global travellers uncensored

In the Shadow of Frederico

2011-10-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I woke up . The landscape around the train was full of double decker wagons, filled with new cars. I realized that we were at Linares-Baeza, home to SEAT’’s biggest production line. All those new cars where ready to get transported accross Europe and the mediteranean. We left the industrial landscape and I resumed my sleep.

I continued my uncomfortable sleep through the night, only to wake up as the Andalucian sun was begining to hit the train. I pulled back the curtains and realized that we were passing through endless olive groves. Man this was Andalucia.
My Odysey began as soon as I had left the train. I started negotiating the bus system. I took the wrong bus, stopped somewhere where I from where I could do nothing but retrace my steps up until the last turn of the bus, and got lost. Adding to my problems, was the fact that I could not really understand what tha locals where telling me (Andalucian is quite the odd dialect).
Eventually crawling through a web of missconceptions and mistakes, I eventually managed to negotiate my way to the next bus. As the minibus started to crawl the hill oposite the Alhambra, I finaly got to relax. My trip was finaly ending. I got off at the right stop, managed to follow all the instructions to the end. And there I was up for the next susrprise. I was DEFINATELY in front of the right building. But it seemed to be in a mess. Everything was out of the building and noone was answering the phone. After about half an hour of waiting, an Australian appeared at the door. He informed me that the hostel had been closed due to bugs that some guy contracted in Morroco and brought with him in the building in May.
Damn! There went my 15 euro deposit and I had to look all over again! I started my long descent into the city under the hot Andalucian sun. When I was close to the bottom of the hill, I decided it was time for a small rest. I sat down facing the Alhambra. The enormous fort was just sitting there, it’s windows gaping towards my direction. It was as if it was laughing at me. Stupid Westerner being angry and stressed over all these stupid things. I should have learned to go through this kind of problems.
That was when my father called to see how things where going. I asked him if he could find me someplace to stay via internet, because the hostel was shut. He told me to give him a few minutes but, to see if I could find something myself too, before closing the phone. I continued moving towards downtown Granada. I had not seen any hotel or hostel of any sort, when my dad called. He said he found a hostal someplace under the Cathedral, and that he could book something for me. I asked him to do it and send me the details. After a few moments an adress, a name and a phone number came up on my screen. I called as I was passing through the courtyard of the Cathedral. It took me a few calls to understand what the Andalucian at the other end of the line was telling me,
So after another wave of missunderstandings and craziness, I was dislodging my belongings at yet another room which had the bare necessities. I sat on the bed under the fan, and in a few seocnds I was sound asleep.. I woke up a few hours later. It was night and all the Alhambra would not be open until the next morning. I had some ways to kill time though. Granada is a town that depends a lot on its university (one of the best and the oldest in the Hiberian Peninsula), and that could mean a lot of things about the town’s bars and restaurants. I went downtown and drove myself crazy with the tapas and the beer. The night ended with me sitting outside one bar and watching some nice looking English girls chat. Any attempt to approach them though, seemed to be repealed by a wave of denial. Truth is that they were a bit too posh for my teeth, so the only thing I could do was just watch.
I woke up the next morning and decided to get into the Alhambra. I climbed aboard a small minibus and climbed again the hills surrounding the town. This time I did it from the opposite direction. As I was starting to ascend on my way to the magnificent palace, probably the best example of arabic presence in Europe, a canvas was unfolding to my left. For the first time Icould see the old residential neighborhoods of the town as a whole, and not from the viewpoint of a tired traveller navigating their streets. When I reached the palace, I realised what the Islamophobic knitpickers have been missing the whole time. The Alhambra was creates at a time when the christian west was either chasing witches, or being tormented by never-ending wars. At a time when the Arabs where rescuing artifacts, science and philosophy, the christians where operating like cross carrying jihadis . No wonder why the Arabic scholars of the time viewed Europeans as savages. The Alhambra was an architectural masterpiece in a time when Europe was being destroyed by religious fanaticism. Even if one counts out the tactical ingenuity of its fortification and the way it contacted its network of outposts (actually the Alhambra worked more as a coordination station between some outposts and barracks than as a defencive structure itself), one can sit and just watch the decorations and the craftsmanship of the interior of the buildings, a virtue that was then possessed by a lucky few craftsmen working of tiles drawings and building in the Arabic world.
After taking a close look into the castle, I decided to take a walk along the path passing right under the Alhambra. This path (or walkway if translated correctly), was closely linked with one of the most celebrated poets of Europe, friend to Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel, and local hero. Frederico Garcia Lorca. Under any circumstances this quiet walkway, could be a lover’s spot. But at the moment when I was walking along the path, there where only a few tourists and pensioners enjoying the quiet street. I walked and walked until I got completely lost in the forest. Then I sat down and listened to the calls of nature. It was just magnificent and I was in the middle of it. Later as I was walking bck toward town, I saw a memorial plate, similar to the ones I had spotted in Bologna. This was dedicated to Frederico Garcia Lorca. Apparently the poet liked walking along this way. One of his poems was on this plate, not his photo nor his bust.

As I was descending back to town, I felt the warm Andalucian afternoon arrive. It was warmish but not hot. I went for a change of clothes and a bath. The night was coming and suddenly I was thinking of Frederico and the other three, executed some eight kilometres away from here, by the Fascists. As the big semifinal was coming, I was feeling a great shadow being cast over the town. I felt the ghost of Lorca lurking around, waiting to see the faces of those who murdered him, taking part in all this.

As the sun was setting I was more and more in need of one last drink. So I went back to the tapas bars and sipped one beer after another, eating one tapa after another, while I was watching the Furias Rojas waltz their way into the finals of the European Championship. I left a town painted red, to get to sleep. A twentyfour-hour trip awaited me next morning, and I needed all the rest I could take. So I surrendered to the warm Andalucian night, in anticipation of my 11:00 AM Cercania to Seville.

Abyss revisited-Easter in Paros

2011-06-23T10:37:00.001-07:00

About nine months after my summer ordeal in Paros, I followed the family once again, to a search for the true heart of Paros. This time it was in the off-peak season, during the easter holidays. The boat was half full of Greeks who where going to pass their holidays on the islands.
For better, though, easter had come early this year, so it was completely off season. That meant that we would be able to confide in the best places , with the best food and the cleanest booze in town. Also, the weather was not very promising for the yaught owning part of the crowd, a meaning that we had avoided, momentarily, the glamourus crowd.
For worse, there was still a crowd of Athenian s willing to exchange the pollution for a few days in Paros. So that meant that a bit of overpricing on things was inevitable.
And the trouth lied in-between both things. The booze was reasonably clean, the crowd waas reasonable, and with a bit of searching we were able to distinguish the few good spots for spending the holidays. The hotels also had reasonable, by greek standards, prices. But overpricing in food was difficult to avoid.
The fact that it was off-season also helped us to do a better exploration of the island and get a better idea of the in-land villages. Probably those villages where the reason why I left the island with a beter perspective, vowing to give the place a third chance before having a clearer go at the situation in the island.
Nevertheless, the weather ruined things on easter Sunday, and we had to do the picnic indoors. The result of the day did not ruin our week at all though. In the end we all had a good time. Even during lonely moments, the island looked sweet, and things were going smoothly. I would return in August to see wether this idea could stand or not.

Valencia

2011-05-16T06:41:00.001-07:00

Run! That was the declaration of the guy at the ticket counter, as soon as he had given me my ticket to Valencia. As soon as I had it in my hands , I dashed through all checkpoints and within two minutes I was seated inside the Altaria. I was there just at the nick of time. Now that WAS a relief. It was an early morning departure. And a spectacular one , for what it’s worth.
As I was relaxing the train was speeding through a very familiar landscape. The southeastern coast of Spain. I had been there two years before, and the scene remained virtually unchanged. I saw the empty hotel complexes, I saw whatever remained of those that where being demolished in the past, but, more importantly, I saw the redevelopment of the areas between Barcelona and Tarragona, that where slowly turning into some sort of an industrial zone. Spain was changing, again. And, despite that, everything looked, almost the same. I guess tourist zones never really change.

As I reached the central train terminal in Valencia, things where changing. We had drifted from the coast to the mainland, and, now stadiums and high tech exposition venues where all the rage.. Valencia can come close to being an industrial town which has a tourist side. In fact I was staying at it’s “picturesque” zone, a hostel that was situated almost next to the historical centre..
After shacking up, I commenced a small raid on the local supermarket, and bought some food. And since getting a little bit of sleep was of the essence, I went into the dorm and took a nap until mid afternoon.
I woke up at around six. It was about time to take a walk around and see the suroundings of the hostel. I snooped around a bit before I found the local mosque. One of the few left in Spain, it is probably the best preserved Arabic religious monument in the area. But, to my great misfortune, it was being renovated and I could not enter. I was stuck with being able to see only the façade. So I decided to take one more spin. As I walked through the city I watched a married couple riding an old Citroen. Two of the onlookers commented that it was one of Franco’s favourite models. Valencia, was, at some point, the capital of Spain’s democratic government. I do not really know Franco’s ideas had any impact on the population, but it is more likely that Valencia fell because of strategic mistakes. This is what happens when Stalinists are in charge of any movement, be it a resistance movement or a revolutionary one. Franco tormented the townsfolk. The local dialect was outlawed, along with everything else that was deemed inappropriate by the regime.
I spent the night eating pizza with the roommates (two swedes and some australians before going out on the roof to enjoy a few ales under the Valencian sky.
The next day was spent walking in the sidestreets of the city. Meanwhile, the city, like the rest of Spain, was in “Furias Rojas” fever, since Spain was on its bid to the European Championship. And things were going their side. Red and yellow flags were flying everywhere and the city was in a festive mood.
Meanwhile the sidestreets where full of old men searching for sex-for-sale. Lines of street hookers where on display and old men where lining up for them. Gross, gross,gross…… I kept walking away from all this looking for something to catch my eye. Suddenly I saw a painting of Tintin appear in front of me. There was a very wide collection of Tintin related articles, from a poster for a forthcoming golf tournament to the famous demonstration strip from the famous rogue anarchist comic book Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free.
By then night had come and a small night out was planned. We decided to go to an English-style pub, called the Picadilly. Brit-pop music, faces that where reminiscent of the “baggy” era of Madchester and a table football set, equipped with a local Ian Brown lookalike that would not leave unless someone beat him in a game. Of course, trying that was hopeless, since the guy was the local table football champ. So humiliated as we where, we retreated to a table to finish our booze.
On the final day the Valencian heat was terrible. I stayed in until almost midnight, when it was time to leave and catch the night train to Granada

Seasons in the Abyss-Paros '06

2011-03-14T14:12:00.000-07:00

After the disaster that ruined my stay in Spain, my father decided to help me sae part of my holidays. He proposed that instead of staying alone in Athens in the midst of August, I should follow him to the island of Paros, to get a glimpse of good clean family fun once in a while. I had visited Paros after my graduation, 10 years earlier, and I had very fond memories of the whole debauchery that occurred there. Plus I remember the island as a place full of pleasure and opportunities for easy sex, with easygoing locals. And the travelling beast in me was arguing that it would be better to jump on the next ferry than stay in town
Apparently all this had changed radically in the passing years. And there I was crashing in this 65 euro-a-night room to let, which was obviously a bit too much in my eyes. The food was ranging from nice to awful, the alcohol was going quickly down the drain, the music was a bad combination of mainstream hits. Bleh! Suddenly, by the beginning of the first night, I was at a loss. I was missing something. Instead of the hippyish adventurous crowd I met in my travels to Spain, I came across something completely different. Most of the crowd was among the kind of the social climbers. Most of the youth looked like Mykonos wash-outs, trendy kids and socialites that can’t afford Santorini.All of a sudden I had sunk in a different kind of swamp. Barcelona might be a city of vice, but Paros and all these wee islands in the vicinity of Athens are a totally different animal.
Within the last few years, aros had emerged into a must for all semi-well-to-do summer escapees from Athens, catering for the needs of a crowd that needed to sow off. Hence, the island is dominated by overpriced services aimed at rich Europeans and Greeks that have some extra money to spend. At the time a week in Paros cost as much as three weeks of roaming around Spain. Do the math. The truth is that Paros turned out as a place not meant for budget holidaymakers. The contrary. In the Cyclades, at the time, the term value-for-money was unknown. Even though some terms of traditional beuty survived (like the winemakers in Naousa, the architecture), the evil truth is that the island has surrendered to capitalism altogether. Most beaches with easy access are full of umbrellas and seats for rent (as much as five euros an hour-do the math), and the golden sands of the island are full people. In some of the most crowded beaches, finding space is unpossible by all means.
The night activities wre different in a similar fashion. There was no bar whatsoever that was playing any decent music at all. Even the idea of organising a botellon , seemed like something different altogether.The idea of going out here, certainly differs from the idea present in other parts of the world. Fashionable clubs with spiked drinks are all the way. And I could not even think of searching for any drugs, this would definitely be beyond my wallet.
Within that week I had travelled clockwise around the island, and I had found one-all-evident truth. Paros was definately not the island Greek poets were talking about, no more.. But then again, I was in a bitter mood after the end of my travels in Spain, and I was probably unfair to the place… I would visit it in some niche period, a few months later.

Barcelona again (chasing ghosts of voyages past)

2011-02-28T12:56:00.001-08:00

By sundown I had reached the Estacion Franca, and was in the process of searching for the hostel. Once again I was lost. The hours past and I was becoming more and more disoriented. Yet Barcelona still mistyfied me. I was still looking for a way to join in the decadant and vibrant atmosphere of the town. Barcelona still sinks to a mindboggling beat. After seemingly hours of searching, I found some metro station and started following directions to the hostel. Upon my arrival another problem appeared. I had booked a bed, but from the next day and on. Finaly I managed to get a bed for the night, and left my belongings in there. I was just into my clean clothes and looking for something to eat, when one of the German students staying in the hostel barged in through the reception and said something about a nude guy appearing in the deli nextdoor. I went in and watched the commotion. In reality nobody was reacting. This is Barcelona, anyway. Someone can get into an establishment of any sort, butt-naked, without anyone even blinking an eye. Locals tend to be very open about a lot of things.

I wrote about Barcelona’s unique architectural style in previous posts. But in fact, I had not seen even half of the city’s monuments. I had to do the rounds once more. After all this was my reason for being in town, Barcelona was not a pit stop this time. It was something more. And while I was still chasing away memories of my previous stay there, I had my mind set on visiting whatever I had missed out previously.
So the first place to visit that was in the stay’s orders, was Park Guel. One of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces. Comissioned by wealthy count Eusebi Guell, the park is divided in two sections. The botanic section, wich is the biggest one and offers a splendid view of the city and a quiet walk for people who want to wind up, and the monument section, which is the focus point for all tourist groups. Inspired by the Garden City movement, Lewis Carol’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and the sea, full of cave-like arks and recycled elements from an older housing estates. And all these seem strange if one takes into consideration the fact that Gaudi himself was very religious. His house, is a simple structure, the only decoration of wich, is a portrait of the pope opposite to Gaudi’s bed.
The exploration of the Park, continued for the best part of my day. At some part of the walk around I saw a very familiar scene. An anarchist squat. The anarchist movement has a great tradition in the Peninsula and especially around Catalunya, since the beginning of the 20th century. I will not comment on the history of the anarchist movement, but I saw a banner that got me thinking. “Tourists Go Home” , it wrote. I think this is very contradictory. How can one wjo envisages a world with no borders and free mobility of people, tell some foreigner (even a tourist) to go? Is this for real? On the other hand this seems to reflect on the attitude of some of the locals. La Rambla is full of tourists, thieves,dirt,drugs. Only the sea of neon lights could be missing. But then again, this is Barcelona, and all this can still be overlooked. In the mean time, the night of Sant Joan is approaching, and I hear homemade fireworks everywhere.
The night is a big party that concludes with the burning of the huge statue of Sant Joan somewhere near Barceloneta. Before that, the statue is being moved through the city streets, accompanied by runners, cyclists and marching bands. The night is long and uneventful.

The next day was dedicated to sports. Sort of. I had decided to pay a visit to the hills. Montjouik the hill of Jews in ancient Catalan. The area houses the biggest park in the metropolitan area of Barcelona, a 17th century castle overseeing the port, a big part of the 1992 Olympic Complex, the Miro Museum and the Palau Nacional. Probably it is the perfect example of Barcelona’s mix and match architectural style. The architecture of the castle (wich was a prison for political prisoners including the infamous Salvador Puig Antich, during Franco’s rule), is combined with the Belle Epoque Styled Palau Nacional, and Santiago Calatrava’s Olympic ring are all situated within a 3 mile radius. The castle can be reached via monorail (the Funicular) or, if you are into walking-cycling, through the local streets (which used to be the Montjuic Street Circuit, until the mid seventies). It took me 15 minutes to reach the castle with the funicular, and some 20 minutes downhill to reach the Miro Museum wich was close to the start of the Funicular. I gave about twenty euros to what seemed to me the most lifeless and boring museum ever, wich gave me no feeling of the era when Miro operated, even though the collection was a really good assortment of his work, wich expanded from architecture to painting and modern sculpture. Miro was one of Barcelona’s profilic architects, though overshadowed by the mighty Gaudi, and certainly one of its grandest painters. Mind you though, the museum doesn’t serve him right.
The following night I followed a lone Quaker to a local pub. He was good company and turned out to be a good conversationalist for a 19 year old American. Looks like Quakers can be very liberal. By the end of the night I was kinda wasted, and falling a victim of the mugger patrol. Thank god I found out fast enough and chased the thief’s away screaming things about chopping their heads of in Spanish and various nice things I would do to their families if they did not leave my wallet. In the end I was just some thirty five euros short, and they had left my wallet and cashcards there. The end of the night had come. And the end of my last day in town. I had spent some nights in Barcelona, and emerged unharmed and able to continue my quest. Gosts chased away, and nightmares run over, I was ready to move to Valencia.

Things to do in Barcelona when you're broke

2011-01-13T04:11:00.001-08:00

hBeing tired and weary I was roaming the streets of Barcelona looking for a cheap way to eat and contact my parents. And as I was sitting in front of a computer screen at the local Subway trying to email my father for more cash, my wallet disappeared. Somebody had managed to pull it away from my eyesight within a few seconds. So I sent a second email with instructions for my father to send me money via Western Union. Bad choice, since WU is a ripoff, but I could not choose anything better than that. And I was very lucky, because I had stashed my passport and plane ticket at another pocket.
So, in a few words, there I was stranded, tired, weary and broke in Barcelona, trying to find my way around things. The situation looked grimm, and the probabilities of me having to return home early due to lack of cash, where really high, and I had no attention of turning back. In the meantime I was sitting at a sports bar, charging my phone and waiting for confirmation that everything was in its right place, and hoping to find my wallet, with my cashcard. Evil, evil town Barcelona. Petty crime and prostitution are rife. Barcelona is slowly sinking to the beat of moral decay, and enjoying the ride. But this ride is really rough when it comes to the poor of the city.
Local and federal police are gentle when they deal with tourists, but this is not the case with immigrants, prostitutes and junkies. Police violence and arrests are a common sight in La Rambla. Pickpockets are the most common criminals here, especially in parts of La Rambla where there is some traffic and congestion, but also around coffeeshops and restaurants in the area.
Meanwhile the call has come in, and I am stocked with money for the remainder of the week. So I head to a hostal (something like a cheap rooms to let thing, not to be confused with hostels), and spend my last five days in Spain, trying to find the wallet and keep up my hopes concerning my stay in Spain. I spend my days wandering around Barri Gottik, pacing around La Rambla sidestreets trying to find my wallet (which is not in any police lost and found) , and spending my evenings around the areas of the Barceloneta.
The Barceloneta has been fully refurbished into an artificial beach, and the city’s meat packing district. There you will find an interesting mix of characters, from dealers trying to sell you a fix, to street musicians, to undercover police officers, to political activists, and action-thirsty American tourists. Barcelona is a haven for all these guys, since a great deal of everything, from every sort of alternative scene happens there. Reggae, ska, punk and hip hop top the bill, with Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra headlining a gig at the Palau Musica, to local heroes Ojos de Brujo playing for free at a street party in their Barrio.
Money of course was scarce. So whatever I could do apart from walking around was very limited. Buying “stuff” was out of the question, I could not afford that. Food was coming from supermarkets and street vendors. A few beers from the kiosk or the Chinese guys had to do the drinking job, and street artists where the only entertainment. Anyway, whatever works, so be it. Come the fifth day, and I was becoming accustomed to the idea of returning to Greece. Oblivious to what was happening in the UK, I was getting ready to board the train to Madrid.

