TravelStream™ news feed for member alicecrabtree on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/alicecrabtree en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 29 Jun 2007 11:28:21 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159454940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159454940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159454940/tpod.html Fri, 29 Jun 2007 11:28:21 -0400 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Istanbul, Turkey

My last day in Istanbul was planned to a tee. It would entail a wander around Topkapi Palace at a comfortable pace and a boat trip around the Bosphorus. Sadly, it was not to be. On my return to the hostel, Sinead, Wahib and a bunch of other people had gathered at the bar and there were sounds of merriment. It turned out to be a pretty raucaus night and my penitence was not being able to drag my sorry ass out of bed the next morning, not for Topkapi, not for the Bosphorus and for no one.
I was well looked after by Nimo and the rest of the staff at the hostel, and by early evening, hating myself, was able to go out on to the street and feebly nibble on a kebab. I caught up with the others and we wandered down to the Blue Mosque, where there was a fair celebrating Ramadan with street food and entertainment. Among us was one of the strangest individuals I have ever met, a lanky guy with weird mannerisms. He claimed he was from Greenland, but seemed to be a chronic liar. Sinead and I, utterly creeped out, tried to keep our distance and avoid being alone with him, Wahib stifling his laughs most of the time.
Near the Bazaar we visited a traditional teahouse where the ratio of men to women was about 50:1, the air thick with the smoke from the hukkahs, the walls covered in ornate carpets and hanging lanterns which looked amazing.
We sat and enjoyed apple tea, watching the locals gossiping among themselves over tea and the hukkahs, everyone seemed to be out that night having a good time, not much different to going to the pub on a friday in Australia.

My last morning in the city was precious, I woke up ridiculously early to do a lightning tour of Topkapi before going to the airport. It was eerily quiet and just after opening, now with a guard to visitor ratio of 50:1. I only had an hour, but I managed to see more bejewelled items than I thought could every exist. Why sultans need ruby encrusted toothbrushes I'm not sure, but they were a marvel to look at.

It was the artefacts of particular historial significance that caught my fancy, especially the supposed hand and skull fragments of John the Baptist. There were also the footprints, hairs and manuscripts of the prophet Mohammed, a vigil of guards always close by. There was a small corner behind glass where someone sat while chanting the Koran, adding to the solemn and mysterious air of the place.

I was devestated to not have the time too see the Harem, a neverending labyrinth of plushly furnished rooms, but my destination was the Ataturk Airport, and London. Amazingly the schrapnel I had been given at Gallipoli went straight through security, tight after a fire only months before.

Istanbul and what I had seen of Turkey had been one of my favourite destinations so far and I'm dying to go back already. Hopefully it won't change to much before I have the chance once again, because it has so much to offer. Onwards!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159346700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159346700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159346700/tpod.html Sat, 23 Jun 2007 05:18:52 -0400 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Troy, Turkey

We woke early, first at 4am to the young drummer in the street, waking people and calling them to eat for Ramadan. By 7am the rain was easing, and after a traditional breakfast of bread, tomatoes, cucumber and cream cheese we were on the road to Troy.

After such an emotionally charged trip around Gallipoli, Troy had little chance to compete in the interest stakes with the reputation preceeding it. Before I left Istanbul I had heard the site was little more than a pile of rubble, poorly reconstructed in the 70's, and not very interesting, but in much more contrite language.
I wanted to give Troy a fighting chance, it was a truly fascinating part of ancient history if not just a great story. But unfortunately we drew up to a sad looking reconstructed wooden horse, covered in graffiti, and stairs to climb up into its head for a photo op.
The tour guide (bless her) was trying very hard to get us excited about it, and at 9am no less. The rubbly parts were interesting, you could see the outlines of city streets here and there, the only visible thing left of the city. It had been destroyed systematically nine times by the greeks, the romans, and anyone else around the Mediterranean feeling spiteful.
The tour guide explained that treasures, jewellery, ceramics, coins had been discovered here when the site was first found, but plundered by the German who found it, Heinrich Schliemann. She was getting fiery about the fact that little to none of the artefacts were on display in Turkey, but in Western Europe instead.
It was a catch 22, If they hadn't reconstructed the site, there would have been little so see, but in the reconstruction they had made it spectacularly tacky, right down to the "steve 4 mindy 4eva" in the horse's head.

Most people on the tour were continuing on to Kuçadasi, however a select few including myself were going back to Istanbul. By chance we managed to catch a local bus which came equipped with a steward in a suit with slick backed hair. He came around regularly with complementary snacks and beverages and to pour lemon oil into our hands. Made me think of the Greyhound buses that went around Australia with barely a working toilet let alone free snacks, and a driver that growled at you.

