The swiss mountains

The Journey through Liechtenstein had not treated me well. I managed a poor meal in town with my last remaining euros and was fighting with an ATM machine that refused to convert me some Swiss francs. I was warring with this machine for 5 or so minutes, before giving it a Tommy Lockett* to the mid section before heading back to the bus with my tail between my legs and nothing, but failed receipts from the dodgy teller in my wallet. I entered the bus saving face, wondering how I was to keep my expensive lifestyle up of Pizza for lunch and a few dozen beers by night. I had barely been seated when I was called upon to perform the dreaded coachie-okie in front of the bus for being late the prior day in Munich. Coachie-okie is a contiki rule, where the last person on the bus has to get up the front on the mic, put some ear buds in and belt out a tune. I was played by Millie the tour guide (that British, tea drinking babbler!) as I had asked her whether I would be able to get a bottle of water while we waited for the driver to finish packing the bags, to her all clear. Hustled! Alike all bus trips I had forgotten to charge my ipod so I borrowed Georgies in front of me and began wading through the unfamiliar pop, trying to find a track which suited my rough and ready pipes. I settled on Big girls don’t cry by Fergie and dedicated it to Millie as she had cracked it back in Liechtenstein at the manager of the restaurant for their attempted efforts at service and meal making. I was nervous, but quietly confident in my vocal abilities having practiced at home in my spare time to one day live my dreams of becoming the next Dallas Green or Mitch Miller. I was shaking a little bit during the first verse, trying to prevent my voice from cracking and on pitch, but halfway in I was growing in confidence and I could see that the crowd was beginning to give me a more rousing reception then I’d expected. When the chorus hit I took it up a notch and giving it a few extra decibels, before turning to Millie looking her straight in the eyes, easing the volume and giving her a heart felt husky falsetto of “and big girls don’t cry”. She couldn’t hide her cute little smile. If I had of known I was going to be performing to an audience I would have gone down to a small studio in the stein, cut a few tracks and sold them on a fold out card table in the aisle for 5 euros a piece, hence solving my Swiss money woes. Coming down from the high of my performance I noticed that we were now crossing the border into Switzerland, the home of Roger Federer, cheese fondue and everything overpriced. Millie described Switzerland as being a prosperous country and after buying a coffee I realised why. It was in the ball park of 6 francs for a small cappuccino and as the lady spoke english as well as the dog lying at the bar, I had to pour my own cap. It was one of the best coffees, I’d had in Europe and I somehow place some of that success on the fact that I had poured it. It was here I gained some wifi access to check my account to try and solve the issue of me not being able to access any money. My account was empty, needing mother to reload the rest of my savings into it. I borrowed money off Mitch for the next few days and wondered the impending karma I was to face for dishing out a plugga to that innocent ATM.

