Malaga

Easter is a fair while ago now... which goes to show how far behind I am in writing about my travels!
I spent Easter in Malaga. Malaga has a lot of gum trees. In fact Malaga has so many gum trees you would have to go a long way to find a city in Australia with as many. The streets are lined with them, they are in every garden and on every hill side. When the wind blows you hear the sharp hiss of wind in a eucalypt forest so familiar in Australia. It was a little disconcerting really. I wasn't expecting gum trees en masse. I had seen them in parks in Barcelona and new they grew well in Spain, but Malaga has taken to them with gusto.
Malaga also has a lot of marble. So much in fact that they have paved just about every street in the city with it. It makes for a very pretty town. As well as having marble underfoot the streets in the centre of the city are given over to people rather than cars. You can wander through most of the centre of Malaga without seeing a vehicle. It makes for a vibrant city with shops, cafes, bars and restaurant spilling out into the streets.
Easter in a catholic country is worth experiencing. Last year I was in Sorrento and was caught unawares by the processions, fireworks and celebrations. This year I was ready for it. Huge crowds gathered to line the processional routes and watch the enormous Tronos carried along. The Tronos were large platforms upon which sat images of Christ and the Virgin Mary surrounded by silver and gold canopies and lit by hundreds of candles.The largest to pass me required about 130 solemn men to carry it, dressed in black, hooded, some walking blindfolded, others in bare feet or bound with ropes, all apparent indicators of their devotion.
I was travelling with established travel-buddy Claudia and we rented an apartment just out of the city. The apartment lived up to its advertisement with a large terrace offering a grand view out to sea and a great place for breakfast to start the day.
Day 1 Our first day was spent wandering around Malaga, finding the tourist information office, the railway station, the bus station and the local bus service to the flat (all of which were to be invaluable). We wandered past the deserted looking bull-ring as people stuck posters on the walls finding the bullfighting museum closed too.
Day 2 we had a plan! Lunch in Nerja - the Balcony of Europe. We climbed about a bus in Malaga and an hour or so later we were walking down the pristine white-rendered streets of Nerja. Despite the multitudes of tourists Nerja is a beautiful town set on a cliff above the Mediterranean.Right in the centre of the town the cliff pushed out into the Med about hundred yards or so an forms 'The Balcony of Europe'. It gives a rather nice view of the sea, the cliffs stretching away to the east and the west and back to the town. We fell into a nice little cafe right next to the Balcony, drank beer, ate food and admired the view in the sunshine.
Day 3 Cordoba. We took a train an hour north of Malaga to Cordoba. In the guide books there looked to be plenty to do to fill in a full day. We visited the Mesquita, a remarkable structure which started life as a church, was converted to a mosque, and then back to a church. We wandered across the city's Roman Bridge; strolled around the narrow streets of the old town; had lunch in a pleasant little bistro in the enclosed courtyard of an old villa; visited to royal palace and gardens. I wanted to visit the bull fighting museum (note a theme here) but it was closed for refurbishment and we then found ourselves with a couple of hours to spare before our train back to Malaga. A bar by the (river which sounds a lot more classy than it was) and a jug of Sangria saw most of the time wiled away and then a slow walk back to the train station via the town's tiny museum of archaeology filled in the rest.
Day 4 on the beach. Sunday dawned sunny and hot. We had no really plans for Easter Sunday other than to have a relaxing day, and as we had a nice beach at the bottom of our street we wandered down. We spent a few hours on the sand and then had a nice late lunch in one of the restaurants lining the beach front. In hindsight we could have gone to a bull-fight. Alas neither of us knew enough Spanish to figure this out from the posters we had seen a few days ago.
Day 5 Not Granada. We had originally planned to spend this day in Granada, but the prospect of a very early start, a 2 hour bus ride each way, and the fact that we had seen little of the sights of Malaga changed our minds. We wanted to visit the bull fighting museum at the bull ring and headed there first. The bull-ring was open and there was a large cleaning crew clearing away the debris of the previous day's fights... oh, and the museum was still closed. We our agendas then diverged and while I visited the Cathedral, Claudia took in the Picasso museum. We then met up again for a nice-cream and a random stroll around the city. and a hike up the hill to the castle and a fine view over the town and the bull-ring.
Day 6 Home.

all about Brunel

Isambard Kingdom Brunel (despite having a most singular name) was very versatile engineer. He designed a railway, its rolling stock and its major stations, several ships a couple of tunnels and a plethora of bridges. I pondered the extent of his prowess as I travelled westward from London at about 120 miles an hour on the very railway he built in the 1830s. My destination was Bristol, the end of his railway and the start of for his ships.