In five or so hours we were back in Istanbul, already I was meticulously planning my last full day there with Sinead and Wahib.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513300/tpod.html Sat, 10 Mar 2007 02:59:10 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Gallipoli, Turkey

A 6am start landed me right back with Fez Tours, the people who I had gone around Greece with, for a six hour journey down the Gallipoli Peninsula, one of the most significant historical sites in Australian history to date.
Like any other child going through the Australian schooling system, I had the "Gallipoli Legend" beaten into me from the beginning. I clearly recall all the memorial services from pretty well my first day at school, the poppies, the trumpets, the words "Diggers" and "Rats of Tobruk" being tossed around, the Anzac biscuits, the games of two up the old men played in the pub after the marches. I did have a great-grandmother in the trenches of Northern France, but apart from that, little personal connection to Anzac day and what it meant, and never did I envisage myself making the pilgrimage to Anzac Cove. I saw the weeping teenagers with the flag draped around their shoulders at the dawn services on TV every April 26th, and internally questioned whether they had any idea what the war and the suffering that came with it was about, and how much of it was just for show.
Being in Istanbul, that close to such a historical site, it was less out of patriotism and more out of the fear of denunciation once I returned home that I was making this side step trip. I was relieved to discover that a few other people on the mini-bus were feeling the same way (They were all Australians and New Zealanders except for one confused South African who'd been dragged along by his Aussie girlfriend) and we were talking about it when we stopped for apple tea and ozmat, a toasted sandwich with goats cheese. We finally reached the small town closest to the cove at lunch time, by now it was completely overcast and chilly. We shared a simple communal meal in what looked like a town hall, and it was a bizarre coincidence that the guy sitting next to me was from Victor Harbor, where my grandparents have always lived and where my mum grew up.

We met Ali, our tour guide who had a flair for story telling and the dramatic. He was a fierce elderly man, who had grown up in the area and was ardently showing his respect for the Anzacs and everything they stood for.
I had felt strange talking to the Turks in Istanbul about going to Gallipoli, the vague idea that I was going to "dwell on the carnage between your people and ours" which seemed to me a pretty hostile message to the locals. I stood corrected on arrival, it seems that Turkish-Australian relations have only been strengthened by the battle that happened there so long ago, and more importantly, the remembrance of it. I soon discovered that their blame lay with the British, their diplomatic blunders in the lead up to World War I and their militaristic misconduct towards their colonial regiments on Butlers Beach left the Turkish with a bitter taste in their mouth.
Their affection for Australians could also have been accounted for in the fact that Ataturk, their esteemed leader, rose to power after his leadership role in the spectacular defeat of the Anzacs, thus resulting in the unified and independent secular state of Turkey. Ataturk' face, name, words were imprinted everywhere in Turkish culture, his statues in the centre of every town, plaques mounted on every official building, the name of the airport, a constant reminder of his creation of a nation his people were so proud of.

It was a bizarre feeling to stand on the beach, looking up at the cliffs that the soldiers faced at 4.30am on the 26th of April, 1915, and being able to relate to the total demoralization that they suffered from. It was hard to imagine men as young as 15 spending eight months on this beach or close to it, shells raining down on them, having left home convinced they were in for a great adventure. It was all a rather moving experience.

We visited all the significant memorial sites, Anzac Cove and the site of the sunrise ceremonies, Lone Pine, The Turkish memorials and the ones for the New Zealanders too. It was fascinating to see what remained of the trenches, mostly filled in from almost 100 years of erosion, but still clearly visible. At one point, the Turkish and Australian trenches were a mere 20m apart.

There was a great story that Ali animatedly explained, one day a white flag appeared from the Turkish trenches signaling an unofficial ceasefire. A bag stuffed tightly with tobacco was flung over the enemy lines with a single note attached with "Paper?" written on it. The Anzacs gathered up all the paper they could find, newspaper, letters, scrap from their journals, and tossed it over to the Turks. The unofficial ceasefire continued, with nothing but smoke coming from either trench.

This story only culminates the rumours about the sentiments felt in fighting each other, and lends an idea as to why the Anzacs managed to evacuate thousands of troops in the dead of night with only one or two casualties. It made me wonder why we don't show the overwhelming respect that the Turks show us in our parades and memorial services, they were so hospitable and kind to us.

We concluded the tour with the presentation of pieces of shrapnel to each person on the tour, they were found by Ali as a child when he would explore the old battlefields with his father some 70 years ago. It was a fascinating trip around and I had a much clearer understanding of the sequence of events and the legacy that remains, a priceless souvenir. Another Anzac Day won't pass the same way again.

The rain began to fall as we piled back on to the buses, and traveled by ferry over the Bosphorus to Çennakale, officially crossing over from the European continent to the Asian one, and the rain kept pouring on into the night.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1173513120/tpod.html Sat, 10 Mar 2007 02:55:25 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Istanbul, Turkey

The Orient Hostel in Sultanhamet had been recommended to me through a few different mediums, it boasted good, cheap accommodation with great food and entertainment most nights. In my head I was already a resident, but physically, I was still at the train station with a rather strange English couple who I had met onboard, who very vague as to their next movements and totally inept at putting any plans into motion. Everything from getting all the luggage together, making a phone call and going to an ATM seemed totally arduous with their indecisiveness, but unfortunately I was involved by then and fallen into the role of being the travel organiser, and after all I was glad not to be alone and to be able to use them for their Lonely Planet Guide.

