, well, they were having a bank holiday and that feels kinda different.

Nup, its not a big deal where I was, as these countries were all flying the same public holiday flag that day, and a new one to me it was – White Monday (give or take a few letters for local spelling and pronounciations), seems it was seven weeks since Easter Monday. It’s the kinda holiday idea that you could base entire calendars and holidays seasons on. “345 days since Christmas” could see you get an early holiday in December. Or if you need something in July – how about… well you pick the holiday of your choice and do the maths…

Have holiday, will travel

Fact is, a holiday is something you go on, most people save up for it, go on a tour, y’know get out and about, p’r’aps with some of that “travel” thing in mind. But a public holiday doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have or take a holiday. Conundrum that one. Like a continent can be an island, but an island ain’t necessarily a contintent, unless of course you’re from Terror Australis, but the point being it’s more about relative size and how much you got going on around it for it to be a real holiday.

And in the “getaway and go bush” lexicon, then the day that the Holy Spirit entered the disciples (White Monday) is more at the interpretative dance end of the “go out there and enact” style holidays, like f’r instance Valentine’s Day, Easter or Picnic Day (August 3).

Yep that’s right, Picnic Day. Almost up there with Melbourne Cup Day (holiday for a horse race, November 3) in terms of festive spirit, ‘cept you don’t need to watch a bunch of nags on the telly, Picnic Day is the first of my examples of reasons to travel for a public holiday, like go to that country and holiday with their public, cos there’s nothing quite like knowing you are one of millions relaxing just the right way.

St Picnic’s Day

Now just a note before we get all carried away – you could have a fair bit of fun doing some ‘National Day’ hopping, just like going from birthday party to birthday party where you catch the hosts at their best and all full of local spirit.

Extreme picnicking on St Picnic's Day

You could also really get in touch with a feeling – like Watermelon Seed Spitting Week (June 25-28), National Accordion Awareness Month or alternatively National Aphasia Awareness Month, which depending on what fancies your tickle could have you simultaneously silently being appreciative and aware of accordions, but really, truth be told, you don’t have to travel to do that kinda thing, and there’s no guarantee when you get there, that the locals would be supporting the spirit 100%. But Picnic Day, well it’s the law, so you hafta do it…

So, back to Picnic Day: its more than just God’s way of reminding us all of the value of checked blankets and wicker baskets – Picnic Day is just as much a way of embracing the wonders of drinking beer, outside, under the sun, with the kids. A marvelous combination instilled in law by the Northern Territory government (charged with the important role of tending the greatest place in the world, ever) to ensure that Territorians all over get their Required Annual Intake (RAI) of picnicking goodness.

Official NT holidays - Happy Borroloola Show Day!

Now imagine the sheer pleasure of planning your next holiday around public holidays – there’s some great ones to choose from. How about getting off that plane and arriving in the midst of a pre-organised relax-o-rama, don’t think of it as “the shops are shut, everything’s closed, what will we do?” type social panic situation.

Nup, it’s more like, for that one day, the public is polarized to your relaxation intentions. Get your bags and let’s have a little cruise round the world.

Happy WYBCPAPFITR Day!

If Revolution Day sounds maybe a little bit dangerous to you, then perhaps arriving in Guatemala a week early for Spanishness Day (October 12) could be just the ticket for you. It’s hard to say whether public demonstrations of some kind of jamon-a-thon would be what you would find, but sure to know Guatemala embraces Spanish stuff on this auspicious calendrical occurrence.

Now despite the fact that its known that Sri Lanka has the largest number of public holidays, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are any wackier than most, offer better shopping or present the ideal place to move to if you are leisure conscious. New public holidays are added regularly, but the downside is that as its in the tropics, rain can halt play quite easily. Not a bankable day off there at all, should you have to arrive unannounced then its likely the general public may be ready to relax on a newly announced public holiday as well.

In the town of Bourton on the Water, in the wee green Cotswolds of sunny England, the locals get into their best coloured pullovers (or jumpers if that be your thing) on the 4th Monday of August, all in preparation to play football in the river of course. Now it would seem that In Bourton on the Water fr the past 70 years that although it isn’t officially demarcated as Wear Your Best Coloured Pullover And Play Football In The River Day (WYBCPAPFITR Day for the economically minded), it can be relied upon that if you turn up on the nominated Monday with a pigskin under your arm and a pullover then you can be sure of a good game of footie.

Getting ready for WYBCPAPFITR Day

More of a theme day than a public holiday, but it sets the tone well for a coupla beers down the pub later on, that’s to be sure. To quote a local - “The effort of playing in water is tiring so the game is not the normal 90 minutes in length, but despite its brevity (15 minutes each way), hundreds of people come to line the banks and cheer on their respective teams. Sometimes, if the ball comes their way, onlookers get splashed, but on this normally sunny weekend, no-one really minds.”

Declare your own holiday

We’ve also spoken before of the general “lose-the-plotness” and get-all-sillyness of Midsummer’s Eve in the Scandanavian regions. Frog dances, fish and schnapps and kissing in the woods anyone? And that’s just the start of it. P’r’haps a lifestyle more than just a public holiday.

A final way to ensure that you are in the right place for public holiday success, would be to start your own republic, much like Mayor Haristano in Java, or Owen Fenton in Yorkshire, England, or just a variety of the new micronations that are popping up round the world. Like the famous Leonard Casley who founded the Principality of Hutt River in 1970.

As soon as you have taken care of all that bureaucratic nonsense like starting a currency, and getting the infrastructure working, you can then set about naming public holidays as you choose – and wait for those tourists to flock in! National Simon Says Day could solve a whole bunch of “what to do” style problems at once! As long as you don’t plan on being a despotic dictator you can have all the fun you want, so why not get busy, make your own fun and set about declaring your own home-made micronation public holiday day today!

-Jack Brown

Things to do in Vienna: Day 1

I arrived by boat on my most recent visit, travelling through the lock into the city after dark, and cruising past a magnificent unlit bridge, past the Marina Wien restaurant, lit up with retro signage, and docked just near the Danube Hilton.

My first foray is back to the highway bridge, tapping it for sound, when I realise that the new bridge next to the marina is still under construction, some of the cables are swaying loosely, and on further investigation, I find that it will form part of the latest extension to the U2 Metro. Taking the train from the current end of the line at Stadion towards Karlsplatz deposits us directly at Museumsquartier, the epicentre of Vienna’s contemporary cultural precinct. Scattered between the imposing buildings are a fabulous collection of plastic purple lounges, inhabited by hundreds of people soaking up the sun in between visits to the various museums.

Vienna's Kunsthalle

The exhibition at the Kunsthalle Wien when I visit is a slightly PG introduction to PUNK – subtitled ‘No-one is Innocent’. It’s a little hard to convey the iconoclastic spirit of punk in a museum context, although the selection of films is superb. Next to this, Derek Jarman’s ‘Brutal Beauty’ was highly intriguing, as his work also explores punk or anti-establishment themes, being highly autobiographical and political. The show presented his monochrome cinematic work ‘Blue’, along with Super 8 Film, paintings and installations. The current Edward Hopper exhibition also looks fascinating.