Of course he made errors in hindsight. His 7 foot gauge railway was abandoned in favour of the now standard 4 foot 8 inches. His ships were so far ahead of their time and so huge, they bankrupted the Great Western Railway and their builders. His bridges were so audacious that in the case of the Clifton Suspension Bridge it took 33 years to get it finished. But of course there was nothing wrong with the ideas it was generally the execution, by others, that let things down.

Bristol was the end of the Great Western Railway and it was from here that Brunel and the Board of Governors of the Railway decided that they would extend the railway all the way to America …and so they built ships. The SS Great Britain, launched in 1843, is still in Bristol. Rescued from the mud in the Falklands in the 1970s she has been carefully preserved and restored. The Great Britain has the distinction of being the world’s first large, iron, ocean going steam and propeller driven ship. Before this it was mostly sail and paddle wheels.

She was a bit of a commercial failure for the Great Western Railway and after running aground and staying stuck for over a year, she was sold on and eventually found success shipping immigrants to Australia. A role she performed for almost 30 years.

The Great Britain now sits in the dry dock in which she was built alongside Bristol’s floating dock. A tour of her is fascinating. Beneath the glass ‘sea’ that seals her lower half from the corrosive elements you wander around her keel. She was the largest iron ship in the world when built. In fact she was the largest ship full stop. By a long way. The fact that she is still in one piece (mostly) is a testament to the quality of her construction.

Above the ‘sea’ she sits majestically with a multitude of coloured flags flying from her masts looking much as she must have the day she was launched. I am sure she was a vast step forward in passenger comfort compared to the days of sail, but I am not sure that I would have wanted to have been cooped up in the pokey first class accommodation, living on top of your neighbours for the 62 day voyage to Australia, let alone the steerage accommodation. I’ll take cattle class with Qantas thanks.

So, it’s been trains and ships… next stop a bridge. The Avon River as it passes downstream from Bristol cuts its way through a very deep gorge, and across the top of the gorge flies the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I took a ferry across the river from the Great Britain and then walked a couple of miles around a loop in the river. It was a warm (well relatively for early Spring in England) and sunny day, just perfect for a stroll. I was quite familiar with the Clifton Suspension Bridge having seen documentaries about it and its designer, but I was not prepared for just how high it is above the river. It looks miles up. A slender spider’s web of structure stretched across the gorge between two monumental towers on either side.

I stood staring at it for quite some time. – the river on one side, nothing but a thin stream between steep banks of mud waiting for the tide to come in and the dull roar of a highway on the other.

My ogling over I started up the zig-zag path that lead up from the river to the bridge. I can’t say I wasn’t gasping for breath at the top. Thankfully there was a handy bench with a quite delightful view of the bridge upon which I could recover.

I wasn’t intending to walk out onto the bridge, but curiosity got the better of me and I ventured halfway across before walking back. There is a rather a bit of movement from the cars rumbling past, but not enough to be genuinely disconcerting. Oh, and it looked just as far down as it did up. Stringing the cables must have required a certain amount of… well… courage, 150 years ago.

The really nice thing about having walked all the way up to the bridge at Clifton was that my walk back to the train station was all down hill.

The South

Snow threatened my arrival in the US of A - my first time back in 'the land of the free' for 13 years.

Thankfully my flight was routed through Houston and I missed the worst of the weather that was closing airports further north.

I landed in New Orleans to a cold overcast day which had earlier seen some snow. It was also to be the last of the snow and grey skies for the next week.

This return visit to New Orleans was somewhat overdue. I had first been there in 1997 to visit friends Sam and Jose, loved the place and had been trying to find an excuse to get back for a long time.

New Orleans is a town of freeways, potholes, very large cars, pollution, murder, hurricanes and swamps. It's also a town of, elegance, faded charm,fun, colour, vibrance, booze, friendliness, and vestiges of grandeur. All in all there is something for everyone. I was staying with good friends about an hours drive out of town on the north shore of Lake Ponchatrain. To get there requires driving across a 23 mile causeway, one of the longest in the world. It's rather a strange experience to be on a concrete freeway in the middle of a huge lake unable to see land. The north shore is higher ground than New Orleans itself and is home to an ever growing population of commuters who prefer to live in a less flood prone area. They take some pride in referring to themselves as Katrina Refugees but there is nothing refugee-ish about the neat new housing estates and refurbished cottages and rural properties scattered along the north shore. One of the reasons the population of New Orleans City has not returned to its previous numbers is areas like this. These people still work in the City but choose to drive there rather than live there. The traffic in New Orleans is therefore horrendous. The city's answer to this, like many cities (including my own dear Brisbane) is to widen and extend the roads. Cars are cheap, fuel is cheap and roads are easy...

