While a lot of Australia travel visa holders prefer the usual sights in the country, there are those who are more interested in finding strange places here. Luckily, there are actually tons of them in the country. Here are some of them that you might want to head out to for your next trip.
Nowhere Else, Tasmania
This quaint Tasmanian town is really not that different form other small towns in the country. However, what makes it different is the name of the town itself. The name Nowhere Else seems to imply that it is the only one of its kind in the country. Oddly enough, it is actually not the only one, as there is actually another town named Nowhere Else in the country, this time around located in South Australia..
Devil's Marbles, Northern Territory
This park in the Northern Territory is quite popular for its rugged terrain. Close to the famed Uluru, the park has also been a tourist destination in the country. However, aside from the trails and environment, many people visit the park to get a glimpse of the so called Devil's Marbles, large, almost perfectly rounded boulders that are scattered all over the place. They are formed from underground and were brought to the surface through erosion of the surrounding area. Many people are quite amazed as to how these rocks got there.
Principality of Hutt River, Western Australia
This little farm might look like, well, an ordinary farm. But do you know that this is in fact a separate country on its ow. Well, sort of. The territory was formed when Leonard George Casley was not able to settle a dispute with the Western Australian government in the 1970's. Since then, the farm has “declared” independence from Australia, with Casley crowning himself of Prince Leonard I. Though the claim is not recognized by the Australian government, this is enough to attract a lot of visitors to the area. If you are lucky enough, you might even get an honorary citizenship as a souvenir.
Ozenkadnook, Victoria
As you read that name, you are likely not the only one having a hard time pronouncing it. You see, Australia is actually full of such odd sounding names. Many of these are derived from Aboriginal Australian languages. So what's the English translation? You might be Surprised, but it's actually “big, fat kangaroo.”
There are still a lot more interesting places in the country. And you will definitely enjoy finding all of them our during your trip.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sensory Overload & Fear and Loathing in Usce Shopping Center, Belgrade
Struck by a bold lack of ceremony, our savage journey to the heart of Serbia leads us into the invasive opulence I’m strenuously familiar with and have learned to avoid. The marble floors reflect glistening chrome and neon signs and the stretch of a huge Christmas tree that hurts my eyes.
“I thought you had no Christmas in Serbia,” I blurt out. I’ve never been able to properly explain myself in this kind of climate, Raoul Duke would have said.
“We have Christmas,” says Draga, lustfully eyeing a pair of fur boots in the window of a shop that tries to lure customers in by expelling House at an enormous volume, “But it’s on January 7. On New Year’s Eve you can give me those boots. What do you prefer, Benetton or Zara?”
“I don’t know. What do you prefer, Fuerst or Brown, Driver and Briggs?”
She grabs my ear, drags me into a noisy joint full of jeans so ragged that anyone with any sense at all would have thrown them out, not pay for them.
“Get me out of here, you idiot!” I yell and off we run. Next door is a store that sells attire for the more aspiring gentle sirs. I take an immediately liking to the silent mannequins, whose faces seem trained on the timid Creedence trickling from the ceiling. Draga pulls three pairs of pants from the stock and hoists me into one. Then she notices something that requires her to call an attendant. I’m told to stand there and not move, and I stand there, feeling one hand on each buttock, one cupping my crotch and one on my forehead (mine).
I suffer from what experts call a proneness to sensory overload. I have concluded that it has to do with my rich inner life, but it also makes me a social cripple. Sensory overload occurs when my senses pick up more information than my brain can process, and I see everything; items that puzzle me, goods that defy definition, dazzling details, patterns, patterns of patterns, a woman on a Rolex billboard whose eyes are dreamy but whose nipples give me a piercing stare.
Sensory overload usually kicks in ten minutes after entering a mall, five minutes after entering a supermarket and six seconds after entering a disco, which I therefore never enter. When it happens, I become virtually blind and deaf, and stagger around like a drunk searching for the exit, snarling at anyone who starts explaining things or gives me good advice. Shopping for clothing, therefore, can only be achieved with a trusted page, who has to literally lead me along and take care of everything.
Draga drags me from Benetton to Marc & Spencer, Gant and Fox, until my last kernel of resistance succumbs and I start casting Dinars like breadcrumbs on a lost road, learning quickly that men’s clothes are bought not out of taste but exasperation. In brief breaths of lucidity I find myself posing in duds whose maker’s passions are lost on my inclinations, but I buy whatever Draga points at. We gallop by Samsung wide screens, Sony monitors, Woman’s Secret (“Hey, what happened to Victoria?” I pant; “None of your business,” Draga growls back), Avanguardia, Bottega Verde, Jasmin, until I scream, “Who are all these people?” and start running for Knjižare Vulcan - offering the Latest in Literature.
“They’re on the second floor! I’m sure I saw them!” I shout, and this while the edicts of my usual composure dictate that the merits of quiet desperation can not be overstated. I don’t care anymore! I run over some children, shove their mothers out of the way and flutter like batman up the stairs, with fresh leather flopping and flannel flying, and Draga behind me hurling bloody Serbian curses to anyone who stands in our way.
At the Vulcan bookstore, pinching my eyes, hands on my ears, I throw myself on a nervous under-read nerd and demand to be taken to the Bill Bryson section, post haste! Seconds later I’m curled up against the back wall, semi-comatose and clutching an armful of Brajsons against my chest. Draga kneels beside me but as she tucks the tails of my new flannel shirt into my ears, I’m on the Appalachian Trail, with a mild drizzle kissing my face and not a single human soul in sight.
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| Usce Shopping Center - Belgrade, Serbia |
“I thought you had no Christmas in Serbia,” I blurt out. I’ve never been able to properly explain myself in this kind of climate, Raoul Duke would have said.
“We have Christmas,” says Draga, lustfully eyeing a pair of fur boots in the window of a shop that tries to lure customers in by expelling House at an enormous volume, “But it’s on January 7. On New Year’s Eve you can give me those boots. What do you prefer, Benetton or Zara?”
“I don’t know. What do you prefer, Fuerst or Brown, Driver and Briggs?”
She grabs my ear, drags me into a noisy joint full of jeans so ragged that anyone with any sense at all would have thrown them out, not pay for them.
“Get me out of here, you idiot!” I yell and off we run. Next door is a store that sells attire for the more aspiring gentle sirs. I take an immediately liking to the silent mannequins, whose faces seem trained on the timid Creedence trickling from the ceiling. Draga pulls three pairs of pants from the stock and hoists me into one. Then she notices something that requires her to call an attendant. I’m told to stand there and not move, and I stand there, feeling one hand on each buttock, one cupping my crotch and one on my forehead (mine).
Sensory overload usually kicks in ten minutes after entering a mall, five minutes after entering a supermarket and six seconds after entering a disco, which I therefore never enter. When it happens, I become virtually blind and deaf, and stagger around like a drunk searching for the exit, snarling at anyone who starts explaining things or gives me good advice. Shopping for clothing, therefore, can only be achieved with a trusted page, who has to literally lead me along and take care of everything.
Draga drags me from Benetton to Marc & Spencer, Gant and Fox, until my last kernel of resistance succumbs and I start casting Dinars like breadcrumbs on a lost road, learning quickly that men’s clothes are bought not out of taste but exasperation. In brief breaths of lucidity I find myself posing in duds whose maker’s passions are lost on my inclinations, but I buy whatever Draga points at. We gallop by Samsung wide screens, Sony monitors, Woman’s Secret (“Hey, what happened to Victoria?” I pant; “None of your business,” Draga growls back), Avanguardia, Bottega Verde, Jasmin, until I scream, “Who are all these people?” and start running for Knjižare Vulcan - offering the Latest in Literature.
“They’re on the second floor! I’m sure I saw them!” I shout, and this while the edicts of my usual composure dictate that the merits of quiet desperation can not be overstated. I don’t care anymore! I run over some children, shove their mothers out of the way and flutter like batman up the stairs, with fresh leather flopping and flannel flying, and Draga behind me hurling bloody Serbian curses to anyone who stands in our way.