Ουτρέχτη 03:28

2010-10-09T20:51:00.000-07:00

Η ταπετσαρία στον τοίχο που είχα προσέξει από το πρωί πως πάει να ξεφλουδιστεί, ξετυλίγεται τώρα προς το μέρος μου, στην αρχή απειλητικά και μετά σαν φιλόξενο σεντόνι που με αγκαλιάζει ενώ περιστρέφομαι. Μόλις είχα γυρίσει από τη μεγάλη βόλτα και είχα νιώσει το πεζοδρόμιο να λιώνει κάτω από τα πόδια μου, τις άπειρες δυνατότητες κίνησης μέσα στο χώρο και τα αόριστα χάχανα των περαστικών που ανεβοκατεβαίνουν σαν σε ράγες τον κεντρικό δρόμο.

Από το διπλανό δωμάτιο ακούγεται ένας υγρός ρυθμός, στακάτος που με αφήνει να χαθώ μέσα του, ενώ στο ταβάνι έχουν ήδη αρχίσει να διαγράφονται τα σχήματα αυτού του ταξιδιού. Μία σειρά ρόμβων που εγκιβωτίζονται, κάποιες κουβέντες από εφηβικούς έρωτες και διάθεση απογείωσης.

Οι σταγόνες στο νεροχύτη έχουν γίνει κρότοι και με καλούν.

Αύριο θα δω ξανά την πόλη.

Exit France-Enter Spain

2010-07-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

Finally my boarding time had arrived. I was due on the old TGV for Montpellier, where I would board the Talgo to Barcelona Estacion Franca. The quick trip to Montpellier was a beautiful experience. Though the trip lasts only a little more than an hour, the terrain is varied. The train goes past agricultural farms, villages and bridges. It is one of the most beautiful scenic train routes in Europe, only compared to the routes between Athens and Thessaloniki, Miranda del Evro and Bilbao, Leon and A Coruna, Rome and Bologna, most of the Scottish Rail Highlands routes, and the ride between Narbonne and Barcelona. Montpellier itself is a beautiful small town, very traditional in its looks, but also modern. I only wish I could stay longer, but unfortunately I had to make a 15 minute dash to the ticket counters and back toward the lines, to buy the ticket and catch the connecting train to Barcelona. In the end I arrived at my seat with a sigh of relief. It was not as movie-like as my connection in Milan, but hell it was frantic.. Once I had boarded the train, it started to move. I was at the nick of time! I was rolling again towards Barcelona. Again I was looking around with awe. The scenery of the south-western coast of France can be breathtaking. As the sun was striking noon, we were passing through sandy beahes, lakes , marinas and coastal towns. The water looked crystal clear. Near the afternoon we had finally reached Narbonne, and I was reliving the my past trip. Now the train was drifting into the mainland, getting ready to start crossing the Pyrinees. Soon we where into Perpignan, in the French part of Catalunya. I was listening to Fermin Muguruza, the illegalised Basque singer yelling Maputxe , when we had finally arrived at the border crossing of Portbou. As the train was slowly progressing toward the Spanish part of the station and a border patrol was checking us, I watched a group of Morrocan, Senegalese and Mauritanian immigrants where sitting at the blazing sun, handcuffed, desperate and scared. Fortress Europe on the rise, that is. Instead of what is written on the Statue of Liberty, what European governments are saying is, “I do not care what happens to them, as long as they do not step on my soil”. And, Southern Europe being the frontier, this is what one can see on it’s borderline. Houndreds of hopefulls, in a desperate dream of finding a way out for their future. People who are almost doomed in their homelands, trying to make it for a breakthrough. And in the process, some of them being caught by authorities and thus facing an uncertain future. Meanwhile the train has been handed over to RENFE, and we are now crossing through the Catalan landscape towards Barcelona. I see familiar names and places passing by. Girona, Figueras.... Amparanoia are playing Buen Rollito through my earphones, and I am reaching Barcelona, to chase away the ghosts of my last stay there…..

A very French overview, thank you!

2010-07-05T11:29:00.001-07:00

As I was leaving France, Nicola Sharkozy was reaching yet another all-time low in opinion polls. Since then, Sharkozy has not reemerged, and he seems to be sinking further deep. While his popularity is still sinking, attacks left and right and unpopular decisions make him even more vulnerable to the public’s eyes. Then and now are virtually unchanged. The criticism remains virtually the same, with Sharkozy coming under attacks for racist politics, corruption, cohorting with African Despots and, of course, leading a provocative lifestyle while the public has to battle set-after-set of measures by means of spending and wages cuts and privatisations. Thank god that French Unions still maintain their fighting traditions. On the other hand the political figures of the Left, though maintaining a militant form of speech, they are usually turning into reformist proposals, and mild criticism of capitalism when ti come to publicly expressing their ideas or drafting a political program.
Yet, despite the fact that the popular right is at a loss, the far right doe not stand to gain. And that is because Sharkozy stole part of its audience by putting racist and nationalist ideas in the centre of his politics. Despite it all the ones that make gains are on the left. And while the left itself has significant gains to show, the most of them turn towards the centre left . And that does not have to do with the question of ideas. That has to do with proof of being the lesser evil, i.e. the Socialist Party. And this does not really go without consequences. Recent mistakes and the emergence of the NPA (New Anticapitalist Party) and Olivier Bezancenaut, made the Socialist lose some face in the polls. Yet, for the NPA to become the government, or a widely heard voice in France, there are bold decisions that have to be made. A carefull plan on alliances, a clear and steady political programme, and putting forward strong socialist ideas. This, however, remains to be made. It seems as if the politics of the major players in NPA, have to do more with communicational tricks than political substance. But activism without providing a political program does not constitute a political answer, some groups within the NPA argue. Yet the party elite seems oblivious to these voices and the party does not take steps to produce anything but appearances of its leader on strikes and demos. As if politics is only a matter of PR, and not of communicating your ideas to the public.
And with the economic crisis looming over France, noone knows what will happen next and how……

Rainshowers and Politics-This is Ghent

2010-07-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

The view after leaving the St Peters station does not do Ghent any justice. In fact the first buildings you encounter look pretty dull, especially in the middle of the night. Nothing was moving in the streets, and, thank god there was Burt with his van, who was available. So we crossed the town to the place where the social meeting was taking place, in order to find the Greek and the Cypriot delegation. when we reached the place, they where already gone, and en route to the student halls where we were lodging in. Another jump on the van, and off to the halls. There, since I did not have any key whatsoever to the room, I had to wait for some more time, for my roomie and the rest of the group to arrive. While I was waiting near the tables, a group of Americans was partying on the floor. They offered me a drink and a way to come into their company, but I had to refuse politely. I was too tired from the two-day trip, and I needed a lot of sleep. After a few more minutes of waiting, the greeks had arrived, and I was sleeping next to my designated partner.
The morning came with a shower of rain. And , along with that, we had to walk a few kilometres into the center of Ghent, to reach the place where the conference was taking place. And, due to me being awfully late in waking up, we had missed breakfast. Bad bad bad. I had to endure about 15 people staring at me. We walked through the heavy showers, got lost on the way, but finally made it to the building, with a sigh of relief. That was the end of our troubles. We arrived just as the procedures where starting, and the other delegations where coming in. Among us we had a few of the “stars “ of the conference. Lucy Redler, a member of the local Parliament of Berlin, with SAV and WASG, Peter Taughee the Secretary of the Socialist Party in England and Wales, members of the SSP,people from Socialist Resistance in Kazakhstan, Shiri from Sri Lanka, and, last but not least, Joe Higgins, then TD representing the Socialist Party in Irish Parliament.. The conference was a good paradigm of the way the CWI behaves internationally. Open, democratic procedures, where all opinions are heard, and disagreements are taken into account, sometimes even answered when there is an answer to counter them, or adopted as proposals when they are solid. Splits are uncommon, since decisions are discussed extensively in branch meetings (in the beginning), and slowly move their way into the central committee, so that every angle can be discussed and covered, disagreements and problems can be solved. And this means few people living the organisations, and the danger of splits being minimal, since members take a decisive part in decision making, not just being “forced” to listen to directives from the top. In this conference , all important matters are discussed, but, more seriously, members from different countries share experiences from fighting the good fight, and methods of intervening in movements, workspaces and schools. The same goes with propositions and working around campaigns. What you see in this conference is the core of this international. People from various backgrounds who are taking up organizational tasks, or play a certain role in movements, trade unions and coalitions of parties and organizations. And this because back in their workspaces they are recognised as good fighters with solid ideas and good-working proposals.
All this conference work left me small amounts of time to cruise around town and get its feel. But, on the other hand, I think that I got a lot of its atmosphere. Ghenk may have a surreal weather (all four seasons appearing within the day, Vivaldi would go mad if he was living there), but is not, by any means , dim. Though it is a typical Flemmish place, the population is mixed. There are Germanic people, Italians, Arabs and Congolese living there. Plus it is the city with the biggest population of Turks in continental Europe, bar Germany. In one instance a group of Turkish men approached us with the intention of selling us contraband merchandice, but they where , almost instantly, leaving with a negative response. The food around is excellent, especially if you are fond of beer and French fries. Mind you, French fries are actually a Belgian trademark product, they are not French at all. As for the beer, Belgium has a tradition for Monastery-type brands, and a speciality for blended bears. Forbidden Fruit, Hoegarden, Duvell and Lucifer are the most recognised brand names around.

Nevertheless Ghent is picturesque, and its downtown area has no resemblance to the monstrosities around St.Peters. It is full of small-time bars and shops, that live off the students living there. Ghent and Leuven are famous for their Universities. Yet Ghent is also some sort of a stronghold for Flemmish Nationalism. Ethnic tensions in Belgium are on the rise. The French-speaking South is going into an economic crisis, while the neuvau-riche Flemmish North is very prosperous. And the Northerners want autonomy by way of a loose confederation between the three states (Wallonia, Flanders and Brussels), so that they do not have to pay for the newly poor South. It is the victor’s nationalism, a bourgeois us and them, like the type of nationalism Angela Merkel is trying to awaken now in Germany. We are cool, they are bums. This was shown when, one night after exiting a bar and moving towards our home, a Flemmish nationalist stomped on one of our comrades. Thank God the cops arrived in time, and Belgian police have a very strict policy on law and ordrer. whoever breaks it, be nationalist or anarchist, rich or poor, is arrested. Same thing happened when tensions between members of the cwi and a neofascist group rose one day later. Though they where having batons as part of their uniforms, they never got to use them. The Police arrived swiftly and apprehended them for carrying illegal weapons! Could one see that happening elsewhere? Furthermore this surprised all the Israelis, Greeks, Swedes, Cypriots and Russians within the group. If this was happening back home, the Police would surely turn a blind eye on them, if not openly support them. The police arresting them seemed to be too much of a far fetched scenario. Meanwhile even the Swedes where getting pissed of at the weather. I have not seen as much rain anywhere else, to speak the truth. The days passed, and I was starting to get tired and short-fused. Though I had fun, the weather was getting to me. I needed to return to Spain. So I decided, that the day after the end of the conference, I would jump on the first plane available going south. Spain, Italy, Southern France, Portugal, I don’t mind. On the last day we partied hard, I almost drunk like a bore. After that we left for our last night of sleep. At noon we left Ghent for Brussels, where I would leave the rest of the group and go my way into Spain again.

Belgium hangover trip

2010-04-04T10:57:00.001-07:00

As I boarded the sleeper to Madrid, the drugs had begun to wear off. Reality was rapidly coming back with a force that resembled a slap across my face. After an almost surreal conversation with a crazy old geezer waiting at the concourse of the small railway station for something (perhaps his kid), I had decided that me and madness we’re through for the moment. But the return to reality was becoming more abrupt and painfull than whatever I had thought of . The effects of a hangover from a multi-drug binge can be a heavy one. It is not like feeling as if you have to digest a brick, or the pains of a going into some sort of a detox shock. No.The burden is psychological. You feel down. Out of energy. Angry. Grumpy all the time.. You need a way to get fixed. You need sleep. So I slept. I slept all the way into town. As if tomorrow there would be no chance of rest for wicked souls like mine. I woke up half jaded as the train approached the Chanmartin Station. I left my bags there, along with some of the food, and went to downtown Madrid to find a way to spend the next eight to twelve hours. This proved without any effort, and the next thing I knew, night time had arrived again, and I was ready to enter the takos of terminal four to board my Virgin Express flight to Brussels. The journey tourned boringly uneventful, in the way only trips with low-cost carriers can be. Nothing to do nowhere to go, yadda yadda. Pay per can alcohol. No sleep ‘till Brussels.Left turn to see the lights of Bordeaux. Then head-on to Belgium. Hurrray!. Finally arriving at Brussels at slightly before 11 in the night, I was happy to find that the I had narrowly made it to the last train into Ghent-St Peters station. Then it was an hout and a half of train journey in the middle of a pitch-dark night….

Fear and Loathing in A Coruna

2010-04-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

As I reached the station, I realized that Paldi was not there. As usual I supposed that it had to do with the way Spaniards see their appointments. Time is relative. So I waited for a while. After a quarter of an hour of waiting I called him. No answer. Another hour was passing and my friend was nowhere to be found. Bummer. I walked down the main avenue and entered the first hotel I could find. Thankfully it was not fully booked, so I could spend the night there. Outside it was getting cold. Freeze-your-arse-out cold.
At four in the morning a call came. It was Paldi. He was sounding obviously drunk, so I just told him to come meet me the next day. I checked out, the next morning, and found him waiting by his Citroen C2 . We had a full ride around town to do, and he wanted to show me the traits of the place. La Coruna is situated in the northwestern corner of Spain, at the coast of the Atlantic. About 50 kilometres away from the city lies the cape of Finnis Terrae, the end fo the western end of the Roman Empire. And dead ahead lie the States.
The first stop was a Cuban bar, situated right on top of the port’s entrance. The walls were covered from corner to corner by Cuban flags and pictures from Che’s and Castro’s days on the mountains of the Sierra Maestra. I grabbed a bottle of Estrella Galicia, the only lightest thing served there, since they do not sell either coke or pepsi! Now that was cool. Then we got back in the car to drive to his mother’s place. She had made us cod with gazpacho, a plate that is very common in these areas. And the we left our things in Paldi’s place, to have a swim right under the tower of Hercules. The tower, as it is said, was built by Hercules himself, out of the bones of a monster he slaughtered in the aerea, and, now serves as a lighthouse. The rocks under it serve as a perfect place for swimmers, or youngsters lazing around.
Before I knew it I was swimming away from the coast, and into the cold breeze, then back up. The swim was a relaxing experience, before the hardcore partying that would go on in the evening. The Greeks were inbound from Portugal, and we where going to meet them in the evening. They would call as soon as they reached Spanish soil. For the time being preparations needed to be made, that had to do with our supplies for the night. So we stopped by this apartment, in downtown a Coruna to buy some stuff. The stuff was a fairly good quantity of pot, and the apartment was something in the midway between a drug den and a homegrown plantation, using top-notch techniques to produce weed. Ionisers, air vents, fans,artificial lighting and other high-tech gadgets were used, in order to satisfy the needs of the local trippy scene. Of course all these comes at a price, but weed and coke are especially cheap in Spain, and a lot of people in the region work as small-time merchants in order to gain some generous pocket money.
While we were moving out of the apartment, the call came in. The greeks where reaching the bus station within the hour. So we mounted the Citroen again, this time being followed by two of Paldi’s friends in an ageing Renault 5. I had seldom seen the guys in Cyprus, and had not seen them for some time either. And, as one can imagine, they where totally oblivious to my existence in the area. So the surprise was enormous. We turned back toward Paldi’s place, and prepared for the trip’s first party. Things were turning, slowly, hardcore.
The first party was a goodbye party of sorts. The girl hosting the party was leaving for the Basque country in some sort of an exchange students scheme that was happening across Spain. The menu included a whole load of cod, drugs, and Galician Sangria (wich, among the traditional material includes vodka). Among the attendees were several of Paldi’s friends. These included Maldini, a huge rasta-man who walked with the help of a cane, courtesy of a drunken meeting with some water-polo athlete (no resemblance to the former captain of AC Milan whatsoever), the all chilled out Paulo, and this crazy guy who, after some drugs, could recite all of Marlon Brando’s monologues and lines from the Godfather. The crazynesswas starting to kick in, when we moved towards one of the areas best bars, “El Clandestino”. After some glasses of coffee liquor we were all sobered up, and ready to go to sleep.

