Honeymoon pt 3

After spending a week in London I was primed and ready for another assault on my well-being. I had eaten vegetables for the first time in months, slept long long hours, and lightened my conscience by telling my mum terrifying stories over Skype. Luckily the post festival blues hadn't headed my way this time, leading me to theorise that hitchhiking can nullify depression (that or Audi's release vaporised Valium as part of their new car smell).

Helen and Jarrod had finished their honeymoon cruising around the Mediterranean and were now again ready to have their romantic purple patch crashed by their friends. Rosy and I headed up to York for a couple of days to keep Jarrod company while Helen got some quality time with her family, and we had a great couple of days enjoying everything Yorkshire had to offer. Sadly, Yorkshire hasn't exactly got much going on, so while we did have a really fun couple of days, I fear that apart from Helen giving us an ADHD tour of York and her home town Church Fenton ('Oh, crap, I forgot, we just went past my school, the place where Judy Dench once went cycling, and the place they used to hang people...you can imagine which was which'), and us rocking the Church Fenton pub quiz, there was nothing I can really remember us doing that wouldn't bore anyone who wasn't there.

From York, we hit the road in our hire car and headed back down to London for one last hurrah before Helen had to fly back to Australia. The night started off quite civilised, with us sharing Pizza and a few beverages with a whole bunch of Helens' high school friends, but it quickly got out of hand when a combination of drunkeness, a pending punk show, and me wanting a hair cut led to this:

I'd claim haircut rape, but unfortunately this damning footage was captured, which kind of discredits this allegation:

Is it just me, or do I have the same look  in my eyes that Britney had when she did something similar.

The hair cut happened after most of the party had dissipated, and when common sense had been drowned in a sea of Champagne consumed under the premise of 'we have to drink it or it'll go off!'. However, I will admit, this decision wasn't completely out of the blue. Helen had been my hairdresser during my Freddie Ljundberg phase, and had cut me many a fine mohawk, and I was looking forward to a trip down memory lane paired with an awesome hairdo for the mosh pit I'd be in in a few nights time. Unfortunately Jarrod and Helen are now married, and as a result Helen is obligated to correct Jarrod's stories, and Jarrod is obligated to judge and eventually take over any physical task Helen tries to perform (there's a sex and marriage joke in there somewhere but I'll rise above it). This meant that Helen started off quite well and we were making good headway, right up until the point where Jarrod took over for a second to show her how it's done. Somehow, between Helen handing the clippers to Jarrod, the clipper head was changed from 'weekend punk' length, to 'neonazi scalp showingly' short. Even this would've been ok, I had no interest in gaining employment for a while anyway, but then the battery ran out in the clippers, right at a point where the hair had only been shorn off on the second side up to just below where a side part would normally occur. This left me looking like a mugger on one side, and someone who would have a little too much fun chasing squirrels on the other.

While the night was quite hazy, there was one thing that came back to me the day after that didn't require a floor covered in hair or an ice headache from a stiff breeze to be recalled. Helen and Rosy are friends from high school, and I've now been lucky enough to meet a whole bunch of their school friends. They were all 'Mounties', boarders from the girls' school 'The Mount', a school who's claim to fame is giving us Judy Dench. Before I'd met these girls I'd always been quite horrified at the idea of boarding school, and thought it was a place for rich, disinterested, good old boys to send their offspring so that they could be given an education free of any plebs, but full of giant wooden dildos with a side of homoeroticism: (http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/the-turning-point/2005/08/28/1125167538541.html)
While I have met quite a few people through my life who have proven this not to always be the case, no group of people has done more to reform my way of thinking regarding boarding schools than the Mounties. I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering they produced Dame Judy (a fact that every Mounty is legally required to tell you whenever they mention their school), but they are the most consitently interesting and personable people I've had the pleasure to meet on my trip. It might have something to do with the fact that it's a Quaker school, which happens to be my new favourite religion.

I could write an entire blog on why Quakerism is hilarious awesome. But in brief, as far as I can make out, Quakerism calls for a bunch of nice people to get together and talk about God....if they want....or not. Pretty much their only rules are they preach pacifism and respecting of everyone's right to an opinion. A Quaker church gathering is a bunch of Quakers sitting around waiting for inspiration, there's no leader, anyone can talk if they want to, or not, whatever. And just in case you didn't think they were the nicest people in the world, guess what the other name for a Quaker is.? A Friend....awwwwwww. Sadly as with anything so sweet and nice, it's seems really funny to snarky cynical pricks like me, but as I've written this description I've realised that it's pretty much what all religions intended to be before they got taken over by agendas of power and influence. Anyway, religious rant over (a religious rant AND a political rant all in two paragraphs. What a fun blog post this one is). But I guess it is sort of relevant. I've traveled the world to experience new things and broaden my mind, and while some new experiences are obvious in their influence (wow, Spaniards are insane), sometimes tolerance and empathy needs to be extended to those most similar to ourselves. In fact I was such a fan of the Mounties that I even decided to refrain from any cheap shots regarding their nickname having more to do with their nightlife habits than with their school name.

