ephemeral globe

4 Reasons To Visit Shanghai Disney Resort Now

2016-12-17T22:49:00.000-08:00

Disney's newest resort opened to much ceremony in June this year. Having visited every other Disney resort around the globe, this was my sixth and final one (for now at least). Here's why I think this is the best Disney resort in the world to visit right now:

1. It's brand new.

The paint is still drying, everything is new, shiny and lovely. Sure, this can also mean some teething problems, but as this is the sixth park Disney has built, everything has been planned and fine tuned to perfection to create the ultimate Disney experience. This is a hybrid of what is good and works well in every other Magic Kingdom style park around the world, and it shows.

The technology used on the rides is the very latest, and attractions such at Pirates of the Caribbean: Battle for the Sunken Treasure are (quite literally) jaw dropping and incredibly immersive. The $5.5 billion price tag of the resort shows.

2. There is more than just Shanghai Disneyland park.

The Shanghai Disney Resort is huge. In the middle is a vast lake called Wishing Star Lake, surrounded by walkways winding through beautiful tranquil gardens, glass bottomed bridges, and outstanding landscaped beauty.

Opposite the park is the Shanghai Disneyland Hotel, designed in a stunning Art Nouveau style. Inside are a selection of fine restaurants and bars, including Aurora, overlooking the lake and the huge castle. Add to this the huge Disneytown area, with shops and restaurants aplenty, the Toy Story Hotel the Ecological Green Park where one can go cycling or even canoeing, the Herb Gardens, and the nearby Shanghai Village shopping centre, there is more than just a day-trip's worth of things to do, not even including the park.

3. It's comparatively cheap.

Despite there being negative media attention of the prices at Shanghai Disney Resort, it's still a lot cheaper than any other Disney resort in the world, in my experience. An inexpensive meal including a drink and dessert can be purchased for around 60 yuan, or roughly £7. Not bad for Disney prices. Cost of entry tickets and hotels are also considerably lower than most Disney parks around the world.

4. Chinese people are brilliant.

If there's anything I learned on my visit, it's that Chinese people have a great sense of humour and passion that translates well for a Disney resort. The cast members all looked genuinely happy and proud to be there, and this really makes a difference when comparing to say Disneyland Paris, where the magic isn't quite up to the same level.

Whether this is opening year enthusiasm remains to be seen, but right now this creates one of the most magical and genuine Disney experiences of any resort.

5 Crazy Things About Copenhagen

2016-12-17T00:04:00.000-08:00

Copenhagen had been on my list for a while. Besides discovering how little the Little Mermaid statue really is on my visit, here are 5 things about Copenhagen you may like to know...

1. There are bikes. Lots of them.

It isn't car traffic you need to look out for in Copenhagen. About a third of all citizens in Copenhagen commute to work, school or University. In fact it is said that more people commute by bike in Copenhagen than in the entire USA. It certainly is one of the most cyclist friendly cities; although because of this perhaps the same can't be said for pedestrians. There are dedicated bike lanes, however I nearly got wiped out by cyclists on several occasions, as they appear to come from nowhere at times. Be warned...

2. The metro trains drive themselves.

In Britain this would cause strikes. In Denmark they just use logic. The trains are completely automated, stopping at each station just like any other metro system. No need to have a human doing it. I hopped on at the airport and arrived at the city centre in minutes.There are even large windows at the front and back, allowing action-movie-esque views as the train speeds through the tunnels. Cool.

3. It's expensive.

But not if you are organised. If you do some research there are plenty of places to eat that are less expensive, particularly to the West of the city. Also there are many places you can enjoy for free, such as Kastellet, a fantastic fortress with a beautiful windmill, and of course the statue of The Little Mermaid.

4. It's small.

Which is great, because if you are only planning on visiting the centre, you can pack a lot in to just one day. Most of the main attractions are within walking distance of each other. Despite the aforementioned bikes of doom, it is practical and quick to walk around and soak up the sites.

5. It's super connected.

If you wanted to explore further into Europe, Copenhagen is a good starting point. The Oresund bridge links Copenhagen directly to Malmo in Sweden, which could easily be done in a day. The superb rail links also make Norway, the Netherlands, Finland, and just about anywhere in Europe within easy reach. Of course the rail links within Denmark itself are also superb, with modern, frequent trains, putting the rail network in Britain to shame.

Shanghai: The Ancient, the Old and the Ultra-Modern

2016-06-11T23:28:00.001-07:00

China, though historically rich, might conjure up an impression of a diluted history. Much of its historical sites have been restored (sometimes perhaps unsympathetically), and commercially plundered - and some even lost forever. What does its most modern city, Shanghai, speak of the China of yesterday, and the China of today?

"Don't compare this with Japan", I remind myself after arrival at Shanghai Pudong International Airport. Signs of an architectural haste, and a cultural contrast with nearby Japan are almost immediately apparent.

Posters for the soon to open Shanghai Disneyland line the arrivals corridor, a sign of Western absorption and rapid development, and taxi touts aggressively stalk me as I step out of the air conditioned Maglev train (one of the fastest trains in the world) at Longyang road. The journey only takes 7 minutes - a modern technological marvel. In contrast with this, the unpleasant smell of a makeshift rubbish dump adjacent to the taxi rank, in a seemingly unfinished building speaks further of this architectural haste.

I do my best to communicate to the taxi driver in Mandarin, but resort to the tried and tested tourist method of a printed Google map, and an English raised voice. I am staying at the Renaissance Yu Garden, in the older Yuyuan area.

It's actually a short walk from the hotel to the Yu Garden itself. I am by no means knowledgeable on Chinese history, but the gardens were first created in 1559, during the Ming Dynasty. As with many Chinese historical sites, most of the original structures were completely destroyed, particularly though the Taiping Rebellion. Most of the site therefore consists of recreations built in the 50s and 60s.

The knowledge of the recreated buildings, coupled with the overwhelming commercial presence I am met with only detracts slightly, and a sense of cultural immersion remains. Navigating through the heart of the complex is a job given the small streets, peppered with arm grabbing street sellers and large crowds.

The City God Temple is the first paid admission area (10 Yuan if I recall). Pleasant incense smells waft throughout a large courtyard, each side of which conceals worshipped figures, representing the overseeing Gods of Shanghai - three of them in fact.

The second paid admission area is the garden itself. I walk in totally the wrong direction and end up at the garden exit - the garden can only be accessed one way. I cross a zig-zig bridge which presents stunning views of the traditional architecture around me. After finding my way in to the garden, I begin to commend this place as a genuine oasis from the crowds outside.

It's surprisingly easy to get lost inside. For those seeking to gratify their inner 'travel brochure' impressions of ancient China, inside a modern metropolis, Yu Garden achieves this. The Pavilion of Listening to Billows beckons with it's wonky bridge walkway, and goldfish filled pond.

The rockeries, and in particular the jade stone, are reminiscent of another planet, with their strange hole-punctured appearance.

The experience of Yuyuan is a gratifying, packaged, stamped and approved one. With the exception of Yu Garden, every square inch as been monopolised by mostly irrelevant shops, but it represents and satisfies what one would expect.

Another essential part of ancient Chinese life was the waterways,and the nearest place to Shanghai exemplifying this is Zhujiajiao Ancient Water Town. About an hour away from the centre of Shanghai, the affordability of taxis here means this is the best way to access the town. The metro lines don't stretch this far, and the buses can be a difficult to depend on.

The taxi drops off in a nearby car park, and I have two hours to explore.Again the proliferation of tourist commercialisation is apparent, but the first impressions are quite charming.

A series of ancient stone bridges link the narrow paved streets, with lantern adorned gondolas slowly taking tourists up and down the rivers. Some might say that this is the Venice of China. Perhaps in terms of tourist numbers, they have a point.

Luckily this early in the morning, the streets aren't too busy, and I make my way to the largest and probably most famous of the bridges, Fangsheng Bridge, built in 1571. I'm offered live fish in a bag as I lean in for a photo. Crossing the bridge, I notice the lion figures along the sides, and the very shallow steps, perhaps designed for carts to traverse.

I stumble upon the Great Qing Post Office as I leave, apparently the only historical post office in east China, built in 1903. Outside a very old post box looks genuine and proud, hopefully immune to the threats of impending commercialisation.

The 1900s seems to be the best, most preserved and authentically standing historical period in Shanghai. I catch the super efficient metro to Nanjing Road East station, and make my way along the road towards the historical side of Bund.

The Peace Hotel, now a Fairmont hotel, got its name in 1956, but the building itself was built in 1929. It boasts a stunning art deco interior, with fabulous lighting and decor in the lobby, elaborate 3D murals and an exquisite floral display in the centre.

This architecture ensues along the front of the Bund, with buildings like the HSBC Bank, Customs House and the Bank of China all dating from the late 1800s to early 1900s. They are stunning and unquestionably authentic.

An evening boat cruise on the Huangpu river is the perfect visual transition between old Shanghai and the ultra modern - with the classic art deco buildings on one side, and the aggressively competing skyscrapers of the financial district on the other.

Another hot but clearer day presents an opportunity to get into the beating heart of modern Shanghai, and get to the top of the World Financial Centre, for some vertigo inducing views.

The Sightseeing Tunnel, is perhaps the most bizarre way of getting there. Essentially a ride underneath the river, a symphony of lights, strange sounds and dazzling patterns cocoons the travel pod as it slowly makes its way through.

Emerging by the base of the Oriental Pearl tower, elevated pedestrian walkways encircle well maintained highways below, with glimpses of skyscrapers as far back as can be seen.

Giant video screens sell the latest Western, as well as Eastern products, and a glass domed chic looking Apple store is nestled below. This is truly the modern Shanghai that the rest of China hastily aspires to be.

Navigating a series of escalators and walkways, passing luxury shops, I enter the futuristic lobby of the World Financial Centre. My ticket will take me to the very top of the 'bottle opener', so named because of its tool-like shape.

Firstly a high speed elevator dramatically ascends to the 97th floor. This is the bottom of the 'hollow' area at the top of the building, and one can look up at the underneath of the upper part - a surreal experience.

Here an escalator takes me up to the 100th floor - the 'Sky Walk' - which scarily has glass floors through the middle and sides. Being at the top of the hollow area, I look down to see the 97th floor I was just on, and distant streets below.

To the sides, spectacular views are afforded of the bund, and neighbouring skyscrapers.I can't help but feel a little nauseous as my mind jumps to impossible scenarios of falling from such a great height. This isn't made easier by the sight of window cleaners, casually hoisted up, 100 floors in the sky in a glorified bucket, smiling and without a care in the world...

Ultimately the ultra-modern area of Shanghai, despite perhaps being disconnected in some ways, feels more authentic than the recreated ancient China I have seen. It's not trying to be something it's not, just representing the forefront of development, business and venture. Not preserving, but reaching. Rapidly developing at such a pace, it has me wondering if the explosion of growth is sustainable.

On the other side of the river, the classic architecture of the Bund also demonstrates a genuine integrity and authenticity. Although there are remnants and echoes of a time long passed, this is the real Shanghai. With preservation often comes the unfortunate side-effect of extreme commercialisation, repeated again and again throughout the world. For a taster though, I'm willing to put up with it for a snippet of a history, which otherwise would be be forgotten to the glorious hyper-speed aspirations of modern Chinese culture.

'Where you to?': Not Abroad, but in Cornwall

2015-08-30T05:23:00.000-07:00

The UK may often be snubbed by many, particularly those of us who live here, as a potential 'holiday at home' haven. However, as I discover in West Cornwall, there are parts of it that truly transport us away from the normal drab tourist traps.

'Dreckly', 'Where you to?' and 'Emmet'; some of the Cornish slang that truly confirms its cultural niche , the latter of which I am about to become. 'Emmet' refers to those folk who are not local, who flock to Cornwall in the summer months, and quickly disappear in the winter, rather like ants. My very quick trip will be a snapshot of the very best that West Cornwall has to offer in terms of spectacular beaches and harbours.

Penzance is the 'hub' of this part of Cornwall, with the main train-line terminating here. It really does feel like this is where the rest of the UK gets pushed aside. Penzance has suffered a decline in its fishing industry, but an increase in tourism and retail. Property prices have soared here over the last decade and in the surrounding areas. The sea glistens in the background as hordes of tourists arrive at the station by the harbour.

Mousehole, or actually as with many Cornish words pronounced differently to how it appears - more like 'Mouzul' - is a small fishing village nearby. Perhaps most known for its Christmas illuminations around the harbour, and the associated book, 'The Mousehole Cat'.

Dodging Americans wielding large cameras, wandering around the harbour feels like a movie set. Plant pots left trustingly outside, visitors stepping over a sleeping cat in the ice-cream parlour doorway, and bright green seaweed strewn contrasting the light Cornish sand on the small beach, lined with coloured surfboards.

The only thing lacking seems to be the presence of locals. Besides the many American and Asian tourists, sadly while walking past the quaint 'local' cottages, I hear unmistakeable London accents, chattering as they go in and out of their homes. The reality is that many of these homes are simply now unaffordable for locals and are predominantly owned by wealthy out-of-towners, buying into the dream. The locals have been squeezed out, to be replaced with 'emmets' seeking permanent residence. The realness seems jaded. A real-life movie set, perhaps, but still beautiful none-the-less even on an overcast day.

Porthcurno beach is widely regarded as one of the best in the UK. This narrow beach is accessible via a small path and set of steps down the hillside. Historically the area is known for its connection, quite literally, to the cable industry, exemplified by the presence of the Telegraph Museum. International underwater cabling used to connect to the building now exhibiting Porthcurno's old industry.

Stepping on to the beach at the bottom, the sand gently slopes down into very clear looking waters. Not many people chance swimming, due to the presence of strong rip tides. The dramatic cliffs either side make for a protected beach and micro-climate for sun lovers.

Further along is Sennen, a much longer beach stretching along the coast. This allows for the increased presence of bars and restaurants, being much more accessible, but less secluded that Porthcurno.

The water seems to have a special quality only found in this part of the UK, with saturated blue hues lapping against the light sand. I prefer it here to Porthcurno, mainly owing to the accessibility, despite how heaving it is.

Somewhere more tranquil is Cape Cornwall, the UKs only cape. Following the trend of encroaching outside purchasers, unfortunately only part of the cape is accessible now that land has been bought surrounding it, however its beauty can still be appreciated.

Topped with a mining chimney dating back to 1864, the rugged cliffs and pounding waves make for a refreshing experience.

Some international tourist destinations have a magical quality that cannot be bought, and St Michaels Mount in Marazion is one of them. What makes it so special is the man made causeway that mysteriously appears for a few hours when the tide is low, allowing the many tourists to traverse out to the imposing castle on an island.

There are in fact quite a few tidal islands in the UK alone, but this one allures with charm and intrigue. Once on the island, one can explore the harbour, occupied only by those that work in the castle, or pay an entrance fee to go inside, or another fee to explore the gardens... I do think it's a shame that charging is necessary, although National Trust annual membership can be bought, which could prove to be worth it for UK residents at least.

St Ives is the final beach on my list. The train journey in itself is an attraction. St Erth Station Buffet is a throwback to the classical days of British rail travel, with old posters adoring the walls advertising glamorous destinations, and tea served in floral cups. The train will be here 'dreckly' - meaning shortly, as far as I understand...

The train journey offers stunning coastal views on the right, and to the left golf courses and countryside. The posters in the cafe don't seem to lie, as it feels as though the journey to St Ives truly takes me further than the short stretch of rail track. Looking out at the vivid turquoise and clear waters, I feel as though I've gone abroad.

Leaving the station with hundreds of tourists, there is a large pristine beach directly opposite to head for. Although completely packed, I find it hard not to appreciate how far removed this is from what we expect a UK holiday to look like. Heat seems to radiate in a micro-climate, and coupled with the wonderfully bright colours I feel I could easily be in the Pacific somewhere.

Carbis Bay, the train stop before, looks to offer a similar experience, yet perhaps a little less packed.

St Ives is known for its local artists, drawn here because of the unusual quality of the light. The colours bounce off the jewel-esque sea, creating a unique and ethereal atmosphere. A further walk down reveals a harbour lined with shops and restaurants, again framed by the luminescent waters. This feels more Caribbean than Cornish!

The UK's coasts, especially Cornwall's, still sizzle as a hot tourist destination - how long this can be preserved for though is uncertain, as 'emmets' monopolise the beauty and traditional culture of Cornwall. However, evolving into a primarily tourist driven industry isn't necessarily a bad thing, and perhaps motivates locals to preserve its wonderful scenery. The second home purchasers and landowners have an obligation to fully integrate into the Cornish way of life, share it with others, and actively maintain it - one can't remain an emmet forever, after all.

Edinburgh Castle at a Glance

2015-08-08T05:39:00.001-07:00

With a history spanning over 1000 years, Edinburgh Castle is perhaps the most unavoidable and visually ubiquitous centrepiece of the city. I take a moment from a very quick day trip to Edinburgh to join the thousands of visitors who tick it off their Scottish bucket list each year.

We tend to think of any historic human development, building or monument as being static - a snapshot of a long time ago, erected suddenly, and subsequently steeped in inevitable history. In reality, most buildings have a varied, if vague sense of when and how they were created. Often they are a product of an architectural evolution, involving construction, destruction, adaptation, salvation and fortitude, guided by the equally chaotic history of human civilisation.

In fact, we could say that the history of Edinburgh Castle in fact began millions, rather than thousands of years ago, and surprisingly this ancient period created the most obvious and dominating feature of the castle. After dropping my bag off at the nearby hotel, the striking, towering volcanic bedrock that the castle sits atop of is immediately obvious walking towards it. As I get closer, the dramatically shaped black rock formed millions of years ago presents itself as the first stage in the castles history. One side is a sheer cliff face where ancient lava struck, and the other a gentle slope, protected from the jagged cliffs on the other side, where the lava 'gracefully' drifted by. The castle's proudest statement is that its built on a prehistoric volcano.

I walk towards this sloping section, gifted by nature as a natural gateway to this fortress of rock, aptly named 'The Royal Mile'. Ancient buildings are more often than not chosen for their geographical surroundings and convenience, Edinburgh Castle being a clear example. As I reach the top of some steps, The Royal Mile slopes gently downwards to the right, and the castle stands beckoning to the left.

With the Fringe Festival commencing tomorrow, and the stadium already set up for the Edinburgh Tattoo, the crowds swarm around me. I enter through the first archway, with proud knights carved either side.

It takes a while to obtain my ticket, which I put down to the fact that the one o'clock cannon firing is in about half an hour. There is time for little exploring before. The castle walls seem to have more of reddish hue up close than expected, instead of the grey colour perceived from a distance. The walls are lined with cannons and outlooks, and immediately the impressive vantage point is obvious.

