You’ll love Paris; but not for the reasons you’re thinking…

The sights and the history in Paris are unrivalled anywhere in Europe, but the city itself probably won’t live up to your expectations.

I, along with the rest of Western civilisation, had a very distinct idea in my head about  Paris would be like. Largely due to modern cinema and romance novels, I expected to arrive in “gay Paree” where everything was in sepia, there was a constant piano accordion soundtrack, and men in cafes wore berets and drank red wine at noon.

I also thought the sheer romanticism of the place would sweep me off my feet; I’d fall in love with the city, and never leave. Well, I did leave. And since thieving gypsies were more prevalent than berets, I was quite glad to.

I arrived in Paris one sunny afternoon at Gare du Nord train station, expectations high, backpack in tow. I looked for the exit of the bustling station and mentally prepared myself to be serenaded by the sights and sounds of the city.

I stepped on to the street only to be accosted by a group of young gypsies who tore at my hair and clothes all the while saying “treasure, treasure”. Welcome to the city of love. And loss. Of possessions.

I finally managed to bat them away (don’t be afraid to use expletives; it’s all they really respond to) and found my hostel which was not too far from Sacre Couer, the famous cathedral.

I met some lovely people there who were also quite keen to find some friends with whom they could roam the streets after similar stories of muggings, attempted muggings, and gypsy encounters.

It was with them that I discovered all of the wonder and amazement Paris has to offer; and as one of them so succinctly pointed out; the French just never seem to get it wrong.

From the Arc de Triomphe, to the Louvre and its famous works inside and out, the Moulin Rouge to Sacre Couer, the Hotel des Invalides to the Pantheon; whatever the French do, however controversial or despised it was at the time, is just breathtaking.

One of my most cathartic and poignant moments in all of my travels, and a truly “wow I can’t believe I’m really here” moment, was one night spent with friends, some cheap wine, camembert, and La Tour Eiffel. Another creation the French are said to have hated when it was first erected, there is nothing quite as spectacular, or quite as French, as lazing on the grass, basking in the thousands of lights on display on the tower every evening.  

Another gem of which you may not have heard is the Parisian Catacombs; 2km of nothing but bones, winding under the streets of Paris. Human bones from nearly 6 million people line the tunnels decoratively in a display which must have taken years to arrange. The mass underground grave was opened to relieve Paris’ cemeteries which were crowded to overflowing. The Man in the Iron Mask (whom I mentioned in my South of France piece) is buried here – somewhere.  It’s quite eerie and cold, being nearly 20 metres underground, so take a friend, and it’s not for the claustrophobic, elderly, young children or unfit, but it’s definitely worth the two-hour-plus wait in the queue!

The sights of Paris are some of the most remarkable in Europe, and the history, especially of the Napoleonic period is astounding. It is for this that I loved Paris, and why I would return. However the city itself has been somewhat tainted and jaded by tourists. Poverty-stricken folk from Romania and Eastern Europe make Paris their home to take from those who they deem can clearly afford it since they’re travelling in Paris, and locals take advantage of those naïve enough to keep their wallets, iPhones, cigarettes in their back pockets.

Keep your wits about you and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a ball in the awe-inspiring French capital; just don’t expect to fall in love.

Think instead of your relationship with Paris as of a fling with a rock star; he has some amazing things going for him, and well, he’s famous, so you’re glad you went there, but at the end of the day he’s pretty dirty and creepy and you’re quite content to tell the stories past-tense.

English Rose Jam and Jam Tarts!

If you want to feel as though you're in Moreton-in-Marsh or another gem of the English country-side, whip up some English Rose jam!

 

For about a nice big batch of posh English Rose Jam, cut the tops off about 1.5 kilos of strawberries, and combine with a kilo of sugar. I like to mash the strawberries for a smoother set. Bring to the boil for three minutes, and then add a packet of commercial jam setting mix (or a tablespoon of pure pectin) and six table spoons of rose water.

 

Boil until a drop of jam forms a skin when left to cool on a plate.

 

Sterilise bottles by washing in hot soapy water and warming in the oven at 140 degrees for 15 minutes. bottle jam when jam is cold and the glass is warm.

 

Complete with a material cover and rubber band, and a wool bow as shown!

 

English Rose Jam Tarts:

 

You can use ready-made pastry, but why would you when you can make your own?!

 

Sieve together 250g of plain flour, a heaped tablespoon of icing sugar, and a pinch of salt. Add 110g of butter or marg and rub it in with your fingertips until it becomes crumbly. Slowly add a tablespoon of water at a time and rub through until it forms a dough. It shouldn't be sticky, but it should cling together a little bit! 

Put this in the fridge wrapped in cling film for about an hour. Leave it to warm to room temp, then roll out with a rolling pin on a flat surface covered in flour. Cut circles with a fluted cookie cutter and place in an oiled cupcake tray. You should be able to make about 15. 