There is a cobbled street in Sultanhamet, about a block west of the Blue Mosque which is totally designated to cater for travelers such as myself. A whole row of hostels, cheap eateries, laundromats, travel agents, little grocery stores, and a little further up the road, more up-market hotels, Persian rug stores, souvenir shops. This whole strip seemed to never sleep and had people meandering up and down it at all hours of the day and night, foreigners and locals. The most spectacular thing of all was the Blue Mosque, completely lit up for Ramadan, rising above all the other buildings and lighting up the street, always serving as a compass guide. The Orient was cheap and cheerful, one of the liveliest hostels I had been in so far, and had a lot to offer. I took up residence in my dorm and quickly made friends with Wahib, a Sydneysider of Lebanese descent and Sinead, a charming girl from Galway. It wasn't long before we were an official trio, wandering happily around the hostel and on to the streets of Istanbul. The hostel had a restaurant and bar upstairs with very simple and cheap Turkish meals, and was where we took our included breakfast of omlettes, French toast, or more traditional yoghurt and honey. Above the restaurant there was a patio on the roof, with clear views of Blue Mosque, St. Sophia and the Bosphorus, one of the most fascinating stretches of water you can come across. The following morning took me straight to the Blue Mosque, where I complied with Islamic law and donned a headdress and took off my shoes which just added to the solemn and mysterious ambience of the place. The interior was mind-blowing, some of the most beautiful architecture I had encountered and enhanced totally by the marvelous display of lights strung all around the high ceilings. Sultanhamet is one of the oldest districts of modern day Istanbul, a peninsula in the Bosphorus and connected to the other parts of the city by a series of bridges. I wandered around this old district that has had so many historical influences, trying to imagine what it looked like in the days of Constantinople, when it was a significant religious and cultural centre, a city of intellectuals and important historical figureheads. Like most tourists, this only brought me to the mother of all shopping centres, the Grand Bazaar. It truly was amazing, this beautiful maze of phenomenal colours, the ornate tiled walls only lit by lanterns.
In Greece, there were some attractive wares in the tourist areas, but there were a lot of somewhat generic and tacky goods, paintings of over exaggerated sunsets over the sea, ceramic figures of the ancient Gods, magnets, ancient Greek "pornography" playing cards. Here in Turkey, most of the items they were flogging off to the tourists were very attractive and desirable, and for an excellent price.

The salespeople were bloodthirsty and relentless, and would use any ploy to get you into their store or at least talking to them, a rather irritating and sometimes downright offensive part of wandering around.
It was a lot cheaper to buy this stuff outside the bazaar, but I got chatting to a young guy who was studying to be a dentist and worked part time in a jewellery store. He was watching the clock like a hawk because the fasting for Ramadan had just begun and he had been painfully whiling away the hours until 7pm, half an hour away, when he could grab something to eat. I bought a necklace, maybe a little bit out of sympathy, but it was beautiful handicraft all the same.

Outside the bazaar, I picked up a few gifts for the fam, knowing my mother's lust for Persian fabrics and Turkish tiles, I don't know whether it was my being a young girl or his hunger pangs, I got a great deal all the same and my backpack was just that little heavier.

With the help of some of the guys at the hostel, I scored a spot on a overnight tour down to the Gallipoli Peninsula, visiting Anzac cove and Troy, which left the following morning. An early night for me, but not for my fellow residents, which only left scandalous stories for me to come back to and have a laugh about in a couple of days time.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159080540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159080540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1159080540/tpod.html Sat, 10 Mar 2007 02:50:39 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Alexandropolis, Greece

It was with a great deal of bitterness that I handed over my money to the desk clerk at the Larissa train station in exchange for a ticket back to Thessaloniki, and his sullen and monosyllabic explanation as to why I couldn't get a direct passage to Istanbul only made it worse.

Things were looking up when the train turned out to be a sleeper, everyone bustling up and down ladders into their sleeping quarters. I was on the top bunk in a compartment of six women, one of whom was elderly, dressed entirely in black and with a headscarf, and continued to cross herself for the next 10 minutes. Another younger one also dressed entirely in black but in a more modern and "loose" way, she gave me a smile, flashing cracked teeth through the red lipstick, her eyes crusty with mascara.
I settled down, ipod in my ears and face extraordinarily close to the ceiling, and soon fell asleep, rocking with the rhythm of the train.

6am in Thessaloniki held little but those croissants filled with chocolate cream and a cup of gritty coffee. It was the first time I had seen Greco-Turkish relations in full swing, when I asked for my ticket tot Istanbul the prompt answer from the conductor was "Why would you want to go there?" My shrug wasn't a good enough answer for him, he handed the ticket to me without another word.

