I Heart Olomouc

Balloon seller at the Christmas markets. He has a cheeky grin!


During our stay in Prague, Anouska and I became increasingly tired of the 'big cities'. Since our trans-continental adventure began, we have craved authentic experiences. We got our wish in Vietnam and India, but in Europe it was harder to find. This is due to the highly developed nature of European cities and also because many European cities are geared towards attracting tourists, which basically means creating an artifical simulation of what is authentic. This is the reason we like to stay outside the city centre. Here, you get a better feel for a place. The pubs and cafes are where locals frequent, and as a result, you get better food, which is also significantly cheaper. My friend, Christina, hearing my plea to get away from the urbanised jungle, suggested we would find what we wanted if we visited one of the small Czech towns. After a search on the Lonely Planet forum, Olomouc kept coming up. People were commenting that it was a lovely, student town, cheap and untouched by tourism. It sounded almost too good to be true. So, we packed our things once again and caught a train out to the town that is apparently a modern utopia.


The hostel was called "Poet's Corner" and was on the 5th story of a building near the centre of town. Anouska unable to carry her her pack up, graciously allowed me to carry it as well as mine up for her. I cursed all the way up. When we finally got to the floor, having climbed innumerable step, I was expecting to see the St. Peter and the Pearly Gates, but all we found were more Australians. The hostel was run by ex-pat Australians. Unlike previous experiences, they were very pleasant and gave us a run down of the town and things to do and places to eat. It is also here that I met Jarrod, one of the employees from Melbourne, who was a kindred spirit in all things silly and who shares the same enthusiasm for 80's pop songs and the Beatles as I do.

"Hey Daniel, let's request "Come on Eileen" again! I don't know the words, but that doesn't matter".

Greg, the owner of the hostel is a mad ice-hockey fan. Every home game he rounds up his guests and takes them to see his beloved Olomoucs in a league game. The Czechs are masters at this sport. When Canada, the world champions lose, it is usually to these people. So we were expecting a good game. We found our seats, hugged ourselves tighly against the cold coming from the rink and sipped on our 1.5 Au beer waiting for the game to commence. Coming from a country where ice skating is a rare novelty and anyone who wished to pursue a career in it would be laughed at, I was amazed at the skill and dexterity these athletes displayed. I was also enthusiastic about the promise of brutality, of men being forced up against the barrier, in their mad frenzy to get the puck. The defining difference between a lot of sport in Australia is that it is fast paced. The game is divided into three periods of 20 minutes. The puck travels at great speeds, so it can be one down one end in a number of seconds. Being Australian, it wasn't long before my competitive spirit came out and I was cheering for the red-white Olomoucs and screaming at the opposition, calling them 'those wankers in blue'. The game lagged for the first half, but I didn't mind that too much as I enjoyed the cheap beer and the occasional man being squeezed into the glass. The second half yielded more entertainment with Olomouc holding out their lead against the blue wankers to take the game 4-3.

Anouska, taking an 'interest' in the sport.

Following the game, the group of travellers, consisting mostly of Australians, headed to a local brewery for a meal. Anouska and I ordered some potato pancakes and 3 pints, to go with the 3 we had already consumed at the game. From there, the group headed out into the snowfall to go to the best student bar in town, "Vertigo", which takes its name from the 1958 classic Alfred Hitchcock film starring Jimmy Steward and Kim Novak. It even has a print of the film on one side of the wall. It is a smokey, bohemianesque bar, which has 1.5 Au pints and plays a lot of rock and roll music from the 1960s. It was here Anouska and I further downed 3 pints, making the grand total of the evening 9. That is almost 5 litres of beer each. The night went from mild to wild when Jarrod and I initiated the trend of chair standing when "Come on Eileen came on". From here the night descended into a rowdy rabble with a group of very drunk Australians and Czech students dancing and singing along to classics. We went home as the sun was rising. I woke up feeling fine, despite the indulgance of the night before. Anouska however, could not manage to leave the hostel before late afternoon. We didn't learn our lesson obviously. Two nights there we were there again doing the very same thing.