The castle's history as a royal residential establishment is actually quite limited - in fact only up until about 1603. Its chief involvement in history from then on was for military and war purposes. The list of wars Edinburgh Castle had involvement in is staggering, spanning centuries.

Holding prisoners of war was one of the castle's primary purposes. I head into the dark recesses of the prison area, guided by displays, exhibits and audio visual information. The smell of rot and damp fills the air. A large stone room is full of recreated hammocks where prisoners would have slept. It's easy to see how the comradery amongst prisoners formed and lead to prison breaks.

The next prison I head into is of typical Victorian design, with a central area containing a wrought iron staircase, and rows of small individual cells around it. Peering inside reveals the isolating nature of the conditions, although perhaps more preferable to the hammocks.

The Regiment Museum is just around the corner, and a quick walk-through reveals a fascinating history in costume and items such as pistols, horns and horse riding paraphernalia. Of course the kilt, as well as ornate bagpipes, are a recurring theme.

I justle for a position outside to witness the firing of the cannon at one o'clock. Tourists wrestle and push for a position whilst staff politely (and repeatedly) ask them to keep off the grass banks of the castle interior. Rather unceremoniously a kilted Scot appears, and although I am expecting it, the ricocheting bang makes me jump, and is followed by a plume of smoke drifting across the Edinburgh skyline.

The (hopefully) final battle in the castle seems to be the war of the tourists, as I fight my way through dozy dawdlers and screaming children to find the The Great Hall. The red walls and glowing embers of the huge fireplace create a warm space, with knights armour and weaponry adorning it.

Dramatic paintings, elaborate chandeliers and wooden vaulted ceilings adds to the grandness of it. The exterior certainly does seem to create a villainous sense of foreboding, intentional or not.

Finally I have a very quick peek into the Memorial Hall, before having to go back into battle to leave. Framed by the fortification inside the castle, modern Edinburgh from this perspective appears nurtured and as though under a protective spell.

Whether predominantly from its volcanic roots millions of years ago, or from its rich and evolving architectural history, Edinburgh Castle seems to cultivate a position of permanent authority from its location, and one of prowess from its strong stone walls.

Virgin Atlantic: Indulgence with a Conscience

2015-05-13T07:26:00.000-07:00

Business class is business class - we know what to expect, right? From its 1984 conception, Virgin Atlantic has been 'flying in the face of ordinary', as they like to boast, ever since, conjuring new and exciting ways to keep its brand from fading into the often sterile, drab backdrop of air travel. On top of that, Virgin Atlantic prides itself on its commitment to being an environmentally sustainable airline. Its 'Upper Class' product is tipped to be a sort of 'higher business class, lower first class'. I find out what it's all about.

I decide to take a quick pre-wedding, pre-Christmas trip to NYC. It also would provide a good opportunity to pick up some his & his wedding rings from Tiffany, and the shorter trip seemed to justify an upgrade even more so!

Virgin Atlantic will be my airline of choice. CEO Craig Keeper recognises perhaps more than most airline executives the increasing environmental impact flying has. The airline claims it will be committing $8 billion to ensure the most fuel efficient aircraft are used, aiming to improve fuel efficiency by 30% by 2020. This perhaps explains the move to the Boeing Dreamliner rather than the initially planned (but now delayed) Airbus A380, burning 27% less fuel than the A340-300s which may eventually be phased out of Virgin Atlantic's fleet. The airline is also experimenting in biofuel technology, a priority of Virgin boss Sir Richard Branson.

Climate change may be a much debated or questioned science, but many worry about aviation's contribution to this. Some scientists think that the gaseous emissions of aircraft at high altitude are more significant than emissions at ground level. The overall proportion of greenhouse gas emissions from aircraft are considered at roughly 1.5%, expected to rise to 2.5% by 2050. Virgin has its own 'Fuel Panel' consisting of pilots and engineers who meet regularly to address ways of reducing consumption.

Weight is also a significant factor. Each tonne represents roughly 420 tonnes of carbon dioxide emissions per year, meaning every fibre and fabric of the fleet is carefully considered.

By 2020 the airline also aims to reduce noise aircraft noise emissions by 50%, as developments in new aircraft allow.

These commitments aren't limited to aircraft alone. There is also a planned reduction in electricity and water consumption, and waste disposal on the ground. Suppliers are ethically chosen and sourced, including crew uniforms. 'One Water' is provided on board supporting the Free the Children charity to provide clean drinking water in the developing world. Upper Class amenity kits are made of 100% recycled plastic from an estimated 4 million plastic bottles a year - turned into PET which has a 90% lower carbon emission footprint than nylon.

The airline's work with communities in Africa, China and India is astonishing, with Virgin Atlantic staff assisting with Free the Children in various literacy and health programmes,and allowing air passengers the chance to donate to the cause via Change for Children. In fact between 2010 and 2011, just over £1 million was raised from passenger's loose change.

Safe in the knowledge of an ethical choice, needless to say I am rather excited about flying Upper Class. My journey starts on a morning train from Devon to London Paddington. It's worth pointing out I am extremely impressed with the new FGW First carriages after an extensive overhaul - very swanky and a much 'cleaner' feeling than the old ones.

The first 'perk' to experience is Virgin's drive through check in, at their dedicated Upper Class Wing at Heathrow terminal 3. Having arranged a drop off with LHR Cars, I call the wing after receiving a text from the driver, giving the registration details. These must be provided to Virgin Atlantic in advance, but can be done on route to the airport. The process seemed very easy. You can also arrange for one of their own chauffeurs to collect you. On arriving at Paddington I am collected at the Hilton just around the corner, in a very flashy looking Mercedes.

LHR Cars are prompt and reliable - the driver is friendly and professional. He seems to know the drill with drive through check in as we approach and wait at a set of traffic lights at the private entrance. As we pull in, I see the Virgin Atlantic staff lined up waiting, looking very smart indeed. Door is opened, and as I step out, bags are swiftly taken and within seconds boarding passes in hand. Not another soul in sight and a very pleasant experience as I wander down the hall to the private security lane. I am taken by surprise as the lady greets me with a smile and asks how I am. Not a usual occurrence with security.

I then make my way to the second major perk: the world renowned Heathrow Clubhouse. I must admit I'm a little surprised how far the walk is from this area - I had it in my head that it was closer and didn't require walking through main terminal area so much. No bother though - I expect to be eating a lot in the Clubhouse so the walk is welcome!

I climb a striking marble staircase, and receive another very friendly greeting at the top. A lovely lady ushers me in, giving me a brief lowdown of where everything is.

Wow. There is an immediate suspension of belief that I am in an airport. The Clubhouse resembles more of a luxury boutique hotel. First stop is the spa to book a complimentary treatment. Each Upper Class passenger receives one complimentary service. I book a head massage for later.

As this is my first time here like a giddy child I want to explore! I pop upstairs briefly to the Grey Goose bar which I've heard isn't always open, and try a quick game of Frogger on one of the tables with in-built gaming downstairs.

My flight is at 20:05 and it's only 5pm so plenty of time to play. I take a seat in the dining area and eye up the menu. Again staff are fabulous, friendly and attentive. I order butternut squash soup to begin, and a delicious roasted vegetable smallish main. I don't want to over-indulge as I plan on eating on board, but I'm very impressed with the vegetarian options. The chocolate brownie dessert is to die for though, and I can't resist! I round it off with a cup of herbal tea - if it wasn't for having a bit of a winter cold I would certainly have been sampling some of the fantastic cocktails!

I make my way over around 6pm to the spa waiting area, and offered another drink by the superhuman staff. I'm called in for my head massage, which is absolutely divine. I have a little bit of a headache at this point from my cold so it's certainly welcome. Even hot stones are placed in my hands while the luxurious head massage takes place with a relaxing fragrant oil.

The flight is announced as delayed by about half an hour, but all I can say to this is I'm not bothered in the least. The time is flying by in the luxury of the lounge and before I know it I am called for boarding.

I feel a little awkward walking in front of all the queuing economy passengers who have obviously been waiting for some time. I am greeted (not by name though this time) and shown to my seat. Champagne quickly in hand, not to be refused, I take up the offer of a 'sleepsuit'. The Virgin Atlantic sleepsuits are essentially very comfortable cotton pyjamas to wear for the flight (and to keep, if you like).

A gentleman approaches me and demonstrates how the seat controls work. I struggle a little bit to get the left armrest down to create extra space - I do think this part of the seat is a little bit unnecessary.

I miss out on the hot towel run as I make a bathroom trip, but return in time for some crisps served in a china bowl. Departure is just after 20:30. My 'suite' is very spacious, private and comfortable, and I love how you can recline and your put your feet up even on take-off due to the Upper Class suites having inbuilt airbags. I find that they recline to just the right level before you'd actually want a proper lay flat position.

As a vegetarian I notice that there are several 'V' options on the standard menu. I ask one of the crew before meal service if I can choose these as I had pre-selected a veggie meal online. I am told it is the same food anyway. My only slight criticism here is that there are actually two veggie options on the menu, and it's sheer luck they bring me the soup rather than the mushroom option, my preferred choice anyway. If I had wanted the mushroom option it could have been a bit awkward. Note to self: don't pre-select veggie meals if flying UC!

The soup is great, followed by a brilliant curry, then toffee pudding, topped off with the cheese selection which I barely had room for but couldn't resist.

I can't really speak for inflight entertainment as I'm one of those people that never bothers with it - perhaps the excitement of UC is too much to miss! I do however watch a quick documentary about cats though, as you do, after dinner...

I follow up my delicious meal with a chamomile tea, and just as I get up for the bathroom a member of crew approaches and offers to make my bed up. I thought this was very observant.

I come back to find my suite transformed into a very comfortable looking bed, complete with mattress, duvet and full size pillow. Very snug and comfortable. I chill for about an hour but can't really sleep as the UC excitement prevails, so I decide to go and park myself at the on-board bar.

The bar is one of Virgin Atlantic's signature products and it's nothing short of awesome. A lady sitting there promptly leaves as I arrive (was it something I said?) so I chat with a crew member who gave me some tips on NYC over an orange juice. You really can't beat having a bar at 35,000 feet!

I notice how fantastic the mood lighting is throughout, another signature of Virgin. It really does create a sense of calm and style at the same time, and seems to soften the overall feel of the cabin.

A little more chilling in bed, followed by the whir of everyone's bed motors as we approach JFK. As nice it as it would be to still be tucked in bed while landing this isn't allowed! We caught up on ourselves and landed ahead of schedule. The cabin crew give a friendly goodbye, then follows the atrocities of US Immigration. I am first in line but also first to be 'greeted' by the rudest man of all time... Perhaps they need a few lessons from Virgin Atlantic?

I have to say that I really am blown away by Virgin Atlantic's Upper Class product and I am truly converted. It really is a class of its own nestled somewhere in between business and first. The iconic Virgin brand really enhances what is already an incredible product. If only every airline had the courage to do things differently - and moreover to have the same ambition of becoming the most sustainable airline in the world. With an increasing consciousness among passengers of the ethics behind air travel, increasing numbers will consider an airlines environmental policies - as well as such potential luxury - as a big deciding factor.

More on Virgin Atlantic's environmental policies can be found here.

Tenerife Packaged

2015-05-09T04:29:00.004-07:00

An all inclusive week on the beach, or by the pool; sedentary sipping of cocktails while intermittently dipping into the water, before racing to the buffet before there's no more ambiguous slop left, repeatedly... For some people I completely understand this is heaven. For me, a total nightmare. However, can some of the shorter cheap deals be a platform for an interesting break? I take a last minute budget trip to the Canary Island's volcanic island, Tenerife.

I'm going somewhere, but I don't know where. I'm totally open to ideas, and for once I decide to delve into the world of last minute 'sun holiday' internet deals, that usually cater for the above. This is a departure from my normal mode of choose destination, book a flight, book a hotel and plan.

At first it looks like the only choice is Malaga. My stomach churns at the thought of dodging intoxicated 'Brits abroad' and finding a grain of culture, somewhere. But then a deal emerges up for Tenerife, departing the following week and staying in a three star self-catering apartment for three nights. The gamble is made and the deal is booked. If I hate it, it's only three nights to survive...

The prospects, or 'rules' if you like, are no excursions (beyond the local resort), and keeping costs to an absolute minimum.

The time comes around quickly, and I am boarding my flight to Tenerife with Thomson. I'm not sure what I expected; hordes of stags and hens perhaps, but the flight was fine. In fact the flight wasn't too busy at all, and mainly occupied by pensioners. Often you can judge the sobriety of a 'resort' by the flight occupants - so far so good...

Arriving at the airport with no checked bags to collect, I am out into the Tenerife sun in about five minutes and trying to locate the dreaded holiday transfer bus. I board very quickly, but then reality sets in that no matter how quickly I was able to organise myself, the real deal is that we have to wait for everyone else. That waiting takes an hour - an hour of sitting on a mildew smelling bus in a car park for discombobulated, inappropriately dressed tourists. Finally the last few dazed passengers board and we begin the journey - all very nice at first with cactus and beautiful desert flower lined roads - and then into a battered old industrial estate.

I'm not sure what was piled up higher; my various feelings of dread, or the rubbish outside along the road. More than two hours since landing and numerous hotel drop offs, the scenery improves somewhat and the bus turns a corner around a looming mountain, bathed in the last moments of sunset, and we pull up alongside a hotel. "Oh, that looks nice" I hear, before the announcement is made that this is our accommodation. Things are looking up.

The Oasis Mango Apartments are at the top of a large hill in Los Cristianos. Said hill has been much slated in a number of whingey reviews, so I'm curious about just how challenging this will be. I approach the outdoor reception and we are met with pleasant smile and prompt check in. I'm immediately relieved and surprised at how immaculate and pleasant the hotel complex is, even though it is getting dark now. Perfectly manicured gardens are dotted around splendidly, and not a blemish in sight.

But could the room be the catch? Would it be filthy? Would there be large and scary bugs? A few steps up, and a nervous key turn - the apartment itself meets the same standards. So clean, spacious and nicely decorated. Each room facilitates a smile of relief. The balcony overlooks Montanas Guaza - something on the 'to do' list.

Now to tackle the infamous hill to pick up some 'survival supplies' from the supermarket. Of course, not much of a challenge on the way down. Arriving in a 'strange land' at night, there is always a slight sense of disorientation and a subtle hint of foreboding. However, the route is easy, and I quickly realise that getting lost would be difficult. I pick up water and breakfast for tomorrow, and acknowledge how cheap everything is. 'Surviving' on this budget should be easy.

The journey back up the hill with shopping is less easy, but no way near as astronomically challenging as suggested by some. Were they carrying six crates of beer? Were they blind drunk? Who knows.

Unfortunately the Spanish neighbours are a little noisy on this first night. Part of me wonders if this could be some sort of secret party destination. The noise dies down and I manage to get a pretty good night's sleep.

Day one is bearings day. Where on earth am I? This time the walk takes me further than the supermarket, all the way down to Los Cristianos harbour and beach. In the middle of the roadways, there is an immaculately manicured garden area, giving the first taste of some of the wonderful plant life that Tenerife fosters. Tall palms, interesting trees with hanging brown pods (I wish I knew what they are) and topiary bushes lead the way. Pots of aloe vera and cacti seem to be well treasured by residents.

In the quiet of early morning, the harbour is lovely and tranquil. The warmth of the sun is already apparent. Not a place for beach lovers, if this is your thing, although there are a few man-made beaches dotted around as I walk further. No sign of the expected hordes of tourist just yet....

I stop for a cup of tea in front of the well looked after vista of palms, sea and decorative paths, and pause for some people watching. This is absolutely a place for a tourists - not a whisper of conversational Spanish thus far. Not so much of a surprise.

Further strolling past the plethora of cafes catering for British tastes, I witness the holidaymakers oozing into position for breakfast, some perhaps with a dose of after-sun and aspirin. Despite this 'tourist trap', this area is relatively clean, and certainly at this time doesn't feel too much of a 'Brits abroad' nightmare.

A large Fred Olsen boat departs near a breakwater which extends out from the harbour. As I walk out, I notice that this seems to be a 'selfie' hotspot. To the far left is the mountain nearest our hotel, Montanas Guaza, stretching out to the coast, and on the right, Chayofita and the beginnings of the infamous Playa de las Americas. For my own sanity I spared myself the hub of Tenerife's tourist zone, at least. Behind me is Mount Teide, magnificent as it is, although within the confines of this budget challenge, I won't be experiencing it this time.

Now to tackle the full brunt of the return journey up the 'epic' hill. In the mid-morning heat, this is a little bit more challenging, but still no expedition. The supermarket serves as a pit stop for some lunch supplies - local fresh bread and cheese.

Lunch is quickly devoured on the ample balcony, and followed by the obligatory task of attempting to sit by the pool. I last an hour before my inherent 'let's explore' gene pulls me away from the cocktail sipping companions.

'Monkey Park' is up next, virtually around the corner. As a PETA supporter I have awful visions of tiny cages, poor conditions and subsequent marching out just as soon as I have arrived. However, as soon as I have arrived and collected my tub of fresh vegetables to feed the residents, it's clear that this place is actually something far from the visions I had. To start with the gardens are exceptional. All manner of beautiful colours and unusual foliage are abound. I traverse a raised wooden walkway with crocodiles below. Everything here is maintained well.

From what I could tell, the animals were more than looked after with spacious and well appointed enclosures, one of which guests were able to walk into. I enter a caged door which leads to an area with lemurs, guinea pigs, giant tortoises and iguanas. It was a pleasure to be able to feed them.

Winding paths appointed with more wonderful desert blooms and various cactus types surround more spacious enclosures. I am able to hand feed a spectacularly colourful bird - an experience not normally given in a regular zoo. Some of the larger monkeys extend their arms through the cages with open hands as I pass. Judging that they have spotted my vegetables, I offer them some chunks of apple which are gladly plied from my fingers.

I'm never one to be completely satisfied that zoos are a happy place for any animal, but Monkey Park did seem to convey a sense of well being from them.

After the quick journey back to the apartment, the evening is spent relaxing and sampling the local wine, Vina Norte. Supposedly enriched by the volcanic soil, which permeates into the flavour, I found it to possess a fruity, punchy yet somewhat acidic flavour. I also get to try some delicious pizza - though from one of the many packed in cafes catering purely for tourists - it really does give some mainstream pizza restaurants in the UK some stiff competition in terms of both price and quality.

The second and final day of this very short Tenerife sampler arrives and first on the agenda is tackling Montanas Guaza, one of the easier mountains of Tenerife just next to the apartment. As mountains are, the route upwards is deceptive as it involves actually going downhill first to the harbour and then left along the coast to access the footpath. There is a welcome cooling breeze as I leave the giant concrete hotels, which give way to some beautiful private villas and then finally the start of the footpath.

