Krakow.

Today I spent a couple of hours 130metres underground. Definitely one of the cooler days so far. 

After spending a couple of hours walking around the centre of beautiful Krakow, admiring the Christmas markets and trying to keep our toes from frostbite as the hail began to fall. Finally relenting and darting into another traditional Polish restaurant for an early lunch I had dumplings, again. Spinach and onion utter deliciousness. Unfortunately we practically had to shove them down as we had places to be!

Running through town (for the second time in under 24 hours) we made it back to the tourist office by midday for our guided tour! Travelling 12km out of town we arrived at the Salt Mines! 

We arrived and had tickets handed to us before being ushered into a room and simply told to go. Alone. We had no idea what to do. We eventually found a door in the room and after much exasperation and pulling, we managed to yank it open (there was some serious pressure from the wind making it about 10 tonnes and impossible to pull) and were confronted by stairs. More stairs than I have ever seen in my life. 

At one stage I looked down the middle of the stairs and instantly regretted it. I got such bad vertigo and an intense feeling of claustrophobia. Having to push aside any of that and march on, we walked down steps for forever. Seriously dizzy, we eventually reached the bottom and found other people and joined in on the tour. 

A sarcastic Polish guide led us around the incredible mines deep in the earth. There is a whole other world down there!! It was amazing to walk around and see actual full scale cathedrals, it was pretty easy to forget you were so far beneath the earth! There were chandeliers made of salt, sculptures completely carved out of salt and even the ground (which looked like granite) was entirely made of salt. It was crazy, and not like the form you see on the kitchen table. It was a bit of a maze and would be so easy to get lost down there. A whole new world. There was even a museum, a gift shop and possibly the worlds lowest cafe selling coke and coffee the closest to the earths magma. 

It was one of the weirdest things I've ever done and also one of the coolest. The absolute worst part (despite having to come to terms with being miles into the earth) was the lift ride back up. I can say that I would rather have climbed the over 800 steps back up than take that lift again. It was tiny, crammed with people and practically had no walls. It had about five storeys so there were people above us and below us and you could almost feel them walking on top of you. Not something I want to relive. It was definitely great to be on solid ground again. You had to wonder about some of the construction and structure holding everything up down there! 

We came out into near darkness before taking another walk around the Jewish quarter, walking up to the castle and admiring it all in its lit up splendour. Caught the bus back to the hotel and mucked about (an unbelievably easy to way to pass time when you are in a hotel with about 40 others. Yes, fireworks were involved.) before a buffet dinner at the hotel. Rice! For the first time in a long time! 

A wee birthday celebration for one of the boys on tour and a (somewhat) early night before an early rise for an intense day tomorrow. Prague in the evening to finish up the day! 

Goodbye Poland, you were unexpectedly delightful! And cold. Bloody cold. 

On the move.

Officially in Krakow, Poland after a day driving, mostly through Slovakia! I can say I've been there, and that will probably be enough. 

Beautiful covered in snow, driving through the high mountains as the flurries continued to fall.

We watched Notting Hill, played games and listened to a selection of people's music but the best part is the stories that accumulate from 40 people all in one bus together. With so many people and so much alcohol on the trip, it can only result in hilarious anecdotes of embarrassment and things gone wrong. Not so much memories for the grandchildren..

Arriving in Krakow after the sun had set (3.45pm!), we again dropped off our stuff at our hotel (!! Fancy!) and got dropped off in the centre where we had a brief (and dark) walking tour. We ended in the beautiful main square where lots of people were out and about in the Christmas markets that fill the centre. It is nothing like I expected it to be and much more beautiful and lively than I anticipated. Christmas lights and decorations adorn shop fronts and giant trees hold human size decorations. 

We headed for dinner in a traditional Polish restaurant with music and tarot card reading! Completely Polish. I had dumplings (apparently a Polish cuisine!) stuffed with mushrooms and sauerkraut which were delicious and apple pie for dessert which was an actual baked apple covered in puff pastry! Divine! Sloshed down with wine the whole meal was incredibly cheap, and after the Hungarian currency much easier to calculate. Thank goodness the numbers are smaller or my troubled maths would mean I'd have to start pocketing a calculator. 

We ran back through town (while trying to eye up the amazing looking Christmas markets - definitely returning tomorrow night!) to catch the bus back to the hotel and prepare for tomorrow!

Lots to see and do while battling the weather, followed by a dawn ride on there bus to Auschwitz on Sunday (Sunday? I think? The day after tomorrow..)

Thank you - Dziekuje

Please - Prosze

Toilets - Toalety

I'm practically fluent. 

Buda and Pest.

Hungary Day Two and it didn't get any warmer. I weirdly like loading up on layers before braving the outdoors. 

Starting with breakfast (and sneakily packing a lunch in front of the sign "eat as much as you like! Take? No." - me no read English.) before braving the chill and heading outdoors. 

With a free day ahead of us almost everyone started with a trip to the House of Terror, a museum regarding the Soviet and Nazi involvement in Hungary and which used to be the location of the Soviet headquarters. It was like a taster for the coming Auschwitz and although weird to call it 'cool' (something wrong about that adjective association to a place that killed and tortured thousands years ago) it was definitely interesting and eye opening. I guess Hungary wasn't in the best geographical location during the war. We weren't able to see all the tunnels connecting the buildings (as the headquarters got so large they took over the whole block and ended up creating unground tunnels to connect them all) but we did see the torture chambers, the gallows and the offices and libraries where the plush surroundings couldn't be more contrasting to below. 

We left the depression and walked down the main street in the sunshine and sub-par temperatures, drinking in the luxury of life so many before us were forbidden to enjoy. Walking across the chain bridge to the church at the top of the hill, lots of steps to burn off the heavy portions of food we've been climatised into consuming, for another splendid view of the city mapped out below us. On to the castle where replicate Buckingham Palace guards stand their duty, stern faced and cold, literally. 

Descending before our hands fell off, we walked through the centre including the Christmas markets before hunting down the location of 'traps', a not-to-be-missed game for those in the know in Budapest. It involves being locked in a room with a group and not being allowed to leave until the puzzles have been completed. Mind boggling and problem solving, it's like an adult playground but finding the entrance is the first step. Walking for miles and being unable to locate it, when we eventually found it there was no answer to the knock on the door and we had to admit defeat. 

Supermarket dinners around the time of sun set (4pm!) before progressing straight to the bar where camp was set up for the rest of the evening. 

Krakow tomorrow, and continuing the fun game of endless currency changing. 

Zzz.

Droopy eyelids as my head hits the pillow. 

Visions of the crazy cool bar we just went in, entrance through a butcher, as I'm about to drift off. A very full belly of goulash delicious. 

Wicked start to what looks like a 6 night (bus) bender. 

Tomorrow: free day. Budapest, we roam. 

Hungary, and all other food related humour.