Jarrod standing, me with a stupid face, Alex at the back and Simply Red in the foreground. He didn't like being called that, or being told (by me) that Simply Red is really ugly. I wonder why?


Judge for yourself.

If you're an architectural enthusiast like myself, you will find yourself leaving your travel companion to deal with their self imposed sickness to walk through the cobbled streets for a few hours to admire the design and beauty of the buildings and the statues of Olomouc. It is very similar to Prague with old Gothic buildings nestled in narrow laneways, except for one noticeable difference. Tourism has not touched upon the innocent beauty of this town. There is only one Macdonalds in the town centre and no Starbucks,

Burger King or Kentucky Fried Chicken. Where many cities have large metal structures twisted into indiscernible shapes and called "art", Olomouc has stuck with baroque stone structures, a mark of its cultural refinement. I think the true character of Olomouc comes out at night. Walking down the dimly lit streets is like being in a Franz Kafka story. The absence of neon lights in place of low watt floodlights brings out a nocturnal atmosphere that is unique to this place. The picture to the right emphasises the errie mis-en-scene that would probably occur in a David Lynch film, but which happens every single night here. But when one finds themselves separated from the drinking group at 4am in the morning, somewhat intoxicated and lost, the streets turn into a Gothic nightmare, where demons lurk in the shadows, the tortured facs of stone gargoyles seem almost alive and every face you pass stares at you in surreal disbelief. It might not seem so from the comment just made, but I am completely in love with this place. It is just so interesting. Give me some money and something to do and I would never leave.

Town Square at night.

You would not expect a small town in the Czech Republic would be home to an amazing cultural life. When you travel, you learn to assume a little less, because the world is so large and diverse, that anything is possible. The arts scene in Olomouc is like a university campus. Something is always on. If it's not jazz, then it plays, art galleries, independent films and tribute bands. They even have performance art at pubs. At pubs! I swear! Imagine seeing all that in Perth! I know, it's hard. And when you hear tribute band, you automatically think substandard, but the Doors group we saw was fantastic. The lead man came on stage, with long locks like Morrison himself, spoke to the audience in Czech and launched into an almost 2 hour set, doing the best impersonation I have ever seen. This little place in the middle of the Czech Republic with a population of 102000 should be renamed the cultural capital of Europe! It is absolutely brilliant.

I praise this place so much that the mayor should save his time and hand me the keys to the city now. If this place wasn't ideal enough, a paragraph concerning the cuisine will further promote this city as a modern day utopia. My favourite dish here was "Gossiping Aunt's Potato Pancakes", which was potato pancakes cooked with spinach, pork and cheese. The quality of the food overall is, like most things, better than in Prague. If Anouska wasn't drooling over pig knuckle, then she was exclaiming the culinary prowess of the pork stuff with cheese or the peach chicken. They not only make fine food, but sweets as well. Cafe '87 is home to the famous Chocolate pie, a delicious dark chocolate sensation that will wet your mouth and melt your heart. You can also pick up a lovely honey cake or even different cheeses covered with fruit sauces from the jazz club. There is an established dining culture here, which accounts for the reason why eateries can be found all over the city, from pubs to cafes to restaurants. Even one of the tea houses do food. I suspect the abundance of food is why Anouska has taken so well to Olomouc. I am very surprised that we have not gained any weight.

The perfect coffee companion.

Christmas is a time of friends and family. This doctrine is strongly followed in the Czech Republic. This can be seen in the festivities at the Christmas market of the town square. Hundred of small, wooden stalls are erected selling all kind of seasonal treats from hot wine punch to children's toys. The Olomouc christmas markets has a loving and warm atmosphere that I have never seen before. Families come to celebrate the joy of Christmas, while couples kiss under the lights. Old friends share a hot wine punch and pass on their season greetings. It is a beautiful display of human interaction. It is sad to think that if this kind of event was staged in Australia, it would be hijacked by drunked youths. I am glad to see that there are places in the world that Christmas still means something other than material gain. I believe we still practice that believe individually in Australia, but as a society the spirit of Christmas is nothing more than a excuse of excess.

