Andrew's Itchy Feet

The United Kingdom of Fantasy Worlds

2011-10-24T04:48:00.000+13:00

Edinburgh lived up to every expectation I may have entertained. It is grand, dark and seeping with the exquisite kind of energy that comes from an aged, stone city. I was delighted that I could walk for hours around this charming city, finding always one more dingy little alley or nook and always one more graveyard or gothic monument. The Scottish were good at 'grand'.

I visited The Elephant House, one of the cafes in which JK Rowling penned Harry Potter. Sitting in the back and gazing out the window (above), I would easily imagine her vision of Hogwarts creeping to life. However trite, I enjoyed my own writing sessions there, confident in the creative vibe to work its own magic for me.

After only two nights with the delightful company of a kind host, I flew down to London where I was able to reunite with a great many familiar faces, both local and antipodean. Unfortunately, the UK has been doing to my budget what bulls do to china shops. Anyone need to buy a kidney? After seeing a tear-inducing performance from James Earl Jones and Vanessa Redgrave in Driving Miss Daisy, I took a train to Exeter where I connected with a local bus into Dartmoor.

From Moretonhampstead I wandered up toward the high moors and was given a lift all the way to the Bellever backpackers. Before the light faded, I lay down on the medieval bridge that has long since been defeated by floods, contemplating the centuries past when people had walked over those stones.

The next morning I slowly made my way down from the high moors through tracts of forest and along riverside paths. When the sky turned to charcoal and rain fell, I took to the shelter of trees from which flowing lichen hung like the beards of old men.

After I made my way back onto roads, I was picked up by a woman who drove me to Ashburton on the south-east edge of Dartmoor. I went into a cafe for a coffee and heard Fat Freddy's Drop playing (NZ band). Random. I visited the ruined Holy Trinity church in the neighbouring town of Buckfastleigh and stayed the night with some kind couchsurfing hosts.

The next day my progress was slow. I walked and hitch-hiked in steady northward increments, stopping off in the tiny villages that dot the landscape, laced together with paths that have been trod for countless centuries.

I was dropped off in Chagford by a man who proudly told me about his ancestor who went to New Zealand and helped produce the "Waitangi Declaration that ended the wars with the Maoris". I smiled woodenly, cringing and thinking, "Do you know how many things are wrong with that sentence?" I was next picked up by a woman in whose car was playing Fat Freddy's Drop. Starting to get creepy. She offered me hospitality in a writer's retreat on their farm that I might enjoy some other time.

The next ride was from a novellist who dropped me off near Gidleigh, technically closer to my destination but on back roads rarely frequented by traffic. As the day grew darker and the sun crept lower, I wondered if I would spend my evening trudging frozen along deserted country roads. While that thought was mildly exciting in itself, I was nonetheless relieved when a man picked me up and drove me to Okehampton at the north of Dartmoor. Thanks to low season, I had a lodge in Bracken Tor all to myself for only £19. Talk about value for money!

I am in London now, sitting in Abney Park, an overgrown gothic cemetery (below). Fat squirrels clamber in the trees while another fossicks in the ivy that swarms over the graves next to me. No... wait. It's a rat. Even better. And a crow caws raucously as it flies overhead. I think someone's in heaven...

I am near the end of my trip now and this might be my last post. I suspect I have already reached the end of picturesque places to report. Only time will tell. Soon I will arrive back in Wellington to see how my writing benefits from the creative inspiration of recent weeks. The state of my trilogy: The Ethereal Hand is in review. The Wolves of Gravedeep faces editing and polishing. Rowan Moon is waxing slowly. In the next year I promise to have more than talk to offer.

From Estonia to Edinburgh

2011-10-09T23:30:00.000+13:00

There is something magic about Tallinn. My last visit was in winter 2008 and now that the air was fresh with autumn, I found it much easier to explore and enjoy. Estonia was one of the countries that became a battleground for the converging forces of Nazis and Soviets in WW2. However, the Old Town remains charming and atmospheric. In an unexpected twist, I ended up staying in a hostel called The Flying Kiwi Backpackers, run by a lovely New Zealand girl called Jen. It was located right in the Old Town, just down from the location of the following photo. I found a tree that I loved, who despite being quite healthy, has been trampled upon daily by hordes of photo-snapping tourists. I approached with a little more respect than most, but found its branches quite conducive to relaxation and creativity, so I availed myself on a number of occasions.
The following two days involved a night spent in Tartu, Estonia's university city and a night in Riga, the capital of Latvia (below). I had intended to go to Lithuania the next day, but plans were changed on me and I decided that I was tired of surviving and drifting from city to city. After a number of weeks it does wear down one's emotional reserves. So I booked an expensive flight with Norwegian Air to Oslo (despite paying more than I have ever paid for such a short flight, I couldn't even get water on the plane and the seats might as well have been designed to exacerbate back pain). But Peter awaited in Oslo, with the relaxation and security that comes from staying with a friend, and it was just what I craved. Norway is, however, unbelievably expensive and it curtailed my experience slightly. On the morning of my departure it cost me 30 Euros to get to the airport, but the journey was worthwhile regardless of any cost, for it brought me to Edinburgh, my city of choice if I ever lived in the UK again. More to come on this magical place...

Baltic bliss

2011-10-05T02:21:00.011+13:00

On the north coast of Poland is situated the once-German city of Gdansk (Danzig). In its satellite resort town of Sopot, I stayed for five nights with Slaven, a friend I met in Prague last year. Our first excursion was to the Stutthof concentration camp. A military re-enactment was taking place on the road to the camp and some soldiers fired their machine-gun at us when we drove past. Regardless of the fact that they were blanks, the noise and flamebursts from the guns still make you scream like a little girl when someone aims it at your face! While it was not even a death camp, I still found it very difficult to walk through at times. The capacity of humanity for cruelty is both sobering and distressing to behold.My favourite spot in Gdansk was Mariacka street and I got up at 6am one morning to take the train in and enjoy the sunrise while no one was around to ruin the moment. It looks a little Harry-Potterish. A two-hour drive over dubious roads took us to a national park in the north west. We were joined on our walk through the swampy forests by a number of deer and about five billion hungry mosquitoes. The travelling sand dune cut suddenly into the forest with a blunt delineation so we climbed and walked all the rest of the way to the beach. Evidently, Slaven is less concerned about getting sand lodged in orifices. Orifi? On my day of departure we were delayed by visitors and a traffic jam so that I arrived at the airport with 30 minutes before my flight. The check-in was closed and I was denied boarding at the gate, which began a panicked dash around the airport to remedy my predicament. Ultimately I was escorted onto the runway where I sprinted with a bladder the size of a watermelon to my awaiting plane. I was the last one on. In Helsinki I was tended to by Riikka, a woman I worked with in London. Finns are so organised and efficient that the cemetery was sadly extremely boring. No age whatsoever. 150 year old graves looked like they'd been erected 20 years ago. However, hand-feeding the red squirrels and finches considerably redeemed the experience. My stay was brief (only two nights) by I spent my last morning in complete heaven, exploring the island of Suonenlinnen. The ruined fortress there is riddled with tunnels and dungeons, through which I explored with boyish ecstasy. Some were so dark I could see nothing but the garish glow of my lighter as I stumbled forward through the dripping passages. I felt like Steerpike exploring forgotten corners of Gormenghast. But there is never time to linger and I left before noon to catch a ferry over the sea to the Estonian capital of Tallinn...

The One With All The Polish Cemeteries

2011-09-25T06:36:00.014+13:00

After a lovely weekend in the north of Czech with a friend I met last year, I went north into Germany. Suddenly everything was manicured, orderly and in a state of well-managed productivity. Funny that. The German trains to Wroclaw were disappointing. I do not travel Europe to enjoy modern luxury. I want shabby ex-Communist decrepitude. I want to see the train tracks rushing by at the bottom of the toilet. Luckily, once I got into the Polish train system my prayers were answered. Memo to self... bring hand sanitiser next time.The is an austerity in the Poles, but also great warmth and hospitality. I have found this often depends on whether or not they speak English. If all else fails... "I'm sorry, I'm from New Zealand. I don't understand... anything." Wide, innocent eyes. Good little Baptist boy's face. Playful smile. Gets them every time.However, I had an unpleasant exchange with one man in a park after I picked up the rubbish he callously threw on the grass. He sneered and jeered. I snapped at him and took it to a bin. That's me... travelling the world, meeting new people and telling them off.Funnily enough, the many nuns in Poland look like angry men. Conversely, I have seen a couple of very yummy monks. My first major stop in Poland was Krakow, a gem of a city that I wish I had given more than three nights. Finding the Rakowice cemetery after stretches of busy roads and traffic was like waking up from a bad dream into a bright new day. Of course, my bright new day is grey, melancholy and full of dead people.The morning of my departure, I visited the Jewish Cemetery. If I thought the previous cemetery was delightful, I was now in heaven. Great care was required to avoid walking through the giant spiderwebs that stretched between the graves and trees. Some were finely spun and shivered like silk. Others were two or three metres wide and supported by strands that were as thick as nylon cord. Many contained juicy, beautiful spiders. Suffice it to say, I came out of the cemetery draped with liberal quantities of spider webs. Edgar Allan Poe eat your heart out.I did not love Warsaw (the best sight of which is below) and little needs to be said about it. I did like the fact that a hostel's error enabled me to book a dorm room for ONE EURO for the night. The next morning I visited the Jewish Cemetery and wandered around for an hour. Why do I not plan my trip around cemeteries? They are the only experiences that never fail to delight.I then rushed to the train station to join hundreds of nervous passengers on the platform. The train was delayed, and though trains sounded around us through the everpresent din of construction, our train still would not arrive. Everyone could hear trains, but nothing was coming. It was like a bad dream. Eventually I was in a cabin with two Poles, the cross-eyed one of whom was tirading passionately to his unwilling listener. Where's a muffliatus charm when you need one? Oh that's right... in that awesome world where I have a wand and I can make people do what I think they should. Let's face it... I'd probably be a Death Eater.

The Dark Tower

2011-09-17T19:00:00.014+12:00

In Brno I went to a cave in the countryside with an old friend and lit a fire at its mouth. I walked inside the cave and felt unwelcome, as though the earth wanted to expel me. Later when I told Matej of my experience, he said, "Did you ask her first?" I am such a fool. I know better than this. Our stories are full of people who fare ill for entering sacred places without asking permission or being invited. I observe this when going into a special forest or before climbing a tree in which I sense a certain Life. How stupid of me to forget this time...After discovering the indescribable fun of peeing on live embers, we set off in the moon-dappled forest. I found myself choosing the right forks in the road by mindless instinct and so we trod in single file through trees that blazed with silver and shone with highlights on every leaf.
Strange footfalls sounded in the forest around us and we almost fell afoul of a snake on the path who shimmered silver in the moonlight and disappeared into the grass. For several minutes at a time I would stand still and gaze dumbly into the dazzling full moon. It is like looking into the eye of the universe and I understand how people become moonstruck. Upon reaching the village, we watched our moon shadows do battle with our streetlight shadows until we eventually lost ourselves in moonlit fields and arrived at a cottage in the valley to rest.
I met my couchsurfing host Martin the next day in Prague beneath the arse of a great bronze horse. He drove me north to the ruins of a tower that stood out in the countryside like a fairy tale feature. The path that circled up the hill was littered with wild pears, apples and plums that I gathered into my bag though nettles burned my legs and hands. We gorged ourselves and continued to the top where the custodian was locking the gates. An animated discussion took place between her and Martin after which she shooed us through and locked us inside. Apparently she said, "You never saw me. I never saw you. And I'm only doing this because he is from New Zealand." Ah ha! The antipodean charm strikes again.To say that the ruins of the dark tower of Hazmburk are dramatic is like saying that dead people are laid back. Climbing up the jagged rocks at the back of the tower was like stealing my way up a witch's stair. The entire experience was intoxicting - not to mention the view alone - however upon returning to the car we were greeted with 'the turd in the pool'. The back window was smashed and all his valuable documents and IDs were stolen. I spent the new while sitting outside a police station in a tiny Czech village, feeling nervously responsible for something that never would have happened without me.The next morning I set off with freshly charged technology and a new layer of sunscreen. In the metro I watched a pair of super-sized teenagers with hickeys on their necks conduct a thorough search for each other's tonsils. It was horrific and yet oddly mesmerising, like watching Armageddon wipe out those people you don't like.I paid a surprising amount to visit the Old Jewish Cemetery and found something other than what I expected. There was no quaint old resting place, only an outdoors museum in which tourists circumnavigated the graves in a strict anterior circle with no place even to sit and enjoy the mood. I thought, "I got drunk on burčák for this?" (the autumnal fermenting grape juice sold direct from the vineyard). So I moved a barrier and made a place to sit. NZ$25 and no opportunity to sit down and write a postcard? I think not.I adore Prague and it is one of my favourite cities ever, but I found it draining my energy after a while. There is a shadow in the capital of Czech that now and then nipped at my heels.

Ghosts and sun-baked stones

2011-09-12T06:24:00.000+12:00

After an odious two hour wait at London Gatwick airport, I saw some old friends and made it to the British Library for an exhibition on the life and art of Gormenghast's creator, Mervyn Peake. It didn't take long for my Londonrage to return. Crowds and crowds of slow-walking, bumbling gits who - as you can imagine - bring out all that is Christlike and humanitarian in my soul. I would like to recommend for sterilisation any middle-aged adults travelling in packs and all wearing identical printed t-shirts to commemorate their petty celebrations. Sadly, given their age, it is likely that sterilisation would come too late.
Jetlagged beyond belief and incapable of sleeping, I got up at 2.30am on Saturday morning for my early flight to Slovakia's capital, Bratislava. My favourite place in this city is often referred to as 'the shame of Bratislava'. The collapsing ruins around this courtyard are condemned and quite forbidden. The first time I came to Slovakia two years ago the gates were wide open. The second time I found it all locked up, but much like a vampire, I refuse to take no for an answer once I have been invited a first time. So I jumped a fence, scaled a trellis and climbed through a window. But they've wised up to that too and boarded up all alternative entries. I was faced with quite the challenge, but no place is impregnable and I missed a lucrative calling as a cat burglar. So this time I was forced to climb the front metal fence and jump three rows of barbed wire. I was forced.

I climbed to the top of my favourite building in the complex (above) and found not only my charming alcove, but the remains of some poor tourist's rucksack. Clothes were strewn about and some garments had been hung up to look like a corpse hanging from a noose. I stretched out on a wooden crate and slept blissfully for two hours, except for a moment halfway through when I woke with the unmistakable sensation of two hands in a stranglehold around my neck. I felt sleepy and weak and knew I could not fight them off, but slowly I realised it was just a nightmare slipping through into the light of day. I have never experienced such a thing and it makes me wonder what has happened in that place before...

I roamed further until I found a stair blocked menacingly with a chair and a door. I had found them. I walked up into their lair which was guarded with tangles of wire. One room was covered in a thick layer of clothes, rubbish and luggage. They steal from unwary tourists, destroying and befouling wherever they park their parasitic lives. What would you do with such vermin?
So I jumped down from their window, dusted myself off and walked innocently to the station for a train to Vienna. My dear friend Michael has always made me feel at home when I visit this fair city and after a much needed night of sleep, we walked around the Imperial Palace gardens (below) in the blazing midday sun.

During the day, the stones of the city soak up the sun and then leach it out into the evening. Long after the moon is the only light, the stones are happily radiating heat from every surface.

Under a moody Monday sky, I climbed aboard my grey chariot and set course for the Czech Republic...

A new adventure begins...

2011-09-08T07:29:00.008+12:00

I began my trip before dark and was enjoying some fresh air and an apple outside the airport when I saw a bat headed straight for me. I was delighted. What more auspicious omen could I have for my journey than the overpassing of a bat? Of course it turned out to just be a seagull, but I shall remember it as
a bat.

Despite a deathly attack of oxygen deprivation on my first flight (delirium, cold sweats, nausea… super fun) all went smoothly and it only took three whole days to get over my jetlag. Apparently I just missed a heat wave, for which I am insanely grateful. Much like a moss, I prefer cool, damp and shady conditions. There is little to be said about my week in Los Angeles except that I had a wonderful time with my dear friend and muse, Alexandra. However, I did cause a mild disturbance at the Farmer's Market in the Grove when I was waiting outside the toilets for my friend to come out. Men started lining up behind me and it took me a while to realise that I had inadvertently started a queue. They were super impressed when I announced that I was just standing there and that they did not need to wait to go in. To be fair, I didn't tell anyone to stand behind me and if they choose to behave like sheep, it is not my fault.

Sufficiently relaxed and still relatively overwhelmed by the heat, I flew to Buffalo, the city by Niagara Falls. At the airport I opted for a pat-down instead of a 'naked scan'. I would rather be groped than scanned. I was treated to warm hospitality by a couchsurfing host and the next day set off for Toronto.

In Toronto I walked until my feet were blistered and saved my friend from a mouse that had journeyed far around the Circle of Life. I do love this city. Squirrels that dash over the power lines and trees, more classic, old houses than you could shake a stick at, and where else would I ever see a bookish Korean girl zooming along the street on a skateboard?
I promise this will all become more entertaining (and visually picturesque) once I start back-packing around Europe. (Begins tomorrow). Stay tuned, and don't forget to floss.

An American Epilogue

2010-07-02T08:43:00.000+12:00

The day I left London, I said my last goodbye (for now) to Peter, who has been both generous and fabulous. Are there two better adjectives ever used in praise? I have heard them not.Arriving later at Heathrow than I planned I was forced to quibble over luggage and pay a 30 pound fine for overweight luggage. How about my extra ten kgs doesn't matter because you didn't charge that guy in front of me with an extra 40 kgs around his waist? It's a cruel world. So it was time to buy a bottle of water, squeeze past that same guy who is now blocking the candy aisle, and go to my boarding gate. My gate was at the farthest reaches of Heathrow's labyrinthine extensions. Near the end I started to see goblins and fairies and I think at one point, David Bowie.

My first stop was San Francisco (above). Ask the average American what San Francisco means to them, and they'll probably say "Gays and weed". And to be fair, there are liberal quantities of both. There are also a lot of homeless people. And crazy people. And crazy homeless people. I really wanted to teach them about the importance of SPF. They would go to sleep on the footpath with their faces unprotected from the mid-day sun and it's no wonder they all look twenty years older than they really are. Someone needs to start handing out free sunscreen because being homeless is no excuse to stop looking after your skin.

My next stop was Reno. There is little to say about the city itself except that it is a poor man's Las Vegas. However, Brooke lives there, so I have gladly visited a number of times. One afternoon we drove up through hours of arid lands and Native American reservations to Black Rock Desert. In this huge tract of barren, cracked dust, the silence is like a blanket. Brooke and I shouted to each other but the sound was swallowed by the vast nothing around us. In such a naked environment, there was nothing to do except become naked ourselves. So we took off all our clothes, and I went to write while Brooke did yoga. It was hedonistically sublime.

Much of my travel between cities relied on greyhound buses. You might recall that someone was beheaded on a greyhound two years ago. On one ride, a greasy little man with his rubbish-bag of belongings was kicked off for smoking in the toilet. He clearly thought that he was still south of the border. On another, I was forced to stand up and loudly rebuke two crass young men for inflicting their explicit conversation upon the entire bus. I was less concerned about the content than I was about the volume. "Inside voices, children."

In Los Angeles I divided my time between West Hollywood and Long Beach in the south. Not much can be relayed about this time except that I caught up with some wonderful old friends and was treated to the warmest hospitality that money can't buy. Oh... and Orlando Bloom? Not so hot in person.