The next morning Jarrod and I awoke in a great deal of pain and after saying farewell to Rosy and Helen, boarded a plane for Berlin where we were going to begin the third leg of our Honeymoon. We had picked Berlin as our first stop for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because it is widely renowned as one of the most awesome cities in the world, and secondly, because one of our favourite bands, Billy Talent, was playing there, and seeing punk bands on our honeymoons was kinda our thing.

Berlin definitely didn't disappoint. While not gifted with the geographical location to produce a perfect climate, Berlin is instead blessed with one of the most geographically important locations in modern history. While this may not have seemed so awesome during WWI, the recession after WWI, WWII, or the entirety of the cold war (let's just say the 20th Century), it's now turned up trumps, as Berlin now boasts one of the most diverse, and awesome cultures of the western world.

Jarrod and I only had a couple of days in Berlin, but we managed to fit quite a bit in. Berlin presented us with our first instance of 'The Odd Couple' syndrome. Jarrod and I are painfully good friends, in the sense that it's unbearable for others to be around us when we're together. We share the same sense of humour, the same level of social indecency, the same impeccable taste in music, and a similar weakness for alcohol. However, despite our many similarities, we do have some fundamental differences. For example, we both seem to act responsibly in different facets of our lives. Jarrod has always been very good at moving his life forward. As a forward thinking responsible adult he's bought a house, has a career as a plane driver, after 8 years dating his girlfriend did the honourable thing and married her, and most importantly has actually purchased furniture (trust me, when you replace your free hand me down furniture with something encased in leather, you're officially an adult). I, sadly, have never been one for foresight, and as a result have no house, less idea of what career path I will take than most 18 year olds, dated a girl for 7 years then broke up, and now don't even have the free couches my cousin gave me after her cat had scratched them to pieces, because I sold them to do this trip. However, I have, believe it or not, had one eye on the future regarding my health, and as a result have become the type of person who enjoys exercising, and voluntarily enters marathons and triathlons. Jarrod, blessed with a high metabolism until his early twenties by which time he'd nabbed a stunner, has never really seen the point in exercise, and save for entering the city2surf a couple of years ago (after I paid him to so I could start a sweepstakes on his finishing time) he generally gets no more exercise than turning the steering wheel and changing gears on his plane.

Normally these two major differences wouldn't have any impact on our lives, but now that we were traveling together a few situations needed to be delicately balanced. The first to pop up was that while we were both fans of experiencing cities by foot, my idea of this was to start walking in the morning and not stop until dinner, whereas Jarrod was much more inclined to take a more leisurely approach, involving meals that were enjoyed sitting down (backpacker kryptonite). I am under no illusion that Jarrod's approach is that of the majority of the population, but in this case we had a very limited time to see the city and so Jarrod actually adopted my approach so that we could see as much as possible. This lasted well into the afternoon, but eventually when I chased one piece of street art too many Jarrod packed it in and headed back to the hostel. Luckily we managed to compromise our contrasting walking preferences for the rest of the trip, in fact we did this so effectively that Jarrod managed to lose a few kilos during the holiday while I managed to gain myself a nice little beer belly, as we essentially became the same person.

Anyway, enough of me boring you with the intimate intricacies of bromance, and more about Berlin. As you've probably noticed by now, I'm quite a fan of street art. I think you can sense the underlying emotions of a city from the amount and the type of graffiti on show. If this is true then Berlin wears it heart well and truly on its' sleeve. The painting of the city by the masses began in earnest during the cold war, thanks to the Soviet Union presenting the locals with the worlds' largest graffitiable area. After David Hasselhoff came and single handedly tore down the wall and ended the cold war, the city kept a few small sections of it erect, and have now turned them into memorials. While the section which has been kept to show exactly what separated the two sides of the city is both moving and horrifying, it's the section that has been turned into an art space that I loved the most. Here are some of my favourite pieces from it:

One of the great things about street art is that it's a public medium with no regulation when it comes to who gets to display their art. But what is even more beautiful is that the reviewers can incorporate their comments into the work if they deem it appropriate:

The Mural: 2 stars

The Review: 5 stars

The art isn't just limited to The Wall. In fact you end up getting a sore neck walking around Berlin from constantly looking left and right, up and down, at the different works that adorn most surfaces. A few of the street art highlights included:

Tacheles - An abandoned building that used to be filled with very artistic squatters until they were recently kicked out so that a new hotel could be built on the site. While sad to have a unique artistic haven like this removed so that another hotel could be put in, apparently the site had ceased being artistically relevant about a decade ago and was predominantly filled with hobos and taggers. There are still some cool works on the outside, and there's a bizarre metallurgy artist working out back who has some pieces worth checking out, but I'm guessing this will only be around for a little while.