I was extremely lucky to have gotten a seat on the early morning train, a full train meant a wait until the night service to Istanbul which left that evening, another full day in Thessaloniki would have driven me crazy, and I probably would have thrown myself onto the tracks before it arrived.

There were a couple of girls my age on the platform, both were Canadian but one was of Greek heritage, spoke the language fluently and was on her way with the other one to see family in Alexandropolis. The whole service was entirely in Greek, so when the loud speaker was jabbering away, just like the conductors wandering around looking at tickets, I just smiled and nodded, looking around to see if it was serious. The Canadian girl approached me and explained what was being said, that Alexandropolis was the end of the line for the train, and that all passangers going to Istanbul should be getting of at "x" station, a small town somewhere along the line. We studied her map, and then finally finding the dismally small spot labeled in Greek, another greek girl piped up, "oh, we have already been through this town." Heart in my throat, we hastily summoned a conductor with a huge bushy moustache, and the Canadian girl translated my woes, he wandered down the carriage, chatted with another guy and then came back announcing that we hadn't been through it yet, and that I should actually get off at Alexandropolis.

I was still having heart palpitations over the fact that the train didn't go all the way to Istanbul when we pulled into Alexandropolis, offloaded onto the pavement and generally waved in the direction of a couple of coaches. Cursing the old prick that had said nothing about the trip when he handed me the ticket despite his good grasp of English, I assembled with a whole group of other puzzled foreigners, mostly Spaniards but with a few groups of English.

The air conditioned coach took us for two hours through the dusty hills eastward, none of us had any idea where we were going to we persistently tried to get off every time the bus stopped until the bus driver and his companion herded us back on. Finally they deposited us at a lonely and seemingly abandoned train station in the middle of nowhere. There was a little store that had a bag of chips that I assumed had been there since 1985 and a shriveled old man that I assumed had been there since 1905. A rough looking local had a puppy that we all played with, while we sat among the weeds trying to make sense of the handwritten timetable in Greek on the wall. It was like algebra, but we worked out that the train was due at 3.30pm. At 4pm, a decrepit train pulled in, completely empty except for the people getting on to it, leaving me with a compartment to myself, a spot to lie down and have a nap.

Shortly after, we pulled into a new and slightly more jazzy station with no more people than the last one, bureaucratic or otherwise. The main thing was that the Turkish flag was flying out the front, we had finally crossed the border. Gruffly, the customs men went around and took our passports and told us to wait until they summoned us to pay for visas. We obediently filed in and out of the office while they scanned the sheet to work out how much we owed depending on our nationality, a mere $10AUD for a visa and some lame jokes in Turkish about kangaroos, a bargain I thought. We all waited on the platform, staring at the sky and pushing dirt around with our feet when all of a sudden the train pulled out, with all our stuff onboard. The natural response was to chase after it for a few metres shouting, when we heard the guffaws of the customs people behind us who were pointing at the train behind it, which was apparently ours, and not the one pulling out at all. Feeling stupid we all got back onboard and settled in.

No one knew how long it took to get to Istanbul, some thought it would be that evening and others thought the next day, the conductors seemed a little vague about it too.

I was amazed at the similarities between the countryside of western Turkey and that of rural South Australia, except with more goats and a particular and strange smell. Well after darkness had fallen, we had begun to penetrate Istanbul's outer suburbia, children in their pyjamas were waving out bathroom windows to the train, older kids were playing soccer in the lamp light.

Still fairly far from the platform, the train halted and the conductors helped us down from the train, to walk along the tracks into the station that once was the end of the line of the Orient Express.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1158821340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1158821340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1158821340/tpod.html Sat, 17 Feb 2007 02:51:07 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Santorini, Greece

Santorini. The quintessential greek island. Clusters of white and blue spotted settlements perched haphazardly along a dramatically cliffed coast line. As you traverse the flat plains of vineyards and farmland in the centre of the island, it comes to an abrupt halt and there is nothing but a perilous plunge downwards into the sea, if someone had told you it was the end of the Earth, the idea doesn't seem so far-fetched. And yes, it is as breath takingly beautiful as all the brochures show.

Based around a dormant volcano that last raised its ugly head in 1956, the black sands of of the Santorini beaches lay as a remainder that nature rules roost here. We based ourselves in a beachside hotel on the southern eastern side of the island, away from the "capital" of the island, Thira, which was one of the cliff top towns on the other side. We joined one of the other tour groups that had been going around in a similar track to us but on a different itinerary, rather pointlessly because they sat on a different table and we didn't talk to them at all. They had a noticeably larger age variation, and seemed to subconsciously order themselves into age brackets, with the 20 somethings one end and the 60 somethings the other. This only made me realise how lucky I was to have a group that clicked so well and would definitely provide some excellent friendships when the party was all over.