This brings me suddenly and wistfully to the end of this blog. My travels have been over for more than a month. I have delayed so long in writing this post because it seemed like the final nail in the coffin of this wonderful adventure. I have a good job at Wellington hospital and am about to move into the most lovely old room. I think I will be happy. For now...

Wild wandering and stage dancing

2010-04-13T11:45:00.012+12:00

I flew from Portugal to London for a final farewell. I saw Hairspray one last time - and one only - for I feared my obsession with a certain member of the cast would reach unmanageable levels. To break my addiction, I forbade myself from attending its last show and used the time for travel to Exeter.The next morning another bus took me to Chagford in the lands of Dartmoor. I set off with my map and walked for hours through forests and farmland. I had two perilous river crossing and was accompanied by a gentle rain that never ceased. On occasion I was mobbed by animals. The sheep would charge at me, only to fall in behind and follow me across the field. Even the horses galloped up for a curious greeting.By the end of the day I had a ten mile hike over the high moors ahead of me, but a tractor drove past and told me to jump on. I hopped onto the open trailer, clung for dear life to the massive hay pellet and cowered beneath my flapping umbrella. Soaked and exhilerated, I was dropped off in Postbridge, where another woman stopped quite of her own volition and drove me to my hostel in Bellever. In the silent heart of Dartmoor I spent two nights, and on the day between I wandered the lands around. I was almost blown off the moors, buffetted by relentless hail and snow. The wind was so contrary that I spit in my own eye and was forced to turn around and blink madly into the slicing storm to purge my eye clean. Nature is so romantic.I revisited my beloved Wick Wood (above) but could not find the old oak I met last time. It was altogether a wet and slippery experience, not so conducive to lying down and bonding with the trees.Fields that should have been easy to traverse became flowing marshland, awash with stormwater. I discovered some ruins along the way and narrowly avoided drowning on the way back to the hostel.My third day began in a white-washed scene. Veils of snow rippled across the countryside and I was in heaven. Eventually I left the high moors and was picked up by a handsome local who began talking about the sinister side of Dartmoor. There was a church up on the hill in Buckfastleigh where the evil Richard Cabell was buried in 1677 (or eternally imprisoned) that was burned down nearly twenty years ago. This driver believed that witchcraft lay behind the arson attack so I had to go and investigate. Shortly after a woman picked me up and took me all the way to the church, telling me of ghostly encounters she heard of, which she took with a degree of seriousness.The townsfolk in my story of Dartmoor are very superstitious and take seriously the supernatural. I am pleased to learn that this will require no exaggeration from the truth. Prior to the church's demonic demise, it looked just the way I imagined the chapel on a hill in my story.
Back in London I saw Love Never Dies, the sequel to The Phantom of the Opera. It was well-intended and lavishly produced. Shame about the story and and the music.
A few nights later I went to see HAIR with a three friends. It was the recently opened Broadway cast and they were all sexy and fantastic. We were pulled onstage at the end (from the Grand Circle, I might add!) and we danced madly with the cast and some other revellers until the sun shone in. It was the most ecstatic end I could ever wish for my final night in London.

Exiting through Western Europe

2010-03-26T05:52:00.000+13:00

Back in the Slovak capital of Bratislava, I returned to the ruined courtyard that delighted me in September. The gates were padlocked, but it was a minor setback. I jumped over a nearby iron fence into a dank and narrow alley, scaled a wire mesh that leaned against a wall and then climbed through one of the empty windows into the buildings I wished to explore. Though a cold wind blew, I roamed around the shabby, decaying structures until my heart was full and my desire for ghosts was sated.

That next day I arrived in Barcelona. Unlike my ill-fated visit in 2006, I really enjoyed myself this time. The weather was sufficiently warm that I liberated myself from my wintercoat and gave it to the first homeless man I saw.

You have to love a country where you can order a vegetarian sandwich that comes to you with tuna inside. It is also the kind of place where everyone smokes. Everyone and everywhere. Thankfully, I was staying with my friend Miguel, a dancer, whose friends are so attractive that they made smoking look glamourous.
I didn't bother revisiting the typical tourist destinations like the Sagrada Familia. I am not the hugest fan of its clashing styles and the only thing I enjoyed is that it looks like Atlantica from The Little Mermaid.

On my last afternoon there we went to the Garden of the Labyrinth. The maze actually provided me with quite a challenge, trying to find the centre. Through dangers untold and hardships un-numbered, I fought my way to the ... wait, that's something else...

I like being a white anglo-saxon protestant from New Zealand. It's about the lowest risk stereotype imaginable. In the lovely Barcelona airport no one even asked to see my passport, and in Lisbon, they looked but asked nothing. I breeze through most airports because someone this white and bookish and from New Zealand must be the most harmless and innocent of all. Positive racial profiling. Maybe it's not right, but I might as well enjoy it.
In Lisbon I found the Portuguese to be even more laid back. There is a cafe every two steps and the espresso is cheaper than water. Like the Spanish, they all smoke, and socialising through the night is normal behaviour. The motto is 'Never do today what could be put off until tomorrow'. My couchsurfing host was incredibly kind and helpful, and for five days I enjoyed wandering around Lisbon, a truly beautiful city. I sat for hours by a pond full of loud, singing frogs, while the ruined Carmo Convent on the hill (above and below) was the ultimate creative inspiration.

Crazy Bag Lady

2010-02-28T12:47:00.013+13:00

One of the benefits of back-packing is that when people are being rude or pushing past me, I can accidentally hit them with my hefty bag and it's their fault. Oops!! I am, however, growing tired of being a crazy bag lady. When I came to Europe I wanted to tire myself of travelling so I could return to New Zealand having got it properly out of my system. I think by the time I am done, this task will be achieved!

Still, there are moments of delight, such as in Zagreb when a woman in the train station bakery fell over while giving me change. I do not understand what she tripped over - for she was standing still at the time - but she almost face-planted into the counter.

From Zagreb I went down into Istra, the part of Croatia that was confiscated from Italy after 1945. My favourite location (as last time) was Dvigrad, a ruined village that was wiped out by the Black Plague many centuries ago. Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever heard? I was in heaven...

After Croatia I went up to Berlin (below), which in accordance with the reviews of many others, left me quite unmoved. I left after one day, taking the train through Dresden to Zittau where I found an abandoned building. Naturally it was condemned and verboten, so you can imagine how much I enjoyed going in.

After sating my desire for exploration, I walked across the borders into Poland and then Czech. I spent two nights in Liberec where it snowed copious quantities, dropping the temperature down to midwinter levels again.

A weekend in Brno graced with some of my favourite people envigorated me in time for another several days in sweet, dreary Budapest. When it snowed again I visited the legendary Syechenyi baths. The main pool is open to the sky so I sat at the edge, writing in my journal. They probably thought I was a freak, but I take that as a compliment in most parts of the world.

Naturally there was a complement of Italian youths, collectively marking their territory by each trying to make the most noise. It's like vocal urination, and would bother me less if I thought they weren't probably indulging in the other kind simultaneously.

A Hitch Hiker's Guide to Getting Sick in Beautiful Places

2010-02-28T12:04:00.000+13:00

18th February 2010

It is dusk in Salzburg and I am writing from a hill that I reached by tantalising flights of narrow, winding stairs. The church bells are singing over the river and echoing back and forth between the cliffs that fracture the town. No... wait... that's an ambulance siren.

Okay now it's bells again.

I must retrace my steps for you. After a few days in the elegant Vienna, I hitch hiked west to Salzburg. I was rescued from the freezing side of the highway by a kind Chechnyan man who spoke no English, but shared generously his lunch with me and drove me all the way to my destination. I speak no German, but we discovered a fair number of words that sound the same in both languages. With those and sign language he explained that a Russian tank had bombed his home in Chechnya, with a large shrapnel scar on his arm was as a potent visual aid. He dropped me in Mondsee and I headed for the basilica where Maria married the Captain in The Sound of Music. I wanted to buy some more of the delicious incense that I purchased in Nov '08. It's like ticking something off your shopping list, but instead of going to a particular store, you have to go to a particular Austrian country town.

Sufficiently later...

After my night in the hometown of Mozart I started even earlier for Innsbruck. I spent more hours than I care to recall in a hole of a town over the border into Bavaria, but by the end of the long and freezing day, I got a ride all the way past Innsbruck into Italy. I ended up in South Tyrol - the mountain state of Italy where German and Italian are dually spoken - and the beautiful town of Merano.

For a while I had wanted to visit Merano solely because it where the first act of Chess (my favourite musical) takes place. As pilgrimages go, it is among my dorkier ones and I love it.

It was bittersweet to visit such a special place in the barrenness of winter, something like visiting a distant loved one only to find them in a coma. But the air is clean and the mountains majestic, even if I ended up with a cold from hitch hiking. It was not surprising, but bitterly ironic that I would spend my time in a healthy resort town being sick and sniffly. At my host's advice, I refrained from visiting the thermal spa, an experience that I had looked forward to with iconic anticipation. I shall simply have to visit again.

After wandering down through Trento I spent an afternoon in Verona. Romeo and Juliet is one of my least favourite Shakespeare plays so I was not greatly desirous of a romantic Verona experience, and sadly my time there was tainted by fruitless searching for accommodation and a bladder than nearly went super nova. But I spent a lovely night in Vicenza and had a deliciously sombre stroll the following day around Venice.

What could be more melancholy than Venice in winter? A cemetery in Venice in winter. Naturally, it was my first destination.After a brief seaside stop in Trieste (above) I ended up in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. My couchsurfing host was the kindest, most generous fellow I could hope to meet. He was determined to give me the best experience possible in my fleeting visit, and in doing so he raised the bar for my future hosting experiences. From Ljubljana I took the train to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. It was six years since I spent time there, but I headed immediately for the place I remember the most fondly: Mirogoj cemetery. Its silent pathways and moss-coated crypts are sweeter to me than any city, for ghosts make better muses than people.

Welcome to Eastern Europe

2010-02-16T21:06:00.000+13:00

The winter is so cold that I cannot even get my pores to open in a hot bath, but the adversity it provides is like a flint upon which to strike and spark. As I have said before, there are faces that Europe only shows when the weather is deadly. Prague is a delightfully dark city, as you can see from the evil tower above that resembles my dream home, and the hanging statue of a man sitting on a dead horse. Maybe he has been flogging it.

I write this on the second floor of an ancient building that reeks of shabby, decaying splendour. An East German man with blond dreadlocks down to his waist is playing the didgeridoo on the couch while I watch the silent, ceaseless snowfall. On the street below is the cafe where I just drank so much coffee that the waitress expressed concern for my well-being. Seriously though, if you are ever in Brno, go to Transistor cafe on Bayerova and try the Espresso Torrone. One is never enough.

I don't know what this 1960s art-piece in Litomysl represents, but it looked like a bird feeder for the Ringwraiths.

There have been many occasions in which I have thought to myself, "Andrew, you're not in Kansas anymore."

...a coffee date with a stunning Olympic decathlete...

...staying in a flat with six East European guys, which means I end up on my hands and knees all the time, cleaning the apartment...

...scrubbing sulphuric acid out of the floor boards when one of the flatmates decides to store his car battery in a rucksack in the wardrobe...

Welcome to Eastern Europe.

Graveyards and Hairspray

2010-02-03T23:00:00.000+13:00

Some unusually frigid weather of late has treated us to bursts of snow. Under such romantic conditions, I could not resist the allure of Abney Park Cemetery - my favourite place in this city. I would very much like to live in this chapel.

Lately I have been observing the frenetic finger movements of people playing games on their iPhones and I predict a whole new kind of repetitive strain injury that will emerge. They will call it iPain. I think I already have it, just from watching them.

In order to exploit my expiring theatre opportunities, I went to see A Cat On A Hot Tin Roof starring James Earl Jones and Phylica Rashad (above). I also saw the ballet of The Snow Queen that I had just missed when I arrived two years ago and Matthew Bourne's powerful and sumptuous Swan Lake (below).

I saw Hairspray for the first time on stage in 2008. I went again last week and was blown away by the cast. Well, the young cast at least. Belinda Carlisle is playing Velma von Tussle and although I will always love her for 'Heaven is a Place on Earth', she is so full of Botox that her happy, sad and angry faces all look exactly the same. I too dislike the lines on my forehead that are settling in for the long haul, but I could never rid myself of the ability to emote.

After such unadulterated fun, I went to see it again two days later... and to abort a lengthy explanation, I have now seen it four times in one week. It induces all the same feelings as being in love, which is the perfect climax before I leave. Such experiences are the reason why I came here. Also, I may or may not have developed a mild infatuation with one of the cast members, but that's just a sidenote... It is Wednesday morning now, one day before I fly to Prague. I'm very organised and have done almost all my packing and shifting. I would have time to go to Hairspray again tonight. Although to be fair, if I go one more time I think the cast will be taking restraining orders out against me. It would be so easy though. But I must not. I will not. I will not tell my supervisor that I'm going to the Farmer's Market while I race along to the Shaftesbury Theatre to get another ticket for my last night. Will not. But could.

okayIgottarunbye!

A Festive Tour of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy

2010-01-15T05:25:00.000+13:00

I know that technically it does not exist anymore, but let's not split hairs. For the first time in my life, I spent Christmas Day without seeing another human being. It was bliss. I would love it if all my Christmases were spent this way. On Boxing Day I flew to elegant Vienna to spend the night with a friend before taking the bus up into the Czech Republic. I alighted in Brno (above) and spent a few days enjoying the snow that fell on a city quieter and quainter than London.
Two days before New Year's, I went to Budapest with Matej. In a cost-cutting measure I half regretted, we stayed in a hostel on the outskirts of the city, not far from the bus station. 'Not far from the bus station' is never an claim to be proud of. The hostel was truly squalid, and the Chinese owners spoke neither English nor Hungarian so our introduction to the establishment was conducted largely in sign language.

New Year's Eve saw me feeling rather ill, so I spent the evening lying on the tiny bed in our tiny room, listening to the swarthy man next door beating the daylights out of his girlfriend. Happy New Year to me. I made my resolution while in that helpless position that the following New Year will see me stronger and healthier.
Fortunately, this third visit to the capital of Hungary coincided with my friend Kelsey who was visiting her boyfriend Ali (above).

While Matej luxuriated in the famous spas on New Year's Day, I wandered around the city and met a man I fell in love with. I do not know who he is, what he is writing, or why he is forever trapped in such a melancholy repose, but I recognised him instantly as a muse to writers. While the loud Italian tourists lined up to pose provocatively in his lap for photographs, I stood in silent admiration. When they had thinned, I walked up to him and reverently touched my palm to the nib of his pen. It means nothing to the thousands to rub it mindlessly for good luck, but to me he conferred the creative blessing that remains available only to those who know how to ask.

I spent a great many hours wandering around the city by the time we left on the 2nd of January. I was greatly relieved to walk away from that hostel, the smell of which lingered long after its offensive visuals had faded in my short term memory.

We spent a final night in Vienna again, then I took the train into Slovakia and flew out from Bratislava. I got home at 3am, ready to start the new year of work with a whimper and a slump.

It is now the day before my birthday and I am about to increase my age by another meaningless increment. I've already passed the 30 milestone. It doesn't phase me. But if someone can show me how to inject fat from my buttocks into my forehead, I'd be most grateful.

The Andrew Diet of Leaves, Air and Imagination

2009-11-17T22:45:00.000+13:00

Such is the nature of my lyfestile, as coined by a brilliant fellow named Christopher who I've come to know in London. Slightly concerned by my emaciated state, he invited me around in the weekend for a proper gastric stuffing and large dollopings of blood and vengeance in the form of Sweeney Todd.

Speaking of appetites, this beautiful big spider started building a web in my window recently. He was a little too large for comfort, so I put him in the back yard. Two days later I came home late at night to find that he had climbed back up two stories to my wide-open window and was building a large circular web. At that point I didn't have the heart to destroy his work and I respect the effort so much that I simply layered up for the night and left the window open. He stayed there for two days before I escorted him to the FAR end of the back yard this time.

As part of my literary pilgrimage series, I visited Oxford recently and hunted down the grave of C.S. Lewis. It turned out to be an unassuming marker in the churchyard of Holy Trinity in Headington on the city's outskirts. Nearby I also visited his house and the forest reserve through which he would wander when dreaming up his Narnia stories. Having forgotten about Daylight Savings on the Sunday morning, I got up an hour earlier than I realised and wandered about in solitude through the Oxford University Botanic Gardens.At the far end of the Gardens I took a seat in the chill morning shade and had a look over my map. To my great surprise, I discovered that I was sitting on Will & Lyra's seat: the very spot where the main characters of Pullman's Dark Materials promised to meet on Midsummers Day. I rippled with goosebumps when I realised. A little red-breasted robin flew up to me and said hello while I sit - I'm sure he was dying to say something.

Naturally, no trip was complete without paying my respects to the aesthetically pleasing dead. The St Sepulchre's Graveyard was overgrown and rambling, full of memories and ghosts. I hope that one day my remains can lie in such a beautiful place as this.It is a little depressing to think that this time last year I was backpacking through Europe, exploring fairy-tale towns and magical villages. Maybe that trace of resentment is the reason why when I saw a man in the lift reading a book called 'The Big Book of Yes Attitude', I could barely resist the urge to punch him. Then again, I think I would have had that reaction at the best of times. Just imagine what I would do to the author...

Watership Down

2009-10-19T23:07:00.009+13:00

This year I learned that that one of my favourite literary worlds was in fact a real place, so armed with my superior sense of solar navigation and the map in the front of the book, I embarked on a pilgrimage to Watership Down. The land itself is owned by Andrew Lloyd Webber and it is so unassuming that without prior knowledge, one would never notice that they had stumbled upon the home of those famous rabbits. This view affords a glimpse of the Hampshire environs through which Fiver and his followers trekked in search of a new home. The Downs were cold and I soon shivered in my thin clothes as I watched the underside of the trees breathe and whisper in the chill autumn wind.An attempt to climb this tree resulted in being thrown to the ground (I hadn't asked him for permission). When I tumbled to the ground, I landed on barbed wire which ripped a Harry-Potter-scar-shaped cut into my hand. Apparently you can only catch tetanus if the metal is rusty. Clean barbed wire is fine. Even Nuthanger Farm was exactly where it should be. I could have hiked to find the Warren of the Shining Wire and Efrafa, but my time was short. As the afternoon grew darker, woodsmoke from the cottage chimneys mingled hypnotically with the musky smells of the green countryside and I had to force myself to speed onward in order to catch my bus from Kingsclere.

I saw no rabbits that day, although... as I plummeted into well-earned sleep, in that dreamy world between waking and dreaming, a recollection of the afternoon unfolded to me from memories obscured. I had been lying on the ground and the woods were full of movement; I thought I saw a squirrel although nothing was there. I turned around to something in the corner of my eye but it was just a falling leaf. When I looked back, a rabbit sat before me. He waved his paw in front of my face and said, "These are not the rabbits you are looking for."

Then sleep claimed me fully and I drifted into dreams about bright eyes, burning like fire...

