Johnny Silk Travel

New York: tips, taxes and cleansing

2015-09-26T16:21:00.001+01:00

"Excuse me, are you Jewish?" the random stranger asked.

"No," I responded.

"Ok."

And that was that. Why? What? I have no idea.

I am aware of the large Jewish community within New York but is this a common curiosity? What if I had said yes?

Apple: this is actually outside the Apple store in Madrid. I forgot to take such a photo in New York so this will do

I found the locals pretty friendly, if a little confused. I was looking for the nearest subway station one day and a guy directed me towards the sandwich chain. On another occasion, when looking for something, it was suggested that I take four rights in a row, which made me realise I would end up in the same place I started.

Going back to the subway, New Yorkers seemed to be as confused as tourists when it came to the network. I guess with the simple grid system, maybe it is better to just walk.

What? You don't have a Chocolate by the Bald Man in your town?

During my time in New York I was constantly tempted to make comparisons with London. Definitely the locals are friendlier Stateside, even if their sense of direction is not great. Another significant difference is the number of people speaking English on the street. Almost everyone, at least in downtown Manhatten, is conversing in this language, as opposed to the centre of London, where there are more languages on offer than any other city in the world.

Moving on, Williamsburg, in the borough of Brooklyn, was visited for a night out. Now this district is well known for its hipster element. But it doesn't seem pretentious. In fact, the healthy smoothies and Starbucks aside, I didn't find too much pretense to NY at all.

This neighbourhood proved to be a top night out, particularly a large German bar whose name escapes me, but where the large beers flowed.

This brings me to my next topic of confusion: the tipping and taxing. Something may start off at $3, but will wind up costing you $5. Why? Nobody really knows. It comes under the guise of tips and taxes, but it applies to absolutely everything. From nights out to shopping, from food and drink to electric cables. The price is never quite what it initially seems.


Cleansing: never really given it that much thought

On the topic of those fruit smoothies, in one such store I noticed this curious advert above. A cleanse coach? Curious... Not sure if that is a cool profession. Imagine the scene at the bar...

Hot girl: "Hi, what do you do for a living?"

Guy: "I'm a cleanse coach."

Girl: "Really? What's your expertise?"

Guy: "Colons."

What a job?!? Do you think the girl thinks 'wow' I want to get to know this guy more. Is it a 'cool' profession?

I think if there is one thing that sums up this city it is the phrase 'Only in New York'. Only here would you find such a profession. It is what makes this city both a bit crazy and alluring.

Pains, gains and bloody ordeals: Rio and Salvador

2014-07-24T13:39:00.000+01:00

To follow on from my previous post, some may have thought I got a little over excited about meeting Andy Townsend but I think this boy's reaction to meeting the former Ireland midfield personifies over-reaction: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6nqZM5vhus

Anyway, I don't want to get bogged down in a Townsend wonderland so I'd better move on.

Move on indeed I did, to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil's former capital and number one tourist destination. Upon arriving I decided to take this shot which coincided with a significant tremor, either that or I decided to shake my head as much as I could whilst taking a selfie, I'll let you decide:

Shakin Stevens

Some may feel this to be a pointless exercise. I do not.

Anyway, when I arrived in Rio the local community were shaking in more ways than one as the Selecao (the Brazilian national team) scraped past Chile on penalties. The Brazilians sure know how to celebrate but if you thought my selfie was a waste of time, then surely setting off fireworks in broad daylight as my next video illustrates beats that for pointlessness: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vO_fV-bS6DQ

I had been in Brazil for ten days and had yet to buy a single souvenir so I thought it was about time I rectified this. I decided to buy something typically Brazilian, something that could only be bought here and would signify something to show the samba style of this great nation: a nude Betty Boop keyring.

Betty Oops

Following the shenanigans in the aftermath of the host nation's thrilling second round victory against Chile, I thought I would try and get a ticket for Colombia - Uruguay in the Maracana. However, as I exited the metro beside the great stadium there was a line of police who were happy to manhandle anyone who didn't have a ticket for the game. As a result, I was manhandled and took my sorry self back to town.

No caption required

On the Sunday I visited the Copacabana fan fest for the first time for the Mexico - Holland game and returned again for Belgium - USA the following day. Both were great experiences and I was really unsure who to support for the latter game. I finally made my mind up as I entered the fanzone to the chants of 'Go USA'. I decided this was a nauseating experience that I didn't wish to repeat as the tournament went on and was pleased as the Belgians emerged 2-1 winners.

Go USA, the FIFA fanfest in Rio

Next stop Salvador, in the north east of Brazil.

On the Wednesday, halfway through my trip, I flew to Salvador and found this amusing sign on the seat in front of me:

A photo

I don't know why it amused me so. Little things amuse little minds I guess. I'm sure you'll figure it out.

I went on a walking tour whilst in Salvador and discovered that investing in property here might not be the best of ideas. The sign that adorned this building roughly translates as 'Danger: risk of collapsing'.

Not funny

Sadly, there is very little funny about this, especially when you discover families are still inhabiting these buildings.

Something else that wasn't funny was the feeling I had on the day of the Holland Costa Rica game that took place in Salvador. En route to the stadium I decided to buy a coconut. However, this coconut, let's say, did not agree with me and meant I had to make an emergency dash to a toilet that could easily be described as Brazil's worst toilet. But needs must. I was desperate.

In this photo I thought I was showing the coconut who's boss, little did I know what was to lie in store just moments later. Look at the faces of the riot police, they thought it was funny. Just look at their faces. Look, I know you will.

The coconut and I in happier times

Moving swiftly on, there is an unfair stereotype about the Brazilians not working hard enough, particularly the man on the street, but as the following photo testifies, nothing could be further than the truth:

Men at work

The mirth and merriment continued as we reached the semi finals and the 7-1 thrashing Germany inflicted upon Brazil. With every goal that went in I laughed. It's not that I dislike the country, its people or even necessarily its football team.

But there was something a little uncomfortable about the way the people of this great nation would frequently point to the five stars on their shirts (signifying their five world cup wins) when it was suggested there were big problems with football in their country when they were relying on Fred and Hulk to win them a World Cup. They got their comeuppance.

At the final whistle I thought it was best to return immediately to my hotel for fear of trouble. This proved to be a wise decision when I discovered the next day that another resident in the hotel had had parts of two of her fingers chopped off just metres from the residence, and this was at the reasonable hour of 20:30. Whether her other five digits were in the air in a celebratory manner at the time is unknown but the people of Salvador didn't need much provocation that night.

7 (seven) - 1: front page news

Following this harrowing defeat it was time to catch my umpteenth flight of the tournament and, like all the rest, it was significantly delayed. Well, no worries as it was the weekend of the final and I was pleased to be heading back to Rio.

On the Friday night I went to a club near the Copacabana which was celebrating what can only be described as a sausage fest, or a dude fest as an acquaintance of mine said. I swear, if there were more than 5 girls in the nightclub that housed around 300, I would be amazed. And no, it wasn't a gay club. At least I don't think it was. This was just the 'World Cup Factor'.

Rio nightclub on the eve of the World Cup final

On the Saturday it was back to the Copacabana and here is a great shot, which I didn't take, of the country's most famous beach:

Not bad

Unfortunately, there are sour sides to this tournament, and not just the dangers of walking home late at night. The extreme poverty whilst just metres away lies western middle class exuberance is best summed up in this photo, which I may or may not have taken myself:

This is not me on a bench

On the day of the final I decided to go back to the Copacabana to watch the game but this time to the side of the fanfest nearer the sea. Too near, in fact. I got my trainers wet (I know, I should've worn flip flops).

In fact, the trainers were a part of the most crucial decision of the day. What to wear. In the end I went for this charming little number:

Trainers? Check. Shorts? Check. Marilyn Monroe T-shirt? Check. Comedy glasses? Check.