The next morning came quite easily. We woke up, took a hit from the bong and then proceeded to start the day. We took a walk around downtown, to check out the Medieval fair. Galicia has more of a gaelic tradition, than a traditional Spanish or an Arabic one. The Gaelic influences are also prominent in Gallego, the local language, and a lot of Gallegos can pas as Irishmen or Scotsmen. Take for example Fide, Paldi’s best friend. This tall rastaman probably can’t speak English, but he can easily pass as an Irish hippie, because of his complection. In the evening Paldi uttered something about finding cheap coke for all of us. Of course we went head over heels for that and quickly found out that it took less than 30 euros to buy about 4gs of coke. The craziest thing about it was it’s purity. It had been cut up, but it was still about 70% pure, while in the rest of Europe you can buy about one g of 40-50% pure for the same price. Overall it was about 60 euros for four g’s of coke and a small egg-shaped block of uncut mary-jane. Yummy. Two hits later we we’re at the station to pick up Caro, and then straight up to the Recuncho de Maite. This is probably the town’s craziest tapas bar. The single waiter there, takes orders, polishes tables, prepares dishes, and serves all the customers altogether at a breakneck pace. The secret of his powers was revealed to us when one of us noticed him disappearing every once and a while in the bathroom. The guy was a cokehead. Hints he made at Paldi turned our assumptons into a clear conclusion. “Won’t they taste anything else of our traditional tastes and pleasures ?” He asked Paldi. Of course Paldi played along and said that we were going for a second round of tapas, with different ones at hand. But then the guy explained “Any of the “other” pleasures? Bingo! The guy was a total cokehead for sure! No explanations needed! The night ended, again, in Clandestino, though things were kind of blurry and my memory can play games about that days incidents. All I can remember from the moments after arriving at clandestine, was, me and Caro waking up early to go and get some coffee and breakfast the next morning. We were all in anticipation of the big party of the next night. Fide was leaving for Brazil, and all of his friends where throwing a surprise party for him. But first of all we needed to buy souvenirs, before the party. So we went back into the Gothic fair. Some bought perfume sticks, some biological soap, some just bought sweets in order to fight the Munchies. Kay and Kabale bought also some Deportivo T-Shirts, utilizing the 70% rebajas at the stores. The noon and afternoon passed smoothly with hits of mary-jane and alcohol, while Paldi provided us with a new shipment of coke and weed. Right now everything was turning all fear-and –loathing. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Tune in , Drop In , Cop Out. Come get high with us, kiss reality goodbye. Take the trip, fly in the sky with Lucy. All this. And then the night was slowly coming in and I was getting anctious. Would my last night in Galicia turn into an orgy or not? And how would it mellow out. The next night I had to grab an overnight train to Madrid, then loiter around town for a zillion hours, the catch a plane to Brussels, and then take the next train into Ghent…..some long hours of travelling.
As the night progressed final preperations were being made. I had raided the nearest supermarket to grab the necessary feeding items for the trip. Bread, doughnuts, jamon, chorizo, cheese. A bocadillo always comes in handy. After the food was prepared and stored, we all left for the beach. Yeah, it was a beach party, on the Atlantic Coast. A campfire was lit, and some sort of grog was being prepared in a kettle hanging above the fire. From what I heard it was some local drink of sorts, a real knockout. Meanwhile booze was flowing around, there was drummers and guitarists jamming around the fire, with people dancing ecstatically around. Meanwhile the joints were moving around one after another. And in the middle of all this, Kay was making an attempt to pull on some girl named Alicia something, failing simply because along with his natural charm, he was not equipped with any knowledge of the Spanish language (except perhaps the phrases hola, que tal, bien, yo soy Kay, encantado, rebajas), the only language Alicia knew. And of course when the only two translators available (that was me and Paldi) are wasted things tend to be hectic in this sector. Anyway things where slowly taking a turn for the insane. Paldi was turning nuts, and apparently so was Fide. I was drifting into some post-orgasmic chill. Energy sprouts where coming out of my body. The rest, weary of attracting unwanted attention, and wanting to dance to something more recognizable than a jam session, decided to move to Mardi Gras, a cool downtown bar, situated close to the beach.
All was cool in the bar. The speakers where blasting funk, soul and rock’n’roll music, and everybody was in an exceptional mood. I found myself dancing the funky chicken on top of one of the PA systems. And then some nimrod decided to dispence a canister of teargas. That was a foul move. I have had a lot of incidents involving teargas, in demonstrations, but also one when a similar nimrod dispensed a canister inside a coach in downtown Benicassim. Really evil stuff. So there was only one initial response. Everybody out!. So we left the bar, but I was thrilled to see that the vibes where high. The rally point was the at the fountain in the square next to the bar.
There happened the unthinkable. Suddenly people from our party started moving around other parties and calling them to join in to share whatever they had with us and whatever we had. Suddenly there appeared a whole galaxy of pills, wads of coke and weed. I was smoking, snorting and gulping down everything within reach, like everyone else did. Things were getting tense. Paldi and Fide where becoming paranoid. In a split second, , what started as a prank inside the fountain, had evolved into a double headlock, and then onto a fierce one-on –one duel. While the two where exchanging karate chops and dropkicks inside the fountain, everybody else had formed a chorus around it, singing the “Star Wars” theme. I was watching the spectacle, experiencing jolts of rapid chills caused by divine ecstasy caused by whatever I had consumed.
The night ended with us dancing erratically to some Spanish rock and ska music, at another bar dedicated to this music only. Apparently things between Paldi and Fide had turned back to normal, since they where talking and hugging again in the hamburger joint later. In the noon we left for some coffee and weed again. The last stop before the station was a coffeehouse downtown. As the last joints where coming around, we saw a guy snort coke in public. Since coke, e’s and weed are so widely used in Spain by almost every layer of the working class and the students, there is an endless stream of demand for those. Police tends to ignore people passing on drugs to tourists and locals, as well as users of light drugs. There are very few junkies in Spain. I spotted one of them in Madrid, and one in Barcellona a few weeks later…It turned out to be the same guy, who was an Italian! Drugs come into western Europe via Spain. If it is weed, one of the most common routes is from Morocco via Southern Spain and on to the North, while the Colombians use Galicia and Amsterdam as their two first ports-of-call in the continent for Cocaine. This leads to very cheap drugs being dealt in almost absolute freedom to a quite vast market. Frases like “the Moroccan just dumped the turd” and “the ship has come to port”, are very commonly heard on phonecalls before drug tradings..

Leaving it all behind, I was boarding a train to the suburbs, to meet the sleeper to Madrid….

Marseille by day and by Night

2009-11-02T01:28:00.000-08:00

No sooner than my nightly arrival at the hotel, somewhere in the proximity of Lycee Perrier, I started my walk around the port city of Marseille. Marseille may not be so famous to common travellers; at least it does not reach the glitter of Paris. But to people who love French culture, Marseille is something like a gospel. Probably because Marseille is more real than Paris, in the sense that it has not adopted a glamorous image, but they way the city presents itself to the tourist is closer to its reality, rather than try to hide its problems under the carpet. Other than that, Marseille is by nature multicultural, and some of France’s most prominent faces in sport and culture (like Zinedine Zidane and Rashid Taha) were born there, or made their name there. Other than that, the city has to show a great old quarter, the Mediterranean coast, the cosy old port, and one of the most famous fests of modern art in Southern Europe.

As the night was beginning to settle down, I went for a ride in the Old Port. The place is full of people taking a walk across the bars and restaurants of the area. In Marseille you can find just about everything edible. After sampling prices, I decided that the local fish soup plates were too expensive and that I would rather sample the more exotic tastes offered to me in town. This meant Tunisian, Moroccan, Vietnamese or Corsican food, maybe even some of the fine products of Provence, like its salami and cheese, and, of course, the wine. In the end these were an economic and tasty solution, especially Briq and the lamb kushkush. I decided that I really loved Tunisian cuisine. Madre de Dios que linda! The night went on with no further incident, just me walking along a taking a peek of the local nightlife. In the end I danced to some lounge dj set near the museum of modern art, drinking beer I had just purchased from the kiosk there, and listening to some French deli owner boast that “French girls are the most beautiful because they have this sweet and very little pussy”. The stereotype of French people not speaking foreign languages has become some sort of a joke. Some do not speak any other language than French, that is true, but here this one was talking to me in almost perfect English. In other areas I heard French people speak Spanish or Italian, and some of them even speak German (let alone Arabic). I will leave behind the sexism behind this comment, because I have heard sexist remarks all around the world, so why should a port city like Marseille be left behind?

The next morning was somewhat late in its arrival. I slept practically until midday, before opening the rooms TV set to get a small glimpse of French TV. And what was the first thing I saw there? It was her. She was talking on a talk show dedicated to France and the French the way foreigners living there saw them. She was sitting next to Charlotte Rampling and Carl Lagerfeld, but she was probably the shining light throughout the show, despite the fact that she was no actress or singer, or either a fashion icon. In fact she is a comic artist that turned her life and times in Iran and Austria after the fall of the Shah and during the Iran-Iraq war. Marjane Satrapi. With just a smile she was sending out waves of good vibes, even though I could not understand a thing she was saying. It was just her bright smile and nothing more. I decided to close the TV and visit a delicatessen, to buy some food. Delis in France look very much like a de-louxe edition of the general stores that one can meet in small villages or neighbourhoods. There you can buy food, but for anything else one has to visit the store next-door. I bought some salami, baguettes, cheese Provenciale and wine, and returned to the hotel to make some sandwiches for my next trip. Then I went back at the museum, to see if there was anything happening there. Actually there were some pieces of performance art going on there. In one, some Japanese artist was moving hanging inside what looked like a huge nylon bag that was practically wrapped around him, while breathing from a tube. After two hours of this performance, a Basque took over, with a show of moving table-like objects across a small pitch with a wooden floor. As the objects were spinning around the Formica-wood pitch some suspicious moves made me look around. A group of guys that seemed out of place in the area. They were wearing wide jackets, and they seemed to wear the colours of some gang. As I observed them move around the small crowd, they seemed to fit into my idea of them being gang members. I kept watching them with one eye while they were getting closer and closer. They stopped at the when they reached a girls standing near me. One of them yelled at her something that I could translate into “Bitch”, ant then he reached out and grabbed her earrings, before disappearing almost into thin air. Crime is raging in the streets of Marseille. Not any kind of crime. Petty crime. This is not really a sign of moral decay or anything that your run-of-the-mill conservative would say. This is a sign of people living in poverty and not seeing any other chance in getting out of it, than getting involved in crime of any sort. Most of these people are the children of migrants living in France. These young men and women probably have no rights under French law, and thus have no chance of getting away from their poverty or becoming full French citizens. And, even if they manage to gain citizenship, whenever they get to deal with anything that has to do with any aspects of the French State, they will be treated as second-class citizens, since this is the way the state sees anyone coming from the banlieu, the French ghettos. This fuels these kids with anger, and despair, a pair of very evil and treacherous advisors. And crime does not really come alone. There are drugs running around in the city, and to the extent of my knowledge, it is not the recreational drugs that make high sales around town, but drugs that cause a serious addiction, like heroin and crack. Drugs that go with poverty too. And people that are under the influence will usually stop at nothing in order to get their dose. Again moral decay has nothing to do with this situation. The aforementioned advisors do. But for people with virtually no way out, and have to cope with the idea of having no job, or money, or decency, drugs and crime seem to provide a solution, or a way out of their problems. Nevertheless, I returned to the hotel, listening to the soundtrack of sirens blazing and while patrol cars were muscling their way through the evening traffic to respond to some urgent call.

The next morning I decided to go to the beach, and maybe visit the “more prestigious” part of Marseille. So I took my towel and my swimming trunks, and went for a walk alongside the coastal avenue, looking for a suitable beach, meaning a public one and not one of those “exclusive club” things. To my surprise, exclusive beaches were a rare sight along the boulevard. On the other hand I saw a lot of public ones, swarming with people of all colours, nationalities, sexes and religions. The second thing that surprised me was the lack of rented umbrellas and armchairs. Back home all these are something of a prerequisite for any “decent” beach, especially when they cover the whole of it. I found the ideal spot and went down. The first thing I did notice was the amount of good-looking guys and girls that where there. The girls from Marseille seem to be the most beautiful girls in the whole of France. Sweet faces and incredible bodies, that turned them into a feast for the eyes. Some Magrebine beauties especially captivated me. The African girls looked gorgeous too.

I got lost in the waters of the Mediterranean, only to resurface after about an hour. And then, I swept into the sweet hug of Morpheus, with the help of the red-hot beams of the Mediterranean sun. I woke up hours later, checked out my wallet and cell phone. Though crime is raging in the city, and even though I was not in an exclusive beach, nobody had even dared to touch them, probably because there were a lot of people around. I left early in the afternoon for the hotel. There I packed my bags for the next day’s trip to Barcelona, slept a bit more, and then left for a night in town.

On my way to the beach, I had stopped at a building that I thought was something like a cultural centre. In it, there was an invitation-only jazz concert, but when I was passing by, the band was outside the building playing for the people that where coming in, and of course the passing onlookers. And at the entrance, one of the promoters told me that it was “part” of the European Music day. And that meant that I had the opportunity to take a peak of the city’s music scene. There was nothing happening at the museum, but all the action seemed to come from the old town. I followed a steady stream of people that was heading up towards the old town. After one point, the whole ride through the narrow streets of the old town, looked like a huge moving street party. Every small bar and deli of the area had a grill, or a big PA system, or both, out in the street, and was adding to the enjoyment of all the punters around. The local communities where taking part in the celebrations to, with benches around the area serving specialities from each community. I sampled some Arab food again, and moved toward the central stage where a group of local drummers was performing. The beat was complex but altogether very solid, and the crowd was responding well to that. If someone was looking from above, I am quite sure that he would see a crowd of people moving spontaneously and harmonically to the beat. Then a Latin band took to the stage. The party became wilder and the dancing became more spontaneous. Marseille has a very vibrant music scene. There are jazz bands playing around town, but you can listen to ethnic music from a lot of regions of the world. But the big deal here is hip-hop, dub, and electro music. Most of the PA systems outside the small venues where manned by selectors and disk jockeys (that’s what MC’s are called in dub music). And there are a lot of dub bands coming from Marseille and Provence in general. But the most amazing thing about these bands is that they have a crossover appeal. Outside any of these places I saw white, black, Arabic and Asian youths dancing to the music. This was one hell of a groovy atmosphere that is hard to find outside the Mediterranean coast.

The next morning I woke up, I was feeling a little sad, because I was leaving the town. But my destination was familiar and way too tempting. I was visiting Barcelona again, trying to chase away the ghosts of my previous trip there, and to see what I had missed on my two last prolonged stays in town. The stay in Marseille had to end at the central station. And it ended with mixed feelings. At first, a feeling of disgust and resentment towards really ugly situations that one could see there. As I was waiting for my train, I witnessed an extremely vulgar sexual attack on a girl sitting close to me. He was definitely touching her in places where she did not want him to, and she at one point, while he was trying to complete his actions with a rape in public, was about to burst in tears. Then there was a feeling of being amazed. While I was making a move to try and make him move away, she managed to get her hands in her bag. When they re-emerged, she was holding a canister of pepper spray. She aimed it directly at her attackers eyes, and sprayed him without any hesitation. I do not have the slightest idea how she found the courage to pull this off, while this guy was trying to humiliate her in public.

But the final feeling was that Marseille still is a party town, with its bright and dark spots. And maybe Marseille has to face all the problems creating those dark spots, in order to keep the good vibes. It was a match-day, and not any match-day, but the day of the final of the French rugby league. And the teams of Clermont Ferand (in blue), and Perpignan (in red). And, although rugby is a violent sport, its’ fans are not violent. In fact most of the people going to rugby matches are just fans who go there to support their teams and have some good clean fun. So any confrontation between groups of rival fans lead only to….taunts and nothing more, while some of the fans of both teams found the chance to renew old friendships, or to share the fun with their “rivals”. As both groups slowly left the station, I could only see some actions of friendship and kinship, like the scene when two groups of fans of both teams joined and shared their wine and sandwiches with each other, exchanging jokes and hugging each other. This was only a part of the contrasting images and feelings I got from the city. Marseille is definitely a long way from being the city of sin and crime, but in contrast to every stark image it gives you, there is scene, or a moment, that turns things around and puts a bright colour in the picture. However a visitor must handle the place with caution, but without any prejudice, if one wants to “survive” there.

Castellon -La Coruna

2009-11-02T01:26:00.000-08:00

As the night was approaching, the trip to Aragon was turning more and more into something inevitable. Due to my short projected stay there, and the fact that travelling to the village where my friend was staying was extremely difficult and long, my friend suggested that I drop the plan and that we might see each other later on in the trip. So I decided to go on to Barcelona, spend the night there and then move on to La Coruna. I was visiting my friend Paldi there, before his departure for Brazil. So, I rented a room in a place overlooking La Rambla, and spent the night there. In the next morning I left for the Barcelona Sants station. Unfortunately, all trains to Galicia, by some strange misfortune were fully loaded. So I opted for the sleeper to Bilbao, getting which was the closest thing to going to La Coruna that I could do, and try from then on. Sleeper trains in Spain are especially comfortable. Hence, the multi-hour wait for it was worthwhile. In the end, before I could even realise the passing of the time, the train was zipping through the early morning mist, into the Basque country. It was a rather cold morning when I saw the first Basque flags, in the outskirts of Bilbao. Then, I saw the first houses of the city, and, in the distance, the Guggenheim. We went in the station, and I finally bought my ticket for La Coruna. I had to backtrack for about half an hour, and get the train to Miranda Del Evro, and then take the train that goes through the wine country (La Rioja), into Castile and Leon, and then onto Galicia. That summed up to a total of about 24 hours constantly on the move, and if you put into consideration the pit stop at Barcelona, a 30-something hour trip. Whatever, the sights and sounds of La Coruna would make things up for all this. I stood for about half an hour in the cold concourse of the station, and then went into my train. As I zipped back to Miranda del Evro, I was taking a glimpse of what I had missed while asleep, during the first leg of this trip. The magnificence of the nature of the Basque countryside, and the amazing atmosphere of the city and its surroundings. I made a mental note to visit the area again, in the near future. I arrived at Miranda del Evro at around nine in the morning, and spent the next hour or so looking at the wooden complex of the ceiling. Then I started the long last leg of the trip, slowly cruising around the plains of the northern regions of Spain. As I cruised the vineyards of La Rioja, probably when closing to Burgos, the call came in. It was Paldi, asking about when I would arrive, and informing me that our friends Kabale, Kay and Boo where arriving from Salonica within the next two days, and Caro was coming in from France also in two days time. The mechanisms of the universe, or in this case Paldi, where conspiring in a Paolo Coelho kind of way so that we, the crazy gang from the University, would meet up for some days in a crazy town at the other edge of Europe. Unbelievable! After hanging up, I rested on my seat, watching the endless fields and the villages pass by, as I was thinking of the possibilities of the next five days turning into a gran fiesta and wondering if my friends had gone into some serious drug collection for the ensuing binge, or if we had to find our way into that through Paldi’s friends. As I was thinking about all this, the scenery changed once again, since I was well out of the plains and into Castilla y Leon, slowly moving through the old imperial capital of Spain. Now, the city still keeps its imperial grace, though it is nothing more than a town that lives partly out of tourism. A few hours later, as the sun was setting once again, I was travelling through the forests of Galicia, savouring every last bit of light during my trip. After Vigo, I was in the final hour of my trip, and was about to enter La Coruna, and cherish the opportunities of good, dirty, fun waiting for me there

Benicassim-Castellon de La Planna-D’ares (as in rock’n’roll, tourism and scams)

2009-11-02T01:24:00.000-08:00

I left Barcelona quite early in the morning, to catch my train to Benicassim, so that I could go to FIB, the famous festival which the crème de la crème of the British scene visits every year since the late nineties. And, as I was travelling there, I had the chance to see what the hell was happening to the Spanish Mediterranean Coast. My mother had visited the south of Spain at the time when Franco’s regime was coming to an end. She walked through picturesque small fishing villages, full of paved walkways with their interior being almost inaccessible by car. And she returned with stories full of them. Two years later, one of her friends went there. And she came back with the impression that my mom had had visited some parallel universe. Actually the picturesque villages had given way to big holiday resorts, and the paved streets to wide streets ready to receive thousands of cars. The tourist craze was sweeping Spain. And what I got to see was a whole set of carcasses or live buildings of tourist complexes effectively distorting the picture and destroying the coastal landscape. But, to the brighter side of all of it, some of them where in the process of being destroyed. It seems that Spain is in the process of completing a leap from mass tourism to more eco-friendly forms of holidaymaking, like agricultural tourism. But on the other hand, even though the style has changed, the mentality of some of the people that are in the tourist business has not changed. This is particular in the rooms-to-let outlets.

Benicassim during the festival was fully booked. Despite my efforts to find accommodation of some sort in the area, everything fell really short, since all outlets were full of British holidaymakers and festival- goers. And not having a tent at my disposal, I was ready to settle for anything, provided I could leave my things someplace. Finally, after searching through the net, I was able to book a room in D’Ares, a medieval village eighty kilometres away. An hours taxi ride and eighty euros later, I discovered not only that the village was in the middle of nowhere, but also that the bus service to the village was very irregular, and, not really helpful for any festival-goers. Fortunately, after some time of searching for some place to stay, the hotel’s Catalan bartender came to my rescue. Or, so I thought. He offered me to let me stay in his house, which was much closer to the site, at a reasonable price.