Glancing up, I can already see the interesting change in plant life even at such a small altitude change. The bushes give way to smaller cacti and then finally some of the huge spiny big brothers towards the top. Tiny lizards scurry for cover as I loosen some of the rocky rubble leading up the winding mountain path.

I make it to what might be considered 'base camp', affording views of the highly developed coast. At this point I begin to realise that although there is no genuine culture to speak of here, the real 'culture' of Los Cristianos is very much tourism fueled. At the very least as an observer, it offers a glance into the typical lego-like constructions of a purely generic holiday landscape, nestled into the real and rather spectacular landscape of Tenerife.

'Hiking' sample achieved, it's time to sample what everyone else seems to be doing - people watch. I later park myself in a peaceful eatery far left of Los Cristianos harbour, and take in the views of swaying palm trees, the rapid arrival and departure of ferries, and the various caricatures of package holiday lovers shuffling by, some of them in dire need of the local aloe-vera after-sun.

Package holidays really are a culture in themselves. If you are able to mindfully remove yourself from the equation, even just to observe briefly the comings and goings, the trials and tribulations of the package tourist, it makes for an interesting experience. Wherever you go in the world, there's always one or two aspects of the genuine article that permeate through - in Tenerife's case it's the majestic mountainous landscape.

With the current GBP to Euro rate, the small budget was very easy to stick to with ample supermarkets available for DIY meals. One really could easily make a package deal a starter platform for a more substantial trip. I would be happy to return with the North of the island and Teide in mind, and break the bonds of the tourist laden South for a more rural affair.

A Tangible 9/11

2014-12-30T09:53:00.001-08:00

A museum of delicate, surreal and emotional memories connects visitors to the day that changed America, and the world forever. I revisit New York for the first time since the unimaginable tragedy, and pay a respectful visit to the new 9/11 Museum at the site.

A cold blast of wind is my most prominent memory of climbing the escalator from the top floor of the original World Trade Center, to the rooftop observation deck, on a chilly October morning in 2000. The journey to the top had seemed more like taking off in a jet – I remember my ears popping and the floor indicator blinking through the level numbers at an incomprehensible rate. I certainly remember that security was prominent even back then, after passing security checkpoints and back scanners at this point. As far as I was concerned, stood at the top, the tower’s twin standing proud a stone’s throw away, these buildings were infinite symbols of integrity, prowess and ingenuity. Time would of course tell a different and very disturbing story.

Emerging from the metro station, I notice that almost mechanically, people’s heads turn upwards to the right as they near the top of the steps to street level. As I reach the top, my first view of the new Freedom tower has me follow suit. Even on this foggy winter day, the new tower is beautiful, proud and elegant. The observation deck of the new tower isn’t yet open, so I head towards the site of the original towers.

I feel a mixture of sadness and disbelief as the square waterfall foundations of the original towers come into view in the Memorial Garden. From this moment, I know that this experience is going to not evoke memories of the day, but also bring a sense of realism to an event that despite happening over 13 years ago, right now may as well have been yesterday. To see the footprints of the original towers, even after all this time, adds another dimension to the memories of news reports and videos from the day, and repeated over and over again ever since.

‘Happy Holidays’ says the smiling employee as she pulls back the cordon to allow us into the Museum, sign of the New Yorker spirit, and setting the tone of the visit. Perhaps myself and others entering aren’t quite sure how to feel or act about this, however as this lady demonstrates, this is both a site of mourning and a site of triumph – of resilience of good over evil. Happy Holidays to her too.

As expected the first area is a large airport style security checkpoint. Nobody around is impatient or impended by this as they pass through.

I head upstairs first to the auditorium. A 15 minute film is shown which as well as showing the emotional impact of the day and the ubiquitous scenes of the aircraft striking the towers, provides new angles and viewpoints that may not have been heard before. Something that sticks with me is George Bush’s statement, or admittance that he had not planned to be thrust into the role of a wartime president. He didn’t see it coming.

Heading down the steps to a central area, I pass the first of the large burnt-orange twisted steel supports from the towers. This first experience of seeing such a tangible, real object from this day of tragedy urges me to stop for a moment to observe it.

Following the route downstairs, large displays exhibiting photographs of people’s reactions at the time capture the raw emotion and utter disbelief that America was under attack. I pass a large display that shows the routes of the ill-fated passenger jets.

The path curves around until reaching a huge cavernous area – the foundations of the original towers. I can smell the concrete as I witness the vast imposing walls. A sarcophagus of remembrance, pain and sanctity, this is ground zero, forever preserved and never forgotten.

The scarred, battered surface of the ‘escape stairs’ tells a terrifying story, but also one of at least a little hope. These stairs aided the escape and ultimately saved the lives of some of those caught in the day’s misery.

Twisted steel and broken rivets adorn the surviving piece of the TV antenna from the top of the north tower. I am dumbfounded that this piece could survive such violent destruction, a feeling that resonates with the rest of the collection.

Nearby, the wreck of the ladder 3 fire truck stands testament to the incredible forces of the day. One end of it is completely bent reshaped by the tremendous forces of the time. In the same space, concrete blocks and other remnants speak of the atrocity and make it real.

The last remaining support column, adorned with photographs, possessions and flowers provides a powerful metaphor for America’s determination and collective feeling in the aftermath.

I have time to visit one last section, designed to recreate the events of the day. Photos and videos are not allowed in this area, and this speak for itself after the delicate and sensitive nature of the exhibits becomes clear.

The slowly moving crowd is stunned to slice around me. Reminiscent of the sensory bombardment of the day, the experience begins with a plethora of newspaper cuttings, radio broadcasts and TV clips right from the day, the minute, and the second the events unfolded. Accompanied by the artefacts around, this has quite a powerful effect.

Some of the items that survived are staggering – even a page from an inflight magazine lays charred in its glass case. Of course the whole exhibit is to reflect on the event itself, including the 1993 bombings, not just the twin towers, and remnants of the planes and of the Pentagon tragedy are also displayed. A haunting piece of the plane and a seatbelt survive from the impact.

Perhaps most haunting of all is a fragment of the memorial of the 1993 WTC bombing – a fragment of a memorial of another disaster inside another memorial.

Despite this immense sense of loss, the artefacts of tribute, of triumph, of endurance and of unity shine and rise respectfully above these moments of terror like the Freedom tower – never forgetting and forever changing the way we think, live and feel. The museum is the bridging point between what we know, what we remember and what we feel to the real world remnants of the day, and quite an emotional journey it is.

Tour de Egypt

2014-12-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

Slipping out of the culturally rich Parisian streets to sample ancient Egypt might not seem like the obvious ‘to do’, but as I discover this endlessly astonishing collection is well worth a look. Originally sold to the French king around 1826, by Jean-François Champollion, a master of ancient language, the collection grew from around 9000 pieces, and still grows today.

A blur of bikes – a living train of spokes and colour – hurtles past me. The crowd cheers as the entourage of determined cyclists snake around the Arc de Triumph just as quickly as they appeared. A fantastic sight. On a stiflingly hot July Parisian summer’s day, however, further stifled by hordes of gatherers for the Tour de France, I decide to take time out.

A long and frustrating diversion means I have to take the most indirect route to the Louvre possible. Squeezing past a plethora of bright yellow Tour de France t-shirts and hat stalls, and bedazzled tourists, I eventually turn through an arch into the courtyard of the Louvre.

The queue circles around the elegant glass pyramid, and eventually I am in, and navigating my way to the Egyptian exhibits. I hadn’t anticipated the scale of the Louvre – really I hadn’t – and its cavernous wonders, spaces and corridors seem to have more intricacy than the human mind; at least more than the mind could ever possibly fully absorb.

The Egyptian area is marked by the appearance of a magnificent sphinx.

Smaller artefacts appear around every corner, including small carved boats. I’m astonished at the level of detail retained after all this time.

Large hieroglyphic tablets boggle the mind – do we really know everything about this ancient world?

Other artefacts indicate the level of dedication they had to worship and ritual.

Some of the figures look almost otherworldly.

Just when I think that these discoveries are over, I enter a huge room lined with giant, hieroglyphic columns and imposing statues.

I’m particularly drawn to a hieroglyphic arch. The Egyptians seemed to have held most of their importance on portals and transcendence.

Speaking of transcendence I finish off in the afterlife section, though a little eerie, giving a sense of the scale of belief they had in the ‘other’ world. A mock-up of a mummy reveals the end result of the preparation for the afterlife.

Ascending the stone steps back into the Tour de France crowds, I welcome the chance of such a fascinating and unusual distraction, into another time and place entirely.

Diocletian Delight

2014-07-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

A member of the EU for just over a year now, Croatia harbours many European wonders. Majestic, rich Roman history, an incredibly well preserved palace and hidden Adriatic wonders amid relatively unspoilt islands, I take a breath of fresh sea air in Split, on the growingly popular Dalmatian coast of Croatia. What was it about Split that Diocletian found so appealing to build a palace there?

A rowdy, restless stag group and a few rows of talkative Americans behind me; seemingly seasoned travellers to Croatia from what I can hear over the loud beer induced ‘whoops’ from the Welsh revellers. If a destination could be judged by the passengers descending on it, I’m not quite sure what to expect.

Croatia is still young as far as established tourist destinations are concerned. Joining the EU might be another leap onwards from the often still raw sensitivities and hangovers from the brutal Croatian War of Independence of the nineties. Prior reading about the dangers of potentially still active landmines (although primarily limited to rural areas) and public sensitivity to discussions of war emphasise this.

Roughly half an hour from the airport by coach I reach Split harbour, and then a short taxi ride to Podstrana. The staff at Le Meridien Lav are very welcoming, and I am stunned by the view from the lobby of the Adriatic coast. The hotel room is spaciously comfortable, and it becomes more obvious that the typical clientele of this hotel are the ‘yachty’ type: the sailing art in the room, the yacht magazines, the marina and, perhaps, the majority of well-heeled, smartly dressed guests, all oozing an air of nautical reminiscence while manoeuvring towards the champagne bar.

Enjoying the late evening warmth, spectacular sunset and a cocktail at the hotel’s own beach, I’m left with a pleasant and relieving first impression – no rowdy stag groups to be seen just yet.

Split is considered to be roughly 1700 years old, an age derived from the construction of the Emperor Diocletian’s Palace in 305CE. What better way to get to the most widely conceived root of the city than starting with a wander around one of the oldest and persevering Roman ‘ruins’. Back in 305CE the walled encampment would have been heavily patrolled and governed by the Emperor, but now, under UNESCO protection, it’s very much under control of the Croatian people who live and work within its limestone walls.

I arrive at the harbour via the hotel’s shuttle bus service, and make my way around to the Riva, Split’s modern waterfront opposite the palace. From here, those looking to discern a distinctive ‘fortress’ may be disappointed, as the palace is now so well incorporated into the local architecture, shops and restaurant fronts, and with its sheer size is impossible to identify as a block-like structure. In fact, only portions are reminiscent of a military style encampment, such as the basement level entrance I traverse after crossing the street. In fact, the intricate and detailed architecture, homely and florally adorned buildings are welcoming. I feel like I am emerging into a small town of luxury villas rather than a fortified palace. A few posters promote the fact that the palace is being used as the set for the new season of ‘Game of Thrones’, which I am yet to see, but can understand why its historical, unique and wholesome architecture might appeal to film crews.

I emerge at the top of some stairs into the Peristyle, a large impressive court, surrounded by Roman brilliance: towering columns, the oldest and smallest cathedral in the world, Cathedral of St Domnius on my right, exquisite limestone building fronts and a few ‘Romans’ themselves, cashing in on the authentic atmosphere.

I peer past the hordes of tourists posing with the guard’s modern counterparts; red caped, smiling and most likely less scrupulous than the real thing, and look up at the spectacular cathedral and bell tower. Punctuating the entrance is an imposing sphinx figure, beheaded, but yet strikingly well preserved for an imported Egyptian artefact over 3000 years old. The sphinx offers apparent protection from the holy space within.

The cashing in continues behind me as a mock address from a costumed Emperor draws tourists into the court, as he waves to his ‘followers’. I depart the Peristyle and wander around the well-worn cobbled streets. An excavated area reveals elaborate tiling from the Roman bath, a sign that despite its almost immaculate condition, the Palace had even more delights to showcase in its Roman past.

I notice the fresh, uplifting sea-air cascading in from the Adriatic through the ‘windows’ in the palace walls. No wonder this place was long hailed for its health benefits throughout the ages. It really is invigorating.

More cashing in ensues as I enter a captivating tall circular tower, the blue sky filtering in ethereally and illuminating an intricately detailed archway. An all-male bellowing band then descends on my position, filling the acoustically generous space with just-about-tolerable music, before brandishing their CD like a threatening weapon.

I escape through another gate which takes me outside the palace, and here I am informed I should touch the toe of bronze statue for good luck, currently concealed by scaffolding. I oblige, of course, and from his vantage point I can see more clearly the incredible stature and strength of the palace walls.

Beachside dining, cocktails and swimming sums up the rest of the day, followed by a mini-adventure in a paddleboat the following morning. I hadn’t quite expected Split to be so scenic, in fact I’m pretty sure that I had previously associated Croatia with Eastern European concrete blocks and inevitable hardships after the war, but sitting off the coast in a paddle boat it certainly looks like an undiscovered paradise.

Marjan’s peak is marked by a large cross and a Croatian flag. I am back at the harbour, and spying the cross from here, Split’s huge forested park area looks vast, and the peak seemingly hours away. A general sense of direction vaguely guides me through the narrow, storybook streets, and before I know it I am at the gates of Marjan. I wonder why it’s necessary to have an armed guard at the gate, as I pass nonchalantly and up the winding path to the peak. Tantalising glimpses of the distant hills, glistening Adriatic sea and coast can be seen through the trees. The occasional outlook offers another glance and a welcome rest.

Passed by easy-gliding cyclists, hurtling downhill, I reach the foot of the steps that will take me to the concrete platform at the top. The giant cross dominates, and the Croatian flag at the top looks proudly authoritative when framed by the still blue sky. I walk around the perimeter, snapping a few shots with equal pride that I may have burned off a few of the beachside cocktails.

Downhill is less arduous, and a long direct series of steps makes the journey back to Split town even quicker. The terracotta, sun-defending roofs and limestone spires visible below lessen the feeling of leaving unspoilt woods for urban sprawling chaos, but instead for a laid back Adriatic gem.

I witness a very public wedding back in the palace, marked by the launching of bright flares all around the Peristyle, further highlighting the palace’s longitude of life. This certainly isn’t a moth-balled poorly preserved ruin. I head down into the basement to see its underbelly.

A sculpture exhibition and a ghostly lack of tourists makes the caverned rooms feel a little creepy. Water cascades down moss covered ceiling and walls as I skip over puddles – a far cry from the level of preservation upstairs, but a reminder of the true age of the palace. Several cats and kittens also seem to be making good use of Diocletian’s old haunt.

Perplexed by a multitude of island hopping options, Hvar is my destination the next morning. Split has many neighbouring islands: Brac seems to be the most popular option, with Hvar heralded as the more ‘naturistic’ and laid back to the south, and party central to the north.

The ferry departs Split harbour promptly, and affords more spectacular views of the Adriatic coastline, passing many yachts and enticing emerald-watered retreats abound during the two hour journey.

Disembarking, there seems to be only one main path to follow around the rocky coved beaches. The serenity at the south of the island appears to attract like-minded people, hopefully with little chance of bumping into those stag doers here…

Eventually I reach a harbour, tucked away behind buildings so endearingly European, quiet and storybook-like, it’s almost like discovering some pre-meditated movie set of spontaneous, effortless yet precisely perfect construction. I imagine I’m waiting to hear somebody yell ‘action’, and witness a glamorous movie star step off an arriving yacht.

I stop for a wonderfully prepared lunch by the water, and then delve in further to the ‘movie set’, yet there is no false backing – in fact the back streets reveal further delights, including a virtually hidden cathedral and court.

Further on, the area becomes more wooded and secluded, harbouring a few small bays, bars and areas for sun-worshippers. Seeing the ferry port from the other side, I realise just how far I have to get back to the ferry, and slowly make my way back, stopping here and there to sit by the water and absorb the tranquillity.

My taste of Croatia, though limited to this coastal area, has transformed my warped ‘old-school’ view of this part of the world, from high-rise blocks, language barriers and post-war hang-ups to stunning Adriatic vistas, wall-to-wall summer perfection, immersive Roman experiences, tranquillity and class galore. Diocletian made the right choice.

Tokyo Rising

2014-04-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Architectural planning and design is often born solely of national pride and ambition. Tokyo Skytree, completed in 2011 and built primarily to replace the skyscraper-stifled 1958 Tokyo Tower to aid blocked TV broadcast signals, seems to achieve both. I once again subject myself to vertigo for a brief visit to the contemporary Tokyo icon.

“Ah yes, Bunny Café”, greets the passing Japanese man eager to practice his English, bringing his humble bike to a halt in front of me as I stop in front of a small window. I am on my way to the Toyko Skytree, my orientation obvious as the tower beckons and glistens further down the road.

I had made my way from the neighbouring Sensō-ji Buddhist temple complex in Asakusa. The giant lanterns, traditional wooden structures dating back to 645 C.E., gardens and Samurai statues surrounding it couldn’t be any more different from my next destination. From Tokyo’s oldest to Tokyo’s newest.

The ‘Bunny Hug Café’, and its adorable hopping inhabitants, will soon be dwarfed and lost in a panoramic cityscape, along with everything else around me.

After a brief, if awkward exchange about the stormy weather back at home in the UK, and the freak snow storm in much of Japan, leaving large tidily swept icy piles along the roadside, I continue onwards. A cloudless, clear and sunny sky all around me promises good visibility from the tower.

At the base, I find myself struggling to crane my neck far enough to take it all in. The lattice-like structure surround it seems to stretch endlessly, and effortlessly, as though adding volume and fortification. The white intricate framework conveys an organic, natural energy that the red ironwork of Tokyo Tower lacks. The colour is actually the traditional Japanese bluish white hue ‘aijiro’.

Airport security style queuing ensues inside. The base of the lattice structure is visible inside. I struggle to understand how a huge tower can be supported by a few winding supports; best not to think about it.

A cartoonish moving mural displayed on TV screens above the queues highlights what can be seen from above. Such an interpretation can often make more sense than a real world view from above.

The walls are lined with various forms of inspiration for the towers design, ranging from what looks like traditional Japanese Heian period pagodas, to the more absurd but obviously influential shapes of, for example, a coiled spring.

Tickets are purchased accompanied with the usual friendly Japanese etiquette, and I am ushered to another waiting area after passing through a security checkpoint, to await an elevator.