There was a strip along the beach of cheap clothes stores and rather crass Greek paraphernalia markets, fun to meander through, and yet more cocktail bars that we would inadvertently shmooze into because by now it seemed as natural as breathing.

The highlight of perhaps my entire trip to Greece was the boat trip that took place the following morning. After the dreaded death defying bus trip down to the port, which sat neatly at the base of the cliffs with nothing but a treacherous winding road up to the top, we found a sturdy vessel waiting to take us out to the surrounding islands, including the volcano which loomed in the distance like a big black rock resting on the horizon.

The old boat was crammed like a refugee boat with just about every nationality of tourist, which had the loudspeaker commentary catering for them in about five languages, all done by the same man which was very impressive.

Approaching the island, the bizarre black rock formations were stark against the blue background of the sea, and stepping on to the little black dock was like stepping on to some strange uninhabited planet, nothing grew or lived when there was nothing but carbon to sustain them. Walking up the hillside was like walking on a million bags of barbeque coals, there was nothing but black rock as far as the eye could see, it was truly spectacular. After a circuit of the island, the whole time wondering when would be the next time this place would be on the news, we made our way back to the waiting boat, ready to set sail to a nearby secluded cove.

We anchored about 40m from the shoreline where there was a single, tool-shed sized building, rumoured to be home to Santorini's local hermit. Here we stripped down to swimming gear and hurled ourselves overboard, swimming like a large pack of sea mammals to the shore, to the muddy waters hiding a hot spring underneath. The mud was supposedly therapeutic so we slapped it all over ourselves, taking about 15.6 seconds for it all to turn into a massive mudslinging fight, with great globs of smelly clay flying through the air.

Swimming back, it seemed to occur to a select few that they actually couldn't swim (I wasn't going to mention the fact that they were American, but...) and they clung with their eyes shut in panic to the anchor. It took a few of the crew to coax them onboard, providing a bit of confounded amusement for the rest of us.

We next stopped for lunch and a wander at one of the smaller inhabited islands, which looked like a pretty nice place for a sea change until you met the gruff locals serving up the souvlaki in the restaurants, who looked like they could defend their settlement if need be.

The final destination on the day trip was Oia, the town without which there would be no photographic calendars of Greece, none of those framed pictures you find in Cunningham's Warehouse, none of those cheesy magnets. It was breathtakingly stunning, the blue and white houses with bougainvillea and geraniums in their gardens, the blue domed churches, the village squares filled with flowers. Being sunset, this was their busiest time in terms of tourism, all the more upmarket tourist shops had their doors open, selling various paintings of the phenomenal scene outside, silver jewellery, tiles and ceramics. Everyone gathered facing westward to see the one of the best sunsets you can see, a bride and groom were wandering around with no apparent wedding party, making elopement look pretty good.

Once the last colours of the sun had gone, we convened in the village square to catch the bus to Thira, where we wandered around haphazardly avoiding traffic looking in all the shops, winding up in Murphy's Irish bar. A late night ensued, and when we awoke the next morning, out of the blue, rain had begun to fall, lightning was flashing and there were some angry black clouds over the hills. This threw a spanner in the works in terms of the last leg of the journey, the ferry to back to Athens, which was cancelled in bad weather. Many on the tour had flights home that evening to start work the following day, and were panicked at the prospect of staying another night and missing their flights. Fortunately, at the last minute, it was a go ahead for the ferry, and we shuffled onboard in relief.

It poured in Athens for the whole night, drenching anyone who ventured out of the hotel that we had stayed in before. We were rapidly dwindling in numbers, some had stayed on Santorini to continue their travels in that direction, and some had flown out already. The following morning was clear so we wandered down to the markets again, discovering more and more creative ways of escaping the wrath of the hawkers, and whinging about the luggage weight laws that Easyjet were enforcing. We took coffee at the base of the Acropolis, gossiping about the outcomes of the trips, the friendships made and the plans for meeting up in London.
I arranged an overnight ticket to dreaded Thessaloniki in the general direction of Turkey, it left very late and I was the last of the group to leave to hotel, filling in the time chatting about trips and jobs in London with Lisa, a South African living in the UK who had gone on a different tour. Finally I was back at the train station, luggage in hand, amazingly bronzed, heading the direction whence I had come.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1164111360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1164111360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1164111360/tpod.html Fri, 12 Jan 2007 08:03:58 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Jasper, Alberta, Canada