I'm not sure if they're taking pointers from their title, but Hungary seems to have more supermarkets per square mile than any place I've ever been. 

This also suits me perfectly, not only do I have a supermarket fetish that is heightened when overseas with products and food to decipher, but Budapest so far has the best selection of carb-based consumables. 

A whole isle of dough-y, bread-y deliciousness. I couldn't help my over eager starving belly and got two from the selection, eating them as I got unbelievably lost. I have never before been that lost. I literally walked in one direction for 20 minutes before discovering it was completely wrong. Goodbye two and a half hours. 

Eventually I found the river Danube, my intention, to discover it was about a block from the hostel. 

The paper map thing is hard. 

In other 'first day in Eastern Europe acitvities', I successfully met up with my TopDeck group. Meeting first the other newbies, 8 of us altogether, before meeting up with the bus full of others already 14 days into their mammoth tour. Walking on to the bus was like starting a new day of school, but being a couple of months younger than everyone and having to blend into some pre-established rituals, a little more tricky when you're no longer 5 years old. The apprehension quickly melted away when we started to meet everyone (started, I repeat, it is going to take me a few go's to remember 40 plus names in my old age) and found everyone to be nice and welcoming. 

So commenced the brief driving tour as the sun was setting where we ended up on the top of the hill at a church and 'Fisherman's Bastion' just as the sky was turning pink hues from the sunset, a wonderful way to start to see a new city. On to a couple more monuments as well as a group photo in front of the Champs Élysées de Budapest and back to Wombats, our hostel and my new 2 day home. 

We quickly dumped our stuff before heading out for dinner in a traditional Hungarian restaurant with typical Hungarian staff (I actually don't know this for a fact, but they looked exactly, exactly, like I imagined Hungarians would.) I ordered the chicken goulash and it was delicious, accompanied by bizarre Hungarian noodles which taste nice and look odd. The traditional schnitzel was ordered by quite a few people and it was enormous. The challenge was on to finish it all and most failed. Those that succeeded also failed, really, as they looked beached for the rest of the night, weighed down by schnitzel regret. 

Next we headed for a bar and got lost. Twice. 

Our guide clearly had too much schnitzel and couldn't think straight. 

We arrived later at the coolest bar which was like a picturesque junk yard. The whole place was piled high with, well, shit. But it was artfully and delicately placed shit which had a nice feel. The atmosphere was brilliant and you can't complain at the price of drinks. 

My 4am wake up call started to get the better of me as I also spotted a few others with their eyelids drooping and most people called it a night. The most casual travel group I've ever known! Where's this rowdy, inappropriate group of delinquents behaving like children that the retired are talking about these days? I'd say their late nights talkback goes deeper into the night than us 'youth'!

Head on the pillow and I was out solid before the lights turned off. 

Budapest, I have arrived!

Train. Again. Goodbye Firenze.

Today saw me speeding out of Florence (given that the train fare left my wallet practically empty there was nothing to slow the train down) and heading back in to Milan. Thankfully the euro sized house deposit I paid for the train meant it was actually fast, and I arrived in the Italian capital just over an hour and a half later. 

I reunited with the half smiles that greeted me again at the hostel managing to get a little less than a half smile as I had unknowingly turned up during 'lockout' which was supposed to mean cleaning, but looked more like a 12 year old girls slumber party drowned out by full strength Beyoncé. Luckily they let me in and I ate lunch with my face in my pizza in an attempt to block out the 80's dance charades they appeared to be playing. 

Dumping my stuff as soon as my room was free, I caught the metro straight into the heart, Duomo (which sounds like Bwaymo according to the Italian señorita announcing the destinations on the metro and for which I blame my missing of the stop and riding too far). On another note, the innovative and financially addled Italians have taken to standing next to the self service metro machines so that as you go through the very simplistic steps to retrieve your ticket, they stand at your side watching your every move and pointing out what to do next. At the end of the one sided game of 'Simon Says' with the metro ticket retrieved, they put their hand out in expectation of some spare change. Inventive? Yes. Annoying? Fuck yes.

Once I bypassed a number of extra metro stops (just looking, thanks) and made it back to Duomo (Bwyamo) I had another 'Barcelona Sagrada Familia moment' coming out of the metro. Walking up the steps wondering where the Cathedral was and assuming it was around a corner, I turned around to come face to face with the giant monstrosity. Nothing short of ginormous, for the second time in two days, Italy has taken my breath away. I couldn't believe the sheer size of the building which matched with the earnestly carved outside was amazing. 

Entering the cathedral made it all the more obvious how huge the building was with giant pillars dominating the interior. The roof literally seemed the fabric of the sky (and with glasses on a little more roof-like, but still impossibly high.) Although renovations dominated a lot of the church, it was a stunning place and despite the numbers of tourists inside, still seemed undeniably elaborate. It definitely made me wonder how it was constructed so long ago with so many less tools and abilities than we have today. Though in some sense, the more tools you have, the less able you become. (There was actually an article to this regard about pilots being unequipped skillfully when it comes to turbulence and times of difficulty in the air as so much of what is involved in flying these days is machine-operated. On a personal note, I knew getting that 16 year old child genius from China to help me with my University work was going to have a downside at some point.) 

I also learned while attempting to take photos of the beauty that pigeons are impossibly annoying. Their ability to fly close, but not quite into your head is frustrating and rude. I can almost see their beaks twisting into cunning smiles as they fly past the flailing arms and ducked heads of those around. My new least favourite animal. (Bird? Insect? Mammal? Eh.) 

I walked around the centre seeing a few of the beautiful sights before indulging in a spot of shopping down the main street, busy with trams, cars, scooters and Italians in the midst of Christmas shopping. (I also heard my first ever Christmas carols in one of the stores. Not only was it a Christmas carol, it was a Miley Cyrus Christmas carol! What a brilliant way to usher in Christmas '13.) 

Relaxing in the hostel drinking endless cups of tea with funny milk and eating dinner of, wait for it.. cereal! Eating my day backwards. 

Not quite thinking forward for my flight tomorrow and realising that not only is the metro closed when I have to get up, so are the buses. I didn't know buses needed to sleep!? Taxi to the bus station (which may amount to more than the cost of my flight) before getting a bus, to get a plane, to get a train, to get to Budapest! 

People Watching Rant.

Direction Milano Centrale on the Eurostar 50 euro GONE! 

There better be self service McDonalds on this train! 

Travel can sometimes be a tale of trains, planes and fast-speed, blurry views of a world from a window. Moving too fast to catch the beauty, the feeling and the atmosphere of a place and the inability to stop and really see a new city. 

Ironic in the sense that moving around countries, continents and countless cities is only becoming easier, sometimes the focus is on the ease, speed and accessibility of travel. 