A Slovak Enchantment

2009-09-21T22:51:00.017+12:00

The previous fortnight I spent in the hitherto unexplored land of Slovakia with Matej, a fellow adventurer who couch-surfed with me earlier this year. I flew into Bratislava and wandered around on buses until I reached the village of Svätý Anton, nestled in the hills of the country's heart. We stayed several nights in an ancient cottage that had its own well, no indoor plumbing and a sloping lawn full of musical grasshoppers. In the attic I found a chest of newspapers dating back through the communist era of Czechoslovakia and even before World War II.Apparently Anton was the 'patronus' of hunters (I think he meant 'patron saint') so for that first weekend they held a Hunting Festival in which everybody gathered to display various parts of dead animals for decoration and consumption. It went somewhat against my convictions, but it's just part of their culture and as I have not yet ascended to godhood, my vengeance shall have to be banked.The presence of New Zealander was considered unusual enough that I was given a special invitation to a nearby Falconry school to observe and experience. Matej starred in the best photo of the day with this magnificent golden eagle.We climbed the forests and lakes of Banská Štiavnica, wandered around Banská Bystrica and made our way eventually to Beňadiková near Liptovský Mikuláš where his father lives. For three days I surrended to a regime of rank gluttony, attemping to retrieve myself from the emaciation that has wasted my body of late. From there, we journeyed to his hometown Štrbské pleso (above) and climbed Mount Rysy in the High Tatras. Although it was only 2500m high, I was quite dizzy by the time we reached the top to look over into the wilds of Poland.After Sunday night staying with his grandmother in Žilina, we took off to Brno in the Czech Republic to set up his new room in time for the new semester. I discovered that I do not like painting. I also rediscovered that sometimes I have a shamefully vile attitude about things.My final four days were in Svätý Jur with his mother and grandmother. We were just in time for the harvest so we gathered grapes in the vineyard for a day and then operated their 150 year old wine press, turning them into sweet juice for fermentation. As part of the experience, I tried my first two glasses of wine and for the first time in my life I got a little drunk. I can't say I'm a fan of the sensation. Near to his house were the magnificent ruins of Biely Kameň castle, but my most magical moment occurred during our day-trip into Bratislava. I was wandering through the old town and came upon a courtyard surrounded by the towering ruins of old brick buildings, hollowed out by years of neglect. Windows stared vacantly like the eyes of skulls and the doors gaped into rooms and cellars long abandoned by the living. How could I resist going in? The nettles stung me as I stepped into the shadows and I paid the toll gladly, brandishing the burning welts on my arms as right of entry. In silent ecstasy I climbed the stairs, treading carefully through crumbled mortar and drifts of rubble that glorified the impermanence of human accomplishment. I climbed higher and higher, over snaking ivy and debris until I reached the fourth floor, an attic half exposed to the sky. For a while I sat among the saplings that grew all around and thanked God for entropy. I didn't need to see those constructions in their prime to know that they had never before been so beautiful.Tired but gratified I made my way back to London on the 20th of September. My neighbourhood may be scabby and foul after the magic of Slovakia, but my own bed is my own bed, and I know I shall return...

Theatre, heat and blood

2009-08-27T08:05:00.011+12:00

Some argue against the virtue of celebrity placements in the theatre, but there are times when it works very well. Ethan Hawke was delightfully camp as Autolycus in The Winter's Tale, and Sinead Cusack shone in The Cherry Orchard. That woman is so amazing I would watch her doing the dishes. Rachel Weisz seems overly youthful and luscious for the role of Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire, but she explored the role perfectly. Opposite her in the role of Stanley, Elliot Cowan was the most brutally exquisite specimen of a male I've seen in a long while, yet I have never loathed a character quite so much as I despised him. I will miss all this when I return to New Zealand.On the 22nd I flew to France and met my friend Michael for a weekend trip to Disneyland Paris. I watched the opening special when it first opened as EuroDisney in 1992 so the nostalgia was thick and fast. We began with the iconic 'It's a small world after all', in which I became increasingly certain that the dolls were staring at me, resenting me, dreaming of awful things to do to me if they were able to drag me down under the building after lights-out...

We were cursed with blue skies and 30+ degrees and I walked around with an umbrella to shield me from the relentless Ultra-Violet. I thought I would attract stares but no one seemed to even notice. The umbrella proved itself to be a god-send, as by mid afternoon even the swarthy Mediterranean types were struggling under the onslaught of the sun.I was rather worried about the weekend, that the commercial reality of a corporation such as Disney would leave my childhood fantasies of Disneyland in tatters, but I really did have a great time. The rollercoaster rides were pretty wild and even the more tame attractions had their own charm. The Spinning Cups ride was one of the most fun, in which we spun the wheel until the back-breaking centrifuge left us staggering from the cup, delirious with laughter. I was disappointed with the merchandise that was available. There were great quantities, but it was mostly dross. Everything was horribly Mickey-obsessed, with very little of Donald Duck who I greatly prefer. He's foul-tempered and a downright prat. What's not to like? Uncle Scrooge is my ultimate favourite and the only thing they had of him was a lapel badge.

My favourite ride was the Phantom Manor. I want to live there so much. If I had all the money in the world to recreate my dream home, it would honestly look like this. It's just perfect. There are some truly eerie scenes inside and brilliantly effective ghosts. And if I lived in a house like this, it would save me from having to erect a 'Go Away' sign on the front gate.The weekend after Disneyland I had three days off to enjoy, and did so while nursing a broken nose. After a week of phasing out carbs and dairy, I embarked on a detoxing raw fruit/vege diet. This was all very well and good, but it did leave me in a weakened state that caused me to black out while getting out of a hot bath on Friday night. I woke up with my face on the floor and blood gushing over my hand from a nose that didn't feel quite the right shape...

As my dizziness gradually faded over the next hour, I cleaned myself up and removed all haemoglobin traces from the bathroom. Suffice it to say, I ended my diet immediately. Extreme I may be, but hopefully not entirely stupid. I didn't go to the doctors because the likelihood of making it to the hospital in East London at midnight without sustaining another injury was not hopeful. I am really not an "Off to the doctor!" type of person anyway. The swelling is gone and the bruise is fading and my nose is now slightly crooked, which as my brother pointed out is fitting, as I was never very straight to begin with.

It's the end of the world as we know it

2009-08-07T21:31:00.015+12:00

On July the 15th I saw the finest play I've ever witnessed in my life. At the Royal Haymarket, Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart appeared in Beckett's eerie classic, Waiting for Godot. For two and a half hours of essentially nothing happening on stage except a stark and poignant series of digressing, demented conversations between a few fractured individuals, I was utterly riveted to the stage. The chemistry between those two legends was phenomenal to behold and I feel grateful to have witnessed it. And also they were Magneto and Professor Xavier in X-Men which is really really cool.

And is it just me, or could Stadtler and Waldorf have stood in for Stewart and McKellen without anyone noticing?The drab London summer is perfect weather for vampires, so naturally I am happy as well. Since Canada I have laid low in an attempt to conserve funds, choosing to enjoy instead the diviner pleasures in life, like doing yoga in the rain at night. I am a true kiwi and prefer the world when the sun goes down. See... even this swimming pool looked better at night. Recently, I narrowly avoided becoming a neighbourhood statistic. After seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (below) again, I found myself walking through a rather deserted area about ten minutes from my house. Three demographic stereotypes in black hoods crept up behind me just before I crossed a bridge that would have left me quite trapped and at their mercy. Alerted by their quickening footsteps behind me, I spun around to find them almost on top of me with two of the three fanned out on either side to prevent me from running. I swerved into the last doorway before the bridge and pounded loudly on the door. The boys called me a pussy and slithered away, unnerved by the potential attention I had attracted. After a few seconds, I sprinted down a side-street and waited with two men outside a house for several minutes. The three boys did return and waited at the end of the street, watching me like patient predators. Eventually they left and I returned home, overwhelmed with gratitude that I was spared whatever crime they intended. Now, if I am walking home at night, I carry a nice pointy pen in my hand. It’s useful not only for taking notes as I go, but for defending myself against thugs, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Death Eaters. The other night as I took a relaxing bath, I enjoyed a soundtrack of crashing noises, screams and angry yelling, a multitude fighting, dogs barking and sirens wailing. You can imagine how in my current living situation, I am quite intrigued by the outbreak of Swine Flu and I'm quite disappointed that they are coming out with a cure. Disease is nature's legitimate method for reducing populations that have swollen beyond sustainability. Thanks to the smiley-faced devil of medical science, our species has bypassed all natural mechanisms for controlling our numbers and now our population is increasing exponentially at the expense of countless other forms of life. We are mimicking the way a malignant tumour ravages the body that sustains it, and I'm just waiting for a giant doctor to come along with a giant scalpel. I recently watched the trailer for 2012, an upcoming disaster film about the end of our civilisation. It got me all excited.

There are a number of foxes living near my house and I have taken a strong liking to them. They have even wormed their way into my story, which I must finish before 2012 when the world is apparently going to end.

On that lovely note, I bid you all adieu.

Vive le Montreal

2009-07-08T22:11:00.000+12:00

On Thursday I travelled south to Kingston. I had my best couchsurfing experience to date with Hilary, a delightful artist I stayed with for three nights. With her I was able to recover from my sunstroke by being as idle as I wished. The town was humid and prone to rain, although one afternoon we had a freak hailstorm.

The wedding party, such as we were, went Ten Pin Bowling on Friday night. Poor Serge discovered why I don't play sports. I'm just useless at anything that involves balls.

On Saturday, Christopher and Serge married each other in a simple, heartfelt ceremony that took place beneath a maple tree in the front yard of Christopher's family home. I was one of many who crossed oceans and continents to attend.

A Sunday afternoon bus took me east to Montreal where I was greeted by Xavier, a young fellow I met on the nightbus from Amsterdam to Bremen last November. We stayed in a central apartment he was housesitting. For the period of this week we experienced what is known as a 'bromance'.

His gestures of affection included but were not limited to: carrying my bags, buying me food and souvenirs, serenading me on the piano, preparing midnight dinners for our rooftop chats, and hand-feeding me the gourmet cheeses and delicacies that his father gave us for the week. Pity he's straight.

Together we climbed Mount Royal, the central hill from which the city derives its name. We lost ourselves in the forest as we ascended, hiding behind rocks and racing each other up the slopes. At the summit we watched as dark, angry clouds rolled languorously over Montreal, the air thickening with tension. When the downpour began, we sprinted back down the hillside, overtaking each other in turns until we emerged, wet and exhilarated at our apartment on Fort & Maisonneuve. It was like being a child again.Rio the hair-factory uses the plughole to dispose of the bodies of her enemies. Even when she does not have any body parts to discard, she likes to hang out in the bath, just to pay her respects to the dead. She's a lady that way. I saw my first skunk and a friendly raccoon running around a park at night. Montreallers are brilliantly bilingual and they switch between French and English with ease. It really is a European city. Their independent sense of culture and identity is quite understandable. They are also really really really good looking. However, people are still people, and I was asked for a light by a man on the street who then commented, "You speak really nice English. Is it Shakespearean?" It would have taken too long to explain how deeply mistaken he was about (probably) so many things, so I just smiled and said, "Yes. Yes it is."

It was sad to say goodbye to Xavier so soon. He is ten years my junior, but my senior in generosity and kindness. After six nights there I returned to Toronto which is in the throes of a midsummer garbage strike. Rubbish bags are piled up in parks and lots, while the bins on the street are overflowing like cornucopias of human wastage. It's about time that we saw what pigs we really are. Perhaps this swine flu is quite appropriate...

I spent my Sunday night - my last in Toronto - in a hot tub on the top of an apartment building. It's frightfully important to go out with a little style. London welcomed me back with those grey skies that I love so much and I am now enjoying the rain. I missed the big London heatwave and I couldn't be happier.

Bienvenue à Canada!

2009-06-25T11:33:00.016+12:00

On June the 14th 2005, I arrived in Canada for the first time. On June the 16th 2006 I visited again. On June the 18th 2009 I visited for the third time. I couldn't have planned that if I tried...

Toronto reintroduced me to a subsection of society that I think I had forgotten about. Generally considered to be a cult, this group uses standard cult rhetoric such as "You Belong" to enforce their group mentality, and even develop their own districts in an attempt to cloister themselves away from the rest of the world. I am speaking, of course, of the cult of the gays. I stumbled up one of their communes as I walked up Church Street. I was first tipped off when I noticed a profusion of rainbows. The gays, like George Bush, need to see a flag every few steps otherwise they can be easily disoriented and forget where they are. I attracted many stares as I walked through, looking waxen and cadaverous in my heavy sunscreen. They must have been wondering what Gollum was doing so far away from Middle Earth, and in the middle of the day. I didn't linger too long for fear that they might think I was also a gay. Of all the nerve. What would the ladies in my prayer circle think??

I had a lovely day of cycling around High Park and its surrounds, visiting 13 secondhand bookstores in the process. Most remaining time was spent with Christopher and Serge, the couple whose wedding I came here for. After four nights, I journeyed 450 kms northeast in Ottawa, the nation's capital. I stayed with Jamie, a friend I've not seen since 2001 in Korea. We spent my first full day driving around Gatineau Park and hiking around Pink Lake. Jamie was a little less comfortable in the forest, as he was quite certain he could hear caterpillars falling out of the trees, but he punished me sufficiently later on, by making shotgun noises when a bird would fly past. To be fair, I did give him the reaction he was hunting for. I saw my first beaver (the animal), my first snake (which I chased, rather than fled), not to mention Victor the Death Squirrel and Larry the Chipmunk of Doom. On Wednesday I foolishly walked two hours into town in relentless sun and 35°C heat. I nearly died. I was over-tired that night, and spent the next day with a pounding headache, feeling like a trainwreck. I am having a great time, but if I survive this, I will never forgive Christopher and Serge for getting married in the summer... "We'll get them won't we... yesss my preciousss... we will..."

I'm toxic and I'm slipping under

2009-06-15T23:05:00.001+12:00

Life passes mechanically in London. I write on the crowded bus to work, after which I sit at a computer for eight hours and when I'm not making life difficult for the overpaid, unintelligent callers, I write. I then take the smelly crowded bus back home and write - though the bus is always filled with people who leave me fantasising about eugenics. At home I have a bath and write, sit at my computer and write... I'm sure the pattern is evident.

Last week I went to the Britney Spears concert, thinking it would be fun and iconic (and expensive) way to tick 'Big Pop Concert' off my list of things to do. I was glad I did it with Yvette, as with her company I am guaranteed a good time. However, we were so far from the stage, that little blonde smudge might have been Christina Aguilera for all we could tell. Whoever it was, her microphone certainly wasn't on. Once I surrendered myself to the vulgarity of it, it was amusing enough.

To the annoying girls in front of us who thought they were the hottest things alive and consequently made love to their self-images the whole night, I feel obliged to tell you (just because I'm SUCH a good person) this is what you look like when you dance:

Sverige og Norge

2009-05-26T21:34:00.012+12:00

I hadn't seen Oscar since Korea in early 2003, so to spend an afternoon with him and his girlfriend as he passed through London was nostalgic indeed. The Milennium Bridge behind us will be destroyed in a spectacularly sorcerous fashion at the start of new Harry Potter movie coming out very soon...Prior to the commencement of another long weekend I stuck out my umbrella and caught the nearest firm breeze to Sweden. Stockholm is an elegant and attractive city, featuring a profusion of waterways between the islands that make up the capital, and a lovely Old Town in the centre of the archipelago.

On my first night I was hosted by a very odd Canadian man with very dubious communication skills. For a translator, I found that odd. Also odd was the continual puckering of his mouth, contorting of his lower face and general grimacing that gave him all the appearance of a wizened, toothless crone. There was nothing for us to talk about. He didn't understand any of the ideas I expressed, and I don't have the slightest regard for being trendy or fabulous.

Despite this initial setback, I did my best to be social and met up for walks and drinks with locals. I had morning tea with Ruzhdi the Albanian hairdresser and afternoon tea with Kahlil the shy Palestinian. Kahlil had an oracular ornament in the concept of a Magic-8 Ball to which I posed the following question: When will I experience the most meaningful moment of my trip? The dial stopped perfectly between 'Today' and 'Sleep On It'. I took that to mean the period between day and night, so... evening. Sure enough, that evening I some lovely artists who run a quaint old sign shop, from whom I bought the following sign.They are working on an impending exhibition about toilets with a working title of 'The Big Sh!t Exhibition'. I suggested 'Nature Calls', which they were so delighted with, they have adopted it as the formal name and will be inviting me back to Stockholm later in the year. Whether or not circumstances permit me to attend, it is a wonderful connection to make with the city.

Soaring on the high of this event I proceeded to a music store where I found a copy of the Swedish version of Chess (somewhat of a Holy Grail for me) which rang up at a much lesser price than the marked amount. Clearly, the oracle had answered me truly.

I was vaguely daunted by the inherent implication that my trip had already peaked, but proceeded the following day to go kayaking with a tall, burly Swede (finally) named Ulf. We paddled around the waterways in denial of our land-based origins until it was time for me to get ready for my arduous night bus to Oslo.

Night buses are a trial already, without an idiotic pair of breeders deeming it appropriate to bring a screaming baby on board. The fantasies that ran through my mind were quite universally felonious.

I was too tired to enjoy Oslo. The connections I attemped fell flat and the centre of Oslo was rough and jarring after the stateliness of Stockholm. As you can see, it does have some lovely spaces outside the centre but it's a shame I had no time to get out into the rest of Norway which is as stunning as New Zealand.

The oracle was right. My trip DID peak that evening. Knowing the future in advance does little to influence it one way or the other.

Lämna inga dörrar på glänt!

Banshees and Leprechauns

2009-05-08T02:34:00.008+12:00

In my weekend excursion to the Emerald Isle, I saw not so much as a midget who could have passed for a Leprechaun, but there was the occasional wreck of a female who could have passed for a Banshee.

There is little to say about Dublin except that which you already know: Guinness, Sinn Fein, the Spire (at sunrise above) and lots of Italians. That always messes with my gaydar. You think you 'know', but they might just be Italian. It's so hard to tell these days.

My brightest moments occurred while walking in the rain. Belfast was a pleasant city with lots of retired people and a few good secondhand bookstores. I enjoyed wandering around the Botanic Gardens with its majestic Palm House (circa 1840) as seen below. A lunchtime concert at the Ulster Hall featuring Mozart's Jupiter injected a compelling dose of culture.

When the weather soured and the wind and rain lashed everyone on the streets I found myself in a better mood. It's disturbing how much happier I am when everyone else is miserable...

Not a great amount happened in Ireland and everything I considered amusing falls definitely under the category of "You had to be there". So to avoid boring you with anecdotes that die upon the retelling, I leave you with a photo of my visit to the C.S. Lewis statue and my favourite quote from the trip.

Uttered confidently by a random Irish woman: "I studied geography: I don't need directions."

The Wilds of Dartmoor

2009-04-15T20:16:00.014+12:00

Days before the Easter break I realised that I was faced with a lazy weekend of absolutely nothing. I embarked on a last-minute scramble to plan a trip out of the city, and on Thursday evening ended up at the elegant Victoria Coach station, waiting for hours on a disorganised bus service. It was probably a good thing, as my public bacteria levels were getting low.

In the morning I set off on foot from Newton Abbot and walked for two hours along narrow country roads that would have been pretty if not for the endless stream of humans in their stinking cars. Then at Bovey Tracey I was given directions by an elderly couple which - naturally - I ignored and went on my own way. According to my mother, I've been doing this since I was old enough to walk.
Very shortly it was as though I had crossed over into Narnia and the frolicking began. I walked 25kms that day without resting. Along whimsical country lanes, through forests and flowers, over hilltops and desolate stony tors I journeyed.
Late in the day but still hours from my destination, I was given a lift in a deserted lane by a handsome woodcutter. He drove me the rest of the way, but not before insisting that we stop at a lookout to have a smoke and watch the sinking sun transform the clouds. After an hour of sparkling conversation he dropped me off at Bellever with one more thing in my pocket - his phone number.
The sun was setting on Bellever as I crossed the old bridge into the village. As soon as dusk had settled into total darkness I went out walking again. London is polluted not only with fumes but with light and noise. For the first time in England I experienced true night. At the river I lay down on the ruins of the old clapper bridge and with my head hanging backwards I imagined that the silvery waters were really a rippling nightscape.
By the time I had started to imagine a multitude of corpses hanging from nooses in the gaping windows of a large mansion that all laughed at me as I walked past, I decided that I had been spooked out enough and so I walked back past the inky, silent forest and went to sleep.The next day I struggled for hours through fields of thorns and gorse before meeting up with a fellow couch-surfer named Simon. From the austere settlement of Princetown he took me on another large walk through lonely moors and stately ruins so rich with silence that unshelling an egg seemed intrusively loud.