The Squatter Camp: There is a small camp by the river in the artsy quarter of Berlin (sorry, I'll do the research on names and stuff when I release my travel guide, but this blog has never promised factual accuracies or useful details), and behind it is a wall filled with a lot of smaller works, and two massive ones. The art is awesome, but it's also quite cool (if a tad intimidating) seeing a bunch of hippies and vagabonds sleeping in tents and (awesomely) a teepee. Don't get me wrong though, this is no flower power utopia, the place is an abandoned dump, but the view is awesome.

This apparently represents the two sides of Berlin taking off each others masks after the wall was taken down.

This represents the modern man and how he is imprisoned by his wealth.

This represents a bad decision at some point of someone's life.

The massive building side Murals: These are everywhere, and I don't understand why all cities don't embrace this more. Give your local artists some building sized canvases and you turn your entire city into an open air gallery. Here were some of my favourites:

The smaller works: I think what most sets Berlin apart from other cities is that there are small personal works of graffiti pretty much everywhere in the city. Many cities have their own district where hipsters and artists mingle, and as a result there is usually a high concentration of art there, and then a few random tags everywhere else. Berlin is covered in little jokes, statements, emtional outbursts and beauty. There is also a fair share of tagging, but I guess that's the price you pay.

I loved this one. The screaming weasel on the left is about 100 metres back and is massive, and these are all set about 50 metres off the street, only to be seen by the distracted pedestrians.

I don't know why, but this one made me think of my friend Ethan (nothing to do with how he usually pulls up on a Saturday either, just the style)

Bit pissed they left our Aussie off this, but I guess the stencil was on A4.

Apart from checking out the art, our day time activities mainly consisted of visiting Cold War and WWII sites. We managed to take in the Brandenburg gate, checkpoint charlie, and the Holocaust memorial, of which I will now present photographic evidence, to prove we were good tourists:

All three were cool to visit, and the history behind it all is very fascinating (and the city does a great job presenting plenty of free information), but I feel describing these to you would be like describing the Mona Lisa to you, and as you might've noticed from my previous blogs, I don't bother with that kind of stuff. Instead I get distracted and post photos like this:

If you are ever near the Brandenburg gate and Mickey Mouse comes up to say hi to your kids, RUN! The one other oddity I noticed at the Brandenburg gate is the number of protests that occur there. I've now visited it three times, at different parts of the day, and there's always a hunger strike or something going on. While I can appreciate these organisations wanting to get maximum exposure, I think they're a little off the mark as all of their slogans are in German, and all of the other people at the Brandenburg gate are foreigners. Just to show how this may lead to problems, one group of students had set up a series of hurdles which I'm guessing was symbolic for their cause ('Our slogan vill be ''Vy must ve go over so many HURDLES to get ze government funding?'' und ve shall have actual hurdles!!' 'Oh Hans das ist brilliant!') but they had a sign on the side of them which read (in English) 'Please Stop Jumping Over the Hurdles, They are Not Put Here for Tourists'.

The only historic site we were left to lament missing out on was Hitler's bunker. We'd heard that you could visit the site where it used to be located, and we really wanted to find it, but sadly we had no internet access on our phones and we always forgot to look up the address before leaving the hostel. We actually managed to remember it about five times a day, always when we'd just left wifi access, and while not a trip ruiner, it was a bit devastating when we got on our bus to leave and realised we still hadn't found it.We could've asked a local, but we didn't want to risk meeting a local who spoke no English who would've only heard 'Blah blah blah Hitler blah blah blah'. I'm not sure what this would've led to, but with Hitler I've always thought it best to err on the side of caution.

After long days consisting of art appreciation and historical fact digestion we felt obligated to indulge ourselves in some debauchery in the evenings, and with its' combination of delicious German beer, pulsating night life, and ridiculously cheap prices, Berlin was the perfect place for this. Sadly we didn't visit any of the world famous all night nightclubs as our first night we were still mortally hungover from our London farewell, and the night after this we were at our concert, but we did manage to visit a few cool pubs, and imbibed plenty of amazing beer.