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| Bil Brajson, the Serbian transliteration of Bill Bryson |
Monday, November 29, 2010
Branko’s Bridge in Belgrade
We trudge across the Old City of Belgrade until we reach the river Sava. The city-line breaches and buildings veer off to two sides along the river like a zipper, leaving a gulping slab of concrete thrusting ahead. On the other side is the Usce Shopping Center - Usce means confluence, celebrating the confluence of the rivers Sava and Danube where the founders first settled. To the right of the shopping center stands a high rising glass-front building; Usce Tower, formerly known as the CK building.
“Are you ready to cross the bridge?” Draga asks with a pressing hint of urgency in her voice.
“Ready to cross a bridge?” I reply. “What’s the big deal?”
She stops dead in her tracks, looks at me from under a indignant frown, palms turned upwards. “This is Branko’s Bridge!”
“Okay,” I say slowly, “Who’s Branko?”
“Where were you in April 1999?”
“Panama, if I remember correctly. South America somewhere.” She starts walking again. “I was right here, together with hundreds of others, preventing NATO from bombing our main bridge.”
Milosevic didn’t want to either relinquish Serbia’s historic cradle Kosovo or stop killing Albanians, and the allies bombed his capital to persuade him. It took no great effort to mobilize citizens into forming a human shield, believing they were not an instrument of war but rather bold martyrs defending their homes and infrastructure.
“It’s a hell of a thing to have your town bombed,” I say.
“And it wasn’t Milosevic’ town, or NATO’s town. It’s our town. This city is us,” she says slowly. “That’s why I was on this bridge. I had a sign on my back with a bull’s eye painted on it. It said I’M THE TARGET.”
The allied forces shot 12 missiles at the CK building but the bastard wouldn’t budge. Though heavily damaged, it stood as proud that day as the Serbian citizens on Branko’s Bridge. Suddenly I’m filled with pride, as one of this city’s many white angels leads me across the Sava.
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| View accross Branko Bridge towards the CK building |
“Ready to cross a bridge?” I reply. “What’s the big deal?”
She stops dead in her tracks, looks at me from under a indignant frown, palms turned upwards. “This is Branko’s Bridge!”
“Okay,” I say slowly, “Who’s Branko?”
“Where were you in April 1999?”
“Panama, if I remember correctly. South America somewhere.” She starts walking again. “I was right here, together with hundreds of others, preventing NATO from bombing our main bridge.”
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| CK building on fire during the NATO attacks of 1999 |
“It’s a hell of a thing to have your town bombed,” I say.
“And it wasn’t Milosevic’ town, or NATO’s town. It’s our town. This city is us,” she says slowly. “That’s why I was on this bridge. I had a sign on my back with a bull’s eye painted on it. It said I’M THE TARGET.”
The allied forces shot 12 missiles at the CK building but the bastard wouldn’t budge. Though heavily damaged, it stood as proud that day as the Serbian citizens on Branko’s Bridge. Suddenly I’m filled with pride, as one of this city’s many white angels leads me across the Sava.
Things you need and don’t need on a vacation in Belgrade
She moves like a thought in a dream, my Draga. I carry her luggage from the elevator, grab her and carry her across the threshold. Her arms on me I feel at home like I’ve never felt before. I put her down, let her walk around the apartment. She utters muffled appreciations, stands in front of the window and names the sites. She points at Kalemegdan and promises to take me there. The house of parliament in scaffolds. The national museum.
“This will be the vacation of your life,” she whispers.
She quickly inspects my books, wonders why I brought so many. She says what my contacts in Ljubljana said, that I don’t need that many books for a vacation in Belgrade. I tell her that half my library was forcibly left in Ljubljana. Then she halts in front of the walk-in closet and exclaims, “Arie, where are your clothes?”
“I’m wearing my clothes…”
“Aw my Gad,” she cries, hand slapping on her forehead. “You didn’t bring any clothes?”
“I don’t have any clothes…”
“Aw my Gad!”
A study of Belgrade’s cathedrals, a survey of the local cuisine, even meeting the locals will have to be put on hold. First order of business is to don me in brand new duds. And Draga knows just the place to achieve this: the brand new Usce Shopping Center, in New Belgrade, just across Branko’s Bridge.
“We can walk there,” she says with a hint of consolation. “Welcome to Belgrade.”
“This will be the vacation of your life,” she whispers.
She quickly inspects my books, wonders why I brought so many. She says what my contacts in Ljubljana said, that I don’t need that many books for a vacation in Belgrade. I tell her that half my library was forcibly left in Ljubljana. Then she halts in front of the walk-in closet and exclaims, “Arie, where are your clothes?”
“I’m wearing my clothes…”
“Aw my Gad,” she cries, hand slapping on her forehead. “You didn’t bring any clothes?”
“I don’t have any clothes…”
“Aw my Gad!”
A study of Belgrade’s cathedrals, a survey of the local cuisine, even meeting the locals will have to be put on hold. First order of business is to don me in brand new duds. And Draga knows just the place to achieve this: the brand new Usce Shopping Center, in New Belgrade, just across Branko’s Bridge.
“We can walk there,” she says with a hint of consolation. “Welcome to Belgrade.”
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Draga: the Serbian Orthodox Church
Today it was my delightful pleasure to partake in a Serbian Orthodox worship service for the first time. I’m most familiar with protestant denominations, ranging from deep Calvinism to the jollies of North American evangelicalism, and lately I’ve found solace in the structure and foundation of the abundance of imagery of Catholicism.
Today I’ve witnessed a living tradition that goes back to the eastern Roman empire, entirely foreign to me. Most unusual I found that the entire congregation stood for the hour and a half it took the priests to go through their rituals. It was nine in the morning on a rainy Sunday, and the church was full, and everybody stood. Orthodox churches have no chairs, Draga said under her breath.
Serbian Orthodoxy was founded in 1217 by Sava, now venerated as a saint, who was also a chief legislator and did much to establish the Serbians as an autonomous people. Hence Serbian Orthodoxy also serves as element of the national identity of Serbia, not unlike the Church of England, or even the Reformation as a whole, which manifested much of the breaches of nations in Western Europe.
Like Catholicism, Serbian Orthodoxy maintains a Romanesque pantheon of saints, who are either Serbian defenders of the faith or as often defenders of the Serbian nation. As in pre-church Rome, national politics in Serbia always had a religious component to it. In 1517 a Serbian militia thought it proper to march onto the Ottoman empire. They were defeated, the Ottomans decided to strike back, and in 1540 the whole area came under Turkish rule. The Turks stayed 400 years, but their lasting influence is contained only in the Serbian addiction to what is called Turkish coffee (a thimble of violently strong coffee resting on a hardy scoop of coffee ground blubber).
In 1594 the Turks decided they needed to make a statement, dug up the bones of Saint Sava, brought them to Belgrade and burned them on a central hill called Vračar. When the Turks left Serbia, the Serbians decided they needed to make a statement too, and began to build the largest church in the Balkans; a temple devoted to saint Sava, precisely on the spot where his bones were violated. It reminds me of the temple of Solomon, which also underscored the identity of a nation, and which was built on the same mount Moria where Abraham went to sacrifice his son Isaac, from whom that nation would spring.
“It’s not finished yet,” says Draga next to me.
“Nothing ever is,” I say, “Take me there.”
“I will,” she says.
I met her on the Amazon. I was on the run. She ran a souvenir and jewelry shop. When she asked me what I was doing there I told her that I was looking for a temple to worship God in. She said that there were plenty of those to choose from. But I see in most religions a celebration of what we can never comprehend, a clumsy corona of imagery around a core that will always remain untouchable.
She emerged from the cloudy glass doors of Nikola Tesla Airport, to find me standing there, lost again. “Come home to me,” she said and became my Sava, my Beatrice, my Temple of Solomon, all at once.
Today I’ve witnessed a living tradition that goes back to the eastern Roman empire, entirely foreign to me. Most unusual I found that the entire congregation stood for the hour and a half it took the priests to go through their rituals. It was nine in the morning on a rainy Sunday, and the church was full, and everybody stood. Orthodox churches have no chairs, Draga said under her breath.
