Konya

Coming here was something I'd wanted to do for a while. Konya was the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate of Rum, and hence many 13th Century Seljuk buildings remain - most importantly, the mausoleum of my favourite poet, Jelalludin al Rumi (Mevlana).

The bus ride took 7 hours. The landscape: steppe and snow capped mountains, occasionally a city of identical bright-coloured cheap lowrise. The guy I happened to sit next to happened to speak pretty good English. Hasan was studying International Relations at the university of Konya. He wanted to move to the West, then come back and work for the Turkish government. A very patriotic Turk, he wanted to help his country modernise.

Hasan asked if I wanted to stay at his house, which was 25km from the centre of Konya. Luckily, I agreed. As a consequence, I got to hang out with a bunch of young Turkish guys, drink fine Turkish tea, and eat Hasan's mother's kick-arse börek (spinach, cheese pastry). The house was pretty much the last of a series of high rises on the very outskirts of Konya. The whole place is a student city. The univeristy has 70,000 students. The campus itself includes a huge food court, shopping mall and a restaurant where 200 people were gathered in front of a huge TV screen to watch soccer.

The guys were especially proud of the nearby Hilton hotel's modern shopping mall. All the youth there seemed very westernised - lots of peroxide and jeans. But the metal detectors and armed guards gave a very different spin on the phenomonon.

The next day, I got up and caught a clapped out minibus to the centre. I love this institution - the driver changes gears with the same hand that he hands out change for the ride. Konya was pretty disappointing though. The Seljuk architecture is too heavy for my taste. Rumi's mausoleum was way too touristy, with people heckling tourists for all sorts of services. Probably the coolest thing there was the illuminated manuscript collection and a box with Muhammed's beard. One has to wonder why the Konya exists. It's in the middle of a barren waste. The social conservatism is apparent with many old men wearing beards, and some women in hejab with only eyes showing. Still, these people were as friendly as anywhere else in Turkey.

Pamukkale / Hierapolis

This 'village' almost topped Selçuk's status of tourist dive, but with a twist: empty hotel, followed by empty hotel, followed by a crumbling hovel, some goats, chickens, ducks and old dudes with beards and woolen caps. I was the only guest in my hotel, until Lee, a cool Korean arrived as as I was leaving. Quote of the day: 'I hear President of Lebanon is assasinated, so I go to Lebanon.' He'd also gone overland from Mongolia to India. This was his Egypt - Turkey trip. Being the only guest did have some advantages, as the owners gave me some free food.

Hierapolis could have been done in a few hours. To climb up to the ruins, you have to take off your shoes as you climb up the travetaries (strange calcium rock formations caused by calcium-rich water gushing from the local mountain springs). Unfortunately, these have been severely damaged by extensive overdevelopment and use of water for swimming pools in the area... and more are being built.

Hierapolis is mostly scattered rubble. Where the sacred spring was in the centre of the city, now there's a swimming pool for tourists. Leaving, I counted 25 tour coaches in the parking lot! The local villages come here to make a profit, selling everything from Roman coins to postcards. Despite these matters, the necropolis 2ndC B.C. - 2ndC A.D. is amazing - it does literally feel like a city with house-sized sarcophagi. The Roman theatre is also very well preserved.

Ephesus / Selçuk

Always wondered about who the St. Paul wrote those weird letters to. Well, coming to Ephesus was a good way to find out. The ruins of the ancient city sprawl for over a kilometre. Mozaics still adorn some of the Roman houses and the public latrines where St. John and St. Paul would have peed could still be usable, given the excellent state of the sewers and pipes.

The base for this outing was the town of Selçuk, above which St. John is buried in a Byzantine basilica. Pity that the town is a tourist dive, very reminiscent of the average Greek island village. The place I stayed was under renovation, but that was no problem for them. The dude in charge was pretty intense though:

'I say I love Russia, I love communism - my father say fuck off. So I go sleep at the mosque. I not speak to my father any more.' He was very protective of his kitchen, but let me use it. However, he didn't let me do the dishes!