With all that in mind, I decided to take a peek around the village. The good thing about it is that it has not been touched by modern architecture. It is one of the best-preserved medieval villages in Southern Spain. As I was walking around, I did not fail to notice the Arab-influenced structures, the walls, the gate and of course the towers. The Arabic influence is highly visible around Spain, though the Muslims (like the Jews and the Protestants) where violently persecuted by the Roman Catholic Church after the end of the reign of the Arabs in the Iberian Peninsula. The only evidence of the existence of the Arabs in Spain to survive the purges by the Spanish Inquisition was their architecture. This architecture blends with the natural landscape of the mountains in the northern part of the autonomous community of Valencia.

In the morning, I graciously climbed aboard the Catalan’s Renault 19, to move onto his house. It was actually a small cottage, again in the middle of nowhere, and someplace where a non-local could get easily lost. But, bus services seemed punctual. And it was only about 15 minutes away from the festival site. Nevertheless, it took a lot of explaining to get directions to the area. And, furthermore, the place was dusty and…needed a lot of repairs. Upon leaving the place, the Catalan told me the price. 400 euros for 3 nights! Scam! I was really duped! But I needed the residence, and I agreed. Maybe if I had booked anything in advance, things would be better. So I headed for the festival. The first day was probably a really good introduction in the world of FIB. 5 Stages, and about 80 acts a day. I spent the afternoon and the whole of the night absorbing just about everything, with my satchel pelted with food, and my isothermal bottle full of alcohol. Dyonyssos, who were playing back to back with the local chamber music orchestra, really stole the show. Their singer was something like a young Nick Cave with the energy of Iggy Pop, while the whole stunt sounded like a head on collision between ELO and the Cramps. The Babyshambles were really a shambles, with Pete Daugherty being a real wreck. Even the cameo of FIB regular Shane McGowan in their set did not save the day. Manta Ray did a decent closing set, while Echo and the Bunnymen, and the Pixies where having fun onstage. Perhaps the treat of the day where the Strokes. They played a rocking set, in an art deco styled stage.

So, at around seven in the next morning, I jumped on the bus back to the cottage. But I jumped on the wrong one and ended up wandering the streets of Castellon, in an effort to find the bus back that would take me back to the cottage. Futile effort, since the route plan of the busses seemed incomprehensible. In the end I jumped on one of the local cabs, and after a few calls to the Catalan I managed to find my way to the cottage. There I decided that it was futile coming back and forth, so I decided to spend the next two days in the outdoors and return on the last one to grab my things. So I took out the small bag, packed a pair of trousers, a shirt, a towel, my shampoo, my sleeping bag and a few more useful things, took a wee nap and left for the festival grounds. Benicassim, and Castellon are basically areas depending on tourism. Not any kind of tourism. British tourists coming on travel vouchers from tour operators. That means working class people on full board holidays, who spend a great deal of their time drinking and looking for easy sex. Everybody around the area speaks English, a thing that is a little weird for Spain, but then again it is a change from speaking Spanish almost full-time.

As the beginning of the second day was coming close, I started moving again toward the festival grounds. This time I was better armed and I was ready to spend the next two days outdoors, in order to save myself from the trouble of searching for the cottage again. In day two Franz Ferdinand stormed the stage. They came, they saw, and in the end they conquered. Calla where perhaps the most boring and over hyped indie band ever to appear in a FIB bill, while Mojave 3 did everything they could after the storm called F F. The Kooks had a feel good vibe coming along with them during their set, but being stuck between the sets of Morrissey and FF, they could not withstand any comparison. Moz’s set was a little Spartan. A lot of his older work was out of list. But, on the other hand he had some good material to work with. In the end, Moz was a romantic interval before the rock’n’roll storm. I spent the night talking to some girls from the Basque region that had come for the festival. They were very keen on speaking in English, rather than Spanish. Same goes with a lot of their compatriots who speak English. They prefer speaking in English than in Spanish. Funny thing, same thing happens with Catalan people. But this is Spain, with its divisions. The Catalans feel that they are on the downside of the game, since they feel that even though they are the powerhouse of Spain’s economy, they don’t get the recognition for that, or some more autonomy. The Basques on the other hand are a different story. Basque nationalism rose as an answer to the persecution of the Basque people and their culture from Franco, and the crushing of their hopes for independence or a wide autonomy in the first years of democracy. This lead to a great deal of resentment towards the Spanish state and anything associated with it. The night ended with a bit of short-talk, and I left to find a quiet spot to get some sleep before daybreak.

I ended up with the option of the square outside the festival. It was crowded but, what the hell! After all everyone was asleep, or too tired to make any noise whatsoever. Hence the choice. We all woke up well after the break of dawn. I moved to the beach, just to catch some sleep there, and maybe take a bath later on because I was stinking like a bore. As I walked down the central avenue, I stumbled across the bodies of drunken tourists that had probably passed out on the night before. Ah! The joys of mass tourism and massive quantities of alcohol at a low price. A bad hangover, an empty wallet, and probably lying facedown on some non-descript street or alley. As I moved toward the beach the number of the bodies was becoming smaller and smaller. I lied down on the beach and felt the red-hot beams of the Spanish sun spread across my face. I slipped merrily in the arms of Morpheus. A few hours later I was brutally awakened by the screams of children speeding across the sand. Then I instantly dropped all my clothes, and got into my swimming trunks. It was about time I refreshed myself for a bit. I took a dive, and returned to continue sunbathing. In the afternoon, after an immensely expensive sandwich, I took a bath in the beach, and then moved back to the festival grounds for my last day of rock and roll. The night was really long. The Editors showed that they were probably overrated, while the early time of the day did not help Yann Tiersen in creating the needed atmosphere. In the afternoon Madness took the central stage, and they started the party, which went on until halfway into the Placebo show. Then they started to play their newer material and the crowd cooled down. But when Dave Gahan stepped into the stage, the crowd was on fire again. It was a glorious night for Depeche Mode, with Dave Gahan strolling across the stage with great ease, showing great charisma during the show. Deus where only a shadow of their good old self, and they made even “Suds and Soda” sound powerless. I left early in the morning for the cottage, slept 3-4 hours, and then continued on to the station at Castellon. I needed to board the Tarragona train, so that I would be in Aragon within the day, where I would stay for a couple of days before moving on to Galicia…

Landing in alien planets

2009-10-10T03:11:00.000-07:00

Seeing the huge queue at the Madrid-Atocha station did not surprise me at all. After all, I was expecting to get a ticket for the Altaria to Barcelona in the middle of traveller’s rush hour in Madrid. Midday. The only thing that I disliked was that the clerks in the ticket stalls seemed to handle all the traffic with the speed of a turtle. But then again, the queue was enormous and growing by the minute. Suddenly, the guy behind me felt the need to go visit the W.C., and asked me politely to look after his stuff. Later, and having a long time to spend before our turn to go for the tickets came, we started some small talk. The guy was actually travelling to Barcelona to meet up with a Mexican friend of his. He was a larger-than-life Arizona guy, who by the age of thirty had travelled through much of the world, and was spending his summer holidays in Spain, in anticipation of his new job somewhere in Silicon Valley, and, by some twisted surprise, a newborn kid. After a while we decided to travel together, and since I had not booked a room everywhere, why not share a room in the hostel where the girls where residing, provided that there existed one.

After buying out tickets we had some time to kill before boarding the train, a thing that meant coffee and tofu being served at the station’s deli. And then we proceeded to board the train. The procedures of boarding the Altaria are very similar to the ones of boarding an airplane. That means a metal detector, and handing out your ticket to some sort of hostess just before you get in and reach your seat. I did not have the SLIGHTEST IDEA if this happened after the Madrid-Atocha bombings, or if it had been standard procedure already before that incident. But even the latter could be logical, since the Altaria can run at up to 350 kilometres per hour. Any threat against it may, anyway, turn into something really nasty. As we sped through the vast fields of Aragon we were chatting happily. Then we passed by the mountains near Lleida, and slightly after dark we had arrived in Barcelona. Instantly, a feeling of arriving at another planet got to us. From the graffiti spread around the rails that lead to the Barcelona Sants station, someone can understand that there is, to a great extent, some craziness around the city. Some creative madness. I could add. We shacked up in the hostel quickly, and then the American disappeared into the Mexican’s room. I took advantage of the situation and went for a wee bite and a stroll around the Rambla. Then, I just returned, and sat with my book and some beer on the balcony, which was overlooking the Rambla. And while I was watching the crowd go by, I exchanged some small talk with other Mexican girl that was occupying the balcony next to ours, an anthropology student from Toluca. Sadly enough she was leaving the following morning, so we parted company with wishes for a pleasant trip.

I woke up the next morning at around eleven in the morning, for breakfast, and a chance to meet Mari Sol and her sister, (my companion’s friends), two unbelievably beautiful girls, that seemed to be a little bit spoiled, but not that bad altogether. Then me and the American (Scott) decided to part ways with the girls and have a look around town. Our first destination was the famous Sagrada Familia. The swansong of Antonio Gaudi, the city’s landmark architect, the church lies, still unfinished (projections estimate the end of the work by 2015). One thing that makes it difficult to complete it is that in the end the final prints where burnt by anarchists during the Spanish civil war. And the only one able to restore them, Gaudi, had died in a tragic accident years before that. A streetcar hit him, while he was on his way to meet some investors to fund the continuation of his work on the new church. Then, the civil war came, and after that Franco’s rule. Works came to a halt, only to recommence in the seventies, after the restoration of democracy in Spain, and Catalonia being granted some autonomy. And now authorities are trying to finish the church, based on older blueprints that came into existence.
But while unfinished, it is still a huge charm to the visitor’s eyes. There Gaudi mixed modernism with huge Gothic structures and innovative techniques, with unbelievable craftsmanship. Gaudi designed anything, from the massive statues in the entrance of the church, to the metal fence around it, a thing that he was probably used to doing while working on his other masterpieces. Probably he was the only one to work so close with everyone else involved in building, from the builders to the craftsmen that made the furniture and the iron craftsmen. The whole building, on the outside, resembles a cave, but in reality there is much more to it than that. Despite the fact that he was a devout Catholic, Gaudi also had a raging imagination, which he let run free while working on his buildings. He was also the first one to think of the concept of recycling, long before ecologic movements adopted the idea. So broken tiles, pieces of iron, and fencing, that normally would be considered as a pile of rubbish, where used as part of the outside decoration, an idea that originated from Gaudi’s first job, the renovation of Casa Battillo. This lead to building mind-blowing works of art. As we progressed in the interior, with me leading the pace, I started hearing clicks behind me. It was Scott, who before visiting the place was talking about the ingenuity of the people who built Ankhor Watt, the greatest building he had ever seen. His hand kept working the camera with almost no intervals, until we left the building. And while in the beginning I thought that he was turning Japanese, or something like that, in the end I came to realize that he was just dumbstruck by the magnificence of what he had seen.
The next stop was the infamous Casa Battillo. Gaudi’s first work of art is an orgy of human imagination. Both the interior and the exterior of the house have no corners whatsoever. In fact the interior is curvy, and, according to the thrill, it was inspired be Jules Verne’s 80,000 miles under the sea”. In fact some rooms resemble the interior of a whale. In fact this was the first bio-climatic house ever built. Air currents circulate around the house through a system of air vents carved through the doors and walls. This system makes the inside temperature at any given room bearable come summer or winter. Also there one can see the birth of one of Gaudi’s major techniques. Recycling. In order to build the façade and the exterior decoration of the building, Gaudi used rubble coming from the original building. A true visionary.
The visit ended with the two of us being exhausted and trying to get some sleep at the hostel. In the evening Scott disappeared with the girls again. I spent the next morning wandering around the Barri Gottic, getting a glimpse of the Gothic side of the city. One of the coolest aspects of downtown Barcelona is that modernist, modern, medieval and 18th century architecture mix and match. All styles mix giving the downtown area an exceptional flavour that is difficult to find in European cities. Adding to that are the millions of street performers giving their shows around the Rambla and the streets of Barceloneta, ranging from musicians doing street concerts, to amazing mimes and capoeira dancers. Barcelona is a city that has immersed itself in art.
For this reason, after a long night’s sleep and a morning dedicated to preparing for the next day’s trip down south, me and Scott decided to venture into the city’s art. And that meant going into one of the most modern buildings in the city. The Museum of Modern art.
The museum then hosted a huge variety of collections. From sculptures to animations and various forms of video art, including a surreal video which showed the statue of one of Napoleon’s soldiers taking a stroll around downtown Paris in the seventies. But the most important item was in the next rooms, where what was hosted was a collection of covers of albums that where painted by famous painters and where part of the pop/art movement or inspired by it. These included the famous banana from “the Velvet Underground and Nico”, Sonic Youth’s “Goo” and others that I can’t remember. The night ended in a tapas bar, just North of Plaza Catalunya. Among philosophy and other things, the prototype idea of some sort of fanzine or something like an e-magazine that had to do with alternative travelling and travel articles came to birth. I put it here because this conversation is what gave birth to the idea behind this blog. It is a shame, though, because during the trip I lost the slips containing both the emails of Mari Sol and Scott, and now probably they have no idea where this conversation led. Anyway at 2AM we returned at the hostel to catch some sleep. In the morning we caught a fast breakfast, and I left to catch my train. I was travelling South West, see another aspect of Spain. One that had more to do with tourism

Exit Italy-Enter France

2009-10-06T05:16:00.000-07:00

The mist of morning was evaporating from the surface of the earth, as I began to cross Northern Italy on my way to the port city of Marseille. I was crossing the all known plains and vineyards of Veneto, home to the infamous prossecco wine, with two bottles of it in my disposal, along with a small bottle of my beloved Limoncello liquor and some sun-dried tomatoes and slices of mortadella accompanying me on the way. Two hours later, having zipped by a lot of towns, cities and villages the pictures changed. I was seeing, again, an industrial area. I arrived at the central train station of Milan having a lot of time at my disposal, twenty minutes before my connection to Nice. Or so I thought. How wrong was I? The train was departing ten minutes early, and I found myself running across the station trying to make it there. In the end, I managed to climb aboard a non-decript train car, while the train was starting to move toward the exit of the station. It definitely felt a scene from some Hollywood action film, momentarily.
A few minutes later, I was securely seated in my compartment, next to a Chinese refugee. She was travelling to Paris, through Nice too. The background changed again, as our train was charging through the plains of Lombardy, racing towards the Italian side of the Alps. A few hours later the train was climbing the mountains, then, reaching Genoa. I managed to take a peek through the city, which looked like a nice coastal town where the old meets the modern, and tourism co-exists with industrial structures. To whatever extent this co-existence is harmonic, I am not really aware, though.
By the time I was through with those thoughts, we were passing through the borders at Ventimiglia.

At the next station, the French police entered the train for a passport inspection. While checking the Chinese refugee’s papers, they found that they where not issued by the Italian Police or the Ministry of the Interior, but by the Municipality of Milan. This meant, according to them, that they where not in order. So without further explanations they pulled her out of the train, so that they could ship her back to Italy with the next train. Huh! Some welcoming committee. They just did it without any hesitation. I can’t help but imagine what they could do if she was a youngster from any derelict metropolitan area. No wonder why the ghettos erupted the year before! As the next few minutes passed by I got to see parts of Monaco and the Cote’d’Azur, before I arrived at the station of Nice. For the next hour or so all I could do is wait for the next SNCF regional train to continue on to Marseille. To my surprise I entered an old TGV. This meant that although I was travelling on a local train (and thus, with my interrail pass, for free), I was zipping by the French countryside really fast. In this part of the journey I got a glimpse of the famed beaches of St Tropez. Then I saw a bit of Cannes, and then moved a bit further inland in Provence, only to emerge about an hour later in Marseille. The port city of France, which many lovers of French culture cherish, stood before me, ready to be explored

Proxima Parada, Madrid

2009-10-06T05:14:00.000-07:00

“And so it begun
the fairytale of one”
Cyanna, Shine.

The first impression I got arriving in Madrid was the one of modernity. And how can somebody avoid such an impression when the first sight he sees is the taco-shaped roof of the newly built terminal 4 of Madrid’s Barajas airport. Throughout the whole trip, this impression of Madrid did not completely vanish, whether I was stuck in the middle of a neighbourhood that is dated from the 18th century, or in the middle of the most derelict aereas, or even in places that seem to be the entrance to some sort of a twilight-zone trip back in time.
Actually the bus station in Avenida America did fit the last scenario. As the bus sunk under the hot tarmac of the street, I had the feeling of entering a time capsule. As if the era of Franco came alive, back from the forgotten realms of the early seventies. Fast food and ice cream parlours mixed with travel agencies and ailing ticket booths, plus the amounts of smog coming in from all the urban busses and the interurban coaches, made the atmosphere even worse than it was at surface level. And adding up to the whole situation, I had to cut across a strong current of commuters. Morning rush hour traffic in Madrid.