Switzerland sticks in my mind for two things. Having one of the best days I’ve had over here on the mountain, getting wasted atop with the locals and the second being Mitch browning himself after a day of slogging it out on the swiss porcelain. The day starts with waking up after a rare sleep in and gathering a crew to head for some increased altitude in Switzerlands Bernese alps. Mitch was not looking the goods, but knew he could not miss a day like this, looking down on the swiss valleys, watching the low fog settle and enjoying the green and lushes offerings of Jungfraus mountains. We purchased tickets for 41 francs and to save money bought baguettes, cheese, ham and water to repent a rash decision in buying food for astronomical prices up there. We were packed and ready to begin the walk to the cable car when Mitch turned to me in his brown t-shirt to say “I can’t do it man”. He looked shabby to say the least, probably touching cloth at the very moment, so I accompanied him back to the room. I was disappointed that I was not going to be able to spend such a day we had both been highly anticipating together, but it wasn’t long before it hit me that i was now to be enjoying two lunches in his absence. He hit the bed and groaned. “See ya knackers” I called as I shut the door on the sad and sorry figure. The group was set and we walked the trails through the cottage town to the car. The weather was glum and drizzly and I was worried that I was going to get highly exposed pictures, which would have annoyed me no end, partly as I’m a keen photographer and partly due to the fact I wouldn’t be able to rub it in Mitches face with some spectacular snaps capturing all the beauty and aesthetics that he was to miss. We got to the top and It was raining, cold and miserable. We needed to get inside for some warmth and with the others peckish we settled down at a genuine swiss restaurant. The genuine Australian waiter handed us some menus and at first glance knew it was to be a side of chips and a table water appearing on my bill. The restaurant made for some interesting conversations with big V, the two Canadian girls and the ever complex Mish. As we conversed I continuously looked out the window, where I began to realise some promising weather sweeping in from behind a distant mountain as more and more time elapsed. With the weather coming through, I also noticed a crowd of strangely dressed people amassing on the streets in front of us. The crowd grew outside as big V polished off an oversized bowl of sea food inside. I could hear the crowd begin to cheer and as I looked closer I could see cows with odd flower head dresses, clinking their large cowbells as they plodded along down the street. We paid our bills, to see what was going on to find a full on festival underway to the tune of the cows bells. It was so cultural and traditional, watching girls walking by in lederhosen offering white wine, the blokes and older women with trays of schnapps and a whole town chanting and laughing as they marched down the narrow hillside streets. I was thinking of having a glass of schnapps to turn around to Steve with an empty glass. This was were it began. We walked taking photos of the now blue skies and picturesque ice capped mountain scapes. I had my finger on the trigger more often than not, taking more photos than anywhere we’d been previously. We followed the crowd, marching amongst the floats, drinking white wine, to wash down the schnapps. The crowd went up the hill and we stayed on the main street taking photos and soaking up the view. Some decided to begin the descend, but being overwhelmed by the beauty of the hill a few decided to have a few beers before saying our final good-byes. myself and an unusual group of 4 remained. Andy and Steve, the two Manly meatheads, Mish, the Perth IT consultant and the always pretty Darwin brawler Hannah. We searched for a bar to drink in and look out over the valley to no avail. After searching for a while we noticed the festival had settled in a hall on above the town. People were selling traditional food, Sunflowers and what we were looking for beer. The hall was packed and it was apparent that we were the only foreigners in the hall. We drank beer, followed by beer, followed by some shots (thanks to Hannah), then some more beer. we were looking worse for wear. Misha bit toilet paper, Andy and I were dancing on the tables with the locals, Hannah stole one of the band members hats and I don’t remember what Steve was up to, but I’m guessing he was shaking his T-shirt to get some ventilation into his famously salty pits. We left the hall completely sideways, having deep and meaningfuls in the cable car, telling embarrassing story's like a bunch of plain old drunks. We had a 40 minute walk back to the camp, which was filled with Stevo vomiting to fit in another beer, some pissing in the woods, wearing a jacket Hannah managed to swipe from a poor man named Grimwold and an unexplainable position steve got himself into on the bridge. To say we were bent, is an understatement.

Steve, Andy, Hannah and Mish crashed as soon as they got in due to their Swiss alps annihilation. I was on my last legs, but pushed on, watching the Olympics and talking some guff with the new Zealander's and Canadians. After seeing Australia’s dismal medal tally I began going for Canada, by singing the national anthem that Jaclyn and Kim had taught me in my drunken state. I began singing it when they won, which lead to when the placed, which lead to every time I saw the flag. I have no idea how I was still functioning at this point. haha. alright here it is. I’m putting this together from what Andy and Mitch have told me, but this is how it happened. Andy stumbled into the room and crashed on the bed above Mitch, whom looked in the same state as he had in the morning, spending most of his day in the third cubicle on the left, changing from a seated position to a kneel according to which end was required. He had managed to spit out 15 shits and couple vomits since we left for the Alps that he could remember, but the 16th was the fatal blow. The room was full of people checking up on both Andy and Mitchell as they lay there. Mitch with crippling gastro and Andy from being plain old fashion pissed. The room was finally clear and Mitch nodded off on the bottom bunk, while Andy lay on the top trying to get some rest. An almighty smell arose through the bunk hitting Andy who couldn’t believe the brutal stench that Mitch had manufactured below, so opened the window and tried to sleep through the unpleasant odour. 5 minutes passed and the smell was still as intense as it had been when it first presented itself, so Andy decided to wake the sick Hatters up to get a better read on the situation. Mitch awoke to noticed that in his sleep he had violently squirted himself and had been lying in his own diarrhea. Mitch sprung to his feet after realising that one had snuck through the gates and began dancing on the spot freaking out, in his own hysterical way he does when he needs to vomit. He couldn’t believe the guards had let him down. He rushed to the shower, washing the caked mess from his body before returning to Andy in disgrace. Andy describes it as no runway strip, but a full blown puddle left on the sheets. The average man would have thrown their duds out after such an event, but not Hatley, just a rinse under the tap would suffice before putting them back in the bag. haha. The sheet was rolled up and left in the rubbish crate outside for disposed bottles. Switzerland has a strict recycling scheme. This fitted in no category. Embarrassed, Mitch went back to sleep trying to forget all that had just happened. I had not idea what had transpired until morning and although I wasn’t there it is still one of my favourite tales to tell from Contiki. Andy caught the bug going on to misjudge one and liquid fart the following night, losing a brand new pair of CK’s in the process. haha. What times.