Serbian Orthodoxy was founded in 1217 by Sava, now venerated as a saint, who was also a chief legislator and did much to establish the Serbians as an autonomous people. Hence Serbian Orthodoxy also serves as element of the national identity of Serbia, not unlike the Church of England, or even the Reformation as a whole, which manifested much of the breaches of nations in Western Europe.
Like Catholicism, Serbian Orthodoxy maintains a Romanesque pantheon of saints, who are either Serbian defenders of the faith or as often defenders of the Serbian nation. As in pre-church Rome, national politics in Serbia always had a religious component to it. In 1517 a Serbian militia thought it proper to march onto the Ottoman empire. They were defeated, the Ottomans decided to strike back, and in 1540 the whole area came under Turkish rule. The Turks stayed 400 years, but their lasting influence is contained only in the Serbian addiction to what is called Turkish coffee (a thimble of violently strong coffee resting on a hardy scoop of coffee ground blubber).
In 1594 the Turks decided they needed to make a statement, dug up the bones of Saint Sava, brought them to Belgrade and burned them on a central hill called Vračar. When the Turks left Serbia, the Serbians decided they needed to make a statement too, and began to build the largest church in the Balkans; a temple devoted to saint Sava, precisely on the spot where his bones were violated. It reminds me of the temple of Solomon, which also underscored the identity of a nation, and which was built on the same mount Moria where Abraham went to sacrifice his son Isaac, from whom that nation would spring.
“It’s not finished yet,” says Draga next to me.
“Nothing ever is,” I say, “Take me there.”
“I will,” she says.
I met her on the Amazon. I was on the run. She ran a souvenir and jewelry shop. When she asked me what I was doing there I told her that I was looking for a temple to worship God in. She said that there were plenty of those to choose from. But I see in most religions a celebration of what we can never comprehend, a clumsy corona of imagery around a core that will always remain untouchable.
She emerged from the cloudy glass doors of Nikola Tesla Airport, to find me standing there, lost again. “Come home to me,” she said and became my Sava, my Beatrice, my Temple of Solomon, all at once.
Tour Guides: Mind Road Safety
Transportation makes part of the sightseeing tours. Depending on the group size, it can be a private car, bus, or taxi. While the driver is responsible for safe driving, tour guides need to remind travelers of road safety.
Remind passengers of the seat belt. People from some countries are cautious of road safety, while others might neglect. After boarding the vehicle, a tour guide needs to inform clients where the seat belts are. Ask them to put on the belt for safety reasons, especially when there are kids on the vehicle. Take extra attention to see if the kids are safely fastened.
Mind your own security on the vehicle. If you are standing while it is driving, hold on to something in case of emergency. There is a place for the guide in front of a bus. If you are sitting, put the seat belt on. For one thing, the guide is often taking the front seat which has higher risks at accidents. On the other hand, a guide may need to turn back and talk to clients along the way.
When doing walking tours, tour guides also need to mind the traffic when crossing the street. Travelers are new to the destination, some even from foreign countries. The traffic rule and customs can be very different. As a tour guide, it is necessary to remind your clients of road safety. Watch out for the traffic when necessary.
Would you like to share your experience with us on road safety? We are listening.
Remind passengers of the seat belt. People from some countries are cautious of road safety, while others might neglect. After boarding the vehicle, a tour guide needs to inform clients where the seat belts are. Ask them to put on the belt for safety reasons, especially when there are kids on the vehicle. Take extra attention to see if the kids are safely fastened.
Mind your own security on the vehicle. If you are standing while it is driving, hold on to something in case of emergency. There is a place for the guide in front of a bus. If you are sitting, put the seat belt on. For one thing, the guide is often taking the front seat which has higher risks at accidents. On the other hand, a guide may need to turn back and talk to clients along the way.
When doing walking tours, tour guides also need to mind the traffic when crossing the street. Travelers are new to the destination, some even from foreign countries. The traffic rule and customs can be very different. As a tour guide, it is necessary to remind your clients of road safety. Watch out for the traffic when necessary.
Would you like to share your experience with us on road safety? We are listening.
The Mini Maxi not-so-super market chain in Belgrade
The greatest mystery about Belgrade encountered so far is where the Belgradians obtain their victuals. I walk for an hour on what seems a respectful shopping avenue and main traffic artery, but the larger the shop the least likely it sells something essential.
There are bakeries and butchers, restaurants of all fortes, but what I discovered yesterday is that even the acquisition of the most fundamental necessities requires a great deal of discourse. I’d say about half the people I’ve tried to deal with so far were completely fluent in English, while the other half managed to utter at least some profanities in English, but when I enter a store to buy veggies and the likes, people obviously start to talk to me in Serbian, and I have to confess that I have no idea what they’re talking about, and the least show of helplessness invariably brings out the cannibal in most of us.
It goes without saying that I’m the guest here, and I should adapt, but I’m inadequate and that won’t go away in two days. Before I engage anyone, I’d like to learn some Serbian greetings, and perhaps a simple apology for not speaking Serbian and kind request for permission to speak English.
The rumor has it that there’s a grandiose supermarket somewhere within breathing range of my apartment, and I’ve circled the circumference of the building a few times, but so far I’ve failed to locate the establishment. Maybe I should radiate out a little further.
I end up in one of the ubiquitous mini-Maxi‘s, which defers the hope of there being a maxi-Maxi. Mini-Maxi’s are the size of a local gas station and offer a modest range of cookies and laundry detergent. No fresh fruit or veggies on any of the premises. I don’t mind experiencing the local leanings but I was hoping for a trolley filled with gleaming loot, not to be glared at as the 2 O’ clock customer.
There are bakeries and butchers, restaurants of all fortes, but what I discovered yesterday is that even the acquisition of the most fundamental necessities requires a great deal of discourse. I’d say about half the people I’ve tried to deal with so far were completely fluent in English, while the other half managed to utter at least some profanities in English, but when I enter a store to buy veggies and the likes, people obviously start to talk to me in Serbian, and I have to confess that I have no idea what they’re talking about, and the least show of helplessness invariably brings out the cannibal in most of us.
It goes without saying that I’m the guest here, and I should adapt, but I’m inadequate and that won’t go away in two days. Before I engage anyone, I’d like to learn some Serbian greetings, and perhaps a simple apology for not speaking Serbian and kind request for permission to speak English.
The rumor has it that there’s a grandiose supermarket somewhere within breathing range of my apartment, and I’ve circled the circumference of the building a few times, but so far I’ve failed to locate the establishment. Maybe I should radiate out a little further.
I end up in one of the ubiquitous mini-Maxi‘s, which defers the hope of there being a maxi-Maxi. Mini-Maxi’s are the size of a local gas station and offer a modest range of cookies and laundry detergent. No fresh fruit or veggies on any of the premises. I don’t mind experiencing the local leanings but I was hoping for a trolley filled with gleaming loot, not to be glared at as the 2 O’ clock customer.
PS: a few days later I locate the Maxi-Maxi, about two blocks away from my apartment in that one street that I didn't check out...
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Money exchange offices in Serbia
Serbia doesn’t have the euro yet, so before venturing out in Belgrade’s bustle, euros need to be exchanged for Dinars. Any unwitted tourist would pace straight to one of the many banks, but the seasoned traveler changes money in the sticker-studded single-window street-side booth of the Menjacnica, or exchange office. They’re everywhere, and come with names such as Extreme, Euro Lion, even Pirana.
Their facilities are crummy, their overhead not existing, and that’s why their rates are far more attractive than that of the established bank. A tourist who comes in with a sweaty wad of dollars will be registered, probed and prodded, but euros are exchanged without the least bit of formality; no passport, signature or even conversation is required. Exchanging the Serbian equivalent of three monthly salaries involves no more doings than buying a loaf of bread.
A platinum blonde runs my euro bills through a counter, reaches beside her to decapitate a skyscraper of 1000 Dinar bills and hands me a stack of them the size of a brick. A sturdy three course meal costs the same here as a quarter pounder in the west, but every time I pay the bill it’ll feel as if I bought a car.
It’ll take me a long time to burn through this amount of cash, but when it runs out, there are always the banks and their ATMs eager to extort me.