Having spent several hours walking through the ruins, I decided to hike 6 km up a mountain to see St. Mary's house. In the Gospel according to John, Jesus entrusted Mary to John as he was dying on the cross. It is believed that John took Mary with him to Ephesus. In the 19thC a stigmatist nun had visions of Mary's house. In 1982, two theologians found what they believed to be the foundations of that house. I don't know... I must admit that there's an incredibly calm atmosphere to the whole place... and the holy water from the spring is delicious.

On the way back I did something stupid. As I had 2 hours of daylight left, I decided to climb up to the Byzantine fortifications above Ephesus, following animal paths through forest and scrub. It was definitely worth the view: a panorama consisting of Ephesus, Selçuk, the Aegean sea, a setting sun, farms and mountains. Getting down was a problem - the whole plain between the highway to Selçuk and the mountain ridge had been flooded, and in any case the cliffs were too steep to climb down safely. So I had to walk along the entire length of the wall, scrambling through toppled boulders and thorn bushes, until I came to St. Paul's prison, by a field where a tractor road led. Total hike length: 20km +.

Bergama - Pergamon

More Turkish friendliness:

I'm sitting on a crumbling Ottoman bridge, admiring the crumbling ruins of the pre-Byzantine church in Bergama (one of the 7 churches of the Book of the Apocalypse!), when 2 puppies and their mother turn up to enjoy the sun after the storm. A young man appears and starts talking to me. No English. But he wants me to follow him. The vibe is good, so I follow. All he wants is to show me the crumbling farmhouse that him and his father are trying to turn into a hotel.

The 6 km hike up to the Akropol takes ages, but the views are stunning. Calls to prayer echo through the surrounding valleys. The people here are really poor, but all seem very cheerful, giving a wave, saying hello. Mashallah that the tour busses go straight to the top of the hill and don't stop in town.

The ruins are impressive - especially the steep ampitheatre. The Japanese tour busses are funny. They virtually run through the entire complex in 15 minutes. I stay several hours.

Getting back, I go to buy some groceries. At the bakery, the baker refuses to let me pay for my baklava. I try to insist, but he wins. I get free baklava with pistacchios.

Ships of Fools

Sat on the 1 pm ferry to Bandırma, reading Foucault's musings on the Renneissance connection of travel, madness and water, and thinking morbid thoughts in the 'am I going the right way' vein. Madmen were often expelled from medieval cities by being handed over to a crew of a ship and forced to wander a strange landscape on the other side of the sea. An ultimate enslavement to ultimate 'freedom.'

In Bandırma, I asked some guy about the Bus Station. He went out of his way to push me into the right dolmuş. At the bus station I got a ticket in 2 seconds. It's easy - each bus company has guys trying to veer customers to their booth.

The conductor on the bus to Edremit was very much interested in me. Unfortunately, he spoke no English. When he found out that I didn't follow soccer, he quickly lost interest.

Got to Edremit at 7 pm. The next bus to Bergama was at 8. Within 5 minutes, the dudes from the bus company had sat me down for some tea and were asking me to play them some songs. I tried to explain that I was learning and pulled out my learner's book. They looked at the songs and started singing them to me. Half an hour later, I was listening to their tape collection in their car. Amazing what you can convey with no language - marital status, circumcision, army service, favourite soccer team, etc.

Got to Bergama at 11 pm. More precisely, got to a field in the middle of nowhere at 11pm, where I had no choice but to share a taxi to get to Bergama through the pelting rain. At 11:30 the doors of Pension Athene were shut, all was dark. It was an immense relief when a similing motherly type opened the door and showed me to a lovely room in a 160 y.o. Ottoman building, turning on an electric blanket.

Istanbul - Day 4

Thought I'd do what I'd procrastinated over for 3 days: going to Aya Sofiya. At $15 I almost turned back at the entrance. But I'm glad didn't. The size has to be seen to be believed. I thought it'd take 30 minutes, but it took 2 hours. Then you think about the fact that the building is 1500 years old and it blows your thinking to strange places.

Next, I walked to Taksim to do the other thing I thought about doing in Istanbul... buying something with strings in order to make music. Walked around a zillion music shops and got people to show me stuff. Now I am the proud owner of a Cura. The smallest of the Saz family, it has 6 strings and

Also saw a Whirling Dervish ritual, at what according to the LP is the only place to see the real thing (as opposed to a bunch of trained dancers). Yes, it was beautiful - but the hordes of tourists taking pictures and people coming in and out during the ceremony ruined the effect totally.