Oh yeh, the concert. The thing we came to Berlin for. I guess this falls into the tourist traps and museum category. It'd be a pretty lame blog if I went into heavy detail about concerts (http://stinsonmia.blogspot.com.au/). But it was another great example of Jarrod and I bridging our differences. Jarrod has now reached the age where he no longer moshes, and so Jarrod spent the concert back behind the pit drinking like he was representing his country, whereas I got myself into the the thick of the action, did a little bit of crowd surfing, and got nice and sweaty. But, like good friends, we met up afterwards without any issues and hugged it out (OK, I ran after Jarrod covered in sweat and gave him the most disgusting tackle hug of his life. Although in my defense, only a little bit of the sweat was mine...). Billy Talent were awesome, and the people of Germany continued to prove themselves as my favourite people by hosting one of the funnest mosh pits I've ever been in. The pit was absolutely massive, but the German's somehow managed to design it so that everyone went absolutely crazy, but the crowd didn't start swaying from side to side, and there were no scumbags using the pit to indulge their darker side (Australian mosh pits: Home of the king hit).  I don't know whether this was due to superior German design, or because they're just happy well balanced people, but I suspect it's a bit of both.

All too soon we had to leave Berlin, and hit the road for Prague. Despite once again both sporting quite considerable hangovers I braved a very early morning start, and Jarrod roughed his way through a four hour bus ride. Upon arriving in Prague we were rewarded for our fortitude by being greeted with arctic conditions (Australian arctic, it's all relative), and a hostel that didn't exactly meet the lofty standards set by our previous accommodation in Berlin, not least of all for the fact that we had to walk through a bunch of strip club hawkers who were stationed directly out front.

But what a view from our window!! Although we didn't have any curtains, and by the end of the week we couldn't see the colour pink anymore.

In hindsight I probably should've looked into this more, but it turns out that when a private 2 bed room in a hostel only costs seven euro per night, and it advertises that it is right in the heart of the red light district, you shouldn't be too shocked when you get stuck in a giant cold room with tiny beds, and that access to this tiny room is only possible by passing through a strip club lobby and then ascending the worlds' scariest (and possibly oldest) elevator. Sadly this was to prove a tipping point in the balance of power between Caedyn 'el cheapo' Stinson, and Jarrod 'Lardi Da' Chapman, as Jarrod assumed control of the hostel booking from this point onwards. But in a testament to the addictions of Generation Y, I actually think the only real deal breaker for Jarrod was the absence of wifi. He seemed far more annoyed by this than having to go past a live video feed of the strip club stage every time we went into our hostel, although maybe that was just him being outwardly polite.

Prague is an undeniably beautiful old city. It is architecturally stunning, paved with cobblestones, and located on the Vltava river right next to a large green hill from which you can overlook the city.

Ye olde town square

Charles bridge, connecting the old town and the palace.

The couple of culture vultures that Jarrod and I are, we headed straight for some local grub...at Hooters. OK, so maybe we were still a bit gritty from the night before, and weren't quite ready to immerse ourselves in the culture just yet. This feeling was echoed by our choice of dinner spot, when we decided to go to an Irish bar. But dammit, this was a holiday and we deserved a day off. When we finally immersed ourselves into everything that was Prague it was actually a tad disappointing. Prague apparently has an amazing nightlife, but I'll be damned if we could find it. As far as we could tell the place was full of dead bars which are arranged much more like restaurants and less like a place where a social interaction with a stranger could occur. That and strip clubs. Apparently Prague is the the new Amsterdam when it comes to bucks parties. I'd heavily recommend going to Amsterdam instead. Don't get me wrong, the girls in the strip clubs were amazing...apparently (some guys told us or something), but the city just feels a bit too dead and gothic for a raucous boys weekend. Plus you have to deal with the hawkers who are all over the main street, although in our case this turned into some entertainment as I got to watch Jarrod try some drunken negotiations. I'm still not sure how it happened (I think through misplaced overconfidence), but Jarrod managed to haggle us from free entry and 6 beers for ten euro, to free entry and 6 beers for twenty euro.

I haven't exactly sung the praises of Prague, but I've heard it's supposed to be really fun in summer. I'll give it the benefit of the doubt as we were there right as the season was turning ugly, and it was a beautiful looking place. It just felt a bit more like a place for older people to go and shop for high end products than a place where things truly get wild. Anyway, apart from the city's beauty and the strip clubs, there were a few things to admire while walking around the city. One of the odder sites was the worlds largest fully functional metronome. Well, they say fully functional, except they never turn it on, so it's actually a lot more like the world's most overrated metal stick. They obviously don't use it much (only when the orchestra full of giants comes to town?) because they've tied some colourful flags to it to try and brighten the place up a bit.