The main benefit of going beside the fanfest rather than actually in it was the cost of the alcohol. I took 12 cans of beer and managed to conveniently plonk myself beside a guy selling caipirinhas who nicely put them in his ice box for me, on the proviso that I bought a couple of his cocktails. Done.

Also, despite the sea of Argentinians I managed to get a decent view of the screen. Talking of the Argies, I loved the song they were singing disparagingly to their Brazilian counterparts that went to the tune of Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival. A little surreal, yes. I never knew Creedence were so big in Latin America. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtYY5zOg5kI

Sadly for Messi and co this song wasn't enough to push them over the line and they lost in extra time to Germany. Still, I got lucky and managed to sell my two remaining beers to a desperate German for a tidy profit.

At the final whistle, a couple of fights broke out. The first was a mass brawl which I managed to avoid. The second took an interesting twist when a local pulled out a pistol which promptly ended the fighting to calls of 'OK, you win'.

Paper, scissors, pistol

I decided to finish my Rio experience with a trip to Lapa, the notorious area of the city for street parties, to discover the street party of all street parties. People from all four corners of the globe were at hand, including this lovely Peruvian couple who were happy to have this photo with me:

Peruvians? Quick, photo, photo, photo

The delightful thing about this World Cup was this was a tournament for everyone, not just for those nations that had qualified and the Peruvians seemed to be enjoying it as much as anyone else. In fact, you could argue this was a Latin American World Cup in terms of support. More than 100,000 Argentinians were in Rio for the final, camped out, staying in cars, sleeping on the beach, whatever they could. Compare this to less than 1000 that travelled to Japan in 2002 and you catch my drift.

Unfortunately, I cannot end this blog on a positive note or this would not seem like a typical travel blog of mine so I am going to bring your attention to one of the dark arts of Brazil: never have I experienced taxi drivers as bad as in this country. Congratulations Brazil, you have the worst taxi drivers in the world. Sometimes they won't take you as your required destination is not lucrative enough, other times they will take you but will rip you off by charging you an extortionate rate or by taking an elongated route.

However, the worst aspect had to be their lack of local knowledge. More often than not, they were relying on passers by or, worse, me for directions around South America's second largest city. Bastards.

When I finally got back to my hostel I was greeted by this sight and I would like to leave you with that as it was my final memory of the World Cup that was Brazil 2014. The World Cup of all World Cups. A good time was had by all, even if we won't necessarily remember all of it:

Drunk

Not as sinister as it looks: Sao Paulo and Belo Horizonte

2014-06-26T01:05:00.001+01:00

First the flight. I was a slightly more nervous passenger than normal due to the poor condition of my passport but thankfully the Brazilian authorities were about as attentive as an England defender and let me pass just as easily as Phil Jagielka and co.

Seen better days

Actually, my nerves were eased by a few beers in Munich en route and then by meeting a lovely Brazilian on the flight to Sao Paulo who proceeded to teach me some much needed Portuguese, the most memorable of which was 'safadinha' which I think roughly translates to slut/tart. Much needed in the weeks ahead no doubt.

This is ostensibly a travel blog so I won't bore you with too much football talk but this is my fourth World Cup and this one, like with the previous two, England went out within 48 hours of my arrival. Stop coming one England fan told me.

Mind you, given the condition of Steven Gerrard it was hardly a surprise that England exited at the group stage for the first time in 357 years.

Captain Fat-tastic

First stop, Sao Paulo. Stayed for five days and the nightlife was great, daytime was fairly underwhelming and I am expecting better things for the rest of my trip.

Going to Ibirapuera park was one of my brief highlights but mainly brought about by this unusual statue.

Bestiality?

I am sure that something very suspicious is about to happen to this pig but I can't quite put my finger on it. I will let you decide.

Anyway, Sao Paulo is good place to top up the carbs as they love to serve meat dishes with large amounts of both rice and chips as this hearty lunch illustrates.

Filling

Anyway, enough of this boring cultural stuff about statues and culinary delights, I'm in danger of this sounding like a serious travel blog. I need to sprinkle some stardust on an otherwise boring blog so thank goodness I bumped into ITV's Andy Townsend (also former Norwich City, Chelsea and Aston Villa midfielder) in Belo Horizonte, my next stop on my World Cup tour.

I say bumped into, it was actually more a case of jogging past as he laboured on his morning run I sprinted past him like an opposing player used to all to frequently in his playing days. And to think he was the engine room of the Irish national side for the best part of a decade. There I was making him look like the has been he is. Though you wouldn't know it from the cheeky grin he gave me. Good lad.

Man about town

While we're talking international greats, next stop Ronaldo. Not Cristiano but the fat one who is surely a part of the most appropriate advertising campaign for this World Cup. He's advertising biscuits.

The Fat Ron

For my first night in Belo Horizonte I went for the MTV presenter look and I think I pulled it off quite well.

Brahma in hand

There were two shockingly bad things I witnessed in Belo Horizonte. One was a Brazilian guy being given a good seeing to by the local police. Twenty policemen with bats and one guy without a bat suggests only one winner. But why they kept bashing him when he was on the ground pleading for mercy beggars belief.

The other shocking thing was the English national side who at least had the good grace to recognise the supporters who made the trip in the vain hope of some on the pitch success.

Appreciation but still rubbish

Oh well, at least the locals know how to party and they love their beer. The beer was certainly flowing at the house party I went to as we watched Brazil thrash Cameroon 4-1. Notice the local delicacy Pao de Quejo (Cheese pastry balls) in the centre of the picture.

Beer and cheesy balls

And before anyone starts to think this trip is just about beer, football and pastries (as good as that may sound), I appreciated the art on offer too.

Art

A doll's head and severed leg, some mash potato, a plastic glove and a paint brush. Just another day at the museum of modern art. Well, actually it was on a pub wall, but art is art.

And at the end of a tiring day doing all these great things there's nothing better than relaxing in front of the tv with Brazil's best beer, Paulistania, and watching the football.

Odd socks

What? Why travel 6000 miles and do what you could do at home? Because how else would I bother you with inane blogs like this.

Hoyos del Espino

2013-08-09T15:15:00.001+01:00

The Goat

Barcelona has Sagrada Familia, London has Big Ben, New York has the Statue of Liberty and, not to be outdone by these illustrious cities, Hoyos del Espino has a goat as its primary monument. And what a goat it is too. To discover where, why and how you only need to speak to a local. The fact that I didn't bother to do so probably explains why you won't find the answer in this blog.

I did, however, manage to catch up with Maria de la Verdad, who would prefer to remain anonymous, but I have taken the liberty to name and shame. She recently moved here from Madrid. Not by choice, though. No, she left the fiesta, the tapas and the dizzy heights of the nation's capital to teach English here at the local school due to enforced circumstances. She makes the 180 kilometers journey home to Madrid every weekend as she goes in search of life.

Speaking to the children is a challenge in itself as their homes are more like zoos than places in which to live, given the long lists of animals they possess.

I wonder if this place should be twinned, somehow, with Swafield.

Sandwiched between Avila and Plasencia like an unwanted sundried tomato, Hoyos del Espino lives up to all expectations as I didn't have any before I arrived.

I did go for a hike in the nearby mountains which was nice.

Then I got the bus to Madrid.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Seven: the return jouney

2013-07-22T14:27:00.000+01:00

With the game and my time in Warsaw at an end it was time to make my return journey. Well, I say return journey, I only had to get to Milan as I had a flight from there to Santander. And I say I only had to get to Milan, actually I had a train from Zurich to Milan, and a car from near the Polish/German border through the car sharing website Mitfahrgelegenheit. If you are still with me, great. If you're not, don't worry. Basically, what this meant was I 'only' had to hitchhike from Warsaw to Wroclaw, in the west of Poland.

I say 'only' as I was surprised at how arduous the journey turned out, given Poland's positive reputation regarding hitchhiking.