The end of the day involved a great deal of water-pipe silliness at the hostel, as Sharif (the guy in charge) lost the plot: 'You are going to a mountain in Georgia... and I'm stuck in this fucking hole. There's too much beer in the fridge!'

10 beers later, he was in a much better mood... but in no way to help the 3 Dutch guys who had just arrived (on route to India by car).

Istanbul - Day 3

It was going to be a shopping trip from the outset. The torch I'd bought the day before had the lightbulb blow within 5 seconds of use and I realised that I no longer owned a pair of plastic shower slippers.

Thought I'd try the grand bazar. Well, it's just a tourist trap. The atmosphere is strangely similar to Kabuki-cho at 12pm - dudes in black coats pimping their wares. But despite that, it is pretty to look at. Was feeling like a cup of tea, so I let a carpet dealer molest me for half an hour. He showed me some lovely sumak from the Van area. Turns out that the animal designs upon some sumak are linked with the story of Noah's arc. It is believed that the Ark's final resting place is Mt. Ararat.

The streets around the bazar were a lot more interesting than the bazar itself. This is where most of Istanbul goes to shop - dozens of narrow streets packed with shops, still ordered in medieval fashion (underwear in one quarter, jewellry in another). Finding the lightbulb was no problem. A nice old man in a decrepid little shop fished one out ın 5 seconds. The slippers took the whole day. Finally, found bought a nice light pair off a Kurdish dude. Every second dealer of this or the other that I've met in Istanbul is Kurdish. Must be an economically desperate area.

In the meanwhile I visited the three lovliest mosques in the city. I love the Ottoman style courtyards... great places for people watching.

Istanbul - Day 2

Woke up at 4 am shivering with cold. By the time I got up at 7 am I had a headache. Today's mission: Georgian Consulate, Air İran office - both on the other side of town (north of Taksim). Two head turning things on the way: - A billboard saying 'Istanbul: a city of love and dreams' right next to a gun shop with a huge relief of a revolver, shells falling from it. - A car plastered into the wall of a building for no apparent reason Turned out that the Georgian consulate had moved, but there was a sign on the door about the new address. The new place in a state of total disarray - workmen going in and out. The consul greeted me with cigarette in hand. Visa procedure: fill out this form, give me 19AUD and come back in 3 hours. My luck ran out by the time I found Air İran: Sorry, we can't sell you a ticket unless you fly from Istanbul to Teheran then Taschkent. I decided to explore the neighbourhood: millions of narrow residential streets, with 5 storey dilapidated houses. Found an Old Evangelical Cemetery in the midst of all this. A woman let me in, but I couldn't walk around, as she was wearing thongs, it was raining and 3 huge shepherd dogs were guarding the premises. Having picked up my (pink!) Georgian Visa, I thought I'd hang out at a few airline offices. Turned out that Uzbekistan Airways ran the show where Taschkent connections were concerned. The office was staffed by two grumpy men and a security guard. However, they were very helpful in the end. The last part of the day was the most pleasant, as I went to Taksim and took a stroll down the crowded modern main shopping street. Getting bored of the vibe, I got lost in some side streets - night clubs and quaint cafes everywhere, a dilapidated house here and there. Eventually I ended up in a derelict residential district on the shores of the Bosfor. Winding my way back to the centre I stumbled across two Japanese girls on an incredibly steep side street. Japanese people are easy to start chatting to... all you need is 'Isshou ni torimashouka?' Maki-san and Makiko-san were cool and incredibly cute, but unfortunately our paths had to part as I was going the other way. Next I stumbled 'musical instrument street'... dozens of shops selling weird things with strings. Japanese girls, weird string instruments - it would have been heaven if not for my headache and killer cold.

Istanbul - Day 1

Having settled into the filthy dorm, I decided to get some lunch - but not before becoming manager of the hostel for 20 minutes, as Ali needed to show dodgy Rob where his equally dodgy friend lived. Once they returned, we got some food. A nice vegetable casserole for me.