We boarded the Canadian, a long and rather stately looking train in Winnipeg early in the evening. It was divided into two parts, the grander half for the more prosperous delegation on board, where we, the common people, were not permitted. Our half was bountiful enough, with large and comfortable chairs and a series of entertainment compartments with a bar, a recreational area with a television and board games, a viewing area with a glass ceiling and finally, a restaurant.
We had been informed by the staff that until we reached Edmonton, the majority of the travelers would simply be commuters rather than tourists, and that was definitely the case, Canadians simply going on their way from A to B.
We crossed the Prairies of Manitoba and Saskatchewan in darkness, we amused ourselves by watching movies and reading, eating, wandering up and down the hallways, attempting to play the baby boomers version of Trivial Pursuit (to little avail) and catching fleeting moments of sleep. It was less of a challenge having done such a vast distance on the impossibly uncomfortable coach, the memory etched deep in our minds. We stopped irregularly, waiting for the freight trains that were given way and for the short stop in Saskatoon.
I woke at sunrise, seeing the last of the Prairies, the cold and flat plains of Saskatchewan stretching as far as the eye can see, in which slowly, kilometre by kilometre, the panorama was becoming more varied and irregular.
We treated ourselves to a breakfast in the dining car, seated with a man traveling with his father westward to Vancouver from Toronto, the entire distance and quite a feat. We chatted about the view and the outcome of the Gray Cup over eggs and coffee.
We pulled into Edmonton, the capital of Alberta, at around midday where snow was thick on the ground. We were relieved at the chance to get some fresh air and walk around, throw a few snowballs around before clambering back onboard.

From mid-afternoon onwards, we were ascending into the mountains at the feet of the Rockies, which got more and more spectacular with every minute that passed. We spent the majority of the time in the viewing carriage, intermittently a Quebecois guide would pop his head in and point something out or ask little trivia questions. He informed us that a moose carcass was lying close to the tracks which allowed us to catch a glimpse of a pack of wolves who were loitering among the snow-laden trees near the tracks.
A little further up the way, a couple of Moose were grazing at whatever wasn't too frozen to eat, looking comfortable in their shaggy attire and gazing nonchalantly as the train went by. Between us we wondered if this was a standard viewing or the train had traveled on auspicious days, gloating a little.
The mountains rose up before us caked with white and the orangey colours of the late afternoon sun reverberating off the slopes, making them look marvelous.
Jasper, a quaint ski village with a reputation preceding it made you wonder what it would be like to live there and whether the locals were pre-ordained snow bunnies or foreign seachangers. A very pretty place nonetheless.
The train hauled itself through the mountains during the night, apparently the itinerary was planned this way because people became nervous when they saw the sizeable drops out the window, VIA rail was simply avoiding hysteria. In the last light we got to see a field of resting reindeer, again indifferent to the passing trains, which apparently were common and not of interest to them.

Another night ensued with entertainment similar to the previous night, maybe in a slightly more irritable fashion but still relatively civil. We had mowed through the food pack Christina had prepared for us, had almost completely used up the battery power of the laptop and our eyes were almost too bleary to read, but we did sleep well.

At nine o'clock the following morning, having crossed Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia, we saw the first outer industrial areas of Vancouver in the drizzly rain.
The city came into view and looked very picturesque, the reddening leaves hadn't fallen from the trees yet and the light was gleaming on the bay, the rain was light and the air was warmish compared to what we had become accustomed too.

We tumbled on to the platform with our luggage, still swaying from the incessant motion of the the train. We were a little wide eyed and irresolute about our next moves, relieved to be met by Richard van Leeuwin, a family friend of Dave's, who had found us in good shape at the final destination of our cross country tour.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1168229400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1168229400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1168229400/tpod.html Fri, 12 Jan 2007 07:18:09 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

When I was a lanky 11 year old in my first week in a posh English girl¡¯s school in Bath, fresh from a school of 50 kids in rural South Australia, I was, per se, a little nervous.
My parents were in the middle of a sea change, knew barely anyone in the area, and the other English parents were a little cold and distant. The headmistress took the situation into her own hands and introduced us to the other sea changers, The Thiessens, fresh from Winnipeg and doing exactly the same thing. Elle and I became great mates, as did our parents and the rest was history. When the year was up, and it was time to return to our respective realities, we said our goodbyes and kept in touch through email. Bruce and Christina visited us once in Adelaide looking for business opportunities but to no avail. I had been meaning to come to Winnipeg for ages and finally after eight years, I had made it to the city boasting the coldest intersection on Earth, the greatest divergence in temperatures through the seasons, and radical topography, the highest point being 1m above sea level.

Elle met us at the bus stop in good shape and with the same luminous sense of humour, whisked us off to their place for dinner, where her parents, little changed, were preparing to go to their dancing lessons.
Well on the second wind, we rugged up and wound around the icy streets to Cousin¡¯s bar for good Manitoban beer. Elle had become much involved in a small film production group and so we met up with the crew who were a crowd of virtuoso artists in the making, and very interesting to talk to.

