Lost In Translation

Randolins Backpacker and Hotel, St Moritz Switzerland. Breakfast includes “ovumtine” and “good nuts”. This may be a case of things getting lost in translation, but one thing for sure is no-one wants dried gonads for breakfast.

Quite frankly if a woman’s ovaries are discharging a dry brown powder one should firstly see their doctor immediately and then apparently collect it in a tin and serve it as a warm milk beverage.

Switzerland, in some regions does not openly welcome tourists. St Moritz does not allocate many resources to translating signs, local information or menus, if there is a translation it is most likely to be in Italian – the nearest neighbour is the Italian city of Turin.

The first language of Switzerland is Swiss-German. Not in St Moritz. Here they prefer to speak a hybrid of German and Latin. Not even doctors speak Latin anymore. The second language is the national tongue then Italian. English is treated with derision, disappointment, disgust and pity.

It should also be noted that information printed on signs, timetables, posters, brochures and books – no matter how recently it was published – should not be taken as the truth, rather it is a mere suggestion of what events and services are available.

Buses will run at different times and on varying routes. Places of business may be closed regardless of their advertised opening times. Signs tell you that retailers only accept Swiss Franc. This is true unless a consumer offers them Euros, in which case the prices are often much cheaper,

They do however only give change in Swiss Franc.

Unless you are travelling with an abacas and a slid-ruler do not try to calculate the conversion rates utilised by the sales assistance as it seems to alter between the time they quote the prices and the time they present you with the change.

St Moritz, the whole town is merely a rough guide, a representation of itself. On the signs at the entrance to the town it should say Welcome to St Moritz*^.

*Serving suggestion only

^ Conditions apply

darren freak

I Survived!

Lleyton Hewitt made news on September 11 for not being in New York when the World Trade Centre’s twin towers were hit by planes in what is one of history’s most famous terrorist attacks.

He had flown out and in fact was not even in the country at the time the attack occurred. Considering I was in the country when the devastating floods hit Quuensland and was even in the same state when the less devastating but still serious flooding hit Victoria, I am counting myself as a survivor.

I can’t wait for Kochie and Mel to knock on my surprisingly dry front door.

Using the Hewitt logic I also survived the 2007 earthquake in Peru, in as much as I had tickets to travel to Peru in the same year. The upside of earthquakes in Peru is they lead to the discovery of more Inca ruins and relics.

I also have survived the droughts of southern Africa. When white-water rafting along the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe my tour group admired the amazing cliffs that stretched as far as the eye could see, only to be told by the guide that “it is very sad that we say that as we should be admiring raging waterfalls for as far as the eye could see.”

I also survived both the 1983 Ash Wednesday bush fires in South Australia and the 2009 Black Saturday bushfires in Victoria. During the former I sat on my inner city suburban front lawn in my pyjamas watching the line of fire across the top of the Adelaide Hills. During the later I took a leaf out of former Chief Commissioner of Police Christine Nixon’s book and went out for a meal. I left my apartment in the CBD and went to a Queen Victoria Market cafe and had two ham and cheese croissants at $4.50 each. I remember thinking that the smell of smoke interrupted my alfresco dining experience.

I was closer to danger than Lleyton Hewitt.

I am a survivor.

I also survived a meteorite landing at Lake Titicaca, Bolivia. Sure I was in Princeton, New Jersey, USA at the time but I was meant to be there. I was booked to visit the region for a week after walking the Inca Trail and snorkelling around Galapagos Islands. I changed my travel plans last minute (I can neither confirm nor deny that this change of plans was to chase a lady friend).

The point was I was meant to be on the lake and therefore evacuated at the time of the meteorite strike and I had not told anyone about my change of plans so had to keep up appearances of being there, being evacuated and living in emergency accommodation. I continued writing my daily holiday blogs as if I was.

I can tell you the volunteers and fellow survivors staying in my imaginary shelter were all very pleasant and helpful. The bed comfortable. The food, whilst somewhat bland was plentiful and nutritious. In fact it was all much better than where I actually stayed where I shared a single mattress and all food came with a side of fries. Even a plate of fries came with a serve of fries.