Then they got me to come along to some tatoo studio where one of their dodgy friends worked. It was closed, but the whole building was full of carpet-maker's studios. Interesting to see how it's done. We parted ways as I decided to trek down to Sultanahmet Cami. Unfortunately, it was prayer time. The call for prayers was one of the most awesome things I'd ever heard.

It was getting cold, so I decided to go back to the hostel. But not before I got hassled by some Kurdish carpet dealers. Must be real low season, if they thought that a dero like me might buy a carpet. Still, it was interesting to hang out and watch them play backgammon and listen to Kurdish dance music.

Istanbul - The Ride

Sat next to a guy who I didn't quite look Turkish, but seemed roughly my age. Good choice. Hakan turned out to be from from Igdır - a village just across the border from Armenia. His family had originally come from Naxçıvan (the piece of Azerbaijan stuck uncomfortably between Iran, Turkey and Armenia). He was living in Köln and studying architecture. It was his holiday and he was flying to see his sister in Istanbul - unfortunately wıth laptop in hand.

It was very interesting to hear his views about Turkey and Turks in Germany. Turns out that while many Turks are quite religious, they are also very nationalistic and are consequently passionate about secularism. Apparently, more Turkish women will wear hejab in Köln than in Istanbul. The immigrants are prone to ghettoising to such a point that Hakan found it difficult to learn German (despite wanting to do so).

Flew in to Sabiha International around 3 am. Immigration was a joke. First went to a counter to buy a visa. The guy spoke no English, but had a list of nationalities and prices. Australian citizens - 20 Euro or USD for a 3 month visa, Polish citizens - 10 Euro or USD. Got out my Polish passport and 20USD. The guy didn't give me change - just a 3 month multiple entry visa. Then stood for 20 mınutes in a que. Reason: the dudes at the counters were a little slow with their computer skills. Got the guy to teach me how to say 'thanks' in Turkish.

So, it's 3 am, the airport is 18km from Kadıköy, Kadıköy is across the Bosfor strait from the centre and everything is probably closed anyway. I go to the ATM and get nothing - I'd used my imit for the day. I go to the exchange counter and give the dude 20Euro and ask him to re-teach me 'thank you'. He laughs at my attempt to speak Turkish. There's a 18AUD bus to the centre, but so what - what then?

I find a bench to sleep on. There's arm rails so I can only sit down. Two girls in hejab proceed to 'check me out'. Weird. Actually, the number of attractive women in Turkey is almost offensive.

Anyhow, I wake up at 5 am to the sound of cleaning equipment. Most of the lights are off. There's no planes until midday. The old guy opposite who was there 2 hours ago is still there, so I doze until 7 am and a brilliant sunrise breaking through the wall of glass overlooking the runway.

The dude who changed my money waves from the cafe. So I come and say 'hi', even though he speaks no English. Emrah, the cafe manager speaks English. There are no customers apart from a handful of peacekeepers flyıng to Afghanistan. About 7 young guys work the shift. In a few minutes they are giving me free coffee, asking about my non-existent girlfriend and playing me the latest Turkish MP3s off their flashy mobile phones.

At 9 am their shift ends and they offer to give me a lift to a bus stop. Soon, 5 of us are cruising through the outer burbs of Istanbul, techno pumping at full blast. Hills full of horrible 30 storey condominiums. Then 3 trees, 3 old men and 30 goats. Finally we fınd the bus at the stop and it ıs time to part.

The bus conductor is super friendly - helping everyone with their luggage, aiding the old to their seats. When I ask him where the Kadıköy ferry port is, he gently takes both of my hands in his and says something in Turkish.

The ferry across the Bosfor looks like it's about to sink. I have to jump across a 5o cm gap to get on. Great views of both sides of the city though.

Take a tram to Sultanahmet and get off to see the aforesaid mosque on one side, and the Aya Sofiya. Awesome. I find the youth hostel. The nutty owner, Ali, at first refuses to admit that he is the owner and proceeds to try to convince the equally nutty Australian, Rob that he is the owner. At 5 Euro per night - it's a true dive... everything fılthy with the exception of a new shower that has no hot water. Still, the Turkish ornamental tiles, a lıbrary (!) and a blaring TV with the latest Turkish video clıps make the place remarkably cozy.