My best friends turned out to be truck drivers. I think every journey, bar the last one, was via this means of transport.

Despite my lack of Polish, some of the drivers were very helpful. They even negotiated on my behalf via their walkie talkies and, on one occasion, a driver dropped me off before immediately being picked up by the next.

Sadly, my journey was rarely this productive and most of the time it was hours, rather than minutes, between each trip.

Anyway, there is little else to report other than the it took me 15 hours to travel less than 400 kilometres.

I have to say, the overwhelming feeling once in Wroclaw was that of relief. Job done. When or whether I undertake such a journey again is questionable. What was not in doubt is that this was an experience I won't be forgetting in a hurry.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Six: pole position in Poland

2013-02-20T00:30:00.000+00:00

Cheese fondue: easily the warmest thing in Switzerland

It took a while to find a friendly, helpful local (though some people live in Switzerland for more than six months before they have such luck so I should be grateful for small mercies) but eventually I did. He was willing to help and offered to take me to the nearest city. Unfortunately, that happened to be Lausanne and was six kilometres in the opposite direction to which I wanted to go.

A decision had to be made. And with time of the essence, I decided to accept his offer and then take a train to Zürich. Once there, I was confident of getting a seat in a car with mitfahgelegenheit, the German carpooling website, for the short journey to Munich. Failing that, I could always get the train but that was a more expensive option.

I enjoyed lunch in Zürich and managed to get a lift with a German girl through the aforementioned website. She was happy to talk but, after the border, I could no longer keep my eyes open and I drifted off to sleep.

At one stage I woke up and she was talking to me. I just responded with a couple of yeses and nodded straight back off to sleep.

I awoke in Munich, thanked her for the trip, and got on the metro in the city and raced towards the meeting point, prior arranged with my driver to Warsaw. I was panicking slightly, as I had texted him a couple of times without response. Thankfully he was at the meeting point and we were on our way at breakneck speed towards the Polish capital. Breakneck was an understatement. I asked him if he was familiar with Robert Kubicka, the Polish Formula One driver. He said of course in that inimitable Polish style. I said he made him appear slow.

Anyway, at this rate I was going to have little trouble making the next night's match. In fact, my new Polish friend was going to the match too.

We arrived in Warsaw at around two in the morning. He said, where exactly did I want to go? I said I don't know, somewhere with internet so I can book a hostel. He (sorry, I can't remember his name) said I could use his. Once inside his house he offered me his couch and I was one very happy bunny.

I woke up the next morning, had a shower and was just booking a hostel as my host said to me: "you can go now!" I thought, fair enough. I have used and abused his services enough and I was eternally grateful. I bid him farewell and chuckled to myself at the honesty of his statement in the morning as I hastily departed.

Warsaw: the stadium in all its glory, and in sunshine

I checked into my hostel, proceed to have a couple of beers and headed to the match. Once inside the stadium, I was astonished to find the kick off had been delayed due to a downpour. Initially, by an hour and, ultimately, by 24 hours.

Warsaw: so the closed the roof, of course, with the sun blazing outside

All that rushing, all that carry-on, and there was no need. The absurdity was even greater as the stadium had a roof. But they couldn't close it. Why? Because it was raining. To be fair, the locals were mightily embarrassed and when the game was played the next day, in bright sunshine, the roof was closed. Naturally. Welcome to Poland: the land of the illogical.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Five: pulling rabbis out of hats

2013-01-07T16:53:00.001+00:00

God's ear: a rabbi points the way to Geneva

I didn't have to wait long before I was on my way again, this time thanks to, you've guessed it, a rabbi.

I asked him if he spoke English. He said "non" so the initial conversation was conducted in French. He appeared so horrified by my attempts that suddenly he managed to muster some English. And it was more than adequate for us to converse until we got to Geneva.

"Are you married?" he asked

From anyone else I would've interpreted this as being a little forward but this was coming from someone who had God's ear, though obviously not Jesus's.

"No," I replied.

"You should marry someone who likes to travel."

"And someone with a car," I mused.

He didn't laugh. I decided to put it down to the language barrier.

"Have you felt the presence of God on this journey?" said the inquisitive rabbi.

"Between Brive-la-Gaillarde and Lyon, quite possibly. But the rest I'm not so sure," I responded.

Not even a smirk was apparent from my driver. Perhaps I was being too smug, particularly for someone whose life was in someone else's hands.

In the blink of an eye Geneva was upon us and I was seeking my next lift. I headed to the lake and sought a trip to Lausanne, or perhaps, if I was to be lucky, Zürich.

A young lad soon pulled up and took me a couple of kilometres to a petrol station where I met a Swiss-French guy who I imposed myself upon.

At first I thought he was going to take me to Lausanne, then Basel seemed to be possible. However, we couldn't communicate in a language either of us understood and, eventually, he dropped me off at a petrol station about six kilometres past Lausanne.

Sadly, the next stroke of luck didn't occur for quite some time. My evening was spent residing in a phone box in an attempt to keep warm, as the gas station was closed and about two cars came through all night.

There was one chink of light, though: I managed, through the wonders of technology, to book a seat in a car through mitfahrgelegentheit (a carpooling website) from Munich to Warsaw. I just needed to get to the Bavarian city by 17:00 to catch that lift. Possible, but I needed a helping hand and this was, on current form, not forthcoming.

I was just ticking off the minutes, which took all night unsurprisingly, until the cafeteria adjacent to the station opened.

When it did I must have asked about 100 people for a lift to Basel, Bern or Zürich but no-one seemed interested in my plight. It was also surprising how few people spoke either English or German, particularly as the latter is one of Switzerland's official languages.

After a further 90 minutes passed by I decided to speed up my journey by taking a step back, to take two steps forward. After all, I had to be in Warsaw within 36 hours.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Four: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France, but this time near Switzerland

2012-11-30T18:35:00.000+00:00

Rain

The English. That was the first surprise I encountered. But not the jolly, friendly English. No. The middle class, pompous, bigoted 'we've hired a people carrier in southern France' kind of English.

Mind you, I was finding it hard to disguise my hidden agenda.

Anyway, once they were swiftly encountered I moved onto my next target. A French lady who was stood at the bar in the cafeteria. Sadly, pleasant though she was, she was heading in the wrong direction, towards Bordeaux. Tempting though it was to turn round and give up on my adventure to return home, I declined her offer of a lift.

Moreover, my luck was just about to take a turn for the better.

Just outside the cafeteria and near the exit of the gas station, a driver-by asked me: "Where are you off to?"

"Lyon," I responded, though I wanted to go further. In fact, for a joke, I wanted to say Warsaw but then maybe my abstract sense of humour might be lost on the French. Actually, it tends to be lost on the English too. So much so that I am beginning to doubt whether I have a sense of humour at all.

No matter.

Rain

"And where are you off to?" I continued.

"Lyon," came the welcome response. "Let's go," the driver said in near perfect English.

The next few hours flew by (slight exaggeration) in the midst of a conversation about linguistics in which I was largely out of my depth. Nevermind. I bluffed my way through it.

He (I can't remember his name, probably Pierre) dropped me off at a petrol station just the other side of Lyon and I awaited my next stroke of luck.

And yet more rain

There was free internet so I used and abused this service until just after 8 o'clock when the station closed. I was soon on my way again when another man took me further in the direction of Geneva. He had just dropped off his daughter who was returning to university. That is all I can remember from the one hour journey, apart from the fact that the spitting rain turned into an avalanche of rain.

Now I guess you are wondering, if you are still with me at this point, where the rabbi and Robert Kubicka come into play. Well, you will have to read the next excerpt. Oh, what a tease.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Three: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France

2012-11-13T12:09:00.000+00:00

Hitchhiking: a BMW 4x4 without a latte or a chubby guy

Once again I didn't have to wait long. A young lady picked me up after a five minute wait and I was on my way once more. These toll booths were proving to be a resounding success.