I spent a couple of crisp, sunny days on the north shore before heading into New Orleans for Mardi Gras. We were booked into a hotel in the French Quarter for 3 night - the easier to enjoy the parades, festivities, food and drink. The French Quarter has to be one of the worlds great neighbourhoods. It's been around for almost 300 years and has been the home to pirates, buccaneers, adventurers, the French (obviously), the Spanish, antebellum gentry, slaves, musicians and, more recently, movie-stars and rock-stars. To walk its narrow streets is to stroll under wrought iron balconies, and past faded stucco facades with timber shuttered windows. It's a place of ferns in hang baskets, private walled gardens and buildings leaning at almost crazy angles because of the soft swampy ground beneath. During Mardi Gras its also a place of boisterousness, drunkenness, random parades of people in weird costume, dark bars with a calamity of jazz music leaking out into the brightness of the day, painted body parts, drinks in huge tacky plastic cups and a vivid shimmer of shiny coloured beads around the neck of everyone. The ornate verandas are decked with the flags and bunting in the colours of Mardi Gras, green, gold and purple and with people yelling to the crowds below and tossing beads. In short the French Quarter is a riot of colour and movement.

On Mardi Gras day I found myself wearing a pirate costume (don't ask) and my friends dressed as a bee and bee-keeper. We were not alone in our costumery and the streets were filled with people in a vast array of random attire. We started the day with breakfast in the French Market washed down with daiquiris (it all starts early) and followed up with a steady supply of drinks over the next 8 hours or so. We had intended to be part of a parade, but when we failed to actually find it we collapsed into Pat O'Brien's bar for a Hurricane and to listen to its famous Duelling Pianos(or dooling pianos as the locals call it). The music was great, but unfortunately one Hurricane led to another, and eventually a 3rd. For those who have never tried this abomination of a drink it is made with white and dark rum, passionfruit syrup and lime juice all poured over ice. The first one you drink is horrible - it's excruciatingly sweet. From there on they get better and better until you fall down. Thankfully by the time I fell down I was back in the hotel and had a nice comfy bed to break the fall.

A full American breakfast complete with crispy bacon, several cups of coffee and a reasonable amount of water and I was up and at-em the next day. Sam and I were off on a riverboat trip. This was one of the few things I had not done last time I was in town and was adamant I would achieve it this time round. Sam, having lived in New Orleans about 17 years knows her way around, and so suggested the Creole Queen which would take us downriver to the site of the Battle of New Orleans between the British and the Americans in 1815. It was a resounding (though pointless) victory for the Americans as the war was pretty much over already. The battle site was an open expanse of swampy grass with a large old house, obelisk type monument and a few cannon. The visitor centre was being rebuilt so we spent only 15 minutes wandering about before returning to the upper deck of our paddle-steamer for the return trip up the Mississippi.

The river was the most fascinating part of the tour. The waters swirl and churn and appear to flow in several directions at once with immense power and speed. It is infamous for its ability to drown those who venture or fall in. It also carries a huge amount of traffic which is dominated by the huge tankers and freighters which come up from the Gulf of Mexico to the port of New Orleans and the giant cruise ships which visit the city. As you approach the city you see just how low-lying it is. The levees rise high at the rivers edge, higher than the roofs of the houses behind and not a hill in sight.

I returned to the peace and quiet of the north shore for my final few days.

I bought some cheap t-shirts and levis at the local mall.

I took a tour of the local Abita Brewery. - it's a great deal! A free tour,with a good 30 minutes of free 'beer tasting' beforehand. They even encourage you to top-up before you head off on your 10 minute walk around a bunch a very large stainless steel vats. Thankfully Sam was driving.

I went back to Oak Alley Plantation. I have visited Oak Alley last time I was in town. It hadn't changed at all. The avenue of 300 year old Oak trees leading from the Mississippi to the house is a delight. Life for those in the big house must have been a charmed existence. Life for those not in the big house was a different matter entirely.