Gone are the days of the follow your feet mentality. The rise with the sun and ride with the wind approach to the journey not the destination. It is only too easy to place increasing importance of seeing everything but not really looking, of being everywhere but not really going. These places that we can take ourselves all over the world are not merely a checklist waiting for another tick. Breezing through with a surface level ogle, a point and click mantra to having 'done' another location is not the travel I ever had envisioned. 

Understanding the life of a people, a culture, is not always possible and certainly not in a few days but getting off the tourist traipsed path always is. Tune out to the Americans, block the Chinese chatter and listen to the resolute hum of the native tongue. 

Push yourself in to what you don't know with a willing head and an open mind. With an eagerness to learn and understand and a ready attitude to follow the unknown, it becomes greatly more likely that a deeper understanding of the culture will blossom. 

Italian Diet.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner for the past 2 days has been pizza, literally. 

I was going to have pasta, but then I remembered I'm watching my weight. 

Milanooooo.

Florence By Foot.

It is alarming how long it is possible to sleep in when you don't have to set your alarm. (No word play intended.)

Jumping out of bed at an unseasonably late hour, I set out to explore the city while the sun was still up and got a face full of rain as soon as I stepped outside. Luckily it cleared up fast and I was off roaming the city, dry, before long. 

I went inside the Santa Maria di Fiore cathedral once more and this time noticed the giant clock on the wall with arrow hands towards the year in roman decimals. How cool! (At first I thought it was a Harry Potter style clock with hands pointing towards different indicators of where people were. Eg. Pope - McDonalds). 

I walked for an embarrassing length of time in an attempt to find an ancient theatre with no luck other than finding the weekly homeless congregation. I was able to find the other cathedral di Coste which was also stunning. Unfortunately it wasn't possible to get inside (and I later saw a book with pictures of the inside and it was beautiful!) so I made do with finding a bench in the sun to admire the outside. 

This soon turned to becoming increasingly amused by a group of Asians (purely descriptive, non racist adjective) who were obsessed with two children of an American couple. The two young girls, probably aged around 2 and 6, were in the square playing around with a soccer ball and chasing seagulls and the Asian contingent could not stop staring. This soon progressed to taking numerous photos of the girls playing and at one stage appeared like a full blown photo shoot. At one stage they moved onto another nearby child who also obliged the photo taking (probably because she was young and yet unaware of the phenomenon of 'creepy') before going back to the two girls. The parents were aware of what was happening and seemed genuinely stunned and mesmerized by the cultural gap resulting in their children being photographed by complete unknowns. 

Leaving the bizarre developments in racial trust to play out behind me, I headed for the piazzaza Michael Angelo. Half way there and I realised it was a wee bit out of the town in the opposite direction I was heading and I decided to abort that plan and continue along the river towards the heart of the town. (Update: Big Mistake! Looking through the Florence guide book later and skimming through the pictures of the view from the piazzaza and it is beautiful! Note to self, consult guide books before navigating through new city.) 

Walking back along the river, the bright sunshine cascading off the yellow hued buildings lining the water, it was easy to see the appeal of the city for upcoming artists and writers in the early days. In this same way it made me nostalgic for Paris and the similarities of two cities made it clear why they were, and are, both adored by the creative's. 

Finding my way towards the centre and the bustle of tourists that plague the inner areas, I roamed through the jagged walkways, managing to keep an eye on the rocky pavement underfoot while ogling the overflowing of goods in the markets which I regretfully couldn't afford to buy (space-wise. A 65 litre pack definitely puts a stop to any frivolous shopping impulsions.) 

I was able to get home early enough to beat the mad rushes for the washing machines and dryers (apparently not all travellers lack cleanliness. My fellow roommate would attest. I get that you've come from Bali and it's a long distance, but seriously Mr Finland, even Indonesia has showers.) I am now able to wear fresh socks again, and 9 euro lighter.

Back to Milan tomorrow for hopefully a quick bit of sight seeing before a rudely early wake up call to catch a flight to Budapest! 

On a side note, I now have no idea of what day it is. 

Ciao Firenze.

Milano - Firenze.

Watching outside sweep by once more, my four hour train journey to Florence dealt me a hefty dose of Italian countryside. Choosing the 'slow train' by mistake (I would love to blame bad language translation but the transaction was completed in English) left me seeing a LOT of what it means to be a farmer in Italy (and grass, mainly grass.)

By the time I was pulling up to the train station in Firenze, I had worked out that not only did the train take almost 3 hours longer than it should have, it also left me at the wrong station. 

Having no option but to get off anyway, I headed straight for the information counter where it was... closed. Apparently no one needs travel information after lunch in Italy. Assuming I was somewhere on the outskirts, there was a serious lack of people about and my ability to read another's bilingual skills had me feeling I wasn't in the the right area for a conversation 'en Englisho'. Luckily while walking around like a twat trying my best to look like I wasn't lost/confused/stranded, I managed to catch my eye on the departures board just as the station I was after, Santa Maria Novella flashed up. A scurry to buy a billetari from a slow ticket machine victimised by the financial crisis had me on my toes and sprinting for a train I had just paid 1,50 euro for and had 4 minutes to catch. 

Running through a foreign station and up countless flights of stairs is not something I would volunteer to do with an 11kg life on my back but I was able to make it between the doors before they smashed close and blocked any option of return. The Italians may have looked at me with the conceited eye roll and sigh of disdain that they have mastered so well but I was on my way to a destination I had much more knowledge of. 

A long day of travel had me in Firenze with a couple hours of daylight still to spare and I couldn't wait to walk around the streets and explore the authentically European ancient town. Armed with a map and with little intent to use it, I followed my feet along bustling cobblestone pavements through markets and shops; following my will and stopping where I felt like it. 

Gazing up at what I assumed was the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, the grand church of the town, I rounded a corner mere metres later to find the actual Cathedral and it literally took my breath away. The skill of the artwork that adorns it's outer layer is amazing and like nothing I've ever seen before. So much work had been put into the outside of the building with so many places to look at once, a nice change from the usual cathedrals of Europe which focus much more effort on their inside. I went inside and was able to ogle the intricate painting under the giant dome which even Picasso must have smiled at, but it is the outside that is most stunning and which I couldn't remove my blurry eyes from. Beautifully imposing and visually stunning, it dominates the square and remains the heart of the town. 

I wouldn't say Italians are the friendliest folk I've met travelling but today a number of people seemed hard set on getting to know me. Or at least offering their skills as guides, listeners, translators or personal shadows. I'm not sure if I look lost, dumb, incommunicado or dearly in need of a companion but I sure got all kinds of offers on my roaming today. 

I made it safely (and accidentally) to the water just in time for sunset and although it was a little too cloudy to have the picturesque colours of a setting sun that Italy does so well, it felt magic being lined up with every other tourist and their dog, child and tour group along the bridge as the sun dipped away.