Only a short stroll over the lower part of Mariahilferstrasse, head to your left down the stone stairway to Rahlgasse, where you find the arty Cinema Top Kino. The latest and nostalgic art house film screenings are complemented by this remarkably chilled out bar and cafe, with bohemian chic lounges, cute individual terraces, reasonably priced drinks, schnitzel and free wifi. I could hang out there for days.
Wander along Theoboldgasse, Lehargasse and Gumpendorferstrasse to explore some of the smaller commercial art galleries, bars, a great bookshop and dark wood panelled coffee houses, before heading up the hill into the main shopping drag.

Mariahilferstrasse is filled both with history, and outlets for practically every store you can imagine, a great way to combine shopping and more erudite sight-seeing. There is even a very helpful online directory to the street, although the very colourful and woman friendly erotica shop halfway along is missing, check it out for a variety of playful and exotic, dark or hedonistic toys and outfits!

Vienna's Badeschiff

Near on the corner of Windmühlgasse is Radlager, the ultra-hip recycling concept store where you can sample rich decadent espresso, hand-tailored suits and restored vintage furnishings along with the sexy retro bicycles, art and DJ parties. For those dedicated retro junkies, find yourself in vintage heaven at Flo’s Vintage, Schleifmühlgasse 15a, a little further from Karlsplatz and well worth the extra walk.

Detour: The quintessential Viennese evening experience is still a trip to the Prater. More than just a fun-fair, this magnificently hyper-real park offers everything from gravity-defying rides, to the stately Reisenrad, the giant Ferris wheel immortalised in the movie ‘The Third Man’, where you can take a leisurely spin in the cute red wooden swinging cars, looking out across the city lights. This is more my speed than the spinning teacups, which look sedate but are secretly terrifying! Enjoy a beer and lagnos (Hungarian deep fried bread), hot dog or pastry to recover after the fairground thrills.

Things to do in Vienna: Day 2

Waking up to a brisk walk across the park from the boat, and impromptu picnic from the local supermarket, I stroll along the Donaukanal in the city, taking in the beach bars, swimming barge and party venue in the Badeschiff, and beautiful green wrought iron railings on all the bridges.

I first visited the marvellous psychedelic lushness of the Hundertwasser House unexpectedly, walking with a friend, and highly recommend the experience if you can manage to surprise anyone! The curvaceous opulence bursts joyously out of the uniform march of apartment blocks, their monochrome similarity making it all the more astonishing. I loved Hundertwasser’s approach to art, and life, he believed that all things take the time they require, and had a slow-art philosophy long before such things were fashionable.

Vienna's Cafe Prückel

Afternoon tea in Vienna means one thing for me, a visit to Cafe Prückel. Step back 100 years into the lushly decadent surrounds of this Viennese institution, which is surprisingly relaxed and low-key. Lounge about admiring the magnificent ceilings, fabulous ’50s lights and green striped upholstery, while you enjoy a melange and topfenstrudel served by waiters in bow ties and waistcoats, who could be part of the original fittings.

Across the road is the Contemporary Art Museum, MAK, at Stubenring 5, to check out the global trends in furniture, architecture, applied and contemporary art, it’s open til midnight every Tuesday, with special events and performances. Hop onto one of the old-fashioned red wooden Ring trams 1 & 2 for a quick tour of the city.

Stroll up the hill behind Cafe Prückel along Backerstrasse and find yourself at St Stephansdom. There is a fabulous gelato shop diagonally across the square, in case you need a little pick-me-up for the walk, and if you require something a little stronger to recover from the glories of the Gothic cathedral, head to Kärnter Durchgang 10. The American Bar (Loos Bar) is described to me as a famous anarchist drinking place with great cocktails. The interior is entirely black inside thanks to the dark marble and onyx walls, while the 1908 architecture and decor are far more sumptuous than you might expect for an anarchist watering hole – as are the prices!

Things to do in Vienna: Day 3

It’s surprisingly easy to get out of the city, just catch the U1 Metro to Donauinsel, and walk along the 20km of swimming spots and parkland on the banks of the Neue Donau. Turn left from the metro and you’ll be in the bustling array of stalls, restaurants and ‘Danube Jumping’, a cool floating bouncy castle for the kids.

Turn right and walk for half an hour or so to find the Vienna City Beach Club. Perfect for an afternoon relaxing, people-watching and even swimming, the drinks are cold and the DJ’s keep the tunes fresh, soak up the euro-trash ambiance and enjoy a surprisingly refreshing side of Vienna. If you fancy something more energetic, stroll down a little further to the jet-ski bar, where you can whizz round in circles on ski’s propelled by a cable – if you fall off just catch hold of the next one - or speed down the slope on a water board. Me, I’ll just be sunning myself on this deckchair, another martini anyone?

-Jodi Rose

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After three days rest and reparations in my hideaway sanctuary in Spreewald just outside of Berlin - contemplating sunshine and catching up on my colleagues most recent exploits in Casino Royale – a sudden message had me call my accountant, who in turn called my travel agent, who in turn called my mother (as it is with such things Italian) and all was approved: we were to go to Milan immediately, post haste, and the trail was to remain hot.

Like a cloth laid at a table set for success, our morning’s plans were set: Bond-style dash through the orderly German forest to Berlin; then hop, skip and a jump from Ostbahnhof to the Flughafen with nary a wurstchen between us as the connections flew fast. Tickets followed and a brief but somehow mandatory tet-e-tet at Schonefeld Airport manifested en route to Milano Malpensa (it seems that Their People are, indeed, everywhere) - the man in question lives now only with a limp to mark our moment’s misfortune.

Milan, Tuesday, 12:23 pm

Black, sleek, waiting for me

The ensuing flight was brief and without delay, the car was waiting and we made for the east by north-east. The driver knew the way and momentarily we were amid Friday afternoon traffic, bonus lanes for driving success abounded – not to worry, though, as this man wove around the road like an expensive cashmere scarf in a stiff breeze.

A black, sleek non-descript prestige car gliding at suitable speed, its surface mirroring the glossy sheen of our own passports to international success, its leather-backed seats affording ample opportunity for gazing at stone towers, green fields and vineyards – the land beyond the roadside slowly billowing to natural and archaic forms as the car weaved away from Milan, the fabric of our minds once again expanding with it as we extricated ourselves from The City and its confines.

The skies had cleared, be it by the devices secreted by X (or was it Q?) in our glove-box or the unknown goodness emanating from the countryside itself - on past Brescia and Verona we were back on the trail of bright fortuity.

Vicenza, Tuesday, 12:27 pm

Easily peeling off at Vicenza, from highway to main-road byway, we quickly moved to zig-zag through narrow backstreets approaching the town’s old centre. The small city of 120,000 accommodated us and our plans easily, the outcome unfixed, but the possibilities in our minds were not so vague. Naturally “une caffe” was called for and wheaty Italian goodness selected to provide diversions for our fingers and exercise for our jaws (make mine a ciabatta).

Vicenza

Moments later, standing on a bridge over the Bacchiglione River in Vicenza’s charming centre, I had the feeling that I was somewhere between Zurich and Venezia – something uttered by the buildings, winding streets and even the cobblestones themselves. Geographically, of course, this is true, but the feeling remained so.

Enough distractions - the trail was cooling as slightly as our heels in this charming town that mixed an industrial exterior with an antique core, a typical Italian juxtaposition of the approaching-modern and old world charm. Fresh news from the hand-piece and clues were waiting in Veneto, via a moment in Castellofranco.