I sprained my ankle and ended up hobbling in pain by the end of the day, but nonetheless, I completed another 25kms. (that's about 16 miles for you old-worlders)

The following day I took it easy as we drove around Dartmoor, stopping only for bite-sized walks that I limped along with a modicum of frustration at my unwelcome limitations. At the end of the day I was sitting on a knoll waiting to meet Tom the woodcutter. As I sat, I prayed "Dear God, remember Brokeback Mountain...?"

I limped along with Tom and his friend to Wistman's Wood, an ancient tract of twisted oak forest renowned for it's eerie atmosphere. Even the most rational locals regard the woods with a degree of uncertainty. I went carefully off by myself and found an oak who gave me permission to sit a while in his old gnarled arms. With feverish anticipation I approached him and lay myself down, bent backwards over a large root as though I had slipped and broken my spine. My mind swiftly sank into deeper rhythms as he let me in to his world and showed me what it was like to be an oak.

The silence was vibrating with an inaudible thrum of life so much older and patient than I. He kept telling me to stretch out my legs fully and when I eventually obeyed, it felt as though I was receiving a deep tissue massage and I nearly passed out.

I couldn't but help thinking that I was like a fly on the back of an elephant, fleeting and fickle against his timeless steadfastness. He was so patient with my hopelessly distracted mind but continued to include me until the spell eventually released me and I returned to the world of humans and their petty concerns. I took this photo and stood up, back locked and half my body trapped in an ecstatic paralysis.

When the feeling eventually returned to my legs I found to my amazement that I could no longer feel the pain in my foot. I made my way out of the woods and ran most of the way back, leaping over rocks and bounding up slopes. I came looking for magic and it found me. There is more of God's character to be discovered in the gentleness of an old tree than in a church building.

However, I was lucky that he was an oak, as they are known to be friendly. Had I been in an elm forest I would never have dared to linger...I spent the evening in a farm cottage complete with a firey hearth, a cage of cheeping chicks on the table and a sweethearted but rather unphotogenic sow in the shed nearby. The hearty Easter roast was the best food I've tasted since Christmas in the countryside of Austria. Another night of tranquility, an ebon sky littered with diamonds and then in the morning I was off to Exeter for a drawn out day of waiting for my bus. My imagination is still humming with the places I saw, the emotions I felt and the ghosts that grazed my mind as I wandered through their haunts.

And I finally have a location for my novel; Gravedeep will be nestled in the ancient heart of Dartmoor...

Vitamin D is an urban myth

2009-03-29T05:35:00.010+13:00

It is the weekend, and as usual I slept most of the day away, waiting for the garish sun to set before venturing outside. I went for a long walk after midnight which I enjoyed so much I have decided that nighttime is the new daytime.

People regularly admonish me over the alleged importance of Vitamin D, but I don't think it even exists.

On the nightbus home I intervened when a drunk man was harrassing some girls. No one was doing anything so I manhandled him away and gave him a proper dressing down. If people are determined to behave like five year olds, I will insist on speaking to them as such. It's not the first time this has happened... one of these days I'll get my face punched in, but in the meantime there's nothing like a cold calculated application of advanced vocabulary to stun the peasantry into submission.

Maybe I could work at nights as a masked vigilante. Just imagine... I wouldn't even have to wear any sunscreen! In light of my cadaverous pallour I could dub myself 'The Ghost'.

What with the budget pressures of the current time, I have been living a stringently ascetic lifestyle. If left to my own devices, my diet becomes so spartan that my last meal was composed of day-old toast, three-day old leftovers and a much maligned banana.

I have even tried to save money by taking the bus into work. This avoids having to buy a travelpass for the week. However, on Tuesday when I got on a bus that was too full for me to reach the card reader, the police did a check and found that mine hadn't been swiped yet so I was fined 50 pounds. I don't intend to pay.

As you can see, I found a wonderful old graveyard. It might be my new favourite place in London... Maybe I should complete the vampirish transformation and just move in there.

In a few days the G20 summit will take place in London City. Riots are feared, violence is promised and I can taste the sweetness of blood on the wind...

Them bones, them bones, them... dry bones

2009-03-03T13:55:00.000+13:00

The snow was short-lived. The ground is now bare and dry. A moment of silence please...God bless London for its hubbish qualities. My ex-Dymocks/flatmates Adri & Andrew passed through recently and we all caught up for dinner and a midnight stroll along Westminster. With my new camera lens from Flourish & Blots I managed to snap a fleeting image of the Knight Bus.I returned to my occasional catering role at NZ Embassy on Friday night, serving wine at a book launch. The service part I perform with excellence, but the minute someone actually asks me about the alcohol I look like a Mormon who has just been asked an unscripted question. The most recent (and vaguely repetitive) incident went as follows:

"Which one is better, the Sauvignon Blanc or the Riesling? Is this one very dry?"

"Well... it's a liquid. So... no."

I have since been educated and it turns out that the Riesling is in fact 'dry'. Will wonders never cease...

I think 'dry' no longer means what I thought it meant. If a wine can be dry and my humour is dry and a sexlife can be dry, then heaven help the English language. One fun night out I went with an ex-Dominion workmate to see La Cage Aux Folles (The Birdcage) with a workmate in which Graeme Norton starred with a stageful of dancers, the calibre of which I have rarely if ever witnessed. If I could throw my leg over my head like that it would open up so many career opportunities. In this time of uncertainty and mass redundancy it might be something to work towards...The Donmar production of Twelfth Night was also an utter treat, with our friend Harry (the burglaresque fellow third from left) in a hilarious capacity as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. A group of seven of us went to see him. I miss Harry. He's delightfully dry.

My backyard is perfect for campfires and toasting marshmallows. Fire is also dry... right? I can't tell anymore. I know gooey gelatin and sugar is so wrong, but it feels... so... right.

If I can give up Crunchy Nut Flakes, so can you!

2009-02-13T04:28:00.007+13:00

Though I sporadically take the time to self-indulgently muse on something that has captured my thoughts, I have never been political in my blogs. Forgive me for changing that now.

In case you missed the non-scandal, Michael Phelps was recently photographed inhaling marijuana smoke from a bong. Despite the fact that cannabis has NO enhancing effect on sporting performance, he was banned from competition for three months. This is similar to banning him from swimming for eating dark chocolate.

He has been forced to issue a public apology, regretting his "bad judgment", despite the fact that you never see celebrities repent for their frequent and destructive abuse of alcohol. He did not make a mistake and should not have to apologise.

In a knee-jerk reaction, Kelloggs dropped their endorsement of Phelps, claiming that his actions were contrary to the image they promote. The fact that they dumped him for choosing to relax with a substance that is safer than beer is absolutely outrageous.

Yes, in most places marijuana is illegal, but to hell with the Law. The Law has always been an ass and must not be permitted to dictate what is right and wrong. Twenty years ago I would have been imprisoned for simply being gay, and if you think that’s wrong, then why are you even following my blog?

I blame the hypocritical Religious Right for generating the fear behind a legislation-obsessed society, but they are to blame for a great many things and it won't help in this instance to target them.

So how can we protest constructively? DON'T BUY KELLOGGS. They behaved reprehensibly in their treatment of this highly disciplined athlete and deserve to feel the repercussions of their injustice. Prove that you care about fairness more than legality; when you see their products in the supermarket aisle, remember the avaricious and soulless corporation behind that brand and buy something else.

The Frozen Twilight

2009-02-05T00:42:00.000+13:00

The sun set on January the 15th, 2009. The last ray of sun that burst into the sky when I was born, shrank beneath the horizon and winked out like a candle falling into the ocean. Unwilling to surrender to the darkness of corporeal decay and mental decrepitude, we cling to the dying light of youth. It does little more than prolong the inevitable, but that sense of denial, that irrational belief that I am more than just a degenerating bundle of wasting flesh will help me prolong indefinitely this tepid twilight of creeping age.To help me celebrate this inverted milestone, Jasmyne visited from New Zealand. Together we strolled Kensington Gardens, entertained by the resident fairies as demonstrated in the above photo. If you see a squirrel in the picture, you are on drugs. We went to see The Lion King and the ballet of Edward Scissorhands. The former was predictably enjoyable, the latter, utterly spectacular. I had supervised the rehearsals for Scissorhands back when I was at the Dominion, so it was a rare pleasure to see the familiar choreography rendered with full costume and special effects.Yvette has been to both my 21st and my 30th, a status that effectively means nothing and barely deserves to be celebrated. However it is one of the most memorable things I can report about my 30th party. It was just a quiet drinks night where I saw friends from the theatre, from New Zealand, even from Canada...On February the 1st, all evening and all night the snowy skies blanketed London with a liberal hand. Naturally, at midnight I was forcibly compelled to run outside and play in the snow. The muffled, glittering streets provided endless fun. I hopped down one street, kicked my way down another and walked pigeon-toed down the next. That should have made for interesting snow-tracks the following morning.This was the real Frozen Twilight. The nightlights of the city magnified in the snow both above and below, casting an artifical dusk that lasted until dawn. It was bright enough to read by.

Apparently it was also bright enough to aim by. I was chased out of one neighbourhood by a group of Polish guys who pelted me with snowballs. I don't think I ran away very convincingly: "Stop it... ooh... stop..."

My backyard in the morning was layered with a beautiful cover of fresh powder. If I hadn't known what filth lay beneath it, I would have rolled around.
The neighbourhood church - St John's - looked deeply romantic with a touch of wintery foundation. To the same extent that I loathed the cloying London summer, I am relishing this exquisite winter. My body hasn't had any Vitamin D in about a year, but I'm delighted with my alabaster transformation. My flatmate took this photo of me standing out in our street.

A Riegersburg Christmas

2009-01-06T02:08:00.000+13:00

I have had the most hedonistic holiday period in memory. On Christmas Eve I flew out to Vienna and met Martin at the airport. Two hours of driving took us to Riegersburg, the tiny village in the photo above, 30 kms west of the Slovenian border. We were originally meant to stay only two days there, but spent a whole week until New Year's when we went to Vienna for another relaxing break. But there is little to say about that, and everything worth telling happened in Riegersburg.
For one decadent week his mother and grandmother showered us with festive delicacies, roasts and dumplings, cookies and sorbets. Their house is crowded with artwork, sculptures and paintings, and a Siamese cat who would jump onto my lap as I ate, to shamelessly solicit my affections. There was time aplenty for walking around the countryside and best of all, tresspassing, I mean exploring around the castle. This environment is rich fertiliser for my imagination, giving me scenes, settings and images to use for the stories in my head, the ones that are slowly drip-feeding out onto proverbial paper. I love feeling like a boy again, climbing up the sides of castle escarpments, monkeying up trees and skimming walnuts across the frozen pond to make that delightful metallic pinging sound. I turn 30 on the 15th. It's one of those 'technical' ages. Technically you're 30, but practically you don't feel it. I have this impression that this milestone should be accompanied with a steady career, a house, a car... all these trappings of western civilisation that I'm sure will weasel their way into my life eventually, but about which I am not particularly concerned at the moment. My mind is rich and fecund... isn't that preferable?
This castle was home to a woman and her dogs who kindly took Martin and I on a tour of the building and all its ancient halls and corridors. My fantasies ran wild... I shall affectionately dub this photo 'The Spirit of Youth Imprisoned', if only to remind myself that mine is not.

Isn't it a bit early for me to be having a midlife crisis?

P.S. in Paris

2008-12-22T09:20:00.000+13:00

When I arrived back in France after an arduous day of travelling that involved a flight diversion to Frankfurt then rediversion back to the original destination, Alexandre drove us down to Paris for a few days. Upon re-entering the city, the fog cooperated brilliantly with the lights on the Eiffel Tower to provide me with the following shot.

Alexandre's friend Farid very kindly provided us with a charming loft apartment overlooking St Eustace cathedral in Les Halles, centre of Paris. He was so generous he even gave me an old cloth-bound copy of a Robert Frost anthology. In return for his kindness, I damaged the surface of his chest of drawers with an incense burner. You'd think I would have learned my lesson after doing the same thing to Mother's antique piano. But you know my motto... live and don't learn.

At some point I was tricked into eating escargot (le snail). However, 'tricked' is a strong word, as the knowledge did not deter from me from continuing to consume the delicacy when I found out.

Around the corner from us was 'The Queen's Bakery', a very expensive patisserie that provides Queen Elizabeth with her pastries. They were worth paying $8 for a cherry tart -there's a reason why the Queen prefers them. There was also - ironically - a lovely old queen (or eunuch?) behind the counter who took a great shine to me when he learned I was from his favourite country in the world. "C'est magnifique" he gushed in heartfelt, throaty tones, and made a point of giving me something for free every time I went in.

I can see why Diana was killed on the road in Paris; the drivers here are possessed. After returning to Lille via Sonlis (above photo) I took a six hour bus back to London and am now working for a couple of days before heading back to Austria for the holidays... because... why not?!

From Estonia to Latvia

2008-12-16T20:11:00.003+13:00

Although technically the opposite side of the world from New Zealand is in the vicinity of Spain, the Baltic states feel like the furthest I've ever travelled from home.

Tallinn, the capital of Estonia is possessed of an old-world charm. Stuck somewhere between Eastern Europe, Scandinavia and Russia, there is a deeply medieval feel to the Old Town.
Being in countries that have been invaded in turn by the Russians, the Nazis and then the Soviets has given me a new appreciation for the freedom we take for granted in New Zealand. For many other nations, freedom is a prize won after years of suffering. I enjoyed the Children's Library, located in a building that was once headquarters for the KGB and the Occupation Museum, testament to the years of oppression. I also felt that I really need to sample some nightlife as I had barely done so during my trip. I tried to get into the main nightclub but thought it too expensive, so I crawled into the neighbouring dive that was full of unfortunate looking people and a man with hands instead of arms. In short, it was interesting and colourful and I had a great time dancing.

I then voyaged down to Riga, the capital of Latvia. The city is less old and retains none of the medieval feel that lingers in Tallinn, but wartime destruction can be thanked for that.I found the people in Riga to be friendly, and in my short time there I found myself with plenty of coffee dates and guys who were happy to show me around and take me to interesting places. This house was in the Gypsy neighbourhood, a delapidated district full of 'haunted houses'. You can imagine the prickling of my imagination....

The same gentleman took me to a flea market full the most amazing piles of junk I've ever seen in my life. I bought an old wooden suitcase that will look incredible when it has been sanded and varnished and I would have purchased more if we had not arrived when it was about to close. That was probably a mercy. It was mostly all garbage but there were gems glinting amidst the dross...

A Lithuanian lullaby

2008-12-12T02:11:00.000+13:00

In my first trip to the Baltic states I was greeted in Lithuania by Kristina, a friend from my days in Korea. Her family welcomed me warmly and made sure that I well fed.

My hat looks better on her dammit.
They live in Raudondvaris, meaning Red Castle, an area just out of the city. The castle after which it was named housed a delightful artifacts museum. At night when the full moon half-heartedly illuminated the countryside, the ice crystals on the fallen leaves glistened like diamonds. We miss out on these simple beauties back at home in Wellington.

Kaunas is more provincial than the capital, but this also means that it is Lithuanian culture free from the presence of the Russian and Polish, the latter of whom have made an unwelcome impact on the capital city Vilnius over recent years.
The second day I went to Vilnius (above) with Kristina, her brother and his girlfriend. We visited the transmission tower where in 1991 the Soviets massacred protesting Lithuanians. It is unattractive but forms an important part of their recent history.
I was determined to get a photo of these large stone crosses that were torn down from the hilltop by the Soviets. It required that I climb a tree so I feel obliged to post the result of my efforts.
In the Vilnius bus station I was warmly hugged when I gave a man some money he needed for a ticket. Not a bad exchange... free love is all good. Don't worry - I checked my pockets afterwards.

Idling in Budapest and Vienna

2008-12-10T23:49:00.000+13:00

I visited Budapest exactly five years ago, and this time again I visited Sahra, a Canadian ballerina I met in Korea in 2001. The city was grey and damp... reminded me of Wellington.I was in the grip of a deep idleness during my four days in Hungary. After weeks of constantly being on the move, I granted myself a series of sleep mornings and lazy afternoons, emerging from the apartment only to meet everyone for lunch and go wandering around the Christmas markets. Sahra sits on the left with Kelsey and Ali occupying the right. See... this is what happens when I don't routinely cast my life into the capricious hands of fate: BORING STORIES. Even going to see The Nutcracker in the opulent Budapest Opera House (below) isn't a very entertaining tale. Maybe we should fast forward.

In the grand city of Vienna I stayed with Martin, a friend who pampered me and provided a very comfortable and relaxing weekend. He also may have been responsible for shaving my head.

He and I agreed that he'd be doing me a favour if he buzzed my hair, but in my enthusiasm I forgot to mention that I only wanted a number 2 or 3. So Martin, convinced of the virtue of my skull, plunged in with a number zero and carved a runway up the back of my head before I detected the flaws in our communication. There was nothing to do except finish the job, right in time for winter. Great job Andrew.Sadly, that is about as much excitement as I can offer. I relished the chance to spend an entire seven days doing very little and relaxing after the portions of my trip that involved uncertainty and a blind faith in divine providence. But the city was lovely to wander slowly around and the Christmas markets were lurking around every corner with their sweet wines, arts & crafts and languid crowds.

It is strange to think that one month has passed already. Good things are over so fast...

Communism is definitely over in Czech

2008-12-03T01:21:00.009+13:00

After a night spent in the small and unimposing city of Ceske Budejovice I journeyed to Brno to meet Hana, a friend I haven't seen since the days when I taught English in Korea. She was there at the time and we went out together frequently. She is just as feisty and outspoken as the day we met, and she proceeded quickly to shove plates of chocolate biscuits and deep-fried cheese down my mouth, claiming that I am too thin. Her father suggested cement shoes to prevent me from being swept away by the wind.Conveniently, the grand, neo-Gothic Lednice castle is not far from Rahjrad where Hana's spacious family home is located. There were no tourists, no one to bother us... just us and the ice puddles - she thought it was hilarious that I derived such enjoyment from cracking them all.
When we weren't sightseeing or shopping, we dined on homemade bread, fresh-caught fish and relaxed together in the jacuzzi. Yes folks... Communism is definitely over. Oh and by the way... buying new leather shoes on a holiday that involves a great deal of walking? NOT an intelligent move. Hurts like buggery.We even went out dancing on the Friday night to a place in Brno that would have been more fun if not for the invasive stench of cigarette smoke and the DJ who felt the urge to introduce every single song he played with a profuse amount of idiotic talk. Hana confirmed that he was completely pointless and annoying even when you COULD understand his inane blather.
What to say about my subsequent two days in Prague? Sure is pretty.The cathedral in the castle was the most stunning, but due to its awkward placement, it is nigh impossible to take a good photo of it - this anterior view is the best that can be captured. Very selfish of the architects if you ask me... you'd think they might take future technological developments into account when planning their constructions.
My trip is now halfway...

The Sound of Austria

2008-11-28T10:30:00.012+13:00

I arrived in Salzburg on Monday night. I know that it should be more important to me as Mozart's hometown, but who am I kidding... it's where they made The Sound of Music!!!