I walked back through the streets as the sky was turning a myriad of colours before settling on black and suddenly realised that I hadn't eaten since my kidnapped breakfast slice on the train hours ago. The restaurant underground in this giant hostel serves every Italian dish you could imagine and for my second night viva Italia I ordered a funghi pizza all to myself. 

Tomorrow I have Firenze all day where the sun is supposed to shine and there won't be the aftermath of a marathon to leave the streets quite as crowded as this afternoon. 

I am also hoping my bowels don't continue to be my early morning wake up call. This pizza better do the trick. 

Florence Bound.

Loo Lounging.

My bowels still think I'm in Morocco. 

Euh. 

The Blurriest Photos I Could Find.

Sahara, camels and me. Pixelated. 

Window Seat Living.

Just completed a toilet mission with serious skill.

Two large elderly Moroccan women fast asleep in the two seats next to me; slumped, snoring and out to it. The contents of my bladder steadily increasing and the toilet becoming less of an option and more of an immediate necessity. 

With a tiny square of arm rest in between them my only spot to break up the stretch, I made it to the aisle successfully (with success measured in terms of their ignorance to my departure). 

Making it back with an empty bladder I once again managed to climb over them as I squashed myself between the seats as well as bending low for the roof and managed to allow their heavy breathing to continue.

Once in place, glancing across to the aisle opposite I got a thumbs up and a cheeky smile from the Moroccan man observing. 

No more liquid until I land. 

15,000.

Looking out a small window as the endless ocean stretches by, interspersed with large balls of white cloud, Marrakech lies behind and Italia a couple of hours away. 

Leaving a rainy, cloudy Morocco early this morning, the terra cotta buildings framing my final visions, I'm excited to head back to Europe; drinkable water and sanitary hygiene levels I'm more accustomed to. 

Yesterday was the perfect final day in Marrakech, waking early and discussing our 'hammam' experience over a breakfast roti covered in yogurt and jam (talking can definitely benefit the 'shock' factor of a traditional Moroccan cleaning procedure). For some reason my statement, mid scrub, that Moroccoan people probably clean and scrub more thoroughly and often that any of us yet still seem dirtier seems to have stuck with the group. I have a feeling my apt choice of words were perhaps not very tactful for the observation. 

We visited a few of the Marrakech 'must's' (according to our local guide, I don't think any of us were 100% sure what the benefit was of what we were really looking at) but included museums with intoxicating stairwells and palaces with secret passages for the Sultan's favourite wife. It was practically impossible to remember the number of wives any of the dignitaries had let alone their names. Not to mention the concubines. 

With Ahmed leading we navigated the winding, unpredictable alleys with the ease and skill only a local could, arriving in the chaotic main square just before lunch time. It is at this stage that Ahmed left us and we were left alone in the dizzying centre with only ourselves for guidance. As we hugged him and his traditional Moroccan attire goodbye (worn specially on the last day to our delight, complete with fez) seeing the back of someone walk away with no plan of return was a frightening concept. Surrounded by monkeys in diapers, roaming snakes, shouting locals and lost tourists, calls from every vendor in every direction within our vicinity suddenly seemed like being thrown into the boxing ring with Muhammed Ali. 

We decided to take a quick look through the markets (quick being an inappropriately chosen word, there is nothing quick once you have stepped foot into the souks) but did our best to ignore the constant screams in our direction from anyone selling scarves, kaftans and leather bags to authentic silver jewellery, giant ornamental lights and ten foot carpets. 

Our grumbling bellies became too much to continue our haggling (or inability to haggle. I was quickly deemed the 'dark horse' after refusing to budge from my asking price and having the very concept of haggling explained to me by my vendor in his vague English. I listened somewhat patiently before declining and moving away. It was at this stage I had a new best friend who followed us for some time with my 'no's' soon fading into complete ignorance. No sooner than one more 'no' escaped my lips and I had an accepting vendor and I was walking back with my purchase in hand, my requested price paid.) 

It is extremely handy to have local knowledge as I would have had no idea what the asking/buying price really is. What I had been told was 300 dirham I had just paid 70 for. Rule of thumb is to pay around a third of the original price. I hate haggling and am terrible at it but at the end of the day an extra 10 dirham for them is less than a pound for me. There is no doubt I give them points for enthusiasm and attempted charm, we had "beautiful eyes", "hey, skinny!" and "how many camels?" floating through the air behind us as we went. 

Lunch at our first restaurant without Ahmed's recommendation seemed a daunting prospect but with a delicious vegetarian cous cous and warm bread safely in my stomach we were all happy with our first independent choice. 

We went back deep into the markets in search of a few more goodies (the best and cheapest deals are at the very back where tourists are less likely to frequent (fair enough, it is like a scene from Snape's Potions classroom back there with scowling men, unknown objects in jars and animals yet unknown to mankind). Inevitably, we got lost. It seemed the way to explore the market was to have no idea where you were going (which proved unequivocally effortless) and we arrived back at the main square hours later with no idea how. Emerging from the souks is like coming out of captivity for ten years, the sky exists once more, the colours are brighter and the array of open space suddenly seems unmanageable. 

Our plan to grab a late afternoon drink was quickly deemed an impossible task when we were told by every restaurant that they didn't serve alcohol and (many wasted restaurant searches) later were told that alcohol was not served in the square as it was so close to the mosque. We bravely followed a man handing out flyers in the streets into his bar which actually was a bar, and not a bar/the basement of his crumbling home with no alcohol but numerous sets of roving male eyes. A beautiful terrace view of the rooftops stretching out below enabled us a perfect sight for watching the colours outside change as the sun set and the old town lights flashed on. With the rain beginning to pound outside a couple of drinks soon turned into many and it was much later before we finally decided to return to 55, our previous nights dinner location. Centred in amongst the many stalls in the square where we all fell in love with our dishes (and the price for them) we had decided to return to sample more of the menu. 

Once again delighting our taste buds (I went for the Moroccan soup, aubergines, pepper and galette - all foodgasm worthy!) we left with a full, happy belly after standing with raucous applause, a tradition employed within the dinner market to indicate to the others looking for a dinner choice that ours had been divine. The toothy, crooked smiles of the owners was enough to have us all grinning from a meal well spent. 

Walking back through the market at night is wonderful. I much prefer the square at night, it's allure seems heightened with the colours smudged and the edges blurred (and the snake charmers gone!) and it was with a widening smile and fantastic memories that we walked away from the commotion towards the taxi stand. 

Negotiating for a taxi is an experience difficult to regale. We eventually managed to find a taxi that had both lights working (brakes was another story; one mostly upon arrival with a rapid heart rate and a pleasure in feet on firm ground) and a driver that agreed to charge by meter, the alternative is an estimated rate given by the driver based on absolutely nothing other than his mood of the moment. 