People in South America also understood me more readily than their Northern American cousins. In Peru and Bolivia they speak Spanish. In America English, however unless you have the same accent as them you may as well be speaking double Dutch, it is all Greek to

them. Even many television shows where all the characters are clearly speaking English, the slightest hint of an accent will result in the provision of subtitles..

Although no plane on which I have been a passenger has being flown into a building I have been told by the pilot of a plane departing Adelaide, via the intercom that “this flight will be delayed slightly as it received maintenance on the landing gear in Melbourne this morning that we are not happy about. Relax and enjoy your flight.”

I have also had a pilot loose the airport, not the luggage – the airport. We landed in the correct city but mistakenly the pilot chose the domestic airport for an international flight which just left flight and ground crew confused and the passengers stranded.

I have also survived the disaster of Hog’s Breath Cafe running out of steak. It is a steak house, steak is pretty much all they sell. That is like Bakers Delight running out of bread or a yiros/souvlaki/kebab shop running out of whatever it is that they cook on the long stick and tell the customers is meat.

As I said, I am a survivor.

The Real Salzburg

From the outer courtyard of Festung Hohensalzburg which guards over the historic city below, the awnings, spires and monuments each adorned with a turban of snow, Salzburg appears as an artist’s impression of itself. Walking the winding path that alternates from asphalt to cobblestone under foot it all feels real enough.

Nonnberg one of the world’s oldest functioning convents, made famous in “Sound of Music, the cold hard bricks as stoic and ancient as its inhabitants prove to be nothing more than a façade to the warmth of the nuns worshipful song that emanates though its doors and windows.

This is not the only façade in Salzburg, birthplace of Mozart. 47 percent of the city was destroyed during 15 bombing raids during World War 2, when the Allies weaponry was not as pinpoint accurate as today’s military. Despite architects and stonemasons recreation of the city showing amazing attention to detail, the city is an artist’s impression of its former self.

A forgery. Replica.

Reminiscent of the codes in a Dan Brown novel the city keeps its secrets by putting them out in full view. One just has to pay attention to the details. Interpretive signs include phrases such as “copy” or “print” guides will tell you that artefacts are “of the period” or “in the style”.

Another sign of the lack of authenticity are the prices. While in other European cities museums, palaces and galleries all charge admission. Salzburg the vast majority have free entry. The subtleness of this clue is in its audacity.

Mozart, arguably Salzburg’s most famous son has his own museum. Mozart Geburtshaus, his birthplace, in keeping with the Salzburg style is full of artefacts that represent the history of Mozart and his family. The violin, has been confirmed by Mozart’s sister to be the same make and size as the actual violin Mozart received for his 6^th birthday – without being the actual violin Mozart received for his 6^th birthday. Similarly there is a piano that is described as “similar to the one Mozart owned”.

The four locks of hair sealed in Perspex cubes are accompanied by a sign declaring that DNA evidence proves that three of the samples do indeed come from the same person, but can not confirm that they came from the famed composer’s head or the head of any of his relatives. By omission this sign also tells visitors that at least one lock of hair is nothing more than, well just a lock of hair.

What is real is the hot drinks served at the Geburtshaus café. The hot chocolate is served with a spoon that can stand up in the “drink”. More like a meal than a drink it is like warm pudding mix just before it sets.

Reality can also be found in the much shunned and slightly kitch Sound of Music tour. Although not geographically fitting together as they do in the multi Oscar© ward winning movie, the rotunda, the fountain, the abby (both the actual abby-Nonnberg and the church shown on film Mondsee Cathedral) Leopolskron Castle (Captain von Trapp’s home) and so much more. The laughs and singing are all real on this tour. Apple strudel at St Gilgen will become one of your favourite things.