I think life for those in the big houses of New Orleans is still a charmed existence. There is an elegant culture of socialising, parties and entertainments that I can't match in any city I have seen... it's a very alluring charm of the city and I guess it's primarily what attracts so many tourists. Life in the South may be a little tarnished, but underneath there is still some quality. Life for those not in the big houses remains a different matter. In parts of its society New Orleans is a city violence and murder. Barely a day goes by without reports of violent crime. It was interesting to hear that during the recent Superbowl win by the New Orleans Saints that violent crime was drastically reduced. Maybe it was a distraction, something to look forward to, something to be proud of in a city that has had little to look forward to since Katrina. It was a mood palpable on the street during Mardi Gras. People were happy, excited, proud that they had won. The Saints were a team so accustomed to loss that their fans wore paper bags over their heads when they went to watch a game. Jokes were flying around that the weather was so cold because the Saints had won and hell was freezing over. The Saint's colours of black and gold were everywhere. Cries of 'Who Dat!' could be heard everywhere from anyone ('Who Dat' being part of a team chant being 'Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints').

So things might be on the up. A Superbowl, the biggest Mardi Gras crowds in 10 year, a new Mayor will hopefully give a boost to the city and its gradual recovery from Katrina 4 years ago.

Berlin

The first couple weeks of 2010 were very cold ones for London. There were below 0 temperatures and snow. Not satisfied with the coldness of London I ventured to even colder climes and had a weekend in Berlin.
I have been to Berlin before, but only for a day trip out of Hamburg, and it was almost 2 years ago now. An old friend from Australia was to be studying there for a few weeks and it was a good excuse to catch up and get back to Berlin. We had grand plans to explore the city.
About 8 inches of snow inconveniently lying on the ground and temperatures about -6C put paid to most of our outdoor exploring. So we headed indoors. Our first stop was the Museum of Berlin. The museum starts off with a rather messily laid out medieval history of the city (or it could have been that the info was just lost in translation) and rapidly drags you into the early 20th century. The real interest of the museum begins with Berlin in the 1920s. The grand hotels of Potsdamer Platz, the vibrant and lascivious lives of the city’s wealthy elite and the struggle of the poor caused by reparations following the First World War all set the scene for the events to follow in the 1930s and 40s.
As part of your entry into the museum you get a guided tour of a nuclear bunker beneath the museum. Built in 1974 as a civil defence facility in the old West Berlin, the bunker was capable of housing 3,500 people on a first come first served basis. When opened it was fully stocked with beds and supplies but was quickly converted into an underground car park. It was estimated that it would take 2 weeks to remove the cars and prepare the bunker for use in an ‘emergency’. You wouldn’t be staking your life on the bunker I should think.
It has now been re-fitted with bunks and equipment for tourist purposes. There were very few toilet and shower facilities and with recirculated air it would have been a very hot, humid and unhealthy place with 3,500 people at home.
Having built an appetite climbing in an out of the bunker, and generally trudging through ice and snow we picked our way along the icy pavements to a café recommended in my guidebook. Called the Wintergarden at the Literature House (the name seems to lose something in translation), we dined on German sausage and potato salad and local white while looking out over a snow covered garden. It was all very warm and civilised.
In deference to the cold we retired to Friedrichstrasser and admired the fancy shops along a few blocks closest to my hotel and one particularly large and warm looking department store lured us in with the prospect of hot chocolate and cake.
One of the big problems with winter is Europe is the shortness of the days. In January it’s not light much before 8am and dark by 4:30pm or earlier if it’s a cloudy day. The approaching darkness and further dropping temperature chased us home. We had intended to try and get tickets to the Opera (my friend Georgia being an opera singer and all), but we were for some reason tired from what was in reality not a very big day and decided to get some dinner locally. There was a pub on the corner – a Lowenbrau Brauhaus to be precise – and we fell in there with the intention of having a pint while we figured out where to eat.
It was a large open and pretty well charmless establishment with too much space and too few staff and it was pretty much full! We squeezed into one of the few tables that was free and found ourselves beside a large – very large – group of people dressed in what we guessed was traditional local dress.
We ordered a couple of pints and a menu was put in front of us. We were told that food would take almost an hour to be served due to the large crowd. We drank our first pint, failed to think of anywhere better we might go for dinner and so, despite a long wait for food, slow service and a large crowd of Germans in braces rapidly becoming inebriated beside us, we stayed, ordered food and another pint.
The night wore on. We drank more beer, our food came – it was very good, we drank more beer, the Germans drank more beer and began to sing, the Germans drank more beer and started unpacking their musical instruments, the Germans struck up a brass band in the middle of the restaurant, the Germans started to dance to the brass band in the middle of the restaurant, we all drank more beer. All in all it turned out to be a very good evening. The Germans turned out to be Bavarian – so not quite local to Berlin, but the played, danced and sang very well and entertained Georgia and I no end.
The next morning dawned cloudy, cold and threatening to snow. We had decided to head to Potsdamer Platz. We travelled on the metro and emerging from the station we were hit by a chill breeze blowing across the open expanse of the plaza and swirling about the shiny new office towers and hotels build in what was until 1989, the no-mans-land of the Berlin Wall. It is now a steel, glass, concrete and granite tribute to the economic state of Germany at the turn of the 21st century. I rather wish I have seen it at the turn of the last century when it was a bustling intersections lined with grand hotels, luxurious department stores and plush theatres. A tiny portion of the Hotel Esplanade has been incorporated into the new Sony Centre. Behind a curtain of 21st century glass stands the decrepit grandeur of the Kaisersaal where Wilhelm II once held ‘gentlemen’s evenings’ with his friends, and women who were not their wives...
Potsdamer Platz is no place to be standing about in the middle of winter so we started the short walk to the Brandenburg Gate. It took half an hour on the icy and slippery pavements. We had enough warmth left in our hands to take a couple of photos of the Jewish Memorial on the way past and the Gate itself before collapsing into a Starbucks for a hot chocolate. We were lucky enough to score seats at a bench with a superb view of the Brandenburg Gate and figured it was a damn site better sitting in a warm café looking at it that out in the street with cold feet.
And then it started to snow.
My intention had been to walk back to the hotel from here via Unter den Linden the main boulevard leading from the Brandenburg Gate into the centre of Berlin and then down Friedrichstrasser finding a nice café for lunch on the way. The snow changed those plans. I again consulted my guide book and found a nice restaurant for lunch called Café Einstein. We hailed a cab and headed into the suburbs. Café Einstein proved to be just a delightful as the previous day’s lunch. Another grand old house converted to a restaurant and serving good German food. Although, I think I have eaten quite enough potato for awhile…
The snow got heavier as the afternoon progressed and as I got closer to the airport and my flight back to London. It was with some relief that my flight was on time … and was even more of a relief to arrive back in London and find the temperature 10 degrees warmer!