At 2080 feet high, Tokyo Skytree is the tallest tower in the world, surpassing the Canton Tower in Ghuangzhou, China, but not to be confused with the tallest structure – Tokyo Skytree is second to the Burj Khalifa of Dubai in that merit. I will be heading to the first observatory at 1150 feet, the ‘Tembo Deck’, housing a restaurant, café and shop.

After witnessing a horde of noisy School-children being herded into the lift before me, I’m slightly relieved. I am called forward and watch the rapidly descending numbers above, until the lift doors open. The large lift is airy and mood-lit, with calming music offering reassurance during the otherwise alarmingly fast ascension.

Whoosh – rather unexpectedly, the doors soon open revealing a very bright space; sun-shine gleams from ahead. Working my way around the ‘deck’ clockwise, useful touch-screen sight-spotting guides assist in making sense of the sprawling urban brightness. Tokyo looks bizarrely flat, and predominantly grey from up here.

Nausea grips as I lean tentatively over the glass floor section, as it does when the irrational thought of potential earthquakes enters my mind. Ironically I’m sure that this the cutting edge of earthquake safe design; or so I hope. In fact, the tower is reinforced with a seismic proofing concrete central shaft. It’s also equipped with ‘oil dampers’, most of the way up, capable of absorbing 50% of an earthquake’s energy. Reassuring indeed.

I imagine that the view might be stunning at night, although perhaps the best view might be of the tower itself in the evening, illuminated by LED lights, and capable of various different configurations for occasions, like Christmas.

The naming of Tokyo Skytree isn’t actually a direct spin-off from the design phase. Rather democratically, a public vote was cast in which 110,000 Tokyoites chose from six potential names, themselves suggestions from the general public. The tower was very nearly named ‘Tokyo Edo Tower’, with ‘Dream Lookout’ and ‘Rising Tower’ as other suggestions. ‘Tokyo Skytree’ emerged as the favourite with 30% of the vote.

I get a better view of Tokyo from the other side of the tower, where there is less glare from the otherwise welcome sun. Another mild panic about the sheer height combined with the imaginary earthquake scenario in my head prompts the decision to head back down to earth. The deck above isn’t going to be an option for me today.

An impromptu visit from a clearly fearless, or completely insane window cleaner puts me to shame. I perish the thought of being winched up by a few cables, 350 metres above Tokyo.

The elevator reaches the ground as quickly as it rose. I am left wondering if this is the future of architecture. How long will it be until the skyline around Skytree reaches the same level, much in the same way Tokyo Tower was vertically depreciated? Is such construction sustainable, and ultimately necessary? Perhaps technologies will change, eliminating the need for such tall structures for practical purposes, but Tokyo Skytree speaks more than this for Japan. Architecture is a chance to exhibit cultural identity and ambition, infused with a ‘we can do this’ message about a countries economy. I don’t think it will stop here.

Hong Kong: World City

2013-02-08T14:13:00.003-08:00

Formally part of the British Empire until 1997, Hong Kong has had a short time to evolve independently once again. What sort of identity has it taken on; has Hong Kong reverted to a Chinese heritage, or has it taken to a unique international identity of its own?

A monstrous feat of engineering, my journey begins aboard the epic Emirates airbus A380. Towering three storeys high, I am at a loss how this mammoth beast can get airborne.

Defying gravity it seems, after take off my first flight with Emirates is a very impressive one; exquisite food and genuinely pleasant cabin crew. The connection in Dubai and onwards flight to Hong Kong is a hazy jet-lagged blur and I arrive at the huge airport terminal.

The various taxi choices upon leaving the airport - different colours attributed to Hong Kong districts - seems a baffling one after two long haul flights, but easily aided by a helpful English speaking staff member. I am handed a card, and the green urban taxi, it seems, will be the one to take me to the hotel.

Soaring further upwards than I care to crane my neck at, the Hotel Nina Et Convention Centre is a contemporary and comfortable choice, located in Tsuen Wan West and with easy access to the metro. It's not difficult to summon a yawn to pop my ears for the hundredth time today, as the elevator ejects me to what feels like the stratosphere on the 71st floor. I'm taking off again!

Vast by Asian standards, my room is spacious, with a transporter pad-esque circular glass shower extending out into the bedroom. The harbour view is epic, although the height of the building dwarfs the surrounding skyscrapers into a miniaturised cityscape. A trend in Hong Kong residential construction planning is already clear: to build as high as possible in a star shaped configuration. These buildings appear so unconventional to me as if they are too tall to support themselves. Rooftop gardens and swimming pools are further lost and minimised in their numerousness as I gaze down.

After a solid 8 hour sleep, the automatic curtains open to reveal a perfect clear January day. Travelling down to the 41st floor for breakfast seems a little whimsical, and I cannot wait to get down to ground level. Further sweeping views entice me down.

For a first glimpse introductory view of Hong Kong, I head to the Avenue of Stars, which directly overlooks Hong Kong Island. Purchasing an Octopus card is a wise decision - a card which allows me to top up funds for the metro, as well as make other purchases around Hong Kong quickly and easily.

Leaving East Tsim Sha Tsui station, it's not immediately obvious that I am at the waterfront. The disappointment is short lived after I make my way through a small park to reveal the most spectacular view of Hong Kong harbour. An audible 'wow' escapes me as I take in the panoramic splendour of soaring majestic buildings, glistening in the perfect sunlight, and fronted with calm waters traversed by the occasional Chinese junk boat.

The avenue of stars has a somewhat cinematic theme, and wandering further down the hollywood style hand-print lined boulevard, I encounter a statue of perhaps one of Hong Kong's most prolific connections to the western world - at least in the movie world - Bruce Lee. Almost surrealy placed against this sprawling international backdrop, in a 'ready for the world' martial arts pose, it serves as an unlikely symbol of the stereotypical undertone; a media representation of China that persists for Hong Kong.

Accompanied by a sprinkling of museums, the Clock Tower, although standing short of of its companions, still holds its own against them. Built in 1913 as part of a train station, the classic architecture looks almost alien in contrast to the brushed metal and glass around it.

Just opposite the clock I move towards another relic of old Hong Kong: the Star Ferry. Since 1888 this iconic ferry service has remained both a nostalgic and vital link between Kowloon and Hong Kong. I wind through an over-pasting of political protest posters and await the ferry at the dock. A symbol of Hong Kong's past, perfectly preserved, the ferry docks and I take a seat on the wooden benches downstairs.

Stunning open views of Victoria harbour ensue, and I watch mesmerised as a helicopter swoops in from nowhere and lands on top of one of the skyscrapers - like a scene from a movie. This is a piece of Hong Kong's identity I won't forget.

From the manic streets, weaving in and out of pedestrians, surrounded by endless glass and towering concrete structures, it's difficult to get a sense of Hong Kong as a whole. From ground level, the Kowloon side gave a much more wholesome impression. On this side, I need to get as high up as possible to appreciate it. Victoria Peak is my next destination.

On a whim, I board a bus which I think is taking me to the peak tram terminus, but is in fact taking me all the way up to the peak itself. Ultimately this will prove to be a good decision. At the top is a plethora of restaurants and shops, as expected. I take a break from the heat and grab a quick bite before seeking the much publicised view.

Not failing to impress, I fight for a spot amongst the tourists and take it all in. Without the traffic, the noise and the busyness, from this relatively peaceful wooded area Hong Kong seems more tangible at arms length. The air cools as I follow a path down through the trees; joggers and hikers galore pass me by.

Not wanting to miss the experience of the famous inclined tram, I had back to the tram station for my return journey. As it arrives, I observe with concern the cable pulling the tram up the hill, and secretly hope it has brakes. I claim a seat, and the tram begins to move and tilt backwards into an obscenely steep angle. The car is Victorian-esque and elegant - a nod perhaps to Hong Kong's past relationship with Britain.

Huge impatient queues greet me at the bottom, and I realise that taking the hill-climbing bus earlier was definitely worthwhile, and afforded me some bonus picturesque views.

My evening is spent on the Kowloon side again, this time to take in the 'Symphony of Lights' - a night time show which will allegedly utilise the entire Victoria Harbour skyline, occuring every night at 8pm. Perched on a stand just above the Avenue of Stars, I wait for the show to start, buffeted by chilly harbour winds.

A little bewildering at first, I see lots of flashing lights and lasers blinking from the tops of skyscrapers, amid complete silence. Eventually the music kicks in - it seems that there was some sort of speaker fault.

It may have been the lack of music, but I am left with an impression of a technically sophisticated yet generic show, projecting a more globalised vision of Hong Kong than I imagined.

Anchored to Hong Kong's religious roots, another morning sees a trip to the Big Buddha, via Ngong Ping '360' - a terrifying cable car experience, as I am about to discover.

The long journey starts as the cable car swings and soars up over water, overlooking the airport - made worse by the fact that the floor is made of glass. I try to work out what's less forboding to look at: my feet and a sudden drop to water, forest and rock, or up and ahead at seemingly the longest mountain traversing cable I've ever seen. Fog makes the journey mystically endless, but strangely ethereal with only the occasional bird heard echoing nearby. The Buddha looms ethereally out of the fog as I finally reach the top, and the sun pierces through the clouds.

Sleeping dogs (at least I hope they are sleeping) lay on every corner as I approach the bottom of the 240 steps needed to climb in order to reach the Buddha. A huge peaceful beacon, I am drawn upwards towards it, passing wafts of delightfully smelling incense.

The top plateau feels extremely high; almost heavenly. I walk around the Buddha, enjoying the views and warming calmness. I feel far removed from the city.

Admittedly I miss the express elevator back at the hotel as I begin the long journey back down.

I pay a visit to the markets at Mong Kok in the afternoon; an overwhelming, bustling mega-crowd. My senses are overloaded with strange smells that shift with the crowd and dizzying noises bellowing from every corner. The streets overflow to breaking point and the suffocating neon jungle above creates a never-world that doesn't feel like a city street.

Back in the realm of international Hong Kong, shopping and Hong Kong Disneyland fill the rest of my time before heading home. It would be difficult not to say that parts of Chinese culture inevitably shine through; particularly the food choices in Disneyland, and recurrence of Chinese medicine shops in international shopping malls.

Ultimately a picture is painted of Hong Kong that doesn't take too many 'brush strokes' from anywhere; not British, American, or even predominantly Chinese. Perhaps a sign of the city of the future, Hong Kong feels so rapidly evolving, it feels young, culturally eclectic and in some respects timeless.

A Pure Taste Of Ireland: Dublin

2012-09-20T12:32:00.001-07:00

Just a short flight away from the UK, what better way to get a flavour of Ireland than from its most populous city, and capital.

Stemming from a small Viking settlement, 'Black Pool' has evolved, often turbulantly, into the vibrant and cosmopolitan city it is today. With refreshingly little idea of what to expect, I spend a few days finding out what Dublin has to offer.

Promptly arriving by bus in O'Connell Street, I am a little surprised at the scale and grandeur of the buildings; the street is wide and flourishing with activity - very much a central hub. I pass the well cared-for Parnell monument on the way to my hotel, imposingly positioned facing the length of the street, asserting a proud gaze over Dublin. It's clear already that politics are close to Dublin's heart.

It is in fact just off Parnell Square where my hotel is situated. The Maldron Hotel I conclude, was a good choice - very well appointed, and ideally situated. After passing some typically Irish red-brick and brown Georgian buldings, this 'Irish' palette of colour is reflected in the decor of the room.

I hop on a bus departing from O'Connell street, which promises informative commentary and a 'hop on hop off' tour of the city. The most omnipresent sight as the bus travels towards the General Post Office is the Spire of Dublin, launching into the sky seemingly for miles. A modern day obelisk constructed of steel, the spire simply works, quite unexpectedly, as a beacon for prosperity and freedom reaching towards the clouds.

The spire complements the grand Georgian General Post Office building well. The GPO has served as much more than a post office in Dublin's past, incuding the headquarters for the leaders of the brutal Easter Uprising in 1916.

At the other end of the street, the O'Connell monument stands proud as if serving to protect, as well as displaying the ubiquitous harp of Ireland as seen on the Parnell monument, adding to an overall sense of a 'grand plan', or uniformity for O'Connell Street.

Many more characteristically tall red-brick houses are to be seen; they are rapidly becoming a defining feature of Irish architecture as the bus continues on. One of them is covered in a dressing of bright green and red ivy; quite surreal.

A curious, rather pleasant yeasty smell announces that the bus is nearing the Guinness Storehouse, further confirmed by the very loud bus tour commentary. As the bus turns and begins to navigate through the factory grounds, past the enormous brick and industrial buildings, I ponder the Irish influences on American architecture - perhaps Boston or New York spring to mind.

Inisde, the beautiful old qualities of the interior have been preserved and fused with modern attributes. Old iron beams and brick walls give way to the worlds largest 'pint glass', consisting of a glass tower centre, surrounded by various levels - each telling the story of Guinness, its history and heritage.

Learning about every ingredient and every process that goes into Guinness is thirsty work - it's time to have a hand in pouring my own pint. In a very informative session, I join other tourists in being trained how to pour the perfect pint of Guinness; I am even given a certificate to prove it. Of course I am also allowed to 'sample' my perfect pint afterwards...

Well and truely a converted Guinness drinker, I leave to board the bus again. My next stop will be Kilmainham Gaol: a long decommissioned prison built in the 18th century.

A sense of grim forboding is evoked as soon as I set foot outside its grey, cold walls. A serpent-esque motif above the main entrance marks the gateway to a once hellish place of incarceration.

Damp, chilling and musty air surrounds me as I am led around with a group, by a very enthusiastic tour guide. The squalid spaces feel alive again as I am told of how hundreds of men, women and children would have been crammed inside. Furthermore, the guide states that the conditions inside the prison around the 1850s were more more favourable than those outside; crimes would be committed intentionally in order to be locked-up here.

Peering into the cells, only a small amount of light is visible from tiny windows, high above the confined, maddening rooms. I am told stories in relation to particular cells as I move through - mostly of unfortunate political prisoners and other more romanticised tales.

The Parnell name crops up again as the group moves into his old cell; the difference is astonishing, with a fireplace, windows and relative luxury of a separate living room and sleeping area. The story goes that Parnell, being a political prisoner in times where he had immense Irish support, was treated royally so as not to cause unrest outside the prison walls. Luxury meals, spacious private quarters and guards catering for his every whim - a very strange predicament indeed.

Stepping into the 'new' Victorian wing feels like a refreshing breakthrough, at least in comparison to the squalid concrete cells I had first seen. The prison opens up into a multi-story atrium with natural light from high above. Wrought iron staircases wind up to the various levels. Inside the cells, a marked improvement awaits with substantial windows, and cleaner, brighter rooms. This area followed the Victorian trend, or rather realisation that prisoners benefited, in terms of psychological behaviour, from exposure to daylight. Still a morbid, claustrophobic place, but a huge step up from the earlier wings.

The tour concludes with the outside area, most notably the courtyard where the executions took place. I stare up at the high stone walls, and wonder if they had any glimmer of hope for a chance of escape. Poignant crosses mark the spots of the actual killings; very stirring indeed.

I breathe a sign of relief as I am 'released' from Kilmainham through the heavy iron doors.

The next morning I head to a much cheerier place: Dublin Zoo. On route, the bus passes through Pheonix Park, which, as I am informed by the commentary, is many times bigger than New York's Central Park. With endless forest and hills in the background, it really is a tranquil haven. The Wellington Monument towers high above the trees - the second largest obelisk in the world, after Washington's.

Continuing the 'American' reminiscence, I see the white gates to the US Embassy, sporting the USA flag, and opposite, the gated entrance to the President's home. An obscure opportune glance through the trees reveals something very similar to the White House.

Dublin Zoo has a reputation as one of Europe's finest, and it doesn't disappoint. The habitats are fantastically spacious, yet afford up-close views of each animal without fail as if they knew I was coming. I also seem to stumble upon each enclosure at feeding time; the elephants, chimpanzees and sea lions show off their manners at dinner time. A baby tapir and even a baby giraffe are highlights.

I finish the evening with a hearty Irish meal in a typical Irish pub, where a feeling of warmness and Irish good will is extended.

Even at 4am, the taxi driver taking me to the airport the following morning is almost unnaturally talkative and friendly - it seems to be customary for the Irish to treat even strangers as though they are familiar friends. I notice the many independent shops, bars and restaurants flourishing in Dublin; quite a contrast to much of the UK, where national and global companies are quickly becoming a majority. Possibly the openness and hospitality of the Irish is a reason for these shops survival - not to mention the overcoming prosperity of the Irish themselves.

I leave Dublin with a good taste in my mouth - not just from the Guinness, but a warming and unique taste from a very liberal and sociable city.

Oslo: Defying the EU

2012-09-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

We usually tend to conjure up images of moral dissolution and economic misfortune, when imagining European life outside the EU; weak currency, battered roads, fragile infrastructure, political unease and social disruption, perhaps.

Norway, however, is living proof that life outside the EU isn't all that bad. Quite the opposite in fact. Opinion polls show a surprisingly huge increase in a resounding 'No' against the EU since debates began, and the majority of Norwegian political parties park themselves well outside the EU fence.

I experience a pricey summer trip to the super-inflated capital, and try to understand exactly why Norway is so comfortable in its economic position.

A more common image associated with Norway, rather than its economy, is cold. This association is melted away as I step on the baked tarmac of Oslo Rygge Airport, although it certainly is windy.

I am quickly advised that the quickest and easiest way to get to Oslo city centre is via the Rygge-ekspressen airport bus, and hop on board for the one hour journey. The road darts in and out of immensely long tunnels; one of which I'm convinced is never actually going to end. Some of the road signage is notably similar to back in the UK, with the plethora of deep rock-boring tunnels and abundance of open forest serving as hints of my location.

Arriving in Oslo city centre, it rapidly becomes obvious that Oslo city centre is compact, and thus I expect, easily navigable. I see a characteristic sprinkling of buildings and structures recognisable from prior reading. Using the iconic 1950's Oslo Town Hall as a homing beacon, I head in that general direction from the train station towards my hotel, just off Karl Johan's Gate: Oslo's hub.

Having heard stories of outrageously priced food in Oslo, I am not surprised to see dozens of people sitting in the afternoon sun on the grass, eating melon slices and hot dogs. I guess this is a not too unpleasant alternative to paying inflated restaurant prices.

Now rather late, I make the decision to grab a burger from a well known fast food establishment, and devour my first piece of evidence of Oslo's high food prices. What would have cost about £10 at home, sets me back the equivalent of about £22.

The Doubletree by Hilton is an extremely convenient choice, virtually a few footsteps away from many significant places of interest. It also doubles as the historic Christiania Theatre dating from 1836, giving it a distinctly suave, boutique feel.