Castellofranco, Tuesday, 1:27 pm

Only an hour away, and perhaps, in retrospect, this was when the slo-mo moment, as in such a film as we were the backdrop to - a dream sequence perhaps – slowly encircling our travels: noncommittal weather cloaking some hours when time seemed to stand ever so still, the gentle blur of pasta, caffe and willful inactivity conspired to separate us from mission’s completion. But, with a cautious eyebrow raised, if time were indeed an arrow, could it be that the distance from destination and satisfaction is only as far as the connection that sees them the same? The locals knew what it was that we needed, perhaps better than we, some old-style friendly Italian cuisine, time to enjoy it and learn more of where the trail might lead – but that’s not to say the way became more clear…

To the mountains our instincts took us, again only an hour away but almost a world apart. The sudden subtle appearance of a craggy skyline through the low-hanging clouds bore the hills to our senses, as the lines drew away to reveal torn edges of range upon range in low-lit sepia tones, encircling villages that were part Renaissance hideaway, part foreign dream.

The light closed in around us – a backlit canal shadowed the road, buildings more majestic than tall rose upon both sides, and a town sequestered in stone was revealed – with the arches of Bologna and a touch of grandeur such as in far-away Spain, something on the precipice of enchantment hung near to charm us in. A hint of darkness lingered, leaving us on our guard, but with a fresh caffe in our minds, the cheer remained near…

Castellofranco, Tuesday, 3:27 pm

Modest column-lined piazzas, boutique-fashion outlets (as the cloth cut for the fashion houses of Milan comes direct from this region of Padania) and among all this a meeting in a gallery on the regal Zona Nord soon revealed where the next moment might lead: a return to the fabled isle of Venice and to its port by the open Mediterranean Sea.

Back along the canal, swiftly down the mountains and south across verdant plains – a luminescence that shone even under grey skies, speaking of the prosperity of an area that has known harder times, yet won out still.

Hail the Vittoria Veneto

Leaving the vehicle in Venezia Mestre for the train passage across the sea-bridge – landing breathless at Stazione Santa Lucia, the offers of umbrellas by hopeful-eyed street-sellers dodged, the throngs parried and darted and a brief taxi ride away - the driver bearing only a small scar on his cheek for impertinent questioning outshone only by his circular driving – and we stood by the Porto Venezia, only a vowel away from the café in Milano’s suburb not far from the Duomo.

A fresh caffe on our lips, the sea-air in our nostrils and first class tickets in our clutches as the waters opened and beckoned us toward seawards. The next ferry left in two hours - only a night on the sea could tell where this trail of international intrigue would lead us next.

-Dr Claude

When I was a kid I owned a book called This is San Francisco. It was essentially a child’s large-format guidebook to the city, with illustrations of cable cars, sea lions, Dungeness crabs, Chinatown, Willie Mays, and other highlights that, to most children and out-of-towners at least, sum up the city.

My awareness of the Golden Gate Bridge, its international orange towers disappearing into the oblivion of a July fog, began with this book. From that point on, even after I was grown and had my own apartment in the city, I tended to view San Francisco through vermilion orange–tinted glasses.

In another childhood memory, late one night on the way home from my grandmother’s house near Lone Mountain, my mother turned right instead of left on Park Presidio Blvd., and soon we were on Doyle Drive, heading for the bridge, and I recall feeling terrified. The thought of crossing the Golden Gate towards the pitch-black hills of the Marin Headlands was equivalent, in my semi-urban young mind, to drifting into the back of beyond.

Bridges are meant to be crossed

I eventually grew more adventurous and spent a lot of time walking and hiking in the city and around the bay. I’ve even camped at Kirby Cove, on the Marin side of the Golden Gate, on murky nights haunted by fog horns moaning from the bridge as ships’ shadowy forms glided in and out of the bay. But somehow, until last week, I had never gotten around to traveling on foot from the Presidio to Marin County via the Golden Gate Bridge.

It had become a minor embarrassment to me. In the mid-’90s I once ventured partway across with my wife and our oldest daughter, who was then just big enough to walk if one of us held her hand. We made it to the first tower, had a look around, and turned back. But bridges are meant to be crossed, and I never felt this tentative early foray counted.

So, on an unusually sunny and cheerful Tuesday afternoon, I parked my car in the Presidio and set off on foot, with the intention of making it to the bridge’s other end. This I accomplished purposefully, pausing only once, midway across, to admire the view. Here I noticed a couple of things. One was that the view was somewhat underwhelming in the summer sun. The city skyline, more distant than long camera lenses suggest, was obscured in a smoggy haze, and although the sky was blue, everything else was a dull brown. Or so it appeared to me.

The other thing I noticed was that the water beneath the bridge, where the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay meet, is never calm. The water chops and eddies and looks somewhat menacing.

Undercurrents, wind, sharks, crabs all await

Walking across the Golden Gate Bridge naturally induces thoughts of death. I found myself contemplating the fact that so many people had jumped from spots between the bridge’s two towers. The water below appeared ever ready to receive the next broken victim, to suck him or her down to undercurrents which stream out to sea, where crabs and sharks await.

Fog, wind, choppy waters - SF's Golden Gate Bridge

As I held onto the rail and looked down, a gentle but steady breeze blew out and seemed to nudge me away from the source of these dark thoughts; and then, unexpectedly, the wind halted, and still resisting it I lurched forward a little. I’m wary of heights, and didn’t appreciate the wind’s capriciousness, so I stepped back and moved along. I made it to the Marin side, where there is a parking lot and an off-ramp leading to Sausalito, more than a mile away. I spun on my heels and moved quickly, finding the return trip to San Francisco a little redundant.

Golden Gate, Take 2

Afterward I sensed I hadn’t gotten the bridge quite right. So I returned the following Friday to walk it again. This time, I arrived earlier and had a few hours available. I parked in the same spot as before, down Lincoln Boulevard opposite a softball field. From halfway across town I had already observed the fog which hung down over the tops of the bridge’s two towers.

You might consider this poor timing, considering the entire bridge wasn’t even visible. But international orange is a color for foggy days. The color jumps out against the sky’s dull backdrop. So, in that sense, the bridge was more sharply visible to my eyes, and from my distant parking spot I already appreciated its intricate art deco lines and had no objection to the mysterious, disappearing tops, which I knew would emerge once the fog lifted.

I took my time getting to the bridge, detouring a few paces off the boulevard to inspect old military batteries, such as the Battery Boutelle, which hasn’t been in use since World War I. From here the Golden Gate - that’s to say, the narrow opening of the bay and the widening funnel of the sea cliffs that embraces the Pacific - comes fully into view.

Far to the right is Point Bonita, punctuated by its lighthouse in the Marin Headlands. To the left, the Cliff House marks Point Lobos on San Francisco’s coast. A red container ship passed beyond the points on its way out to sea just as another, nearly identical ship issued forth from beneath the bridge.

Suddenly it dawned on me that to experience the Golden Gate it is just as important to admire this rugged strait as it is to inspect the bridge and gaze upon the bay. Pedestrian traffic on the bridge is restricted to the walkway on the bay side, so to appreciate the ocean side, a hiker must venture over to these army battlements and follow the unpaved trail that leads from there to the bridge.