Their facilities are crummy, their overhead not existing, and that’s why their rates are far more attractive than that of the established bank. A tourist who comes in with a sweaty wad of dollars will be registered, probed and prodded, but euros are exchanged without the least bit of formality; no passport, signature or even conversation is required. Exchanging the Serbian equivalent of three monthly salaries involves no more doings than buying a loaf of bread.
A platinum blonde runs my euro bills through a counter, reaches beside her to decapitate a skyscraper of 1000 Dinar bills and hands me a stack of them the size of a brick. A sturdy three course meal costs the same here as a quarter pounder in the west, but every time I pay the bill it’ll feel as if I bought a car.
It’ll take me a long time to burn through this amount of cash, but when it runs out, there are always the banks and their ATMs eager to extort me.
Beorent’s Danube holiday apartment in Belgrade, Serbia
The Danube holiday apartment sits on the top floor of a 10 story building very close to the bustling heart of Belgrade. I rent it from a club called Beorent for a heart-warming fee of 49 euro per night. The living area is 56 square meters but the unusual floor plan leaves the impression that the apartment is much larger. It comes with a bath tub, which is relatively rare is this corner of the world, and air conditioning, TV, DVD player, washing machine, wireless internet, and a kitchen complete with oven, stove and fridge. The ceilings are high, the floors are checkered wooden panels, the furniture is solid and functional.
The apartment has no balcony but through the large windows I can see a trace of the Danube to the north, the imposing castle at Kalemegdan to the west and down town straight south. Watch the clip for a virtual tour of this lovely apartment.
Friday, November 26, 2010
From Ljubljana to Belgrade by train
The train station in Ljubljana is an imposing Romanesque building painted a pale banana-yogurt yellow. Unlike train stations in, say, Poland, which are invariably grey or granite, always wet and peopled by grim eyeing xenophobes, or in the Netherlands, where careful exuberance is supposed to console the traveler for not having a car, the train station in Ljubljana is clean, bright and dignified. It’s almost eight in the morning. The train will leave at 08:15 and will arrive in Belgrade at 17:20. That's a cool nine hours of Bach, Bryson and peaceful solitude. It's November so I'm not expecting too many travelers.
“I’d like to go to Belgrade,” I whisper shamefully in English to a smiling lady beneath the word INTERNATIONAL. In any other country she would be a mere ticketeer (and behave as such); here she is a seasoned hostess with pride and passion.
I should have said hi to the budding beauty sitting opposite of me. The train is about 30 years old but in mint condition, and travelers are cooped up in coupe’s. We’ll be knee to knee for who knows how long, wondering if the other’s noticed that we’re trying to ignore each other. She’s wearing spike heals which can only be very uncomfortable while traveling. Being a practical man myself, I conclude that women do these things to themselves to show the world that they believe that a man would be attracted to somebody who would have to be carried after half a mile of hauling luggage. It’s been long clear to me that my most intimate convictions are automatically published on my forehead, and I really need to break some ice here. That is, if the formation of ice wouldn’t be thwarted by the train’s heating system, which is still working very well, save for the thermostat, which, at some point, must have attracted the attention of itinerant vandals and is now a gnarled stump stuck on hell blaze.
After thirty minutes into the journey the sun breaks through the fog, and raises the temperature in our coupe even more. Nobody is brave enough to open a window and quickly the temperature rises to a near lethal level, although it’s not the temperature that is the enemy. Every person in the coupe, from the prim college girl in my lap to the unshaven drunk to my right, turns into steaming volcanoes of the most repulsive odors. I’m smelling a bouquet of breakfasts waft from all available orifices. The girl’s high heel shoes begin to reek like sneakers, and the mud-streaked clogs of the drunk like the devil’s ass.
The train stops and all of us jump up and try to escape, only to be shoved back in by some heavily armed border boys who want to see our passports, tickets and sweaty faces. Minutes later we are in Zagreb and everybody in my coupe leaves. For twenty blissful seconds I have the place to myself. Contently I arrange my Brysons on the seats around me, my note pad, sandwiches and a bag of apples. My map of Belgrade I spread out over the opposite seats. In one fluent motion my left hand brings my first sandwich to my mouth, my right hand lowers towards the map and as my finger lands on the Belgrade train station, the doors open and a cordon of about fifty young men burst in and spread out over the coupe’s and fill them like water fills holes. There are six seats in my coupe. Seven of these guys squeeze in and settle in where a split second before were the expanse of a map, lunch and literary leverage. It’s not that I hate people. It’s just that I prefer them to come in book form. These seven, who occupy five seats, carry luggage in duffle and gym bags. They wear training suits and gold chains. All of them have crew cuts. Every move they make comes with a series of loud editorials and brutal guttural laughter.
What would Bill Bryson do?
One of them notices the titles of my books, concludes I’m a stray foreigner and desiring conversation. “Guess what we are?” he says looking at me grinning.
Well, son, you know those little bags of soup? You rip where it says RIP, and the soup comes out from the other end.
“We’re all Jiu-Jitsu champions!” he cheers and slaps his neighbor in the neck. The neighbor jumps up and throws himself upon his violator and a second later I’m dodging the knees and armpits of seven Croatian ninja’s. “We’re on our way to a Jiu-Jitsu tournament!” a muffled voice screams from underneath a mountain of trained flesh.
“Where’s the tournament?” I yell back.
“Beograd!”
“Wonderful…”
They embark on a series of games that in involve lots of screaming and hitting each other on the head with sausages, that were packed for that reason, it seems. I quickly learn that friendship in Croatia revolves largely around producing idiotic howls of heat and displays of fierce violence at the least provocation. “Jiu-Jitsu is great fun,” explains the one guy from under a choke hold. It’s a hybrid of judo, wrestling and lots of loud laughing.
The door slides open and two kids throw themselves on the ninja’s. I estimate them at five and seven years old. They fight like animals and the ninja’s fight back.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be a bit careful with those kids? Who are they anyway?”
“Never mind!” yells the guy, “They’re Gypsies.”
Then they see my camera, resting on my biggest Bill.
“Give me that camera!” yells the oldest one.
“Never!” I scream back.
“Give me that camera you crazy foreign bastard!”
“Over my dead body, you larcenous Gypsy hoodlum!”
The little one grabs my Bill and whacks me on the head with it. The bigger one snatches my camera away and takes off with it. I decide that while the train is still moving, it’s probably safer for everybody that I wait for God to take control of this situation.
Close to the Serbian border I get the camera flung back at me. The kids have taken over a hundred photos, most of themselves posing with or without beer bottles, and some very nice ones of other people on the train. It’s all and all a series of photos that I would never have been able to produce myself and I’ll treasure them forever.
In Serbia the train stops more than it goes, and hamlet after hamlet passes by. Then we enter a city that keeps going without an end and I conclude it must be Belgrade. At 17.25 the train comes to a shrieking halt and I exit without ado. On the platform stands my Virgil; a tall blonde woman who speaks British without an accent. We shake hands, and she informs me that we have an appointment some time next week. We’ll be spraying graffiti on a wall somewhere, and this for a very noble cause.
“I’d like to go to Belgrade,” I whisper shamefully in English to a smiling lady beneath the word INTERNATIONAL. In any other country she would be a mere ticketeer (and behave as such); here she is a seasoned hostess with pride and passion.
 |
| The train between Ljubljana and Belgrade |
“Belgrade we got,” she says with a slight touch of an New Jersey accent. I decide not to ask where she acquired it. “That’ll be 49 euro.”