Give me that one, and that one.

The Unbearable Coldness of Being (in Praha).

My poor frozen ear lobes.

Our bus ride from Amsterdam to Prague was 16 hours. For once Anouska let me sit by the window and I drifted in and out of sleep with my head hitting the glass as the bus rolled along through Germany. Some turks behind us played horrid Turkish pop music and the Germans complained about the seating arrangements. It was worse than the United Nations. When we arrived, it was the afternoon and I was as tired as I had been in a long time. Not just physically tired, but world weary. I was hungry as well and I felt, for the first time, like packing up my stuff and going home. When we got to "Hostel Elf" we had a long nap, which restored my energy and frame of mind. I suddenly realised I was in Prague, in the Czech Republic, home of Franz Kafka and a novel I am quite fond of, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". It is also a country where beer is so plentiful, that it is cheaper to buy beer then it is to purchase water. I have a child-like fascination when I arrive in a new place. I am excited like a dog being told WALK! After our nap, we hit the streets near the hostel and found a pub where we settled down for dinner and beer. One of remenants of communism in this country is that they state on menus the weight of the meal. This has to do with the now defunked rationing system. Displaying the weight of the meal on the menu is very deceiving. When we ordered a meal of 200 grams, we were not sure whether it was going to be enough. Should we order a side to accompany? What about an entree dish? These were questions we asked ourselves. Of course, that immediately changed when the dish was served. Instead of the menu stating "duck, potato pancakes and cabbage, 200 grams (which is what I had)", it should have said, "a fu&king big duck, served with a field of oil drenched potatos, with a large truck filled with cabbage. And this is a traditional Czech meal? How are they not the size of houses? How do their digestive systems survive against such a gluttoneous onslaught? I learnt after a few of these meals that the stomach is a miraclous thing. That after a while, you can get used to anything. By the end of our stay in Prague, Anouska and I could easy eat a meal like this, as well as downing several litres of beer with it. We were in the Czech Republic, where quality and quantity are not so different.

That aforementioned meal was just a small example of what is on offer in the Czech Republic. When I say small, I do not mean that there are a lot of different things to eat, but there are a few things that can be eaten a lot of different ways. Pork for example, can be served roasted, smoked, grilled, stuffed in dumplings, fried, beaten and wrapped in cheese and bacon, made into soup, crumbed and stuffed inside potato pancakes. Now I am starting to sound awfully like Forest Gump's friend Bubba. Lovely as their meat intensive diet may be, it was not long before we were crying out for vegetables. What I would have given for some beans, pees and carrots. I dreamt vividly of pumpkin, asparagus and brocilli flowing plentifully into my comically sized mouth. I would have even digested a large bowl of brussel sprouts and been thankful. One thing I would never tire of is the Czech potato pancakes. This food is a common side dish to traditional Czech meals. It is the most wonderful food imaginable. Words are terribly insufficent to describe the joy of eating this food.

The Czech people are blessed by God. They have the best beer in the world and it is also the cheapest, bar the odd Vietnamese draught beer. The Czech beer is exported throughout the world and is known for its quality. Despite having beer that is fit for Jesus to kick back with after a hard day at the office, they charge a pittance for it. The usual cost of a pint of beer is between 20 and 35 Crown, which works out to be 1.5 - 2.5 Au. That to an Australian is unbelievable. How are the Czech people not intoxicated all the time? Anouska and I found ourselves drinking much more than we usually do. Waitresses asked me if I wanted a beer with lunch and I found myself, more often than not, saying yes. A day wouldn't go past when I wouldn't consume at least 2 litres of it. Even if you are not a fan of beer, like Anouska was, you will find yourself falling in love with this heavenly elixar. I doubt very much that the exported product to Australia would taste as good, because the great thing about Czech beer is that most of it contains no preservatives. That's right! That means no feeling bloated and as long as you are hydrated, no hangover headaches.