Naturally I had nowhere to stay, so I petitioned the spirit of Maria von Trapp, then went online. Sure enough, I was shortly offered a spare couch and a personal tour of Salzburg by night. Up to this point I have not paid for a single night's accommodation, and neither have I had to do anything of which my mother would be ashamed. I call that quite an accomplishment.

I include this first photograph not because I don't look dreadful, but because it shows the size of the backpack I am travelling for six weeks with. I think it's rather impressive, if I do say so myself.Well rested and freshly showered I joined the bus of American tourists for a morning of movie locations and rather fascinating tidbits about the making of the movie. The tour guide was a little wet, but her genuinely amusing stories compensated adequately.

There's something profoundly sad about a single man, almost thirty, embarking on a Sound of Music tour by himself. But I didn't care... it was so much fun.
You may recognise this building as the location of the pink lemonade scene. It is also the lake into which the von Trapp children fell out of the boat, much to their father's delight. 'Gretel' had been porking out on Austrian pastries and put on so much weight that Christopher Plummer refused to carry "that fat little girl" in the final mountain scene (it was a body-double on his back!). 'Gretel' was also the only child who couldn't swim so Julie Andrews was supposed to catch her before they even hit the water in the lake scene. Gretel fell in the wrong direction so she sunk like a stone. After she refused to shoot the scene again, they had to use that take, so you can see her disappear in the movie.
While we were taking photos this flirtatious waterfowl swum close and showed off his stunning plumage.
This is the infamous gazebo in which Liesl and Ralph pranced, spun and sang. Apparently 'Liesl' slipped and put her foot through a pane of glass. Despite lacerations and flowing flood she shot the rest of the take. In reality, the oldest Trapp child was a guy. I guess the world wasn't ready for a love affair between Ralph and Rupert. Pity... I would have liked to see that.

I had inadvertently wandered around this garden already before learning that it was the same garden featured in Do-Re-Mi... it's just been THAT long since I saw the movie. And finally... where would we be without the chapel in which Maria and Georg were married. The crew were not allowed to use the real chapel in Nonnberg Abbey, so they used a church in Mondsee, a neighbouring village and lake that we drove to as the climax of the tour. They played some of the songs in the bus, but my only regret was this... NO ONE ELSE WAS SINGING ALONG! And it's harder to sing in tune when you're singing under your breath.

Germanic roots and fairy tales

2008-11-24T09:41:00.007+13:00

At 5am on Friay I arrived in Bremen and scuttled through the rain to the statue of the Musicians of Bremen.
From there, a two hour train ride took me to Hamelin, of the Pied Piper fame. Having thankfully escaped the destruction of WWII, the old town is superbly intact. No one iconic monument exists to in Hamelin to symbolise the Piper's part in history. However, there is this Rat Catcher's house, around which an ancient inscription can be read, speaking of the mysterious disappearance of 130 children in 1284. They still don't know what really happened.It took three hours to hitch-hike south to Kassel. My first ride, a cute blond navy boy insisted on showing me not just his hometown but his beautiful old home also, and naturally it started snowing while I was awaiting my third ride. There I visited the Museum of the Brothers Grimm - the only its kind - which was full of everything from their fairy tales and the art they inspired to their books, furniture and 'Last Will & Testament'.

Kassel was a nightmare to hitch from. It was snowing, so of course I left my woollen hat on the bus. After a frozen hour I was picked up by a woman who waited for a while before telling me she was going in the other direction from Frankfurt. So out on the highway I get dumped... and who comes along while I'm walking on the Autobahn? The Police. They picked me up, checked my passport, reminded me of the law and then radioed around about a New Zealander they had found on the highway. Excellent.

Thankfully they appreciated my situation and very helpfully drove me around the city to the same place again. It was one hour from darkness now: right on track. A man named Willi Wall picked me up and invited me to stay the night with his wife and daughters near Gießen. It was well short of my intended destination but I went with the flow. After dinner, they played the piano and guitar as we sung Christian songs together. A wonderful night's sleep.

A failed hitching attempt in the morning let to a train through Frankfurt where I stopped for a while, on to Baden-Baden in the south-west (above). My great-grandmother, Dora Hoffman came from this town, a town in the Black Forest in which it snowed quite heavily. I searched the cemetery for Hoffmans and found one grave...

A guy I met through couchsurfing.com let me stay in his apartment in the middle of the Old Town while he went away for the night. Not too shabby at all...

The next day was characterised by two things: 8 hours of train travel, and Castle Neuschwanstein. It was a snowy dream as you can see. This is not my photo but it is exactly what it looked like yesterday. However I did not reach this vantage point - that requires some serious hiking. Still, walking around the towns below, up to the castle and through its ridiculously lavish interiors was just mindblowing. The wander back to the town through the dark, snowy woods with three American boys reminded me why I'm doing this...

A flying man in a loincloth... in Holland?

2008-11-21T23:07:00.009+13:00

For the second time - now in Dutch - I saw Tarzan in The Hague. The lady at the Office of Box must have liked me, as she randomly gave me a premium seat for half-price.
The Hague is an unlikely tourist destination but I had an intelligent and cultured host who was very kind and accommodating, not to mention two metres tall and built like Hercules. He taught me much - about Stockholm, ironically enough...
After two nights there I went to the water-webbed Amsterdam. The locals are friendly enough. The homeless guys there will come up to you if you're looking lost and very accurately set you on the right path before asking for some change. I think it's a great system. I'm more than happy to give a couple of euros to someone who saves me from half an hour of frustrated confusion.

It is a city with much charm and it grew on me the longer I stayed. The red-light district was less shocking than I expected. In Korea the girls were much more forceful - it was all you could do to avoid being pulled into their little dens of iniquity. That is of course, if you make the mistake of walking up Hooker Hill.
The infamous cafes where you can buy a joint, a spacecake or just a wad of weed are littered about the city in a casual fashion. It's just not a big deal there... perhaps the way it should be?

The experience that impacted me the deepest was a visit to the Anne Frank museum. I couldn't stop myself from crying... something kept hitting me in waves and I would start weeping again. It was a truly moving experience.
I left the country with a night-bus trip, seated next to a friendly and funny fellow from Montreal, venturing in our coach into the dark Unknown...

Turns out the Unknown is German and happens to be quite well organised. Who knew?

It had to happen... in Belgium?

2008-11-17T05:55:00.007+13:00

When I set off on my journey I wondered how long it would be before I randomly bumped into someone I knew... one week had not passed when I saw my Brazilian friend Pollyana in the Brussels train station. I haven't seen her since Korea in 2003.

Alexandre took me to Bruges for the day, a mellow meandre through medieval scenes, chocolate stores and lace boutiques. I never expected Belgium to be quite so beautiful. I spent a little too much money in the Tintin store. Winter travel might deliver more than its fair share of shrinkage, but it also eliminates most of the tourists which is quite worth the discomfort. I understand that Bruges in the summer is almost impossible to walk around, similar to Venice or Florence. It has been pointed out that I am not smiling in this photograph. However, I do not consider it appropriate to plaster my visage with an artificial grin in such an elegant and sombre environment.

In Brussels I met up with Dieter, a fellow I met in London. He and his handsome Flemish boyfriend hosted me with the utmost class in a small town near Gent. I have eaten a few too many chocolates and gorged myself on more pastries than I should, but in the words of Will Truman, "if I'm going to be single, I might as well be fat and happy". Words to live by...

Flemish architecture is quite inspiring. Gothic yet sensible, and prone to less of the frivolous indulgence that Gothicism seems often to characterise. One of the highlights of Brussels had to be watching a Japanese tourist get her high heels stuck in the grating of a cathedral floor. She couldn't move. It was hilarious.

Yes I know I'm a little evil, but you love it.

After lunch with Pollyana and her boyfriend and a two hour train ride to The Hague in South Holland that turned into four hours and four trains, I am now sitting in an internet cafe that reeks of weed. I don't wish to partake, but it is rather a nice smell. Even Mother would like it. There will be more when there is more...

I commence, en Francais

2008-11-14T23:54:00.009+13:00

On Sunday the 9th of November I flew to Paris. Not content to start the adventure a moment too late I spent my horribly early journey to King's Cross at breakneck speed, sprinting until I nearly died, quite unnecessarily as it turned out.

For three nights in Paris I did the usual things and took the usual photographs. Climbing Notre Dame was my own personal pilgrimage for Disney-related reasons. My kind host Sebastien took me for poetic strolls in the Père Lachaise cemetery to visit Oscar Wilde's resting place and an atmospheric wander around Montmartre.

On Wednesday the 12th I had to buy two tickets for the train up to Lille as the ticketing office would not accept the purchase I made online without seeing the credit card I used. The fact that it is kept safely in New Zealand was irrelevant to them. Hence I ended up paying 75 Euros for a one-hour train ride. I fart angrily in their general direction.

In Lille I was welcomed by a gentleman named Max who took me cycling alongside a river in the French countryside. I then met a man named Alexandre for a romantic dinner of furtive glances and fine cheese (I recommend the Crottin de Chavignol) followed by an intoxicating moonlit walk.I must get back to Alexandre who is wooing me with grapes and soft cheeses. I will write soon from Belgium.

The Mummy Returns

2008-11-01T00:42:00.012+13:00

As little as Halloween means to me, I had to go all out for the Rocky Horror themed Dominion Theatre Spotlight Awards. My costume took so long that the speeches were underway by the time I emerged. I then had to leave 40 minutes later as I'd promised Lucy (below) to escort her on the last train (which we missed), and as the self-congratulatory speeches were still dragging along hardly anyone even had the chance to see my costume! Better to leave that way... leaving them mystified and rebuffed. At least Lucy and I made a spectacle on the bus home.I went to see French and Saunders with Christopher on Wednesday and in the weekend I spent a sleep deprived 24 hours in Manchester to see the stage production of Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. It rained incessantly but I was able to make a trip out to Alderley Edge, the locality that provided the setting for Alan Garner's classics The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath. All the locations I remember from the book were there in vivid surreality, the Wizard's Well with its ancient inscription and the Circle of Stones, a site beloved by Pagans who mistake it for a Druidic momument. (it's not)

The Devil's Grave was there as I imagined it and I wandered around in an state of ethereal wonder, wishing only that I were able to venture into some of the caves that litter the area and that were such a feature in Garner's tales.

I befriended a woman out walking her dog, and found in her a guide for the area and a ride back into town, including a pitstop at the house where Alan Garner lived while he wrote the books I love. It was probably the highlight of my day. Being moist for all the wrong reasons was not.

In a few days I finish at the Dominion Theatre and in a week I will be moving out of my flat and going travelling for seven weeks. It will probably be a rather harrowing journey at times, but that's what you all love, so tune in regularly for frequent updates. Au revoir... (that's your first clue)

The peasants are revolting

2008-10-21T19:14:00.002+13:00

I saw Wicked again. Oops. Sixth time. I have to say I don't like the British production much. The actors are hammy to the point of being anti-Semitic and no one likes seeing their favourite show overacted like a pantomime. Only Fiyero was perfect. Glinda was like a performing pig; her character should be closer to Elle from Legally Blonde, not Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show.
The week before that I went to see Spamalot, the Monty Python musical. I got cheap tickets, thanks to some judicious flirtation with the dance captain some time ago. It's a fun romp of a show; the Knights of the Round Table tap dance and Sir Lancelot comes out of the closet. What more can you ask for?

Seven days ago the management of the Dominion Theatre took our breaks away and forbade us from eating or having food in our lockers or bags at any time during the shift. There was a subdued outrage. We are prevent by legal technicalities from officially protesting, however the fact that we are all being punished for the misdemeanours of a distinct minority has enraged us all. I have found the impact on my health quite dire - being unable to eat in the evenings and with no time to eat beforehand, I am eating too late for my stomach to digest and experiencing poor sleeping patterns and fatigue. The cold I should have recovered from a week ago is creeping deeper and deeper and into my chest.

These are three of my wonderful workmates, when we went out for a night on the bumper cars after work on Friday.

This whole diplomatic-relations trainwreck has got me so empowered that on Friday night I broke up a fight on the bus. Two men were yelling aggressively at each other so I barged in between them and stood there, firmly saying "Now I'm going to stand here, and we're all going to stop this childishness because we're not five years old." I got away with it too. The drunken one did return a little later after his rebuke and nearly punched my face in, but again, I avoided harm and all was fine.This photo depicts the entrance I use every day to the Manor House tube station in North London. It contains four things particularly symbolic of London: Dreary grey weather, red double-decker buses, an underground station and the everpresence of people.

Oh frabjous day!

2008-10-02T23:51:00.010+13:00

Last week I went with my long-time partner-in-crime Yvette to see Brooke Fraser, our favourite kiwi songstress. It had been a year since I saw Brooke in Sydney, so Yvette left her husband at home and I played the regular role of Boyfriend for an exciting evening out.

We managed to get front row - we were so close I could read the songlist. I may have screamed a little. On a dozen occasions. And I may have thrown an immaculately wrapped book onto the stage when she returned for her encore and she may have recognised me from the time I gave her books in Wellington. But she DEFINITELY said they were very good books, and that's the important part.

The next morning I jumped on the bus to Birmingham to watch the countryside pass by in a sleepy blur of mist. The city itself was quite sunny and thriving with people. There was not much culture to speak of () but that was to be expected. I found wonderful natural herbal teas at a market, so I was happy. It was a pleasant - albeit overtly proletariat - city in which to spend the afternoon.In the evening lay the reason for my unlikely pilgrimage. Mary Poppins. The Matthew Bourne choreographed Disney musical. I took umbrage that they omitted Stay Awake and I was sitting about two kilometres from the stage, but it was still a magical show. I wish I could have found a photo of Mary flying, as during the course of the show she flies all around the theatre.

I was going to change my facebook status in deference to one of the songs, to "Andrew has rosy cheeks, no warts". But then it occurred to me that people might think I had just shaken off an unfortunate attack of genital warts. Well, at least Adam would think that anyway.
The next morning at 6.30 I took the bus back to London, scarcely knowing that in hours, something terrible was going to happen.

During a routine hair-trim, the guard slipped off my clippers and carved a long bald patch into the rear of my head. I was forced to rid myself of even the last vestiges of my cranial covering; never have felt so naked. Not even that time in school when Duncan pulled my pants down in front of half the school. Not even then.

My flatmate said I look like an escapee from Auschwitz, but he's a bitch and he can just shut his face.It does, however, make me look a bit butch. I shall henceforth go by a new name: Hetero-Andy.

To round off my theatrical week, I spent Tuesday and Wednesday watching Matthew Bourne (the genius in person) direct the cast of Edward Scissorhands in their rehearsals. Sorry... did I say that I watched it? I meant to say "I got PAID to watch...".

Finally, last night I went with Amber to see her man Russell perform in The Witches of Eastwick, a delighfully fun diversion. Wet-Wet-Wet lead singer Marti Pellow was apt in the role of Daryl van Horne - at least I liked him better than when he was the mis-cast Arbiter in Chess.

I'm off to get another cup of herbal tea. T'rah...

Och aye, y'ken?

2008-09-20T00:00:00.009+12:00

After the regular encouragement of my theatrically supportive mother, I finally went to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap. In it's 56th year, it remains a pure treat. Sure, I guessed the whodunnit twist before the interval had even started, but it was no less satisfying for all that. I went with Christopher, a distinguished Wellingtonian I met here.For the first time since April, I took last weekend off work. I flew up to Glasgow on the Friday where I stayed with an old schoolfriend from Levin – Claire Cooper. She lives there with her partner and the pair of them were exemplary hosts. Note the preternaturally translucent pallour of my skin. I am becoming a wraith.

Together we all visited the Museum, the delightfully trashy Barra Markets and a number of old, sumptuous secondhand bookstores. I lost myself in piles of dusty tomes and found a few genuine treasures; I happily paid £25 for an exquisite 1913 edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Happy Prince and Other Stories.

The green surrounds of the Scottish countryside felt as if I had been transported directly to New Zealand, perhaps Waikato country or the Taranaki area. Minus the mountain. The weather was dour and grey, characterised most of the time by a slow, drizzling mist. It was perfect.

Last night I saw William Moseley, who plays Peter in the Narnia movies. He’s very pretty. I nearly walked into a door. I was unable to get a photo though, which renders the experience almost void – you simply can’t gloat about a sighting without supporting visual evidence. Like last month when Michael Caine came to see We Will Rock You. No photo. Can’t brag.

I had a root canal yesterday morning. It was mildly traumatic, but nothing worse than what I’ve experienced before at the hands of Korean butchers in 2002, and considering I didn’t go into shock this time, I guess I can call it a comparative piece of cake. The operation was completed at 10.15am and I was back at work at 11am. I just can’t bring myself to stop and be idle, even when I know I should. Oh god… the transformation is complete. I am my mother.

My tenure at City University is unfortunately coming to a close today, casting me once more into invigorating uncertainty. Time to steal stationery again…

Oh glorious autumn.

A Picture of Boring Dates, by Oscar Wilde

2008-09-10T04:04:00.000+12:00

During summer 2006 when worked on Beauty and the Beast I met Matt Sime (on the left) and Russell (on the right) who played Gaston. To the right is Amber, his partner and my friend. We saw fit recently to go for a tasteful brunch date in Kensington. As you can see, I am skinnier than ever.Last night as I was lying in my tea-tree bath... I mean, out at the pub watching the rugby with mates... er... I got tinking about how lately I've been attracting conspicuous levels of attention from... wait for it... girls. And rather pretty girls at that. On the tubes and in buses I am getting the glad eye, but never from men - from girls. I thought it was obvious that I'm not into women, but apparently not enough. Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. It seems whatever limp-wristed mojo I possess is being wasted on the fairer sex, and naturally the men don't look twice. Somewhere, something has gone HORRIBLY wrong, and I'm sure I can still hear God laughing...

Meanwhile I did have a date recently, a date that seemed on the surface to be an inevitable success. He was fit, handsome, environmentally passionate and quite intelligent. And I was so BORED that I was struggling with the urge to pull out my book and start reading. Is that rude?

The old men in my neighbourhood come to this place to play card games, waste money on slot machines and escape their aged, nagging wives.On Thursday night Sebastian and I went to see Dorian Gray at Sadlers Wells theatre (based on - of course - The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde). It was the most stunning dance work I have ever seen. The spirit of Oscar Wilde's work was transported eloquently into a sexy, stylish modernised piece in which the talent was astounding.

Imagine my horror when returning home, I found that the construction taking place next to my building had drifted a cloud of soot and dust through my open window and left everything on and around my desk – from books to DVDs to furniture – with a layer of grit. In a fury of indignance I cursed those mouth-breathing immigrants, but shortly realised that I would have to clean everything regardless of my reaction to the incident. Before long, my desk and its surrounds were looking the tidiest and neatest they’ve been since I moved in and I realised what a favour those men had done me. And all the while God was sitting on my shoulder, not as a patronising guardian angel, but as the quiet friend waiting patiently for me to come around to my own realisation. This prompted me to take a photo of my room that I might show you my humble living space. No, your eyes are not deceiving you, I sleep on the floor. Are you really shocked?
Tomorrow I go to the dentist to do something about an excruciating abcess. At best, I face a root canal. At worst, an extraction. I don’t want to lose a tooth. What if people think I’m trying to look ‘street’?