I’m amazed. That amount wouldn’t even get you across a border from any location in the Netherlands. Here it takes you through three countries. I’m so used to last minute airplane travel, that I don’t consider riding trains anymore. Base, of course, thinks differently and has decided that the scope of my experience should be expanded with an international train ride. So be it. Iwana kisses me, wishes me luck and gentle pushes me into the direction of my platform where I’m received by a raincoat type who’s peddling Jehovah’s Witness literature. It appears that in Slovenia too the world is coming to an end.  |
| The fair interior of the train between Ljubljana and Belgrade |
The train stops and all of us jump up and try to escape, only to be shoved back in by some heavily armed border boys who want to see our passports, tickets and sweaty faces. Minutes later we are in Zagreb and everybody in my coupe leaves. For twenty blissful seconds I have the place to myself. Contently I arrange my Brysons on the seats around me, my note pad, sandwiches and a bag of apples. My map of Belgrade I spread out over the opposite seats. In one fluent motion my left hand brings my first sandwich to my mouth, my right hand lowers towards the map and as my finger lands on the Belgrade train station, the doors open and a cordon of about fifty young men burst in and spread out over the coupe’s and fill them like water fills holes. There are six seats in my coupe. Seven of these guys squeeze in and settle in where a split second before were the expanse of a map, lunch and literary leverage. It’s not that I hate people. It’s just that I prefer them to come in book form. These seven, who occupy five seats, carry luggage in duffle and gym bags. They wear training suits and gold chains. All of them have crew cuts. Every move they make comes with a series of loud editorials and brutal guttural laughter.
 |
| Wrestling Croatian ninja's on the train |
One of them notices the titles of my books, concludes I’m a stray foreigner and desiring conversation. “Guess what we are?” he says looking at me grinning.
Well, son, you know those little bags of soup? You rip where it says RIP, and the soup comes out from the other end.
“We’re all Jiu-Jitsu champions!” he cheers and slaps his neighbor in the neck. The neighbor jumps up and throws himself upon his violator and a second later I’m dodging the knees and armpits of seven Croatian ninja’s. “We’re on our way to a Jiu-Jitsu tournament!” a muffled voice screams from underneath a mountain of trained flesh.
“Where’s the tournament?” I yell back.
“Beograd!”
“Wonderful…”
They embark on a series of games that in involve lots of screaming and hitting each other on the head with sausages, that were packed for that reason, it seems. I quickly learn that friendship in Croatia revolves largely around producing idiotic howls of heat and displays of fierce violence at the least provocation. “Jiu-Jitsu is great fun,” explains the one guy from under a choke hold. It’s a hybrid of judo, wrestling and lots of loud laughing.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be a bit careful with those kids? Who are they anyway?”
“Never mind!” yells the guy, “They’re Gypsies.”
Then they see my camera, resting on my biggest Bill.
“Give me that camera!” yells the oldest one.
“Never!” I scream back.
“Give me that camera you crazy foreign bastard!”
“Over my dead body, you larcenous Gypsy hoodlum!”
The little one grabs my Bill and whacks me on the head with it. The bigger one snatches my camera away and takes off with it. I decide that while the train is still moving, it’s probably safer for everybody that I wait for God to take control of this situation.
 |
| First train station in Serbia |
Close to the Serbian border I get the camera flung back at me. The kids have taken over a hundred photos, most of themselves posing with or without beer bottles, and some very nice ones of other people on the train. It’s all and all a series of photos that I would never have been able to produce myself and I’ll treasure them forever.
In Serbia the train stops more than it goes, and hamlet after hamlet passes by. Then we enter a city that keeps going without an end and I conclude it must be Belgrade. At 17.25 the train comes to a shrieking halt and I exit without ado. On the platform stands my Virgil; a tall blonde woman who speaks British without an accent. We shake hands, and she informs me that we have an appointment some time next week. We’ll be spraying graffiti on a wall somewhere, and this for a very noble cause.
"Take me home, darling," I tell the woman. "I don't care where it is as long as it is peaceful enough to listen to some Bach and maybe read a line or two of Bill Bryson."
Serbian Orthodox Church in Ljubljana
In an oasis of peaceful green, and located at the Prešernova cesta (Museum Area), the white edifice of the Serbian Orthodox Church of Ljubljana hides behind a collar of trees.
 |
| Serbian Orthodox Church in Ljubljana, Slovenia |
It’s a fairly new building, erected in 1936 and is dedicated to saints Cyril and Methodius, the brothers who invented the Slavic alphabet that is still known as Cyrillic.
The church is open for public every day except Mondays, and from 09:00 to 12:00, and 14:00 to 16:00. Sunday services are at 10:00.
From the dome, Christ Pantocrator looks down on a black and white checkered floor and panel after panel of Biblical depictions.
There are the apostles, saints and countless heroes, all cast upon the signature Byzantine mould, staring stoically into a small bubble of timelessness in a town on the edge of a shaken world.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Ljubljana; a tour of the town
"Who is that woman on the side of your building?” I ask Ivana as we trod towards the bus station. I don’t know where Base finds these people but for once I’d like a guide who is male, ugly and boring, and who guides me straight into the first local watering hole. Ivana - a striking specimen of Slovenian femininity - wags her head. “She’s either the battered patron of Slovenian women, or else I don’t know,” she says as we step onto the bus.
I follow her into a high building and moments later we stand side by side overlooking the city. “That’s where we’re going,” she says as she points at the Old Town of Ljubljana, and steps forward. There are hidden traces of greatness in her gait. She halts at the ledge and stares ahead as one who’s learned to archive life’s great illusions.
We speak briefly of the war. I tell her that I was born only two decades after the second world war had ended, but that I grew up very much with it. These people saw their world on fire that same time ago. The conflict in this region ended at the turn of the millennium, but it’s obvious that the fires haven’t all died down (http://www.ljubljana-life.com/ljubljana/ten-day-war).
“It doesn’t really matter whether the good guys or the bad guys are bombing your building,” she says. “What matters is that you have no more building.”
She turns to me abruptly, smiles from ear to ear. “I drew up your chart,” she says as if I’m supposed to know what that means. It appears that Ljubljaneans pass their time with either skiing, drinking and smoking, or drawing up each other’s star chart, which then reveals essential details about a person’s character and potentials.
“Well, let’s have it.”
“You have a high disposition for drama and scandals in the family. And the world will soon be ready for your talent.”
The last part is striking because the exact same thing was predicted to me by means of a fortune cookie that came after a meal at a Chinese restaurant in Seward, Alaska. I was working on a cruise ship at the time. It was then that I fell in love with Alaska, and spent many an evening staring at its mountains from a secret crew-section of the aft deck. Alaska is a magical place and I situated my first novel there. That was 1992, and now this lady is telling me that the world is still waiting. I learn that I live in a patient world.
Back at street level, we follow a main artery onto the Old Town. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that the inner city is free of cars. Imposing buildings mark the edge of squares and wide streets, and everywhere is color and cheer. We stop for coffee at one of the many café’s and overlook the river Ljubljanica, or Little Ljubljana, that cuts through the Old Town.
The classic facades with their balconies and bow bridges below remind me of Venice, which is only two and a half hours away from here. I spent many a day there, wandering the squares and slipping into one church after the other. Like Venice, Ljubljana is largely catholic. But there’s also one Serbian Orthodox church. Since I’m headed for Serbia, I ask Ivana to take me to the Orthodox church. I’ll mark it as my gate onto a further east.
 |
| Ljubljana from the top it's highest building |
Public transportation in Ljubljana works with a kind of credit card that the traveler may purchase at any of the many kiosks, and replenish at will. Swiping the card across a reader automatically deducts the fare. “You can travel anywhere in Ljubljana for 60 eurocent,” she explains.
I follow her into a high building and moments later we stand side by side overlooking the city. “That’s where we’re going,” she says as she points at the Old Town of Ljubljana, and steps forward. There are hidden traces of greatness in her gait. She halts at the ledge and stares ahead as one who’s learned to archive life’s great illusions.
 |
| Ljubljana Old City main street |
“It doesn’t really matter whether the good guys or the bad guys are bombing your building,” she says. “What matters is that you have no more building.”
She turns to me abruptly, smiles from ear to ear. “I drew up your chart,” she says as if I’m supposed to know what that means. It appears that Ljubljaneans pass their time with either skiing, drinking and smoking, or drawing up each other’s star chart, which then reveals essential details about a person’s character and potentials.
“Well, let’s have it.”
“You have a high disposition for drama and scandals in the family. And the world will soon be ready for your talent.”