After a good sleep, we went downtown and had the grand tour, firstly around the quirky little vintage stores and dusty, fire-hazardous secondhand bookshops, with books from Stalinist Russia to petunias piled high to the ceilings. We sat in one of the main squares in the glacial CBD with steaming poutine, no snow but the pavement thick with ice.
We progressed down the Forks, where the Red River meets the Assiniboine, a historical site in regards to the trading between native traders and the white settlers, where supposedly up until recent times, hunters would go and slap down bloody pelts on to the glass counters in the cosmetics section of the Hudson¡¯s Bay Company (now a swish department store) looking for their hard-earned pay.
The Forks is also now a tourist centre with a mall in the middle, boasting an impressive assortment of shops and eateries, and some damn good maple and walnut fudge.

On the Friday night we went out to the Kings Head and met up with a few of Elle¡¯s friends, a good solid pub downtown which supplied one the best India pale ales I have ever tasted, and doubt I will be able to find again because of it being brewed in a micro-brewery in Winnipeg and nowhere else, Murphy¡¯s Law one supposes.

We wound up in an Australian bar in trendy Osbourne village with the walls decorated with Arnotts biscuits signs and offering an array of beers I hadn¡¯t seen in over six months, including Adelaide¡¯s very own Cooper¡¯s pale ale. We celebrated with a taste of Tasmania - James Boag¡¯s Premium, a legacy we have left with the Winnipeggers that I hope will carry on in our absence.


Our stay had coincided with the Grey Cup, the finals in Canadian grid-iron football, which this year was being hosted by Winnipeg. The annual Santa Claus Parade was intermingled with a hint of football flavour with frigid looking cheerleaders from Alberta and Quebec. We looked on for about 20 minutes before the cold in our toes got the better of us and we retreated to the food court in a nearby shopping centre.
The evening began suavely with after dinner cocktails whipped up in the bar of the sunken lounge while listening to Dusty Springfield. Friends of Elle¡¯s, Hungarian sisters Rita and Eszter came over, they had recently moved to Canada for their dad¡¯s work and were keen to show us the nightlife.
We heard the lowdown on the clubs in Winnipeg, Tijuana Yacht Club was for the underage and preppy, Desire for the gay but had a decent dance floor, and the Gentlemen¡¯s Club was for well, gentlemen.
We flounced around the frozen streets of downtown Winnipeg, abysmally underdressed despite the balmy conditions, a low of a mere -9¢ªc, considering this time of year was reputed to provide much more dramatic figures.
They wanted to show us Empire, three levels of coke-induced, wallpapered and polished chaos, which we wandered around sipping on overpriced drinks concocted with Red Bull. It was interesting to see, but once a little overcome by the scenery, the general consensus was that we felt more at home in the King¡¯s Head, at an old worn table and surrounded by faded Irish paraphernalia and barflies. A good night was to be had.

A little worn the next day, it was good to be able to unwind a bit at the house in preparation for the final leg of the cross-country tour. We watched movies on one of the biggest tv¡¯s I¡¯ve seen in a while and Dave talked gadgets with Bruce.
Christina prepared for us the mother of all food bags for the trip which saw us through the journey and then some, it seemed like eons that we were still munging on cookies, sandwiches and trail mix, much to our delight.

We were deposited at the railway station to begin an epic crossing of the Prairies and the mountains towards the West Coast. We left the Thiessens with dual promises for future visits, hoping it wouldn¡¯t be too long until we caught up with them again (and that maybe the next time we saw Elle would be on the big screen¡¦) ending a very gratifying pilgrimage to central Canada, one that I hope can be repeated in the not so distant future.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1162019580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1162019580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1162019580/tpod.html Fri, 12 Jan 2007 00:52:05 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Quebec to Ontario took no time at all and we were soon in the extraordinarily comfortable care of Dave's mum Marianne in Manotick, fed and re-socked.
Saturday night means one thing in Canada, Saturday Night Hockey with Don Cherry, Canadian answer to Eddie Maguire and possibly even more irritating. After a great meal of traditional Zambian food, I was subjected to a Senators - Canadiens game (Ottawa and Montreal) and was a little confounded by it all.
On Sunday we drove out to a fantastic country house to have lunch with family friends of the Wightmans which had been restored meticulously in recent years to its former glory of the colonial days. Colly and her children Chris and Susan had previously lived on Baffin Island in the Northern territories and had a vast collection of beautiful Inuit prints and sculptures among interesting bits and pieces like the horns of narwhales and the penis bones of walruses.
After a hearty lunch, we watched a flock of wild turkeys hone in on some feed left on the lawn for them, tossing up between relief or disappointed that it wasn't the grizzly bears that had been sighted around the place recently.
Both Chris and Susan worked as aids to MPs on Parliament Hill and recommended the tour of the place. Come Monday morning we found ourselves filing around the majestic Parliament, learning about the system of government that is so close to our own in Australia, but in a much more attractive setting (Canada's capital was actually built before the 70s!)
We were hoping to see question time in the House of Commons while there was a rather heated exchange in the making after one MP had called another a bitch, causing a bit of a stink in all the political media across the country. Unfortunately it was closed to the public but we felt we had seen enough, our stomachs leading us to the Elgin St. Diner for the city's best poutine - fries covered in cheese curds and gravy - a national dish.

