The London Curse

November 2010. A planned weekend getaway from the Netherlands to London is aborted when our plane is grounded due to excessive fog.

December 2010. A blizzard hits Schiphol. Flights from Amsterdam to London are cancelled and train tracks are frozen over. It takes me two days to reach London.

July 2014. I have booked another flight from Amsterdam to London. I'm nervous. I'm clearly cursed and cannot travel between these two countries. However, the third time was the charm and I arrived successfully in London with only a 20 minute delay. But I'm superstitious. How else will this London Curse manifest itself? 

It may sound surprising, but England is actually the most challenging place I think I have ever backpacked. Apparently we speak the same language but I find Londoners really hard to understand. For example, why are all these people greeting me by asking me if I am "alright?" Do I not look well? Maybe they are startled by the bags under my eyes because we are staying on the loudest street in London. 

Fun fact, there is a rule specified in the UK Ambulance Service Clinical Practice Guidelines (2006) that every ambulance and emergency vehicle sent out between the hours of midnight and 8am must activate their siren and pass directly under the window of the youth hostel on Euston Road. People of London - stop being so accident prone / if you see a crime being committed, try and sort it out amongst yourselves because some of us are trying to sleep. 

The supposedly simple solution would be to just shut the hostel window. Trust me, this has been an over-discussed bone of contention between my travel companions. The problem is that the British Air-Conditioning Industry is practically non-existent. I think because the Brits are only used to five days of Summer a year, they never really bother installing any sweet, sweet AC. For those five days a year, the whole country is a sweatbox. We were there for those five days. 

So there we are in our non-air-conditioned hostel. The nightly dance goes like this: before going to bed, Nicole shuts the window because she knows the constant barrage of emergency vehicles will keep her awake all night. She drifts off to sleep. Jess starts to overheat, she throws the blanket off of her sweaty body and she looks at the window longingly, anticipating that glorious breeze. She makes eye contact with Kat, who is also awake from the heat. Kat gives her a determined nod and with her permission Jess opens the window. As their body-temperature decreases, they fall into a relaxed slumber. An ambulance speeds past and Nicole wakes with a jolt. She can't sleep with all this noise. She shuts the window. Jess starts to overheat and the vicious cycle repeats. The dance continues for the rest of the night, and the next night, and the next, and the next. As far as first world problems go, this one is pretty devastating. 

My engaging, enthralling, companions

So it's little bit sweaty on the tube, big deal right? Cambodia was hotter than this and I survived there for six weeks. But in Asia, you can wear whatever you want. Here in England, they can be a bit snobby. You actually have to wear shoes, and they have to be nice shoes. On our first night together in London, we headed to the 31st floor of The Shard to enjoy some overpriced cocktails and pretend that we're so fancy, you already know. But as we traipsed past the doormen, they warned us that I might not be able to get into the bar because I was wearing canvas shoes. They were the nicest shoes I had. It was either these canvas shoes, thongs, or lesbian joggers. I don't know where 'the Shard' gets off on being so snobby when it sounds like the street-name for a sexual health clinic in Nowra. 

We managed to sneak past the eagle-eyed maitre d' and got to the piano bar, which had an admittedly awesome vibe and view. But man, those drinks were expenny. Aside from charging like a wounded bull for a drink (I feel bad using that expression now, FYI) they added a 'discretionary 13.5% service fee' to the bill. What does that mean? Do they mean it is discretionary because they only mention the fee in very small fine print or is it discretionary because businessmen can take their mistresses for a cocktail and the bar staff won't tweet about it? Anyway, when we left the bar we decided to poke our heads into another restaurant to see the view. That maitre d' demanded a reservation and wouldn't let us have a sticky beak without one because - and I quote - "we are a very classy restaurant and your shoes are offensive to our filthy rich clientele." 

The London Curse didn't stop me from getting into the country but it did stop me from entering London high-society. So I decided to stick with my people: the theatre crowd. We went to see Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on the West End. Both were great productions but we made the mistake of seeing children's shows during school holidays. London school holiday audiences are obnoxiously rowdy. People talked, kids got up to go to the bathroom, parents discussed how their kids should hold it in next time, people took photos, non-native speakers translated the major plot-points for their kids, and because of the previously stated nation-wide lack of air-conditioning, people faffed about with hand fans. It felt like there was one Veruca Salt on stage and about a dozen in the Grand Circle. The theatre is my happy place, and The London Curse tried to take that away from me. 