Hiking to the Golden Gate

The trail clings closely to the Presidio’s ragged cliffs and through terrain that’s currently undergoing dramatic upheaval as the Golden Gate National Recreation Area clears out Army landfill and nonnative plants. It isn’t pristine, but it doesn’t lack appeal. Here and there the trail affords stunning vantage points of the bridge, including a much-photographed angle from which the distant north tower appears to fit snugly within the south tower. From any angle the bridge is a majestic piece of engineering. What’s more, it is harmonious with its dramatic natural setting. It is as if the topography called for a visual tie-off, and the bridge’s builders did not fail their assignment.

The path soon dips beneath the bridge for an upclose look at its trussed and riveted underside, which is less artful than the towers and more representative of early 20th century engineering. You might spend a day simply marveling as the sheer enormity of the project, the ingenuity, the mind-boggling quantity of materials used in building this bridge, the number of men employed in its construction during the 1930s. The graceful timelessness of the towers may lead one to gloss over such statistics. But on the underside, an engineer might gladly bend your ear for an hour going over some of the more impressive particulars.

Having warmed up on the short nature hike, I reached the bridge’s walkway with my eyes keenly tuned for visual stimuli. I pondered a sign that mildly stated ANY PERSON WHO WILLFULLY DROPS OR THROWS AN OBJECT OR MISSILE FROM ANY TOLL BRIDGE IS GUILTY OF A MISDEMEANOR, and another sign signaling the location of a phone for crisis counseling. I watched a sea lion swimming with evident playfulness a few feet under the water’s surface, and a few pelicans coasting on loping wings beneath the bridge. Sailboats, cruising vessels, tankers, and tugs frequently traveled through the Gate’s narrow channel.

You’re not writing a suicide note, are you?

Yes, I wanted to live.

On the walkway countless couples strolled hand in hand, and I paused to take a photograph for a pair of happy tourists. The towers create sound barriers, offering respite from the bridge’s constant hush of traffic, and I stopped at the South Tower to inspect bronze plaques acknowledging the bosses of the men who hoisted the cables and poured the concrete and risked their lives for the sake of this bridge.

I paused again at the midway point, this time to jot down a few notes in my notebook, only to be interrupted when a concerned voice said “How we doing today, sir?” I looked up to see a CHP officer hunched on her bicycle. She followed up with, “You’re not writing a suicide note or anything like that, are you?”

I smiled sympathetically, and showed her I was merely recording my observations. She said she hoped she hadn’t offended me, then tried again: “Just thought I’d check on you. How’s everything going? It’s not the most beautiful day, is it?”

I assured her I wanted to live, and she pedaled off, still not completely convinced.

On the Marin side I continued down the road to Sausalito. It’s downhill the entire way, but there’s no sidewalk, and I trod along the shoulder and carefully manouvered around parked cars. Getting to Sausalito’s idyllic downtowntown doubles the length of the walk, and by the time I got there the restaurants appeared to be thoroughly infested with daytrippers in town for lunch.

However, I had packed my own sandwich, which I ate on a bench by the bay, and I enjoyed the early afternoon as the fog lifted and the sky brightened. I patiently waited for the ferry that would take me back to San Francisco, where I’d catch a bus to the bridge’s visitor parking lot, followed by a short stroll back to my car.

-Tom Downs

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I’ve had more than my share of disorder and, dare I say it in a public arena, distress in my days in the Northern Territory (NT to me) and to tell you the truth I’m not even sure what I’m doing in Europe anyway. Can’t even say for sure I’m there, ‘specially as the NT is the best place in Australia, in the world, ever. Maybe it’s just part of my commitment to checking that other places are not nearly as good as the patch of paradise at the end of the Stuart Highway.

No speakie English

These days I’m just about used to not understanding 4/5 of what goes on, exotic tongues dropping comments that I can’t latch on to, or even the cars being on the wrong side of the street (but that’s the Right side so my German buddy tells me). Yep, a man, and probably even a sheila, can get used to just about anything, and maybe that’s the point.

High-speed training. Nope, you're missing the whole point

Those legendary Mythos beers from Corfu have long since worn off, so that can’t be why I’m feeling a little in-between right now. It’s not so much like I’m missing something, y’know all lost in translation like that Bill Murray character -no, there’s no moonlighting in expensive Euro-adverts for me. P’raps, to put my calloused sunburned finger on it, its being in all these places but never really being lost, like losing yourself – always looking over your shoulder, no matter how exotic the destination, and there you are right behind you, and probably doing the same thing you’ve always done too.

It’s clear, if you always do what you’ve always done, then you’ll always get what you’ve always got.
Feeling a little pensive on this occasion, so forgive ol’ Jack if he doesn’t throw up the crazy solution.
To give you half an idea f’r instance, like a veritable Italian train-timetable, I’ve tried hopping trains til days end in an effort to get somewhere quicker, but somehow always run into me at the stops where I’ve messed up the guesswork and end up stuck waiting for that hour or two longer than the more direct route. Those Italian trains even have a column up there for late (ritardo) but despite giving it more than a good go, sometimes it’s me that ends up feeling a little retardo.

An example of my state of mindlessness

Like I’ll give you an example, y’know some mental bargaining at work, the mind of the elusive trying to evade the self in the triumph of travel over the adversity of time. Ja, that’s it. So there I was all fresh off the boat, the Mediterranean at my back, and connections to west Italy ahead, France and Switzerland beyond even…. Maybe the fast train to Milano is the go? Forget it, too fast and direct, a man could get unlost in that kind of linearity of time.

Nup, a Regionale is the way to go, cheaper and more deviations that a night in far-away Sydney’s Kings Cross. First direct Regionale is 30 minutes away, and Padova is a-beckoning? Why not jump that terminating train that’s heading there anyway and work it out when you arrive. So faster than you can say “get your bags” yer off, adventure again, even if it’s only fast between the stations (the Regionale is cheaper, cos being regional, will have you stopping everywhere).

Ready for your horizon moment?

So pretty soon there you are, mind a-whirl with all the water rushing by, and there’s another short tripper waiting to be jumped. Desenzano here we come. Brescia’s next and then there’s the choice, wait a while longer or do some tricky tricks via Bergamo (you add it up, maybe you’ll miss you somewhere along the line) and off y’go again. But (buzzer rings): Wrong. 45minutes stuck at the wrong station and somehow you’ve ended up taking an extra hour or two for that quickish trip. There you are on the bench next to you at the platform, eyeing yourself off nervously sure that its gunna be the same routine over again.

The two of you merge into one, the escapist and the inescapable, and when the train grinds round again, you get on as darkness settles and ride the slow way on.

Even the boats themselves have their draw-backs, not that they’re intended to be high-speed, but sometimes you’ll get that horizon-bound moment, when like it or not, you can get little all lost at sea. Y’know, be it from Corfu to Patras, Arcona to Igoumenitsa, all compass points adrift, but you know what all the co-ordinates are even though you can’t piece them together. Only way forward is to weather the mental storm, or as many other punters fancy, head for the bar, and drown those familiar sorrows, but you’ll probably find sorrows can swim.