The French woman (I can't remember where she was from) took me about 50 kms (I can't remember exactly how far) to a place that I can't remember.

It was on a road in southern France if that helps. Anyway, it wasn't a toll booth. And there were a lot of Renaults and Peugeots about. The next vehicle to take me on my journey was a 4x4 BMW and I went half hour down the road to the next péage (toll booth in French, I'm struggling for synonyms).

The guy was both chubby and moody. And he had a latte on the go. A bit cliché, I know, but I was in France ya know and he wasn't wearing a hooped jersey, wearing a beret eating snails.

After him this memorable experience I got picked up by a couple in their fifties who spoke good English and were former hitchhikers themselves. They told me about their own tales and they had great empathy with my plight. The only thing missing from our conversation was a campfire but this wouldn't have been practical in the back of a Renault Clio so we decided against it.

They took me to a gas station where I was in for a big surprise. I bet you can't wait to find out...

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Two: Biarritz to somewhere in southern France

2012-10-29T20:05:00.000+00:00

I waited just twenty minutes for my next driver but this time he took me just a couple of kilometres up the road. He dropped me at a toll station, which I figured could be a good place to hitch from due to the slow moving traffic I was trying to hail down. Five hours later I began to review this belief. I spoke to several drivers but all seemed to be heading back towards Spain and not Bordeaux, my next destination.

I trudged back to the town centre of Biarritz and bought a train ticket to the aforementioned French city, sleeping all the way.

Once in Bordeaux I managed to access free wifi at the train station and checked out what hitchwiki had to say regarding a good location to hitch from. I made my way there and got picked up by a guy en route. He dropped me outside an amazing bakery.

There I had mixed fortunes. Great food but I waited two hours in drizzling rain. To add to my chagrin, plenty of people pulled over, only to dash both into the bakery and my hopes too.

When I was eventually picked up I was taken 15kms into the direction of Lyon, the destination that at this stage I hoped to reach by sundown (excuse the cowboy terminology). Sadly, I was, naively on my part, dumped on the hard shoulder of the highway. Just seconds later it began to rain… incessantly.

Luckily the downpour lasted less than ten minutes and I managed to find a toll station once more. I never thought the sight of these road payment stations would be so welcome.

I waited less than five minutes for my next lift. An eccentric lady in her early 60s, who had half of Kew Gardens in the back of her car, managed to make enough room for me to squeeze in beside her (steady).

What was pleasantly surprising was her standard of English - extremely high. And she took me almost 60 kms to the next set of toll booths so I was starting to make some headwind with just over 48 hours until kick off in Warsaw.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part One: Santander to Biarritz

2012-10-28T19:20:00.002+00:00

As first experiences go, there was no lack of effort as I attempted to hitch from Santander to Warsaw in three days.

As I left home on Saturday afternoon with my board with the words ‘Bilbao/San Sebastian’ blatantly inscribed on it, little did I know what was in store for me.

Using the website hitchwiki.com, which has plenty of useful suggestions, I headed for a gas station on the way out of my current hometown, Santander, in the direction of the Basque country.

How could I best describe the feeling after the three hours that followed? Forlorn. Dejected. You get the gist of it. I didn’t move one centimetre. In fact, there were ants that had made more progress than I had. And it wasn’t for the lack of trying. I made all sorts of comical gestures as the traffic raced by - imitating flashing lights, pulling faces and a variety of other childish manoeuvres.

After three hours of no success I made my way to the bus station, with a sense of failure, to get a bus to the border, and then try and hitch from there.

I got to the border town of Irun at around midnight and was picked up within an hour for my first official hitchhiking experience. A young lad, about 22, was my driver and, though I speak no French, it soon became apparent he wanted me to drive. Why? I have no idea but maybe you can work it out. I said I didn’t have my license with me and therefore it may be a bit risky to do so. He kept saying ‘Policia’ to me but I have no idea what he meant by that. Was he suspecting me for being a police officer? Did he want me to drive so he couldn’t get caught for something? Or did he somehow know that ‘Message in a bottle’ was number one on the day I was born?

Whatever it was, I was gripped to my seat throughout the 20km journey he took me on to Biarritz due to the scary nature of his driving.

Anyway, we got there in one piece and he dropped me off at the train station and I went in search of my next driver.

Wrocław - Come here!

2012-05-23T11:12:00.002+01:00

Why? Because they said so. And when a Pole tells you: ‘Chodz du’, you do it. The tone is unmistakably firm and is in stark contrast to the much more friendly ‘Dzień Dobry’ (good morning/good day) as you enter most shops, bars and restaurants.

In fact, this warm welcome gives you a false sense of security as everything that follows is not repeated in such dulcet tones.

As for 'Chodź tu', no-one is spared. From an errant child to an innocent passer by, never mind dogs. All obey as they dare not confront someone who utters these words.

Even the elderly are warned to ignore it at their peril. Especially the wheelchair ones!

Anyway, I digress, where am I? Ah yes, Wrocław in Poland. Or Breslau as the Germans call it, and they are never slow to remind you that the town used to belong to them before they came second in World War II.

Which brings me nicely to Poland’s favourite topic. Moaning. The Russians are the first to get in the neck, then it’s the Germans. The Ukrainians are not overly popular. Nor are the British or the Spanish.

The Americans are not liked. Why? It all comes down to the visa scenario. Apparently what bothers them most is that our friends from over the pond don’t require a visa to visit Poland, yet it is not reciprocated. Oh well, there’s no pleasing some.

Anyway, I’m not really too sure who the Polish are keen on. Ah yes, the Monty Pythons. They like them.

Thus far, it sounds like I am not painting a particularly nice picture of my Polish experience in Wrocław yet, as the weeks unfolded, I discovered a depth to the locals that was not apparent upon arrival.

The harsh tones of the people of this western Polish city are soon got used to and actually begin to amuse after a while, particularly when being berated in the supermarket for choosing the wrong sized trolley.

In addition, some of the early frustrations with organisation begin to dissipate when you begin to see the funny side.

Take the coffee machine experience, for example:

Me: Does this coffee machine work?

Polish person: Yes... it should...

Typical Polish response.

In Germany they would just say: Yes, of course it does.

And in the UK they would say: No bloody idea.

Then you factor in the pleasant streets, the overall safety of the town in comparison to other Eastern European cities and you begin to appreciate Wrocław all the more.

Even the trams and buses are pretty reliable. There is one tram, the 32plus, which puzzled me throughout my stay. What was the plus all about? Did you get free vodka on board? No. Were there heated seats to keep you from the Polish cold? No. Was it something even more special? Most definitely not.

Then I thought, what was the regular 32 like? It must feel so inadequate in comparison to its illustrious rival.

Seriously, you can’t just go giving out pluses willy-nilly. These should be prestigious awards.

I do have one other bone of contention, though. No matter how many times I visited football pitches, longing for an invitation to be involved, it was never forthcoming. I guess the Polish are friendly, but not that friendly.

Oh well, at least the women looked good!

The Italian Job: Negotiating trains

2012-04-10T22:42:00.024+01:00

One of the benefits of flying from Milan is that it is quite cheap, with many of the low cost airlines flying in and out of its airports.

But the biggest of drawbacks is that you have to negotiate the bizarre nature of the Italian transport system. Typified by this story I had at Milan Garibaldi train station last week.

The first thing I realised was that all the ticket machines had big signs emblazoned across them 'Out of order'.

All, that is, apart from two which were stood next to each other. I thought: 'God. If there are just two functioning machines out of 20 couldn't they have at least spread them out a bit. The previous 18 in a row were all not in working order and then two, adjacent to each other, working just fine. Ridiculous.'

Anyway, that was to prove the least of my problems.

So there we are: myself and a group of strangers that were soon to become close friends due to having the same predicament on the horizon.