*Tommy Lockett was Andy’s attempt at naming football player Tony Lockett, which Hatley and I found hilarious. Any kick from then on was known as the Tommy Lockett or the big Plugga.

The Most Interesting Man on Earth.

Seeing Trent leave and no where to stay prompted us to take a risk in getting from Amsterdam to Barcelona/Madrid in a single day. This proved an impossible feat and not wanting to pay 77 euros extra for the over night train, we were stranded halfway in the both wonderful and awful French capital, Paris. after tossing up numerous options yet all looking to hurt our back pockets we reserved a seat to Figueres (spanish border), where branches to both Barcelona or Madrid were possible come lunch time the following day. Faced with the options of getting a hotel room or sleeping at the station we elected to do the latter and see the Tower once more at night. Armed with my camera, tri-pod and a full battery, I was happy to line up the tower through the view finder one more time before I left the amazing landmark. We relieved our spines by dropping our packs at the luggage storage, before setting out out on foot, which was a nice change considering we had been sitting on the locomotive all day. The mild sun beat down on our heads and I felt more perceptive walking along the river seine than the previous times, enjoying the street performers as they busked jazzy tunes, the Latin dance lessons on the riverside and the sound of boats creating light wakes while couples drank wine and laughed on the decks. This area I can assure you does not speak for the entirety of Paris, merely covering the overpopulated, dilapidated, crushed urban scape in which residents gobbled up by the machine that is Paris reside, but I loved the covering on this night. Stranded in Paris is not the worst situation that has ever happened to anyone as long as they have some money and wits. We walked for three quarters of an hour and we had hardly put a dent in the journey, so a few beers were in order to take the edge off our stress ridden day. We disappeared into a small Irish pub to chat and regather over a beer that went down better than ever, giving me a collected mindset for the rest of the travel. The sun was going down and the Towers lights could be seen from a distance. The monument in sight is not an indication of being there, The shear size of the landmark creates a perception of being closer than you really are. It seems the same size for half an hour after you first see it and being my third visit to the tower I was not fooled. We got there eventually and grabbed spot on the grass where we lay with a bottle of wine I bought from a gypsy, in silence letting ourselves take in the lights and atmosphere the tower emits. After a glass of red, a brief talk with some girl I gave a huge glass of red (the gypsy red wasn't much chop) we took our last look at the tower before commencing the return journey. This is where we met him.