Through the ceiling window, it's curiously light; perhaps the equivalent of summer dusk in the UK. Southern Norway doesn’t experience the midnight summer sun as in the North, but still enjoys much lighter evenings. Despite the light I convince myself it's time to crash.

Like shifting economies, various national collective art can differ in insightful, and potentially culturally mood-driven ways. It can sum up a national identity without words or reality. My first visit this morning is the National Gallery of Norway. The building itself is industrial and imposing in appearance. I get a an eclectic sense of identity through depictions of vikings, fishing, snowy scenes, rolling hills and grass covered buildings, with the highlight being Munch's 'The Scream' - certainly a real scream to see it up close.

The art communicates a solid, timeless foundation for Norway - perhaps the routes of its deviation from the EU. I head out of the beautiful brickwork building to discover more clues.

From one red-brick building to another, this time I wander towards the Rådhus: Oslo's City Hall, completed in 1950. Host to the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony, this is definitely a ‘love or hate’ building. From a distance, its boxy structure may disappoint, but up close each wall, corner and crevice tells an interesting story of Norwegian prowess. I love it.

As heavy rain pours, just in front of the City Hall is the waterfront. Dotted with statues, the large expanse is full of life. I check the ferry times, and head up the adjacent hillside towards Akershus Castle, increasingly impressed with the close proximity of everything.

Dating back to 1290, the castle has a rich history of Swedish battles, German occupation during World War II, and even use as a prison.

The trustworthy nature of Norwegians means that all manner of items are on display in the opulent interior, including priceless silverware. I step through each room, from the dark dungeon, to the awe of the huge dining room, and formal rooms upstairs, with equally awe-inspiring views of Oslo. One room features a light display emanating from inside wicker ball, projecting light around a grand hall, reminiscent of something from a Harry Potter movie set.

Soaked already, I decide to head back down to the waterfront and board the ferry to Bygdøy, where I expect to see several maritime themed museums. Although limited by the rain, the boat affords some spectacular views across Oslofjorden.

The wet walk to the Viking Ship Museum is a little longer than anticipated, though made interesting by the plethora of gigantic and grand Norwegian homes in this residential area. Almost bizarrely, every home seems to have the 'Securitas' logo displayed outside - business must be good for them in Norway.

The humble exterior of the museum doesn't quite do justice for what is inside. The viking ships seem strikingly 'alien'; they are seemingly just about ready to break from their supporting beams and sail out of the beautifully curvy interior of the building. Designed in the 1920s, the building was certainly dreamed up with the ancient viking boats in mind, perfectly complementing each other.

The boats and other artifacts stir the imagination, and beg the contradiction: if the vikings were such an aggressive, raging people, how could they have crafted such beautiful objects.

Another very wet trek, and I arrive at the unmistakable triangular peak of the Fram Museum building. Inside, I am confronted with the mammoth 1891 Fram vessel. I brave its extremely claustrophobic and crowded musty interior to get a sense of what it must have been like to take to explore the Arctic seas, in times of the relatively unknown. A bizarre exhibition, involving a moving floor, ice walls, and ice mummies adds to my experience.

The Kon Tiki museum opposite showcases the raft of the same name. Constructed in 1947, the balsa wood raft's purpose was purely an attempt to demonstrate the theory that it would have been possible for ancient civilisations to sail from South America to the Polynesian islands, using early tools.

Having endured soaking wet socks and an irresponsible choice of non-waterproof shoes, I hop back on the boat to the waterfront, and enter a Norwegian shopping mall in a mission to find some new shoes. I pick a pair that will do the trick, and emerge recovering from the shock of the price tag.

Perhaps a downside to living in such a strong economy is that locals, particularly Norway's youth, seemingly don't have the 'luxury' of super-cheap shopping bargains. However, salaries here seem to be in support of fueling the extravagant prices.

Although not unique to Oslo, the Icebar is an interesting feat. I head towards it, sporting my new, and most importantly dry shoes. With a current theme of the 'Nautilus', the bar is temperature controlled to keep everything intact. I am given a coat and gloves to wear before going inside the icy room - with the added benefit of a cocktail of course.

Giant squid, octopus and sea creatures are skillfully sculpted into the ice and walls. While at first 45 minutes I am given seems stingy, I leave the freezing room feeling somewhat relieved to be warm again.

I finish up my day with a walk around the eerily trusting grounds of the Royal Palace; I get the sense that one could happily walk right up the front door - perhaps even cheekily ask for a peep inside.

Unheard of, and unlike the stone-cold, humanless stare of the guards at Buckingham Palace, I am given a welcoming smile by a guard as I walk on through the Norwegian Palace gates into the gardens. It seems this national sense of financial confidence also extends to a warming feeling of security and trust. Financial insecurity and safety insecurities seem to be directly linked in other less prosperous countries.

Transport in Norway, as I become increasingly aware of the following morning, is also something that Oslo can boast about. Trams, busses, metro, trains and ferries seem so frequent and reliable, the need for a car is negligible. The feeling of trust is further extended here, as I am never asked to present my ticket.

I board the metro in the city centre - tall buildings give way to houses, then to lakes and forest within minutes. The metro is transformed into a slaloming train, curving its way up the side of a huge hill. Views begin to open up spectacularly to vistas of the Oslo fjords, valleys and lakes.

Not much later, I arrive at Holmenkollen: home of the ski jump. The first glimpse of the dramatically rising ski tower is earned with a steep hike further up the hill. It's very difficult not to be wowed by the scale of it. Inactive during the summer, it still speaks of the spectacle of winter sports. Inside, the ski museum educates me about the evolution of the ski jump over time. I'm disappointed to discover the lift to the top is closed today, and promise myself I will return during a winter to see it in full action.

The very un-urban metro, or 'T-bane', takes me to the last stop on the line: Frognerseteren - where I have no idea what I will find. A brief walk along a trail from the station leads me to stumble upon Frognerseteren restaurant. Constructed in 1891, the wooden, slightly oriental style building is something special, situated high above Oslo. I take my time eating a much needed cake, and sip an equally needed coffee while taking in the views, and unique atmosphere of the building.

Returning to Oslo city centre in the brilliant sunshine, I witness hundreds of people descending on to Karl Johan's Gate to soak up the rays, and the ambience of the many bars and cafes now spilling out into the street.

I secure a good people watching spot before dinner, and observe the wealth, the prosperity and the confidence of Norway walk by.

The train journey back to the airport also laughs in the face of the railway infrastructure I am accustomed to, with reliability, comfort and panache far exceeding anything that UK trains have ever offered.

Oslo has given me a glimpse of a nation that preserves its national identity as well as its own financial interests in perfect unison. Norway has positioned itself ideally in its economic position, boosted by its geographic location, where it can comfortably sit within discerning arms reach of the EU. Such a position affords beneficial EEA trading that doesn't allow the EU to smother and envelope its financial integrity, or begin to chip at its global identity.

Unearthing Ancient Malta: Ggantija

2012-06-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

The immediately visible face of oft-frequented tourist destinations is punctuated , perhaps plagued, by a constantly shifting identity - characterised by contemporary hotels, restaurants, and generic tourist attractions. These attractions usually have no real time or place, no real connection, historically or culturally, to the place around them.

Only the biggest, most vast monolithic creations of humanity seem to survive both the test of time, and waning human interest. We might think of Egypt's Pyramids, for example, as a ubiquitously recognisable structure - one that cannot simply be buried underneath a plethora of quick-fix hotels and tourist attractions. Not quite yet anyway.

Over 1000 years older than the Egyptian Pyramids, Malta's Ggantija temple complex, situated high above the lush countryside palettes of Gozo, is one humble structure to have gained, or long-inherited an independence from the pernicious wrath of tourism.

"Pizza, burgers and English food". The response from the taxi driver hurtling me to my hotel in Malta confirms just what I expected. When asking what sort of food would be available, I quickly realise that I could have answered this question myself.

Malta has a strong 'bond' - perhaps not so much of a mutual, neighbourly bond, but more of an established colonial history with the UK. This dates back to King George III's reign, from 1814, right up until 1964. This powerful 150 year membership of the British Empire may have long ended, but the British sense of inherited colonialism certainly hasn't.

As the taxi drops me outside the hotel, the sense of ‘Brits abroad’ is heightened, with a scattering of patriotic pubs; one even called ‘Diana’s Pub’, fish and chip shops, and British style cafes complete with England football shirt-sporting patrons.

With the exception of a rather wind battered walk down to coastal salt pans, amid turquoise sea-lapped rockpools, there is little in Buggiba to represent Malta in a classical sense. It is possible however to capture a sense of the ‘old’, architecturally at least, when trekking a little further away from the booze lined sea-front. Protruding enclosed balconies speak best of this, and countless ornate British letterboxes mounted outside traditional front doors.

In preparation for my visit to Ggantija, I decide to visit the National Archaeological Museum, located in Malta’s grand capital, Valletta. Arriving here first thing in the morning, I gasp a sense of relief that it seems to have somewhat escaped the British holiday camp nausea of Bugibba; I am awed at the architectural beauty of the surrounding buildings. A labyrinthine network of increasingly narrower and curiouser streets, overlooked by an armada of iconic and colourful balconies, I eventually find the entrance to the museum. I decide that Valletta is however easily deserving of a much closer look, and so endeavor to find my way toward the harbour area, before shutting myself away in the museum.

Like a movie set, falsely aged to perfection, the courtyard of the Grandmaster’s Palace lures me inside for a closer look. This was one of the first buildings constructed in Valletta, and clearly an example set for buildings to follow.Bright red flowers appear wonderfully striking against the pale limestone hues of the courtyard.

A never ending set of stairs leads me down to St Elmo’s fort – allegedly closed to the public, as I am agressively told by a Maltese gentleman, emphatically suggesting a ride on his horse and cart as an alternative. Passing on this, I walk further around the harbour wall towards the Siege Bell Memorial, constructed in 1992 to commemorate those lost during the horrors of World War II. The Bell also affords me spectacular views across Valletta Harbour.

Adjacent to this, I enjoy a strolling a little further through the Lower Barrakka Gardens, with its beautfiful abundance of colourful flowers, welcome shade from the midday heat, and the occasional lizard darting across the pavement.

Looking down over the edge, I see one of the primary sources of the Malta’s building material – limestone, claimed from the rocky shores beneath me. One might think that such uniformity in building work might be tiresome, but actually generates a unique earthly and warming charm in the buildings that surround the area, and all over Malta.

One may be forgiven for at first seeing only a collection of rocks at the Archaeological Museum – but rocks which get more and more interesting, and fantastically cryptic, as though from another universe. Spiral designs give way to an army of generously proportioned female fertility figures, many of which were recovered from Ggantija.

A small model of Ggantija and subsequent display boards educate me prior to my intended visit tomorrow. I take the opportunity to gasp at some more recent artifacts from the 19^th century, including some unnecessarily dazzling storage chests, vases and jewellery.

Fierce winds make it difficult to take in views aboard the ferry to Gozo. The journey only takes half an hour, and thankfully the winds die down as the ferry arrives. A couple of long and winding bus journeys later, offering views of the endless, unspoilt Gozo countryside, I am prompted by the driver that this is where I should get off for Ggantija.

A tall fence, and a small temporary hut marks the spot for the entrance. Followed by a curious dog, I duck inside and pay my entrance fee for one of the oldest structures in the world.

Roughly covering about the same area as Stonehenge in England, Ggantija seems about as integrated with the earth as physically possible for a structure – but is by no means simply a pile of rocks.

The complex is divided into two separate ‘temples’, surrounded with a very large exterior wall. Each temple is divided into two expansive, circular areas - a sort of clover-leaf layout repeated in other Maltese temples. As I approach the entrance, I am first fascinated by the extraordinary location, and subsequently stunning view, claimed by the site. Positioned on the edge of the Xaghra plateau, it’s clear to me that Ggantija was a place of extreme importance, most likely adopting a god-like status. Perhaps it was the importance of those who lived here that mattered, or importance of the structure itself; this is still a mystery.

On passing through the ancient entrance, the rock appears almost volcanic, with some rocks almost resembling underwater coral, riddled with golf ball sized impressions. The interior has a few tiny pieces of an ancient ‘plaster’ remaining, meaning that the rough inside wall was once relatively smooth.

Progressing further I am enthralled by the sight of ‘historic’ graffiti, the likes of which I have never seen before. In its early days, shortly after ‘discovery’ in 1827, the site was offered little protection, up until the latter half of the 20^th century. The site had always been known to locals, but it wasnt until Col. John Otto Bayer, the Lieutenant Governor of Gozo, orchestrated the exposure and clearance of the site back then that visitors began to take an interest – some taking a little too much interest and deciding to etch their own quite permanant artistic mark into the rocks.

These are a little more thoughtful than a contemporary ‘I woz ‘ere’, but would have been on the equivalent scale of desecration in the 19^thcentury. Most appear to be very patriotic, and perhaps a gesture of pride, but something well protected against today, with barrier lined walkways and omnipresent CCTV warning signs.

Further inside the temples, the presence of circular holes in the wall, and a pre-historic alter are still open to interpretation. Some believe that the whole site was dedicated to fertility, and thus fertility based rituals were likely, perhaps involving sacrifices taking place on the alter. The circular windows may have simply been that – a viewing portal to perhaps keep a protective eye over the occurances inside. The temples are theorised to have once been covered with a wood based ceiling, so the windows make sense as security measures. I am intrigued at how perfect the circle is relative to the tools that would have available at the time; Ggantija pre-dates metal based materials.

The most fascinating part of the temple is a series of rectangular recesses at the back. Perhaps these were for storage, or some other mysterious purpose. One thing is for sure: this place was meant to last a very long time, and it has.

I walk around the permimeter of the temples and admire the megalithic exterior wall. Ancient Maltese once beleived that the temple was built by giants, and it’s clear to see how this belief emerged. Archaeological excavations across Malta uncovered large ball-bearing like rocks theorised to have been used to move such large rocks for construction, examples of which I had seen at the Museum.

It might strike some as an immense shame that the whole structure is surrounded, and supported by extensive scaffolding, but there is comfort in this that UNESCO, the committee responsible for designating and maintaining ‘World Heritage Sites’, has been protecting the site since 1980.

I leave Ggantija feeling both mystified and enthralled. Such ancient history really is a world away, with only the ancient architecture and artifacts to speak for a time pre-dating the Pyramids of Egypt.

The medieval, wall enclosed town of Mdina is next on my list. Despite feeling relatively ‘modern’ compared to Ggantija, it lives up to its local name of ‘The Silent City’ – it takes just a few steps , and a few narrow alleyways away from the trot of horses hooves to find myself in a tranquil, flower draped corner.

The views from Mdina also do not disappoint; perhaps it’s creators took a leaf from Ggantija’s book in situating it on a prime spot, topping a spectacular plateau.

It seems that thankfully in Malta, such mysterious, enigmatic places like this, and Ggantija, remain immune from the changing face of Malta’s identity. Shopping malls may rise, hotels may fall, but Malta’s ghostly megalithic heritage will last forever.

Tallinn to St. Petersburg

2012-03-19T13:58:00.001-07:00

Said to be Russia's 'window on the west', St. Petersburg is expected to be the most westernised and European of all of Russian cities. I travel from Estonia's capital across the border to the heart of St. Petersburg, to discover the transition between both of these UNESCO World Heritage Sites of exquisite beauty.

Life is a struggle, an inconvenience and a bother with snow - at least in the UK. Landing in the Baltics, swooping over a wondrous frozen lake, it's clear that the snow and ice in Tallinn, like all other Baltic countries, is a valued and ubiquitous aspect of winter. Estonians take it all in their stride. Snow ploughs gracefully clear paths across the runway. No sign of British cynicism and resignation here.

Tallinn seems perfectly balanced as a town, like a well-orchestrated meal on a dinner plate. The modern, times square-esque skyscrapers within spitting distance of the airport, and then the Old Town another 'spit' away from that.

I marvel at how the taxi driver, and every other driver on the road; feet of snow piled either side, negotiate the ice covered lanes with such abandon. I'm pretty sure if this was the UK, we'd have all been told to stay at home.

Carefully stepping out in front of the hotel, my snow boots still buried in my bag, for the first time I notice how it doesn't feel so much as uncomfortably cold, but rather very fresh.

After a warm Estonian reception and checking out a spectacular first glance of Eastern European architecture from the 26th floor, I head to Tallinn's Old Town.

Now a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site, the town survived most of World War II's torments, and displays very little, if any evidence of either Soviet or Nazi past occupation. As I walk past the snowy hill of Toompea, the Old Town begins to resemble a fairy tale village, particularly against the bright blue sky.

Alexander Nevsky Cathedral looms large and monumental, as an indicator of Russia's architectural influence on its neighboring country. Along the walls and at the entrances to the Old Town are medieval towers. In contrast to the onion domed tips of the cathedral, they look relatively ancient. Staring up at one of them it's easy to transcend time, at least momentarily.

The fairy tale continues as I venture further, past snow frosted statues and increasingly archaic and naturalistic architecture. A map is definitely not required as I find myself conveniently funneled towards the iconic Town Hall. Surrounded by more medieval buildings around a cobbled snowy square, the fairy tale is at its peak. The locals beckon outside shops, and themed stands, adorned in periodic costumes, at times making it feel almost reminiscent of a theme park.

The theme park feeling continues as I walk towards the east wall entrance. I muse a little at what is perhaps the most perfectly assimilated McDonald's I have ever seen - quite literally built into the Old Town's structures. But this isn't a theme park - this is old and new Eastern Europe perfectly combined, with a lack of any conflicting interest.

From the romantic viewpoint of Kissing Hill I see one of several perpetual 'Christmas trees' I have seen in Tallinn. The season to be jolly seems to transcend time for that little bit longer here, appearing accustomed to their winter wonderland, and old stonework surroundings.

Trekking through a busy, modern shopping mall on the way back to the hotel, it's evident that Estonia is no exception from liberal consumerism, akin to the rest of Europe. I begin to wonder what differences I will observe when I cross the border.

Bleary eyed, I collect a pre-packed breakfast bag from reception while checking out at 5am. A taxi then whisks us to Tallinn bus station. After a little bit of early morning confusion, we wander past icicle dressed bus stops to find a warm waiting room. People sit patiently for the bus to arrive. I contemplate what they might be travelling to Russia for: work, family, or perhaps like myself, just plain curiosity.

A shuffle of activity suggests that the bus has arrived. The Lux Express will be my transport of choice for making the six hour trip around the Gulf of Finland, across the border and on into St. Petersburg. Grabbing a visa form, I find my seat at the front of the bus. Appointed more like a 'business class' on wheels, it becomes clear that this trip should be as comfortable as possible.

We set off. Eastern European buildings gradually dissipate, replaced by endless snowy forest. I sink into the reclining seat and drift off. But not for too long.