Stood, looking at the ten metre long screen with the pending trains, their expected times and the platforms already assigned, a typically Italian story was about to unfold.

See, the trouble began when it became apparent that the train we all wanted, to Malpensa Airport, didn’t have an assigned platform.

Anyway, no problem, I thought. It’s 22:30 and there is still a full eight minutes until the train to Malpensa departs. Surely the platform number will come up shortly. I mean, the train to Centrale has a platform, so does the one to Turin. And the one to another part of Northern Italy, it had its number assigned nearly half an hour ago.

But no one seemed to be going anywhere else. We were the only people at the station in this suburb of Milan at this late hour. The Milanese were all probably using taxis.

22:30, soon became 22:35 and still no platform. Then 22:37. I could hear a train in the distance but was it the one I wanted? Was it the one my newly acquired 15 friends all wanted, many of which were Italians and looking as puzzled as I was?

Some, thinking they were being smart, began to shuffle in the direction of platforms where they could hear noises that seemed like trains but turned out to be nothing more than the snoring of local tramps. They would do this but they'd remain within eyeshot of the big screen, as if they didn't trust their own senses.

Then, suddenly, as the clock struck 22:38, up it came: platform 13.

A mad rush ensued as we had less than half a minute to run from one side of the station to another. We ran, luggage trailing in our wake, towards the platform that just seconds earlier, was unbeknown to any of us.

Some of them, understandably, didn’t make it. The Asians, who always seem to have more luggage than everyone else put together, didn’t make it. The Italians did, but they lost a handbag or two en route. I made it but was sweating like a pig in a sauna once on the train.

The passengers already on board looked a little flustered too but I guess they had had the same experience at the previous station.

Benvenuto in Italia.

Istanbul - where the streets have no name

2012-03-25T21:21:00.000+01:00

Istanbul is probably one of the best cities in Europe. There I've said it. No hanging around. No quibbling. Never again can I be accused of sitting on the fence.

Nevertheless, even possible greatness has to be undermined by something and the city formerly known as Constantinople succumbs to such occurrences.

So let's get them out of the way now. Firstly, quality does come at a price, especially if you want to eat by the water. Not quite on the same level as a Moscow or a Tokyo but, still, on occasion, you will have an expensive bill manipulated by mischievous waiters.

Furthermore, Istanbul is full of 'Del Boy' characters shouting out how great their product is and encouraging you to dig deeper into an already severely dented wallet. Sadly, these people are not selling faulty watches but are dragging, sometimes literally, people into their eatery with what turn out to be false promises.

OK, so that's the negatives so let's get on with the positives. The place is beautiful, almost serene at times, particularly in summer as the sun glistens on the Bosphorus, Istanbul's famous river that separates Europe from Asia. By all means take a tour on a boat for an hour or two as it is relatively inexpensive and a great way to see more of the city.

The fact that the most of there streets appear to be nameless will soon be forgotten as you wander the streets. Once you've settled on your restaurant, you will not be disappointed, especially if you chose a rooftop location where you can eat, drink, smoke a shisha and enjoy the star-lit sky (n.b. always ask for a free bowl of fruit and you'll almost certainly get it).

Something that will not escape your attention during your visit will be the occasional drone of noise coming from the mosques, presumably at prayer time. However, I found the sound created a strangely mixed feeling - one of enchantment and of being disturbed.

Nevertheless, once inside a mosque, you will delight in its splendour. It put me in a state of extreme relaxation, so much so I eventually snoozed off, prostrate. When awoken by a security guard I was told I must make a quick exit. When I suggested I was not the only person asleep and queried why they were not being subjected to the same punishment I was informed they were praying. Damn! Why didn't I think of that first?

Up the Dorf

2012-01-20T00:54:00.001+00:00

Dusseldorf: Look at those lights

When thinking of weekend breaks, Dusseldorf is not somewhere that immediately leaps like a salmon into the mind. More like a fat dog than a salmon (ok, ok, but you try and think of something that doesn't leap very well). Yet this is not fair. It is a pleasant city, with a good night life.

But what is it with those Germans and their towers. Forget the lederhosen, the large beers and the women with hairy armpits. They are just clichés. No. The real obsession they have is with those God-forsaken towers. Why are they so special in Germany that every major city has one? And they are drooled over like some kind of catwalk model. I'm sure there is a legitimate reason for this but given that I am not exactly a culture-vulture, it is beyond me.

Apparently Dusseldorf's is better than the rest. And why is this, I hear you ask? It's in the lights, so the locals claim. By some complicated calculation you can tell the time by counting the number of lit up dots. I cannot be bothered to go into it but trust me, it'll take you a while to work out what the time is. Even the DDorfers (I'm not sure that's how they are called but let's go with it) take around a few moments to work it out. As a result, it is then an unknown period of time later and the process needs to begin all over again. Maybe those Germans are not so efficient afterall. Nevertheless, even a homeless bum should, in theory, be able to work out the time. How nice. In England they’re lucky to get a shit soup at Christmas.

The Altstadt (old town) is nice and is the centre of the city's nightlife. By the way, it is described as old in a nice way. Not in a Welsh kind of 'old' where it is grey and stinks of piss. No, this is 'old' as in wise and thought-provoking. In fact, after several local beers lots of thoughts are provoked, as is the odd piss so maybe it's a mixture of the two.

There's a river too.

Bedford - why go anywhere else?

2011-09-20T21:51:00.002+01:00

When it comes to choosing a destination for a stag many think of Barcelona, Benidorm or Bratislava.

Bedford, however, is frequently overlooked and having visited there as part of a stag party I am struggling to understand why.

It has everything one could ask for when seeking a good bachelor party location - classy women who wear skirts which reach their mid-thigh, plenty of kebab shops and a fine river to go swimming in if you are happy with sub-zero temperatures and a little debris.

Furthermore, you will not be disappointed by some of the alternative cuisine on offer. Bedford is certainly multi-cultural (I even met someone who knew the Italian word for pizza. His favourite Italian restaurant was called Pizza Hut).

The Chinese we visited on the Saturday evening, the originally named Golden Palace, was full of wonderful East Asian delicacies. From chips to Tesco's Value ice cream, this place had the lot. I even learnt something from my experience, Black Forest gateaux is not something restricted to Germany, they have it in China too.

As for the drinking holes on offer you will not be disappointed. Hooch for a pound and wonder-bras get in free at a particular downtown club is something that cannot be missed.

Yes, Bedford certainly ticks all the right boxes.

Sofia - cheap and cheerful

2011-07-27T09:44:00.000+01:00

Sofia: one of Europe's cheapest cities

When you are aware that Sofia is the cheapest city in Europe it immediately fills any backpacker/tourist with a sense of excitement. Whether it be the 'Tommy Tourist', the 'Shopaholic' or, indeed, the alcoholic.

With this in mind I thought it best to take advantage of some much needed retail therapy. This belief was enhanced by my journey from the train station to the city centre where, apart from the picturesque backdrop, the city seemed, at least on the surface, to have about as much character as a Swiss guy who was going through an identity crisis.

This initial feeling was altered a little by some of the churches and cathedrals which, apparently, were particularly attractive from the inside. I would have known this for myself, of course, had I actually experienced them but, apart from the occasional glance, I only went inside one.

You have to understand, though, that free tourist attractions are generally most attractive in expensive locations but given that Sofia was cheaper than a Northern bird on a cold November night these buildings were all too frequently ignored, much to the chagrin of one observer who I met in one of the town centre's two Irish pubs. The pub was called O' something or another, I think, and when he asked me what I had done with my day and when I responded with 'Shopping' he gave me a look of disgust.

It is important to realise this guy was one of those people who knew all about what you should and should not do when on holiday - by that I mean where to go and where not to go. Very irritating indeed. He then proceeded to tell me what I should do with my following day. I duly listened, nodded and agreed, so I guess that makes me an even bigger idiot than him.