Put a teaspoon of jam in each tart (not too much - the jam boils in the oven and can spill over the tart) and put a cookie-cut out shape on top (I've used stars here with miniature stars in the middle, you could try any shape you like!).

Bake for about 20 minutes or until the pastry looks slightly browned. Leave to cool before serving, and sprinkle with icing sugar. Pret a manger! Bon Apetite!

"In Bruges" - August 2011

After seeing the film 'In Bruges' with the delectable Colin Farrell, I felt compelled to go to the place his character said might impress him if he grew up on a farm and was retarded.

When I arrived in Bruges' town centre I felt as though I'd walked into a fairy tale. Skinny gabled buildings are squashed shoulder-to-shoulder into little squares and cobbled streets.

Lace makers sit on the side of the road and you can watch them perform their craft for a coin donation, and little markets selling antiques and other wares litter the streets.

I saw most of the sights - (The bell tower, the Kerk van de hoelig bloed, Michael Angelo's pieta, the nunnery etc) but the best you can do in Bruges is just to wander the streets and take in the atmosphere of the Belgian gem.

Tips: Try the frites in the green caravans in front of the bell tower, hire bikes and ride around the town centre, laze by the river with a book (in summer), go ice skating (in winter). 

Mykonoooooooos July 2011

Mykonos. Why am I having writers' block about one of the most travelled-to Greek Islands known for its summers of booze and partying? Well I guess it's because I didn't enjoy it all that much. It was July, it was hot, it was uni-break for much of Europe. It was worth a look, but I won't go again.

 

We stayed at a campsite-cum-party ranch which was impressive on entry; complete with restaurant, pool, shop, bar, but the rooms were less than desirable. I'd never had more mosquito bites in my life and you couldn't sleep past 7am (even though you were home at five) as the sun beat down on the canvas and tin structure making you sweat out of your eyeballs.

 

All of Europe was here - school camp groups, and university students on holiday. Unfortunately for us they were mostly Italians. Italians who found blonde hair exotic and who were definitely in 'holiday mode' (aka; I'm going to get very drunk and grope every girl that walks past). While I did spend a large part of the week avoiding drunk and horny Italians, I still attempted to enjoy myself and get into the party spirit.

 

Spending all day on the beach lazing in the sun sounds fun, but when it's 45 degrees it gets old pretty quickly. Going into town was quite nice, the blue and white windmills are the most famous view of Mykonos, and the winding blue and white streets and little shops are quite lovely for the day.

 

At night is when Mykonos comes into its own. For those who haven't been on Tropicana (the all-day beach party) all day, its time to head over for a beach party. It lives up to the crazy things you've heard about it as people pour champagne down your throat, grab you from every angle, and seeing people getting intimate on the beach ceases to shock you after the first few hours. Look out for Elephant Man; distinguishable by his elephant G-string, he wanders around Tropicana with a microphone making such witty remarks as "Mykonooooossssssss", "We love Italiaaaaaaaaanssssssss", and "Who is from Australiaaaaaaaaaaaa?"

 

Then it's time for one of Mykonos' myriad of clubs. Cavo Paradiso is one of the most famous; you will have seen it in the Wog Boy sequel (apparently - I'm hoping you haven't watched it) and is complete with a pool and overlooks the ocean. I can't say I was too into the music, or the crowd, or the club itself, but you can't go to Mykonos without going to Cavo Paradiso; again, 'apparently'.

 

There are a number of other Ibiza-style super-clubs like this, but in my opinion at least you'll have more fun at one of the bars or smaller clubs in town. Much more atmosphere, and drinks aren't 20 euro (Well, given the Greek economy at the moment, they may be).

 

I hate to trash Greece while they could so desperately use your dollar, but Mykonos really wasn't for me. Santorini and other less party-esque islands are said to be amazing, and Athens has the most amazing history in the world, but unless what I have described above appeals to you, the perhaps give Mykonos a miss.

Anne Frank Huis Amsterdam

08/11

I had read her diary and her biography by Carol Ann Lee and so felt as though I had spent hours upon hours with Anne Frank and her family in their secret annex.

I travelled to Amsterdam to spend a week being young and having fun in the party-renowned city after having spent many weeks with my family in Houten, Utrecht.

I had a blast as is inevitable in Amsterdam; staying in a youth hostel, meeting new people and seeing the various sights Amsterdam had to offer.

I had wanted to see Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam ever since hearing her tale when I was a young girl, and I took a day alone to experience it for myself.

I arrived at the house one chilly Amsterdam afternoon…and then had to walk another 200 hundred metres to the back of the line (I recommend going early in the morning to avoid the queues) before waiting for 90 minutes to enter.

I knew not what to expect but I had to admit what I discovered was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever experienced.