Wien

Choosing not to buy my usual Classic Cars magazine for in-flight reading this trip (the articles about ‘80s super-cars for £15,000 looking rather tedious), I instead picked up Bill Bryson’s travel book Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe. Written in 1991 it is a tad out of date, but I figured it would make for interesting comparison with the contemporary.

I flicked straight to the chapter on Austria: Hmmm, unfriendly people, an ex-Nazi President, souvenir shops on every corner – not an auspicious introduction. I hoped politics and hospitality had change in the intervening years.

Bryson describes Vienna as an unimaginably grand city – the place aliens would consider the capital of the world if they didn’t know better, as he puts it.

As you travel around the tree-lined Ringstrasse (the line of the old city walls), on a small part Vienna’s fantastic tram system, you pass the impressive bulk of the city’s biggest and best baroque and classical structures: The Hofburg (former Imperial residence), The Rathaus (townhall), the Museums, State Opera, the University and Parliament, interspersed with leafy green parks. It an impressive and surprisingly timeless sight, one we would be hard pressed to recreate today with our architecture of steel, glass and concrete.

It rained as I arrived in Vienna. I had to walk from the bus station at Westbahnhof to my hotel, and thanks to my desire to travel with carry-on luggage only, I had no umbrella. I got a tad wet. But my hotel was new, sparkling white and warm, and as it turned out, very well located.
I awoke next morning to a cloudy but dry day, and a delightful view over the rooftops to Vienna from my room. Over breakfast I decided on a ‘start at the centre’ policy and took the Metro to St Stephen’s Platz. Exiting the Metro I immediately liked Vienna – the centre of the old city is vehicle free! The Cathedral is surrounded by a large pedestrian square and the major shopping streets are for people only. It is pleasure the walk around the city and should be a lesson to London.

I had booked a tour of the Staatsoper, Vienna’s dual personality opera house. Built in the mid 19th century it was damaged by bombing in WWII. Rather than rebuild the damaged portions to replicate the original they were decorated in a chic 1950s style. The contrast as you move from space to space is quite intriguing. The highlight of the tour though, is the visit backstage. The Opera House presents a different opera every day and so the stage has to be reset accordingly, and the flurry of activity as the sets are stripped and reset is fascinating.