Walking the streets of this side of Paris at night is not a hassle. the odd homeless or rambling drunkard, but you'll find these people whichever city in the world you're in. we strolled along chatting for around a quarter of an hour before walking up behind a man with large white headphones, relaxed tweed shorts, surf t shirt with a stone washed shirt over the top. He was around 25, 6 foot one, lean, a marginally brown complexion and a small non tight afro. A pretty cool, relaxed looking dude humming French tunes and smiling. He stopped after seeing our shadows removed his headphones and said 'hello'. We greeted him back and before long we were chatting whilst we walked. We had only been chatting for around 2 minutes before he asked us where we were intending on traveling to come morning. We explained our situation the prior day and told him that we were catching the first train out of Paris to Spain. I never saw the next words from him coming, and I don't think even the highest credentialed human behaviorist could have. He said "I'll come". We all had a laugh and when he started laughing excessively I began to get a little concerned with this guy and his mind. He almost had a serious glint in his eye about the whole, going to Spain with us notion. He said that he was nearly home when we had caught him, but the idea of having lunch in Spain the following day was too exciting to resist. We walked in silence for a bit before he took off his head phones and introduced me to his favourite 80's French band. It was pretty average, but I said that I liked it. He gave us a history lesson with his perfect English on every building, bridge, restaurant and sight we passed. He had a unique air of intelligence and charisma. It became apparent about three quarters of the way home that we knew nothing about him although he had been talking the whole time. I asked him of his profession to yet another reply of laughter and "I guess I sell some things". I initially thought drugs and began to further distance myself. He continued laughing to the point Kris and I were getting really uncomfortable. A madman indeed. He said he cannot help it as he loves seeing peoples reactions when he laughs for a minute straight. some laugh with him, some freeze and some run he explained. We just stood there. Does this guy have a Job to go to in the morning? it's 2.00 am on a Monday night for god sakes. We made it to the station to find it completely closed. The front entrance was lined with homeless, drunks and no-gooders, some sleeping others hanging around and a group of them playing cards. We decided to get out of there for the moment and asked the man whether he knew where a place to buy food was. He wasn't certain, but started off down a main street, chatting the way. A drunken bum rambling and stumbling down the street with a bottle of wine and an impressive beard walked past, at which point I turned to the man and said "is that one of your friends". He laughed and replied "haha Yes, I'm that crazy". I was on edge with him after that. Finch and I every now and then had been turning to each other behind his back and miming things like "what the fuck" or "Who is this guy" under our breaths. The whole thing was weird. He pulled out his blackberry and called a friend for his birthday, but being 2.30 am understandably got the answering machine. He said happy birthday and that he would see him after Spain. he put the phone to our ears to give a little message. We were growing comfortable with him by now so we sent our best wishes to his friend Charles as we walked. He found us a couple of cokes after persuading the closing up shop owner with his charm, which hit the spot. We walked back to the station but with just over an hour until it opened we lay on our back packs near the Gare de Lyon Mercure. The safest looking spot to sit and wait. We chatted with him further and I asked him in all seriousness what his job was. He laughed and explained that he was a entrepreneur who had made it with a website offering discounts to events, restaurants and products around France. He explained that he makes a commission from the companies that list the deals on his site. It was the only thing that made sense and I completely believed him. He had been so honest and sincere with everything that he had told us previously. I began to warm to him and his quirks and kind of hoped that he would come to Spain with us, but was still skeptical about things. My human instinct had labelled this odd man as a threat. somebody I couldn't understand, work out or fit into any category. An entrepreneur that had conquered the world, without a great deal of toil, leading him to live instinctively and act irrationally for kicks had never occurred to me. It was the only thing that made sense. He was interested that I was taking psychology, "I bet you couldn't profile me”. I replied “mate you’re not wrong”. He said quote “with people you won't stop studying for a life time”. He was wise with his words and I took in everything he said that night. He knew so much about Kris and I, but now I longed to know more about him. He told me that there was nothing better in life than silence. He was too interesting to ignore. The three of us were growing weary so we lay against the barrier poles on the curb looking up at the impressive and illuminate clock that shone above us. The concrete was hard on my back, but despite this I couldn't keep my eyes open. I wrapped my arm around my bag tight to prevent anyone from taking it before letting myself drop off.

 Finch and I woke up 15 or so minutes later to find him gone. We sprung up and checked our stuff. I knew he hadn't taken anything. He came laughing out of the terminal saying "it's open, but I didn't want to wake you". At this point I said "Sorry mate, I never caught your name, I'm Tom" to the reply "ahhh that's because I never gave it to you, mine is Jonathan". Yet another remark I found interesting. He searched for an open machine for a ticket, but they were all closed. He bought one croissant and filled up Kris' drink bottle. He offered us the single croissant before taking the first bite. We lay and tried to sleep in the terminal, but funnily enough couldn't drop off like we had earlier on the street. I had my phone on charge and Jon asked politely if he could listen to my music for a while. I put on some God is an Astronaut, which he was really get into with a few head bobs. Finch and I went and grabbed our bags, to find Jonathan gone. He reappeared 5 minutes later with a ticket to Spain, a book on spirituality and some water. He had the clothes on his back, his headphones, his phone and his new book. The essentials for 5 hour international trip. We discussed where we were going to stay and when I mentioned a hostel, he thought that it would be great idea as we could save money. Saving money, not the characteristics of an internet tycoon. We boarded the train, with him two seats ahead of us. I was mainly sleeping, but every time I looked up he was further and further into the book. He didn't utter a word to us for the entire trip. He finished the book before arriving in Figueres and didn’t even look tired. No wonder his language was impeccable. departing the train we had no idea whether to head to Barcelona or Madrid and lacking the spontaneity of Jonathan we momentarily sat calculating the best move to make. He couldn't sit still. In this brief period he struck up a conversation with the most beautiful Spanish girl. What ever he was saying in Spanish, he had her full attention. He has a gift when it comes to people. Finch and I discussed what to do while he chatted with everyone he could find. The girl was off to a reggae festival he informed me and said that it looked pretty good. He went and chatted to a few guys outside and had made yet more friends. He moved onto the Bus drivers, chatting away before coming back to us and saying "Hey guys, I'm going to jump on that bus it was nice meeting you, I want you to add me on facebook". He ran to the service desk wrote his name down on an old lotto card and said "don't be surprised when you see me on TV" before turning to chase down the already in motion bus. The bus came to a halt, let him on and that was the last we saw of Jonathan. Kris and I in shock at what had just happened were speechless. A man we were speaking to on the street in Paris after 2 minutes spontaneously decided to come to Spain for no apparent reason on a Tuesday morning after sleeping under a clock in Paris, then leaving on a Bus to who knows where, to never be seen again.