Of the places you'd actually want to see, the castle was quite impressive, mainly because it's got two of the most brutal statues guarding its' entrance:

With warning statues like that the guards are kind of redundant.

There's also a shrine to John Lennon in the form of a moulded tomb stone and a tonne of graffiti because....um, yeh I have no idea. Maybe he bought Yoko her absinthe stash from here (they love their wormwood infused liquor here so much there's an absinthe district!).

Harry Lennon, brilliant.

I don't know what's better; finding one of Jarrod's catchphrases, (We're not here to f@$k spiders), or the fact that the bogan who wrote it got his where/we're/wear wrong. Can I get an Aussie, Aussie, Aussie in here?

One place I genuinely loved, with no tongue in cheek, was their museum of contemporary art, which has taken it upon itself to be as edgy and controversial as possible. You'll probably recognise a few of their more famous pieces, specifically the one of Saddam Hussein embalmed in formaldehyde in a perspex case (sadly due to the language barrier we couldn't ascertain whether it was really him or just a body double), and the gymnast Jesus, but it was overall a pretty entertaining exhibition. Having said that I think it's pretty fair to say that anyone who goes into a career in video art needs to be either borderline psychopathic or suffering from severe Aspergers. The videos at this exhibition consisted of a man who had a scream powered fan (basically a guy screaming non stop at a fan that then turned, which could be heard through an entire wing of the exhibition), a porno with two fat guys and two disinterested women, flubbing lines in broken French/English, and then one of some leaves blowing in the wind. The only one of any tolerable artistic merit was a set of lips that were talking constant smack to a stuffed squirrel and a stuffed rabbit perched in front of them. I don't know why but that really tickled me.

I'm pretty sure it's not a double.

Second favourite jesus after the one doing the Y in YMCA.

BAD RABBIT! BAD BAD RABBIT!

The other artistic element of Prague that I loved was Frank Gehry's dancing house. The mayor who commissioned this was pretty ballsy, as pretty much every building along the scenic waterfront of Prague looks the same, creating a somewhat uniform, but very beautiful facade, that looks like this:

It takes a lot of guts to then commission one of the worlds most daring and inventive architects, who has quite a reputation of dividing opinion, to make the first dramatic change to your water front for the better part of a few centuries. But I think it works wonderfully, and like all Gehry buildings is a work of art as well as a functional modern building. It also seems to fit into its' surrounds a little better than most Gehry buildings too, making it simply look like one of the waterfront terraces got accidentally put in the microwave by one the members of the visiting giant's orchestra, and then delicately balanced back in its original position hoping no one would notice.

The beautiful architecture of Prague actually led to Jarrod and I inventing a new sport: Competitive Photography Trashtalking. Jarrod and I have both recently bought our first real cameras and both decided to get a bit of practise trying to capture the beauty of our surrounds in Prague. At one point I tried to be arty and take a photo of the town square's reflection in a puddle. We were a little drunk at this stage and Jarrod was a tad impatient with me taking a while to get the shot right, and he began to voice his doubts about the possibility of the shot. Eventually I got the photo I wanted, at which point Jarrod turned from critiquing the impossibility of the shot, to the crapness of my photo, and proceeded to attempt his own version of the photo. It was at this point the sport was born, as I trash talked him with such gems as 'Nice aperture douche bag' and 'I've seen flashers with a better grasp of exposure'. From there we set out to try and take the best photo of Prague, the whole time playing defense on the others' photo by walking in front of long exposures, sprinting to claim good shot locations from the other, and generally confusing the Japanese tour group around us who were also trying to grab some late night shots. Then we got cold and went to Hooters for a beer.

From Prague we were off to the origin and namesake of Pilsner beer, Plzen. This is home to one of our favourite beers, and a place we felt we had to visit. The brewery was cool, and in homage to the beer we had so enjoyed through our life, we drank as much of it as possible while we were town, but sadly the town of Plzen doesn't have much else going for it, apart from its' gold plated fountain in the town square:

Lucky there's a brewery in town, otherwise this would struggle as a solo attraction.

By this point of our trip I was truly living in backpacker luxury. Thanks to Jarrod taking over booking the accommodation we were now staying in a hotel (no missing S there, it had chairs, a table, and even a fridge!), we were eating hearty Czech meals (Czech food is ridiculously cheap, and really good), and we were now travelling by car. Thanks to Jarrod being sick of driving due to the fact he still lived a normal life, I got to drive the whole time and play speed racer on the Czech highways, which once again had a far more reasonable speed limit than Australia.