A Bureaucratic Success

Getting traveller´s cheques in a town of 22, 000. I thought it might be a problem. But then I remembered I was in Germany, land of methodical efficiency and superfluous infrastructure. Walking into Sparkasse my hopes surged - glass ceiling, grand piano, abstract paintings, camp assistants with pink ties. An air of 21st century high tech chic: I´d bet they sent robots in to do the cleaning, or sprayed a cleaning enzyme through the air vents during the night.

Promptly, I was asked the dreaded question, "do you have an account with us?" and sent to Deutschebank across the road. Same problem. Went to Volksbank.

Great place. Upon hearing the words, "do you speak English?", the woman behind the desk freaked. Her worst nightmare had come true. In the end, she did a great job trying to help me, but unfortunately was powerless to get the travellers´ cheques.

Then I had an idea - a powerful weapon, given that bureaucrats don´t tend to have imagination - why don´t I offer to lodge my passport as a deposit, or ask if my aunt could order the cheques, given she had an account with the bank. Finally, my aunt had to go in person, twice, and have the money transferred from her account. Got the cheques at 9.00 this morning.

Two observations:

Banks in Germany try hard to exist for people. They are brightly lit, well designed, with comfy couches. If they were to go the way of the Collectingwealth Bank of Australia (down downsize lane), they´d turn into nightclubs. You don´t have to go to a counter to do business and there is none of the standard bulletproof glass/crate/speaker-microphone rubbish that seems to plague the majority of the Eastern Bloc´s banks, train stations, post offices, etc.

Banks in Germany are sensetive not to discriminate - each one will have an employee in either : a pink shirt, a purple shirt, a striped shirt, or a light blue tie. Seriously, what is it with camp guys working in banks?

Some Kind of Monster

Thinking about oneself. A very unhealthy habit. An attempt to end these undesirable thought patterns calls for a kind of exorcism of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in...

Comments about me:

Poland

Some guy in a bar who´d had 5 beers:
"When you have children and see yourself reflected in their eyes... then you´ll care about the future of humanity."

Uncle Miroslaw:
"What are you travelling for? People travel for business, or for academic purposes. You, you´re just wasting your money."

Uncle Andrzej:
"He spent the past year working his butt off in Japan, and now has a sufficiently individual personality to go and blow it in the following 12 months."

Gramps:
"Have you ever considered working for the police? No one would suspect you of being an undercover agent."
"I´m concerned about your appearance. You dress like a 16 year old. Someone at your age ought to have a little dignity."
"You look like you´re dying of unrequited love."

Gramps´ neighbour (within 5 minutes of having met me on the street):
"Your mother must be really beautiful."

Greece

Gregory:
"Let the crazy man be crazy."

Abi:
"You´re just living on another planet"
"It´s about time you realised you´re a little off track."

Nick:
"You´re like that kid in high school - we used to kick his arse on the playground."
"I wanna be on the planet you´re on."
"Why the fuck did you come and study teaching English when you should be writing the story you have inside you."

Comments about my (vegetarian) cooking:

Gramps: "It needs something." (reaching for a bottle of 30% cream).
Gregory: "It looks very good. Looks like meat."
Joel: "C´mon! It´s a potato - how bad can it smell!?"

The Vision Thing

I have come to the half-way mark - temporally and geographically. Five months behind me, five months ahead of me, and it´s the furthest to the West I will go this trip. Most significantly though, I hope that I have come half-way symbolically in the Jungian sense of the word.

Tourist is an ugly word. It conjures images of cameras, bumbags/fannypacks and crowds. At it´s worst, it´s the most socially acceptable form of voyeurism - a panoptical view into the existance of the Other - where each transaction is highly calculated and controlled. In exchange for capital, the package tourist is relieved of all concerns pertaining to their bodily needs and granted a license to reinforce his or her cultural stereotypes.