Upon entering the house and ascending the stairs one is taken through the factory and offices of Opekta; Otto Frank’s company which distributed a pectin-based gelling preparation to be used in jam-making.

The offices and store rooms of the building are exactly as described by Anne in the diaries and as one walks through the building one can imagine Otto, Mr Kleiman and Miep Gies working away. These areas also contain a small exhibition including videos, Nazi propaganda from Holland during the war years, and a furnished model of the annex.

After the discovery of the Franks the Nazis stripped their annex of all furniture and possessions. When turning the site into a museum and memorial, Otto Frank made the executive decision to leave the house empty as the Nazis had left it, and not fully furnished as the Franks had.

When ascending into the back office, the map as described in the diary and the swinging bookcase loom before you. A lump entered my throat as I realised more than ever how real the plight of the Ottos was, and suddenly it was no longer a story on a page, but a very real reality.

I crossed the threshold of the bookcase and walked up the tiny staircase leading to the annexe that Anne had so often described tiptoeing up in stockinged feet so as to avoid detection.

As I walked through the rooms I was amazed that the map of the Nazi invasion of Europe that Otto had marked out with pins was still on the wall in their bedroom, and pencil markings of the girls’ heights. The room that Anne shared with Mr Pfeffer still contained the celebrity pictures which Anne so meticulously glued to the walls and took so much joy from.

The kitchen, while empty, was in my mind’s eye full of the two families around the dinner table, as they eyed each other off for taking too much and contributing too little. So much of the diary revolved around food in the annexe (or lack thereof) and the politics of sharing. I saw this all come to life as I stood where the usually-silent battles took place.

Opekta and the annex on Prisengracht, Amsterdam

The bathroom where Anne’s housemates thought she spent too much time in the mirror, and the toilet which could rarely be flushed for fear of capture stood before me as my eyes welled thinking what a normal young girl she had been.

Peter’s attic, where Anne came to spend so much time in the end to the dismay of all the parents in the annex, was bigger and gloomier than I had expected.

After walking through the annex, the diaries of Anne Frank are on display, along with a small exhibition on the camps which the Ottos found themselves in the end. There is also a wall of the hundreds of various republications of the diary all over the world, in more languages than you could think of.

In the horrible story that is that of the Franks, this is the one and only consolation; that Anne’s wish of publishing her diaries and becoming a famous writer were realised, even if she never lived to see the fruition.

This experience was certainly unforgettable and even more profound than I had expected. Otto Frank’s decision to open the house as a museum and memorial has been commended as keeping the horror of the holocaust alive so as not to repeat it.

Anne’s story is certainly not a unique one, thousands of families suffered as hers did. But we have her to thank for personifying the terror of WWII and keeping the plight of holocaust victims in the minds of many for decades, and will-be centuries, to come.

There's more to The Netherlands than Amsterdam

From Groningen to Maastricht, it’s a shame so many young tourists
never make it past the marijuana haze of Amsterdam to explore the rest
of the Netherlands. I did just that and loved every minute.

Travelling to Holland to see where my Oma and Opa came from all those
years ago had been a dream of mine from a very young age. I scrubbed
up on my Dutch and arrived at Schipol airport to be greeted by an
Aunty I’d not seen since I was three.

I knew people who had been to Holland, but all I had heard was of
Amsterdam, the Red Light district, and how it was legal to smoke
marijuana. I was hoping to get a little more out of Holland as the
place where my family began. After two weeks of windmills, trains, and
hagelslag, the following are my highlights.

I started in Utrecht, where my family came from, and where I was
staying with my Aunty (in Houten). I was immediately captured by the
beautiful city, with canals, streets and buildings to rival Amsterdam,
and a young university vibe about the place. I did the obligatory ‘Dom
climb’ which gave a great history of the town and an even better view,
and wandered the streets marvelling at the quaint houses and
ubiquitous bikes. Baskets of red and pink flowers hung from the
bridges striding the canals, as though it wasn’t beautiful enough
already.

Next on the list was Leiden where I cruised down the canals on an
idyllic boat ride, and visited De Valk windmill. It was here that I
first realised that windmills weren’t just tourist propaganda, but
actually had an important function in Dutch history in the production
of food and the relocation of water.

I also visited Rotterdam, the port at which my Oma and Opa departed
all those years ago, and was delighted by the amazing Museum Boijmans
Van Beuningen. Though I travelled all over Europe, I never found a
collection to rival this museum in terms of modern art. Then I hopped
on a boat and travelled to perhaps the most stunningly idyllic place
I’d seen thus far; kinderdijk. The only things in sight for miles
other than the waterways were windmills and flowers. Take your camera,
and wear your nicest outfit, these pictures will be going in a frame!
Rotterdam has a very urban and artistic vibe about it, not dissimilar
to Melbourne, and is, I feel, the most modern Dutch city.