To make matters worse the local beer in said pub was nearly as tasteless as Budweiser which I put down to some naughty tampering as the local beer, as a rule, was generally quite good.

On the same evening I encountered a rather drunk, middle-aged Austrian who, upon realising I was a tourist, he simply slurred: "Why?" I don't think he was referring to why I was a tourist but, actually, why Sofia? At least, that's what I think he meant.

A pleasant surprise, compared to other poor countries, is the lack of hasssle one receives from restaurateurs and other such marketeers.

On my last night in the city I can honestly say I had the best meal on my travels this year at an endearing little place called just off the Alabin street in the city centre.

Not only was the outside ambience great but the food was both excellent and there was plenty of it.

In addition, the street side ice-cream vendors need to be taken advantage of... By that I mean consume there ice-cream (that's not a euphemism), not... oh you know what I mean.

Finally, I urge anyone who wishes to visit the city to book their accommodation in advance. Not because it is a city bustling with tourists but because there are so few options on offer, or not to the naked eye.

Budapest - tongue in cheek

2011-07-24T00:57:00.003+01:00

Tongue twister: The lion at the centre of all the fuss

As I landed at Budapest airport courtesy of a low cost airline that will remain nameless I went straight to the tourist information. I picked up a map, instructions of the best way to get into town and headed for the train station.

I glanced at the map I saw plenty of adverts around the outside. You know, the usual ones. Discounts at museums, local pizza places, where you can pick up a call girl... Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen. Budapest unashamedly advertises such services on the maps provided by the friendly tourist information advisers.

Next up was a walk around the city, from Buda to Pest and back to Buda again, across the many bridges I noticed a concrete statue of a lion. But this was no ordinary lion. This one had no tongue. It was the same on both sides of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. I later learnt, legend has it, that the creator of the statues, János Marchalkó, jumped into the Danube when people began to make fun of the tongue-less beasts he'd created.

Anyway, whilst I was being distracted by all this I was nearly run over by a cyclist who seemed to have no intention of stopping as he careered towards me. I just managed to exclaim an expletive before diving out of the way. What a bastard!

This would not be the only occasion I would have to dodge out of the way of locals speeding towards me at an alarming rate as plenty of out of control skate boarders hog the streets (and paths), coming round corners faster than a McLaren or a Ferrari at the nearby Hungaroring.

After just about manage to keep all my limbs intact I decided it might be safer to use the metro. As good as this was (it can hardly be as bad as London) there was still an element of frustration (or perhaps amusement, depending on if you were in a hurry or not) as the escalators would have people scattered from side-to-side, as opposed to the conventional; standing people on one side, those late for their plane or have a serious case of diarrhoea charging up/down the other.

At least there was the opportunity to indulge in one of my favourite travel past-times: eating. And, by and large, Budapest is pretty good on this front. Plus, it can offer pretty good value if you manage to locate one of the all you can eat and drink (yes, drink!) buffets. Now, in the UK such eateries serve up terrible food, but not here. The meat is good, as is the goulash.

If you fancy dipping a little deeper, but not too deeply, into your pocket there is a delightful food offering down by the river on a Sunday afternoon. If you are really lucky, you may even be deafened by a local band as you enjoy your lunch.

As I wait at the airport to head off elsewhere I am astounded as one person on security says to another: "Can she (pointing at a tourist about to embark on a flight) take this on board?" As she did so I realised said item was in fact a knife. Ah, the times we live in, eh?

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2011-07-24T00:56:00.000+01:00

A Summary

In England we have watches.

In South Africa they have time.

In Johannesburg you have two options: either walk and get mugged or get a taxi and get mugged.

In Cape Town during the World Cup one couldn't help kicking balls around the shops at the FIFA football exhibition down at the Waterfront area, to the dismay of all the shopkeepers.

In the Kruger National Park they have lions, but we did not see any :(

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2011-07-18T17:19:00.001+01:00

Saturday 10 July
Arrive at my hotel to find out the Dutch national team have left and moved to a different hotel. A plate of lovely sandwiches is soon polished off before heading to Nelson Mandela Square and a few beers followed by a curry and a good night's sleep - the first one for a while.

Sunday 11 July

The big day, well it would have been massive had England been there (yes, that feeling will persist for another four years!). Still it is a World Cup final and we will all try to get tickets to the big event.

First, a humbling trip to the Apartheid museum in Johannesburg. A moving if necessary experience. Necessary to realise a significant part of this country's recent history, but also because there's not a lot else to do in the city - thank goodness there's a match on tonight.

Talking of which, we head to a shopping mall a few hours before kick off. This, though, is a shopping trip of a different kind - we're looking for match tickets. Some money grabbing Scottish bloke wants £1000 a ticket. Maybe if the Three Lions had been there he may have stirred some interest but the Jock was clearly out of touch and only interested in swelling his bank balance. I hope he failed.

We then got some transport to within a mile of the stadium and found a nice house party selling beer and doing a bbq. A good option, we tell the hosts, should we fail, as expected, to get tickets.

Then we head to the stadium on foot with a sign declaring our intentions - we want tickets - and stumble across some teenagers who seem ready to do business.

At first, I am disbelieving and keep my distance. They then give us the three tickets we require, before quickly exchanging one of those tickets for another. No matter. We are happy to buy a trio of tickets and don't care where we sat.

Now comes the key question: how much? "Nothing," came the response from one. "Free," said another.

What? Something doesn't seem right here. We quickly, very briefly, show some sign of gratitude before I decide the best thing to do is get away from this suspicious situation as pickpocketing/mugging is at the forefront of my mind.

I then inspect the tickets and they seem legitimate but, obviously, they are not. They cannot be. Now the teenagers are well in the distance and we have all our possessions still on us I conclude they must be fake.

Nevertheless, it is worth trying to get in with our false tickets. The worst that could happen is they turn us away. The best case scenario is they're genuine.

I suggest I try first and then my accomplices try an alternative gate, as to not arouse suspicion should I get turned away.

Amazingly I get passed the two points of security and so do my colleagues. We arrive at our respective seats and they are vacant so clearly they were genuine tickets and not fake at all. This still makes no sense to this day and I am dumbfounded. But, hey, we are here. And for free. Amazing!

The temperature is chilly at best and incredibly cold at worst but we are warmed by the sights of Nelson Mandela and Shakira, for very different reasons, prior to kick off.

The result almost takes on an irrelevance but due to my association with the country and that I am in a Spanish section of the ground I decide to support Casillas, Xavi et al, so when Iniesta seals victory in extra time I whoop with delight along with the Spaniards beside me.

The game was not the most interesting as a spectacle but what the hell - we can't exactly ask for a refund on the tickets. And we were just delighted to be there.

We head back to our hotel still shaking our heads in disbelief.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2011-01-23T18:02:00.002+00:00

Friday 9 July

I arrive at Cape Town train station in reasonable time which is just as well as every man and his friend are lining up to board. To make matters more hectic, it seems as though the majority are travelling with all their life possessions.

Having moved seats about three times I settle down for my lengthy journey near some Chileans, who all tell me Holland are certain to win in Sunday's final, as we wave goodbye to Cape Town and Table mountain, in particular.

After just thirty minutes or so we reach our first stop which is quite early for a 27 hour journey, at this rate we will stop 54 times (I did the maths). The stop is Bellville which sounds quaint and peaceful which are not words I would use to describe the scenario as more people and luggage are squeezed onto the train, much of it squeezed through windows as the train is threatening to depart.

An hour later I decide to have my first stab at sleeping - I failed miserably The young lad who sat next to me is pleasant enough but he is fidgety and this does not help me rest.

By mid-day, and half a dozen stops later, there is not a spare seat in site, and this remains the case for the rest of the trip.