From Plzen we ventured to Cesky Krumlov, a very picturesque Medieval town in the south of the Czech Republic. I have previously lamented visiting romantic locations as a single backpacker, but it turns out that going there with your best friend can be even more awkward. To drown out the awkward feelings that were awakening in us, we headed straight to the local bars. Cesky Krumlov ended up being a lot of fun as we finally got to meet some sociable Czech locals. The first night out we were sitting in an old tavern style pub, taking up a massive eight person table, and not planning to eat anything. As the place started to fill up with diners, we decided to help out the barman and let some locals share our table. We eventually struck up a conversation with one of them, a lovely (and highly eccentric) lady called Adriana. She spoke pretty good English, with just enough gaps in her vocabulary to create hilarious scenarios like Jarrod having to mime a plane to tell her he was a plane driver. We hit it off so well that we were invited to her art gallery the next day, which was also a lot of fun, although it did involve an extended photography session upon us trying to leave, featuring every possible permutation of the three of us and her dog.

'Help' - The Dog

We also managed to crash a party involving a group of eastern European oncologists who were in town for a convention. The night ended in a lot of fuzziness, but the highlights I do remember were meeting an oncologist who was the spitting image of Gene Simmons, seeing the Czech version of a fat, dolled up, new money boganette (female Aussie redneck) get dragged out of the bar in the stroppiest manner possible, and upon reviewing our phones the day after, realising that I'd somehow managed to steal a candle from the bar. Apparently at the time I considered it the greatest thing I'd ever achieved as the video below will show.

When Gene Simmons isn't busy being a creepy old man with mummy issues he cures cancer, apparently.

When we'd achieved sobriety in the mornings, Jarrod I spent our time in Cesky wandering the streets and checking out what is a very beautiful old town. The town is essentially a hill which has been split in twain by a winding river, with beautiful old houses stacked up each bank of the river, with one side crowned with a majestical old castle which is guarded by bears. Yeh, you read that right:

They tried a moat filled with sharks but then it froze over one winter and their enemies just skated across.

Unfortunately all my photos of this beautiful city got photobombed by some dick in a grey cardigan.

Sadly the castle must have used all of its' budget on the bears, because for some reason the whole structure was painted to look like it was made out of sandstone blocks, instead of the actual concrete it seemed to be coated in. This gave it a bit of a Vegasy feel, but who knows, maybe Vegas got their style from here in the first place.

We also checked out an exhibition of microscopic sculptures. I'm not sure if you've ever seen those photos of models of camels and a palm tree in the eye of a needle, but it was one of those exhibitions. It was quite cool, though a bit hard to enjoy, as the owner was a bit odd and ended up wandering around behind us chatting the whole time, and asking us which piece was our favourite, which would have been ok, except he was asking us this after we'd just finished with the first piece. He was also very insistent that I not take any photos, but I snuck a few in, but he did seem pretty insistent, so to avoid any sort of legal problems I made sure all my photos had the wrong focal length so that the model wasn't in focus (this had nothing to do with Jarrod trashtalking me with quips like 'You have worse focus than a drunk on a carousel').

After spending a few days in Cesky Krumlov we decided that with our remaining time we'd head down to Austria, because for a couple of Aussies with a car it's quite a novelty to be able to just pop into your third country in a week, especially when it's only a few hours drive. We set our sights on Salzburg, but first decided to stop off in a little lake village in northern Austria called Halstatt. The drive into Halstatt was reminiscent of my road trip across Norway, with postcard worthy scenery provided by the towering mountains on one side coupled with the mirror-like lake on the other. This was probably the one moment Jarrod would've liked to have driven, but he was content just watching the scenery while I got to go broom broom along the winding road.

You think it looks pretty now, you should see it when you're letting the tail fly out around a corner.

Halstatt town square.

The town of Halstatt isn't very big, but it is extremely picturesque, and if we'd had more time it would've been cool to stay and do a bit of hiking or kayaking (Jarrod was very insistent we stick to schedule though). However the beauty of the town and its' surrounds was merely a bonus, as we had stopped here to check out the the town's unique solution to the problem of limited cemetery real estate. While stuck very much in the countryside, Halstatt is nevertheless perched on the side of a quite steep mountain, meaning real estate of any kind is at a premium. This limited space effected everyone, with the houses practically sitting on top of each other, even the town church and it's adjacent cemetery. Like most religious people, the Halstatt Christians insisted on being buried in their church graveyard (I think this is so Jesus can feast on your flesh so you can then go to heaven? He did rise from the dead like a zombie, so why not?). The problem came when people kept on dying (as they do) and soon the graveyard was full. Luckily they had an ingenious solution. Once Jesus had feasted on their flesh, the coffins were then dug up and the skeletons placed in an Ossuary (a small cathedral made up of bones), therefore keeping the remainder of their bodies on the sacred location. I assume that's the story anyway, the guide was all in German.