The last part is striking because the exact same thing was predicted to me by means of a fortune cookie that came after a meal at a Chinese restaurant in Seward, Alaska. I was working on a cruise ship at the time. It was then that I fell in love with Alaska, and spent many an evening staring at its mountains from a secret crew-section of the aft deck. Alaska is a magical place and I situated my first novel there. That was 1992, and now this lady is telling me that the world is still waiting. I learn that I live in a patient world.
 |
| Ljubljana, bridge over the river Ljubljanica |
Back at street level, we follow a main artery onto the Old Town. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that the inner city is free of cars. Imposing buildings mark the edge of squares and wide streets, and everywhere is color and cheer. We stop for coffee at one of the many café’s and overlook the river Ljubljanica, or Little Ljubljana, that cuts through the Old Town.
The classic facades with their balconies and bow bridges below remind me of Venice, which is only two and a half hours away from here. I spent many a day there, wandering the squares and slipping into one church after the other. Like Venice, Ljubljana is largely catholic. But there’s also one Serbian Orthodox church. Since I’m headed for Serbia, I ask Ivana to take me to the Orthodox church. I’ll mark it as my gate onto a further east.
 |
| Ljubljana reminds of Venice |
Monday, November 22, 2010
Is Australia Really A “Dumb Blonde”?
Because of all the things that have said about Australia, travel visa holders are often very excited to go to the country. Indeed, Australia is considered as one of the best travel destinations in the world today. However, not everything in Australia are what they seem.
As it turns out, there are actually a lot of things that Australia is currently facing. And according to some observers, these are the things that can not be easily handled through elaborate promotional campaigns and advertisements. Thus, they have urged the country's leaders to closely rethink the policies that they are coming up for the country.
One of the most scathing commentaries about Australia was given by British branding expert Simon Anholt during a talk organized by IDP education last month. IDP Education is one of the country's largest international student recruitment companies. In his talk, Anholt noted that the country is often referred to as a “dumb blonde”.
Anholt explained that this is mainly due to the observation of some groups that, while the country is indeed a beautiful one, it really doesn't offer anything much other than that. He cited the lack of materials that showcase more of what the country can offer. He added that the country's tourism agencies often focus more on creating fancy slogans instead of developing the areas that would showcase its cultural achievements more.
He also gave the current status of the Australian foreign student industry as another example. He noted that the number of international students enrolling in the country's schools have dropped significantly in the last few months. Anholt explained that this can be attributed to the negative image that the country has received because of the several incidents that a lot of international students encountered. Anholt argued that, instead of trying to solve the root cause of these situations, the Australian government instead tried to cover it up to elaborate campaigns.
As it turns out, there are actually a lot of things that Australia is currently facing. And according to some observers, these are the things that can not be easily handled through elaborate promotional campaigns and advertisements. Thus, they have urged the country's leaders to closely rethink the policies that they are coming up for the country.
One of the most scathing commentaries about Australia was given by British branding expert Simon Anholt during a talk organized by IDP education last month. IDP Education is one of the country's largest international student recruitment companies. In his talk, Anholt noted that the country is often referred to as a “dumb blonde”.
Anholt explained that this is mainly due to the observation of some groups that, while the country is indeed a beautiful one, it really doesn't offer anything much other than that. He cited the lack of materials that showcase more of what the country can offer. He added that the country's tourism agencies often focus more on creating fancy slogans instead of developing the areas that would showcase its cultural achievements more.
He also gave the current status of the Australian foreign student industry as another example. He noted that the number of international students enrolling in the country's schools have dropped significantly in the last few months. Anholt explained that this can be attributed to the negative image that the country has received because of the several incidents that a lot of international students encountered. Anholt argued that, instead of trying to solve the root cause of these situations, the Australian government instead tried to cover it up to elaborate campaigns.
Anholt also noted that Australia is also severely lacking the means to promote its culture more.. he said that, while the country has indeed a lot of tourism campaigns, these are not enough to promote Australian culture. He said that the country need to work on the programs that will better establish Australia's presence in the international scene.
However, the expert said that these comments are not meant to put the country down. He said that Australia has lots to offer, only it needs to work on them a lot more.
However, the expert said that these comments are not meant to put the country down. He said that Australia has lots to offer, only it needs to work on them a lot more.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
How to handle extra requests from clients?
When tour guides actually meet travel clients, they may be asked of extra service during the sightseeing tours. How do you handle those last-minute requirements professionally? You do not have to run desperately to meet every request from your client. If it is a reasonable and practical requirement, try providing the service for a better travel experience. If it is impossible to carry out, explain to the travelers and they would understand.
What can be asked extra on a tour guide?
Extra guiding day. The clients are so happy about your guiding service that they would like to spend more time with you. Check your availability. If you are available, why not extend your service? Discuss for the extra tour arrangements and itinerary with your clients. Thus, both of you are clear of what to do in the coming tour.
Extra places of interest. Sometimes travelers read about new places of interest outside the itinerary. They may ask to visit these extra places. As a tour guide who is more familiar with the area, you shall check possibility first. Do you have enough time to cover the extra place? It shall not affect the agreed itinerary. Do you have resources to visit the extra place? For example, if extra transportation arrangement is necessary. Is the place worth visiting? Talk with your clients to see what they expect on the new spot. You do not want to make extra efforts, only to find them disappointed.
Extra activity or entertainments. It can be an extended night tour, local performances, or a local signature meal... Again, tour guides need to weigh if the new requirements are practical. If possible to arrange, it is good to help your clients for greater fun. Communicate clearly on any extra costs. If it is unreasonable request, tour guide shall be confident to say “No”.
Any other requests did you receive from your clients? Have you handled the extra requests successfully? Welcome to share with us.
What can be asked extra on a tour guide?
Extra guiding day. The clients are so happy about your guiding service that they would like to spend more time with you. Check your availability. If you are available, why not extend your service? Discuss for the extra tour arrangements and itinerary with your clients. Thus, both of you are clear of what to do in the coming tour.
Extra places of interest. Sometimes travelers read about new places of interest outside the itinerary. They may ask to visit these extra places. As a tour guide who is more familiar with the area, you shall check possibility first. Do you have enough time to cover the extra place? It shall not affect the agreed itinerary. Do you have resources to visit the extra place? For example, if extra transportation arrangement is necessary. Is the place worth visiting? Talk with your clients to see what they expect on the new spot. You do not want to make extra efforts, only to find them disappointed.
Extra activity or entertainments. It can be an extended night tour, local performances, or a local signature meal... Again, tour guides need to weigh if the new requirements are practical. If possible to arrange, it is good to help your clients for greater fun. Communicate clearly on any extra costs. If it is unreasonable request, tour guide shall be confident to say “No”.
Any other requests did you receive from your clients? Have you handled the extra requests successfully? Welcome to share with us.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Ljubljana, first impression
“…no…?” I carefully reply.
“Wonderful!” they exclaim. “We just cooked up a horse, so start at the tail end and work your way up from there. How come your bags are so heavy?”
“… I brought some books…?”
“You don’t need books on a holiday in Belgrade! You need to travel light.”
“No! Leave me my Brysons! Unhand the Peterson!”
“Calm down and have another hunk a horse.”
Driving the Austrian Autobahn
Five minutes before the Austrian border, Base calls. They know I never prepare anything, so they wonder if I got a vignette. I don’t. I don’t even know what it is but Base informs me that not having one will lead to sanctions and getting yelled at.
At the ‘Last Chance to Buy Vignette Before Border” I learn that a vignette is a little square sticker that costs 15 euro, and which proves to roaming border boys that you paid the Austrian road tax. That’s pretty fair, I guess. It appears that half of the Austrian road network consists of tunnels through mountains, and that most cost a lot. And Austria is so small that a traveler can zip from border to border without dropping a dime.
München Messe Holiday Inn Express – Review
“Well,” I say, trying to force a tone of fatherly consolation, “That’s good though. That brings the price of the rooms down. Sixty euro is inexpensive anywhere in Western Europe.”
I wasn’t in the mood for a swim anyway but a sauna would have been nice.
“I’ll have some dinner then.”
“We have no restaurant. Only breakfast.”
“Then order me a pizza. Frutti di Mare, post haste.”
“They have no post haste.”
“Never mind the post haste! I’ll just work on that one computer you have in your Business Centre over there. I didn’t bring my laptop. I’m on vacation cold turkey. “
She starts to write.
“Don’t write that down! Live a little!”