The first thing of the day to be accomplished was to find a place to stay for the next two days. And that was NOT easy. For the next two days I had to be cramped in a small apartment with a Brazilian guy, watching a crack in the ceiling looming open over the double bed we were sharing. Too bad. But this was nothing comparing to the misery of the whole neighbourhood. We were somewhere between the Callao and Nuevos Ministerios train stations, not far from downtown Madrid. The apartment complex was actually situated over a titties bar, the street outside was full of junkies, and on some corner there was, at all times, a hooker trying to pick up clients. And, at some point, on the second night there was a face-off between pimps right outside our hostel, which involved broken tyles and knives coming out. That, of course, scared the shit out of both of us. But the Brazilian decided to stay there, since he had booked the room for the next few days and his girlfriend was to join him there. Wow! I wanted to get the hell out of there, and did not really mind giving a bit more money than the 25 euros a night for some safety, let alone not having to take a cab for safety whenever I wanted to return. So I moved out, and let the Brazilian and his unbelievably good looking fourty year old girlfriend enjoy the apartment, while I was being booked at some hostel a few blocks away, in the tourist aerea of La Latina.
In the meantime, during my stay at the ailing hotel, I had discovered a few of the kicks anyone can get when living in Madrid. First of all, comes the green. Enormous areas of green and a lot of trees exist on the sides of huge boulevards. When entering Retiro, I discovered that there are almost no buildings to be seen in a distance of Miles, and the same goes for most of the Metropolitan Parks in the surrounding areas. And, thanks to an extensive and very effective system of mass transport (part of which works 24/7) that includes busses, the metro, tram and the cercanias (suburban railway), and a set of streets that are used only for pedestrians or moderate traffic (that means busses and very few cars, usually the ones belonging to the people that live or work in the area), Madrid is emitting fewer greenhouse gasses than a lot of European cities.
But the most odd thing about Madrid, and maybe Spain, are its contradictions. I came across one of them in one of the vast parks, this time near the houses of Parliament. In the middle of the park, there stood some sort of a monument, bearing the inscription “Built for the enjoyment of the citizens of Madrid and all Spaniards, Arias Navarro”. Clearly a relic of the Franco era. But right in front of the massive monument, there was an anarchist slogan written on the floorboard, declaring that since there exist homeless people and unused houses, the movement of occupations of houses should move on. And in the same park, I watched in delight as a couple of gay men snogged each other without having to mind about any remarks from any passers-by. In reality nobody minded about it! Same thing had happened the night before, when I had witnessed the same act being performed by two enormous lesbos. This definitely meant one thing. That Spain has gone from being an ultra conservative country to an ultra liberal one. The government there seems to be hell-bent to challenge everything that was deemed sacred by the conservatives and the Vatican. But also, while the government charges on to the division between church and state, and has legalized same sex marriages, among other things, in the poor areas of Madrid the theology of liberation is gaining ground among parishes, especially in neighbourhoods that have a leftist background dating back to the days of the Spanish Revolution of 1936. This mix of Marxism and some sort of radical liberal view of religion, with roots in South America is more appealing to a big part of the religious people in areas such as the Vallecas (which is home to Rayo Vallecano and a lot of immigrants from South America) where exist perhaps the first multi purpose temple in Spanish history. A roman catholic church, where everybody can pray to whatever god they like, be it Jesus Christ, Allah or even the Force, if they like.
In the two remaining days I strolled around the Madrid funland called la Latina. The whole of the area has a Latin feel. From the cafés to the bars and karaoke joints, Madrid can be fun and games to just about anyone. Personally I found myself sipping mojitos and tequila in a small Cuban joint. In the last night I also went for a wee pub-crawl, myself, just sampling around bars. I ended up sampling a good part of the Spanish rumba scene, and noticing one thing. There was only two bars/clubs with bouncers/doormen inside. And these perhaps where the two uber trendy/ expensive places to go in an area inhabited by more or less 20-25 bars. This was it! I went back at the hostel, trying to get as much sleep as I could, because in the next day I was travelling back east, to Barcelona town

Globaltravellersncensored goes Bucolic

2009-09-24T05:23:00.000-07:00

This month one of the blog's entries is hosted at voukwlos.blogspot.com, a fanzine published by the english literature club of the Univercity of Cyprus, in a special travel-associated issue

Fear in the Air

2009-09-18T08:03:00.000-07:00

It was the morning of my departure from Barcelona when the frenzied call came in. At the other end of the line was my father, who in a worried tone told me to be extra careful, because things went really bad and all hell broke loose. He then went on to telling me something about Muslim terrorists and things going rough. I really did not understand that much but kept a cautious eye around me; on the journey to the Barcelona Sants train station. Nothing suspicious appeared there, and so with a sigh of relief I dived in the seat of the Altaria and then watched the landscape of northern Catalonia and Aragon zip by. Four hours later I was relaxing in my Madrid hotel room watching TV bulletins in anticipation of more information. In the next morning I was reluctantly leaving for Athens after an amazing trip around Spain, leaving behind any plans of visiting Portugal or Morocco. Pretty soon I was fully aware of what had happened. An Al- Qaida terrorist plot of attacking civilian airplanes using liquid explosives had been stopped in Britain, and everyone was catching their breath, as new safety measures against possible threats in the air were being thought of. Meanwhile all flights in and out of the UK (where it originated) and the USA were suspended. Things seemed pretty rough. With the TV screen humming I just sunk in the bed and went to sleep, to be ready for the next day’s departure.

On my arrival the next day nothing seemed like whatever I had seen in any post 9/11 arrival at an airport in Europe. Multiple security checks, and, at the X-RAY machine people being forced to hand over their shoes so that they can be passed, mothers forced to drink part of the milk stored for their infants, and people being forced to prove that they were carrying medicine. All other liquids had to be dumped. And, at the check in line I was looking at the passengers of a lot of flights to the UK, most of them being returning holidaymakers, tired, dirty, some even hungry, waiting patiently for their return flight. Some of them had stayed up all night hoping to catch some early flight, and all of them did not have any idea whatsoever concerning the time and date of their return home. And then the real ordeal started when I was to move on to the departure lounges. I had to go through some checkpoints, that made sure I was not carrying any liquids before entering the duty free lounge (after entering it I was free to carry as many tons of liquids as I liked- capitalism cannot be bothered by some security measures), and requesting me to remove my shoes so that they too can be scanned. Stuff that I could not imagine before this day. Big brother entering Europe’s air travel.

As the airplane was climbing, thoughts charged across my head. The thought of terrorist hits in mid-air, especially Al Qaida-style, caused many more backfires across Europe than the Madrid-Atocha and London hits. It scared the hell out of Europeans and helped European governments implement more anti-democratic legislation on their citizens. Fear, one of the most effective drugs any politician can use, it can cut across all class lines and turn on any sort of conservative reflex. This means that the public might turn the other cheek to any government’s misshaps, as long as the government can “protect” it from any foes that might rise up from any occasion such as this, whether they are real or imaginary. Suddenly Europe woke up in a state of terror, and started to become accustomed to the idea of giving up some of its constitutional rights in return to some ambiguous sort of security.

Finally, au contraire to their American counterparts, European governments will not turn their attention into subdoing some “rogue” developing country, but toward an all interior enemies, whether they are disobedient activists or part of the weakest link in all European Countries, the immigrants and the refugees. This result is visible today, two years later, with Islamofobia, racism, and, even worse, their totalitarian brother, fascism, rearing their ugly heads over the continent, and, at the same time most European democracies are turning into police states of one sort or another. And this, in a time when social struggles may rise, can make things very interesting. A few months after this trip, the ghettos in France erupted. About a year later Athens burned. Both explosions started because of police violence and part of their causes where related to police malpractice. And strike actions, occupations and demonstrations are met with violent reactions by the security forces. All these practices existed even before 9/11, but after 9/11 they became more common, and after these arrests, they have become some sort of standard response. But the more the repression, the more angry the public will become. And this will spark the fuse for more and more intense struggles.

Leaving all this behind though, I was reluctantly travelling back east, trying to get back to some sort of Greek-summer experience.

An Italian synopsis

2009-09-16T07:17:00.001-07:00

She said, 'There is no reason
and the truth is plain to see.'
Procol Harum, Whiter Shade of Pale

As I zip by the countryside of northern Italy, I get once again the all-familiar feeling that occurred to me during the trip. That Italy, and especially the Italians need a saviour. Under the carpet there is a feeling that everything is in the process of changing. And the said change is not one that will make things better for everyone. In fact I think that il Cavagliere and his cohorts will continue to loot the country in the expense of everybody else that inhabits it. And in the wake of the impending economic crisis, those that will pay the price are going to be the working class, and especially the immigrants. Already the Italian government is implementing stricter and more inhuman immigration policies by every passing month, even by collaborating with dictator like Mounmar Kadafi (who once said that there are no refugees or immigrants, there is only people who travel abroad), on the issue of returning expelled immigrants back to their countries. At some point unemployment will be a problem too, and tensions will reach boiling point. And if you count in the factor of the rise of the far right across Europe, then things will become really interesting.

At these times what is needed is a strong left opposition. But at the moment the Left in Italy is still unable to pick up the pieces of the Prodi debacle. And that makes the Left unable to oppose anything on the coming cyclone of change. But there is a glimmer of hope. The Riffundazione seems to have understood, at least partly, what went wrong in the past years, and at the moment looks as if it has taken a small but significant shift to the left. If this goes on to something bigger, then the left will pose a significant force to resist, at least on the level of a struggle of the streets. Another important point to be taken is that there is also a significant swing in the minds of a lot of young workers, who seem to have taken a liking to organising independent struggles, without waiting for the unions to start anything, from picket lines to strike actions. Depending on the success of these struggles, the conscience of the people might rise or sink. This remains to be seen.

Venezia in Cervelo

2009-09-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

When arriving in Venice by rail, one cannot help but notice the huge amounts of water lying by the rails, and the vastness of the port area, including the oil refineries. But this can be forgotten really quickly when one reaches the St Lucia train station. Despite appearances there is only one source of revenue.
Tourism. Venice is a tourist destination. But not exactly in the way of an average tourist resort. In fact it has a cross-age appeal. In its streets one can see middle aged couples, pensioners, students and families walking around town. Venice has a bit of everything. Romantic rides for lovers, expensive and cozy cafes for fashion and lifestyle victims, and of course a lot of sights. But there is a sign of the city’s dependency on tourism. The prices on everything from hotel rooms to food and drink, can be high. Good thing I am staying in a student hall. The area around Piazza Santa Fosca, looks like an average neighbourhood housing university students and, of course, student bars.

“Not all who wander are lost”, explains a sticker on the ceiling of one of those bars. “Fair enough”, I think, but that does not have anything to do with Venice. If you don’t have a map, you can spend hours wandering around the streets of Venice, trying to find your way to the area you want to visit. The ambiguous street signs contribute to this too, since they just inform you that there are more than one ways to reach your destination, offering no further explanation, since the distance between them can be huge, leaving lots of uncovered crossroads in the meantime.

Exhausted from the hours of searching for the piazza, I finaly find my way there, and try to enter the famous basilica. First, I find out that there is a huge qeue in the entrance. Discouraging sight number one. Then I see that backpacks or bags are not allowed inside, and I have to go to a baggage guarding service, to leave my bag. That, of course might mean that I will be charged like hell, and this is not really good for the budget of a backpacker like myself. This is the second discouraging point. Wic h makes me decide to ditch the effort and try to explore a bit more. Maybe go to the islands surrounding the town, or make a go for the gardens I had spotted on my arrival, yes the ones next to the Santa Lucia station. I go for the second option, and pass a quiet afternoon there, before I return to the hall.

My roomies are a small picture of the kind of people travelling to Venice. An elderly American professor, a teenager from someplace like Vermont, and a family from England, all of them on vacation travelling around Northern Italy.

Venice does try to resemble the rest of the region. And though the rest of Veneto is being industrialized (especially the areas of Treviso, Marghera and Mestre, Venice does not really fit in the picture. And that because the whole of the area’s heavy industry has a really small economic impact compared to its prime export, tourism. And probably this is the reason why the Camora is trying to dig in the honey-vase called Venice. The mob has probably understood that there is a huge potential on the areas of tourism and constructions in the area, securing a profit for its more legit branches. Mind you crime is very low in Venice, but that does not prevent the financial sector of organised crime to invest there. Some of the most recent construction works have been undertaken by the mob, including the renovation of buildings. And the extent of the busyness probably extends to the handling of municipal waste too.

Another problem the city may face, is the rise of sea level. The city may not be under the threat of constant flooding yet, and it is everything apart a from being a deathtrap, but if the sea levels continue to rise and the water defences of the city are not upgraded, a Katrina-styled catastrophe can be highly inevitable within the next few decades.

There are also some other problems that locals currently face, the main one being the expensiveness of public transport. A one way ticket for the distance between Piazza San Marco and the Station of St Lucia, a very popular route that covers the distance of about 3 kilometres, costs about 3 euros. I can imagine the cost of the same route. using a taxi or a gondola. Much more expensive for sure.

My short stay in Venice is terminated at the dawn of Wednesday, when my long trip to the south of France begins.

Nevertheless, my impression of Venice is that it is a nice little town to visit and stay in, for a weekend. Not for a longer time, I gather. A picturesque town, a tourist magnet, an absurd town of the renaissance.

Americans in Rome

2009-08-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

After waving Dane Goodbye, me and Babak returned to the room. Our new roomie, a religious American sporting a backpack with a Canadian flag (one of those Americans pretending to be a Canadian). He is on his way to the filming location of “The Passion of Christ”. Seems to be of the Bush fans, but I cannot be that sure about that. The rest of his gang, when we get a glimpse of them at the bar, seems to be like a bunch of conservative and maybe naïve choirboys and choirgirls moving out in the world. At least this will go on until they set foot on the first bar, or the guys take a walk into the red light district. Until then they will be the sons and daughters of respectable god-fearing American families. We have a whole evening in front of us to get wasted and keep up the party with the girls. Yup we are officially on our way to a pub crawl and a nightly visit to some of the city’s most famous areas. These include the Piazza de Spagna, a token of French diplomacy in the 18th and 19th century, where the French government would build a square in front of the embassies of countries with whom they wanted to make peace, or some sort of amends, Piazza Barberini, built for the Barberini Family under the supervision of Bernini (the Vatican protigee), and the Fontana di Trevi. All the walk is being acompanied by our tour guide, who gave us a more –fun-and-simplified tour. The humourus way of dishing out all this information, turned our guide into a very popular figure in our group.

Though there are a lot of people from around the world in the group the vast majority of the participants, at least in this crawl IS of American origin. And this is a group that is really worth watching.

There is a huge division between Americans, and this is clearly evident in our case. This group is actually split three-ways. There are all those that want the war to end and the troops to get out of Iraq, those that probably are for the war, but are too ashamed to say it, and your usual run-of-the-mill Republicans. Actually the only representatives of the third group are a bunch of American Air Force Pilots, headed by a bomber pilot who (according to himself) gets his kicks by bombarding Baghdad. This, of course, does not go down with anybody else in the group, and this gang actually becomes instantly isolated from the rest. This takes Babak on a trip down memory lane. He remembers the times when he was participating in a demonstration in front of his Univercity, and the demo was being pelted with vegetables coming thrown by their classmates who supported the war. But now none needs a weatherman in order to understand that the wind has changed directions again. A thing that the airmen do not seem to understand.

“Let’s stay away from the babykillers” Babak actually whispers to me when they come within earshot. The girls have a similar reaction when those guys come too close to them, but their prime concern is the one of partying. By the time we have reached the Fontana di Trevi, they are well out of reach and hearing distance, so we can go about our business. Upon arrival at the fountain, I turn around and throw a coin in it, while explaining to the Americans that, there is a custom, according to wich, anyone who has a wish of the “amourous” type, throws a coin in the fountain. A custom that does not seem to be older than the times when Ingrid Bergman was splish-splashing there while shooting “La Dolce Vita”.

So we end up at some Roman tourist pub,that offers us free drinks for the next hour or two. Beers are pouring out from here and there, and there are loads of alcohol being given out and about. I feel that I am stuck in some kind of a Reptile-Zoo scenario. I’m definitely going to need some golf shoes at some point in this crawl, since it’s going to be impossible to be able to walk in the ensuing muck….No footing at all. However it seems that the booze in this part of the crawl is not enough. We have to move to the next bar, where the booze is not free, BUT we get one free drink and all the others at a very good price. By now a great part of our group have turned into some sort of wild beasts that a running full-speed toward the new outlet in search of more alcohol and probably some debauchery. Thank god we are able to maintain the pace even though it seems frenzied. We definitely NEED the BOOZE to keep us GOING until the sun rises again, and I have reasonable doubts if I will be able to withstand the trip to Bologna the following morning.
Leaving the next bar, and against my calculations we have not turned into wild animals yet, probably because there are still some good vibes among the group, a thing wich can be translated into the pilot’s gang being isolated from the rest of the group. They have been going out ofn control and probably a thing wich derives from an alcohol-driven frenzy. But their impact on the ambient atmosphere is minimal. Frenzied or not frenzied, though, we seem to be running full bore toward the final club that awaits us. Upon reaching the club, about half of us get halted at the door by the bouncer, who keeps saying that the club is full (though that does not seem to be the case, from what I get to see through the glass door.) I do not get to see what goes on inside the club aerea, but in the end the California girls emerge, and the redhead seems to be absolutely wasted, and at one point does pass out. I share turns with a Mexican guy in carrying her to their dorm at the Yellow. Then me and Babak move towards our dorm, in order to prepare for the trip to Bologna