Getting to see the River Danube in Vienna is quite a task. I had always thought that the river would be reasonable well celebrated and accessible in a city with the signature tune The Blue Danube. I was mistaken. I took a tram to Prater the large park between the city of Vienna and the River. From here I thought it would be an easy walk. Again… mistaken. The walk across the park was easy enough, but once across I encountered a new commercial office park and treaded my way around its deserted street, past the most isolated looking Marriott Hotel I have ever seen (situated next to a delightfully picturesque deserted race course and multi story car park) and then faced my next hurdle - a post WWII partition era housing complex. The almost endless wall of grey concrete loomed over me and stretched away to the left and right. I squeezed my way between the blocks, under a railway overpass and continued my quest. I could see the river now – well the levee bank anyway. At the foot of the levee was a 4 lane highway and beside that a railway. A half mile walk along the highway took me a to a bridge servicing a Hilton Hotel, as equally isolated as the aforementioned Marriott, but at least the Hilton was on the River!

So, the big question. Is it Blue? Well, a lot bluer than I expected, and a lot more peaceful. The opposite bank (which isn’t actually a bank but an island separating the River and a canal) was undeveloped and covered with trees. There were a few hearty souls walking their dogs (there are a lot of dogs in Vienna!) or maybe they just knew of easier access to the river bank.

The Prater park is home to one of the world’s oldest Ferris Wheels, the Vienna Riesenrad. Built in 1897 and made famous by the movie The Third Man, it is tucked away in the corner of a large amusement park. I would suppose the amusement park would be crammed with families on a summer Sunday afternoon, but in early November it was pretty much deserted, there were only a few locals walking their dogs, and offered a rather surreal setting for a stroll along the leaf strewn laneways. It would have been the perfect setting for an American teen horror film.

The Schonbrunn Palace makes a delightful summer retreat. Not quite the scale and grandeur of Versailles (nowhere near it really), it is still a lovely place to wander about on a sunny morning. The palace itself is a delightful collection of baroque interiors. The Great Gallery is just the place for a lavish summer ball of Mozart, powdered wigs voluminous gowns and candle-light reflecting in the gilt edged mirrors.

But it was too nice a day to spend inside, so I repaired to the gardens. The main focal point from the principal rooms of the house, is the Gloriette, a colonnaded folly built atop a nearby hill. It is reached via a series of zig-zagging paths up the hill. The view back down to the Palace is impressive, unfortunately the bland western suburbs of Vienna behind the Palace are rather less impressive.

I strolled about the gardens for an hour or so, admiring the lengthy tree line boulevards, the palm house and the slightly less that welcoming zoo (closed for the season) and the stunning autumn leaves. There were not many tourist about and only a few locals walking their dogs (did I mention there are a lot of dogs in Vienna?) and at times I felt as if I had the whole place to myself.

As I was leaving the Palace I noticed an advertisement for the Schonbrunn Palace Orchestra which performs a daily concert of Mozart and Strauss. Mozart and Strauss seemed like a thing one should do in Vienna so I forked out 29 euro (the cheapest seat I could get) and returned promptly at 8pm.

The concert was performed in the Palace Orangerie, a rather elegant, white vaulted hall with large south facing windows and hung with glittering chandeliers. I was rather disappointed that there was not a citrus plant in sight. I was also disappointed that the quality of the architecture and its illustrious past (Mozart himself had performed here) far overshadowed the quality of the performance.

Being off season I was treated to a sextet rather than the full orchestra (no reduction in ticket price mind you) who played the repertoire with what I can only describe as mechanics. I am not the world's biggest fan of Mozart to begin with, but when he is played without enthusiasm the complexity becomes tedium. At the end of the first half (with Mozart safely out of the way) I was hoping the flowing and somewhat more lively nature of Strauss might wake things up. Unfortunately not. I haven't mentioned that the 'orchestra' was accompanied by a soprano of adequate voice, a baritone who missed the mark by quite a way and a pair of dancers who danced on the world's noisiest stage. At times the footfalls drowned out the musicians. Maybe I am being harsh... the 3 American women in front of me loved it... to the point of giving a standing ovation... they were the only ones. There are other places you can here Mozart and Strauss in Vienna, choose one of them.