Arriving back at the hotel safely we all spent the last night in one of our rooms talking endlessly, laughing uncontrollably and acting as though we knew each other for what felt like a lot longer than 7 days (though spending 24 hours with each other surely had that impact). Mostly Kiwis (with a couple of Aussies to keep the accents diverse) and all living in London it was easy to talk and talk and talk until our eyes started to droop and the rigours of the day caught up. Saying goodbye to everyone didn't seem as brutal with the network of social communication at our every ready finger tips but not spending the next couple of days with such a wonderful group seemed like yet another goodbye I didn't want to have to do. 

Heading to bed with a matter of hours between sleep time and my alarm, I went to bed smiling at the best 7 days I have had in a long time. 

Salaam Morocco, salaam. Je n'oublie rien. 

Bed time chatter, things don't matter.

So so sad to leave the wonderful people that have made this trip. 

Listening to them talking story and giggle into the night as I close my eyes on another stunning day. 

Marrakech.

Night tea: a thousand spices - ginger, ginseng, cinnamon ETC. 

I should be healthy for awhile with all that in my system. 

I love that Morocco strengthens and helps the body naturally. Herbal remedies, spices and creams. So ancient and healthy. 

My throat is on fire. 

Marrakech Arrival.

Made it to Marrakech after some scary high driving high up in the highest point of the Atlas Mountains. 

Home from an 'experience' of a hammam. Glad I did it, maybe not something I'd repeat. 

Plush duvets and Euro pillows with the promise of fresh pancakes for breakfast. Can't complain.

Cannot forget my Marrakech experience today, crazy and chaotic. 

More to come, now (post red wine on the pool terrace) BED. 

Zzzzz. 

Subjective Happiness.

Lying in bed exhausted seems to be the order of the night these days. But it is with a full day of new sights, sounds and smells fresh in mind, and each new day seems to show so much more than the previous. 

My Morocco Mantra today: I am so, so lucky. 

In saying that, I don't feel any pity for the Moroccan people, they don't need it. They are so content with the way they live and the world they're surrounded by. I am sure they look at the Western lifestyle in mock humour. "They have to sit on their arses all day and stare at a computer screen?" 

There are aspects of life here that make the Western, first world style look ridiculous.   

While walking around a Berber market this morning at the crack of dawn, as the sun was still rising, the air was cold and the dust was being swept up by the newly arriving donkeys, still laden with market supplies, I couldn't help but smile. 

I am sure they would be cracking up at the prospect of our self checkouts. 

This market was once a week for the Berber people, the nomads who travel across Morocco freely with only their family and camels or donkeys for company. Camping in tents wherever they can and visiting these markets when they are able to to get their produce for the week ahead. Some people visit the markets simply to know what is going on in the world. Television is in both Arabic and French here but the Berber people (aside from infrequently being even near a television) often do not speak either of these languages. Uneducated due to their nomadic lifestyle, they speak only Berber. They attend the markets often not to buy but to simply socialise, communicating with those that speak Berber and either Arabic or French in order to know what is happening. This whole concept both baffles and excites me and I looked around the market and watched the many Berber's (identifiable by their typical dress: a KKK style coat that drapes long over their arms and legs and forms a cone style shape at the top of their head) as they roamed the markets, stopping here and there to chat or buy produce, content. 

In this sense, the idea of a self checkout, removing any minimal contact in place when buying food, probably seemed ludicrous. We buy our food from a giant, identical store with almost no human interaction and no idea of where the food has come from, what is in it or how it was packaged. If that's first world, I'd take their set up any day. Shopping is an activity rather than a chore, interspersed with gossip, news and talking story, a location to meet up with friends and family and share information. 

Today we travelled through a number of small towns where it was evident just how little the people had. Yet everyone was busy, had something to do or a chore to complete. They were happy in their busyness and they knew no different. Many of the older generations simply sat outside on their porches (if you could call their broken gate and run down chair a 'porch') and observed their surroundings, their gaze steadily following our van as we rolled past, merely waiting for their sons, grandsons, brothers or friends to bring home food or animals or another agricultural development. 

I have fallen in love with their active, communal and simple lifestyle. Their lives are basic and happy. They live communally and place importance on each other and the land, putting in hard work to reap the results and the satisfaction is evident. They don't have a lot and they don't seem to care. Obviously they don't know any different, but why should they change the good they have going?

We visited a stunning gorge and a valley where Ahmed is from and lived all his childhood, where giant palm trees and beautiful grass grow along a fertile plain surrounded by the dry, barren desert, a stunning contrast. We took photos and stared. When we got back in the van we ate fresh bananas, mandarins and dried dates (which I feel partly stupid and partly 'local' for eating given the things I saw being sold around the dates and the people handling them). We had lunch at yet another delicious restaurant recommended by Ahmed where we have to call up in advance so that the food is available and ready and arrives in record speed, perfect for our grumbling bellies. We were lucky enough to watch crazy people rock climb up the giant cliff faces of the gorge, becoming tiny ants by the time our stomachs were full. 

We have now arrived in Moroccan Hollywood, Ouzararate, where a lot of films have been made for the gorgeous landscape and have just finished dinner in a delicious restaurant where we all succumbed to the overload of Moroccan food and chose, yikes, pizza. Back to tagine, cous cous and kefta tomorrow. 

We are exploring this town tomorrow before heading on to Marrakech! So excited! I can't wait to visit the Moroccan Mecca (not the literal Mecca, of course.) A hammam is optional for Friday and I stupidly forgot my togs! To nude or not to nude... ;) A thorough scrub and hour long (!!!) massage would not go amiss right now. 

Off to bed early tonight, breakfast involves freshly made pancakes and we've all set aside an extra 30 minutes... Haha. 

Observations.

Where third world meets first, riding a donkey to watch the game on a large screen plasma. 

Drole.

Ahmed, speaking about the culture and sights as we drive along. 

"I'm going to stop talking now so the driver can have his siesta". 

Driving past a driving school. "This is where Hussain (our driver) got his license. Last week." 

Hussains face remained completely blank. He has no understanding of that level of English. 

Desert Daze.

It seems ironic that the country I thought I would be eating least in (due to hygiene, accessibility, opportunity etc) is actually the place I have not only been eating the most, but the best. 

Dinner tonight was yet another endless course meal where the food is brought out in record speed. The kitchens are basic and simple and yet it would seem as if there was a team of gourmet, Michelin style chefs huddling out the back, lamented by the Moroccans with whips. But no, they are genuinely the hardest working and most earnest people who refuse to put themselves first in any way. Every need is catered for and I could not fault their service. Though if they could come out every time I'm about to have another round of bread and smack my hand or tape my mouth that would be great. 