The bus swerves and stops beside a snowy trench of a bus stop; some hard-faced looking Russians extinguish their cigarettes and board the bus. This signifies that we have arrived in Narva; the last bastion of Europe before the border crossing. I begin to feel a little apprehensive as I scramble for my passport and visa documents.

As if we are about to embark on a safari, the bus pulls up to an imposing looking fence, topped with barbed wire, before entering what can only be described as a cage. The driver shouts something in Russian, and disembarks the bus, prompting another small shuffle of activity. Passports at the ready.

A very militarised, beret donning Estonian official boards the bus, and I'm a little bewildered as he not only scrutinises, but takes away my passport - and everyone else’s. A lifetime passes, during which I notice the impromptu appearance of a very skinny looking cat, conveniently just passing through gaps in the ‘cage’, and wondering onwards without a care...

Finally the official boards the bus again, and hands back my passport. The cage door opens, and the bus continues through. But this is just the Estonian side. No smiles yet.

Adjacent to the beautiful Hermann Castle, the bus continues forwards to a heavily fortified bridge. I try to take in the impressive castle, dating back to the 14th century, as much as I can as we cross the Narva River. The bus creeps forward, passing the first Russian officials that I see. These guys mean business.

The bus stops in front of what looks like a very dated old petrol station. But a petrol station this is not. Something is shouted in Russian again and we all leave the bus, ushered into the small building.

Silence and tension fills the room, as well as the scent of dated cigarette smoke as I slowly shuffle forward, waiting for my turn at the passport control window.

One might think I have been transported back the Soviet era already. A stern, female Russian voice beckons me to the window. Her demeanor, uniform, hair, makeup... everything communicates that she means even more business than the officials outside. I flicker a brief smile, before it's extinguished by her authoritative and emotionless glare. Another lifetime passes as she endlessly inspects virtually every page of my passport. She utters something in Russian, which I surmise when translated must mean something along the lines of 'stay', and disappears through a back door, with my passport.

Another age passes as I hear the 'stamp, stamp, stamp' of the Russians behind me being granted access to continue. Finally she reappears, and I hear the universal language of 'stamp, stamp, stamp', this time telling me I can go through.

I wait until the bus has finished being inspected, before everyone ventures back into the snow, and jumps back on the bus. Apprehension is now replaced with excitement as we journey on into Russia.

Bump, bump, shake. The first part is familiar - endless snowy forest. However, this time I know I must be in Russia, because the road is incredibly bumpy; a patchwork of pot-holes and cracks. Despite this, like its neighbour across the river, great care has been taken to rid the roads of dangerous ice and snow. I contemplate again how if this were to be in the UK, all but essential travel would have been ill-advised.

Snowy forest gives way to my first glimpse of some of the poorer provinces of Russian housing. In contrast to the fifties apartment block buildings one expects, there are many communities consisting of small wooden huts. Many of them look like they have been constructed independently, perhaps by each family, from whatever material was available. Although under feet of snow, I see what looks like chicken coups and agricultural facilities. Clearly these are people able to adapt to living conditions as best as they can.

Most of them appear to have the windows boarded up. I speculate that this must be to keep the harsh cold out, and I envision generations of families living inside them, huddling around a fire.

I take amusement, and also a feeling of crossing to another time as well as place, from the ever increasing sight of ancient, prehistoric cars. I'm pretty sure that most of them cannot be newer than early nineties. I wonder if this travelling automobile museum will be present in St. Petersburg...

As the wooden huts begin to dwindle, and stereotypical Soviet tower blocks begin to show up, I assume that we are nearing a city. No sign of historical, 18th century buildings yet. Just a bumpy, neglected, yet perfectly straight tree lined road passing through equally neglected fifties blocks. The Soviet dream that never was.

Finally, the sighting of more and more dated buildings signifies that we are nearing a historical centre, and the bus arrives at Baltiyskaya station. I step off into the snowy sludge, and glance around for the metro station. A buzz of excitement, intertwined with a slight tint of intimidation and fear grips me. In researching St. Petersburg, I had read a lot about crime and vulnerable tourists in Russia - perhaps most stories are grossly overrated, but everything I read about mafia syndicates, pick-pocketing, gypsy gangs and corrupt police officers bounces around my head as I firmly clutch my bag, and head to the metro station.

The exterior of the building is the first clue that the metro here is something rather special. I eventually figure out that I just need to ask for a token from the booth inside, and I head down for the trains. I am awe-struck by a vast domed ceiling, and ornate Soviet insignia designs on the wall, while stepping on the top of the escalator.

St. Petersburg's metro system is one of the deepest in the world, due in part to its construction in the nuclear-fearing fifties, and it shows. As I am taken down the seemingly never ending escalator tunnel, I notice people are reading books. I learn that this is an indicator of just how long the journey down is. During the five minutes or so, I admire the detail of the beautiful Soviet red marble walls, and old lamps illuminating the way down.

At the bottom, I am just as impressed. Exquisite chandeliers, fine marble, fanciful columns and more Soviet motifs bedazzle me. Unfortunately, and most likely stemming back from the Soviet era, photography down here is largely prohibited. As a tourist I didn't want to risk any engagements with the police - but the fact that one has to experience it to see it, makes it that more special.

More fifties decadence as the ancient royal-blue train pulls up into the station. Inside, the marks of modern culture and graffiti are present. I head to Vladmiriskaya, the nearest station to my hotel.

After an equally impressive departure through the elaborate station, and greeted by a huge Soviet star motif dominating the wall, I exit into the street to be greeted again by the sight of the 17th century, onion domed Vladmiriskaya Church.

My sense of dis-proportionate fear of crime continues as I navigate the icy streets with a sense of urgency. I want to find the hotel a quickly as possible and dump my bag off. Crossing a road, I am shocked and slightly perturbed at the continuing appearance of one of many completely non road-worthy cars - but this one battered beyond belief. A certain write-off back home. At the same time I also learn that traffic lights are not obeyed here, as the write-off lurches forward towards me as I dart across the road. It dawns on me that many of Europe's governing qualities may not apply here.

As a first impression, St. Petersburg's streets are lined almost exclusively with pre-20th century buildings, but already I spot a few 21st century businesses - at least those I can decipher. Internet cafes, modern banks and beauty salons are plentiful, though respectfully assimilating themselves within the historical architecture, rather like back in Tallinn, although I am yet to see any globally identifiable brands.

Negotiating a very slippery yard, I attempt to locate the hotel. What I discover is something quite unique to Russia - the rules are slightly different here in terms of the allocation, or use of a building’s interior. A shop, hotel or cafe; one would expect to find its entry point at ground level, clearly signposted. In quite a similar fashion to Japan, a business here might be located on the second, third or any other floor of the building. I find what I evaluate MUST be the entrance to the hotel, and recall a code that must be input to gain access to the building. No signage for the Acme Hotel on Rubinsteina is seen outside, just a small hotel logo on the secured entry door.

The old stairwell is reminiscent of a bygone Russian era, with its wrought-iron lift in the center, concrete steps, and the strong, but surprisingly pleasant odour of long-faded Russian cigarette smoke.

A pristine brown wooden door on the second floor reveals itself to be the entrance to the hotel. The stairwell is almost an integral part of the street - just another public area to be navigated until the hotel is found.

I am greeted with a smile for the first time in Russia, and grab the keys to my room. The hotel is very small, with only five rooms, but its 'secretive' location makes it feel like an exclusive safe haven; it has a feeling more akin to being a guest in a Russian home. The 'Pushkin' room essentially represents the Russian attitude of making the most of what's available - with an obvious attempt at a decor theme, but made with basic yet ample furnishings.

Snow boots on, I wander out of the yard and up towards Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg's main street; a hub and central focus point for the city, with easy access to most of its key sights.

Turning the corner on to Nevsky, I spot a McDonalds - though not so familiar looking written in Russian, and the first of many Subway sandwich shops. These are reminders that the Soviet era had ended, and the modern west is very slowly moving in. Though without these reminders, I otherwise feel transported back in time as I continue to walk past one eighties car after another, and timeless buildings.

Nevsky itself is immense, intimidating and ironically spectacular: wide, opulently paved streets; battered old buses, running on electrical cables overhead; dirty, neglected eighties police cars; and some of the most extravagant, pristine buildings I have ever seen. The whole thing is 'reminiscent' of some old and forgotten, or even parallel universe version of New York City.

Crossing a bridge over one of the many frozen canals, I admire the seemingly untouched artistic detail along the bridge railings, and above it, a magnificent horse statue. I begin to contemplate the irony of the weathered, neglected and downright backward aspects of 'modern' Russia, alongside the absolutely pristine sanctity of the pre-20th century monuments and buildings.

An icy 19th century statue of Catherine the Great is revealed further down the street, as another reminder of the perseverance of all of St. Petersburg's, and Russia's periods of history. Rather like the Soviet reminders I have seen so far, this and other monuments stand tall and proud as if they are just as relevant today. Catherine was Russia's longest ruling female leader in the 18th century.

Gostiny D'vor is, allegedly, one of the oldest shopping malls in the world, dating back to 1757. To reach it across the road, I walk under one of the market stall lined pedestrian subways. Russian dolls, vodka, Soviet memorabilia and fur hats; clearly they are ready for tourists here.

Entering Gostiny D'vor I am somewhat disturbed to find that I am the only person, seemingly, in the entire building. It would seem that the Russian's are either not ready for western designer shops, or, like me, simply cannot afford them.

Next up along Nevksy is the Kazan Cathedral, with its immense columned crescent, green domed roof, and bright golden sun inspired motif on the front. Being unable to read the Russian sign on the door, I cautiously enter to have a peek inside. I am struck by a wonderful scent of burning incense, or candles, and immediately awestruck by its decadent interior. A line of patient people stand in front of me holding candles, awaiting some sort of religious homage at the altar.

Trekking back out and along the bank of another frozen canal, I am on a mission to find the Church of the Saviour on Blood. The canal seems to infinitely curve around a corner, and I begin to assume that I have taken a wrong turn. Just as I am ready to give in and turn back to Nevsky, I spot one of the bright domes of the church past some trees in the distance. I have found it!

Completed in 1907, and recently renovated in 1998, the church looks stereotypically Russian, and wonderfully alluring, with it's almost playfully colourful mosaics and domes. The theme-park-esque feeling, invoked by its pristine condition is back again. But this is most definitely real and steeped in history, having been constructed to mark the spot of Alexander II's assassination in 1881; a Russian Tsar who oversaw many important reforms, such as granting Serfs, or 'peasants' access to the city.

After succumbing to snapping up some questionably authentic Soviet items from a market stall outside the Church, I trudge through the sludgy snow back towards Nevsky Prospekt.

Heading in the direction of the Palace Square, I encounter a small blue sign painted on the wall; in front of it lay small floral offerings. Roughly translated from Russian, it reads: "Citizens! This side of the street is the most dangerous during artillery bombardment". This is a ghostly, incidental memorial of the German Nazi occupation.

From 1941 to 1944, for 872 days the Germans seized the city. Of course during this time, following the early 20th century revolution, the city was known as 'Leningrad', changed from its earlier 20th century name of 'Petrograd'. The Soviet era Leningrad name would last until relatively recently. This 'Siege of Leningrad' took the lives of almost one and a half million people. I ponder for a minute that such a tragic portion of the cities history is remembered by such a small, but potent symbol.

From one slice of history to another, as I truly descend into another time as I reach the beginning of Palace Square. Every step towards Alexander’s Column, a memorial for Alexander I, further ensues a feeling of awe and overwhelming scale; the vast Winter Palace on my left, and gigantic curve of the General Staff Building on my right.

The elaborate baroque Winter Palace was the official residence of the Russian Monarchs from 1732 to 1917. Today it houses a large proportion of the Hermitage museum's collections.

Standing in the square, I envision the historical events that took place here; Bloody Sunday in 1905, and the October Revolution of 1917. The site was witness to the birth of a new era of capitalism, during which time the city was renamed as the more Russian 'Petrograd'. Still it stands timelessly, and effortlessly, as if it was built yesterday on some extortionate, unlimited budget.

Clutching my camera, with a lingering, perhaps completely needless sense of impending crime, I walk onwards to the banks of the Neva River. I look out over to the Greek revival style Stock Exchange building, and across from that the Peter and Paul Fortress.

Unfortunately I don't have time to cross the Trinity Bridge and visit the fortress, but this encapsulates yet another well preserved and undisturbed portion of St. Petersburg’s history, established by the founder of the city, Peter the Great in 1703. The city’s original name from this period, and St. Petersburg’s true historical heritage, wouldn't be returned to the city until the dissolution of the Soviet era in 1991.

Passing scores of model-like, slender Russian women on my walk back down Nevsky Prospekt, and hordes of weathered looking Russian men, I muse at this cultural phenomenon; suddenly the 'Russian brides' websites we have all heard of make a little bit more sense. I guess the 'selection' on offer, combined with a difficult and sometimes oppressive life gives these women little option, but to try and attract a western husband as a means of escape.

I once again navigate the increasingly treacherous icy yard after grabbing some curious Russian food, and call it a night.

Eating breakfast the next morning in a nearby cafe, gazing out the window, observing the curious similarity of elderly Russian women, and whilst admiring the architecture of the building opposite, I have no idea of the drama I am about to witness. One that will exemplify the care and pride the city has over its historical buildings, much unlike its cars.

Chaos erupts as I step outside; fire engines, police cars and television crews race past me. As I am ushered around fire hoses blocking the pavement on Nevsky Prospekt, to the middle of the road, I realise that the building opposite where I was sitting is on fire.

I stop and join the bewildered looking crowds, their concerned faces staring directly upwards at the roof of the Palace of Belozerskie. It seems everyone's attention, including the stopped traffic on the road, is focused on this 1848 treasure.

As I trek past the drama, ready for my return bus journey into Europe, I consider how this speaks volumes for my overall impression of St Petersburg - a city so focused on the pristine preservation of the cultural past, but yet seemingly neglectful of, or more so opposed to modern Europe, and the Western world.

Travel insurance is somehow a poor comfort as the driver of the return bus seems to have an icy death wish. Eyebrows are raised as the bus hurtles around snowy corners at alarming speeds. I worryingly ponder that if the worst should happen, I'd rather it was after the Soviet-esque border crossing.

Relative safety is pleasingly defined by the sudden smoothness of the road as we arrive back in Europe. Eventually I arrive at another wonderfully plush hotel in Estonia - I feel nurtured, and perhaps all too comfortable again.

If St. Petersburg really is Russia's 'Window on the West', I wonder just who is actually looking. Whoever they are, perhaps they have more of an inclination for 'window shopping'.

Sadly, just days after my visit, a much opposed bill was signed in St. Petersburg that would control the publication of written material that includes homosexual content. This could be a biography, a journal, or anything with even the slightest hint of such content.

Clearly in Europe, this would be vastly viewed as a clear violation of free speech; a prime example of how the 'Iron curtain', has shifted to an 'Iron window'.

As examples of architectural history, solidified in time, however, both Tallinn and St Petersburg serve well to encapsulate this. Particularly in St Petersburg, the structural forms may not speak to well of the human struggle that accompanied them, but do speak well of how high art, and refined culture triumph over war and chaos. They persist over time as well treasured byproducts of a history fraught with fear.

One has to witness the transition, and irony experienced in travelling from Europe to Russia, with such pristine cultural preservation and overwhelming beauty, in contrast to relative political unease.

If anything at all, on the lowest level, I leave with a sense of gratefulness. Not just for smooth roads, but for the Europe we live in today.

600 Dizzying Steps

2011-12-16T14:43:00.000-08:00

Paris really cannot be ‘done’ in an hour. To assume so would be an ignorant ‘faux pas’; a snooty nose-up to hundreds of years of rich history, culture and stunning architecture. What can be done within an hour to touch the surface of this diverse city, besides fingering a glossy tourist brochure?

Apart from hurriedly gulping down escargot, to get a touch and go flavour of Paris there’s really only one iconic stereotypical pilgrimage to make. I spiral up the steps of the Eiffel Tower to take in as much as I can in a whirlwind visit.

An ever looming motif, from the first glimpse on the train to its presence whilst dodging insane Parisian traffic to cross the road, the Eiffel Tower constantly screams and reconfirms, ‘yes – you are in Paris!’. Solidified and imagined forever in film, magazines and media, it’s impossible to imagine the city without it.

With over 200,000,000 visitors to date, and earning itself the reputation of being the ‘establishing shot’ of France, such a global symbol is hard to ignore.

While strolling towards it, it’s obvious to distinguish the Parisians, going about their daily business, ladies clunking their high heels, hastily; almost boastfully – from the awestruck tourists, heads craned, occasionally stopping to take a picture. Although even to look down, the Eiffel Tower is reproduced endlessly in miniature, on pavement-side mats, where they are sold by street vendors.

Arriving at the base of the tower, I am confronted with something that is never anticipated, in a state of glossy brochure ignorance – a huge, one hour queue. The queue works its way toward one of the monstrous tower legs.

From directly underneath, looking up through the tower is almost as rewarding, perhaps better from an architecturally appreciative point of view, than the view from the top. This reveals the beautiful extravagance and lattice patterned perfection of the towers construction.

Despite being put off by the gigantic queue, the tower looks particularly enticing with the ensuing sunset. I overhear a travel-savvy American couple state that there is an option to walk, yes walk, to ascend the tower rather than the much used lift system. Tickets for the lifts must be purchased for each section, whereas purchasing a ticket to walk (read climb) entitles you to stomp your way up to the second floor, and for less than the cost of a café au lait.

This seems like the best idea, as I make it my mission to get to the second floor to steal a couple of pictures in the ever perfect winter sunset. Rather like an airport, a series of scanners and bag checkpoints must be passed, before being presented with the first wrought-iron step. I’m ready for take-off…

By step fifty-something, I’m starting to wonder if this was the best method of navigating the tower. However, having used the lift years before, climbing the stairs certainly seems more rewarding and evokes a more integral feeling of the tower, quite literally. Being surrounded by the huge bolts and beams that keep it standing beats the insula nature of peering at it as it zooms by in a retro-fitted air-conditioned lift.

Trivia is presented on display boards during the climb, one showing the relative heights of other towers and structures. The Eiffel Tower is actually one of the smallest on the chart; certainly doesn’t feel that way now!

The spiralling motion of trekking up seemingly endless staircases begins to take its toll, until the respite of the first floor is in sight. Here there is a restaurant, a small museum and information area, and some already remarkable views. View-wise I’ve always thought that there comes a certain point where a view becomes just a ‘generic’ city view, but no sign of that here. Sweeping gardens point the eye to the Palais De Chaillot, and the École Militaire, their symmetry and perfectly angled line-up with the tower making it seem slightly ‘lego-like’ from here.