Anyway, it was only a small room, but it was kind of cool. They essentially turn the skull into the person's tombstone, and paint on it their name, lifespan, and a decoration that represents their profession. The rest of the bones just get shoved under the table (although I did a rough count and I think I know why some of the dogs around town looked so happy).

I'm not sure how Jarrod felt about it, but I thought it was really cool, just another quirky example of what a big diverse odd species us humans are. I do wonder what it would be like to have a relative entombed in an Ossuary. I wonder if it is a more personalised experience being able to see their skull when you go to pay your respects; a tactile, physical part of them within arms reach, to intimately remind you of the person you lost. Or maybe the thought of how the bare skull came to be, and the thought of Jesus tucking into your loved ones' flesh, would somewhat ruin the solemness of the occasion.

After Jarrod refused my offer to stay in Halstatt for ribs and chicken wings, we headed onwards to Salzburg. If ever there was a town designed to keep backpackers away, it was Salzburg. In fact, from what I've heard, Austria is second only to Switzerland in terms of pricing backpackers out of the market, and I'm pretty sure first in terms of limiting the places for them to party. Don't get me wrong, Salzburg was beautiful, but I just feel like Austria is a better place to visit after you've retired from trading bonds, rather than when you're young, poor, and rowdy. The place seemed a little slow and dull for our tastes. If Berlin was punk rock, Salzburg was classical music. Not necessarily a bad thing, but clearly intended for a better class of person than us. Another thing that struck us was that Austrians seemed to be a little pretentious. They seemed like the kind of people who would go out to be spotted in their newest Louis Vuitton cravat, rather than just to have a good time. As with all things, I think the Simpsons got it right:

To be fair though, this was mainly just jealousy. The Austrian people are a very good looking and clearly intelligent population. They also seem to have riches beyond belief, and it got me thinking. Hitler originally came from Austria. What if his final solution wasn't ever intended for Germany? What if Germany was just a pawn in his plan to start a mega-rich Aryan race in Austria? Knowing pretty much nothing about the events and circumstances of WWII (I haven't read the sequel to Fall of Giants yet) I can only assume this is correct.

Luckily for Jarrod and I, we were able to spite Hitler, and still enjoy a relatively debauched and gypsy worthy final few days together. There were very few bars in town, and the few we found were smokey Irish dives with no one in them and no atmosphere. However we were able to locate a hostel that had its own bar, other backpackers, and most importantly, affordable beverages. We ended up crashing this place both nights we were in town, and while the first night was predominantly spent chatting with the bartenders and having some banter with a Canadian who dared question Billy Talents' greatness, the second night escalated into a truly memorable occasion, by which I mean we don't remember it.

You have to bear in mind that the next morning we had to wake up around 8am, a feat we had not even remotely gotten close to in our few weeks together, in order to get Jarrod to Munich airport on time. We decided to go have a few celebratory beers as a final farewell, and after wandering around the town in a hopeless search of a place with atmosphere, we settled on returning to our hostel watering hole. Luckily tonight it wasn't just the bartenders who had banter, but also a couple of cool Icelandic guys, a hilarious Korean guy, and a few other guys. The fact I can't even remotely remember who the other people who joined us in celebrating indicates exactly which direction the night went in. After starting off in the hostel, we then drank and chatted until the bartenders were sick of us, and we got thrown out and pointed in the direction of the nearest pub. Luckily the local knowledge from the hostel owners turned up trumps and we stumbled into a really cool bar with a bunch of locals who were really sociable. The night included everything that indicates a fun time: fake moustaches, a randy broke Korean backpacker who started the night trying to get laid but finished just trying to find free shelter, and Jarrod falling asleep.

I promise you, if you get yourself a fake moustache and an Icelander you are guaranteed a fun night.

Sadly the most action our Korean friend got all night.

So close. Jarrod managing to narrowly open his eyes to avoid what would have been an amazing pass out photo.