Next on my list was the city I was most excited about, not because I’m
interested in international law, but because Johannes Vermeer’s “Girl
with a Pearl Earring” is my favourite painting and I had the chance to
see it here, in The Hague. The Mauritshuis in The Hague contains three
Vermeer works, including his most famous, which is often referred to
as the Dutch Mona Lisa. The museum isn’t huge, but it’s spectacular.
Also worth a look in The Hague is the Madurodam. If you don’t think
you’ll be able to travel the whole of Holland, just come here and
you’ll see it all in miniature!

Continuing on with my Vermeer quest I visited Delft, and here found my
favourite place of all. I found some amazing antique treasures in the
myriad of canal-side markets, and I pretended I was Vermeer as I
wandered the streets visiting the various buildings that once were his
home/studio/pub etc. I visited the Oude Kerk (Old church) where he is
buried, and the new church where I climbed the dizzying spire for a
magnificent view over the main square.

It was an amazing two weeks that shan’t be easily forgotten, and where
I learnt much about my ancestors and the culture from whence they
came. While I enjoyed the fact that there were few tourists and little
commercialisation, it’s a shame that others don’t get to experience
the Holland that I have seen as they bypass it all for Amsterdam.

The ‘Sail Croatia’ phenomenon and why it's taking young Australians by storm.

Long have young Australians been doing the Contiki Europe tour. Longer have they been doing the live-in-London thing. Well there's a new cliche on the block; 'Sail Croatia'.

Most Australians had never thought, nor perhaps even heard, of Croatia until the whole Brit Lapthorne misfortune. I know when I told people I was heading there, the only response I heard from my gen-X consorts was "Croatia?! Why? You're not going to Dubrovnik, I hope. You'll end up rolling on a river somewhere." However, my fellow Gen-Ys asked another; "You're doing 'Sail Croatia', yeah?"

Well yes, yes I was. Like thousands of other Australians, I was planning to set sail with 20 other (evidently also Australian) young folk for a week of gambolling sailing fun. I was finally going to see what all the fuss was about.

We got to the boat on the first day in Split and squeezed into our quaint little cabins excited at the prospect of spending eight days sleeping on this dizzying house of fun, and showering over the toilet while trying not to fall in it. We'd heard drinks on board were expensive, so just to be party to another cliché, we sneaked some vodka aboard.

We met the crew and our new roomies for the week (in my case, my three friends, an Aussie girl currently living in the UK, and sixteen 19-year-olds who all went to high school together in Brisbane - great), and set sail to our first destination; Hvar.

This set the tone for the week of partying ahead - hanging out with your own friends all day, until you had a few tequila boom-booms and felt like talking to the other people on your boat, or if you were really really brave; people from another boat.

After somewhat slightly getting to know your fellow sailors, and the others in the fleet, day two en route to Mljet was a bit more comfortable. The days on board the boat are spent lazing on top deck getting sunburnt, perhaps reading for entertainment, checking out who has cellulite and who doesn't, and salivating like Pavlov's dogs when you hear the lunch bell.

As one who had never experienced motion sickness before, I can't say the first few days eating aboard the boat were great - but you get used to it.

Usually after lunch there is a swim stop (they were quick to tell us Aussies that there are no sharks in the Adriatic) and then it's fix up, look sharp, time to hop off the boat (after skolling some of the sneaked-in vodka of course) and head out into the real world again. By 'real world' I mean bars frequented by tourists doing the exact same tour under a different name - you probably won't see an actual Croatian person.

This goes on for eight days, through Dubrovnik, Korcula, Makarska, Omis (don't worry, I've been there and I don't even know how to pronounce them) and back to Split - or a slightly different route depending on the tour company.

Highlights were kayaking in the national park in Mljet to St Mary Island, walking the walls of Dubrovnik  and watching people attempt to cliff dive while being taunted about the possibility of becoming a paraplegic, and getting our feet wet in the cave nightclub in Makarska.

Despite my sarcasm, it was a great week. Was it the best week of my life as I had so eagerly anticipated? No. But it was a lot of fun. It would be pretty hard not to have fun in a confined space with 20 other young people and vodka, so the fact that we were in Croatia was really of no consequence.

It's an easy way to travel, have fun, and meet people, without really leaving your comfort zone, and without having to organise any sight-seeing, meals or accommodation for a week. If you want to see and experience Croatia and get involved in the local culture, don't do this tour. If you want to drink with a bunch of twenty-something Aussies, swim and sunbathe everyday for eight days, and probably piss off some locals, but still have a smashing time; then this is the thing for you.

It's something I'm extremely glad I did and (though each morning my memory of the day before was wiped clean) it's an experience I'll never forget. But could I have had this exact experience cruising down the Murray-Darling? Probably. And I'd have had more money left over for some better quality vodka.