In the centre of the tower on the second floor is an overlooking, vertigo inducing balcony which I could only bring myself to look over briefly, but long enough to scoff at the growing queue of would-be lift users below. Ha!

Time to continue the dizzying ascent to the second floor. It really hits me this time with the repetitive motion of spiralling up, but also a sense of relief that there are no more staircases to climb.

I contemplate the history of the tower; who else has climbed these stairs since it opened in 1889, and also the sheer scale of it, considering it was intended as just a gateway to the World’s Fair of the same year. We rarely see such vast, potentially ‘temporary’ structures built today – with a few exceptions like the Millennium Dome, but that’s another story.

Stumbling somewhat as I cling on to the hand rail, I tread the last step on to the second floor. As a keen runner I consider how the stairs have managed to face me with near breathless defeat.

I’m just in time to hobble around, catching my breath and weaving around well-appointed tour groups who clearly used the lift, to snap a few pictures of the last few minutes of sunset. Certainly a just reward – the Seine glistens and snakes into the distance.

Grabbing a much needed bottle of water, I head down to embark on the equally never ending descent. One could question whether we go the Eiffel Tower to view Paris, or to view the tower. I would say the motive should be a resounding combination of both. It’s certainly not a complete embodiment of Paris, and certainly not of France, not by any stretch. A thirty minute cruise down the Seine might be just as revealing, and your feet need never leave the ground to appreciate Paris. But such an enticing and ubiquitous architectural personification of Paris is quite a challenge to ignore.

Europa Park – Europe’s little known theme park

2011-08-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

Undoubtedly the general consensus when we ask what is Europe’s most prestigious, or quality theme park, would be Disneyland Paris Resort. Certainly the UK has never got it quite right - with Alton Towers or Chessington perhaps nothing more than glorified funfairs; as such attracting the appropriate calibre of visitors. I look at Germany, and a hidden gem nestled near the Black Forest.

Situated in South-Western Germany, practically on the border of France is Europa Park. Although surprisingly the theme park is relatively unheard of in the UK, and perhaps other parts of Europe, it boasts being the second most popular theme park in Europe; over four million visitors a year to be exact.

Perhaps travelling to this theme park reveals why the park is rather unheard of in Britain – getting to Europa Park was somewhat of a mission. A budget flight to Karlsruhe Baden-Baden airport, from London Stanstead and one could be fooled into thinking this was the hard part over. I over-zealously board a bus that ultimately takes me to Strasbourg, France, then a train to a tiny village in the middle of the German countryside. Following this a local bus service that stopped about a mile from the bed and breakfast I stayed in; incidentally the only B&B in the neighbouring village. Consequently I would strongly urge that unless you are attempting to hire a car, consider paying for one of the parks on-site hotels if your budget allows.

There may have been more sensible ways to travel to my hotel, but my ill-researched journey revealed beautiful unspoilt German countryside, and sunflower fields in the absolutely scorching July sun.

The B&B was quite literally the only place to eat, or do just about anything in the village – with the exception of a miniscule shop nearby that never actually seemed to be open. A home-style German sausage pasta dish it is for a warm al-fresco dinner.

First thing in the morning we opt for a less random mode of transport in order to make an early start at Europa Park. A taxi takes us through the German countryside and typical German houses to the gates of the park.

Those familiar with Epcot at Walt Disney World in Florida may be more inclined to understand the layout or grand design of this park. Here, rather than incorporating global countries each ‘land’ is actually a European Country.

The quality, attention to detail and also the established status of the park is immediately evident as I walk in. There are immaculately up-kept gardens, and rather like the entrance to Disneyland, a main ‘street’ which acts as a portal to the park and serves as ‘Germany’, the first land to discover.

A plethora of bars, restaurants and beautiful gardens before even a glimpse of a rollercoaster immediately communicates that this park is aiming for so much more than a playground for thrill seeking, sugar-hyped adolescents.

Further exploration reveals the other stunningly crafted lands, including France, which features a large fountain courtyard surrounded by bars and eateries; clearly the spot for slouching out in the sun with a chilled German beer. One might also notice further evidence of inspiration from Disney’s Epcot here, with a large and striking geodesic structure – though here housing a thrilling rollercoaster ride.

Europa Park was opened in 1975 to showcase some of the ride designs of the Mack family, and of course as well as sedating guests with stunning gardens, thrilling them on wild rollercoasters is something the park does rather well. Blue Fire is the parks latest, featuring a 100km/h launch and stomach turning rolls.

Also here are many family rides, most notably their own bizarre take on a haunted mansion attraction, and a generous helping of water rides to keep cool in the very intense German summers.

After experiencing overnight what was most certainly the biggest thunderstorm I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life, I enjoy my second day in the park. This time with all the rides done, more time to simply relax and enjoy the surroundings.

As I leave the park I notice a piece of the Berlin wall on display – Europa Park incorporates German history and culture throughout; something that UK theme parks rarely attempt. It also showcases artifacts and exhibitions from around Europe, including a Russian space capsule walkthrough.

Overall, particularly for theme park enthusiasts, Europa Park cannot be overlooked. It may not be as accessible to the UK as other theme parks, but those seeking quality and such a wide range of attractions will not let down by what this park has to offer.

Los Angeles to Las Vegas

2011-07-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

Almost completely unrecognisable from distant Spanish history, and even as former parts of Mexico, Los Angeles and Las Vegas have evolved to become bottlenecks of American popular culture, eccentricity, glamour and vice. I take an insightful journey from one ‘glitzy’ mecca to the other.

Route through the Mojave Desert

Hunting down a minicab in the welcomingly warm Californian may climes - after the dry, cold and hostile air of a twelve hour flight from London - I spy a well assorted mix of people huddled outside the LAX arrivals wing. Pilgrims flock to LA for a plethora of reasons; fun seeking tourists, aspiring actors perhaps – all seeking to bathe in the promised Hollywood gloss of would-be perfectionism.

And promised Hollywood gloss is slowly diluted on the commute to the hotel, revealing a medley of miniscule homes in disarray, and the odd glimpse of gated luxury.

My first stop is Anaheim, lodging at a somewhat basic motel. A little put off by the gang-style graffiti adorning parts of the bathroom wall; putting it down to character, I have a quick scout around in the evening to find my bearings.

Despite its sprawling size, and inevitable crime, inhabitants of Los Angeles are lucky to have the respite of some beautiful beaches. Who isn’t familiar with the clichéd slow motion images of Pamela Anderson and David Hasselhoff, jogging and jiggling in a state of unconvincing concern, down golden sands lapped by the bluest waves? Venice beach is the most popular; the crux of urban beach society. Frequented by oiled up roller-bladers, posing muscle-ripped bodybuilders using beachfront gyms, and anonymous movie stars masquerading behind extremely large sunglasses – Venice beach is more about simply being seen than anything else.

I make Huntington Beach’s lesser known, but just as sun-drenched sands my first stop early next morning. All beaches in L.A have an obvious infusion of urban life; evident with strong but often surprisingly creative graffiti, a presence of many homeless people, and ‘ghetto-blaster’ carrying youths forever reminiscent of the eighties.

Huntington Beach offers Californian respite

This beach is no exception; but certainly not the degree of Venice beach. Wandering down towards Huntington pier, there are some inviting looking bars and restaurants, and mostly surf orientated shops. I continue down the pier to witness fishermen taking advantage of the early morning quiet, and meander around the rather unappealing looking fish hauled on to the promenade – some still fighting. For tolerating the strong fish odours, I am rewarded with a spectacular view of L.A’s coastline.

Early morning fishing on the pier

The rest of the day is spent catching some rays, and casually people-watching on the beach – observing how almost every fellow sun worshipper in L.A is adorned with tattoos, some more impressive than others. After grabbing a beachfront hot-dog, the journey back the hotel starts with an envious walk past some very luxurious looking hotels; a far cry from my humble accommodation.

Large white letters, suspended in the hills, begin to emerge from the L.A smog - ‘Hollywood’. With the epitome of L.A being the silver screen production capital of the world, a visit to Universal Studios Hollywood seems essential. As the bus turns the corner into Hollywood Boulevard, a quiet sense of curiosity fills the air; perhaps even slight disappointment. One might even conclude Hollywood to be no more than a ‘trashy’, eclectic by-product of movie star obsession, absent of actual stars - rather handprints and ghostly traces along the Hollywood walk of ‘fame’. Costumed unknowns mimicking icons wait at every corner to pose for your camera – and ask for money for the liberty.

Still, it has to be done - if just to observe the sheer lunacy of it all.

The Hollywood dream may be as distant as the sign seems

I board another bus to whisk me away to Universal Studios – a working studio slash theme-park spin on the Hollywood franchise.

First stop is the world renowned studio tour – a 45 minute guided trolley ride around the functioning back-lot and production areas, with some theme-park twists thrown in of course.

Set used in 'Desperate Housewives'

The tram is tossed about in a simulated earthquake, splashed by staged floods and an attacking ‘Jaws’ – all very exciting. More interestingly I get to see the ‘Colonial street’ production area – more commonly known as Wisteria Lane in the television series Desperate Housewives, and even a devastated ‘plane crash’ movie set.

Dramatic plane crash movie-set

Still vibrating from mock earthquakes, I enjoy the many attractions, rides and shows the park has to offer, and leave with at least a polished idea of L.A’s function as a movie maker’s realm.

Universal Studios’ facades of Hollywood legend are all very entertaining, but where is the reality of this, and where are the real winners of L.A?

A small open top tour proposes to take me around the Hollywood hills area to gawp enviously at the spectacular homes of movie stars – and any other members of the L.A elite.

Pristine streets of American dream fantasy define the area of Beverly Hills – the divide is obvious as the tour bus cruises down one street, with manicured, immaculate gardens and finely paved sidewalk on one side, whilst the other side defined by cracked paving with encroaching weeds, and bust-up buildings. This is social divide on a macrocosmic level.

A few excited gasps are heard from the bus as it passes homes owned by the likes of Christina Aguilera, Victoria Beckham and the late Michael Jackson, amongst others. I wonder as we careen up to the Hollywood sign, just how many unknowns live in seclusion here – to live like a movie star is an aspiration that doesn’t necessarily involve being one.

Los Angeles could quite simply be summed up as that; a city of aspiration or a promise of something better, set by the examples of those who have ‘made it’. Perhaps not necessarily through the hard work and perspiration we associate which such high-end glamorous success. The showcased pinnacle of luxurious popular American lifestyle attracts those to the city that really do keep it running, through sheer dream and persistence.

Before the sun has barely risen again, I travel from Anaheim to central L.A on the Pacific Surfliner. Serving the coast of California, right from San Diego all the way to San Luis Obispo, it offers a very convenient way to travel, and often with some California dreamy scenery to digest on the way.

I step off at the station and conclude that the lavishly impressive art deco halls of Union Station are worth a visit in their own right. Built in 1939, the historical building draws on the ubiquitous Mission Revival style, Dutch influence from one of its supporting architects, and most prominently Streamline Moderne Art Deco inside and out. I felt transported back to a 1930’s golden Hollywood era, when travelling by train probably attracted a lot more kudos. Even the stunning marble floored waiting hall is a marvel to behold.

Union Station

Greyhound runs a coach route between L.A and Las Vegas – which I opted for as the more scenic mode of transport. A word of caution: do check baggage size before queuing to board the coach. It may arise that a bag is too large to carry on and must be stowed, for which a special tag must be obtained from yet another queue. They won’t wait, and as witnessed may be quite brash and vocal about this…

The journey itself is quite something. Sprawling tower blocks and manicured city slowly gives way to more open land, as seemingly ever-distant mountain ranges begin to loom in the distance. Leaving L.A, heading deep into the mountains, has an exciting and escapist feel. I watch traffic gradually diminish; slowly replaced with those huge American trucks I always associate with the deserts of the west.

Endless desert

The Mojave Desert is awe-inspiring; dramatic alien-esque landscapes stretching endlessly into the distance. A real sense of transition is gained as L.A seems further and further away. Indeed many locations here have been used in Hollywood movies – like the eerie looking Vasquez rocks, frequently used in Star Trek and other sci-fi movies for its other-worldly qualities.

Progressively things get more and more remote until we make a brief stop at a service station, and I decide to wander out for some ‘air’. I am completely astounded and left breathless by the change in temperature, from just a few hours travelling. The scorching desert heat is unbearable for some – personally I find it inviting and life-giving. All around is flat endless desert, bordered by heat-hazed mountains on the horizon.

The coach continues on up into the mountains at a steep incline – the driver announces that the air-conditioning will have to be temporarily switched off at this point to avoid overloading it as the coach struggles to reach the summit, at a crawling pace. This seems to go on forever, until the coach stops at the small town of Barstow for lunch – a much needed sandwich – and then on into the desert. Next stop - Las Vegas.

Las Vegas seems quite literally to spring up from the middle of nowhere – one minute facing vast open desert, and the next spotting the infamous ‘welcome to Las Vegas’ sign.

An oasis of life to the ultimate degree, the grandeur of Las Vegas cannot be summed up, canned or conveyed in pictures. The word ‘Vegas’ itself came from the lush green areas derived from wells of fresh water in the area - a natural oasis that soon evolved into a profiteer’s paradise and retreat without remorse or moral. The size and scope of the hotels, and playfulness of the architecture, communicates nothing but pleasure.

Fabricated grandeur

I share a taxi offered up outside the Greyhound terminal with some fellow travellers, and check into my hotel – Circus Circus. Quite difficult to interpret as a stand-alone hotel, Circus Circus is Las Vegas eccentricity and sometimes cringe-worthy over the top kitsch in a nutshell – although quite a grand alternative to my previous ghetto-like lodgings in L.A. It even has a full size lopping rollercoaster racing through it, which I sample – and regret.

Indoor theme park inside the Circus Circus hotel

A stroll down the strip after sun-down reveals the clichéd obvious – that Las Vegas truly buzzes and screams at you at night; with its twinkling neon signs, exuberant gambling noises and flashing lights, almost as if swallowed up by some giant gambling machine. The warm evening air of the desert hardly serves as an incentive to hide away in a hotel room – the city quite literally never sleeps.

Las Vegas buzzes at night

The strip by day is a little tamer; offering alternatives to gambling such as luxury shopping, or even sunbathing and swimming if the heat can be endured. I purchase a day ticket for the Las Vegas Deuce Bus – a service that runs up and down the strip 24 hours a day, to take in some of the most opulent and extravagant hotels I have ever seen. Of course Las Vegas has no real architecturally splendid history; The Bellagio, Venetian, Caesars Palace and others are all fabrications of a classical ideal, just as the whole of Las Vegas is a modern fabrication far removed from its roots as a small stopover railroad town.

Mock classical architecture adorns the hotels

I thoroughly enjoy the Bellagio’s famous water fountain show under the shade of a tree, which I believe occurs every half an hour or so. Then it’s time for me to travel to ‘ancient Egypt’ as I pass a giant concrete sphinx at the entrance to The Luxor – an iconic hotel with its sleek glass pyramid design. Inside, the lobby atrium is vast and impressive – although I can’t help but subconsciously crown it the king of tack in the hotel world. The architecture of the hotel I can commend - but to draw and capitalise on something as un-duplicable as ancient Egypt - for me it suffers an inevitable outcome of being nothing more than a glorified theme park. However to expect historical culture in Las Vegas would be naïve – it’s not what I’m here for. It’s time to head to Paris...

Spectacular fountain show at the Bellagio

Paris, Las Vegas is another opulent hotel which needs little explaining. Complete with a carbon copy ‘Eiffel Tower’, bursting from the roof, as with most Las Vegas hotels the ground floor is one huge gambling arena. Seeking refuge from the intense afternoon heat, I conservatively dabble in a few slot machines, and a few drinks, which apart from a longing wander around luxury shopping malls, is a recurring theme for the rest of the day.

Vegas' own take on the Eiffel Tower

Another early morning and back to the Greyhound terminal for my return trip through the Mojave Desert to Los Angeles, this time to slow down the pace at a hotel - and thankfully a much more luxurious one - near Manhattan Beach. The Springhill Suites were an ideal choice for me, with easy access to the airport for my return home.

Springhill Suites near LAX

Upmarket and functional would be the best way to describe Manhattan Beach – with joggers, surfers, pampered dog walkers, and a generous helping of luxury beachfront homes. It certainly has a much less ‘touristy’ ring to it than the likes of Venice Beach. A fresh Californian tuna salad and a cold beer is my next stop at Beaches, a friendly restaurant at the bottom of Manhatten Beach Boulevard, overlooking the pier. I then jump in a cab back to my suite to prepare for my final evening in L.A.

A cat laps up the laid back Manhattan Beach atmosphere

I had a few friends to guide me by phone to Santa Monica via L.A’s bus routes. Despite this turning out to be rather futile with my complete lack of navigation, as easily found just about anywhere in California, fellow passengers are quick to offer friendly assistance and chat. A theatrically eccentric looking lady, who moved to L.A to become a would-be actress, picks up on my evidently obvious disorientation. She shares her story with me as the bus passes boulevards that look identical in the dark of night, and thankfully advises me when to step off. This is one thing I missed to a degree in Las Vegas – the openness of Californians – and something that definitely sets the cities apart.

‘Hooters’, an American restaurant chain infamous for its busty waitresses, wasn’t exactly up there on my ‘to do list’ in L.A, but I meet my friend here, a resident of Santa Monica. I learn I little bit about the area while soaking up the exuberant atmosphere, then head by bus to West Hollywood.

My final indulgent night in Los Angeles involves a whirlwind tour of the many bars around the West Hollywood area. I sip a cocktail amongst beautiful people in the fabulously stylish bar, ‘The Abbey’, which I am told attracts celebrities and the L.A ‘it crowd’. It seems to evoke a neo-gothic, perhaps Italian style that seems to be popular among the rich. Although I have no luck spotting anyone of note, I have a great evening – so great that I miss the last bus back and instead grab another cab back to my suite; just in time for a quick nap before a long flight back to London the next morning.

As I nurse my hangover at LAX, donning those huge sunglasses I previously slated, in an effort to limit my self-induced suffering, I look back at both cities and consider what makes them such dramatic centres of American popular culture. Are they both traps; Vegas with its alluring promise of making it big through gambling hard-earned cash, or L.A with its mostly false assurance of fame and vanity?

Surrounding Vegas, the lifeless, endless deserts seem only to enhance Vegas’ glittering charm and draw us to such isolated pleasure. L.A seems to many like an infinitely superior alternative; an unknowingly hollow dream worth the pilgrimage from anywhere across America, or the world. Both places are so inspiring, tempting and exciting - once they have that grip or carrot beckoning us deeper in, we are motivated to do whatever it takes to stay.