The Curse reared its ugly head most obtrusively on our day trip to Stonehenge and Bath by conjuring up a storm of traffic. It took us a few more hours than expected to get there, but we made it and I laughed at the idea of the Curse, daring it to try another trick. That would be around the time that my shorts ripped. One moment I am posing in front of the great stone formation and the next thing I know my own personal stones are hanging out of a gaping hole in my pants. We rushed back to the gift shop hoping to buy a pair of shorts but they didn't sell any. They stocked Bort licence plates but no Stonehenge shorts - the Curse works in devious ways. It wasn't until we reached Bath that I was able to buy another pair of boardies and attempt to discretely change into them down a side street. It wasn't a very private moment. To quote a random pedestrian, "Don't be ashamed, mate, we've all been there." 

Before vigorous posing

After vigorous posing 

Well, Curse, you got me, but I survived. And despite your efforts, we managed to do a lot of successful touristing. I have left London a little more superstitious, a little more self-conscious about my footwear, and a little bit more tanned on a patch on my inner thigh. But at the end of a hard day's night, I get by with a little help from my friends, and I find the strength to let it be. 

Abbey Road 

Why Freud Would Love Madrid

I've been in Madrid for almost a month now and I'm beginning to notice that Spain has some serious mummy issues. If any city were to be diagnosed with an oedipus complex, it would be Madrid. There seems to be a deep fascination with breasts and lactation in this city, more so than any other place I've visited. (Side note, Vietnam has a serious case of penis envy).

I first began to notice this oedipal trend during a visit to the world-famous Prado Museum. There seemed to be a fair bit of artwork inspired by breast-milk. For example, this painting depicts a statue of Mary squirting her breast milk into the mouth of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux to prove to him that she is his spiritual mother. Still better than bubbling, am I right?

Alonso Cano, The Miraculous Lactation of Saint Bernard

This painting was enough to give me pause, but not enough to convince me that Spain has an outstanding fascination with lactation. Then I stumbled across another painting by Rubens titled The Origin of the Milky Way. In this painting, Hercules is suckling at the teat of Juno astride a chariot - and yes, I feel really gross for using the word teat - but Hercules bites the nipple and Juno pulls away, spurting her milk out into the universe and creating the Milky Way. All this time, I thought 'milky way' was just a cute name for a galaxy but apparently it is mythological lactate. Think about this the next time you eat a Milky Way chocolate bar, I dare you.

Rubens, The Origin of the Milky Way

Of course, this is fine art, you can't diagnose an entire city with the oedipus complex because of a few paintings based on mythology and religion. I was amused by these painting, but not alarmed. A couple of paintings doesn't mean anything, I thought. And then I remembered that the type of cheese most widely eaten in Spain is packaged in the shape of a boob with a nipple. It is called 'Tetilla cheese' which translates as 'small breast.' Furthermore, Tetilla cheese is colloquially referred to as 'tit cheese.' Tit cheese. I mean, I must be on to something here, right? 

This is some real Dolly Parton style cheese

I thought I was going crazy. I was seeing breasts everywhere - which was new for me. I literally hadn't been this concerned with breasts since I myself was being breastfed. Perhaps I was the one with the oedipus complex and not Madrid? Breastfeeding is natural and beautiful, maybe I was being over-sensitive. 

And then I heard something that tipped me over the edge. Something that made this no longer a conspiracy or a coincidence, but an actual thing. Rumour has it, that there is an underground cafe in Madrid where you can order a coffee made with fresh breast milk. I'm sorry, I know I said in my previous post that I try and say 'yes' to everything while travelling, but there is no way in hell that I am ordering a Lactation Latte. One cappuccino please, hold the lactate, pro favor. 

It's official, if Madrid was a Game of Thrones character, it would be this kid: 

To the Moon Door! 

From bullfights to breast-milk, this country has sure kept things interesting. However, last weekend I was able to temporarily escape this Freudian wonderland and caught an overnight bus to Portugal. 

A word on overnight buses: they are terrible. That was three words. Maybe I need to source an editor for this thing, especially since I just spent 500 words talking about boobs... Anyway, the bus left at 11pm and I was already running on three hours sleep thanks to a classic Madrid mid-week rager, so I was ready for some sleep. Everyone on that bus was so inconsiderate. There were loud talkers, there was a guy shelling nuts, and the woman behind me played with a plastic bag for a solid fifteen minutes. I hated them all. Despite this, I managed to drop in and out of sleep. It wasn't until we had a pit-stop somewhere in the Spanish countryside that shit really went down. 

Towards the back of the bus, a couple was having a fight. I don't know what they were fighting about but the guy was crying and loudly screaming that he wanted to get off the bus. Then two policia boarded the bus and went to the back to sort it out. The police didn't seem to do much because this other traveller turned around and started ranting at the couple to sort out their problems because she had been listening to them fight for 60km and she was over it, officially. I didn't quite understand what was going on but I was loving every minute of it. The fighting couple stayed on the bus, the police left, and I live-tweeted the whole thing because the bus had wifi. Who could possibly sleep with all this low-stakes drama? 