As much as I´d love to write myself out of that narrative, it is powerful through its very being. The convenience of not having to think, of having things come to you, is dreadfully seductive for someone as socially impaired and lazy as myself. The only solution is to reflect upon one´s failures, and to look up to the successes of others. Hence this entry on those who travel and/or blog better than I do.

First, there´s Brian: "Having quit my job and left my apartment, I left the U.S. (after one last binge of burgers and ice cream and movies)." That was in May 2002. I met Brian on the bus from Sofia (Bulgaria) to Skopje (Macedonia) - one of those rare incidents where I overcame my insecurities and started a conversation with a random stranger. It was certainly worth it.

I´d met Carl at Hostel Mostel the day before: "When are you getting up tomorrow? Please kick me in the head at 8 o´clock - I need to get the bus to Plovdiv." Thanks to Carl I went to Albania. His blog has been a treat since.

Then there´s Pat - a different kind of traveller: "The US - you love it or leave it." At around the age of 50, that is precisely what he did, moving for the second time to Japan. At the time I met him, he was one of the few people that made life at the pink bunny school of English bearable.

Finally, Col - one person who takes remarkable notice of what´s going on, and has a metaphor for everything. He tends to savour the places he goes, making the effort of living there when possible.

There are many others I could list. But the sum of their collective lesson seems to be twofold:

- Throw yourself into life, leaving your fear behind - don´t stand apart from it all.

- Make the effort to notice (and even note down) the details - from supermarket prices, to the rhythm of rain as it changes with the seasons - that is what makes existance beautiful and interesting.

Watching Der Himmel über Berlin (Wings of Desire) three years ago, I couldn´t empathise with Damiel, the angel who chooses to fall to earth. If there was an ideal state of being, then it would have been to float, observe, occasionally dipping in a hand to help. Now I can only regret how long it has taken me to pack my bags and begin to leave the Panopticon.

Red, black and gold

Germany seems different from my last extended visit in 2000. Maybe it´s the winter weather (with no snow), or the fact my cousins have grown up, or the electric organ being designated to a pile of junk in the basement... but everything seems bleaker than it was. I´m told the economy is the slowest-growing in all of Europe. Last night there was a fatal stabbing in town. People don´t feel safe.

We went for a Sunday drive in the nearby mountains. There was still snow on the ski slopes, and the whole region was swarming with sunday drivers. Some pretty towns along the way - old Tudor-esque houses, churches with variously-shaped steeples. But looking at numberplates you would have thought you were in the Neatherlands.

Krakow - Werl

Everything went according to schedule. Got up at 07:00, packed, popped some painkillers, ate breakfast, caught the bus.

In contrast to Greece, I had to go through passport control at the airport. I nervously eyed the sniffer dogs in the departure hall, as I was smuggling my Arool (5 month old Mongolian fermented camel cheese) across it´s 21st border, and also had some oscypki (Polish mountain sheep cheese) which were of dubious legality.

The plane ride sucked. The woman next to me couldn´t understand why she needed to put her hand luggage under her seat or in the overhead comparment. She couldn´t speak English or German, so I had to translate. The fact that the air hostess was a rude bitch and couldn´t understand that this woman couldn´t understand English or German didn´t help.

My aunt´s friend Genia picked me up from Dortmund airport. Soon enough I was in Werl. As my aunt is studying for a tooth implant exam, I spent the evening watching dental surgery videos. Really cool - they drill about 2 cm into the jawbone, then put a screw into the hole. All under local anaesthetic.

"Strewn with time´s dead flowers."

Got up feeling weird. 4 cups of tea didn´t help. 2 Australians on their way to Munich did.

"We´re leaving this vodka here. You can have it if you like. It´s really bad."

10am. Bad Hungarian vodka. Hmm... Two cups of coffee on top of that and I was ready to go.

Walked down to Wawel (The Royal Castle) in the snow and was shocked to find the place deserted. Last time I´d been there had been in 2000, with my late uncle. It had been difficult to walk through the throng, let alone sit down. The only time I´d been before that had been in 1986. I had vague memories of the Royal Cathedral and wanted to relive them. I´d never set foot inside the Royal Castle.