I like to joke about Jarrod falling asleep, but I really shouldn't. Jarrod suffers from a terrible genetically inherited condition called 'Alcohol induced narcolepsy' (AIN). Unfortunately Jarrod's brain suffers from a rare mutation where the combination of alcohol and a comfy seat result in a chemical reaction that produces excess levels of melatonin, making it nigh impossible for Jarrod to stay awake. He inherited this condition from his father Robert (or as he is insensitively known: Siesta Bob), and it has the unfortunate effect of leading to unsightly markings appearing on his body when he wakes up. To be fair, that's usually because I've drawn on him, but that doesn't make it any less sad. Like any disease, there is always the need to spread awareness, and so I would like to share with you a rare insight into the life of an AIN sufferer as he travels through Europe, you know for awareness and shit:

Luckily Jarrod has a supportive wife by his side. Like any spouse of a person living with disability she finds pride in things that some of us just take for granted and I promise you, there is no one prouder than Helen when Jarrod passes out yet manages to perfectly balance his half finished beverage in his lap. It warms my heart to know that when she says 'Ee never spills a drop' (I think Helen's a cockney) it shows that Jarrod has someone who will always stick by him, and will see him through this tough hand that life has dealt him.

On the left, one of the bravest people I know, and on the right, one of the best.

Being supportive can be exhausting OK. We all need a holiday sometimes, quit judging!

The morning after, we somehow roused ourselves from our beds, and with about three hours sleep under our belts (OK, Jarrod had about five), we bundled all our possessions into our rental car and hit the road. I've tried many hangover cures in my time, but I don't think I'll ever find one as effective as coffee, punk music and the autobahn. I am fully aware this sounds like hell to just about every person reading this blog, but it sure worked for me. I got Jarrod to the airport, and after a farewell somewhat emotionally muted thanks to our hungover state, I was plunged back into the world of solo travel. The emotion of this did hit me as I drove off. Travelling around the world has been an absolute dream, but even having the time of your life has its' sacrifices. Jarrod and I have been as close as two friends can be for the better part of two decades, and yet, after high school we've barely seen each other in person. After high school Jarrod left Australia to travel around the US and the UK, while I was stuck playing tennis in Australia. The moment he left, his parents spitefully moved in next to mine. When Jarrod returned to Oz, we had a brief and destructive (literally, we stole a NOW OPEN flashing neon sign at one stage) time for a few months, living just metres apart, after which I buggered off to America to go to University, and he moved off to Cardiff with Helen. After that point we've pretty much never lived closer than a continent away from each other, apart from a brief period when we were a three hour drive apart. But this is the unfortunate downside when trying to live your dreams, sometimes it means you miss out on amazing events that you could have been there for had you have settled for a less ambitious life. What occurred to me at this point was that I was choosing this. As winter crept up on the European backpacking season, and as hostels emptied out, it hit me that I had an amazing group of family and friends waiting for me in Australia, and the means to be there tomorrow. But despite the homesickness, despite the fact the thermometer was dipping dangerously close to the point of 'un-Australian' and I may freeze any day, I realised I wasn't finished yet, I had to finish Europe before I could go home.

And so I sped along the autobahn, determined to find the unexplored, complete what I'd set out to do. My emotions and sense of nostalgia were only heightened by the serendipity of my petrol gauge showing empty just at the right time so that I ended up stopping at the same gas station that I had been dropped off at when hitchhiking from Oktoberfest a few weeks before. I momentarily put my emotions on hold to try and get my reliable but not very zippy rental car up to 200km/h on the autobahn, but this was only a momentary distraction. But after dropping off the car in Prague, and spending a night avoiding the hawkers and frostbite, I caught a bus to Berlin, confident I could finish what I had started.

And so it was, a few days later, that after half a year backpacking, and one crazy month with some of my favourite people in the world, I had reached a point of closure, the end of the trail, the holy grail, and my last spot left to explore in Europe before I could venture back home a satisfied and relieved man. It wasn't easy, and there were still a few moments where my own absent mindedness and apathy almost stopped me from achieving my goal, but I had done it. The last place to explore was mine:

Hitler's bunker! The dastardly structure had avoided the Allied bomb strikes and Jarrod's detection, but I'll be damned if I was going to let it go unobserved by my eyes. I'll be honest, a small tear tugged at the side of my eye thinking of how much Jarrod would have loved seeing the thick green grass, the scattered leaves, the lone board explaining what once lay below, and the complete absence of any actual evidence of the bunker or anything of actual interest to be seen. But steeling myself, I said a fond farewell to Europe and prepared for the next chapter.

Then my friend told me about an abandoned CIA listening post from the cold war, which was now covered in awesome graffiti, and I thought, fuck it. What's six more months.