The original Budweiser. Bohemian style.

The hostel we were staying at was, we learned too late, a party hostel, where scores of Eastern Europeans come to get very drunk and go to stripshows and prostitutes. Since it wasn't our scene and we spent our nights cooped up in our room. Of course, we were still privy to what was going on outside our room, because we could hear it very clearly. Like the nasally Australian girl, who was 4 foot 11 and wore novelty sized stillettos. As well as being a general loud mouth, she made breakfast very loudly at 3am after a night out. She also attempted to seduce every male there, despite having a 41 year old German boyfriend, 20 years her senior. Another colourful character was the French guy, Oliver, who looked like a neo-nazi, never left the hostel, drunk constantly and gave you filthy, murderous looks whenever you walked past him. I called him 'le asshole'. And who could forget those delightful, drunken Ukraines, who looked at pornography together on the public computer. Fun times, great people.

It snowed on the second day we were there. The city was dusted in icing sugar. It was the first time I had seen snow, but I think Anouska, who had, was more excited, as she open the window and grabbed handfuls of snow and said "LOOK SNOW!" as if I didn't have eyes to behold it myself. I have to admit though, that my child-like fascination did arise and it was not long before I joined her in moulding snow balls and throwing them. When we walked in to town that day, a few hours later, we were still amused by making snow balls and throwing them. Except, by this time, the snow has transmutated with dirt into a muddy mush. When I was a child, I remember watching cartoons where the snow looked so beautiful and light to the touch. No one told me that after a few hours of sunlight and exposure to dirt, it starts to look like runny dog shit from a very sick puppy. But when it stays cool enough after a snow fall, Prague looks magical. The picture depicted is of the town square. It is a poor indication of the je ne sais pas quality snow brings to the cobbled streets of Prague.

Icing sugar, not dog turd.

Prague is yet another example of a beautiful city marred by globalisation, turning our planet into a gigantic corporate cookie cutter. Praha, as it is also referred to, is known as the Paris of the east. It is gorgeous like Paris, but when you see McDonalds and Starbucks (I call it something else that sounds similar) every 100 metres, you start to question what makes a city unique in this ever-increasing capitalistic world. Surprisingly, the architecture, especially in the old part of town, is largely untouched by modern development. I spent half my time looking up at the wonderful buildings. The inner city is also very pedestrian friendly, which I admire. The streets are mostly too narrow for vehicles and they are cobbled. I am not sure why I love cobbled streets in a city so, but I think I am it might have to do with the old world romantic in me. I can envisage Franz Kafka walking along these streets on his way to the insurance firm where he worked thinking up the bizarre plots to his stories. That, in fact, is a sore point of mine. Franz Kafka memorabilia is every in Prague. I find it ironic they are making a lot of money out of someone they didn't give two hoots about in their lifetime, but now that he is a literary icon, they idolise him. They even have a museum. I didn't go, mainly because I didn't want to pay 10 euro to read biographical information on walls that I could in a book from the public library. How often do we hear the narrative of the unappreciated artist? Well here is one more to add to the long list. But I digress - back to the discussion on architecture. The town square, although littered with tourist traps like 8 dollar hot chocolates, is very impressive with its large expanse of cobbled stones and statues, with a very old astronomical clock on one side of it. For some reason tourists like to gather around the clock on the hour to see a very uninspiring clock performance. They like to film it and take photographs as well, just to capture that special moment when it went from one hour to the next. Out of the inner city, you notice the soviet influences a lot more because development in these areas took place after the Soviet occupation in 1968. I love Soviet buildings. It is not because I consider them aesthetically pleasing. Anyone with a sense of taste does not. They are, however, very good at stating themselves as functional and authoritive, which I suppose, is the whole point of communism. The Sovietesque state buildings are very intimating to look at, mainly because of their grandeur. Looking up at one of these buildings makes you feel rather small and insignificant. Again, this is the objective.