Continental Jack

A bit away from the sea, but to take a different tack, Switzerland has its borders a little close together, but the prices on train travel can be kinda big. One way to get caprice back on the rails and some steel under your feet is to grab a Eurorail ticket – you can get whatever you fancy from just the one country for a coupla days to a coupla coutries for a coupla months and the price comes out just about right. As long as you don’t need bookings, like the TGV and Thalys in and out of Paris f’r instance. With one of these spiffy numbers in your wallet, you can jump railcars to your heart’s content and make like a continental Jack of the Kerouac variety. There’s probably even enough room in second class to take your own roll of paper and a typewriter to boot.

One little reminder, by the by, for somewhere like Holland, if you’re ticket aint right, then the sad news is the Dutch Rail will have you booted off faster than a leaky thong (flip flop for the American audience) cos no ticket, no ride. Practically the only way to lose yourself travelling over there is to follow the easy steps I outlined last week. And now its all worn off, here I am back to greet meself at the Vluchthaven of the Soul: Brownsville, population 1.

No escaping that parade on census day…

Note to self: Get lost

The Tanami turnback

And so before I head off to wallow in the depths of my own self, a quick reminder that Europe aint the only place where you can pull off a Houdini style disappearance from your alter-ego. When you aint got the right tools, even the bush will have you back on your heels and running into yerself as you head back the same way.

Happened once, heading out off past Top Springs into the Tanami Desert – seems I’d left the 4WD in my other pair of pants, and had nothing but a two wheel drive (front wheel drive no less) sedan to store my beer in and get about the bush in.

Problem was, in way haste to lay waste to some landscape, without a map and all as usual, I’d neglected to check the road conditions and although the meter-deep bulldust wasn’t going to stop me, the potholes the size of the car with road corrugations to match definitely had me stopped in my tracks. Only thing for it was to head back exactly the way I came, and you wouldn’t believe who I passed on the way? Me – in another world, another time and still trying to get away, nothing I could do but wave and laugh and wish the poor bugger a good day.

–Jack Brown

Yes, you can take pictures like this too...

That’s how I feel most of the time when I look at my travel photos. Lately I’ve been feeling better though, and it’s because I took one of our photography walking tours in Rome; these photo walking tours combine a leisurely stroll around your destination (Venice, Istanbul, Berlin, Cairo, Florence, Washington DC, New York City and 26 others) with advice, guidance and some priceless insights from a professional photographer.

These photo tours are a pretty new category: it was the advent of 35mm SLRs like the Canon Rebel and the Nikon D series that really made the category possible. But you don’t even need a camera that expensive to make these tours worthwhile: pretty much any point and shoot camera can produce great results if you understand a few of the basics that you’ll learn in Viator’s photo tours.

You can see a complete listing of our photo tours in 30 destinations worldwide here. To see a little more about my own experience taking the Rome Photo Tour, check out my audio slide show.

-Rod Cuthbert

I had three homes in Seattle recently. Number one: a performance studio in heart of Capitol Hill called Studio-Current. Two: just down the block, a new restaurant/café called Oddfellows. Three: A fabulous old home in the Madison Park neighborhood. I’d driven up from Portland for a brief artist residency and performance/art gathering for the Easter Island Project’s Participation Tour.

Archaeologists discovered that the giant moai heads on Easter Island, a.k.a. Rapa Nui, used to sport big, painted eyes. Seattle participant Scott T. carved out two replicas, painting compact discs for the pupils. Nice! Here photographed with me, Residents-style. Photo: Steve Fritz

Studio-Current: Home on the Hill

My first stop was Studio-Current, an airy performance studio where I would work (and horse around) for a few days, culminating in an intimate art and performance event. I had a marvelous time. It didn’t hurt that the studio came complete with an awesome built-in community of wildly creative people, and a sparkling, inventive director, Vanessa DeWolf. It also didn’t hurt that the studio sat smack-dab in the center of Capitol Hill, the city’s celebrated — yet still somewhat funky — clubbing and counterculture district.

Literally within seconds of arriving in Seattle, I was sitting cross-legged on the studio floor, giving a Tarot reading to a complete stranger from Bellingham, Washington. A friend of hers had bought her a Tarot gift certificate online, as part of a fundraiser for the Easter Island Project. Half an hour later, I was invited to join a movement-and-sound improvisation session led by two dancers. With its natural light, spongy black flooring, and a multitude of weird costumes to play with, Studio-Current immediately felt like an artistic home to me.

Half a block away, at the intersection of Pike and Pine, I walked past a historically important music venue (remember grunge?), bought a sausage from a street vendor, and ran into an old friend from the cirkus and fire arts scene… all of which took about two minutes. This is also the district where Seattle’s gay scene came of age, and where riot police drove protesters during the 1999 WTO protests.

Oddfellows: Gentrification has its perks

I was walking down to Oddfellows. Vanessa had mixed feelings about this new café up the street, my second home during this trip. On the plus side, Oddfellows offered great coffee, quality snacks, and wi-fi during the day. At night, friendly servers wove through bubbling crowds, bringing us affordable upscale comfort food in a big, beautiful room with high ceilings and dark woodwork. (”This is place is great!” I heard someone say. “It’s so… Portland!”)

On the other hand, the formerly scruffy building used to offer affordable art space to tenants such as Freehold Theatre. Vanessa knew the place well, as a haunt where she would perform and meet up with other up-and-coming artists. Seattle Weekly provides some perspective.

Kristen T. offered this beautiful little paper crane to the project. Pictured here in a photo by Steve Fritz, the crane became part of an installation at Performance Works NorthWest.

Development may someday push out Studio-Current and art centers like it, too; the studio shares a building with a yoga shala and a doggie daycare. For the moment, though, the studio is standing tall, hosting performers and dancers, and providing a home for The Field in Seattle. So Vanessa and I decided to partake in Oddfellows’ bountiful yumminess and hope for the best.

Sipping my gentrified latté and walking a few blocks away, I was relieved to discover a boarded-up building; a charity thrift shop with rude clerks and two-dollar shirts; a pile of trash we made street art with; and a drunk passed out at a bus stop. Capitol Hill’s got brewpubs and fancy coffees, but it’s still got a little grit.

Madison Park: Walks and crêpes

A half-hour walk from the studio, I was staying in the Madison Park neighborhood. Vanessa and I walked through sleepy streets of century-old homes and unassuming apartments, punctuated at night by slow-driving, low-riding cars pumping ear-shattering bass beats. Still, it was a welcome relief from the electric, hectic energy of Pike and Pine. Up on Madison Avenue, we ate well-made buckwheat crêpes at the casual La Côte and giggled at our snooty waitress. Then I dropped by the Trader Joe’s for some apples and bottles of Three-Buck Chuckfor the show.

The Easter Island Session

It began with Vanessa. Our secret plan involved keeping the audience in a cement-walled hallway for a while, asking them to wash and cut up the apples, to cork and pour the wine. Then they entered the official studio space and set up their own chairs. Unexpectedly, they decided to set up right where I’d intended to perform; but that’s the fun of participation and improvisation. I ended up climbing a ladder behind the audience and beginning a poetry reading there. My performance evolved into casual storytelling about Easter Island, being biologically childless, and the connection I’ve made between the two.