Our meal tonight was harissa soup (tomato, lentils, chickpeas, veges), a divine 7 vegetable pie with a famous Moroccan spice mix (32 spices!! How can I smuggle that back into NZ?) which I could eat for every meal, every day, then tagine of both chicken and lamb varieties (the latter with prunes, dried apricots and roasted almonds which pretty much meant my mouth exploded in deliciousness). Then a dessert of fruit, followed by mint tea (sweetened with about a kilo of sugar) and tonight, a special birthday cake for birthday girl Lucy. 

We rolled out of the restaurant into our always timely waiting van, with smile king, Hussain. I am positive he is the kind of boy any Moroccan girl would want to take back to her parents. 

Today was the most amazing day. It began before sun rise with a quick breakfast and we hit the road amongst pelting rain. Driving across absolutely barren landscapes, we drove up a hill to a village named 'Little Switzerland'. It was very easy to see why, a town straight out of Europe. 

A quick photo stop and we were back on the road, up so high we reached...snow. Snow! In Morocco! We had to get out to take some photos (this required photographic proof!) and have a quick snowball fight before getting back on the bus and regretting the child like eagerness resulting in wet feet and cold hands. It was mesmerizing and utterly bizarre to be surrounded by snow. 

We started to descend through the valley before hitting the Atlas Mountains which looked like the Grand Canyon and was a breathtaking view. It looked the same for miles and the rock made the richest red coloured landscape. 

Once we were back on the flat, the sky was the bluest blue and the sun was shining and hot! We arrived at our hotel having to take off all our layers as quickly as possible and checking with each other that playing in the snow mere hours before wasn't just a dream! Talk about four seasons in a day. This was definitely a Morocco I hadn't expected. 

We dropped off our stuff before getting in the jeeps for a bit of off roading! Somehow ending up on the back, I had to hold the roof so that my head didn't hit it constantly. Moroccans sure can drive! About an hour and a half of epic off roading and we were arriving at the camels! Chilling out on the ground waiting for their companions. 

Getting on to a camel is a pretty interesting feeling. Kneeling on the ground, you climb onto one and they have a three step process to getting up, making any 90 year old look practically child like. Back, front, back and you are thrown in each direction, with a small metal bar to hold on to. (Thank goodness we're not told about the getting off till we're on!) 

I can't even describe the camel ride through the Sahara to catch the sunset. Looking in each direction to see absolutely nothing, trusting in our smiley guides and our rocking camels. It was the most surreal thing. 

The colours of the sand dunes and the bright blue of the sky is one of the most beautiful, pure things I have ever seen followed by a sun set that seemed too good to be true, and which I'm already beginning to think must have been a dream. Only us and the desert, stretching for miles; that's not something I can ever forget. Trekking back with the motion of the camel beneath becoming rhythmic, the eye trained ahead to see the vast horizon and the stunning muted colours once the sun had gone behind the dunes. The temperature dropped about 10 degrees in the few seconds it took the sun to disappear and we were glad to be back in the van. 

Half way through the off roading back and the driver switched off all the lights, stopped the car and got out. In the middle of nowhere! We were all having visions of Taken: Morocco Edition. Thankfully, he forgoed the kidnapping and welcomed us out to share in the most unbelievably starry sky with zero light pollution. It is the most stars I have ever seen in the sky and couldn't look away. After more than a year in London it was incredible and I was so grateful to see it. 

The best day of the trip so far, action packed with activities, food and weather! I have never experienced such drastic weather changes all in one day! I am loving every minute of Morocco.

Tomorrow is another day, another early morning wake up call and another day of fun! 

Unemployment is the best. 

Epiphany.

Camel riding is going to be my only means of transport from now on. 

Day Two.

Early morning wake up call once again, the loudest alarm I have probably ever heard (enough to have me jumping out of bed and searching for the nearest fire exit) before breakfast (bizarre, an influence of Africa and Europe all in one and amounting to a very un-breakfast, breakfast). 

Unfortunately this morning greeted us with rain and wind. Cold, and very un-Africa. Who would have thought we'd be needing rain jackets, umbrellas and gloves in Africa? 

Nevertheless we powered on and headed through shanty towns toward the look out point for Fes, a breathtaking view over and above everything. A stunning reminder where we were and what was actually surrounding us. The small, winding, crowded streets sometimes have you forgetting what you're in amongst and what stretches out around you for miles.

We then drove on to the palace (where the King and his family were currently staying! Hence the well positioned, attentive guards. As we saw in Rabat, where he normally resides, the guards tend to slack off when he's not around. Just like Buckingham...) We continued on to the souks, the market place where Fes really takes off. 

One of the largest (if not the largest, apparently determining that fact can get confusing and complicated) and is impossibly easy to get lost in. I can honestly say the whole time I had no idea where I was, everything looked the same, and the groups general concern was not the flies, pickpockets or potentially rabie-filled animals but getting lost. Our guides advice? Stay where you are, he will be back next week with another tour group. Comforting. 

The entire market was one giant stream of chaos. Remarkably, the locals are incredibly welcoming. We got tours of the pottery making, the tanneries (amazing to see, and less alarming than you would think. Who knew pigeon poop was used to get the leather so soft?) as well as the fabric making for scarves, chairs, bags etc. For a place easily overrun by tourists (because of its narrow and small areas, not the abundance of visitors) every local I met or ran into, literally, was only kind and considerate towards us. Sometimes this was despite having a mule loaded with supplies or pushing a giant cart with flailing poultry. 

The buildings were falling apart and down, everywhere. The locals cannot afford to move out or drastically improve their homes, so there were wooden planks pushing against a building opposite to prop up their own home. This made walking around feel like being an Indian worker in a sweat shop. We admired the kaftans, scarves and even the Fes tourist key chains with one exclamation "oh, it's a Christmas one!" followed by an awkward, "ah, no, that's the colour of Morocco's flag". 

Bartering is a necessity and expected with most items going for 1/3 of the original price and never more than 1/2. We had been told by our guide to ask him whether the price was good before we buy, his code for translating our deal was "it's good" meant 'it's not good' and "it's very good" meant it was good. Right. 

When the calls to prayer occurred the winding streets turned to havoc as people rushed to commit one of their five daily prayers. Their passion towards religion still baffles me, their dedication is unlike anything we can really compare to in most first world countries. England's closest would probably be football. 

We had another delicious (and again, large) lunch in the souks (which sounds a sure fire way to upset your stomach and bowels but was actually delicious! They do things with cauliflower here that I couldn't even attempt to recreate.)

We explored the souks for hours with our guide, who navigated the area like it was London, just minus space, street signs or any signs of civilisation. It is only because of him that I am now out, and alive. 