Nice town.

One magical, snowy day, Anouska and I decided to hike up to the Gothic-style Prague castle, situated on a hill by the Vtlava river. It was orginally built in the 9th century and rebuilt in the 12th. The "Guiness Book of Records" considers it to be one of the largest castles in the world at 570 meters in length and an average of about 130 meters wide. It was the seat of power for a score of different empires, including Bohemia and the Holy Roman Empire. It is a glorious castle, with a history that is likewise. The photograph here shows the St Vitus cathedral, which is situated within the castle. Its beauty matches that of the Notre Dame. The trek up to it was not arduous as Anouska would have you believe. It took us half an hour from the town square, but the journey was worth it. From here, you have an amazing vantage point of the entire city and the title, "Paris of the east", starts to make a lot of sense.

Lovely.

Absinthe has a myth-like status attached to it in Australia because, extract of wormwood, is illegal. I have always been curious to know what it is and how it affects you when you consume it. We first saw it in shops and on menus in Amsterdam. It was quite amusing to see Van Gogh´s image on some of the bottles. I doubt very much whether a chemically imbalanced, ear hacking man who later committed suicide is the best spokesman for their product, but if I could paint like him after drinking that, well, that might be a good selling point. A few people who have travelled have related stories of reckless and strange behaviour induced by this liquor, so we were determined to be responsible with it. I even googled it. It has quite the history. After a bacterium wiped out half the vineyards in Europe, wine became painfully expensive and only the very rich could aquire it. The middle class was looking for an affordable substitute and Absinthe was it. It was a popular drink, especially amongst the bohemian crowd. Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway were also very fond of it, as were a number of afluent painters. Now it was our time to try it. We purchased a small bottle from the corner store and smuggled it back into the hostel. In our room, we set up the scrabble board and begin to play. The internet informed me that it would make you intoxicated, while giving you a sense of clear headnesses. From scientific observation, this premise is incorrect. After five glasses I was just talking a bunch of crap. Anouska, who had less than me, was not amused. I made stupid jokes, laughed a lot and at one time started seeing colours move on the scrabble board. I even composed a poem, which was panned by my one and only critic, Anouska. I thought it was very good personally. It was about Absinthe, surprisingly, and I discussed my thesis through a number of ingenius metaphors such as pork legs that only speak Czech and missing ear lopes. It was rather inspired I thought, but then again, you can't please everyone.

Absinthe. Brought to you by Van Gogh's missing lobe.

Meet me at the Coffeeshop: adventures in Amsterdam.

Byronic man, deep in profound thought about the possibilities for lunch.

Warning: this blog entry contains references to drug use. As if you didn't know that.

The first impressions of Amsterdam is that it is a playground designed for men. The Red Light District in particular hosts an army of physical distractions; prostitutes, coffeeshops, sex shops and Absinthe bars. People come here to lose themselves in experiences that would end them up in jail in their own country. Studies indicate that the largest cliental of prostitutes are the English, a fact that surprises no one. Walking through this heaven of gratification could give you the distinct vibe that all Dutch people are filthy degernates. However if you walk a few hundred metres in any direction away from the Red Light District, you will come across the splendor of the canals, which are so idylic and pictureseque, you wished you lived here. Besides having an almost perfectly designed city with canals and streets co-existing in a grid like formation, the Dutch, like their fair-haired, Northern friends, are extremely socially progressive, have clean streets and have the best transportation system I have encountered with bicycle paths, trams, trains and buses, which make travelling a breeze. Amsterdam was the first city we neglected the transport system for old fashioned bi-pedal motion that our grandparents ensured they did over boiling tar roads. We developed our walking legs quickly with the one and a bit hours walk into the beating heart of the city, while watching the romantic canals unfold before us. To further add to the scene, Autumn had deposited a sea of brown leaves over the city, making the streets resemble the dull coloured beauty of a painting from one of the Dutch masters.