As the sun begins to set the Chileans kindly invite me along to dinner in the dining car. The food leaves a lot to be desired, which is being kind. I barely touch the chicken and there is something that is a poor imitation of mash potato. Disgusting. Nice sunset, though, and the company was good too.

I had a couple of beers and flexed my linguistic muscles further - I never thought I would improve my Spanish as I embarked the train.

I ask for a third beer but we are about to stop for 30-60 minutes and so am prevented from having one.

There is a little hole in the wall which I later realise is a shop, selling crisps, chocolate etc. As I queue for some goodies there is plenty of argy-bargy. Eventually I reach the front but they have run out of crisps and chocolate so slope off with my tail between my legs, and still hungry.

Race back onto the train. This time, to much amusement, there seems to be more people than seats. I say amusement, I wouldn't be laughing if I didn't have a seat but I did so it was bloody hilarious. Some pairs of seats had about four or five children squeezed on them. One child thinks better of it and decides to climb up onto the luggage rail. Innovative.

The train is now at a snails pace, if I said Terry and Upson were more mobile then I think you would have a pretty good idea of how painstakingly slow it was.

After a few more beers the concert begins. Yes, a concert. Teenage girls begin singing and dancing African songs at around mid-night. The rhythm, the excitement, the enthusiasm - it's great. It's not to everyone's taste, though, as I look at a middle-aged mother with her eyes closed whilst her young son massages her head. She has a pained expression which I think is caused by the commotion and not the massage.

It's now 3am and the singing and dancing comes to an end, but the chatter does not and it continues all the way to Johannesburg, with the lights on throughout.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2010-09-10T15:25:00.000+01:00

Sunday 4 July

A day without football. Oh no. What can we do? Where can we go? Thankfully Cape Town is a pleasure to behold, and the constant backdrop of Table Mountain, even more stunning when lit up at night, though I think that was just for the World Cup, is something that can interest any observer.

After an afternoon on a restaurant balcony down by the waterfront we bumped into some locals who were to come within an ace of introducing us to Mick Jagger.

A daughter, 17, of the aforementioned South African family was invited to a party at the Rolling Stone's Six-star hotel, The One and Only Hotel in downtown Cape Town, so we tagged along in the vain hope of an invite.

Clearly Jagger felt there was nothing we had to offer that interested him, unlike the young female, so we had to make do with sitting at the hotel bar and mingling with mere mortals such as Clarence Seedorf, Miss South Africa 1997 and Paris Hilton.

As it turns out, the party that Jagger hosted was a fairly muted affair with just him, a handful of young girls, and some mineral water.

Much to our chagrin, the call never came to join him for some drinks so we took revenge.

"Excuse me," we said to the bar man. "Can we have two mojitos on room 807, please?"

"Sure," came the response.

"And plenty of Brown Sugar," we added.

After a brief discussion between some members of staff decided they needed a signature so we signed 'M.Jagger' and it was explained that our young step-daughters were up-stairs with the singer of hits such as 'Start Me Up' and 'Honky Tonk Women'. And then in a Jumping Jack Flash we got our cocktails with nothing more needed to be said.

A brief thought was given to ordering a 250 dollar bottle of Champaigne but we decided it wise to quit while we were ahead as You Can't Always Get What You Want.

It is not known as to Jagger's reaction when he had to check out only to find there were some erroneous goings on with his bill but rumours that he became a Street Fighting Man are apparently wide of the mark.

Monday 5 July, Tuesday 6 July, Wednesday 7 July and Thursday 8 July

After the shenanigans of the day before we ticked off a few tourist 'must-dos' - Cable car to the top of Table Mountain, took in the splendid views, and came back down. This was followed by boat trips and a visit to (Arjen) Robben Island where Nelson Mandela spent a large period of his time in captivity.

We bagged some semi-final tickets and watched Holland scrape past Uruguay 3-2 to make it to the first World Cup final in 32 years.

Earlier on in the day we met Alan Shearer who told us he felt the Dutch would bottle it and Uruguay would make it into Sunday's final. When I told him that Fergie felt the Dutch would win he quipped "Well, what does he know?" Indeed.

On Thursday I booked my ticket to leave Cape Town via a 27 hour train journey to Johannesburg. Not the most comfortable way to get between the two cities, I know, but it was the most cost-effective.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2010-08-11T08:29:00.000+01:00

Thursday 1 July

Time to leave Durban and but not without one more taxi hic-cup. After waiting one and a half hours for our cab to the airport, depsite the company insisting it would be just ten minutes, Marsh, one of the hotel's proprietor's, volunteered to take us to the airport. Thank goodness.

We pick up our hire car and head towards Johannesburg. However, we decide to spend the night in place a called Drakensberg, about half-way between Durban and Joburg.

The setting is both eerie and beautiful. These feelings are exacerbated by our accommodation - BergVenture. Venture is appropriate. We have three beds and the window is huge, massive, and looks out onto the landscape of fields and mountains. The ambience, as well as the temperature, is cool. Furthermore, we are the only people staying here.

Next is the pub and after taking up the challenge of downing ten shots in a row, in a respectable 16 seconds, the locals, who'd initially looked like something out of The Hills Have Eyes, suddenly appear more friendly.

Friday 2 July

The next morning, headache in check, we head for the Rainbow Nation's capital. The only things in our way en route are a scattering of monkeys and the fear of running out of fuel.

Having not seen a filling station for nearly 200 kilometres and the car beginning to chug, much to our relief, we find a petrol station.

Car dropped off and checked in at our hotel, we make way towards the stadium, Socer City. Tonight is Ghana - Uruguay in the quarter-finals but we want to watch the Holland-Brazil game beforehand.

Johannesburg is a nightmare to get around. We get a cab from our hotel to the station. Then we get a bus to Kempton Park before being informed we are at the wrong station. Once there we seek the advice of some people who have t-shirts emblazoned with 'We are here to help'. They look at us blankly when we ask for it. Thankfully someone does come to our rescue and tells us not to get onto the next train to the city centre for our own safety. We take heed and get on the 'business' train which is slow, yet we are safe, thanks largely to the fact we have a carriage all to ourselves.

Nevertheless, this carriage is reminiscent of a prison transportation vehicle as we sit on benches at either side.

Now at the main station in downtown Johannesburg we find a populated bar and watch the last 30 minutes of Holland's victory over Brazil before heading to the stadium.

The train journey proves memorable for all the right reasons, apart from the snail's pace. The Ghanaians, at least those who pupported to be from Ghana, gave the trip an increased temperature with singing and dancing all the way to the stadium.

The whole of Africa, in fact anyone who wasn't Uruguayan, watched this epic match swing one way, and then the other, only to see Ghana go out through the painful exit mode that is penalties.

Some kind locals offer us a lift home which we galdly accept, anything to avoid public transport now that the cheeriness of the African fans has dissipated.

We are held up slightly, however, as the kind South Africans offering us transport have their car boxed in. The guys supposedly looking after the car have some of their pay docked and we are on our merry way to the hotel for some much needed sleep after a 30 minute delay.

Saturday 3 July

Mass panic is caused once more by an unreliable taxi driver and I just catch my flight to Cape Town. Bastard!

On the flight I meet a delightful Zambian who makes the blog (I'm sure he's overwhelmed) not just for being so bloody nice but also because of his name - Kafula Mwiche. He gives me his business card and tells me to get in touch if I am ever in his homeland.

I land and meet up with my colleagues who were on a different flight to me and head straight to the Green Point Stadium to see Germany-Argentina.

For all that is bad about Johannesburg is more than made up by Cape Town, starting with the consummate ease of transport to the stadium.

The bars and restaurants that line the street from the city centre to the stadium are a delight to behold, though I gather the iron fence in place between the path and the road was introduced after England played Algeria here a couple of weeks ago. Ah, the English.

Anyway, we watch a masterclass from the Germans as they dispatch with their Argentinian rivals and move irrepressibly onto the semis. Ah, the Germans.