A free afternoon took all of us and our tired legs for another walk along a main street to a giant supermarket where we walked the isles like we hadn't just eaten a giant lunch dish that day and accumulated strange products to turn into dinner. Amazingly, we made it home alive. A rarity given the traffic and pedestrian relationship here, where neither seems to pay much attention to the other. We were warned that "the zebras mean nothing. You might as well ignore them." Screaming and running seemed to be a much better plan of attack. Especially when some kind of what I assume to be a traffic warden seemed involved in an intense conversation with (probably) one of his many wives. (Polygamy is legal here, but not all too common. Ahmed, our tour guide, apparently dropped his third as she messed up the cous cous one night at dinner. He was joking, but the Moroccan sarcasm is sometimes hard to measure.) 

A relaxing night (watching Harry Potter! In Morocco!) before a very, very early wake up call tomorrow morning before driving through the Atlas Mountains and on to Erfoud for jeep riding and camel trekking into the sunset on the Sahara!) 

Sleeping Soundly.

Casablanca: breakfast, palace, water-seers, pigeons, mosque, rain, coast. 

Rabat: sight seeing, palaces, mosques, lunch.

Fes: giant moon, dinner, incredible show - magic, marriage and mayhem. Divine food, fast, endless and delicious. My expectations have been blown apart and chicken without cinnamon, almond and honey and coated in luscious pastry may never be the same. And the eggplant? Woah. 

Just the way I like it Morocco, salaam. 

Moroccan Air.

A lasting memorable bus ride with a tirade fuelled drunk spilling word vomit into the morning London air and numerous tube closures meaning senseless traipsing across the patchwork of London's transport system. 

Watching the green flash by as the brick houses of Britain's capital seem blurrier and smaller. 

Adrenaline of the unusual, anticipation toward the uncertain. 

Arriving at Gatwick, clearing customs and being ushered straight into the plane, no waiting, no lines. Hurrah! 

Took off into the sky with a plane of mostly empty seats before getting stuck into episodes on my iPad. 

Landing in Casablanca was beautiful, we flew in right over the city and cut back across it to line up with the runway. Even from above, the land was barren and empty and I couldn't wait to get into it. It's absolute flatness and lack of anything  resembling third world structures was exciting and so different from most birds eye views. 

Customs line seemed to reflect the third world idea, as it took almost an hour to get through. But eventually my passport got pressed with a fresh new stamp and I was able to get through and meet my tour guide, still patiently waiting for me at the exit. I withdrew a ridiculous amount of money (in dirhams, potentially peanuts in pounds) and met my first fellow your companion, a fellow London dweller from Australia, Katie. 

We instantly got on comparing ridiculous London antidotes and I couldn't wait to meet everyone! 

Driving through the desert as the sun set, I was instantly drawn to Morocco. It's unlike anything I've seen and anywhere I've been and I love it. 

Arriving into a 5 star hotel and probably the nicest place I've ever stayed, bed is calling. First, dinner at a lovely restaurant with cous cous, tagine and 'special' beer, if I can stay awake. 

Morocco Taster..

Casablanca Abode.

5 star say whaaaat?!

10 days of air mattress, I'll be sleeping gooooood tonight. 

Prep.

Blasting Beyoncé as I pack, pack, pack post intense tennis sesh. Getting distracted watching huge jet trails dance across the bright blue sky. Thats me... tomorrow!

Aaaand new apps! Have apps, will travel. 

Journals from the Sky.

Heathrow bound with blocked ears, nose and head, a few too many trips to the toilet, excessive water consumption and constant yawning and swallowing. 

Wahoo! 

Entertained with books, magazines and a particularly addictive animated movie, Monsters University. 

A much appreciated sleep in this morning (with the daily morning sounds and smells of the shops and restaurants beneath opening and the early bird tourists littering the streets somehow passing through my sleepy head) before breakfast and we were out the door. 

First mission: journey to the famed Pasteis de Nata shop, nothing but the finest custard tarts Portugal has to offer. 

A picturesque coastal train took us to Belem and after a small spot of Lost Syndrome, we made it to the small suburb and into the cafe. 

Packed with camera wielding, khaki coated tourists, we squeezed into a table amidst the bustle and ordered custard tarts, hot chocolates and a (still nameless) sugar coated donut with a custard centre. A naughty lunch and purely divine, with perhaps the best hot chocolate I've ever had. 

Lost again, we somehow managed to locate the train station and after being shunned by the first we headed back to Lisbon to spend our Euros! 

Amoreiras shopping centre was the location for the next few hours where we could have been in any mall in the world. 

Gazing at the last of Lisboa's enchanting captivating mayhem before we were loading ourselves up with our heavier baggage, (the constantly increasing weight of my pack is both concerning and baffling) and busing back to the airport. 

Customs difficulties, lost boarding passes (the irresistibility of free perfume samples got the better of me) and off we went. 

Goodbye Portugal, obrigado. 

Hanna vs Lisboa Customs.

Customs: 1. 

Portuguese (and first ever personally owned) pocket knife down. 

Yet the tall, red headed passenger currently sitting next to me is still carrying her (apparently invisible-paint coated) knife safely tucked in her cabin bag, untouched. 

And unused. So far. 

Two more sleeps!!

😀✈🎒👍

Late Night Incoherencies.

As I pack up my 13 month English life, my thoughts are accustomed to the next few weeks of experiencing the cultures and customs of a world unseen.

Morocco. Italy. Hungary. Poland. Czech Slovakia. Austria.

On to Singapore, Australia and HOME.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

It is hard to say goodbye to another home and set my back on a tribe of friends but placing yourself in the wind and trusting your sails is liberating. An adventure into the unknown is unmatched.

Flying into a land you have never touched foot on, walking down streets with no clue what hides around the next bend, pushing your vision to the brink to track every movement, every moment. Afraid to miss a beat and unable to peel your thoughts from the constant inability to place your current location.

There is a bliss in the unknown.

It is unpredictable and unique and we don't all get the chance.

You have to let everything go, trust in your surroundings, others and yourself. It is a testament to what you know and more so what you don't. You have to let go, you have to allow the push and pull and feel the drag, not fight it.

The art is in the movement of flow.

Struggling.

Mondays.

Morning strolls with nothing but the direction of the wind to worry about. 

Seeing strangers whose faces can now be named and talking early morning story. 

Tracing foreign footprints down the rocky coastline before scaling the cliffs awkwardly to avoid incoming tides. 

Relaxing in the semi-sun before the cloud sets in, blending into the sand dunes and creating gloomy views across the stormy ocean. 

Fun, bumpy surf truck rides with Germans to middle-of-the-road bus stations with empty vending machines and glum grandmas. 

Keeping watch as the barren west coast idled by under the intermittent rain and road side markets. 

'Home' to familiar Lisbon with its people, smells, sounds and omnipresent sardine advertisements. Struggling to keep my knee caps in their sockets under the somehow increasing weight of my 'backpack de life' on the metro. 

Then, voila, Rossio and a bed. Nighttime strolls through hazes of rain and roasting chestnuts to see the ocean before the smell of a hostel doused in all-you-can-eat tapas. 

The nose still runs but so do I. 