The Studio-Current audience pulled out all the stops when we got to the participation session. The Easter Island Project asks audience members and Internet participants—whether or not they’re so-called artists—to make “seeds” of many kinds. All you have to do is contemplate the act of creation, or meditate on the question of what compels us to make things: poems, sculptures, babies, and atom bombs. Then you respond by actually making something. Participants make music, poetry, dances, and tattoos in response to their meditations.

Home again, making sense of it all.

In some form or another (on film, for example) all these seeds are coming to Easter Island with me next year. If you participate in the project: you are going to Easter Island.

This might be categorized as social practice, participatory art, or community-engaged practice, for all you art nerds out there. It involves effort and it involves trust. People trust me with their creations, well aware that I may do just about anything with them. It’s an honor.

In Seattle, a man named Karl wrote a thoughtful mini-essay about ancestry and read it aloud for our video cameras. That was his seed of creation. A woman named Chris danced an incredible three-minute work of original choreography. Danae introduced herself, then brought out a stethoscope and asked to paint my heartbeat. Debby Watt invited me to perform improvisational free jazz-noise with her (a seed for the project’s 6,480 hour-long soundtrack). Seattle’s phenomenally creative and fun audience brought giant painted eyeballs and delicate paper cranes to the project, along with an allegedly traditional Polish fertility ritual.

Next year, films and photography of the “seeds” these folks created will be projected out onto the mysterious landscape of Easter Island. It was beautiful to have such a generous and fearless group make cool stuff and drink cheap wine with me. Thank you, Seattle and Studio-Current.

Stay tuned for the next Easter Island tour stop: Arizona.

-Tiffany Lee Brown

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s Seattle tours & things to do in Seattle.

Happn.in - the future of travel recommendations?

Good idea, folks. Wish we had thought of it. There are some kinks to work out, for sure. I don’t know if “xbox live” is really the #1 trend in about a dozen cities right now. C’mon, please tell us it ain’t so!

On the flip side, there’s a decent chance that “modern warfare” is, in fact, the second-most talked about subject in New York today. For sure.

The small town of Regensburg in southern Germany was a revelation. We docked there at sunset, next to a butcher selling the region’s famous wurst, then strolled through the winding narrow streets to the magnificent cathedral, which is apparently the prime example of Gothic architecture in southern Germany. We could only admire the exterior, as we stopped for a late-afternoon ice cream across the square, and watched as the last visitors straggled out and the door slammed shut.

The stone bridge in Regensburg

Walking aimlessly through the centre of Regensburg, every corner revealed another beautiful street, and being a student town it is bustling with life and energy. I have also never seen so many people out in traditional dress as their day-wear, many of the girls wore wench dresses and the lads in lederhosen were even out clubbing at some of the night spots we visited. I believe this was some kind of pre-Oktoberfest celebration, although it wouldn’t surprise me to learn it was normal for the Bavarian ambiance. The town has applied to be recognised as an historic medieval city, as it is ‘the only preserved medieval metropolis in Germany that is also still functioning as an urban entity.’

Beer, Wurst & Water Hockey in Regensburg

Facade of the cathedral in Regensburg

Wandering across the green iron footbridge, we discover a charming and relatively quiet beer garden, which it turns out is – or at least claims to be – the oldest guesthouse in town. I can certainly vouch for the quality of the beer, with a slight cinnamon flavour, and the plates of wurst looked totally delicious, and enough to feed an army of starving scholars. Strolling along the river banks towards the gorgeous ancient stone bridge, we seem to have stumbled onto the most popular activity in town.

Both sides of the river are teeming with young couples and groups of students, people sitting gossiping or reading alone, and one particularly foolhardy bunch who were playing water hockey in their canoes at the point where the stream going under the bridge flows strongest, as it wraps around the stone pylons. Simply called the stone bridge, this is the oldest functioning bridge over the Danube, and the oldest in Germany - building started in 1136 and it’s still standing!

One of the most magnificent bridges I have ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen a few (and heard them too) with sweeping stone arches, lit up with a golden glow from the sunset, and a solid sense of victory over time, water and space.

An evening out in Regensburg

The evening’s entertainment begins at Heimat, close to the end of the stone bridge, a small bar with an eclectic program of live performances. The night we arrive to see Der Tante Renate, a hilarious electro-pop act from Hamburg, one man wielding an array of 8-bit laser-sound-toys and synthesisers to great effect, making us dance and laugh in equal measure. One of the local DJs we get chatting to at the bar directs us to Suite 15, as alternative club downstairs in a parking station, a 15-minute walk through town.

Just another night at Heimat

We head to the main square and ask people randomly, eventually finding out way past the more commercial venues – Susie Wong and other lounge bars – and down into the basement of the parking lot. After paying the 3 euro cover charge, we find ourselves dancing the night away to classic ’50s rock ‘n’ roll and swing in the smaller back room, and then more contemporary indie rock in the main space. People are friendly, and I noticed a few young women out clubbing in their traditional Bavarian dresses, a nice blend of the old world and new.

Cruising through Frankfurt, Mainz

Floating through Frankfurt, we missed Robert Johnson, the minimal techno club at Offenbach, recommended by a Berlin friend who knows these things. Described as ‘electronic music clubbing in its purest form… it is no-frills, grassroots, genuine and above-all, minimal’. If you’re in the area, pay him a visit!

Moving onto Mainz, one of the oldest cities in Germany, founded in 13 BC by the Romans, in a stunning location on the Rhine. The other claimant to this title is Worms, a few miles further along the river, although I only dropped in there for a few hours, I found Mainz more interesting. My first love in the town is Weschel Darkside Store, where I found my fingerless pirate gloves, an essential item in any punk gothic diva’s wardrobe. Outfits supplied for all the goth and punk kids who collected by the river in the evening to enact pagan rituals and celebrate the weekend.

Finding your way into the old part of town is easy, just follow the stream of people heading into the ever-narrowing streets, and marvel at what I’m sure are some extremely significant buildings, with wine bars, cafes and boutiques throughout the romantic Rococo facades and Baroque houses. I need a Viator tour there to inform me! Johannes Gutenberg, inventor of the modern movable-type printing press, was born and died here, while the city is famous for its carnival and parade.

An evening out in Mainz

The first night, we have a pre-dinner drink at one of the cozy traditional-looking bars on the corner of the main street into the old town, the one with a big tree in the square, opposite an Italian restaurant and ice-cream bar. We continue on to the Weinstube Bacchus (Jakobsbergstraße 7), recommended by a local friend, specialising in marvellous French cuisine, the Boeuf Bourgogne was a favourite with my French companions, and I heartily recommend the desserts. The rich gooey chocolate decadence, or tingly sweet profiteroles were both amazing,while the main courses were stunningly cooked with authentic French provincial flavours.

After dinner, wander round the corner to the Arabic smoking lounge, or along the curving road away from the old town towards the Red Cat nightclub, a super-crowded basement packed with young hipsters and playing various music from punk to electrofunk to hip hop and postmodern indie alternative on different nights. This took me back with a blast to high-school disco nostalgia, extremely crowded, low-ceiling cellar dance-floor, with a young pushy crowd who kept moving between rooms in a steady stream of elbows and stomping feet.