Roma Citta Aperta

2009-08-27T05:09:00.000-07:00

When moving into Rome by train, there is only one way to go in and that is through the Termini station. From then on you can move along the public transport lines to wherever you want to.. Termini is a typical Italian central train station, full of markets and shops, and it can turn into the backpacker’s delight, since you can buy there whatever you will need for the trip, without having to spend the day searching within city limits for a place to buy whatever you may need. But Rome actually IS a lot more than buying. Rome is one of the most beautiful cities, not only in Southern Europe, but also in the whole world. Rome is actually full of ruins and architectural artefacts that are dated from every era in European history, from the times of the Roman empire to the twentieth century.
But in an effort to understand Rome, and write about it, one has to reminice of the times he had in there, his recollections of the city’s atmosphere, his thoughts while being there and the idea he gets about the others accompanying him in this trip, if there is anybody doing that. Certainly the first thing I remember about arriving in Rome this time around, is the Americans. There are zillions of Americans loitering around the Italy at any given time, and a great deal of them visits Rome, either in order to have a religious experience in the Vatican, or to explore their Italian roots, or to appreciate the art and cuisine, or even to get a glimpse of the Mediteranean lifestyle , as it was portrayed in a series of Hollywood classics. The firs Americans I came across where two quite daft girls from California, at one table in the hostel’s bar. And during my attempt to strike up a conversation with them one of my roomies turns up and rescues the day. His name is Dane and he is actually an actor travelling around Europe. The other one appears a bit later, an Iranian-American with a ponytail going by the name of Babak. Babak is very moderate about religion, despite the fact that he is of Iranian origin. In fact, as he confesses to me, his family’s relation to religion is just spiritual, and it does not have anything to do with politics or society whatsoever. Both the girls are just out of high school, so they are trying to enjoy a coming-of-age vacation in Europe, before returning to go to college. This is the traveller’s tribe. Huge and complex, consisting of people who travel the world for different reasons each other. One beer brings another and suddenly politics comes to the table. The girls are avid Obama fans and they are quite confident that Obama will win in a landslide and that he will bring a real change in America. We, that is Dane, Babak and I, are not that enthusiastic about the prospects of Obama changing anything. Especially in foreign policy, a change of faces in government does not automatically mean a change of policies. The domestic front is a totally different case. There Obama might be able to bring a real change, but that is also highly improbable, at least by European standards. That happens because however left leaning Obama might be by American standards, in reality he is a part of the liberal right by European standards. That means minimum social measures, but no real political revolution, and a great dissapointment for most of his voters in the long run. But things generally tend to be enthusiastic about Obama at this point, and all the Americans I meet have a certain amount of hope for the Obama government.
The next morning turns out to be quite busy. I am visiting the Colosseum, the roman racetrack, the Palazzo Venezzia, Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Quite a long walk, but also one that shows the traveller a great deal of the town, and some of its most picturesque aerias. First stop is the Colosseum, a large stadium built for the sole purpose of offering “bread and fun” to it’s audience, something that consisted, mainly, of slaves fighting wild animals and or aech other to the death. Big brother in its most brutal way, and a perfect way to manipulate the masses and turn them away from their day to day grievances. Probably the acts in there helped in keeping the dictatorial powers of the Ceasar intact for ages. What makes the Colosseum a amazing structure, is its capacity. Its capacity was of more than 20,000 spectetors. That means that at any given time a small town was able to watch the “show”. That was something extraordinary for a time when the population of the city was at about 200,000 people. Not far away from the Colosseum and the two gates surrounding it lie the ruins of the race track. The races that were taking place in there were a really brutal spectacle. Actually they were very dangerous horse races, in which four teams where competing around an oval circuit. Safety precautions were non-existant, and accidents where all the rage. Dying on the track was very often, making the races just another form of bloodsport, meant to exist just for the amusement of the public. Nearby are the baths of Octavian, built by the Emperor whose name they bear. On the outside they are not really interesting. But the fact that Romans of a certain social posture used them often made them an interesting place to take a peek in. Actually in these places deals were made, people were discussing politics and forming plans and alliances. This might sound like the Russian mob, but it was actually some form of get together of political friends and lobbying, in the times of the Senate. Actually Roman senators were very avid lobbyists themselves. There was a very specific example of one particular senator who was so hell- bent for the destruction of Carthagena, who actually ended his speeches on every subject discussed by the senate with the frase: and thus, my friends Carthagena must be destroyed.
Right below this aeria, lies the capitolium, where the senate used to convene during the times of the roman democracy. There decisions where made, and alla of the political play came to the forfront. But a further more interresting building, is the Palazzo Venezia, wich lies on the top of Piazza Venezia.This massive white building, that was made of marble, was one of the most Notorious struvtures in Italian history. Benito Mussolini had given some of his most noted speeches there. And it was in front of the palazzo where Rome’s first ever far right mayor since WWII was sworn in. Italy has taken a swing to the far right with Il Cavaliere in office, especially since the opposition is quite powerless in parliament, and he can pass whatever bills he likes. All this makes Berlusconi’s dream of becoming a new version of Mousolini, and reviving his “glorious” times. This means more vulgar displays of power from neo-fascist gangs, and of course Italy slowly turning into a police state. And of course, everybody is expecting all this “politics of tension” situation makes everybody expect a violent eruption coming from the left or the right any time. This is more than obvious on the said day, since Dubya is paying Rome a visit, and the police is really on its feet. So I am not surprised when I see a column of vans in Carabinieri liveries parked in front of the palazzo, with carabinieri waiting inside.
“No we do not expect anything to happen”, their leader tells me when I ask him if there is a demo scheduled over there. Then their cb crackles something, he jumps in one of the vans, and suddenly they all scramble towards the Piazza del Popolo, trying to muscle their way into the narrow Via del Corso, and leaving me almost thunderstruck. Damn they are fidgeting. But somewhere near the Italian high court, between Via del Corso and the Piazza Navona, there stands a figure that is not fidgeting. In fact, every day, he stands in front of the building patiently, in an effort to find justice. He is a Romanian prize fighter who did some fights in Italy but got nothing out of them, because the Italian boxing federation stripped him off his license. He says it happened because foreign fighters are not allowed to compete in matches in the Italian championships if they don’t meet some strict standards, while this does not apply for Italians. At least that is what I understood after talking to him. Racism? Definately.
The Piazza Navona is one of the most beautiful places in Rome. Full of fountains that were created in the renaissance by the famous Vatican protigee sculptor Bernini, it is a very famous hangout for romans and tourists alike. Unfortunately this time around it is being remodelled and some of the fountains are covered. This means I can’t see a big part of the piazza. But nevertheless, my aim for the day is the Pantheon. It is one of the most amazing churches in Rome, the only one that sports an opal on its roof, or a boca del diavolo as it was called then. In fact up until some ages ago it was used as an observatory. Words can not describe the beauty of the building, it is the kind of building that makes you feel small. Moreover, another thing that strikes you while in there, is probably the micture of architectural styles in it’s interior. Combining delicate greek and roman styled columns with massive and rigid structures of the kind that the modernists planned during the early decades of the twentieth century, this building looks more like the work of a visionary architect than a temple.
When the night comes the whole motley crew gets together once more at the bar. Drinks come out and we have a jolly good time talking with the girls, when a group of typical American college jocks actually joins us. My oh my. They actually aren’t that good conversationalists, but, they get the girls to follow them with one sole argument. “We have vodka”. That is the main thing about them that strikes me. The other is that two out of them (a Mexican American and a Moldavian Jew) that are immigrant’s kids have been almost totally Americanized. Especially for the Mexican guy this comes out as some form of reverse racism. The guy looks as if he is ashamed of his origins. The Moldovan guy on the other hand is more relaxed about his nationality. He left the place during the war, as a kid, and probably that makes him a little more relaxed about his nationality, though there is a lot of bitterness when he talks about the political situation in Moldova nowadays. But, contrasting Babak he does not seem to be really interested in changing things.
Anyway, angry at the way the vodka argument worked for the girls, and obviously drunk from the beer and tequila, we decided to retreat to our room, and see what the hell our new roomie was. But this happened in a totally twisted and perverted way. While going into the room we were hurling at each other threatening movie quotes like “I’m gonna go medieval on you boy”. Despite the fact that our new roomie seemed to be of female form, and covered from head to toe in her sheets, we continued to the same tune inside the room. My last memory of the night consists of Babak turning towards his lower bunk (where the girl was sleeping) and screaming toward her in a Tony Montana mode something that sounded like “SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!”!. When we woke up in the next morning she had packed her things and left us. Damn, we terrorized her… Mind you the night before the whole Tony Montana incident Babak had earned his nickname, Mr Chop-Chop, after mumbling something about chopping to peaces the maitre of a pizza restaurant near the Yellow, who was actually being intolerably late, even by Greek standards, in serving us our food. We spend the morning contemplating on our next plans. Dane is going to be travelling to Atlanta within the month in order to work on some project with a director friend of his, while Babak is on his way to New York in two days time. Dane is flying to Athens this evening and me and Babak are thinking of going to a pub crawl, with the daft California girls. So, with just a few hours at our disposal, we decide, to go drink some coffee and fool around at the Piazza del Popolo, and maybe later go get some food and tourist artefacts at the Campo dei Fiori (also called Campo Americano).

We spend zillions of hours hanging around the café and lazing around. In fact we spend most of the morning commenting on people walking past us in the street (it’s Thursday morning). Most of our comments, are, centered around Italian women. The common idea about them, is that they might not be exactly pretty, bu they really do know how to take care of their looks. They are all neatly dressed, and they seem to have a talent when it comes to makeup. They actually don’t apply to much of it, but none of them moves without it. Generally there is some moderate use of it, nothing really much.
Th Campo dei Fiori is another story. It is a posh area, mind you, full of American tourists and fancy cars. Everything exept sandwiches and ice-cream served by delis and carts is really expensive, and everybody moving in the surrounding area seems to be able to spend small fortunes at an y given time. Actually the aerea is swarming with American tourists trying to follow the steps of Robert Langdon, or trying to get their own little wiff of a 00’s Roman Holiday, being totally oblivious to things going underneath the surface.

In reality the city is full of Forza Nuova and Casa Pound stickers, while newly elected mayor Gianni Alemano was being greeted with fascist salutes by his fine during his inaugurational speech, and Berlusconi and his Liga Nord cohorts keep on their racist speeches in the Parliament and the Senata, and even worse, have started passing racist and anti-imigration laws without the smallest hint of a reaction from the parliamentary side of the opposition, and with the only left force capable of reacting, the PRI in souch a political shambles that it cannot even find its way to either its political resurrection, or at least some leftist programme that can counter the Romano Prodi debacle.

These things can be felt when in Rome, and can lead to discussions. Of course there is a lot of discussion between the three of us, wich leads to the conclusion that things need a radical change in Italy, with no clear idea on what change might be.

Putting aside politics and all, we return to the Yellow in time for a small drink and Dane to catch his flight to Greece.

Bologna, η κόκκινη πόλη.

2009-08-19T06:51:00.000-07:00

“Μπολόνια; Τι εκεί εφηύραν το Bouloni;”
“Ναι μάλιστα στον κεντρικό σταθμό της πόλης σε περιμένουν κορίτσια που σου περνούν στο σβέρκο lei φτιαγμένα από το εν λόγω αλαντικό”. Η σουρεαλιστική συζήτηση με τις ολίγον τι χαζές αμερικάνες στο Yellow μόλις τους ανακοίνωσα ότι αναχωρούσα με το πρώτο τραίνο για Μπολόνια. Όμως παρά τις προσδοκίες τους, αυτό που με υποδέχτηκε στον σταθμό, μετά από 6 ώρες ταξιδιού με το τραίνο, ήταν μια επιτύμβια στήλη για τα θύματα της βομβιστικής επίθεσης που είχε γίνει στον σταθμό το 1980. Ναι, η καστροπολιτεία της Emiglia Romana έχει δώσει ένα μεγάλο αγώνα ενάντια στον φασισμό, και τον έχει πληρώσει με αίμα.Στην Piazza Maggiore, απέναντι από τη Βασιλική του San Petronio, άλλη μια επιτύμβια πλάκα. Για τους νεκρούς της αντίστασης ενάντια στον φασισμό αυτή τη φορά, τους νεκρούς της δεκαετίας του 30 και του 40. Μια πόλη οποία είναι συνιφασμένη με τις λέξεις ελευθερία, αντίσταση και αριστερά. Οι gay κυκλοφορούν ελεύθερα και ανοιχτά μέσα στην πόλη, πράγμα σπάνιο για την Ιταλία. Υπάρχει μια αρκετά μέγάλη ομάδα ατόμων που οργανώνουν ποδηλατοπορίες, κυρίως αναρχικοί. Επίσης σταθερά έχει κομμουνιστή δήμαρχο, και οι δυνάμεις της αριστεράς εκεί είναι μεγάλες. Και εκεί βρίσκεται ένα από τα αρχαιότερα πανεπιστήμια της Ευρώπης. Μην πούμε ότι εκεί μένουν κάποιες από τις πιο σημαντικές προσωπικότητες του Ιταλικού πολιτισμού , όπως επί παραδείγματι ο Lucio Dala. Εξ αιτίας όλων των προαναφερθέντων, οι Ιταλοί αποκαλούν την Bologna Καλιφόρνια της Ιταλίας.

Ένα άλλο πράγμα που προσέχει κανείς όσο περπατάει στη Bologna είναι ο μεγάλος αριθμός από καμάρες και πύλες που υπάρχουν στα πέριξ του κέντρου. Και αυτό όμως έχει την εξήγηση του. Πριν τον ερχομό της βιομηχανικής επανάστασης η Bologna ήταν μια καστροπολιτεία, αλλά με την έλευση της βιομηχανικής εποχής και την επέκταση της πόλης, τα τείχη κατεδαφίστηκαν και παρέμειναν οι αψίδες και οι καμάρες να θυμίζουν το παρελθόν της μεγάλης πόλης του Ιταλικού βορά. Στις τρεις ημέρες που διήρκεσε η στάση μου στην πόλη, κατάφερα βέβαια να αποκτίσω μια πιο εκτενή άποψη όσον αφορά την ζωή στην Πόλη, κυρίως χάρη στην ξεναγό μου, την Christel. Στην Μπολόνια υπάρχουν άπειρα και ιδίως μέσα στην παλιά πόλη υπάρχουν πολλά μικρά εστιατόρια και μπαρ στα οποία συχνάζουν φοιτητές, είτε για ένα γρήγορο γεύμα, είτε για να κατεβάσουν κάνα κρασάκι σε λογική τιμή. Στην παλιά πόλη επίσης κυκλοφορούν μυριάδες φοιτητές που ακολουθούν το πρόγραμμα Erasmus, γι’αυτό και δεν είναι σπάνιο φαινόμενο το να ακούσει κανείς Ισπανικά, Γαλλικά ή και Ολλανδικά, ιδίως εάν περιφέρεται κάτω από τα μεσαιωνικά κτίρια κτίρια του πανεπιστημίου. Επίσης υπάρχουν και τα σινεμά, σε ένα εκ των οποίων είδα σε πρώτη προβολή το “Gommora” του Matteo Garone, ενώ συχνά πυκνά γίνονται αφιερώματα σε διάφορα είδη κινηματογράφου.

Επίσης οι πορείες, φοιτητικές και μη είναι συχνό φαινόμενο στην πόλη, όπως και σ’ολη την Ιταλία. Αυτό δεν πρέπει να αποτελεί έκπληξη για τους γνωρίζοντες τα της Ιταλίας, μιας και το τόσο το φοιτητικό κίνημα όσο και ο συνδικαλισμός έχουν γερές παραδόσεις στην Ιταλία, που χρονολογούνται από την δεκαετία του ’60 και από την μετά-Γκαριμπάλντι εποχή. Και η Bologna βρισκόταν στο επίκεντρο και των δύο εποχών.
Είναι παράξενο το πως θα επιζήσουν οι Bolognesi της περιρέουσας ατμόσφαιρας που επικρατεί αυτό τον καιρό στην Ιταλία. Πέρυσι το καλοκαίρι που είχα επισκευτεί την πόλη ο Cavaliere είχε μόλις αρχίσει να μετατρέπει την Ιταλία σε ένα ιδιότυπο αστυνομικό κράτος, με νόμους που έδιναν αστυνομικά καθήκοντα και στον στρατό, και την εισαγωγή των πρώτων ρατσιστικών νόμων κατά της μετανάστευσης. Δεν είναι καθόλου σίγουρο το πως θα αντιδράσουν οι Bolognesi σε όλη αυτή την κατάσταση. Ιδίως όταν υποτίθεται ότι όλα αυτά είναι μέτρα κατά της εγκληματικ΄ότητας. Την στιγμή που στην Ιταλία η μάστιγα είναι τα οικονομικά εγκλήματα, τα οποία διαπράττει και ο Berlusconi. Και μάλιστα την στιγμή που δένει τα χέρια της Αρχής Καταπολέμισης Οικονομικού Εγκλήματος δυσκολεύοντας την εύρεση στοιχείων για τέτοιους εγκληματιές.
Εκτός όμως από τις πλούσιες πολιτικές παραδόσεις , η Bologna έχει διατηρήσει μια γραφική αίγλη, που οφείλεται κυρίως στο γεγονός ότι είναι φοιτητούπολη. Οι ντόπιοι κυκλοφορούν κατά δεκάδες στα στενά του κέντρου, όπου κάνουν τα ψώνια της εβδομάδας, συνήθως προτιμούν τα ποδήλατα και τα (αποτελεσματικά θα έλεγα) αστικά λεωφορεία για τις εντος των πυλών μετακινήσεις τους. Και βεβαίως κάθε πρωί καταναλώνουν τόνους espresso και τα μεσημέρια ή τα απογεύματα περνούν για ένα γρήγορο καφέ από τα τοπικά μπαρ. Η σχέση του Ιταλού με τον καφέ μοιάζει πάρα πολύ με αυτή που έχουν οι Κύπριοι. Ένα είδος καφέ κυκλοφορεί σε 150 διαφορετικές παραλλαγες. Με γάλα, χωρίς, Μισός μισός, μέτριοσ δυνατόν με λίγο γάλα και πάει λέγοντας.
Δεν έχεις ζήσει από Bologna εάν δεν έχεις φάει Spaghetti al Ragu,δεν έχεις πιεί μια Nastro Azzuro από τοπικό μπαρ, δεν έχεις χαθεί στα στενά γύρω από το πανεπιστήμιο, δεν έχεις κάτσει στα σκαλάκια της Piazza Magiore, αντίκρυ στον San Petronio (τη μεγαλύτερη βασιλική στον κόσμο, παρεπιμπτώντως) να ακούσεις τους περιπλανόμενους μουσικούς, δεν έχεις μάθει τίποτα για την κινηματική ιστορία της πόλης.
Είναι μια πόλη την οποία μπορείς να χαζεύεις για ώρες , και να μην την χορταίνεις, η Bologna. Μια όμορφη πόλη με όμορφους ανθρώπους, κόκκινους από άποψη και όχι κάποιο γενετικο ελλάτωμα.

Interrail,ένας μίνι οδηγός

2009-07-18T01:47:00.000-07:00

Ας πούμε ότι μέσα σε μία μέρα πρέπει να πας Πειραιά, Νίκαια, Μοσχάτο, Κηφησιά, Γκάζι και Πέραμα. Επειδή όμως δεν θέλεις να πάρεις του κόσμου τα εισητήρια και να πληρώσεις παραπάνω λεφτά, πας στον ΟΑΣΑ και βγάζεις μια κάρτα πολλαπλών διαδρομών. Φανταστείτε τώρα ένα ανάλογο σενάριο να συμβαίνει στην Ευρώπη, σε διάστημα ένός μήνα. Πας μέχρι τα γραφεία του ΟΣΕ (Σταθμός Λαρίσης, ή στην Ομήρου στο κέντρο), και αγοράζεις ένα εισητήριο interrail.
Ένα global pass για το interrail διάρκειας 30 ημερών κοστίζει 399 εάν είσαι κάτων των 26 ετών και 599 ευρώ εάν είσαι άνω των 26 ετών. Από κει και πέρα υπάρχουν φθηνότερα εισητήρια για πακέτα μικρότερης διάρκειας που είναι για όλα τα γούστα.
Με αυτό το εισητήριο μπορείς να κάνεις σχεδόν τα πάντα. Να πας στο φεστιβάλ του Glastonbury, να κάνεις μπανάκια στις Πορτογάλλικες ακτές του Ατλαντικού, να δεις τον κολητό ή την κολητή που κάνει Erasmus στη Γρανάδα, να πιείς αμπσέντι στην Πράγα, να δεις τον Ήλιο του Μεσονυκτίου στην Λαπωνία, και να γευτείς τις “παράνομες” χαρές του Άμστερνταμ.
Μόνο μια πληροφορία. Τα δωρεάν εισητήρια δεν ισχύουν για τη χώρα διαμονής, αλλά μπορεί καν είς να πάρει μειωμένα εισητήρια μέχρι τα σύνορα. Και δεύτερον όταν πρέπει να πάρει κανείς πλοίο για να πάει από τη μία πόλη στην άλλη, μπορεί με ορισμένες εταιρίες να πάρει πάλι μειωμένο εισητήριο.. Κατα τα άλλα μπορείς να πας όπου θέλεις στην Ευρώπη, και να μείνεις όσο θέλεις για ένα διάστημα μέχρι 30 ημερών. Διαμονή σε hostel, η οποία μπορεί να σας κοστίσει από 10-12 ευρώ το άτομο το βράδυ, μέχρι και 30-35, ανάλογα με το πότε θα γίνει η κράτηση. Στα επιπλέον ν θετικά είναι ότι θα γνωρίσεις και άλλους ταξιδιώτες που κάνουν ένα αντίστοιχο ταξίδι, και θα δημιουργήσεις φιλίες μαζί τους. Και αυτό ακόμη και εάν ταξιδεύεις μόνος.
Τι να πάρεις στο ταξίδι. Διαβατήριο. Κάρτα αναλήψεων. Τσαντάκι που να φοριέται κατάσαρκα, για να βάλεις διαβατήριο εισητήριο και κάρτες, για να αποφύγεις δυσάρεστες καταστάσεις που μπορεί να προκύψουν από κάποια κλοπή. Ένα σακίδιο τύπου tetra-pack, μιας και είναι βολικά γιαα τέτοιου τύπου ταξίδια. Ρούχα, κάλτσες, ένα τσαντάκι με φάρμακα και ήδη πρώτης ανάγκης. Φρυγανιές. Παγούρι. Απορυπαντικά για να μην χρειάζεται να πάρετε πολλές αλλαξιές ρούχα. Ένα sleeping bag, σε περίπτωση που χρειαστεί να κάνετε ολονύχτιο ταξίδι. Ipod. Και πολλή καλή διάθεση.
Εάν θέλεις να ζήσεις μια περιπέτεια, ένα interrail είναι ο καλύτερος τρόπος!