Tomorrow beckons a clearer head (nose and throat) for a beach side trip to Estoril and Cascais and, fingers crossed, a dip in the ocean, board beneath. 

Backtrekking.

To Lisbon. 

So glad to be back to (relative) civilisation. 

Sun, sand and sickness.

Lying in bed, exhausted. 

Woke early (before the sun actually, but had to wait for my sleepy cohort to join the Eyes Wide Open party) and took a beautiful early morning stroll over the sand dunes for our first glimpse of the Peniche coastline! Huge, dumpy rollers were beating the sand on their way to shore and held us mesmerised. 

Back for breakfast in our surf shack before a walk to another beach we'd been told would hold the size better and offer the best wave conditions. 

My damn sickess kept me on the shore and I tried to enjoy the November sun and my book as I watched the hoards of learn to surfers battle the powerful whitewash and Millie attempt to escape them. 

A much deserved lunch (not for me) followed by a walk to another surf shack where we hired bikes and biked the entire Peniche coastline. We scaled rocks, went off roading and stood in awe at the biggest, scariest waves I have ever witnessed. At high tide, there was not a silly soul in the soup. 

Exhausted and only half way round the island, our (read: my) pace slowed and the (now very) scenic trip took place. Beautiful, windy and poor could sum up our views. 

We made it back to the centro to taste a famed 'chocolate salami' which is kind of like a cold, wet fudge with biscuits broken throughout it that can only be authentically tasted in this region. 

After a tiring ride I was prepped and (having left my brand new Swiss army knife at home!) we tucked into it on the beach with our DIY knives, aka our sunglasses. Alas, the 'no tasting' segment of sickness makes an appearance and I give up on eating my body weight of calories of deliciousness, losing myself in the ocean instead and promising myself a slice the moment my tastebuds reappear. 

Final stretch home through the sand dune desert and we collapse in the late afternoon sun, regaling our day's escapades with our housemates near death surfing experiences and underwater washing machine fun. 

Early morning surf again tomorrow (my presence: debatable) before the bus back to Lisbon and relevant civilisation. (Have not seen a 'group' of people since we left and haven't lived in a house so quiet since the Ice Age.) Surf spots on the Lisbon coast of Estoril and Cascais our next eyed up fancy. And maybe a little more Lisboa exploring. 

Hoping I don't keep my roomies up quite so much as I did last night.*

*with my runny nose and murderous throat, of course. 

Blehhhh.

Sick in Peniche. 

No fun. No surfing.  

Just a 13km bike ride. 

Defeat. 

Pathway to Peniche.

Lying in bed in a quintessential surf house, loaded with boards and surf guides, housing dripping wetsuits and grass mats covered in sand. 

Metres from the beach, but arriving as the sun set (before the Dame of the house proved her serious lack of English and we were left stranded at the bus stop in a small town, as it was getting dark and without a human let alone a taxi to speak of). The sand mounds hide the true beauty of the beach coastline from view until first light. 

Current location: a vast desert of sand. 

Loading into a van with like minded surf enthusiasts met minutes before, hip hopping our way in a sand ridden, beat blasting oldie through the dark night to a supermarket, as Portugeuse as can be with fish filling the air before the hand brakes been pulled. 

Admiring boards, marvelling the days reminisced conditions and learning swell sizes (11ft!!), wind directions, tidal changes and contemplating the possibility of leaving the sand to breaks with names like 'Supertubes'. 

From an early morning spent in a massive flea market, browsing stalls with the locals for cheap clothes, old school books and one of a kind records. Admiring the traditional Portugeuse tins (and having to leave them due to already bursting suitcase size) and instead adding authentic Swiss Army knives to our market haul.

Attempting to retrace our footsteps back to the centre and becoming wonderfully lost in the enchanting old streets of Alfama, chancing upon golden views of terra cotta roofs, palm tree adorned mansions and vast horizons of the big blue. Dodging the rumbling trams down steep streets until we hit small cafes for lunch and cool drinks. 

Then once again putting our life on our back and navigating the underground world of metros to arrive in a strange parking lot that leads to the bus station. 

Our heads roll back and despite our greatest attempts to keep our eyes open and our focus on the beauty of the passing landscape, we're jolted awake at each stop, only to be lulled into mindlessness all over again - dreams of salty air, sand filled hair and the freedom of a clean faced wave dancing across our closed eyelids. 

Baleal, Portugal: we have arrived. 

Sintra Heaven.

A 40 minute train journey (through graffiti- laden neighbourhoods) takes us to Sintra, a small town north west of Lisbon and home to some of Portugal's most stunning architecture. 

Walking up mountainous hills (as opposed to those less mountainous ones) and getting lost amongst the haphazard streets of Sintra's colourful houses, avoiding the stray cats and dogs who call it their own. 

Reaching the castles and palaces atop the highest of mounds and admiring the view which seemed to stretch on and on past the depth of my eyesight. 

Following the tree lined pavements dodging (and sometimes not) wayward vehicles fighting for their road space with the horses, tuk tuk's and strange car/bike hybrids that made smart cars look like a roomy alternative. 

Finding a mesmerising park that was every child (and most adults') playground, underground caves, tunnels and century old grotto's entertaining our mainstreamed brains. Outstretched across hectares of dense bush, we found ourselves feeling our way through pitch black underground passages only to emerge in a completely foreign space with a beautiful water feature backdrop. 

A 27m well pulled us down into the depths of the earth only to heighten the experience labelled as 'the intense journey from Earth to Heaven'. 

Heaving our feet back to the train station and riding 40 minutes back into Lisboa with the beginnings of a setting sun flashing before us, our heads unashamedly lolling with the weary marks of a day well spent, and many pavements well trekked. 

Dinner in a bad restaurant with an awful delay, moody waiters and a stunning portrayal of why Portugal is an economic PIGS. With our chairs faced outwards in European fashion, we people watched and traced the views of a romantically lit, mild evening with our hungry eyes. 

What else to do, but follow up a mostly untouched meal with a trip to the Pastelaria for a Madeira pastry and a subsequent mouth explosion. 

Walking through the bustling centre, the many stands roasting chestnuts lifting the smoke and aroma into the night air and leaving a sweet, hazy Lisbon alight in our memories as we attempt a sleepy escape from the long day. 

Portugal

 Most famous invention: The Hot Air Balloon

Population: 10.7 Million

Capital City: Lisbon

Memorable event: Earthquake of 1755. Estimated Richter scale of 8.9. Followed by tsunami and fires (took place on November 1st, All Saints Day during Mass so candles had been lit across the city and fell during the earthquake.) 

Famous export: Cristiano Ronaldo

Food: Custard Tarts

Exit: Saida

Thank you: Obrigado

Random: best busker I've seen yet. A violin playing puppet with a Venice sunset backdrop. Crowd pleaser.