I slide sideways into the Business Centre. Then I notice a sign that informs the aspiring businessperson that the use of the computer costs 0.35 euro per minute of use.
She stands there like Helen of Troy, taken, brought to a world where things just aren’t right.
“I’ll have a beer,” I say, pointing at the glistening tap at the other end of the reception. Her reply escapes her on a high-pressure sigh of relief, “Light or dark or something else?”
“I’ll have whatever comes out of that pipe,” I say pointing at the tap. Rooms are only 60 euro per night. I’m learning fast not to be picky.
Driving the German Autobahn.
The Germans are great at building roads, but they're even better at tinkering with them. Of the 900 kilometers I've driven about 880 were on single lane auxiliary roads, doing 80. That’s 80 kilometers per hour, which is about normal in the States but in Europe people drive twice as fast and the roads are three times as full.
But then, getting a driver’s license in Europe involves months of intensive training and costs a fortune. Driving in Europe is like flying the space shuttle though an asteroid field.
The well-prepared traveler brings music; lots of loud music. Tom Petty is excellent traveling music, although usually after ten minutes in Germany I switch to heavy metal. That is, normally. My CD player won’t eject when it gets warm, so I get stuck with my initial choice until I pull over for gas, which is every five hours.
Just as it time to get some I get pulled over by a couple of border boys, all gunned up with nothing to shoot at. The first thing they want to know is if I have a gun.
“No,” I say, “But I just did six hundred kilometers with Blondie’s Greatest stuck in the slot. So make no sudden moves and we all can walk away from this.”
“Got any other weapons?”
“Nope,” I say, hand in my coat pocket, fondling a three-inch switchblade I use in Poland to ward of bears in the Tatra Mountains.
“Reason for traveling?”
“Vacation. What’s Border Patrol doing in the middle of Germany?”
My German is rusty as an old Studebaker, but the officers decide to find it charming. German and Dutch are cognates, much closer relates to each other than English is to either one, and English is also a Germanic language. For some reason all Dutch speak German, but no German speaks Dutch. Many English speakers don’t even speak English, I’ve noticed.
“The border is everywhere,” the man firmly asserts.
And all this time I thought the borders were nowhere anymore.
They bid me good day. I pull off, reach 150 kph for a minute, then drop to a 70 kph trot.
“Danke für ihre Verstandnis,” blinks a sign.
“Don’t mention it,” I say.
“Bear left,” says my TomTom.
“Where?” I yell, grappling madly for my knife.
But then, getting a driver’s license in Europe involves months of intensive training and costs a fortune. Driving in Europe is like flying the space shuttle though an asteroid field.
The well-prepared traveler brings music; lots of loud music. Tom Petty is excellent traveling music, although usually after ten minutes in Germany I switch to heavy metal. That is, normally. My CD player won’t eject when it gets warm, so I get stuck with my initial choice until I pull over for gas, which is every five hours.
Just as it time to get some I get pulled over by a couple of border boys, all gunned up with nothing to shoot at. The first thing they want to know is if I have a gun.
“No,” I say, “But I just did six hundred kilometers with Blondie’s Greatest stuck in the slot. So make no sudden moves and we all can walk away from this.”
“Got any other weapons?”
“Nope,” I say, hand in my coat pocket, fondling a three-inch switchblade I use in Poland to ward of bears in the Tatra Mountains.
“Reason for traveling?”
“Vacation. What’s Border Patrol doing in the middle of Germany?”
My German is rusty as an old Studebaker, but the officers decide to find it charming. German and Dutch are cognates, much closer relates to each other than English is to either one, and English is also a Germanic language. For some reason all Dutch speak German, but no German speaks Dutch. Many English speakers don’t even speak English, I’ve noticed.
“The border is everywhere,” the man firmly asserts.
And all this time I thought the borders were nowhere anymore.
They bid me good day. I pull off, reach 150 kph for a minute, then drop to a 70 kph trot.
“Danke für ihre Verstandnis,” blinks a sign.
“Don’t mention it,” I say.
“Bear left,” says my TomTom.
“Where?” I yell, grappling madly for my knife.
The Rest House (Marahan, Davao City, Philippines )
It is located at
the heart of Marahan mountain, Davao City, Philippines.
Surrounded by a tallest pines trees. Landscaped lawn has wide array of colorful ornamental plants.
Peace minded people are surely enjoy to stay this beautiful place. Here, you can rely relax and refresh yourself, away from the noise and stress of today's world.
An ideal place for newly wed couple (honeymoon), religious activities (retreat),
picnic and other group activities.
Click HERE for more info and reservations, he is one of the owner and creator of this beautiful rest house or
E-mail us at kabayancinemax@gmail.com
or fill-up the form below (please insert correct e-mail address)
or fill-up the form below (please insert correct e-mail address)
THE REST HOUSE LOCATION
View Larger Map
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
For someone who travels a lot I sure hate packing.
For someone who travels a lot I sure hate packing. Subsequently, I leave it to the last moment and then panic rises like mist from a swamp. And of course, my iPod, on which I’ll be leaning during the train journey from Ljubljana to Belgrade Belgrade Netherlands
WHAT am I BLABBERING about? I have to go to the bank to get Serbian money. I have to go shopping for gifts for my hosts. I have to have the car checked. BUT I CAN’T because I have to figure out how to copy 6578 tunes from a dusty hard disk to my iPod. How the GROWLL did that go again? Of course my C drive is full. Should I delete my novel? Only took ten years to write. Maybe I can move it to hard disk number twenty four. Write on a yellow stickie note where it is… I have so many yellow stickies everywhere, I should keep a log. Which ever suitcase I open, a cloud of yellow stickies – all imperative markers that keep my life together – flies up in a tired sigh, leaving me with nothing but chaos.
Tomorrow at dawn I’ll drive off. I made reservations at the Holiday Inn in Munich Messe. It took me an hour to put the location in my TomTom because officially it’s called Feldkirche over there and not Munich Netherlands ) to my hotel in Munich Ljubljana Belgrade Old Town
Monday, November 15, 2010
Why A Lot Of People Are Moving To Australia
For Australia, migration of people into the country is very important. After all, the country's growth actually depends heavily on immigrants. However, while it means a lot for Australia, it certainly means more for those wishing to move in here.
You have probably heard all of the reasons that people has for coming to Australia. Some of these rather simple, such as “because I want to see a kangaroo”. On the other hand, there are also those that have a more serious town to it, such as wanting to have a better life. Whichever reason it is, it seems that a lot of people do indeed consider the land down under as the place that they want to move into.
One of the interesting things into look into about the people wanting to move into Australia is their backgrounds. A large portion of the people immigrating into the country are composed of those coming from the western countries, such as the UK or the United States. Perhaps a lot of people are wandering why people coming from wealthy western nations are moving to Australia.
Probably one of the biggest reasons that many of these people are pointing out is that they would want to experience a different lifestyle. This is rather interesting enough, since much of the country's people are actually from the western countries themselves. However, the land down under has evolved differently in the last hundred years or so to make it distinct from the Western hemisphere. Also, it has assimilated the cultures of the people coming from the other parts of the world, which makes it even more unique. This has made even more attractive for people from the western part of the world.
On the other hand, many people see Australia as a land of opportunity. This can be seen at the number of foreign students in the country, many of which came from the Asian regions, such as India. According to them, Australia's education system is ideal for their needs as it gives them better chances of landing a well paying job, either here or in their home countries.
On the other hand, the land down under have also been considered as a haven for those wishing to get free from troubled countries and establish a new life. Despite the country tightening its borders against asylum seeker, many still brave the dangers that they have to go through in order to establish themselves here.
You have probably heard all of the reasons that people has for coming to Australia. Some of these rather simple, such as “because I want to see a kangaroo”. On the other hand, there are also those that have a more serious town to it, such as wanting to have a better life. Whichever reason it is, it seems that a lot of people do indeed consider the land down under as the place that they want to move into.
One of the interesting things into look into about the people wanting to move into Australia is their backgrounds. A large portion of the people immigrating into the country are composed of those coming from the western countries, such as the UK or the United States. Perhaps a lot of people are wandering why people coming from wealthy western nations are moving to Australia.