Κάθε πεθαμένου παρέλαση- MADRID-BARCELONA-GRANADA

2009-06-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

Ε τι φταίω, είναι από τους αγαπημένους. Pessoa και Whitman. Όχι για κάθε στίχο μα για κάθε ετερώνυμο και κάθε πολυπληθή δήλωση. Καλά, δεν είναι και τυχαία η ένδειξη ενδιαφέροντος. Ο Pessoa χτύπησε περίπου 360 ετερώνυμα σ’όλη του τη ζωή κι αυτό είναι πράμα που μπορεί να εκτιμηθεί δεόντως από ένα παιδί που μεγάλωσε στη στενάχωρη Λευκωσία. Το χιούμορ και μόνο, του να δηλώνει κανείς ότι είναι πολυπληθής και σε καμιά γαμημένη περίπτωση σχιζοφρενής, ε στα δεκάξι μου μου φαινόταν απλώς, ό,τι καλύτερο για την υπόθεσή μου. Αποφάσισα λοιπόν, στις μακρινές μου αναχωρήσεις αν βρεθώ ποτέ κάπου κοντά σε κανα τάφο τους, να δω ό,τι απέμεινε και να χασκογελάσω που εξακολουθούν να’ ναι ακόμα, παρά τις ενστάσεις του χρόνου ζωντανοί κι έτσι, για το κουλό της όλης υπόθεσης να χαράξω εκεί κοντά κάποιες απ’τις στιχάρες τους που πάντα με συντροφεύαν-είμαι άλλωστε από τις γκόμενες που σταθερός τους σύντροφος υπήρξε πάντα η σχιζοφρένεια ενός βιβλίου κι όχι το πέος ενός σχιζοφρενούς. Βέβαια, Philadelfia μεριές, που’ ναι κι ο τάφος του Γουίτ, απ’ όπου και το κορυφαίο: I laugh at what you call dissolution; And I know the amplitude of time" στο προσεχές μέλλον δεν θα το βλεπε η τύχη μου, η Ισπανία όμως, ήτανε κομπλε κι επομένως, ήταν αυτονόητο ότι με προσωρινή βάση Λακορούνια θα πέρναμε λεωφορειάκι για Πόρτο και θα χτυπούσαμε εφεξής μια Λισσαβόνα για την θέαση του τάφου του Πορτογάλλου που μου’ χε χαρίσει μπόλικες συντροφίες στη κωλομοναξιά της κωλοεφηβείας.
Η πορεία λοιπόν, ξεκίνησε όπως ξεκινάνε τα τρένα: ρυθμισμένα και κανονικά με μπίρες και ρυθμούς του Watson στο Wooden arms-χεράκι και κέρατο στον Waits ένα περίπου. Αεροδρόμια και διανυκτερεύσεις και κάθε πεθαμένου παρέλαση από Λόρκα μέχρι Λουίς Βελέθ και Vallejo δίπλα σε κινέζους με μάσκες τρομοκρατημένες από την γρίπη των μέσων μαζικής. Πρώτη στάση με τους καμπούρηδες, ο Villalta στην Μαδρίτη, πίνακες πω ρε φίλε στο Reina Sofia, ασύστολα ειρωνικοί, καλά με δόσεις αυτοαναφοράς μπόλικες για την περίοδο εκείνη της ζωγραφικής στην Ισπανία, γύρω στο 1970 - μεταμοντέρνο τον λένε κάποιοι τον Villalta, χέσε λέω εγώ, ίσως το καλύτερο που άξιζε από την διαμονή στη Μαδρίτη πέρα απ’τα πάρκα με υπόκρουση ριμέικς της ροκ σε μπαχιανά ρέκβιεμ και κάτι καταλήψεις αραιά και πού, τα μουσεία. Κλασικά τα λόγια του Μολερο στα ΄87 για την επανάσταση ενάντια στην δικτατορία: nuestra forma de lucha consistia en ignorar que existia una dictadura-para nosotros estaba muerta y como tal nos comportabamos - ο τρόπος των καλλιτεχνών.
Μετά τα μουσεία - καλά και πριν τα μουσεία - προγευματάκι το χουνε οι Ισπανοί το τίντο- έρχεται το ντιν νταγκ ντογκ, κρασάκι με λεμοναδίτσα και κουβέντα με τους ντόπιους παρα πρακτικάρ λα λέγκουα- άθλια νύχτα η Δευτέρα στη Μαδρίτη, ανοιχτές μόνο ντίσκο με τραγούδια να ξερνάς απάνω στο ποδοσφαιράκι κάτω από την αστραφτερή μπάλα που γυρνάει και την γκόμενα με το λαμέ στην αφίσα –ή στο μπαρ απέναντι ξέρω γω- να ξεφτιλίζει την αισθητική μυρωδιά του πρωινού μουσείου ή να αποθεώνει το λογοτεχνικό φέρετρο του Μπουκόφσκι-αναλόγως διαθέσεως. Η ατμόσφαιρα τραβάει για ουίσκι μιας και ματώνουν τα σαντάλια απ’το περπάτημα με τις ώρες, αν δεν την περπατήσεις την πολη δεν έχει γούστο, λέει κι ο καμπούρης, να πάρεις και καμιά αφίσα απ’τους θαλάμους τηλεφώνου ή τις πόρτες της πλατείας-έρχεται κι ο Cohen Granada τον Σεπτέμβρη- να κάνεις και καμιά παράδα στα παγκάκια λέω γω, να σου φανεί κι η Μαδρίτη τακτοποιημένη, με την οικονομική της κρίση αλλά στη μούφα.
Αεροδρόμια ξανά, Barcelona το επόμενο βαγόνι, ταξιδιωτικός οδηγός στον κάλαθο, παλιά πόλη αποθέωση, θάλασσα - αγορά του Αλχαλίλι σκυλιά γατιά πλανώδιοι και αυτόνομη Καταλονία. Αφίσες στους δρόμους για διαδηλώσεις υπέρ του αιτήματος και σεβασμό στους νεκρούς της ιδεολογικής και πολιτικής μάχης- η οικονομία της περιοχής είναι γερή, το λένε απλά -ταϊζουμε την υπόλοιπη Ισπανία. Γι’ άλλους το αίτημα έχει χαρακτήρα ουτοπικό στις σημερινές μέρες των ‘μειονοτήτων’ που θέλουν να αποσπαστούν από τον ‘εθνικό’ κορμό, για τους ενοποιητικούς και τους ειρηνιστές είναι περίπου στενάχωρο. Ο σερβιτόρος μιλά καταλανικά στον Ισπανό, στον τουρίστα ό,τι να’ναι-είναι κουλτούρα τόπακα που πάει όπου την βγάλει. Μουσεία μικρότερα της Μαδρίτης, λέει ο αμερικάνος, έχει γεμίσει ο τόπος αμερικλανιές φωνάζουν οι καμπούρηδες, Juan Miro, γελάει ο ένας -διαβάζω βιογραφία: τον Μιρο τον διώξανε από την σχολή καλών τεχνών για έλλειψη δεξιοτεχνίας-τώρα εχει αναδειχθεί σε έναν από τους καλύτερους ζωγράφους του 20ου. Picasso μουσείο, καπέλο ψάθινο, ύπνος απ’έξω, φωνάζει μια γριά εβδομήντα που κοιμάμαι στο πάτωμα – μουσείο σοκολάτας προηγουμένως overdose, μπροστά στην ηδονή της σοκολάτας γαμήσαμε την ηδονή της τέχνης και μας έχει μείνει ακόμα μια ηδονή με παράταση επ’αόριστον. Κοκτέιλς στην παλιά πόλη, φτηνή η Βαρκελόνη άμα την ψάξεις, τουρίστες βαβούρα τον Ιούνιο μα πετυχαίνεις και ντόπια στέκια άμα μπεις πιο μέσα. Θάλασσα, λιμάνι και παλιά πόλη, βόλτα στο κέντρο με θέα τα αρχιτεκτονικά του Gaudi, λίγος Νταλί, πόλη που ζει με τα φαντάσματα των δημιουργών της και τις μπαρούφες των τουρίστων.
Μαδρίτη τετράγωνη, Βαρκελώνη ανοίγματα του κύκλου.
Τελειώνουν οι μέρες σιγά σιγά και στην προβλήτα της Βαρκελώνης, το hostel μπατάρισε από αμερικάνους, τραβάμε για Granada αφιχθέντες ξημερώματα, φωνάζουν οι υπάλληλοι για τα εργοστάσια που καίγονται από ‘μόνα’ τους, απολύσεις σωρό -ίσως η μόνη πόλη που έχει τα πιο εμφανή σημάδια της οικονομικής κρίσης. Γράφουν οι εφημερίδες διάφορα, ανάμεσα σ΄όλα αυτά ο Σαρκοζύ καταδικάζει την μπούρκα στο Παρλιαμέντο στο Παρίσι, μάλλον εν απουσία κάποιου σχεδίου αντιμετώπισης του οικονομικού φαλιρίσματος κι ο πλανώδιος μουσουλμάνος που βρίσκουμε λίγο πιο κάτω απ’την Αλάμπρα μας εξιστορεί την ιστορία του προφήτη Σολομόντα εξηγώντας μας μέσα σε ΜΟΝΟ δύο ώρες πως όλοι θα πεθάνουμε μια μέρα, το άγχος διακατέχει μόνο τους Σκανδιναβούς και το φάρμακο για την κατάθλιψη είναι ο ήλιος και το σεξ. Οι φοιτητές βέβαια, κάθονται αραχτοί, μυρωδιές πάνε κι έρχονται, η Granada αρέσει γιατί είναι φλου λένε κι εκσυγχρονισμένη, με εξελίξεις γραφικής ταχύτητας. Μπίρες μπίρες μπίρες και κάπου εκεί στις μπίρες, λίγο με τον Λόρκα λίγο με την Αλάμπρα, λίγο με τα μπιρόνια, τα ράστα και τα ανεβοκατεβάσματα, ξεμείναμε χωρίς Πορτογαλία, με μια πτήση για Πράγα και τα Memoria του Pessoa στη τσάντα για την αναμονή της επιστροφής. No pasa nada λέει κι ο καμπούρης.
Κάποια άλλη φορά θα τον πετύχω τον Pessoa και από κοντά, όσο κουλό κι αν ακούγεται.

Χέλεν

Oune jour in France (Voyages in Dangerous Times Part I)

2008-11-04T04:13:00.000-08:00

Having just spent the last twelve hours in Brussels International, after saying goodbye to my friends and desperately tryinng to find a flight into spain, or some place near the Iberian Peninsula for less than 200 euros one- way (a thing wich can be quite common when looking at the last minute for flights in the middle of August) at around 7 am I had decided that I should try reaching spain by rail. The target was Barcelona, which had been my watering hole for my last month of crisscrossing around Spain (before my short political trip to Genk where I followed the cwi summer school for some days). And the way to do so was to catch the Thales to Paris, cross town from the Gare Du Nord to the Gare d’ Austerlitz, where I would catch the train to Barcelona. So I jump on the train to the central station, where I catch the Thales to Paris. Within an hour and a half I have zipped across the fields of Valogne and enterred the Northern Suburbs of Paris. The only memories I had of Paris were the ones I had collected as I kid tourist there in 1991, when I was staying with my mom at a cozy wee guesthouse in the Quartier Latin and about a zillion movies that had been filmed there. This cast on my mind a fairy-tale like image of Paris, the city of love.

I arrived at about nine in the morning local time, and jumped on the first train to the Gare d’ Austerlitz. The heat was unbearable and the train was full of commuters triyng to find their way to their workplaces. That means that the wagon is packed and even breathing is very difficult a task in there. After about an hour I finally arrive at the station….

Then I discover that the only train that travels towards the area and is not fully booked is the 8:30 PM train to Narbonne, where I have to change for the regionnnal to Portbou, and then for the RENFE Regional Express to Barcelona. Plus that, my phone has no roaming whatsoever, I am broke (bar the tickets I am left with 16 euros) and my family is away from home, so they can’t send me any money at all untill the next day, when I shall reach spain and be able to call them. Things can’t get worse than that, can they?

So I stick to my only option. Keep my sandwiches for the train ride, save my sixteen euros to be able to eat something at the station and email my folks once I reach Barcelona. Plus to that I am tired and dirty, in need of a shower and sleep……this looks way bad. I gather my strength to give a smile to the cute french girl (of african origin that is quite helpfull-the fact that she speaks some spanish makes things easyer) that sold me my ticket and make my way towards the departure lounge, which actually is a wide and open area ajaccent to the train departure points.

The next thing that I did was find a spot near the walls, drop my backpack and my bag,lie down,use them as a pilllow and read my book (The grapes of wrath). Within a few minutes of starting to read my book my eyes shut and I surrendered to the sweet hug of Morpheus. This is going to last only for a few hours, until I get an especially abrupt and rude wake-up call. In fact I wake up to the sound of two blue uniform clad and armed to the teeth Neanderthals standing almost over me and yelling at me something that I can’t understand, wich seems to be something like “monsieur this and monsieur that”.

Barely keeping my cool I try to reason with the two pumped up neanderthals, that are in reality members of the Grendarmerie (Something like the Carabiinieri in Italy), explaining to them that I do not understand any French at all, but I speak quite fluently English, Spanish and German. They seem to speak some spanish so they start to question me using barely basic sentences like “Tu hace Francia?” (You what do France?). Their questions seem to revolve around my business in France, my time of departure, my point of arrival (hello! No border controls between Belgium and France!) and my nationality. Of course I am trying to explain to them as simply as I can that I am a poor Greek tourist that is trying to get to Barcelona, and that I am in Paris just in order to catch my train, which leaves in a few hours…...They don’t seem to believe me, and ask me the same questions over and over again. So my next sane thought is that I should produce them with some documents (my passport and my train ticket), which are in my travelbag. So I turn around, and actually stick my hand into it’s front pocket, in order to pull them out. BIG MISTAKE! The exact same moment that I turn around I hear a sudden click (one of them actually armed his G3 semi-automatic rifle), a voice yelling “NO NO NO NO NO!” and another one sending a dispatch from it’s radio wich seems to sound like “ WE NEED SOME BACKUP!”. I am actually held at gunpoint by the french police! Argh! Shit! What the hell am I? An international terrorist?????

Natirally I get scared to death and freeze. I can’t really move, because I know that if the guy holding the gun gets the wrong idea, the only thing the paramedics WILL be able to do is……..clean my brains and blood off the wall. So I decide to grab the tickets and the passport, and hand them over to them, while turning around really slowly…in fact the speed in wich things happen over the next two minutes, resembles more a Bergman or an Aggelopoulos movie thatn some ultra violent cops v bad guys movie. I take my hands off the pocket with the speed of a turtle, and produce my documents with a small sigh of relief. They take them and start looking at them with suspicion, while asking me again to verify the truth of what I was saying. In the end the two self-appointed Sherlocks with the iq of a Neanderthal decide that my documents and what I say actually check out, and decide to leave, but not before delivering the final blow.

“ We will leave you now, but if we catch you again sleeping here we will send you to prison where you know what they do to boys like you”, one of them (the brains of the operation) actually says to me before they fuck off to wherever they go. Only the thought of being the victim of a Abou Ghraib style prison meat sandwich is enough to keep me terrified for the remainder of the hour. But everywhere I look on that corridor, I see other terrified or sympathetic faces with a “this can’t be happening” expression painted across them. In a conversation, some older fellow backpackers that had witnessed the whole event actually informed me that in the nineties, when the station was closing at around midnight, the authorities would dispense teargas through the air vents in order to prevent the homeless from spending the night there. But I have this notion that there are more dark reasons for this vulgar display of power. The situation in the french ghettos has reached boiling point, and France is unusualy calm these days, a thing wich actually shows that some real violence is to come. In fact a few months later the ghettos will erupt violently, in a chain of events sparked by the misstreatment of two teenagers from Clichy-sous-Boise at the hands of the police. But there is also the wave of fear cast by the London and Madrid-Atocha bombings. And this makes the people and the authorities edgy, epsecially those elements of the french authorities that belong to the Gaulist- Lepenist and Charkozy –friendly part of the political spectre. If you add up the threats posed by Al-Kaida because of the banning of religious symbols from public schools and services, then you understand that the authorities feel that they have to be very aggressive towards anyone who seems to look like a threat to public security. France and Europe live in a state of fear imposed by the way……. European governments actually behave towards the poor countries of the world.

The next few hours seem to pass in slow motion. But there is a lot to notice in this busy station. Commuters come and go, faces move around, trains arrive and depart all the time. Two smiling faces distract my attention. They are actually the two black girls that work in the bakery. And what actually gets my attention is not their amazing looks, but their smiles and their general behaviour. They just keep smiling all the time, share jokes, dance around the bakery to grab the things that their customers ask for, and even take a little bit of time to flirt , or share a joke, with the Morrocan waiter from the bistrot that is next to the bakery. Damn, I wish one of them was my girlfriend, or that I could just hang out with them….They seem to unbelievably sweet. I buy a baguette from them, and decide that since the only language they speak iis french, getting close to them for the day is inevitable and try to move my attention towards other things. Shortly after my train comes in and I move towards my compartment. I share it with a non-descript French guy, a girl from California and three Canadian college girls. I try to establish some contact with them, but they are way too tired, like me and we soon fall asleep in our couchettes. We wake up early in the morning, on arrival to Narbonne. The amazing landscape is a rewarding view after a 36 hour ordeal. At around 10 we catch the train to Portbou and finally enter the french part of Catalunya, after passing Perpignan. Th scenery is just breathtaking, and I make mental pictures every second, trying to grasp every sight and feeling. And thank god for the sandwiches (the ones I made and the veggie bieces of bread the girls shared with me) I have enough energy to stay awake through the final steps of this trip, wich will end at around 1 PM in Barcelona, exactly 48 hours after my departure from Genk. And once we clear the customs control at Portbou, out comes a sigh of relief. Finally left France, and I am on my way to my final destination….Barcelona

The Canadian Invasions pt2

2008-06-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

The first thing that strikes someone who first arrives at the port of Bari, probably is the seaside. Well actually it is the coastal boulevard, wich is full of massive hotels, of the kind that actually distorts the local ambience to a very irritating point. Apparently the lessons of Southern Spain have not been learnt in the coasts of the Adriatic. Other than that Bari looks like the typical nondescript Mediteranean coastal town, with its beaches and its bars, and its wide streets.
The bus ride from the port to the central station is- even by italian standards, frantic. Imagine a bus full of backpackers, packed in it like sardines in a can. Now imagine this bus trying to swerve around obstacles and curves, with the passengers trying frantically to find something to hold on to, before getting mashed into each other, while the bus driver never lifts the foot from the gas pedal, even when trying to negotiate a turn in a street that can just hold two cars. In the end the bus screeches to a devastating stop and the drivers just finishes us off, by screaming "Arrivederci" at the top of his voice.

Now there is a funny thing when you see a bunch of backpackers squeezed into a bus, trying to break free, just in order to file into a qeue in front of the ticket offices. But, the long qeue notwithstanding, all of us poor travellers that had to suffer through the Italian bus ordeal make it to the one 'o' clock train to Rome in one piece. Yes everybody's going to Rome. Apparently mpost of the backpackers in the train are Canadian, though I don't fail to notice the token Spanish girl, plus an Argentinian, some Finns and a few Americans. The train ride to Rome takes about six hours, but it is really worth the try. After the train leaves the plains around Foggia, the really interesting part begins. The train starts to climb on the apenines, and before it reaches the area of Campagna, you get to pass through green valleys, traditional villages and ancient Roman aquaducts. Then you swiftly pass through the campagnan countryside, and reach the tremendously beautyful coast of Amalfi. Then, before you even know it, you pass next to a giant graffiti sign writing "Bienvienuto a RomaYork" (Welcome to Rome-York). The eternal city is laying before my feet, just waiting to be conquered. (to be continued on Friday, with Roma:Cittá Aperta)

The Interrail Diaries: The Canadian Invasions pt1

2008-06-27T08:14:00.000-07:00

The bus ride from Athens to Patras is not really long, especially if you take into account the events of the previous morning and their devastating aftermath. In fact the only thing along the route to indicate any souch thing has happened, is the intense movement of military and relief agencies up and down the highway. In fact there are convoys of police busses making their way in and out of the capital, in order to move reinforcements into the earthquake zone. The city of Patras does, in fact, seem to have survived the ordeal, but for the villages just a few kilometres south of the city the aftermath is devastating. Adding up to these, are the fears of my parents, who actually fear of aftershocks and tsunami waves hiting the area. But my stay there is not going to be prolonged, and my slow boat to Bari appears to be one of these vessels that have the ability to move with undeterred, under almost any weather conditions. Plus, I am sailing across the Adriatic, wich is not particularly notorius for its tsunamies.