I was lucky to have Halloween coincide with the trip seeing as we don't celebrate it at all in Australia and I really didn't have much experience with it. We spent the evening with Dave's high school friend Amy, her husband John and their kids Eva and Ella who were decked out in full regalia as a spider and a leopard. Us girls toured around the family orientated neighbourhood, Eva working her magic and earning one hell of a stash of tasty treats, while the gentlemen stayed behind and took care of the distribution of goods to the other trick or treaters. The night descended into watching hockey, drinking beer and eating way too much candy.

While in the national city we embarked on a tour of the artsy side of things, including the national art gallery. This is the main home of Canada's most famous art work, that of the Group of Seven, pieces depicting natural Ontario at the turn of the 20th century. There was also the very controversial Voice of Fire by Barnett Newman, a painting bought by the gallery for $1.8 million that I think I could have done myself had I the inclination and for a much better price. The collection of Native art was impressive, especially the pieces of Beech bark that had floral designs that were indented using the teeth, a way of practicing designs before embroidery.

We also made a visit to the Civilisation Museum, which had the most fun children's section of any museum I had visited, we sat and made Indonesian shadow puppets for the best part of an hour. In the more serious parts it was well worth the while, we watched a film on how to make an igloo (I thought all Canadians would know how to build an igloo, but apparently all the residential igloos were melted in the great fires of 1996 and they resorted to more traditional materials, or so Dave says...)

After having been in and around Ottawa for the best part of a week, we progressed on towards Toronto via the road following the St. Lawrence River, the border between Canada and upstate New York which is dotted with small and pretty towns. By the side of the road not far from Belleville we found a tiny, electric blue church, we took a few pictures and left our details in their visitors book and had lunch in Kingston, where the first five minutes of snow fell.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1163223900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1163223900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/alicecrabtree/big_trip_2006/1163223900/tpod.html Thu, 11 Jan 2007 05:35:07 -0500 The rites of passage trip - Alice's guardianless ventures in Europe and North America

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Orillia, Ontario, Canada

Our next destination on the map was Orillia, bigger than Clare but a relatively small town, which is the base for Dave's family and where his mum grew up.
By chance, Carl had been spending a lot of time organizing the relocation of his mother's ashes to her home town of North Bay, and was offering to take us on the way up.
So the infamous roadtrip began - Dave, myself, Carl and Carl's mum, heading north into real Canada, the one I doubt I would have seen had I been alone.

Dave's aunt Kim and uncle Ken put us up and, our whole stay there was an absolute hoot, excellent hospitality. In no time we were sitting around the kitchen table tucking into buffalo (kind of like venison but then again kind of not, very tasty) and watching the snow fall outside.
Dave's cousin Kyle offered to take us around his work, a local indigenous-run casino. Having never really set foot in a such a place, Casino Rama was staggering, a blur of bright lights and incessant bleeping, but fascinating to watch. Kyle took us around and explained the fundamental features of black jack and craps which was really intriguing, but we didn't feel the need to partake with the tight budget we were on, and there was something daunting about the oldies feeding coins into the pokies and practically drooling in their flashing light-induced stupor.
We wound up at one of the two of Orillia's nightclubs (both called Tuxedo's oddly enough...) and met up with Kyle's brother Kurt and his girlfriend Chantelle for a few drinks. Good times to be had!

The next day was given over to lunch with the family matriarch, the infamous Nanny, whom I had heard quite a lot about and was nervous to meet. She turned out to be a very kindly old lady with some great stories, albeit adamant that she was never going to see me again. To this day I'm not sure if that was to do with her age or my total inappropriateness for her grandson, however, a good visit.

With the rest of the afternoon at our leisure, Ken and Kim suggested a tour of Orillia and nearby Barrie where Ken worked. I managed to see all the things I should have in a rural Ontarian town, snow ploughs and the storage for the salt and sand for the icy roads, the orange sticks attached to fire hydrants to designate their whereabouts in times of thick snow, and of course, Harvey's, Loblaw's, Tim Hortons and a lot more quintessential canadiana.
A highlight was visiting Ken's work; he was in the trucking business and managed to persuade a driver to exhibit the interior of one of the road-train-equivalent trucks, the living quarters as such, something which neither Dave nor myself had seen before.

Our last night in Orillia was spent quietly at home with all of the Fountains plus Chantelle, who very thoughtfully produced a tuque (beanie) for me, which was very useful in the rest of Canada, the thought of putting it on as I sit here in 35˚c makes me feel faint, but it will no doubt come in handy in Canberra! Thanks guys!

In the morning Carl arrived for the continuation of the road trip to North Bay, and after the initial drama of confusing the dog's medicine with Ken's, there were heartfelt goodbyes all round.
A big thankyou to all the Fountains for having us - we had an outrageously good time, hope to see you all soon!






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