The Destitution of Sophia

2008-08-31T04:33:00.003+12:00

Please note: with the following, I am preaching to myself more than anyone, but thought you might enjoy the expression of my thoughts. My use of the pronoun ‘Him’ is merely due to tradition – please feel free to mentally insert ‘Her’, as I sincerely believe it makes no difference.
_____________________________________________

The deepest wisdoms can only be discovered by the humble and meek spirit. Wisdom in her finer form instructs to be forgiving, selfless and a willing servant. Anyone who considers his pride and position as more important than his attitude may acquire intelligence but never wisdom. For wisdom is the vein of gold that hides underneath the rock and no one ever found that place who did not in turn make himself low.

Jesus spent his time with the poor and rejected not because they were his projects but because they had characters that were closest to His own. Only people who had been downtrodden and humbled could provide company that was compatible with the Son of Man. He made Himself low, therefore anyone who is in the habit of looking down, has raised themselves up in opposition against the Divine Nature.

Those who possess nothing learn easier to love people rather than things, and for those who have endured oppression and subjugation it is a natural response to revoke pride and self-righteousness – the motivators of their hardship.

The Divine Command to minister to the poor – not as benefactors but as fellow humans – comes not just because the Creator experiences all suffering as His own, but because they are often nearer in their attitudes to His. As George Macdonald noted, ‘It is not the first and last only of whom shall have to change places, but all those who come everywhere inbetween!

The Phantom of the West Side Avenue Hoods

2008-08-28T13:15:00.000+12:00

In recent weeks I have been doing what I always planned for my excursion in London – that is, glutting myself on theatre. Last week I saw Phantom of the Opera. On Sunday I saw West Side Story. On Monday, after a night of being introduced to the convoluted delights of David Lynch's Mulholland Drive, Sebastian and I went to see Hellboy 2. At the cinema I went into the toilets and found myself confronted by a very strange set-up. The urinals were not against the wall, but horizontal along a bench, set concave like sinks. You know me – always up for a new experience. A few seconds later a woman came in and started screaming at me to stop peeing in the basin. I don’t know what she was upset about. Some people just can’t adjust to new ways of doing things.

On Tuesday I went with Yvette to see Into the Hoods (would have been a more gratifying experience without the hordes of screaming teenage girls who wouldn’t stop screaming even when I threw candy at their faces… or maybe that’s WHY they were screaming… who can tell…) Last night Conia and I went to see the filthy, hilarious Avenue Q, an adult homage to Sesame Street. Its soundtrack features titles such as 'Everyone's a little bit racist' 'If you were gay' and 'I'm not wearing underwear today'. We laughed until we nearly soiled ourselves.

Finally I leave you with a snapshot with some workmates from the theatre. The weather is finally cooling down in London and I am going about my day without dissolving in a pile of perspiration (very unattractive). The summer has passed without inflicting any of the sun upon me and autumn is now insinuating itself upon the world. I couldn't be happier!

Spotted by Muggles!!

2008-08-10T10:59:00.012+12:00

I finally took a photo at the famed platform in King's Cross station. Harry Potter fans will appreciate...
Thursday saw another night off so Anna (ex-Wellington-Dymocks workmate) and I went out to see Hairspray. Although Chess was the religious highlight of my year, Hairspray would have to be the most FUN thing I have done since I came here. It's even better than the movie and reminded me why I'm happy to be obsessed with musical theatre.

For a day and night I hosted Loren, a girl I met through Jarrad back in Wellington. I sent her off to see Wicked on Friday night and then showed her the sights of Soho and Chinatown by night, even carrying her around on my back when her ridiculously impractical boots became too agonising.

In the morning we had a whirlwind tour of Central London: Oxford Street, Soho, Chinatown, Leicester Square, Trafalgar Square, Westminster, Covent Garden and visits to the British Museum and the National Gallery. The highlight for me was the Gallery's 'Beheading of Lady Jane Grey'. She was decapitated at the age of 17 after nine days on the throne. Note the tender, fatherly caress of the man putting her onto the chopping block. It is quite unsettling.

I went out for a dance last night. It was a similar experience to the other times - one does not jump into a mousewheel and expect to go somewhere different each time. I grooved in the middle of the dancefloor for a while and then fled for the fresh air and a bus to home, after enjoying a brief stroll through the gay clubbing district, eating a banana out of fondness for irony.

My lovelife has been quite prolific lately. I added thirteen notches to my belt last week. That's right... thirteen more books on my desk! And two of them stunning old editions of George Macdonald titles from 1927 and 1896. I know we're not supposed to derive happiness from material things, but just you bloody well try and stop me...

I'll tell you tale of the bottomless blue...

2008-08-03T12:00:00.000+12:00

Coming from a beautiful harbour city like Wellington, it is difficult to spend endless months in a landlocked concrete jungle. So the weekend before last I took my ennui to fair Brighton where I wandered around for the afternoon, plastered with sunscreen that made me look like the Bride of Dracula. The secondhand bookshops I went to find were all closed and it was a largely empty experience, but let's not underestimate the salubrious effect of fresh sea air on the constitution.

It is a quaint town, complete with its own tribute to the Taj Mahal and a healthy touch of anarchy (as displayed in the photo below... love it...)

London has recently been in the grip of rank humidity, a trend I am neither equipped for or enamoured with. I dislike the heat, being a child of the shadows and twilight. When we have experienced the occasional rain shower or blast of cold wind, I can be found outside, arms outstretched to the starker elements, soaking up the promise of autumn.Last week I took another night off and went with Yvette to see Joseph and his Technicolour Dreamcoat. Yes it’s a gawdy, cheesy and extremely ‘young’ show, but we certainly had a great time. Courtesy of my friend Conia, a manager of the Adelphi Theatre, we waltzed into premium seats for the cheapest price. I’m a little embarrassed and equally impressed that I can still remember all the colours… it was red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and ruby and olive and violet and fawn and lilac and gold and chocolate and mauve and cream and crimson and silver and rose and … well you get the idea.

Speaking of being impressed, this pile of vomit in one of the tube stations was so massive, my sense of amazement overwhelmed my surge of revulsion. Well done, disgusting drunkard.

...but I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate dose of opium...

2008-07-20T12:47:00.001+12:00

Sorry... I've been reading too much Poe...Last week I commenced a two month contract at City University in Angel as a Human Resources adviser. I'm learning a lot and it's a great addition to my CV. I am able to use the uni gym during my lunch and this is the view from my window. Naturally I still work at the theatre every night and all weekend, because as we know, there IS no rest for the wicked.

Last Thursday week I took a night off (my first in two months, but yes it can be done) to see Prince Caspian with Yvette. Having no prior experience buying movie tickets in England, I accidentally managed to buy us tickets at a deluxe movie lounge. The ball didn't drop until we came out of the bathrooms, dazzled by the mirrors and condiments, that we were in for a five-star movie going experience. It was worth the £25 / NZ$65 / US$50.
Irked by my lack of musical theatre exposure, I went to see the 'Lord of the Rings' musical yesterday. An oddly compressed story, but incredibly spectacular. The stage had 18 separately movable, rotating parts and the special effects were so well done that when Frodo put on the ring and just vanished from sight, I really couldn't work out how...The only annoyances were perhaps Elrond (with a voice like a vomiting cat) and the Ents, the interpretation of which I found shabby and poor. To be fair though... some of the music did make me cry. Twice.Recently, the theatre company with whom I did some cabaret costume work in April asked me last week to join them again as Costume Director, part of which would involve sewing a dress from scratch for the leading actress. I suspect they developed a distorted perception of my sewing skills. (Mother, I can hear you laughing)

Summer is bringing with it an inexorable tide of tourists who flood the theatre like a pungent wave. Last night I served a boy who apparently came from some patriarchal culture in which mothers serve their sons and it's acceptable for him to treat her like dirt. That's not really a good enough excuse for me, so I did my best to shake up his soft-drink before passing it on to him. I couldn't get away with much while he watched, so I accidentally dropped it a bit on the shelf and knocked it against the door on the way out of the fridge. If God was smiling at the time, then the little prince was greeted with a face full of fizz. Or at least an unwelcome crotchal wet patch. (please oh please oh please...)

Whomever was responsible for this, I applaud with mucho gusto.

Award for 'Best Line of the Week' goes to my manager who

asked one of the many gay men who also work at the Dominion Theatre if he would like some scaffolding for his wrists...

Opposing Dualism

2008-07-06T10:01:00.003+12:00

As a child I grew up with tales of virtuous heroes and wicked witches, the innocent battling the corrupt. Childhood play always revolved around a good guy fighting the bad guy. We learned to define ourselves by our conflicts with another and all of our stories reflect this dualism: light and dark, good and evil.

This simplistic interpretation of morality regrettably carries through into our adult perspective of the world. Arguably, this dynamic plays a vital role in the formation of tribal groups and societies, but it also prevents us from achieving a mature understanding of right and wrong. We imagine that most conflicts in the human realm are ‘good vs evil’, but they are most often merely ‘us vs them’. By continually justifying ourselves as right and vilifying our opponents as wrong, we blind ourselves to our own flaws and end up doing more evil than good. Think of the cruelties and atrocities that have been perpetrated by good Christians heroes like Luther and others, so utterly justified in their own righteousness that they sanctioned the wholescale slaughter of entire families over doctrinal differences.

Last night when I was physically assaulted in the tube station by a stocky, short thug (who could have pounded me to dust) I had to acknowledge and humble myself over my own fault in the situation. If I hadn’t responded to his initial passing shove with a surly push of my own, the situation never would have ignited into violence on his part. Inspiring the aggression of another makes me equally guilty of the behaviour it prompts. There was no good-guy or bad-guy, just two stupid people. If I had villainized him in my mind, I would never have had to analyse my own actions honestly.

When we automatically attribute morally questionable acts to ‘bad’ people, we never have to think about the motivating factors, because acts of evil are to be expected from them. We imagine that we are incapable of committing such deeds, because only villains do such things.

But villains are not a different species. They are each and every one of us, only having walked a different path. Most often, bad things are done with good intentions. Even the Dark Lords of our favourite stories commit horrendous atrocities in the name of their own sense of justice, purity and social order.

It is such a journey that the heroine of the story I’m writing will find herself embarking on. I can see some of the awful things she is going to do, and only by letting her commit them – rather than her opponent - can I explore the true horror and shame of those decisions.

If we can’t look at the factors that drive an otherwise good person to an evil act and identify the path that leads to numbing of the conscience, then we are susceptible to it ourselves. And we must never think that we are beyond a certain wickedness. There are secret shadows in every single one of us that only by the Grace of God do not overwhelm us all.

She works hard for the money... so hard for it honey...

2008-06-24T22:21:00.007+12:00

As summer encroaches with its seething, stinking throngs of festering humanity and my 80 hour work weeks take their inexorable toll on my youthful good looks, I take my joy whenever and wherever I can.

1) The Pineapple Baby

This delightful arrangement was orchestrated by the leaders of the children's church last Sunday. You know my sense of humour; it's right up my alley. So to speak.

2) My workmates

Sure, some of them are about as exciting as a parliament session broadcast, but one look at the management team will demonstrate the frisky sense of fun my supervisors possess. It makes work bearable. The foxy, imperious vixen on the right is another kiwi. She is the reason why when I went in for my interview I was greeted with loud hails of "It's Andrew-from-New-Zealand!"

3) Josh.

My straight boyfriend is back! Josh ditched us all for a few months and has just returned from his home in British Columbia, where I used to visit him all those years ago. My compatriot in life and vice, it is wonderful to bask in each other's affections again.

And then of course there is always the sense of satisfaction I derive from feeling vaguely superior to the blissful dolts who stumble across my path. I had to serve a German last night who could speak nothing but German, and seemed to expect that I would understand his flowing Deutsch. He must have been remembering a different ending to World War II.

What absolutely guts me though, is that all these people probably earn far more than I ever will.

"God... this is Andrew. It's not funny."

People are stupid.

2008-06-13T00:51:00.000+12:00

Excuse the infrequency of my updates. I have now officially become an indentured servant of the Dominion Theatre. In the last week I have worked 90 hours and I haven't had a day off since mid April. It's enough to make my mother put her hand to her mouth in horror, which I'm sure she will when she reads this.

At any rate, this post is dedicated to the stupid people who litter my life.

I went out on a date in the weekend. It was over the instant he commented on the number of Australians there are in London. I might have forgiven him that, were it not for the fact that I HAD mentioned I was from New Zealand. And I still would have forgiven him if he were hot enough that I didn't care what the conversation was like. But he wasn't. And I did.

One of the guests at the theatre asked recently at which point in the show does Freddie Mercury come out.

“Well technically, he came out in 1974, then he died of AIDS in 1991. Does that answer your question?”

Then there was “How much are the t-shirts?”

“They’re all 15.50”

“Okay. And what about that one?”

“Uh… also 15.50.”

“Pounds?”

“No sir, goats. If you herd them around the corner our cashier will look after them.”

And today I had: “Where are the rubbish bins?” *points to my seat* “Is that one?”

“No, that is a telephone booth. The bins are in the foyer.”

The theatre has been providing me with my day work as well, most recently with the supervision of rehearsals for the Monty Python musical, Spam-a-lot. My favourite thus far has been ‘The Traditional Fish-Slapping Song’. It’s very amusing. Also amusing is flirting with the dance captain. Don’t judge. HE started it.

Sunday saw me overseeing a hundred little children as part of the Hillsong church’s childcare/kids’ church program. Thankfully I love kids. Especially en flambé with a Caesar salad on the side and honey mustard sauce. *to DIE for*

Lately my workmates concluded that I run down stairs like a velociraptor. Apparently we shared a straight-backed quality. It is an oddly specific comparison, but I find being likened to a cold-blooded killer that would sooner rip your face off as look at you strangely… well… flattering.

Maybe that reaction explains why this cartoon is likely to be an omen of my future.

A triple Idina week. The luckiest kind!

2008-05-24T08:38:00.008+12:00

Ladies, gentlemen and undecided, I would like to introduce Her Divine Excellence, Idina Menzel. Star of Wicked, Chess, Aida and Rent (my four favourite shows), I find it hard not to idolise the woman. Hence, the previous week when I had the privilege of seeing her perform not once, not twice, but THRICE

On Monday the 12th and Tuesday the 13th I went to the Royal Albert Hall to see the 21st Anniversary, two-nights-only concert performance of CHESS, the musical from which I have derived more emotional succour than any other. I cried, I laughed, I screamed til I was hoarse and still wanted more. The leads were all superstars of the musical world and it was a religious experience to hear them backed by a 100 strong choir, orchestra and pipe organ that reduced me to a permanent state of goosebumps that undulated over my flesh like prairie grasses rippling in the wind.

As Florence, Idina Menzel sung “Everybody’s playing the game, but nobody’s rules are the same – nobody’s on nobody’s side.”

As Freddie, Adam Pascal wailed “Who’d ever guess it? Such a squalid little ending, watching you descending just as far as you can go – I’m learning things I didn’t want to know.”

As Anatoly, Josh Groban resounded “Anyone can be a husband or lover – sooner them than me when they discover their domestic bliss is shelter for their failing.”

Hmmm… maybe THAT’S why I am the way I am. Or maybe I love it because I was already that way inclined. Chicken or egg? Anyone…?

To round of my Week of Idina, she performed on Saturday night at the huge nightclub G-A-Y. I was there at the very front against the stage when she came out, drunk as hell, driving the audience wild with comments like "This stage is so sticky... what have you boys been doing up here?". Such a fabulously crass woman. What's not to love?

The highlight of this last week was definitely the We Will Rock You anniversary night. I got to meet Kerry Ellis (another of the Chess stars) and how many people can say they have seen Brian May perform Bohemian Rhapsody?

You'd think I would be all theatred out, but I still managed to go see Wicked again on Wednesday. (for the fifth time... oops...)

Scaramouche, Scaramouche will you do the Fandango?

2008-05-12T02:54:00.007+12:00

It seems my posts are gurgling forth about every fortnight now. I felt obliged to wait until I had met another celebrity and on Saturday night I met Brian May, of the band Queen. My parents won't know who that is, but never mind. He probably thought I was one of the ensemble cast of We Will Rock You when he came up and shook my hand, but I'll take what I can get.Every Sunday at the Dominion Theatre there are three church services run by Hillsong, a rowdy and energetic church based in Sydney. I have enjoyed working during those times, largely because of the chance to check out the eye-candy. I mean, to worship God. Seriously though, half of them are like the cast of Melrose Place.

Some of the black girls from Hillsong who serve as ushers have such massive afros that during the sermon I entertain myself by throwing M&Ms at their heads and watching them go into orbit.

My daytime temp work has dried up recently. Although my theatre job affords me a basic survival budget, I'm extremely unimpressed with the lack of funds for which I blame my useless agencies. However, the weather has put on a spectacular show of early summer clemency to coincide with my unwelcome free time, so never call me incapable of finding the silver lining...

Those of you inclined to supplicate the Almighty, please pray for more work! Nothing can depress me today though - because tonight I am going to see Chess, starring Idina Menzel and Adam Pascal. If I survive the rapturous experience, it will be the highlight of my year.

All aboard the Hogwarts Express...

2008-04-28T06:31:00.006+12:00

My apologies for the tardiness of this new post.

My week in Slough was painful. There’s something about that place that makes you want to swing a length of rope up to the nearest lamp-post and hang yourself. My workmates were well-intended enough, but incredibly – dare I use the ‘c’ word? – …common. I promptly informed them I would not continue beyond the end of the week. I began to miss my work at the bank, even the mindless data entry, even the unfortunately effeminate Indian man who was so estrogenic that the sight of him made me want to menstruate.

I contrasted that experience with a luxurious 3-night stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Canary Wharf with my visiting friend Benoit. Food appeared when requested, my shoes were polished overnight, the room was magically reset each day; it was like living in Hogwarts.

Speaking of which, on the 19th while on the train to my new flat in Manor House, who should sit next to me but Draco Malfoy! I would have given anything to video him yelling “Petrificus Totalis!” at me. Those of you unfamiliar with Harry Potter will merely have to smile and nod.

My new flat is in a Turkish neighbourhood where I am surrounded by stores selling produce and baklava. God bless the Turks, if only for baklava. I’m going to become such a lardass. Well as Will Truman said, “If I’m gonna be alone, I might as well be fat and shiny.”

My flatmate is a delightful Greek Cypriot who I get along very well with. He and I are like Will & Jack.

On Thursday night I served drinks to the New Zealand Cricket team on the penthouse floor of the NZ Embassy (view of Piccadilly Circus seen above) and the following night I did the same for the ANZAC celebrations. At one point I looked up from the bar to see two guys from my class in high school. It was an awkward moment.

I am in the middle now of a two week assignment at a prestigious pharmaceutical company in Hammersmith and last Monday I started my evenings/weekend job at the mouse-infested Dominion Theatre, home of the Queen musical ‘We Will Rock You’. I had always wanted to find a theatre job here, and although working 70 hours a week is awfully tiring, I'm having a blast.

It’s amazing how my entire life has changed in a heartbeat. I like it.

Blow, o ye buggery winds of change

2008-04-12T19:36:00.005+12:00

I thought nothing bad could happen to me today because I was wearing a 101 Dalmatians band-aid. But I lost my job anyway. It seems they don’t want to keep training and using me when they know I’ll be gone within the year, so like the proverbial hot potato, I am being chucked. You all know I’m not in the habit of ejaculating sport-related metaphors – and a nautical specimen comes perilously close – but here I go: There is simply no point in protesting a change in the wind; you can only try to adjust your sails…

It’s moments like these I have to stop and ask myself, “What would Harry Potter do?”

Well, he’d probably blame it all on Voldemort. So maybe that’s what I’ll do.

Sadly, most of his courses of action are a little outside my skill level in magic. “Accio new job…”

Lo and behold… it worked! On my last day of work I got a call from my work agency – they were offering me a job. It’s even further from the city, but the pay is a little better and it will be permanent for as long as I’m here. See… this is why it pays to ALWAYS flirt with your agent.