Well, my travel for the year has pretty much come to an end. Besides a quick day trip to Birmingham for the biggest German Christmas markets outside of Germany and Austria (why they are in Birmingham, I have no idea) my only other trip is back to Brisbane for a couple of weeks at Christmas. Hopefully I will have a few days in the sun to work out where to go next year!

A weekend in Tuscany

I like trees you can see through. They make me feel at home. England has trees that are green and lush, and thick with leaves. They give lovely deep green shade in summer but they block out the sky and the rest of the landscape in a way that a eucalypt never would. The charm of Australian trees is that they are part of the landscape, you see them, and through them to the wider world beyond.

Italy has see-through trees. Even travelling at night from Pisa Airport to Florence you can see through the roadside trees to the passing hills and villas. Admittedly the night probably made this somewhat industrial part of Tuscany nicer than is might otherwise appear. The road was lined with outlet malls, warehouses and large car parks.

Florence on the other hand is a stunning place. It is neck-hurtingly beautiful. Everywhere you look there is a fine palace, church, museum, statue or bridge. Florence has an elegant beauty. It is a human scale city. It does not possess the monumental grandeur of Rome, or the elegant boulevards of Paris; its streets are narrow and twisting. You come upon its architectural gems often with surprise. The Duomo is enclosed in a piazza and only comes into sight as you turn the last corner and even then it is difficult to take in the whole structure in one view (see cramped photograph!).

You can almost walk onto the Ponte Vecchio without really knowing you are on a bridge until, of course, you get to the centre and catch the views up and down the river (although the wall to wall goldsmiths on either side rather give the game away).

Travelling with 2 girls has its moments. Florence is famous for its leather, and rightly so. The streets are lined with stores – there must be thousands of them - and I think I have been into most of them! It cost me too… they persuaded me to buy a new black jacket and a satchel for work.

It’s also famous for its art, without a doubt the most magnificent being Michelangelo’s David. Like the Mona Lisa the David seemed a bit of a cliché to me. The image adorns aprons, ironing board covers, fridge magnets, boxer shorts and a myriad of other cheap and tacky items. But nothing prepares you for being in the presence of the sculpture. It is enormous – much taller than I had imagined - and it towers over the milling throng all craning there necks to take it in. The David stands in a large apse; the space is grandly proportioned and yet the sculpture still dominates the room, magnetically drawing you gaze and not letting you turn away.

The ironing board cover cannot show the blood pulsing in the veins in the arms, and hands ready for battle; the slight wrinkle of the brow showing consternation? fear? determination? …and the age and weathering of the stone after 300 years in the elements which, if anything, contributes to the life the Michelangelo created out of a cold block of stone.

When is too artwork really too much? The Uffizi is home to a sensational collection of art spanning the renaissance. Home to Botticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus’, works by Michelangelo, Di Vinci, Raphael and Rembrandt and housed in a 16th century building overlooking the Arno, the gallery is overwhelming to say the least. The 3 hours we strolled around left us desperate for lunch and a nice crisp white.

Friends had told me that Pisa isn’t up to much …and to be honest I would not want to be wandering the streets alone after dark. But, despite the slightly seedy feel, I liked it. Pisa is a pretty town – or it could be if they actually gave it a wash. Walking from the train station to its one major tourist draw card, it’s is easy to see why people don’t hang around. Florence is less than an hour away and has the shopping, the museums and the restaurants.

Pisa only has its somewhat askew tower. Quite and 'only' though...

We timed our visit for the afternoon before our flight back to London (Pisa and Florence share an airport – in Pisa) and had a few hours only, so we dumped our bags at the train station, and walked straight to the Duomo.

Ok. No matter what you have seen of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in pictures or on television, it leans a damn sight more in real life (and more than my photos can show). The three of us were rather stunned, in fact, by the extent of the lean. We didn’t get to climb the tower as the only tour available was a bit too late to connect with our flight, so we had to be satisfied with wandering around the monumental cemetery and the baptistery – both worthy sites to visit in their own right, but wholly overshadowed by the tower.

We strolled along the row tacky souvenir vendors (and bought the obligatory 3 inch high leaning tower for 2 euro) enjoying the evening sunshine and continuing to be surprised by the lean.

In the end time won out and we headed for the airport (the worst one I have been in, in Europe so far – and Naples takes some beating!). Although, we did managed to get pizza and wine to fortify us for the flight – it was Italy after all.