I witness a great deal of suffering though,coming out of the tv screen of one of the port´s café´s wich shows, at full blast, news reports from the wrecked villages. Fortunately enough, the casualties are not really heavy, but building structures were totally wrecked, leaving a lot of people homeless. As if they didn´t suffer enough last year from the forest fires! Plus soon enough, the governmentwill show almost no help towards these people. Though eventually every damaged household will get some money for rebuilding the home and new furniture, later in the week, reports that local New Democracy party officials (rememeber they are in the government) actually lead relief funds to people whose businesses or houses remained intact (but hey were ND members or voters). This will probably add up to the popular discontent towards both ND and PASOK, the two parties that are sinking day by day in opinion polls.
My boarding time finally arives, and I enter the big boat. To my dismay the boat is half full, but there are no beds available, so I will have to spend the whole evening on a chair, or a couch. And since lying on the couches is actually prohibited by the staff, I just sit at the air-seats, waiting. The composition of the passengers is quite interresting. A large group of greek tourists taking a guided tour of Italy, truckers (the majority of whom are Italians), and holidaymakers of various types (backpackers, campers, elderly people on an adventure etc) making their way into Italy. Most of the backpackers have a canadian flag on their backpacks, and claim to be canadians, but there are also some token english people, two fins and a spanish girl travellingon a eurail scheme. Later on I will learn that a lot of these "canadians" are actually american tourist, too afraid or too ashamed to say that they are americans in Europe, mainly because the American Exteral Policy is not really welcome in Europe, but also of the fear of being mistreated due to being americans (mind you this is a stupid fear, europeans love america and its people, they just don´t really like american presidents and the NRA crowd).
I (like everyone on the boat try to spend my time sleeping (after seing Italy being thrashed by the Dutch in the Euro), bot that is not an easy thing. So I basically wait until the stewards dissapear into their quarters, so that I can sneak into the comfy sofas and couches and take a nap, a thign that does not happen until like 3 AM. So I get to catch some five hours of sleep until breakfast time when I get rudely awakened by the steward.
I get some cheap Bclass English type breakfast at the food lounge, wich will keep me strong enough for the remainder of the day. And straight after that, I am ready to disembark at Bari, and start my iterrail adventure..... (Continued on Monday, with Canadian Invasions pt2)

When in Cairo, follow the locals

2008-02-02T04:07:00.000-08:00

Όσο πιο σκούρο είναι το δέρμα σου, τόσο το καλύτερο όταν βρίσκεσαι στην Αίγυπτο. Φαίνεσαι λιγότερο "τουρίστας" και οι πιθανότητες για παρενοχλήσεις τύπου "έλα να σε πάω εδώ κι εκεί, δώσε μου μπαξίσι" είναι μειωμένες κατά κόρον.

Αν είσαι γυναίκα, βάλε και καμιά μαντίλα στο κεφάλι, για να εξασφαλιστεί η ηρεμία σου και η ησυχία σου. Εγώ δεν έβαλα, και μόνο μία φορά έφαγα ενόχληση και παραβίαση του προσωπικού μου χώρου. Φωνάζεις όμως ένα "κχαλάς" (=φτάνει) και ο θύτης τρέπεται σε φυγή στο δευτερόλεπτο. Αν είσαι άντρας, άσε κάνα μούσι για να φαίνεσαι ισλαμιστής και τελείωσε η υπόθεση. Η χαρά που θα κάνουν στα μουσεία, εστιατόρια, κτλ είναι απερίγραπτη.

Αν στη χώρα που μένεις δεν βρίσκεις με ευκολία ναργιλέδες, τότε παράγγειλε "σίσια" σε κάναν καφενέ. Στην Αλεξάνδρεια είναι πιο αποδεκτό να καπνίζουν "σίσια" και οι γυναίκες και σε μαγαζιά για ντόπιους, ενώ στο Κάιρο καλύτερα να περιοριστείς (αν είσαι γυναίκα φυσικά) σε κάνα ξενοδοχείο.

Τι πρέπει να δεις στο Κάιρο:

Σίγουρα, σιγουρότατα τις τρεις γνωστές πυραμίδες. Για ποιο άλλο λόγο πας, άλλωστε. Αν δεν επιλέξεις να πας με κάποιο οργανωμένο και ομαδικό τρόπο, tour που λέμε, τότε πρόσεξε τι συμφωνίες κάνεις με τον ταξιτζή μην σου φάει παραπάνω από όσα πρέπει. Αν ούτε ταξί επιλέξεις να πάρεις, αλλά πας με κάποιο μέσο δημόσιο, πρόσεξε μην σου "κολλήσει" κανένας για να σου προσφέρει ταξίδια στην έρημο που είναι λέει της κυβέρνησης. Δεν είναι καμιάς κυβέρνησης και το πιθανότερο είναι ότι θα σε υπερχρεώσουν. Μέσα στο χώρο των πυραμίδων, πολλοί θα θέλουν να στα πάρουν με τον ένα ή τον άλλο τρόπο. Μπορεί να σου βάλουν με το ζόρι κάνα παραδοσιακό είδος ενδυμασίας και να σε βγάλουν φωτογραφία και μετά να επιμένουν για φιλοδώρημα, ενώ συνέχεια σε τρέχουν ξωπίσω διάφοροι με άλογα ή καμήλες για να σε πάνε βόλτα. Αν επιλέξεις να αγοράσεις κάποια τέτοια υπηρεσία ας την πούμε, τότε καλώς, απλώς πρόσεξε μην στην χρεώσουν με το ζόρι, χωρίς καλά καλά να το έχεις καταλάβει. Απόφυγε να αγοράσεις σουβενίρ μέσα στο χώρο των πυραμίδων, γιατί θα τα βρεις μισοτιμής έξω.

Μετά είναι και το μουσείο του Καΐρου που έχει μέσα τόσα πολλά πράγματα, που αν θες να τα δεις πραγματικά και στα σοβαρά δεν σε φτάνει μία μέρα. Αν επιλέξεις να πάρεις ξεναγό, τότε θα σου κάνει ένα σύντομο μεν, ικανοποιητικό δε, γύρο στα σημαντικότερα εκθέματα που θα σου πάρει 2-3 ώρες. Πριν μπεις στο μουσείο, θα περάσεις από έλεγχο και για αυτό να έχεις έτοιμα τα χαρτιά σου.

Η αγορά του Αλ-Χαλίλι είναι για αυτούς που τους αρέσει η πολυκοσμία, τα ψώνια και το παιχνίδι του παζαρέματος. Κοντά στην αγορά, έχει επιχορηγημένη από το κράτος παράσταση με περιστρεφόμενους δερβίσηδες, δύο φορές την εβδομάδα. Πήγαινε νωρίς για να βρεις καλή θέση. Αξίζει τον κόπο.

Γύρω από την αγορά, βρίσκεται το λεγόμενο "ισλαμικό Κάιρο" που έχει πολλά ωραία μέρη.

Σίγουρα, ακόμα και η αστυνομία, ή οι διάφοροι αρμόδιοι για την ασφάλεια των αξιοθέατων, θα προσπαθήσουν να σου πάρουν χρήματα για να σε οδηγήσουν σε μέρη που έτσι κι αλλιώς υπάρχει ελεύθερη πρόσβαση. Θα σου κάνουν και καμιά ξενάγηση τύπου "these are the pyramids. The pyramids are very old". Πέρα από αυτά τα μέρη, και οι διάφοροι σταθμοί είναι σημεία κλειδιά για τους touts.

Φαΐ:

Μπορείς να φας ό,τι γουστάρεις. Απόφυγε λίγο τα φαγητά του δρόμου, εκτός αν ζεματάνε. Νερό: εμφιαλωμένο, αλλά μην κάνεις υπερβολές του τύπου "πλένω ακόμα και τα δόντια μου με εμφιαλωμένο νερό". Σιγά μην λούζεσαι και με evian.

Μην ξεχάσεις να φας κουσιάρι, που είναι κάποιου είδους ζυμαρικό και από πάνω βάζεις μια "τηανιά" φακές με κρεμμύδια και στο τέλος περιχύνεις μια καυτερή κόκκινη σάλτσα. Τέλειο φαΐ!

Πόσα?:

Αν συγκρίνεις ότι έτσι κι αλλιώς θα φας την υπερχρέωση γιατί είσαι τουρίστας, και πάλι φτηνά θα σου κάτσει. Καλό είναι να διαπραγματεύεσαι την τιμή πριν δεχτείς την υπηρεσία (π.χ. στα ταξί κτλ). Με ένα μέχρι και ενάμισι δολάρια μπορείς να φας ένα πιάτο κουσιάρι, παρόμοια τιμή σε τρέντι καφετέριες για ένα καφέ, ενώ οι γνωστές φαστφουντάδικες αλυσίδες, είναι ακριβότερες από τα ντόπια φαστφουντάδικα, και οι ντόπιοι βάζουν τα καλά τους όταν είναι να πάνε να φάνε εκεί.

Για γερά νεύρα:

Το να χρησιμοποιείς ταξί, λεωφορεία κτλ, στο Κάιρο είναι ένα πολιτισμικό σοκ από μόνο του. Η οδική συμπεριφορά είναι εντελώς εκτός των πλαισίων μιας ευρωπαϊκής χώρας, ενώ τα φανάρια έχουν ένα διακοσμητικό ρόλο. Ενώ υπάρχουν εδώ και 2-3 δεκαετίες, ο κόσμος δεν φαίνεται να τα έχει αποδεχτεί και εξακολουθεί να αψηφεί τις σημάνσεις τους, ακολουθώντας μόνο τις υποδείξεις των αστυνομικών της τροχαίας, όταν αυτοί είναι παρόντες.

Το μεγαλύτερο βάσανο και το μεγαλύτερο πολιτισμικό σοκ έχει να κάνει με το να προσπαθείς να περάσεις το δρόμο. Εκεί κολλά και ο τίτλος: When in Cairo, follow the locals. Μπορεί να σου φαίνεται αποστολή αυτοκτονίας αυτό που κάνουν, αλλά, πίστεψέ με, αυτοί ξέρουν, και αν ακολουθήσεις ένα ντόπιο διασταυρώνοντας το δρόμο είναι η ασφαλέστερη μέθοδος για να φτάσεις σώος και αβλαβής στον προορισμό σου.

Η γεύση που αφήνει:

Το Κάιρο είναι μια πολύ καλή εισαγωγή στα της Αιγύπτου, και προσωπικά μου άνοιξε την όρεξη για να επισκεφτώ ξανά τη χώρα και να ανακαλύψω και τους υπόλοιπους θησαυρούς της που δεν πρόλαβα να δω σε 4 μέρες. Ελπίζω αυτό να είναι σύντομα και να μπορέσω να πάω Λούξορ-Ασουάν και για σαφάρι στην έρημο!

Zurich, a city of dark secrets

2008-01-09T03:58:00.000-08:00

Before going to Zurich, I decided to find a few fun facts about Switzerland. Sixty percent of its inhabitants speak german, another 30 percent speak french, 9 percent speak Italian, and roughly below 1 percent speak romanish (a crossfire between the three). There are not that many immigrants in Switzerland, the majority being Spanish, South Americans, Italians and Africans. Swizzerland is governed by a far-right wing federal government, the prime minister of which nobody really knows. In fact nobody needs to know who he is, since most decisions are taken by the public, in polls. The country is divided in 30-odd cantons, each of which decides about its internal laws and policies, and which has its own official language. Switzerland is also known for its banking system. It's banking system is so protective that for many years swiss banks have refused to open vaults, that are suspected to contain treasures that the Nazis stole from jewish families during Hitler's Reign. And, for conspiracy buffs, under Zurich's streets there lie huge vaults, in wich the Odessa (organization formed by former SS members, formed in order to help SS members flee Germany in the late forties, and supposedly infiltrate governments and economies around the world) stashed huge quantities of gold boullion, smuggled out of Germany just before its collapse. Having read all this, I boarded the plane to Zurich.

While landing at Zurich's Klotten airport, the American girl sitting next to me is starting to say her prayers. This puzzles me, and I am thinking about it as I enter the town. In fact Zurich looks like a pretty much harmless little town where everybody has their expensive cars, public transport is amazingly punctual, and, fast.

It is a ten minute ride from the airport to the central train station, and all I see is the overtly green countryside, expensive looking homes and buildings that look like company headquarters. Then I arrive at the station. The only interesting thing about the station, is that part of the building has been built with the use of granite, which was extracted from what came to be the largest tunnel in continental Europe, the St Gotthard Pass. Right next to the station lies the Bahnhoff Strasse, a wide pedestrian aeria, which connects the Station with the lake of Zurich. It also houses the city's commercial and banking district. No wonder why the street is full of filthy rich Russian or Eastern European types. These guys are visiting their money which is on an endless skiing holiday in Switzerland (others send their money to enjoy the sunny beaches of Cyprus, or the Cayman Islands). In fact Zurich is a playground for the rich and famous.

The latter becomes evident when, later in the day, I cross to the old town, a pace which is considered primarily the entertainment district, and where is the only place where you can find univercity students biding their time. The place is full of bars, pubs, delis, beerhouses and, interestingly enough, strip joints. The sex industry is making a killing in this city, and prostitution is very common. That's one of the major problems here. The other is substance abuse. The numbers are horrifying. Zurich is Europe's number one city in cocaine sales, and , sadly enough, heroin is VERRY widespread. To whoever has any basic sociologic knowledge, one thing can become evident. That despite the very well preserved front, this city is very ill. The rich and famous, and all of those who work as some sort of executives in the field of services (like tourism, entertainment and banking) , can have all the fun they like, but for the poor, on the other hand, life in Zurich is simply unbearable. It is just that if you are broke, you can move around downtown Zurich only if you are working there, and not for any other reason.

On my way to the Lake, another thing happens to me . I realise that walking next to me is the President of Syria, accompanied by assorted family members and bodyguards. And boy do I have an urge do give him a little intense talk about the state of human rights in his country. But as I am planning my moves, it occurs to me that even if I manage to do it, and then escape his guards, I will not escape the hands of the Swiss police. Mind you Switzerland IS, by many means, a police state. That does not mean that you can see police cars in every corner. The Swiss police are mostly invisible, and clearly take no interest in obviously terrifying ordinary citizens, or flexing their muscle. But once it occurs to them that you are either a criminal, or someone threatening the status quo, or someone unlicable to the filthy rich sitting next to you on a bench, then they easily forget some of your basic human rights. And by god they can appear out of nowhere. Try to park your car in a space other than specified, you'll have a police car pulling up next to yours in a matter of seconds. Look toward somebody in a slightly menacing way, you might have the place swarming with members of the grendarmerie (the Swiss police) in a matter of minutes .

On the lakeside is one of the most expensive hotels in Switzerland, the Baur au Lack. This is the typical uber-expensive uber luxurious hotel. A Bentley parked right outside, filthy rich clients packed inside, waiters pouring expensive champaigne by the pint into their glasses. Another evidence of how uber-kapitalizt Switzerland is. There works the guy who will show us around the town for the whole of Saturday morning (I arrived on Friday morning, the rest of the group arrived from Zermatt, down south, Friday evening).

Our friendly Swiss guide has four kids, so he smiles as eight kids make a violent dash towards his minibus, with troubled parents and elder siblings trailing at some distance, yelling to them to be quiet. Our destinations include the Zoo, an ice skating ring, and anything worth seeing in town. The zoo is very well organised, full of large cages containing animals that are native of alpine regions, or can be accustomed to a cold climate (the vast majority of exzibits), and warm buildings where tropical endangered species live (a small minority). All of them live in cages that resemble their home environment, but the animals had a sad gaze in their eyes. The sad gaze of an animal living away from its natural environment.

After the zoo we went to the open top ice ring. I have to say that, probably, the Swiss where born with skis or ice scates attached to their feet. A toddler was wearing its first ice skates, doing its first steps on ice, alongside the overjoyed and proud parents. A twelve year old girl performing manouvers with the grace of a professional ice skater. And eight greek kids having a hell of a time skating around and watching loads of people doing the same.

In the noon, we decided to conclude our sightseeing. But after a couple of churches the Politechnic and the Garden in which the Austrian Embassy was built, our guide ran out of options on what to show us. So he decided that the all the places of interest left in Zurich where the headquarters of various banks and multinational companies, exclusive bars, lounges and restuarants (this is the Headquarters of Novartis, this is the headquarters of UBS, I have seen Tom Cruise dine here, Madonna throws exclusive parties at this club whenever she visits Zurich etc). Zurich, the ultimate playground for the rich and famous, unbearable to the poor.... Though there is supposed to be a working public health system in Switzerland, and public schools there are of a very high standard, and 90% of its univercities are owned by the state, capitalism is allowed to go beserk here, and everything works by capitalist standards. For example, all of the swissair aircraft, are configured in a way where business class occupies half the seats in the plane (we do not have any seats in economy, if you wanna fly, fly business). Travelers in the coach section get to eat a small yogurt or a calzone, accompanied by a fudge, coffee and a juice, while business class travelers get to choose between two cooked meals, a variety of six brands of expensive wine and other types of booze, and coffee. Scandalous ain't it? Generally Switzerland is fun, only if you can afford to pay at a quite high price for it.

Friday and Saturday night are quite passable, since there seems to be some commotion in the old town, though the Bahnhof Strasse is almost empty. The bars and clubs are full of young people, and the booze goes down smoothly. But on Sunday morning, and up until Monday, the whole of the city resembles a Ghost Town. There is nobody walking around the pedestrian aereas, and, though there are some cars moving around the streets, there is a feeling of emptiness despite the sunny weather. Everybody is either outside the city, skiing, or in their homes, or locked into their expensive restaurants and cozy cafes, like Sprungli's. Sunday night is even worse. The only bar where there seems to be something going on, is booked for an exclusive party, or so tells me the bouncer. Everything else is empty, and by midnight it is also closed.

And then, while I am walking to my hotel room, I notice something that I had passed by a few times while staying there. In the corridor, there was a flat-liquid crystal tv screen broadcasting Bloomberg TV non-stop, with stock market prices crawling all over. And then this idea came across my mind. Zurich was a city created only so that there one can strike business deals. A city created to entertain capitalists, stockbrokers, bankers and merchants, who are in need of chasing dark pleasures, for a price.

Switzerland is probably the place where everything can be for sale, even only for a glimpse of what is a Europeanised version of the American Dream. Problem is that this dream usually turns out to be a nightmare. The Zuricher proletariat lives under unthinkable misery, its living conditions are far worse than those, lets say in Spain. But the worst is, that it lives in the underground, meticulously hidden under a really heavy curtain. Zurich is like a huge and shiny shop's front parlour, which hides the fact that the expensive products it vends where produced by some ten year old earning 25 cents a day at some sweatshop in a third-world country