There was nothing left for the rest of the day except go for drinks with some of my workmates, pretend to work and steal some stationery.

Calm down Mother, I only took a stapler.
Meanwhile, my evenings are kept busy helping out at the cabaret show my friend Amber is in (above). I can usually be found in the dressing room with needle and thread hanging out my mouth, fielding requests of “Andrew can you adjust my hemline”, “Andrew can you attach gauze to my corset”, “Andrew I don’t have a cummerbund – can you make me one?”

My mother would be so proud. Really. I bet none of you knew that I could sew… Well neither did I.

The cast wrap party on Saturday night was loads of fun, full of dancing and belting out showtunes. However, the musical director got ragingly drunk and set his horny sights on me. Not only did I dislike being continually molested, but his boyfriend wasn't too thrilled either. Once he left, I had fun with everyone else and spent the following day walking around with Anna, an ex-workmate from Dymocks in Wellington. And the final story, purely for my embarrassment and your amusement: Last night I was taking an armful of dirty clothes downstairs for the washing machine and a bag of rubbish for the bin. Between my bedroom and the kitchen I forgot about the rubbish and just shovelled it into the washing machine along with my clothes. I found myself later that night pulling out a perplexing mixture of shirts, banana skins, socks and apple cores. I’m so retarded.

The Hundred Year Winter

2008-04-05T06:36:00.004+13:00

It happened again. When Pere and I spent the weekend together, it snowed. This means we won't be able to see each other again or England will be trapped eternally in a preternatural winter. Like Narnia. They'll call me the White Witch. Then again, that's only one of the names my family calls me behind my back, so it wouldn't be anything particularly new... As promised, here is the first glimpse into my living quarters. This is my little bedroom that I have made my own. It's so warm and cosy... although I can't tell right now whether it actually IS super warm and cosy or whether the ... ugh... chamomile tea I just had is giving me rose-coloured glasses. Well if so, thank Heaven for them...

I feel as if I have been deconstructed and rebuilt into an inferior model. I can't afford to go to the gym or do acrobatics and am back to being skinny, I can't afford organic free-range eggs, fresh raw manuka honey or unsalted peanut butter. But I'll stop now, as I think you get the drift, and I suspect I'm giving Princess Diana a run for her tiara.

On Thursday night I had a trial shift at a bar about half an hour from my place. It never occurred to me how handicapped I would be by my extreme ignorance of alcohol. I'm not used to feeling stupid, so that was one of the more humiliating and stressful experiences I've had in recent memory. They let me go after a few hours, and I skipped home, glowing with ignominious relief at the thought of never doing that again.

And my next hair-brained attempt at making more money? Maybe a heterosexual gigolo... can't you just imagine that. "You want me to put it WHERE?"
This photo was snapped on my walk to work. Speaking of which, I have finally made some friends at the bank. There's Cheryl, a pretty blonde who has made it her ambition to get me on the bottle, Kunaal, an Indian fellow who I beat up whenever he litters on the street (it makes him feel nurtured and it gives me an outlet for my rage) and Thatikan, a sassy Thai girl who would suck the alcohol out of a deodorant stick just to get a buzz. So I'm surrounded by good people.

And last but never least, my dear friend from long ago, Yvette. New friends silver, old ones gold... you know the deal...

I spent most of the day sewing sequins on to costumes at the cabaret show I'm helping out with. Opening night on Tuesday. I will have sequins floating across my mind as I go to sleep tonight. Oh well... I guess repeating visions of sequins are better than litter and white trash...

Snow for Easter?

2008-03-26T21:43:00.006+13:00

Josh went back to Canada on Sunday, but we had a good time on St Patrick’s Day (above) – not that there is the slightest indication of anything green or Irish in the photo. Not that you can see…

My job is rumbling along, at times pleasantly dull, at times like cleaning dried vomit off a toilet floor. It’s money, albeit extremely insufficient for living here.

Easter weekend was quite wonderful. I housesat for my friend Jeremy again, this time without the frantic presence of the dogs. As you can see, it snowed intermittently all weekend, quite the finishing touch to a romantic getaway.

It is no wonder the English are dour, with names like Swinemoor, Slough and Staines. Sounds like a law-firm from Hell.

I discovered to my delight that thanks to the National Health Service here in Britain, not only was my visit to the doctor free, but the prescription I picked up cost NZ$17, as opposed to the NZ$125 I pay at home. There was however, an article in the paper about NHS practitioners extracting the wrong teeth, puncturing internal organs during operations and attemping brain surgery on the wrong side of the skull.

Wait with excitement for the next instalment, when we finally penetrate the veil of mystery and take a voyeuristic journey of discovery through my living quarters. Here's a sneak peak: When I asked my landlady if she provided an internet connection, she asked, "What's that?"

Driven by danger and discontent and the drums of youth...

2008-03-16T05:49:00.007+13:00

Last week I got to meet two very exciting individuals. First was Gregory Maguire, author of Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, upon which my favourite musical is based. He was camper than I anticipated, and so friendly. And for those of you who have made lewd comments on what it is that I was demonstrating the size of, I was referring to the quantity of his books I have back in New Zealand. Thank you. Very. Much.

Directly afterwards I went to see two Pinter plays, The Lover and The Collection, the latter of which starred Charlie Cox, also the star of the brilliant movie Stardust. Naturally I stalked him afterwards and have the preceding photo to prove it. He asked me a lot about New Zealand as he wants very much to visit. Keep your eyes out kiwis… you might bump into him.

A very amusing sight in this city is the occasional gaggle of American tourists wandering around. Even if silent, they tend to stick out like flamingos in a penguin colony. I on the other hand, blend in flawlessly, looking like just one more dour, waifish Eurotrash. Look... it seems that the White Witch got Aslan after all...

I’m still in the thick of the settling-in phase, which apparently takes a ridiculously long time and is like gargling with hydrochloric acid. Right now, it’s only the thought of my tickets to see Chess in the middle of May that provides me with incentive to persevere with my destitute situation in the earth’s richest third-world country.

On the plus side, I have discovered a new hobby for when I’m really bored: standing outside McDonalds and judging people as they leave.

You lied to me Mother. There IS a Butts Farm!

Salubrious news!!

2008-03-05T09:47:00.006+13:00

My flathunt began in earnest this morning as I commenced another week not knowing where I would sleep each night. Free spirited though I am, it’s more stress than I need.

Tonight, using the following ad from a local store window I found a cheap room in a small flat out in North Feltham on a street called Pentelow Gardens. Don’t get excited. There are no gardens.

It’s not a great area and my room might be tiny and simple, but it’s clean and it’s MINE! Tonight I go to bed happier than I’ve been in weeks. My underwear, as we speak, is folded. Folded IN my drawers. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had my underwear FOLDED AND IN DRAWERS?!

Whoa… lost control a bit there… overwhelmed by my own OCD.

Anyway, also of note is the 30 minute walking distance from work (and from Heathrow Airport) for as many of you will be surprised to know, commuting does NOT bring out that which is Christ-like within me. The journey goes through a rather unattractive park with a dirty, littered stream. I squint my eyes really hard as I walk and make believe that it’s pretty.

My first week at work was dull but income-generating. My time is spent going through piles of paper and amending information in the computer system. Really slash-your-wrists material. But I am gainfully employed without resorting to being a drug mule, pimping my holy self on the street corner, or becoming a lawyer.

My boss even said that next week he’ll sit me down and explain to me what my team actually does. Won’t that be nice.

On Saturday Morgan and I traipsed around Hyde Park and over the Serpentine River to my spiritual home in London: the Peter Pan statue. Morgan is an infidel. She refuses to believe that every creature in Kensington Gardens is a fairy. But she can keep her heathen ways; I know better. See… look at the photo. If this isn’t a fairy, then why is it eating a flower?!

Can’t argue with that can you?

The dementors are back...

2008-02-25T12:07:00.007+13:00

Due to a technical hitch in my accommodation arrangement I ended up being homeless shortly after my last post. I love it when this happens. For a week I went from night to night, not knowing where I would sleep. I lost 4kgs of muscle, developed a sinus infection, and the back injury that had almost healed returned immediately with a vengeance. A week later, I have recovered from the general feeling of 'illness' that I had and I'm feeling much better. I'm still without a semi-permanent abode however.In brighter news, I am reunited with Josh, my Canadian straight boyfriend from my time in Korea. I visited him twice in Canada but hadn't seen him since 2006. It's even better than it was before. It's just a shame that he - like most of my friends here - are not in a position to accommodate a temporary guest. It's my fault for not coming here with enough funds to see me though. Then again, you are all familiar with my penchant for adversity and adventure. The other day as I sat on the train from Yvette's into town, watching glumly out the window at the city, obscured by thick fog and mist I noticed the newspaper across the carriage from me that said "Town's 17th suicide in a year". My first thought was "Oh no... THE DEMENTORS ARE BACK!" ... (Harry Potter in-joke) ...

Yvette took me to an aerials performance last weekend, which only reminded me how much I long to get back into it. Of course in London it is hideously expensive, and in this city if you want to fart you have to fill in ten forms and wait for six months. So you can imagine the red tape involved in getting yourself swinging in the air... I had three days of work last week, one at a Porsche centre where they sent me home with kisses and hugs and incredible feedback for my agency, then two as a PA for the partners of a civil engineering firm where I had nothing to do all day but sit around and catch up on my correspondence. Tomorrow morning I start at the Royal Bank of Scotland in the Invoice Finance centre, far southwest of the centre in Feltham. It's an ongoing position and even though the pay is not great, I'm grateful for it.

This weekend I had the pleasure of looking after my friend Jeremy's greyhounds and consequently staying in the little loveness he and his gorgeous blonde Lithuanian girlfriend inhabit. Four nights in one place! That's more stability than I know what to do with... It was a large contributor to my newfound sense of wellbeing. Oh... and greyhounds are SUCH a glamourous accessory. If I thought I was capable of tolerating their constant affirmation-deficit in the long term, I'd get me one.

Londontown

2008-02-14T21:39:00.008+13:00

But first I must digress. Bear with me if you will. My flight to Los Angeles via Sacramento was tedious, but I must give credit to the Sacramento airport for such excellent artwork. There were two of these such structures in the baggage claim area. Love it.Chris picked me up at the airport and whisked me off to an Ethiopian restaurant for a meal of African delicacies. Oh we like that... After three short nights back in Beverly Hills I flew to London where I am reunited with a number of wonderful people. I am staying with Amber in West Kensington while I look desperately for work. Something will turn up. But in the meantime I am enjoying the social life. The resplendent redhead is Morgan, an ex-workmate from my days at Dymocks.On Saturday I went along to Westminster Abbey for a Waitangi Day celebration but found only a seething throng of drunken, rowdy kiwis. It was everything about New Zealand culture that I despise and thought I had escaped. I stayed long enough to take a photo before fleeing like a... flee-er. That just doesn't work does it...

I am also back together with my dear Yvette who I met while at university in Palmerston North. It is a little cold here, but since I arrived it has been clear and bright. Everyone says I brought the weather with me, but it's like I have always said, the sun really DOES shine out of my ass.

While out on the town with Yvette I bumped into two people I know around the Soho area... this is going to be a good year. Although I do foresee my capacity for pedestrian rage being pushed to its limit. If you read in the news about a slow person found dead, beaten to death with their own brolly, it just might have been me that did it...

Ode to a romance suggested

2008-02-03T09:28:00.000+13:00

This is Portland. Well... not the Portland I got to see. It is a quiet, unassuming city that concealed its beauty like a Muslim wife behind a veil of mist and rain. So I got to see this, minus the mountain, and the sky, and the view in general.
People are very curious about my accent here. One girl on the Portland trains missed her stop just so she could sit and chat with me about sexual politics in religion. Although there has been nothing quite like the free croissant I got from the barista in San Francisco who was just so happy that I was from the country he wants to live in.
It was great to see Troy. When I first arrived, he showed me his gun. And just to prove that I really mean 'gun'.... here is a photo. His mother made me incredibly welcome, though from her reaction when I told her I was vegetarian, you'd have thought I just killed a kitten. "But... what do you EAT???" "Well... pretty much EVERYTHING else. It's really not limiting at all." Her home was reminiscent of the decorating styles of Dolores Umbridge. Lovely woman.

Troy was mostly busy so I wandered around town alone, visiting Powell's bookstore (comparable in size and selection to The Strand in Manhattan). But then I met Zachary, a kindred spirit with an angelic smile. We walked and talked on travel and music, literature and vegetarian ethics. He gave me a ticket to his play on Thursday night - Curate Shakespeare As You Like It. It was hilarious and I spent the rest of my time in the city with him. It wasn't long enough. It was just a prologue... it was just a prologue...

Oh it's moist in San Francisco

2008-01-30T08:34:00.000+13:00

I barely made the bus to San Francisco. Ten minutes before the bus's departure I realised my scarf was back at Brooke & Robert's. I ran back, took the world's slowest elevator up to the 5th floor where I collected my prodigal accessory. Going back down, the elevator stopped slowly at Floor 3 for a woman in a wheelchair, with wan corn hair and a long moustache. She slowly got on, slowly got out, slowly walked through the lobby, slowly went through the door... with me stuck behind her the whole time, feeling like Mister Bean. I sprinted to the station and made it onto my bus. Just.

There is a palpable sense of intelligence in San Francisco. I could see it in the eyes of the passersby when I left the Greyhound Station. I was back in a city where the people think, read, and vote accordingly. A city where if George W(anker) Bush ever showed his smug face, he'd be tarred & feathered. My type of people!!!

My first day in the city rained incessantly, relentlessly, continuously, frustratingly... It didn't ease up once during the day so I got very little done. I spent a few nights with my friend Che, an English teacher here in the city who lives in Mission, a Hispanic district next to Castro, the notorious gay area. As you can imagine, it's a bright and kitschy place, but the name of this shop selling flowers and balloons amused me: "Does Your Mother Know?" I was rather fond of this building until I realised it was the city headquarters for Scientology. I thought I'd better not go in and check out the architecture. I still have Tom Cruise's teethmarks from last time. And Kirtie Alley? Damn... she can run FAST for a fat chick.

And one of my favourite things about San Francisco? Uh... the green signs everywhere.

My Mum said I can.

Freezing my cashews off in Reno

2008-01-24T21:55:00.000+13:00

Brooke and Robert took me up into the Sierra Nevadas on Sunday morning where we visited the Squaw Valley ski resort, site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. Brooke's father is in the ski patrol, so we entered for free and took the lift up to the top of the mountain where we went ice-skating in the arctic temperatures and blizzard flurries. My friends inhabit a cosy little love-nest that overlooks the Truckee River and since arriving I have screwed their Feng Shui right up with my big mess of crap that exploded from my suitcase. At least I didn't put the cat's litterbox in the love corner like I did last time.I was treated to a show at a local casino: an musical impressionist comedian. It was cheesier than a filled-crust pizza but I had a good time. The highlight of his performance was a duet between Kermit and Ozzy Ozborne.I went ice-skating again on Tuesday and Wednesday and this is the closest I could get to an action shot. I'm going so fast I'm blurry... The second time I had a huge fall and bashed my pelvis and knocked my head on the ice. I dno't tihnk theer haev bene any sdie-efctefs.
Tomorrow I go to San Francisco. I'm getting a tattoo. Mum'll love that.

Andrew Harris, 90210

2008-01-20T15:50:00.000+13:00

In my usual inimicable style, I managed to end up staying in Beverly Hills 90210 during my latest sojourn. But wait... what am I doing? In the words of the Mad Hatter, "Start at the beginning, and when you get to the end... stop."

First of all, I have left New Zealand for a while. I have a working holiday visa for UK and will spend a year in London, working and glutting myself on musical theatre. But on the way I am having a little play on the West Coast of North America.

Before I flew out of Auckland I met a flight attendant who happened to know someone working on my flight to Los Angeles. So before I knew it I was being moved to a 'more comfortable seat' and supplied with complimentary perks.

In LA I decided to try a shortcut into town, which naturally took twice as long and got me lost and wandering with all my luggage in some very dubious neighbourhoods. Once in Hollywood I was straddled with the task of finding a place to stay. Once again, the LORD used the internet as the tool of his Providence and before I knew it, I was having sushi for dinner with Kevin, a tall, dark and handsome PhD student from Maryland. Cut to: Me, staying at his apartment in Beverly Hills for the next three nights.

I am currently channelling an antediluvian god of chaos, so Kevin's patience for the endless production of my everyday life cannot be overstated. See Kevin run.

I went out clubbing on Santa Monica Blvd both Thursday and Friday nights. I went to places with a horrifyingly unnatural concentration of perfect looking men that I actually couldn't stand it anymore. They were all 'nines' or 'tens' (or half the time, eleven, twelve and thirteen) and I felt like the Elephant Man. But I did have a great dance.

Little Ralph Wiggum has also been accompanying me on my travels and on Friday he came out on the town with my friend Jeremy and I while we ate by the Chinese Theatre and wandered along the shops of Melrose. He was quite happy just eating his paste.

Traffic conspired against me this morning and I missed my flight to Reno. And lost my passport. And my cellphone. And my grip on reality. Though I suspect that (not unlike myself) it had already gone on vacation.

All problems were resolved and all lost things were found and I am now in snowy Reno with my friends Brooke and Robert. Tomorrow we go iceskating. Wheeeeeeee!

Sunburn for Christmas

2008-01-17T20:31:00.000+13:00

In New Zealand (for those of you outside of it) camping is the Christmas activity du jour, so Christopher, Serge and I celebrated the Summer Solstice by heading north for a reprieve from the burdens of civilisation.

MT RUAPEHU

On our first night on the slopes of Mt Ruapehu (known to off-worlders as Mt Doom) Christopher proved himself most useful, having honed his camping skills in the wilderness of Canada, otherwise known as ‘The Killing Fields’. He bear-proofed our campsite and showed us how to keep racoons and skunks away from the tent, all the while laughing how in New Zealand you could go to sleep dripping with bacon and honey and still wake up in the morning quite unmolested. It was cold but I slept through the night, disturbed only by Christopher peeing on my tent. I’m joking. He actually missed it by at least six inches.

WAIPOUA FOREST

After frolicking at Baileys Beach a few hours above Auckland, we settled into our cabins in the Waipoua Forest, though it didn’t feel like home until I’d finished washing the plastic mattress with wet wipes. I don’t have OCD.

It rained on Christmas Day so I went swimming in the river while rabbits and quails ran around our cabins.

Two fun French girls joined us at this point for the rest of our journey north, starting with a visit to the great kauri trees that have been growing for thousands of years. Much like my sense of disdain for people who walk around with their mouths open.

OPONONI

In the quaint settlement of Opononi in the Hokianga Harbour we stayed one night. The local watering hole provided ample entertainment after the sun went down. Opononi has a history of dolphin visitations; however we were not so blessed as to witness this sight.

MAITAI BAY

Almost at the very top of the North Island we settled at Maitai Bay, a splendid holiday area (as you can see). By now the sun was getting to me and I was enjoying a combination of medication-induced photosensitivity and the searing burns it caused.

At the campsite we were lucky enough to have cold showers and flushing toilets! That’s a step up from the yawning Portal of Death that hung over the Bog of Eternal Stench at the first campsite.

I swam regularly in the crystal clear waters of the ocean, sometimes from one side of the bay to the other, though I wonder how comfortable I would have been had I known that on Sunday we would be treated to a visit from a bull shark. By then I was enjoying worse pain than I’ve ever endured in all my years of accidents and acrobatic-related mishaps so I decided to hitch-hike home.