We bewilderedly walked to the shops in the station and ate while we tapped into the Mc'donalds Wifi. I removed the scrunched up lotto card from my pocket to search the name Jonathan Besnainou. The results shocked me as I read. Jonathan Besnainou is Ceo of 300 million euro a year company ohmydeal.com. His company is set to move around 8 billion euros in total in 2012, up 3 billion since 2005. I watched a video of him on Youtube. The same curly hair, the same intelligent speak, the same quirky mannerisms, the same exact man lying next to us sleeping on the concrete under the clock tower in Paris. I still can't believe it. I can honestly say that I have met one of the most interesting men on earth.

I am Sterdam

 

Hey all, I'm back. I was on a wild contiki known as the 25 day escapade, which ate all my available blogging time. The tour was better than I could of ever imagined. I saw everything from the Eiffel to the Vatican, from Davids wang in Florence to Steve Sirianis (after being dacked) in Venice. Was wild times and I loved every minute of the tour. It would be too hard to paint you the whole tour as it would be the most epic task and anne frankly I'm in Amsterdam right now and nobody really breaks a sweat over here. I'll put some pics up and talk about them when I can but my computer is currently out of action with a broken keyboard.

I read today that 12,00 bikes and 52 cars are fished out of the Amsterdam canals per year. I also read that 35 people on average fall in per year and that my dickhead friend coxhill is the only man in history to voluntarily jump into the disgusting system amassed of sewage, dead bodies mixed together with some water. The stuff looks like motor oil at night and I'm sure even the yarra wouldn't swim in this gunk. Non the less Cocka ran this idea through his skull and gave it the all clear and hence now has two heads. This is the result of the famous Amsterdam pub crawl in which we cannot say we completed due to losing the group after a trip to my favourite dutch chain known as chipsy king. After cursing chipsy king for being such a delicious and alluring food we headed for the red light district where we decided a few more beers would be in order. It was at this point where we lost Coxhill, until we found him later  looking like a drowned rat and talking like a Queenslander due to his new thongs. We had met a bloke earlier at the hostel from Blackburn who was keen as mustard to see the district. Finch, Blackburn Alex and myself sat in the tiger bar and watched the seediest of seed bags pulling the curtains and leaving the booths, reshelving their nut sacks and sniffing their fingers. One guy we saw came out, t-shirt tucked into his jocks, jeans tucked into his runners, hand down the pants, sweat on the brow and a look of shear terror on his face (he may or may not have had a limp, I was pretty blind). The girls in the windows are not what you expect a sex worker to look like. They are amazing young stunners. As ironic as it sounds the dutch sex trade came about due to protests by a women's rights lobby. They believed that prostitution was a legitimate form of business and that they should be recognised as tax paying contributors of Holland. The bloke in charge at time caved like a house of cards and with the women over here I can sympathise with him. I can do this as we ended up in a shady strip joint in the district. When in Amsterdam. I planned on going in there and spending not a cent, but when Blackburn Alex got a dance without any money I knew we were in trouble. He left and the heat was on me and finch to cover it. We were arguing with the biggest brute of a women, topless and smacking either me and finch back in to line with her riot norks whenever we tried to escape. she put her hands in my pockets looking for money to find 3 euro. I had strategically dacked my wallet as I knew it would probably come to this. Finch not being the thinker I am (I was the winner of the Contiki trivia) left his phone in his pocket, which she grabbed and headed for management. At this point I handed her a 10 and got the fuck outta' there before any other bare chested pitbulls could have a crack at us. We met Blackburn Alex outside and came to the agreement that he owed us a kebab each for our troubles. If prostitution is legally accepted then I think kebabs should be an EU recognised currency as between our group you never get paid back, you get a garlic soaked wrap assembled by a back alley turk. We had a laugh and headed en route back to the Hostel, via chipsy king, via the hotdog stand. 3.30 am and the stoners were still occupying the smokers area. I don't know how those smoked trouts do it. Once at the top of the stairs I could hear a familiar cackle echoing around the hallway. Coxhill looking like ratatouille after falling in a bowl of soup was stomping around putting 'ay at the end of every sentence. Couldn't even look at him. He smelt reasonable considering the circumstances, but then again I have been doing the smell tester on my jocks every morning for the last couple of months, so a grimy Coxhill didn't match some of the punches to the face I have copped doing that. So much more, but I have to see Anne Frank, after a visit to chipsy king.

Thanks for reading (it's good to be back on the Blogging scene I have really missed it)