BCN

Montjuic is home to:

• a 17th and 18th century fortress (Castell de Montjuic)


• a funicular railway


• a gondola lift


• the site of the 1929 World’s Fair


• the site of the 1992 Summer Olympic Games


• the former circuit of the Spanish Formula One Grand Prix


• Botanical Gardens


• numerous art galleries and museums


• and, much closer to my heart, La Caseta de Migdia …a bar.

Sunday evening I was sitting in this shady outdoor establishment, relaxing in a deck chair in the midst of a grove of pines and looking out over the cliff-top to the Mediterranean. Evening joggers and mountain-bikers trundled by, my beer was cold and my company was delightful.

It’s a bit of a walk to the bar it is set at the top of the high cliffs looking south from Montjuic - but it just makes the beer taste better when you get there. If you look down you can see the vast sprawl of Barcelona’s container port, but from our table this was invisible, and we looked across the grasses, the prickly pear and our fellow customers (and their dogs) to the blue horizon and watched the cruise ships glide in and out of Barcelona’s busy Port Vella. (http://www.lacaseta.org/ if you fancy going)

As the light faded we strolled away from the bar and toward Placa Espanya. It was alittle further than we thought as we wound our way along the paths and roads of Montjuic. Almost an hour (and some sore feet) later we wandered onto the terrace of Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya and gazed down the Avenue lined with fountains toward the plaza. In the middle of it all is the Font Magica (the Magic Fountain of Montjuic).

Having been to Barcelona a couple of times before, I had never made time for the Font Magica. From 9pm each night – every half hour - it spurts water in time to various musical medleys a concept I had always though, somewhat tacky but my friend Claudia was keen for a look. We arrived after 9pm and caught the end of the first performance. My initial fears seemed confirmed, as the stains of Celine Dion boomed in the distance and lights flashed red and green and blue. By the time we had made our way down from the Museu to the fountain itself all was quiet and we had to await the 9:30pm show.

We found a place to site on a wall overlooking the fountain. It is a large fountain. A very large fountain in fact. Basically circle shaped with only a couple of tiers, when not in use it is rather unassuming and appears oversized.

Promptly at 9:30pm the fountain bust forth. This time (most thankfully) to a classical theme. As Mozart and Beethoven rang from a hidden sound system, the water did some quite amazing things all in genuine sympathy to the music. I was enthralled. The engineering, artistry and sheer force of water is a thing of marvel.

All in all Font Magica remains a tacky thing (anything called the Magic Fountain must be!) - it would be perfectly at home in Las Vegas, but the crowds of tourists loved it, and so did I.

Every visit to Barcelona must be punctuated with some Gaudi. I returned to La Sagrada Familia to check on construction progress – there is a south wall now. I wandered around the paths of Parc Guell and admired the views over the city to the sea and the mastery with which Gaudi draw out of the scrubby hillside the remarkable landscape design that looks as much a part of the natural landscape as the plants and rocks themselves. I still fail to understand how a mind can imagine, grasp and transform its thought into reality in the way Antoni Gaudi’s did. He created monumental architecture of a type entirely unique and equally harmonious with both the natural and man-made world and in a way that presents shear enjoyment.

This time around the queues were short so, while on a Gaudi theme, I visited Casa Mila, an apartment building in the Eixample (‘eh-sham-pla’) district. It is built on the corner of a busy boulevard and offers a typically organic Gaudi façade to the street this time finished in relatively austere and rough cut, pale brown stone. The apartments were built for the wealth in the early 20th century and are large, airy and sinuous. They curve and twist around internal courtyards and the articulated external faced. Despite the wildness of the architectural appearance, the apartments appear as if they would be remarkably easy to live in. The internal colours are muted and constant. Ceiling and walls and doors all painted in a monochrome, pale green. There is little ornamentation. Even the walls and ceiling meet with a simple curve instead of a cornice, blurring the distinction between vertical and horizontal and giving the interiors a slight cave-like feel.

The gem is the roof space above, giving a lesson in the potential for elegance in structural engineering and slapping the face of any architect or structural engineer who fails to grasp the principals and the potential of the other discipline. The brick vaulted arches are amazingly beautiful and remarkably well finished for an area not meant to be seen by anyone bar the maintenance man. The roof-top offers a great view over the Eixample and a close-up of the building’s chimneys and vents of improbably design, while walking around a constantly undulating path. Odd, completely odd – fun though.

So, another weekend in Barcelona. That’s 3 now. The beach, the sun, the food, and the city… might be time to learn Spanish I think.