Bulldozer ballet in Mainz

The next morning, I discover a man doing ballet with a bulldozer in the square near the river, part of a theatre festival taking place in the old red brick factory building nearby. I ducked into the courtyard for what turned out to be the highlight of my stay, a French theatre company doing one-person performances in tiny caravans. I choose ‘The Little Match Girl’, and have a magical experience with this told in cabaret-style by the wonderful performer, using vinyl 7″ records for the soundtrack and a ’50s television as the set, she created a completely immersive fairy-tale.

The railway bridge at the end of the marina is the location of my dream-home, a princess tower built into the pylons. The trains rattle past every few minutes, the graffiti along the metal struts and constant pedestrian and bicycle traffic along the wooden walkway bears witness to the contemporary relevance of this bridge.

I am surprised by the mix of contemporary and traditional culture available here, there is a lively theatre scene, and even a sound-art performance, offering many alternatives to the state theatre and other cultural events, and will definitely be back for more of the particular Mainz ambience when I’m in the area.

-Jodi Rose

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s Germany tours & things to do in Germany, from Rhine River tours that include Mainz to things to do in Munich. If you’re a German speaker check out Viator’s Deutschland Touren. You speak French? You will prefer activités en Allemagne. And the Spanish, please let’s not forget the Spanish. Your link is Alemania tours.

It’s that time of year again, my favourite time: the Eurovision Song Contest. This year from Moscow, in Russia. And the flavour of the year: string instruments, women in white, men in suits. And love songs, but I think that’s true of every year.

Eurovision 2009: Go Estonia go

As always (skip below to see my travel picks from last year’s 2008 contest), I will take this year’s 2009 national offerings as my travel guide for where to go and who to avoid. And I also want to award a few prizes of my own – in advance on Saturday’s final, so I’m not in anyway prejudiced by the popular (possible political?) vote. Or affected by the bizarre voting displayed at the semi-finals – let them all be contenders!

Eurovision: Countries I will rush to visit in 2009

Moldova – I tell you it was like looking in a mirror. A redhead in a tiara, a crazy dress of green and purple boots. I should apply for citizenship.

Ukraine – A firebrand in a red spangly dress, dancing with half-naked Gladiator boys who escaped running in mouse wheels, only to have to pull the whole kit along when she played drums. The song was called ‘Be My Valentine’ and I, for one, will be lobbying for Hallmark to employ only Ukrainians to write their cards from now on.

Slovenia – A strong sense of drama and mystery created with sheer cloth, doorways and wind. And she could sing. Yet, they missed a place in the final – politics? Or just a surprising failure by the audience to recognise an actual tune?

Turkey – Women there are allowed to have curves! Hallelujah!

Slovakia – A disheveled romantic hero in the throes of grand passion in a candlelit castle! I’m so there! No idea what the song was about and frankly I don’t give a damn.

Eurovision: Countries I will go out of my way to avoid

Philippa, not even a Greek God singer could sway you??

Hungary – Pastel disco meets Tina Turner meets Las Vegas meets misharmony. This is a country in trouble.

Macedonia – 1974 was bad enough the first time around.

Montenegro – 1983 was bad enough the first time around.

Armenia – Belly dancing in a dry iced white coven – makes me a little cautious.

Israel – Vicious Venus times two– made me a little nervous.

Latvia – Trapped in unsettling 1980s art school aesthetic.

Greece – Martial arts meets disco dancing and rhythmic banality. Not even a Greek God singer could sway me to visit.

Lithuania – Here we have a boy who can play the piano but then has to set his hand on fire to get our attention – that is just a waste of ability and I won’t condone it by going there.

Eurovision: Countries I will visit for reasons of wardrobe

Bosnia & Herzegovina – Not sure about the song and the quasi-military drumming, but loved the white coats. Definitely want one.

Serbia – The only thing I understood about this whole mishmashed concept was that the song was about shoes. That got my attention.

Eurovision: Countries I will avoid for reasons of wardrobe

Albania – A fairy princess doll dancing with a green spangly Spiderman and twin black and white mimes. I think they’ve been picking the wrong mushrooms in the forest again.

Ireland – Girls in pink and black pop-punk ripped attire. Terrible the first time around.

Azerbaijan – Harlequin meets peacock meets Phantom of the Opera. Enough already.

Eurovision: Countries that left me with questions

Denmark, the 51st state of America

Denmark – When did they become the 51st State of the USA?

Czech Republic – Bosnia and Herzegovina’s song from 2008 and was bad enough the first time around, why did the Czechs dig it back up?

Belarus – If 1979 and 1985 had a love child, is this what it would look like: shampooed hair metal wearing ladybling while a wind machine traps a dancer in his prop cloth?

Romania – Did the tourist board decide to co-opt Eurovision 2009 to advertise their country as a destination for sex tours and bucks’ parties? Hair, flesh, silicon and lyrics including: The Balkan girls they like to party like no nobody else likes to party.

Bulgaria – Have they just discovered LSD? Flames, people dancing on stilts, an adult pantomime of Aladdin with lots of cleavage and flesh.

Eurovision: Countries that left me with answers

Belgium – Elvis is alive and well and living in Belgium.

The Netherlands – Liberace is alive and cloning in Holland. God help us all.

Switzerland – Ah, even their black guitar rock boys sit on the fence of neutrality. Very clean and alpine. Kind of the menthol of the bad boy brand.

Eurovision: Countries that left me confused

Iceland – But if this country is so noted for its design and style, why was she wearing a dress of many frills made from a bedspread?

Finland – Are all their fire-twirling crusty rebels this clean?

Sweden – Tell me that’s not a man…

Andorra – They do know that the lyrics: ‘I’d rather die’ should probably not be delivered with such a wide grin, right?

Eurovision: Countries seemingly caught up in a fairy tale

Norway – A singing violinist who was sweetly in love with a fairytale. Not sure how the weird jumping-push-ups choreography factored into his romantic vision.

Cyprus – An enchanted Disney world that became more of a Kafkaesque nightmare as her voice fell apart on the difficult notes.

Croatia – Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion, including the unintelligible words – or was he just mumbling?

Poland – Lovely ballet in a romantic, gentle flow of white. The fantasy fell apart a little when the dance became more of a horse lunge with the woman circling at the end of a tether. And I hope the lyrics were not: ‘I don’t want to live but it’s my destiny’… I think it was leave not live; I hope so.

Eurovision: Countries that mistook this for a song contest

Malta – She can really sing!

Portugal – These people are actually musicians! You can tell by their misjudged outfits.

Estonia – Girls who can play instruments, sing and wear slinky spangly dresses.

Eurovision: Countries too big and important to have to qualify

UK – They have enlisted Andrew Lloyd-Webber! Isn’t that cheating? Like digging up Elvis? Oh, wait, Belgium already did that.

Germany – In this year of disco revival, Germany are reviving Swing.

Spain – Brings to mind hot nights and wild dancing. They’ve thrown in some sexy men and might just find me in the airport arrivals hall.

France – Seem to be reviving the dark passion of La Vie en Rose – well, if you’ve got an image, milk it. Breaking the cliché has not worked for them when they tried it.

Russia – Seem to be reviving dark fantasy. Good follow up to the waxed pretty boy who won last year. Has a country ever won two years in a row?