The bus pulled into Lisbon just as the sun was rising and thus began a really long, exhausting, day of sightseeing, festival-going, and catching up with an old friend who had turned into a giant bearded hippie (love you, Tom). We went to the flea market, climbed to the top of the Pantheon, pounded some sangria with his sisters, and went to the beach, all before heading to the music festival. 

No lactating statues in sight 

We caught the most BO-ridden train ever to the festival, which was loaded with the Portuguese equivalent of bogans - and I am coining the phrase 'Pogans' in order to adequately describe them. However, when we got to the festival grounds the mood was awesome and I was really excited. But then Tom, perhaps because he looks like a giant bearded hippie, was refused entry because they said his festival bracelet appeared faulty. After about twenty minutes of arguing, with his sister this close to kicking the security guard in the balls, Tom managed to prove he had legally attended the previous two days of the festival by citing the prices of all the alcohol available on the grounds. That's my boy.

The giant hippie with his feisty sisters

We saw Bastille, Foster the People, Chet Faker, Jungle, and Nicolas Jaar, who were all amazing - I was just so tired. Exhausted. As it turns out, I might not be that well-suited to music festivals. I ended up falling asleep during Foster The People, while standing up in the middle of the mosh pit with a beer in my hand, which miraculously didn't spill. I'm not sure how it was physically possible to doze off but I ended up missing about half of the set. After sleeping through at least six songs, the band started playing the only one I knew - Pumped Up Kicks - and I regained consciousness.

If you look closely in this video, you can almost spot this weary traveller wake-up and rejoin the living with erratic dancing and out-of-tune screaming. Or you can at least get an idea of the crowd I managed to block out in order to have a siesta. You can take the boy out of Spain, but you can't take Spain out of the boy.

A Vegetarian Goes To A Bullfight

I have a policy while travelling that I try and never say the word 'no.' Do you want to go get a drink? Yes. Is one more round of sangria really a good idea? Yes. So it is true that Australians have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol? Yes. These are probably bad examples, but you get my point. When I'm travelling, I don't like to close myself off from new experiences and opportunities. I guess you could call me a 'Yes Man.'

When the question was 'Do you want to come to a traditional Spanish bullfight?' I had a little more trouble answering. I was torn because I knew I would hate it and I didn't really want to financially support animal cruelty. I spoke with Rafa and Carola to get the Spanish opinion on the tradition. They enjoy the bullfights because they fully understand and appreciate the skill and ceremony behind it. For bullfighting aficionados it is considered an art form with deep ties to Spanish heritage and can even be seen as a symbol for Spanish culture. So I decided to approach it with an (attempted) open mind and said 'yes' to seeing a bullfight. 

The opening ceremony part was actually quite enjoyable: a bunch of guys in sequinned outfits twirling pink and yellow capes - fabulous! Throw in a pasodoble and I would have been positively enthralled. 

FIERCE

But then they brought out the bull and teased him with their capes. I don't want to go into too much detail because I find it to be actually really upsetting, but they disorient the bull with their capes and prod his neck muscle with harpoons. They also bring out a blindfolded horse to stir up the bull - which is exactly what happened and the bull gored the horse and tipped it over. Then the matador emerges and does a dance with the bull for about ten minutes before piercing him with a sword. At this point, the crowd goes nuts cheering for the matador and waving white handkerchiefs to signal their approval. The bull slumps to his knees and then one of the banderillas stabs the bull in the head repeatedly util the bull finally dies. The matador then poses for his applause while the bull is dragged out of the arena. 

It was so confronting to watch. In my opinion, I witnessed a cruel, slow torture of a confused animal, who was taunted and killed for entertainment. The 'artistic' side of bullfighting didn't register with me at all. I know that the movements and the processes had some sort of significance to the Spanish audience, but I couldn't stop focussing on the bull's suffering.

I think six fights were scheduled for the day but we left after the third because once you see it, you can't unsee it, and we didn't see any need to see it again, you see? I left feeling pretty depressed but very happy that I don't eat beef. 

I regret having contributed to organised violence against animals as entertainment, however,  my attempt to learn about the tradition and understand the cultural significance of the bullfight means I can now advocate against it without being a hypocrite. I do think the phrase "it's culture" is used as an excuse for numerous cruelties throughout the world and I'm not comfortable with that.

Ultimately, I understand the cultural 'heritage' of bullfighting in Spain, but I absolutely hate it. In my opinion, bullfighting is complete bullshit. Perhaps it wasn't a great idea to base my entire travelling philosophy on a Jim Carrey movie.