Probably one of the biggest reasons that many of these people are pointing out is that they would want to experience a different lifestyle. This is rather interesting enough, since much of the country's people are actually from the western countries themselves. However, the land down under has evolved differently in the last hundred years or so to make it distinct from the Western hemisphere. Also, it has assimilated the cultures of the people coming from the other parts of the world, which makes it even more unique. This has made even more attractive for people from the western part of the world.
On the other hand, many people see Australia as a land of opportunity. This can be seen at the number of foreign students in the country, many of which came from the Asian regions, such as India. According to them, Australia's education system is ideal for their needs as it gives them better chances of landing a well paying job, either here or in their home countries.
On the other hand, the land down under have also been considered as a haven for those wishing to get free from troubled countries and establish a new life. Despite the country tightening its borders against asylum seeker, many still brave the dangers that they have to go through in order to establish themselves here.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Dressing Code for Tour Guides
How do you dress as a tour guide at work? It depends on what type of guiding you carry on. For example, mountain guides need different clothes from city guides. Adventure guides wear differently from museum guides. Walking guides may require more comfortable shoes than tour bus guides. Yet there are some general rules in dressing for tour guides.
Dress comfortably for your guiding work. Tour guiding is a physical work requiring a lot of walking, standing, and climbing etc. Sometimes when clients are at rest, tour guide is still busy preparing the next stop. Thus, comfortable clothes and shoes are important for a guide to complete the work.
Wear clear and neat, casual but not too loose. Guiding is a way of presentation. Clear and neat dressing provides a good first impression to your clients. As most tour guides meet clients on vacation and trips, casual dressing is recommended. It is awkward if you wear formal suits while the travelers are on T-shirts. On the other hand, because the guide is at work, it is not professional to wear too loosely like slippers.
Do not wear shinning but do stand out if necessary. If you are taking a ghost tour, or guiding for Halloween, abnormal costumes may add to the fun nature of tour. In the case of busy tourist spots, you may choose clothes with outstanding colours. It will be easier for clients to identify you during the sightseeing tours. Otherwise, casual smart dressing is recommended.
Do you have a brand or logo? Wear it on your clothes, hats, umbrella, bags… This contributes to your branding. Not only remind your clients of who you are, but also shows other people along the tour.
How do you dress when working as a tour guide? Let us know if you pay attention to any particular things.
Dress comfortably for your guiding work. Tour guiding is a physical work requiring a lot of walking, standing, and climbing etc. Sometimes when clients are at rest, tour guide is still busy preparing the next stop. Thus, comfortable clothes and shoes are important for a guide to complete the work.
Wear clear and neat, casual but not too loose. Guiding is a way of presentation. Clear and neat dressing provides a good first impression to your clients. As most tour guides meet clients on vacation and trips, casual dressing is recommended. It is awkward if you wear formal suits while the travelers are on T-shirts. On the other hand, because the guide is at work, it is not professional to wear too loosely like slippers.
Do not wear shinning but do stand out if necessary. If you are taking a ghost tour, or guiding for Halloween, abnormal costumes may add to the fun nature of tour. In the case of busy tourist spots, you may choose clothes with outstanding colours. It will be easier for clients to identify you during the sightseeing tours. Otherwise, casual smart dressing is recommended.
Do you have a brand or logo? Wear it on your clothes, hats, umbrella, bags… This contributes to your branding. Not only remind your clients of who you are, but also shows other people along the tour.
How do you dress when working as a tour guide? Let us know if you pay attention to any particular things.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
MAGALLANES RESIDENCES ( Davao Philippines )
Ms. Gutierrez said
the company has already sold more than 60% of the 115 units of the first building in Magallanes Residences.
CONDO FEATURES
- Single Loaded Corridors for Maximum Privacy
- 2 Passenger Elevators per Building
- Individual Units for Laundry and Drying Areas at the Roof Deck (for two bedroom units only)
- Guarded Entrance, Perimeter Fence and 24-hour Security
- Underground Electrical Facilities
- Underground Drainage Facilities
- Water Distribution System
- Parking Areas
AMENITIES
- Multi - Purpose Clubhouse
- Infinity Type Swimming Pool
- Basketball Court
- Parks and Playground
- Landscaped Areas
PRICE RANGE: FROM 1,489,500 TO 3,476,400
RESERVATION FEE - 50,000
MINIMUM DOWN PAYMENT 10% PAYABLE IN 3 MONTHS
BALANCE THRU IN-HOUSE OR BANK FINANCING UP TO 10 YEARS TO PAY
THIS IS APPROVED BY THE HOUSING & LAND USE REGULATORY BOARD
HLURB DP # XI-008-001; CR # 16806/ LTS # 20238 ISSUED ON SEPTEMBER 29, 2008
CONDO LOCATION |
| Magallanes Residences Photo Gallery |
View Larger Map
Source: ROBERT MONTANEZ sales representave
Interested with this property? E-mail us at kabayancinemax@gmail.com
or fill-up the form below (please insert correct e-mail address)
or fill-up the form below (please insert correct e-mail address)
RELATED POST
Palmetto Place is a newly build condo located at Ma-a, Davao City Philippines.
According to Leonora P. Gutierrez, area manager, Palmetto Place will have four five-storey residential buildings. Initially, the plan was
to set up three-storey buildings, but it was revised to accommodate additional units and provide service elevators.
to set up three-storey buildings, but it was revised to accommodate additional units and provide service elevators.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Restaurant Het Zwarte Schaep, Brielle, Netherlands – Review
Brielle is a quaint little village just south of Rotterdam Netherlands Netherlands
And when you’re there, make sure you have your dinner in Restaurant Het Zwarte Schaep (The Black Sheep). You’ll never have seen anything like it; it’s like stepping into somebody’s living room. They can’t have more than six or seven tables, but in a mere few years they’ve managed to become one of the most popular restaurants in the area.
A dedicated team of culinary wizards will surely make your evening a memorable one. And the spare ribs - ah! the spare ribs! – make you think they’ve slaughtered a unicorn. Nobody knows how they do it - as their secrets are guarded passionately behind the amicable smiles of the charming proprietor – but they do it, and that’s what counts.
Het Zwarte Schaep is located on the edge of the inner town, and it overlooks part of the marina. This marina goes all the way around the town, so it’s hard to miss. After your dinner the banks of the canals make for an excellent stroll.
See you there!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Immigration Minister Gives Pointers Against Fraud
With the number of people going through the Australian immigration department, one can definitely say that many are interested in heading to the land down under. However, while this one is definitely a good sight, such a large amount of people can also easily become prey to unscrupulous individuals. And being a victim of immigration scams is certainly not going to be a good experience.
According to new Immigration and Citizenship Minister Chris Bowen, immigration fraud is still one of the major problems that his department have to deal with. He said that, while the government has instituted tougher campaigns against them, there are still groups that manage to elude the authorities and victimize immigrant hopefuls. He added that despite some setbacks, this will still be a continuing battle against such unlawful elements.
Bowen also added that they will still continue to provide immigration applicants with tools and countermeasures to protect themselves against scammers. One of the new tools that he gave out as an example is the new online manual that the Department of Immigration and Citizenship has launched. Dubbed the Protect Yourself From Immigration Fraud information kit, the manual aims to provide the user with basic information and tips in detecting fraud. The kit also gives out important guides on reporting immigration scammers, as well as the departments to contact.
Bowen also gave some tips on how to avoid fraud. He said that one of the most common ways con men trick visa applicants into falling to their trap is by purporting to be immigration agents. He said that even putting a simple “registered migration agent” note on a scam website can easily lure a lot of people.
Thus, Bowen advised the public to be wary of such bogus agents. He said that the first thing that people should always do when looking for immigration agents is to search the list provided by the Migration Agent Registration Authority (MARA). He said that these are the only ones accredited by MARA and qualified to provide immigration assistance. He also urged the public to report any groups that are using fake MARA certificates to operate.
Lastly, Bowen reiterated that people who fall victim of these scammers must immediately coordinate with the DIAC's operatives. He said that all of the department's hotlines are open 24/7 to receive complaints. He added that complainants can also lodge their concerns online and the DIAC will immediately act on it.
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