Thought I´d go to the Cathedral first. On the way in, I noticed 3 large bones hanging chained up next to the entrance. They looked super cool, and so I decided that a snug happy snap was in order. I loitered around the entrance until someone turned up. It happened to be an older Japanese woman. Rather odd, being in Poland and asking in Japanese to have a photo taken.

Next, a nutty nun appeared out of nowhere and started telling me about the bones. 2 mammoth bones and one whale rib... all dug up around Krakow. According to legend, should the bones fall, the end of the world will come. Then came this:

"Gdzie Pan znalazl taka fajna Pania?"

"Where did you find yourself such a nice lady."

I explained that I´d just met the woman. The nun wouldn´t believe me. She was sure we were an "item", despite the fact that the Japanese woman must have been over 50 (but being Japanese, looked 20 years younger).

Walking around the cathedral with the Japanese woman and trying to explain things was frustrating. My Japanese was never good, but now I realised that I had forgotten how to say some very basic things. Turns out that the reason that Chikako-san was alone, was that she hadn´t wanted to visit Auschwitz with her friends and came here instead. Anway, I was glad to be of the limited help that I was. After all, if it hadn´t been for me, then Chikako-san would not have seen the largest bell in Poland nor the royal crypts. All the signs in the cathedral are in Polish.

The cathedral isn´t particularly large, but it is very impressive - a mishmash of architectural styles, thanks to various private chapel add-ons. The air almost seems heavy thanks to the blanket of history - the sarcophagi of Poland´s most renowned kings, writers, generals and saints. If I had to pick one favourite thing, it would have to be the black cross under which the Queen Jadwiga used to pray. Her marriage with the Lithuanian prince Jagiello united Poland and Lithuania into one of Europe´s most powerful empires and led to the defeat of the Teutonic Knights at Grunwald in 1410.

I went to buy tickets for entry into the Royal Castle. One office was closed. In the other, the woman chatted for 5 minutes with her friend on the phone, before bothering to sell me the overpriced ticket.

Luckily, the castle wasn´t disappointing. While it´s not dripping with gold and isn´t cluttered with Roman statues and the like, this isn´t necessarily a bad thing. There are many fine tapestries and the ceilings are interesting. Perhaps there is such a thing as being regal without being obscene.

As a child, I´d always wanted to see the carved heads that adorn the throne room. Having walked in, I had difficulty locating them. Finally I looked up and they were all looking down at me from the ceiling. Freaky. Amongst the 30 heads there´s a woman with her mouth taped up, a guy with horns, and a Jewish merchant. Originally, there were almost 200. Then following the partition of Poland, the Austro-Hungarian Empire set up an army barracks in the castle and soldiers lit bonfires inside for fun. As a result most of the throne room carvings were destroyed. So much for Sobieski driving the Turks out from under Vienna in 1683.

No one knows why the king commissioned the heads. But as the models for the heads were ordinary people from around town, I´d imagine that this was an effort to bring the fate of common people to the forefront of nobles´ consciousness - an impressive gesture for the time.

The other wing of the castle was equally interesting, having burnt down in the reign of Zygmunt III Waza - the man with the coolest tomb in Wawel (on top of the sarcophagus there´s a wonderfully macabre skull and crossbone carving). Zygmunt was apparently heavily into alchemy and thanks to this, managed to burn down half the castle. The new rooms were completed in a baroque style. The walls are covered with Cordovan (wallpaper made from the skin of young animals). It was also Zygmunt who moved the capital of Poland to Warsaw.

Having gotted my dose of high culture for the day, I decided to complete the second half of my mission in Crakow. Freddie (Sofia, Bulgaria), had told me to ring up his friend Agnieszka and go drinking with her. So I did.

We went to some dingy bar that was full of local students. Hearing Pet Shop Boys and Bowie got enough sexual ambiguity happening to prompt me into drinking beer with raspberry cordial. Then Agnieszka´s roommate rocked up. Then some other friends. A few beers later we decided it was time to get up and dance, as the tone of the music went to bad Columbian dance tunes and electro-trash. 2 am and the DJ played Bauhaus´ "Bela Lugosi´s Dead". I decided it was time to go home. But according to Agnieszka, it was time to go to a party. Little did I know that the party was yet to be organised, and the people organising it could barely stand up. So I walked back to the hostel at 3 am.