Very pretty.

Likewise.

Bicycles. A very uncommon site in Amsterdam. Ha!

Unlike our previous experience with the Parisians, the Dutch people are very homely. I wouldn´t call them down-right lovely, as their talent for sarcasm florishes like their tulips, but they have no hang ups about speaking in English, which I must say, they do better than the bastardised tongue that a lot of Australians use. Our curiousity as to why the people were so relaxed and placid was quickly answered when we saw a small a group of businessmen in a coffeeshop, smoking, at 10 in the morning. I hope they don´t ride their bikes afterwards. If people did that in Australia on a regular basis, conversing with them would liken itself to chatting to a lobotomy patient, but for whatever sociological reason, it works here. Let us not forget while the rest of the contient was in turmoil during WW2, these relaxed folk decided killing people was not their thing and remained neutral. Although they were occupied by the Nazis, their city was undamaged, so they invested money, not in rebuilding like the rest of Europe did after the war, but in establishing an envious economy. So, the lesson that can be learned from this is not only is peace desirable, it can be very profitable as well.

Do not operate while stoned.

One day we stumbled upon the Heineken brewery. I had heard that the Heineken tour, dubbed the `experience´, was well worth a visit. As soon as I saw the large neon sign on the old brewery building, I had to see it. Anouska was not very enthuastic. I pleaded and whinged to her like a spolit child until she caved in and agreed. Not only were you treated to the mechanics of mass-producing beer, you were also educated in the ingredients of the golden ambroisia. Then you got to taste it, which was by far the least educational and best part of the tour. Sure it was a 10 Euro extended advert for how good Heineken is, but a little doctrination every now and then cannot hurt, right? It was here that Anouska discovered that she quite enjoyed the taste and texture of beer (naturally under my guidance).

Never say never, Anouska.

Being in Holland, there is of course a gallery dedicated to Van Gogh. A receptionist at our hostel informed us how to correctly pronounced Gogh, which is basically by bringing phelm up in your throat (Gaaarrcckk). It is a terrific gallery, filled with apt descriptions of his work and his life. My appreciation for this mad genius increased manifold in the three hours that we spent there. His work is sublime and he has definitely cemented himself as one of my favourite artists. The staff also enforced a no photography rule, which made me so deliriously happy, I could have cried. Finally, here was a place where I got to concentrate and appreciate the work without incessant flashes distracting me and working me into a red rage. A few doors down was the Rijks museum. I found it to be rather small for the sum they asked for, which in any tourist destination of Europe is not an uncommon complaint. Despite that, there were some fantastic Dutch works. The draw card for the museum is Rembrant. I found myself less than impressed with his light and shadow work, which was, I am told, very innovative for the period. After our share of art, we went across to the Anne Frank Huis, where Anne, her family and four friends, hid from the Nazis for two years. After seeing the annex in reality, it is hard to image that eight people lived here for two years in secret, while people ran a jam business downstairs. They had to be completely silent during work hours to avoid detection. It is here that Anne wrote her now famous journal detailing her thoughts on Jewish persecution, the war and living in what can be described as a self imposed prison. They were sadly betrayed and the Nazis herded them into concentration camps, where they all perished, except for the father. After being liberated, he searched for his children, only to find they died from typhoid. He found the journal upon returning to Amsterdam and got it published post-humously and the rest is history. It was a very emotionally draining experience, but rewarding all the same.

Now, let me tell you a little story. I know some of you out there will enjoy it, but others will 'tsk' disapprovingly. But hey, you can't be in Amsterdam and not go to ...

THE COFFEESHOP.