Our hostel (Salty Crax) turns out to be the only disappointment in Cape Town. The lack of a tv to watch Spain-Paraguay, the irritatingly far from town location and the dog shit lying around everywhere cause a great amount of frustration that is overcome quickly by the city itself, and I cannot give higher praise than that.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2010-07-26T21:52:00.002+01:00

Monday 28 June

We wake at 445am and the taxi, much to our relief, is on time so we can get to the airport in good time for our flight to Durban.

As we take flight I notice just how rubbish most South African daily newspapers are. They seem caught between American English and British English and when this manifests itself in describing a football match it just comes out as utter jibberish.

Of course, those papers are dominated by England's demise from the day before, not that we need reminding, and some excellent photos of the goal that never was.

Shepherd's Fold, the B&B we will be calling home for the next few days, turns out to be a pleasant nest in Westville North, ran by the lovely Barbara and Marsh, on the outskirts of Durban. Not only was the ambience warm but the garden, including a swimming pool, offered a wonderful view of the city.

Later that morning, I do an interview for BBC Radio Norfolk and give them my 'two-pennies-worth' on the previous day's debacle.

Our journey from the hotel to the stadium turns out to be pleasant enough and we have our benchmark price for trips into town. The fee was 170 rand.

We watch Holland comfortably dispense of Slovakia and the Moses Mabhida Stadium is particularly impressive. I am no architect, so I cannot explain in detail as to why, but the arch and the overall beauty of the stadium puts Wembley to shame.

Sadly, the option of climbing the arch was not available throughout the tournament which was disappointing.

Tuesday 29 June

One thing that Durban does offer is pretty good weather, even in winter, and this turns out to be the best day's weather of the entire trip. We watch Japan lose to Paraguay on penalties at the FIFA fan-fest on the beach. We drink a beer called 'South African Lager'. A strange name for a beer. It tastes exactly the same as 'Castle', the beer we have been drinking throughout the trip. This is primarily because IT IS 'Castle'. However, because they are not the official beer of the tournament and Budweiser, which is, is neither imported nor brewed in South Africa, they have to give it this superficial name. Another example of the commercial madness of FIFA.

Durban is supposed to be renowned for its food though our experiences turn out to be very different. Mind you, we did not have the local speciality - Bunny Chow. This is basically curry on top of half a loaf of bread.

At one restaurant down by the seafront, I ordered a Caesar Salad. The only problem was that there was no Caesar sauce. The waiter/chef must have forgotten, I thought, so I asked for some. The waiter looked at me like I was speaking Japanese so I repeated my question a little more slowly. The blank look remained and I ate my salad.

Another restaurant down by the marina offered adequate food but the service was laughable. The staff were never available when you needed them and then when they were there they were offended when you asked them a question about the menu or asked for some dessert.

Wednesday 30 June

Anyway, enough of that and on to a subject that was to be the bane of our trip - taxis!

In England we may have watches but in South Africa they have time and taxi drivers take this to the limit and beyond.

If the inconsistent prices for the same journeys was too much to take on occasions, the unreliability was even more frustrating.

Furthermore, I have never been anywhere where the taxi drivers have so little sense of direction.

Here is a typical conversation with a cab driver in Durban (and throughout South Africa):

Me: Do you know where this is (showing the driver our address)?

Driver: Errr..... Yes

Me: Are you sure?

Driver: Errr... Yes... I think so

Me: That doesn't sound to sure to me

Driver: Hold on. I call my friend

Something is then spoken which sounds like a mix of English and an Indian language (a lot of the drivers are of Indian descent in Durban).

Driver: OK

Me: OK, what?

Driver: OK. We now drive to a hotel.

Me: Our hotel?

Driver: Not quite.

Me: What do you mean 'Not quite?'

Driver: Don't worry. I just see my friend at another hotel who knows where your hotel is.

In the meantime the meter is continuously ticking over, making the journey even more expensive.

The driver smiles.

Then, on one particular occasion, we were told we had to get out of the taxi and into someone else's cab, without explanation.

Then we went through the same process once more.

We would always make it home - eventually - but at great cost.

What we lost in taxis, however, we made up with in astute purchases of sunglasses off some of the local entrepreneurs on the beach.

We all managed to pocket some designer sunglasses at just over two quid each. Now I know what you're thinking - they cannot have been genuine originals. Not only were they genuine, they even had the brand name 'Ray-Bums' inscribed on the glasses.

World Cup Diary - South Africa 2010

2010-07-16T14:44:00.001+01:00

Sunday 27 June
As I woke I realised this was not just another day and began to think about what the players must be feeeling like at this moment. I dare say they stayed in a slightly more illustrious hotel than I did - a 20 quid a night hostel (they doubled the price for the World Cup) with shared bathroom facilities. Still, beer was less than a quid a bottle and we had a free breakfast - albeit just toast and coffee.

Next it was off to the airport to pick up the hire car for the four of us - two aussies from the hostel are coming too, along with my friend and I. They are without tickets but eventually pick some up for the same price we had paid.

The first glitch of the day comes from Budget (the car rental place). They claim that they do not accept Debit Cards or cash, only Credit Cards. When we vociferously complain that we reserved the booking under the premise of being able to use a Debit Card they retreat and accept our offer.

We asked about 20 different people how long it would take to get to Blomfontain for the game and we received 20 different answers, varying between two and six hours - quite a margin.

Nevertheless, we begin our journey with great gusto and, apart from a tiny mistake at the beginning of the trip when we miss a turn off, the drive is pretty smooth. The roads are much better than we had expected and, though there is plenty of football traffic, it is moving very quickly.

To be honest, I have never enjoyed driving as much as I did that Sunday morning. The sun was shining and there were thousands of flags and vuvuzelas, mostly in suport of England, particularly in evidence at each toll stop, as well as petrol stations. Even lorry drivers going in the opposite direction were hooting their horns in anticipation ahead of today's clash.As we reached the half-way stage we listened to the lunch-time news. We chuckled as a report comes in of a plane landing on the motorway - half-way between Johannesburg and Bloemfontein, which is exactly where we are in the moment we hear the news. Our curiosity is somewhat alleviated by the site of the plane at the roadside just minutes later.

This was proving to be a strange day indeed.

We arrived in Bloemfontein in good time, much better than expected, and found a car park close to the stadium very easily, with little traffic. Like a hot knife through butter. Incredible.A short hop, skip and a jump and we were outside the stadium. Unfortunately, I was the nominated driver and therefore had to go without beer. To be honest, this didn't bother me too much as I prefer to watch games sober so I can take in the full impact of the game. Something I would later regret.

I arrived at my seat about ten minutes prior to kick off. A couple of disappointments were noticeable early on - a small amount of booing during the German national anthem and that ghastly ten bombers World War II song.

Things got worse as the England defence capitulated and the mood in the crowd dampened.

Then we had that five minute spell where we thought we were back on track. Upson brought it back to 2-1 and then there was the Lampard 'goal'. From where I was sitting it was unclear as to whether it had crossed the line but from a flurry of texts and iphone updates it soon becomes apparent that we have been cheated.

As we eventually go on to lose 4-1 another sour moment rears its ugly head. A young England fan decides to chuck his plastic cup of beer over the railings on to the crowd below. An unnecessary act that is met with rightful criticism form other England fans.

As we filter out of the ground there is a sense of disappointment but we have been here many times before and there is a sense of we'll experience it again.

Needless to say, the journey back to Johannesburg is downbeat, in stark contrast to the excitement on the way to Bloemfontein earlier that day.

We make speedy progress and listen to Argentina - Mexico on the radio, the opponents that England would have been facing had they beaten the Germans.

As we approach Jo'burg International Airport to return the car we, like the English footballers, lose concentration and our way before going round in circles looking a bit stupid. We drop the car off and, again like Rooney, Gerrard et al, we head home.