Feeling very Gollumlike, I travelled through the night to avoid the burning rays of the sun (IT HURTSS USSS!) but I was in Taupo when the sun rose. 1000 kms (600 miles), 18 hours and 17 rides including a Danish bricklayer, a musical theatre queen and a singing Tongan family. Not a bad effort indeed!

I enjoyed a week with my family and then a week back at work. After a great farewell party with friends in Wellington, I flew up to Auckland to spend my 29th birthday with Adam. I am now in LA, staying in Beverley Hills 90210!

Regular posts will follow...

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

2007-09-23T13:44:00.000+12:00

I know this photo of me is blurry, but not too bad nonetheless.

What a week. If it wasn't enough that my final work assignment put me beneath a supervisor who hated me from the day I started, my flatmate's psychopathic delusion reached a crescendo on Wednesday when he kicked me out. He was convinced that I was on crystal meth - I didn't even know what that was.

The stress of living with his constant barrage of garbage, being told that I was a screwed up mess of insecurity and emotional issues who looked like crap every morning, WAS taking it's toll. I lost my appetite and couldn't sleep properly. By Tuesday when I left work I nearly burst into tears. Naturally, Gary's complete ignorance regarding the interpretation of my behaviour led him to assume that I was on hard drugs.

When I went back to collect my things I managed to get out of there within half an hour - a relatively painless process, although I was dreadfully nervous approaching the moment, and found Psalm 23 repeating in my mind. I truly did feel like the pilgrim entering the dark valley. I was glad to be kicked out and spat vehemently when I left his house.

My friend Vince came to the rescue like a knight in shining armour and let me stay at his house for the remainder of my sojourn. However, I nearly died carrying all my things to his house. I do make a good pack mule at times.

I caught up with Alex, a friend from my time in Korea who I hadn't seen since 2003 (photo above) and on Thursday night went with Maurizio to see Miss Saigon - a truly spectacular production. Tears were shed...

Friday was my 'wrapping up' day, which included visiting for the last time my Croatian friend Teo (above) and the show put on by my acrobatics school. On Saturday as my final hours slowly ticked away, I had brunch with my friend Jase from Wellington who was actually in the cast of Miss Saigon, and then Maurizio helped me take my bags to the airport where I managed to sneak through three carry-on bags, weighing as much as my check in.

Negative points for the parents who thought the solution to managing a noisy child is to make even more noise to distract him. Nothing is worse than an unruly child who has been overindulged by its parents. They're the type of vermin who meet a grisly demise in Roald Dahl stories. I wanted to taser him.

Jarrad picked me up at the airport and took me to the house of Ashleigh, an ex-Dymocks friend and guardian angel. When I tasted the crisp air that still remembered winter's chill and heard the feral wind howl like a ghost beneath Ashleigh's back door, I knew I was home.

Posts will discontinue for a while until I leave for the US and UK, at which point I shall email again.

Elephants and splits

2007-09-16T19:25:00.000+12:00

Be warned; there WILL be a record number of photographs in this entry.

On Saturday I went into town and took the ferry over to Taronga Zoo. I think the best picture I took all day was this one of a frog!

It's a drop bear! They warned me about these monsters, so I smeared myself with vegemite. Did you know it wards them off? When I saw this one ready to jump on an unsuspecting victim I was glad I was covered in sticky, yeasty spread.

Who knew Simba had given up his life in show business and retired in Taronga Zoo!

Look... it's Audrey Hepburn. Oh wait that's right, she was like a SWAN... a swan... I keep getting that mixed up.

Who doesn't love an elephant? Well, besides poachers... who should be unconditionally shot on sight. With six billion humans crawling all over the planet, how could anyone argue that the life of a mangy murdering poacher would be worth more than one of these majestic, endangered beauties? After the zoo I went to the farewell of Leanne, my aerials tutor. She is on the direct left of me. The girl on my lap is 14 years old and can bend her spine back until her head touches her butt. It's phenomenal. Then as the night matured, Leanne did some tricks on the hoop for us.
She's a tad bendy herself.
I have six days left... SIX DAYS!!! Six more days of putting up with my flatmates insanity. Tonight when I expressed my discomfort at being talked to when he was standing in my doorway wearing his briefs, he got horribly offended and started going on again, telling me how I have issues and need help. I'm half expecting him to kick me out in the morning.

I would not like for that to happen, but I can't lie - it will be GREAT when I don't have to keep pretending that I'M the one who is screwed in the head and in need of help. It's getting old.

LORD DELIVER ME!!!!

A visit from the Axis of Evil

2007-09-09T21:20:00.000+12:00

George W(anker) Bush has been in town and the entire city was brought to its knees as police and security turned the CBD into a militarized zone. Frankly, I would be happy to die in a bomb blast as long as it took out that monkey-brained Antichrist.

It's not long before I return home. In two weeks I will be back in Wellington. In one week I finish my job, so I have to find something to tide me over for the final week. There are street corners all over the show; I'm sure if things get desperate I can be inventive.

I was watching The Matrix last week and noticed a shot of Neo (Keanu Reeves) standing in front of the Dymocks store that is RIGHT across from my work! That's the corner of Pitt and Hunter Streets, where I walk every day. How nifty!

Sadly that is the most exciting thing I have to tell about the previous week. I promise I'll stick my head in front of a train or bunjee jump off the Sydney Harbour Bridge before next weekend so I have something entertaining to tell.

The wrath of the gods

2007-09-02T23:16:00.000+12:00

My aerials class on Tuesday was enlivened with the advent of the lunar eclipse. We did our warmups outside on the grass, buzzing with primal excitement at the dark pool of blood that spread across the moon like the seeping wrath of pagan gods. It is so easy to imagine the fear of the ancients as they witnessed such a haunting sight.

Friday brought along a charming surprise in the form of Sara Honore, a dear friend I grew up with at church. In true form, I heard her before I saw her, and my lunch break was enchanted with her presence, reminiscing over people and events from the distant past, most of them quite embarrassing.

I pulled a Clark Kent for the occasion and scrapped my glasses in favour of contacts, causing a workmate considerable confusion; "What's different about you? Did you get a haircut? Didn't you have a moustache before?". "A moustache? What am I? One of the Village People?"

My flatmate kicked me out on Thursday night! He also called me a f***ing idiot and all manner of charming things. I was guilty of refusing to shower him with the validation and affirmation that he is desperate for. He recanted by the evening's end and said I could stay, but that night I dreamed I was one of the children from Flowers in the Attic... maybe it was a message to stop eating the sugared cookies he's been leaving out for me...

It has been HOT. Our lows have been about the same as Wellington's highs. Hear that everyone back home? HA.

On Saturday Maurizio and I went to see Brooke Fraser, and today I walked around Cooper Park where I relished the scent of the rich earth and conversed with the beautiful lizard you see above. I thanked him for letting me take a photo and told him he was especially handsome (reptiles are generally vain creatures and highly susceptible to flattery)

Go on now... go! Walk out the door...

2007-08-27T00:52:00.000+12:00

My flatmate is currently in the next room, screaming and swearing his outrage at the football game on TV. I tried to tell him that the players can't hear him, but judging from his blank stare, I suspect he neither understood nor believed me. If he were drunk it might be some excuse, however I'm sad to say it is just unfettered human brainlessness and neanderthal tribalism at work. I've never appreciated the appeal behind a gaggle of repressed homosexuals running around the grass after a swollen sac of plastic. Why don't they just skip the foreplay on the field and head straight for the showers? We all know that's the only reason why they do it anyway.

Tonight Maurizio and I went to see the stageshow of Priscilla Queen of the Desert. It was quite a spectacle! In my life don't think I've ever been exposed to so many classic disco anthems in such a short space of time. And they even had a bus on the stage!

I'm trying to work out how much longer I will stay here. I was originally to return in a few weeks but now that I have some more incentive to stay longer, I'm faced with some tricky decisions. I will probably be back in September anyway. "Never use your heart... use your head..."

Sorry to be short on the entertainment this week. I feel truly bad. Hopefully after some disciplinary self-flagellation I will receive a little more inspiration.

Look ma... no hands

2007-08-19T16:18:00.000+12:00

Faced with a frightful shortage of things to tell you this week, I resorted to "Ooooo lookit!" Yes it hurts like a bitch. This is the gymnasium at which I engage in my antics.

Last night Maurizio and I ran to the bus stop in the driving rain, after which I took this photo of us, bedraggled and forlorn. As soon as we reached shelter it stopped raining and remained fine for the rest of the night. Naturally. And yes that is in fact lightning crackling around our heads.

More than inclement, one might go so far as to call the weather decidedly moist. After last night's flirtatious precipitation, it poured with rain today, and I, Einstein, left my umbrella at work, where it is currently doing a bang-up job of keeping the carpet under my desk from getting wet.

I endured a talking-to from my flatmate on Friday in which he listed the liberties I had taken that were making him uncomfortable. These were of course the liberties I was invited - nay urged - to take when I first moved in. Highlights of the conversation were being told I suffer from depression, and the revelation, "Andrew I don't know if you realise this, but I'm very religious. I believe... in... God.". Of course you all know I'm all about personal faith, but this was spoken like they would on Touched By An Angel, except without the soft filters and warm lighting streaming down from above. I nearly laughed.

I'm currently engrossed in watching Under The Mountain, so I shall leave you all with this Tim-Burtonesque photo and the admonition, "Don't forget to floss". Oral hygiene is everything.

I think I'll try defying gravity

2007-08-11T01:45:00.000+12:00

Maurizio and I played in Centennial Park today. wheeeee

Look at this ad! I guess it actually is rather funny, as lord knows a strong New Zealand accent is sufficiently distasteful that I secretly feel pleased every time I'm told that I don't sound like a New Zealander. However, I have a patriotic duty to routinely protest, "Bastards!!!"

Monday was a bank holiday which they kindly omitted to tell me on Friday. When I turned up the few people there told me to go home as I would get paid anyway. This turned out to be untrue and I spent the rest of the week doing slavish long days to make up the hours.

It even ran me late going to see the Stephen Sondheim musical 'Into the Woods' on Wednesday. My sprint from Central Station to the theatre in Chippendale left me tasting blood and nearly dying from a rare asthma attack, but I got to see the show so that's all that matters.

Then during my aerial acrobatics class on Saturday I pulled a groin muscle doing a double speedball down the fabric. My tutor Leanne made lewd suggestions that I had done it earlier during an altogether different activity, but that's just one of the reasons why I love her. She makes me want to clunk her over the head with my club and drag her by the hair back to my cave.

I have a Fitness First cap the gym gave me when I started the trial membership that I eventually quit. I was trying to work out what I can do with it, and I might give it to my Dad. He can wear it and together they can be the universe's greatest irony.

(love you Dad!)

IT'S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT YOU, SHARON!!!

2007-08-05T14:53:00.000+12:00

Hallelujah I met Magda Szubanski! Of course to most of you she will be known as Sharon from Kath 'n' Kim, but in my mother's case, she is the farmer's wife from Babe.

On Friday night I went along by myself to see one of the final performances of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, starring Magda as an unnaturally intelligent yet fat and hostile 12 year old boy with a mucus problem. Can't you just imagine it? Well... in the picture below you can SEE it. (not my photo incidentally)

On the job front, I was fired last week. It had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with my project being cancelled, but still. Rude. However the next day I had a new assignment at a bank with a slight pay rise, and this time in the middle of town. Devilish commute begone!

My life here is very sedate. I only see Doug once a week and he's the only friend I have living in Sydney. I've met a few people in my time here but nothing stuck. Although yesterday I met a charming Englishman for an afternoon drink and we went to see Harry Potter in 3D. I wanted to reach out and touch them but then I remembered that I'm not 10 years old.

I think this graffiti painted by the bus stop was a message... and I have nasty feeling it applies to my whole life.

Eight legged freaks

2007-07-29T23:57:00.000+12:00

This magnificent beast nearly ended up on my face last night. He was as big as my hand. It's funny how a spider in the flesh doesn't bother me at all, but on television or even pictures of spiders in books make me wet my pants in fear. What's that all about? Someone... de-Freud that for me will you?

My horrible marketing job was dragging me inexorably into a slough of despair until Wednesday when I got a better offer from another agency. It takes an extra 40 minutes to travel but I'm happy, doing research and data-entry. Repetitive and snooze inducing, but I have space, freedom from pressure and I don't have to directly deal with people. The other staff here are rather boisterous and whenever a client is secured they strike a large, jarring copper gong. Each time I feel my inevitable death leap a year closer.

There is regular whooping, high-fives and the occasional tender embrace. I have been looking for signs of a cocaine supply but have not yet found it.

In the meanwhile, some sloppy moron keeps leaving talcum powder all over the bathroom and I am SO tired of trying to wash it off my clothes.

Anyway, after my first day of work I was feeling... 'happy'.

Okay... I'll give you a few seconds to get back up on your chair.

You done? Okay. I'll continue. Yes, I was feeling especially cheery on Thursday so I went out into town. I visited Slide on Oxford St and sat at the bar, pretending no one could see me as I savoured the heady air of the crowd's swirling reveries, needs and lusts. The seething mass of humanity can produce such tasty emotions...

I went to another club and danced for a few songs, and no one paid the slightest mind. In the words of Albus Dumbledore, "I don't need an invisibility cloak to be invisible". It was perfect.

I am taking aerial acrobatics classes twice a week in Marrickville which leaves me in more pain than I've ever known before. It's great and I love it. My tutor is a vivacious, purple-haired, gravity-defying angel on the fabric who comes out with things like "Of course I make it look easy. If I made it look hard, you'd all be f***ed."

I shall leave you with another of her gems, which I would like to you apply to your life. Chances are, you need it.

"What you're all doing - and it's working against you - is TRYING TO HOLD ON".

Away in a manger... DAMNIT!

2007-07-23T01:10:00.000+12:00

Am I the only one who finds this entrance to the family-oriented Luna park with those insane, carnivorous eyes and that inhuman row of teeth STARKLY terrifying???

I found work!! And it's about as fun as shoving bamboo splints underneath my fingernails. In fact I would much rather be doing that. I'm working on the phones, doing event recruitment for a marketing company and the man in charge is jovial enough but manages to make me feel so uncomfortable I sweat blood when he walks past. Okay so that might be a slight exaggeration, but only slight.

The one thing salvaging my will to live right now is the fact that I'm nearly at the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and it's just so jolly exciting. I've been taking a LOT of toilet breaks. If only Harry Potter wasn't so bloody thick, I'd shove it down my pants and smuggle it into the loo to read.

Today I saw a Buddha in a store window with a sign hanging around his neck, "I am 50% off". I guess being an enlightened one just ain't what it used to be.

And how in blazes did I get 'Away in a manger' stuck in my head? I hope it's not a sign that I'm going to have a virgin birth. They are SO two thousand years ago.

Hello possums!

2007-07-16T01:12:00.000+12:00

I'm at a loss for words. Three weeks and still no work. I can hear them at the agencies now, "Bloody New Zealanders. Think they can come over here and steal our jobs? We'll teach him... Let's offer him a really good job and then take it away. Then the next week we'll offer him the same job, and then take it away again. Yeah!!"

That's actually what happened.

Bastards.

On a lighter note, I met someone lovely early in the week. We wined, we dined... well actually we 'coffeed' but that just sounds lame. This is a picture of Mario and I crossing the harbour in one of the ferries. We watched a movie and ended up spending over 24 hours together, after which I left having had a great time, but feeling vaguely confused about a number of strange facts. Multiple cell phones... lots of money but apparently no definable job... expensive gifts at home...

The lad was an escort.

I'm quite flattered that he didn't invoice me...

It was almost Pretty Woman and I was almost Richard Gere. Which I don't mind... Richard Gere is ageing well, which is the best any of us can hope for really, isn't it?

This was the view from his apartment. It's noice, it's unusual, it's different...

One vague reprieve from discouragement was finding accommodation in a good part of town (the Paddington end of Woollahra) for half the price I should really be paying. It's a fully furnished room in an apartment with an older guy who is very accommodating. So much though, I feel I may have to say something his urge to indulge his pent-up paternal instinct on me. He's a talker with few social boundaries... and we allllll know how I feel about THEM.

Besides the standard Australian profusion of cockroaches, we have these beautiful birdies who come up to the kitchen window often and yell at us until we open the window and give them food. It's awfully endearing. If only they'd eat some of the cockroaches and at least make themselves useful...

Hello sailor...

2007-07-09T00:49:00.000+12:00

You can imagine my elation when I was called to say I had a job at a TV station starting on Thursday morning, not to mention my subsequent disconsolation when it fell through at the last minute.

Thankfully, visiting Sydney at that moment was my friend Cameron who I met a year and a half ago when his cruise ship was stopping in Wellington for a day. He took me out to a local house of chocolate worship where we gorged on sinfully divine delicacies until my woes were a distant memory. We had chocolate smeared all over our faces from rabidly licking the plates but we didn't care.
When the 5000 man US aircraft carrier boarded in Sydney, Cameron and I took to the docks to wave at sailors. After a leisurely stroll about the harbour (in which I took the preceding photos), Cam and I ventured to Oxford Street where I was introduced to a bevy of glamourous entertainers. In an overpriced bar/lounge I crouched in my chair like Quasimodo in the presence of Adonis and watched reticently the conversations unfolding about me. One of them was even called Angel. I felt like I was in RENT.

The night evolved into a blur of pop music, college dorms, Italians, dramas and a ragged journey home in which I got lost for an hour around 6am in a labyrinth of cold, unfamiliar streets.

Naturally, Cameron and I went out again on Friday night, this time with Doug, the friend I am staying with. I was the token sober boy, a role I am well accustomed to. This is Cameron on the left and Doug on the right.

In one of the evening's highlights, we shared a taxi with two insane Irish men, who possessed nigh unintelligible accents, and threatened to kick us out when they discovered we had no drugs to sell them. Puir sods.
I love that this smutty name is rendered in the Walt Disney lettering.

This week I redouble my efforts to get work. How it can be so hard in a city of this size is a mystery of Atlantean proportions.

Land ho...

2007-06-29T21:53:00.000+12:00

It was 12 o'clock noon on Sunday the 24th of June, less than four hours before my flight to Sydney and I hadn't started packing. Such a lack of organisation would strike panic into weaker hearts, but to one such as I for whom procrastination is a way of life, it seems only natural that I would wait until the last minute.

With much swearing and sitting on bags to get them shut, I magicked the contents of my room as you see it above into my two travelling bags. I said my fond farewells to Claire and Christina, my darling roommates of the last two months, and set off to the airport with Jarrad where I weaselled out of paying $80 for my "overweight" luggage.

Overweight indeed. It's just big boned.

The scene leaving Wellington was quite idyllic (as you can see in picture number two), as was the view of Sydney when we languidly circled in.

An old friend Doug Barry picked me up at the airport and I am staying with him and his partner Rick in the southern suburbs of Sydney. The weather has been moist, but I ventured out a few times. He took me to Oxford Street as I have always dreamed of seeing a gay. When we got there, they lined the streets in all shapes and colours of the rainbow. ... wait... rainbow... I just got that... Anyway, I wanted to point and take photos but he wouldn't let me.

A homeless woman asked for me for change, and I said "Honey, it's great that you've realised you need to take steps in a new direction but the only person who can change you is you." She looked unimpressed and walked away. Don't get me wrong, but some people charge hundreds of dollars for dispensing sound advice. The least she could have done was be a little grateful. Rude.

I will commence work next week (please God) and until then am enjoying the excuse to be lazy, although it comes with a great deal of Puritan guilt that I inherit from my frenetically industrious mother.

I shall post again when something happens.