Entering the coffeeshop was like transgressing into a stoner's room. It stunk like a bogan's party. Smoke hung lazily in the air, while a small group of stoned men loudly played a dice game in the corner. The bar attendant checked our passports and let us through an electronic turnstyle. We found a place to sit and took off our coats. Other people looked us over vacantly and returned to staring at the walls. Anouska turns to me and says,

"You do it."

"No, you."

"You know what to ask for."

"What, like I am experienced in this?"

So, I go up to the woman at the bar.

"Can I have two coffees please".

"Sure. Take a seat"

I try and supress a smirk. The thought of purchasing pot, especially in a cafe, is hilarious to me.

"Oh, and we'll have two joints and a lighter."

We pass the time smoking and pretending we are not absolute novices at it. After a while, I start to feel stoned and became fascinated with tandem figure skating on television.

"I wonder who makes their outfits. They must be very clever, because it doesn't interfer with their routine at all."

Several hours have come and gone since arriving and Anouska complains that she is so hungry that she will gnaw her arm off. I believe her. We head off to a kebab shop down the road, our mouths already wet from the prospect of the impending meal. Having a kebab shop so close to a coffeeshop in Amsterdam is criminal. We order kebab slices and wait 15 minutes to be served, which to a stoned, famished person, could as well be a year. It finally comes and it is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. I am now familar with a stoner's obsession with late night snacks.

"This is the best meal I have ever tasted," I said through a pile of masturcated meat.

"Every mouthful is like a moment of ecstacy".

After I had eaten everything on the plate, I start putting spoonfuls of mayonnaise on my plate. Anouska asks me what I am doing with it. I pick up my fork and start eating the mayonnaise sauce. When that is gone, I gather up some more and eat that as well. People in the take away shop don't seem to care, they must see this sort of behaviour all the time. We head back to the the hostel, our clothes are covered in the stench of skunk. Anouska let's the tap run while looking at her face. This goes on for some time until I break her out for it. We settle down to sleep and have the most vivid, colourful and disturbing dreams we have had in a long time.

The End.

By the second day in Amsterdam, I would have had friets, either by themselves or accompanied by a meal, about half a dozen times. I was in friet-overload agony. I didn't want to see another chip for as long as I lived. But the strange thing is, by the fifth day, I really started liking them. Once you break the friet-pain barrier, you're fine. It's not as if they taste bad or anything, quite the opposite. The Dutch make the best chips in the world. And they have every sauce you can think of to accompany them, but I stuck to their mayonnaise, which was delicious. If you liked deep fried food, than Holland is the place for you, because literally everything on the menu is soaked in a bathtub of oil. We stopped at a charming little cafe, where we had coffee, fried cheese sticks and meatballs. It wasn't the most nutrious meal, but it sure tasted good. Mostly, we stuck to more basic meals, like soups, out of fear that our stomachs would revolt against the the large quantites of fat we forced into them. Saying this, their take-way crumbed sausages are worth a visit to their take away chain, " Febo".

Big Mouth Strikes Again.

.

With the Dutch Christmas (5th December) approaching we are starting to notice the preparations for Christmas. The streets are decorated with beautiful lights and store´s merchandising stresses to the consumer the connection between love and spending. Children squeal with excitement and couples walk lovingly hand in hand. If you are in the Netherlands, you will also see Sinterklaas or St. Nicholas walk town the main road giving lollies to soon to be hyperactive children, with of course, his moorish helpers. That`s right! Sinterklaas doesn`t have have Elven helpers, he has black people. Obviously, the Dutch people have not caught onto the political correctness craze that has swept Australia. I am searching the internet trying to locate the origin of such a tradition, but I cannot find any information. I will assume that it dates back to colonial slave days. For all those screaming `bloody racists´, I have some more information that will further enrage you. The Moorish helpers are not black people. No,they are white people doing black face. Children coming to this event join in the fun by going black face themselves. I bet when they grow up, they will not think it is so`cool´to be the colour of the oppressed.

Australians are everywhere like a plague