The streets seemed surprisingly friendly at this time. Had random drunken strangers wishing me good night. But the Portugese guy in my dorm wasn´t so lucky, as he had a random drunk walk up to him at 1 am and punch him in the head.

Stargard Szczecinski - Krakow

We make it to the station at 06:05. I start bitching about the fact that the waiting hall has been repainted in grey.

"That way it won´t look dirty," is gramps´ explanation.

I get on the train at 06:17. The snow that melted yesterday is now forming ice on the platform.

It´s pretty empty. A young guy joins me in the compartment. He was going to study Computer Science, procrastinated and got drafted into the army. It´s his first day today and he´s going to be late. He´s been assigned to the base near Wroclaw, half way across the whole country. 3 months of training. No chance of getting time off to go home. Cold climate. Understandably, he´s pissed off.

Leszno. Paint peeling off the station walls. Security on the platform. The post office has been repainted in pink and yellow. The snow´s melted and the landscape is rather bleak. Some students get into the compartment. Two are wearing suits and studying for a maths test.

Skonce. Small town. Population of maybe 1000 here. An African woman lives opposite the station. Her whole house is covered in colourful clothes for sale.

Poznan. It could almost become a nice city with some effort. There are interesting old houses, but the greying plaster gives them a wholly derelict appearance. An old man in a fur hat with a bad leg gets into the carriage. He is short and hunched up, but his hands are twice the size of mine. He´s returning from his sister´s funeral. His son is working as a carpenter in Athens.

Oborniki Slaskie (Silesian Natural Ferteliser). What a name for a town! Does seem rather provincial. However, there´s graffiti of Bob Marley and the Dalai Lama saying, "Free Tibet."

Train stops in Wroclaw. Seems like eternity since I was last here. Seems unattractive in this weather. Grey.

Katowice is a disappointment. I was expecting stacks of chimneys, pipes, high rise flats. After all, in the mid 80s, a body of Japanese scientists declared that human life should not be able to survive in this area. Well, the heavy industry and flats are all here, but it´s spread out over a wide area. With snow covering this part of the country, it´s not as horrible as I´d hoped.

We pass some coal loading bays. Graffiti says: "Shoot a cop to kil!" Great political engagement. The rest of the graffiti in the area seems to involve soccer: "Jebac Wisle!" ("Kick the fuck out of Wisla [Warsaw soccer team]"). Truly pertinent sentiment, with unemployment at 20% and youth unemployment even higher than that.

Myslowice. What a hole! Half the people at the station are wearing tracksuits and drinking (I´d rather not know what). Everything is bolted up with wooden planks. On the outskirts half the houses have had windows "bolted up" with brick walls. Some guy walks down the carriage asking for money to cure his sick orphan brother.

Finally roll into Krakow. Had my ticket checked 4 times during the trip. Sat in a t-shirt and sweated for 8 hours as the compartment was overheated. The one good thing about the trip was the clean toilet, with running water, soap and toilet paper. Unfortunately the schematic diagram on the toilet wall had been ripped off. These are a gem... a detailed engineering diagram of the water supply system in the train toilet, present in most toilets on every train in Poland. Why? Surely, passengers can´t be expected to fix the plumbing themselves in the very likely event of the facilities not working...

Krakow is sludgey. I walk for half an hour trying to find the hostel I found on the net. I ask some people for directions. The hostel is full. I know another place though. I take a tram to the south of town, the Jewish district of Kazimiez. I ring the bell, nobody´s home. There´s a phone number. Nobody answers. I go back to the station, some people are handing out leaflets of youth hostels. I choose one.

On the way out of the station, an Irish guy walks up to me and recommends the place he stayed in last night. I help him buy the ticket to Budapest, as the woman in the ticket office speaks little English. Translating takes some time. At the end of it, she´s almost smiling (being a public servant working for state railways in an ex-eastern bloc country means that she can´t actually smile).

Ben and I go to have Chinese together. Turns out that Ben is a journalist. He´s been to Iraq recently and has some very interesting, original opinions about recent events.

I finally check into a hostel at 9pm, talk to a dude from Arizona and go to bed.