Ultimately, the superficial beating hearts of both cities is kept alive by the thousands of people flocking to their streets. From all angles, Los Angeles and Las Vegas simply have to be experienced for their self-proclaimed allure.

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Sampling Roscoff

2011-06-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

As one of the first ports of call across the English Channel, just how much does Roscoff speak for the aesthetic richness of France? I take a seasickness-enduring daytrip to find out.

Roscoff: a gateway to France

Run down abandoned buildings, mainly industrial facilities at first glance, and, not much really to speak of. This is what I would probably surmise about the immediate area surrounding Plymouth ferry port - with a pinch of bias I might admit - if I were to answer the same question about my departure point. I may have acquired that all too ready, eye-rolling sense of ‘home turf’ sarcasm from seven years of association with Plymouth.

In actual fact, Plymouth cannot be completely condemned by any stretch; it was heavily damaged during World War II, including the harbour area; but how it serves as a first-glance reveal of Plymouth - the South West, or even Britain itself - might be open to debate.

I dash un-preparedly from the ferry terminal late at night, through a torrential downpour - a recurring theme of my travels. What’s left of my ticket is hurriedly scanned at the base of the ramp leading up to the MV Amorique; my destination – Roscoff, France.

Operated by Brittany Ferries, the M.V Amorique serves the Plymouth to Roscoff route up to twice a day, along with its much grander sister ship, the Pont Aven. Taking advantage of a late online offer, I booked one of the premium ‘club plus’ cabins the night before. Boarding the ferry, it seems adequately equipped as I collect the cabin key – with various bars, restaurants and seating areas – although with my acutely nauseating affliction of sea-sickness, I’m not really here to judge the amenities.

However, the cabin is pleasant and spacious, with complimentary chocolates and drinks, and a large outside window - which I at least hoped would alleviate some of the sickness – and a coffin-esque but a well-appointed bathroom.

'Club Plus' cabin

Clasping the railings in a perhaps mostly unfounded fear of being violently blown overboard by the still persistent showers, heavy winds and subsequent needle-like bombardment, I make my way to the top deck as the Amorique disembarks. Plymouth slowly vanishes into a generic and unrecognisable canvass of streetlights against the howling night sky.

A quick and welcome pint of beer, and with a realisation that wherever I go aboard this ship I’m not going to sprout sea legs of any sort, I return to the plush cabin to get some sleep; 6:00am tomorrow – Roscoff.

After a claustrophobically perilous shower and miniscule breakfast, I peer outside to see the first sign of Roscoff in the emerging light of day, before making my way downstairs to disembark.

Early morning disembarkation

Although Roscoff might seem a little absent of noteworthy, or altogether too exciting history, there are some points of interest that make it far more than a meagre ‘wine-run’ destination - sadly for such blind ‘connoisseurs’ of cheap booze this trend fizzled out years ago. In terms of export however, it has remained a primary port for the distribution of uniquely pink onions, particularly the ‘Roscoff onion’, back to Britain. In fact the globally stereotypical image of the stripy topped, bike riding ‘Onion Johnny’ - donning a beret - originated from Roscoff!

Even more astonishing is that my plush cabin back on board the Amorique originated from the Onion Johnnys – Brittany Ferries was dreamed up and established by a group of them in the 1970s, as a modern continuation of the trade.

Of course we don’t see them anymore; at least not distributing by bike on our doorstep that’s for sure - but their legacy has resulted in the presence of an Onion Johnny museum in Roscoff, as well as a two day summer 'Fete de l'Oignon', in honour of the onion.

A little ravenous after the less than filling breakfast, a pleasant walk prior to anywhere opening reveals the harbour. The original harbour was destroyed in 1375 by the Earl of Arundel , during the Hundred Years’ War, and was subsequently rebuilt where it stands today.

Opposite, the architecture serves to establish that I’m in a harbour town – indeed a typically French harbour town. With its dated buildings of mixed periods: some clearly baroque and beyond, some perhaps even medieval, the town is lucky to have preserved an essence of France as a first impression to visitors.

Beside Roscoff's harbour

Well worth battling ensuing winds for is Roscoff’s very long pier, with some opportunities for great photos at the end. After a few quick snaps, I give in to the wind in search of something to eat. Beyond the harbour, it’s difficult to miss the ‘Notre Dame de Kroaz-batz’ – a beautiful renaissance era church, built over a long period between 1522 and 1545. Just beyond this - another fantastic building, the ‘Station Biologique de Roscoff’ built in 1872; an important marine research facility, and inherently French in its appearance.

Roscoff pier

Navigating narrow and inviting cobble streets, I am lured by scent alone into ‘Pause Café’. I challenge anybody to walk by such a French bakery without being drawn in. The first bite of the croissant I order reminds me of a thought I always have, post supermarket shop - why can a perfect French croissant never be found, or replicated, anywhere else. Divine.

Although out of courtesy I did make use of my limited French vocabulary, language barriers here, as with most of France, didn’t appear to be a problem with Roscovites – particularly evident here because of the intrinsic ties to Britain.

Roscoff has a mix of architecture

Pottering around the cobble streets further, I encounter a scattering of shops: contemporary art, gift shops; some more ‘touristy’ than others, and maritime paraphernalia.

A handful of inevitable tourist ventures

Trying not to anticipate my nauseating trip home, just before my departure it’s time to indulge in a spot of lunch. ‘Marie Stuart Pizzeria Restaurant’ served up a fantastic, French style pizza in a very small but homely setting.

I make my way along the residential road leading back to the ferry, before disembarking later in the afternoon. Again haunted by dreadful sea sickness, I reflect on my daytrip to Roscoff – how much of a ‘serving’ of France did I get?

Roscoff has its fair share of tourist ventures – perhaps mainly anchored with the quickly dissipating days of the ‘wine-run’; but whilst retaining its dignity and soul, both architecturally and through its people.

All one has to do is picture the ‘Onion Johnnies’ – the quintessential embodiment of French people the world over – to realise that Roscoff couldn’t be more French if it tried.

Looking out from the pier

Flights of Fantasy

2011-06-22T13:37:00.001-07:00

Are super-cheap flights now simply a myth? I reveal five tips for finding those elusive low fares.

February, 2003. I arrive in Bilbao, Spain, drenched in relentless pouring rain. I enjoy some fantastic photography exhibitions, and refuge from the downpour at the Guggenheim Museum, then ponder, over a strong Spanish Coffee, my return flight – tomorrow morning.

Surprisingly however, my swift heartbeat of a trip didn’t make me cringe in financial (though not carbon foot print free) guilt. This return flight with Easyjet, as far as I remember, was priced at an unbelievable £3.99. This of course may have allowed for some incidental taxes; but still such a low promotional price is seemingly hard to come by today. A quick search around and this is obvious.

Ryanair advertise cheap flights from Bristol, one of my closest airports, to Venice Marco Polo from £15.99 one way. It doesn’t take an idiot to work out that there will still be taxes and miscellaneous charges added to this price, but wow, how exciting. However a few clicks around the website, inputting various dates that are allegedly included in the departure window for this offer, I simply cannot find any return trips for less than £75. Doh!

In fairness to Ryanair though, I did manage to find flights both to and from Dublin, departing Bristol at the advertised £9.99 each way, with no added taxes. I couldn’t say if there were any hidden costs as I didn’t go as far as booking a trip to Dublin (not yet, anyway), but this was impressive.

Most airlines also adopt a variety of ‘stealth taxes’ for passengers to chew on, after they think they’ve bagged a bargain. I encountered such costs with Thomas Cook’s airline on booking a return flight to Sanford, Florida - £270. A steal, but then factor in taxes, £60 for luggage (as much as I like to think of myself as a light traveller, two weeks in Florida with a shoulder bag…nah), and criminally, £40 to reserve a seat on the flight. The latter is optional, but by the time the booking process was complete, I was wondering just where ‘cheap’ comes into it.

Prices also vary extortionately for the long haul flights to the same destination, on the same day. When tentatively researching flights to Hong Kong, I found the same economy flights, on the same airline listed on two separate websites. The difference being, one showed the cost to be £500, and the other, a stratospherically sky-high £3200!

Despite all my grumbles, there are still ways, with a little bit of investigation, to secure yourself the cheapest possible airline fares. Here are some tips:

Be flexible. Work, kids, and other commitments might make being flexible difficult, but most airline websites have a ‘+/-‘ option to search up to 7 days either side. You’d be surprised how much fares will differ.
Book early. Very early will guarantee you, in most cases, the lowest advance fare the airline offers.
Book late. Last minute booking might bag you a better bargain, but can be riskier. Not the best option for a ‘trip of a lifetime’, but one for the opportunist traveller.
Subscribe to travel newsletters. Travel newsletters such as Travelzoo, a superb example, will update you not just on the best holiday offers, but the best flights. This includes local departures. Also a good one if you are booking in the short term.
Use online flight tools. Skyscanner is the best website I have seen. This will enable you to review a whole month of flights, organise by price, and even select ‘anywhere’ as your destination if you are brave.

'Big Macs' in Tokyo

2011-06-20T13:12:00.000-07:00

Can culture permeate established global corporate identity? (Or - is McDonalds always a McDonalds?)

Futuristic Shibuya

We are all mostly avoidant of the cultural ‘faux pas’ - the frowned upon act of resorting to the familiarity of corporate brands, be it food, clothing, or any other globally identifiable product, like a nurturing womb of 'home' comfort whilst we are abroad.

But should we always feel so guilty; perhaps it wasn't just the quick-fix remedy for some kind of full blown 'xenophobic' panic attack?

I look to a trip to Tokyo to see just how a Big Mac will 'taste'...

"Moshi moshi". I step off the plane and clear the refreshingly friendly Japanese immigration control, amongst Japanese donning clinical face masks, and sharply attired businessmen spilling into the Starbucks equipped arrivals hall of Narita airport. I watch them answer their unfamiliar brands of mobile phone with "moshi moshi"; it's evident that Tokyo is going to be different, but yet familiar.

The unmistakably welcoming hospitality of Japan is perhaps the main principle of this country that feeds my adoration for Tokyo. I have yet to purchase so much as a chocolate bar that wasn't delivered with a bow, and a very sincere looking smile. This is true of pretty much every transaction, even when I ask where to find the toilet in the labyrinthine Tokyo metro. This custom doesn't seem to be particularly bonded to either the older or younger generation. It sticks throughout.

After a lengthy but very comfortable transfer from Narita to central Tokyo with 'Limousine Bus', filled largely with western business types, I arrive at my hotel, The Grand Prince Akasaka. The hotel towers above the city with thirty plus floors, with its impressive and uniquely angular architecture designed by Kenzo Tange. Situated close to the National Diet building, and other Japanese governmental abodes, the hotel appeared mostly occupied by politicians and business men. The Grand Prince is now doomed for demolition, for reasons completely beyond me - with its humbly appointed rooms, space age toilets that require a degree to operate, iconic appearance and stunning lobby, although it's currently being used as a shelter for displaced earthquake victims.

The Grand Prince Akasaka offered incredible views

Although this hotel will soon be no more, I wouldn't condemn the other Akasaka area hotels, with relatively cheaper prices due to distance from tourist areas, but yet with great accessibility to Nagatacho metro station, an easy starting point for the metro.

Toilet function buttons... some were best left alone!

A quick stroll down the nearest street at Akasakamitsuke reveals a combination of 'cultural' paraphernalia; a flurry of stereotypical Tokyo arcades, and more mysterious 'Japanese Only' establishments, and also familiar brands - Subway, and a McDonalds.

Out of hunger, desperation and disorientating but expected jet-lag, I am ashamedly driven into McDonalds. Plastic seats, universally identical uniforms, and equally universal (and admittedly appealing) fast food smells. At first glance this is exactly the same as any other McDonalds. Why did I even entertain the thought?

Shuffling forward with crowds of lunch-hungry 'salary-men', or Japanese businessmen, I have a gander at the overhead menu - it begins to transcend the McDonalds norm. 'Teriyaki Mac Burger', 'Juicy Chicken Akatougarashi', 'Ebi Filet-O', 'Koroke Burger' and 'Mac Pork'.

Of course the 'Big Mac' is still on offer, but it's not just the extra sandwich options which set the Japanese counterpart, apart. I am curious to know what a 'McSmile' is, listed on the menu as costing a questionable '¥0'. In my much less than perfect attempt at the Japanese language I point to this on the pristine counter-top menu and ask. “O kudasai?” The immaculately appointed staff member simply nods at me in acknowledgement, and smiles. What I have asked for is a smile. Something so connected to the Japanese people as outstanding service has permeated into such a large corporation as McDonalds, and resulted in this unique little gem being added to the menu!

As I make my order I am treated with the same courteousness and service I have come to expect, perhaps taken for granted somewhat in my eager consumption. A tray with delicately placed fast food is politely handed to me, and the staff member exuberates, “Arigatou gozaimasu” - thank you, and proceeds to bow in picture perfect Japanese tradition. As I finish my meal in the eerily silent yet packed restaurant, another staff member whisks my tray away from me, empties the remnants of my jet-lag recovery food into the bin, smiles, bows in a backward motion, and finally ending with her holding the door open for me. I thought this was McDonalds.

In actual fact the globalisation of McDonalds has meant such modifications not just in Tokyo, or Japan, but around the world - the 'Maharaja Mac' for one.

And yes, the Big Mac tasted the same.

To get around the city of Tokyo itself, one would be completely and utterly insane to drive. I had no choice but to use the metro, but I think this is pretty much the default option for any savvy traveller. The metro runs like no other I have ever been on. Obsessively clean stations, trains and platforms, and a metro schedule so accurate and prompt, you could easily set your watch to it.

Immaculate Tokyo Metro

Etiquette on board the trains seems to adhere to the universal subway concept of 'don't look, don't talk', but almost certainly not as dreary as the tube, and with obvious differences. Despite being the most used subway system in the world, and subsequently the most sardine-esque, the Japanese are overtly courteous with other passengers. Travellers sometimes, and humorously, seem to adopt a 'fake sleep' whilst travelling, which they magically wake up from when arriving at their required stop. Curious; but this also fits in with the inherently shy, but in no sense rude, Japanese attitude. Besides, having that many people crammed into the train, sometimes in positions reminiscent of a game of Twister, makes conversation a little awkward at best.

I repent my anti-cultural sins a few days after visiting 'that restaurant', by taking a trip to a Japanese shrine, the Meiji Shrine. Well, if Hillary Clinton visited this shrine to show 'respect toward history and the culture of Japan', so can I…

The other-worldly Meiji Shrine offers a haven

Easily accessible by metro, as with most of Tokyo, the Meiji Shrine was finished in 1921, although rebuilt in 1958 after being heavily damaged during World War II. Located near the Harajuku area, it was built to commemorate Emperor Meiji and Empress Shokun, and is constructed almost entirely of Japanese Cypress tree and copper. The site seems to command an other-worldly tranquility and peace - definitely a must do, even if just to soothe delicate heads from the overdone sake, and relentless karaoke the night before (also a must do).

Stepping off at Harajuku station to reach this temple, I also inevitably walk through Harajuku itself, a piece of modern Japanese legacy. A vibrant amass of colour and intrigue, crammed full of small shops selling eclectically niche fashions, and just about anything covered under the word 'miscellaneous'. I am offered flyers from westerners attempting to sell me night club admission, or simply 'a good time'. Avoiding these I weave in and out of the shops, trying to make sense of some of the bizarre clothing. You will also find your big name brands; Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Prada - complete with big name prices on Omotesandō Street. Stick to Takeshita Street if you are after the one-of-a-kind bargains. A trip to Harjuku is essential.

Eclectic vibes of Harajuku

Mickey Mouse perhaps wasn't the next thing you expected to read, but in exploring the cultural permeation of Japan into global corporations, and to satisfy my long-lived Disney park appreciation – Tokyo Disney Resort simply had to be on my itinerary.

The iconic castle, ‘It’s a Small World’, the spinning teacups; yes they are all there, but again this global corporation differs in both its product, and delivery. I swiftly notice upon purchasing my tickets outside that the ‘cast members’, a Disney term coined for staff, haven’t adopted English as a necessity in the Japanese world of Disney, and why should they. It soon becomes clear however, after just a short time in Tokyo Disney Resort that this version is just as magical; perhaps even the best of them all.

A global landmark in the world of Disney - the castle

Why, exactly, this is, I would put down to the permeation of the Japanese psyche, service and quality into this otherwise global identity. The parks are spotlessly clean, with quality and sophistication injected into every corner, and cast members willing to bend over backwards to help guests. As I wait in the queue for a water based ride, I witness two female cast members haul a lone disabled guest straight out of a wheelchair without further assistance, clearly struggling yet also clearly determined to enable this guest to experience the attraction. The cast members bow at guests, in each boat dispatched – another wonderful, magical, Japanese touch.

Snaking around a long pathway, in another beautifully themed ‘land’, I come across an almost silent, hour long queue of patient Japanese visitors. This must be the queue for the fabled Gyoza Sausage Bun – something I had read about before my visit. Unique to Tokyo Disney Resort, eager Japanese are willing to wait what most of us might consider a ridiculously long time for this much anticipated snack. Both the delivery of this product; the willingness of the Japanese to wait, and of course the product itself, show the wonderful infusion of culture and well-established corporate brand. I wait until the queue dies down a little. The verdict – this must be an acquired taste!

I’m willing to bet that Disney as a global entity never anticipated this level of global expansion, or dreamt up such cultural assimilation from its initial all-American roots, even popularity for a mere snack. But the Disney park, or brand itself has evolved differently in its Asian backdrop. In fact the park is owned and operated by The Oriental Land Company, and has primary control over the finances and development of the resort.

This sort of franchising, as with McDonalds or any other global identity, is what gives these corporations a unique accent – a subtly alternative take on a firmly grounded concept, without complete distortion, and retaining the most important profiteering aspects of its core.

Shibuya by night transcends time

My last day in Tokyo is spent in the electrically mesmerising and hypnotically spectacular Shibuya, home to the largest pedestrian crossing in the world. I’m reminded of an old playground game, and mildly perturbed as the lights turn green, and an onslaught of trendily dressed citizens march towards me with mock stubbornness (of course everyone passes with polite awareness). I imagine that this could be a Times Square of the future; also a perfect example and conclusion to my exploration – a marvel of Japanese innovation, micro-packed with cultural stereotypes and nuances, and infused with international familiarities on a monstrous yet inviting scale. Gazing out at the vast television screens, skyscrapers, Japanese neon signs and frantically scurrying people, I sip a coffee in the largest Starbucks in the world.

Next time you find yourself immersed in a unique and engaging culture, yet plagued with an insatiable hunger, or home comfort that must be immediately remedied, don’t beat yourself up as you submissively scoff a tray of familiarly branded fast food.

Culture is just outside the door; or perhaps even closer.