Eurovision: And the winner is…

For Fifth Wave Feminism: Ukraine

For Crimes Against Song and Dance: Hungary

For Purple Boots: Moldova

For Enlisting an Oscar Winner: UK

For Sheer Awfulness: The Netherlands

And… For Actual Singing: Malta

And the countries I will be rewarding with my presence this year: Moldova, Ukraine, Slovenia, Turkey and Slovakia. With shopping trips to Serbia and Bosnia & Herzegovina. I’ll send you a card.

Eurovision 2008: Philippa’s Travel Guide by Eurovision

Dima from Russia, the 2008 winner

Would it be wrong to base future travel plans on the Eurovision 2008 song contest?

Come on, would it be really really so wrong? Isn’t the entry of each country saying something important about that country, representing the popular face of the nation, its culture and its current popular heroes? And face it past winners have included ABBA and Celine Dion – can it be so misleading about nations?

I don’t think so. Hence, this is where I will and won’t be travelling in the next year based on the 2008 Eurosong Contest held this May in Belgrade, Serbia.

Travels by Eurovision: Winners, Losers & Pink Stilettos

Montenegro: perhaps; they seemed cute, sincere, somehow naïve. I like them.

Israel: a country where the men forget to wear shirts under their waistcoats. Unlikely destination due to this outmoded crime against fashion.

Estonia: unlikely due to a healthy fear of crazy people who hold up large images of onions and cake while singing. Also the women seem to only be clad in bras – is it warm enough for this that far north?

Moldova: definitely not - the song was bad and the performance involved a teddy bear, a couch and a trumpet. Too weird for my comfort.

San Marino: perhaps, especially now that I have become aware it is a country in its own right, and found it on an map. It’s in Italy – did you know that before Eurovision?

Belgium: Brussels was recently voted the most boring city in Europe and their entry was an excellent reflection of this. Sorry, no visit.

Azerbaijan: another geography lesson from Eurovision – I had to check an atlas to see if it was even in Europe and I still think it looks more like Asia. But I loved them: angel wings, crazy instruments, passion. Count me in.

Slovenia: well I’ve been there and I didn’t see any women dragging men around by chains… perhaps this is a recent trend.

Norway: I had this on my list and have now taken it off. This was the blandest, most global village, uncharacteristic song of anywhere sung by four scary blond women in matching blue frocks. Clone central. No.

Poland: I lived there for a while and didn’t see any badly blue-frocked mermaids with crazily perfect white teeth. Then again I didn’t get to the coast up north. And I won’t.

Ireland: a country which clearly felt sending their entry by mail was cheaper than a plane fare: it was a puppet. Too much drinking going on in Ireland I fear.

Andorra: I admit I had to check where this was on the map: high in the Pyrenees between Spain and France. Rocking location and great gold C3PO in bondage dress. Visit a must.

Bosnia & Herzogovina: I have been there and am glad to report not having seen all these old brides and young people doing scary dancing. No going back there.

Armenia: a young diva girl and her backing singer boys. Lots of fringing on her dress. Did not move me one way or another so probably won’t make the trek this year.

The Netherlands: Amazonian, bicycle-fit women who could actually sing. Respect. All in black though which does not reflect my memory of the great fashion there. The again everyone wore jeans all the time for that bike riding in Amsterdam.

Finland: a major disappointment for the repetition factor: they won with Lordi a few years ago but giving us more heavy metal but without novelty costumes: No. Get more daylight and have a long hard look.

Romania: Mismatched voices and wardrobe: he was in jeans and a tux jacket and she was in black leather. Not sure I could make a visit under those conditions.

Russia: The hot pop heartthrob of the nation did them proud when he ripped his perfect white shirt open to reveal his perfect white chest. But I’ve already been there.

Greece: A pink frocked diva and her backing boys in black I felt reflected the nation very well. Especially liked the opening of the heart at the end. On the list.

Iceland: Top of the list. Great energetic song, happy seeming people, their outfits matched perfectly and included pink stilettos – yay! Next stop, Reykjavik.

Sweden: hmmm, this country perhaps has too good a health scheme if there is this much plastic surgery on offer. A hint of corsetry nearly saved it. But no. Actually frightening.

Turkey: handsome boys in a rock band – always a good draw card for a nation. But it does beg the question about a Eurovision appearance making or breaking a band’s cool image in their home country.

Ukraine: A sexy silver clad diva with her four black clad backing boys to carry her around and lift her on and off the sets. Nice. Perhaps a nation of powerful women. Will consider a visit.

Lithuania: not likely if all the men have hair like him and continue to sing soppy rock ballads well into their adulthood.

Albania: the youngest entrant in the contest so I guess I can forgive her very bad outfit. Still, not enough in the song to draw me to the country.

Switzerland: Zurich came second in the poll for second-dullest city in Europe and I have to say the song probably outdid that and came first in dullness. One visit was enough.

Czech Republic: girls shaking their wild thing in minimal silver costumes. I guess this is why it’s the top country for Englishmen on buck’s weekends.

Belarus: Hasta La Vista?? Is that Belarusian? More sexy sparkling girls.

Latvia: Apparently there is a great tradition of piracy in Latvia. Either that or they entered a children’s theatre troop. I’m putting off my planned visit.

Croatia: A 75 year old rapper, a girl in a flowing red dress wildly dancing and a gypsy folk band. I guess that’s why I now live in Zagreb.

Bulgaria: flaming decks, spangles, sexy dresses, rockers with tattoos – this seems like a partying country. Perhaps a visit in order.

Denmark: Wow, did fashion get frozen in 1940? Not going there. Ever.

Georgia: She could sing but she did not move. All in white. Sunglasses. A bejewelled cross. Intriguing…

Hungary: Way too serious about Eurovision… No.

Can you guess which country? Could it be... Germany?

Malta: Now these people were having some serious fun. Again, a girl and four backing boys in black but despite this lack of originality, Malta is a definite destination.

Cyprus: A sexy red-dressed diva with two backing boys which seemed an adequate number. Under consideration for a visit.

FYR Macedonia: the fashion choices were a scary mishmash but the unsporting booing of the Belgrade crowds for this now independent republic makes me say: yes, I will visit you.

Portugal: Finally a singer chosen for her talent and not the fact she has not eaten for a year and her dress therefore requires fewer spangles to be sewn on. I love Portugal.

United Kingdom: a fairly dull song from an inoffensive family man. See, it does reflect the country. Too familiar.

Spain: always hot, always fun.

France: the controversy of their famed DJ entry singing in English. The horror for the French of joining the rest of the world… Just been there anyway. And tried to speak French, really.

Germany: scary. No.

Serbia: a fairly standard diva to follow up last year’s controversial “is she or is she not gay?” entrant who did them proud and brought Eurovision to Belgrade. Visit possible as we’re neighbours.

Travel by Eurovision: So where to next?

It seems this is now my travel list for the year: Iceland, Portugal, Malta, Montenegro, San Marino, Andorra, Azerbaijan, Greece, Ukraine, Bulgaria, FYR Macedonia, Serbia.

I expect every woman to be wearing a spangly short dress and be followed by at least four handsome boys in either black or white. Perhaps with angel wings. Definitely with bad europop emanating from their every pore. And the beauty of it all is I can do it with a Eurail pass. Can’t I? What do you mean Azerbaijan doesn’t count as Europe…!

-Philippa Burne