The residents of Salzburg are also real and so is the beer and the Augustinerbräu Kloster Mülln is a real mix of both. Consisting of three halls each the size of a basketball court furnished with rows of long wooden tables where patrons can sit with approximately 200 of their new best friends on equally long wooden benches – Hogwarts dining hall except the magic here is real. In total this is a mammoth beer hall hosting up to 2000 guests at a time The menu is simple: bread, dip, cheese, roast chicken and sausage. And beer. Beer is sold by the litre in steins patrons wash for themselves in a fountain. There are people in traditional costumes, chinking of steins, singing of traditional folk and dancing. This beer hall is everything Hollywood producers tell us European beer halls once were. Regardless of age or language, the social connection in this place is real

Salzburg was once an extremely wealthy principality, due mainly to its salt mines, and its wealth is evident, in the quality of its replications; its boutique retail strip, RezidenzPlatz, its fortress or Rezidenz Palace.

Although many of the furnishings and fittings are replicas and recreations, Rezidenz the former home of the Prince Archbishops of Salzburg is pure opulence. Now one of Austria’s premier art the the furnishings and décor make the Marriott Renaissance Hotel Royal Suite in Dubai look like a shack. The ornate heaters alone would be worth more than a modest inner city apartment in many of the world’s capital cities.

To escape your own reality venture to Salzburg for a few days to experience reality of a different kind.

Same But Different

The world never ceases to amaze me. International technology designers have come together to agree on the shape and size of USB ports. The computer companies agree the manufacturers of external gadgetry agree, everyone agrees. They are all the same.

Their also appears to an international agreement about the size and shape of batteries. Whilst the agreement is inclusive of a wide range of battery sizes and differences in the amount of power they contain, there is still universal acceptance of these differences.

Airlines have also managed to agree on the size and shape of boarding passes and the basic information they must contain. A Qantas boarding pass fits into the scanning system for FinAir.

Visa, I would never leave home without it because again amazingly it works in every country, even countries that have a GDP lower than my personal credit limit.

Coke can get its brand, packaging and flavour the same all around the world. The consistency of MacDonalds although slightly alarming is also reassuring. When in a country where it is important to learn the word “testicle” just in case it appears on a menu it is comforting to know that $10 of fat and sugar is in the shape of a burger and fries. Supersized of course.

What amazes me most though is that despite all of this consistency we cannot agree on electrical sockets. I carried three different adaptors on my recent holiday, only to discover I was one short. How hard can it be to agree on the number and shape of a few holes in the wall.

While I am on the subject it was most disconcerting to discover “Vienna” is really spelt “Wien”. When did the English speaking world decide that Austrians were not clever enough to either spell or pronounce the name of their capital correctly? Who are we to decide that what the name really needed was an extra n and a? And who is to say that we have these letters spare that we can be giving them away so freely?

Surely if it is “Wien” then that is what the whole world should call it? There are plenty of other cities that suffer this same challenge. I do not mean mispronunciations like Americanised “MelbORne” or “UStralia” I mean changing the name to something similar but completely different.

Also why do Europeans change their computer keyboards, swapping the positions of the “z” and the “y”? Perhaps they are just getting us back for the whole Vienna/Wien debarcle.

Oh the humaitz!

A Right Royal Pain

My grandmother describes cold weather movement similes; most frequently nippy or brisk. If that is the case then Austrian winters are like an Olympic sprinter. Gloves designed for Australian winters are only suitable for indoors when visiting the Continent. Australian beanies are no better.

It is so cold in Austrian winters, and as I will discover later on my journeys in other areas of Europe, that I would not be at all surprised if maternity wards at the end of each summer/beginning Autumns were closed.

The weather causes a lot of shrinkage, even inside thermals. Getting ready for a shower I scared myself when catching a glimpse of my mangina in the mirror. Most alarming was that I had not tucked anything between my legs! How a man stays “upright” in such chilled conditions is unimaginable – even having seen the beauty of their women?

It could be argued that sex is of course a great way to keep warm in such extreme conditions. Exercise and sharing body warmth are both proven ways of staving off the cold. Emperor Joseph proved this to be true siring eleven children.

Making this reproductive feat all the more impressive his wife was originally his cousin and she did not love him. Throughout the duration of their marriage his wife acquired her own apartment within the palace, earned her own income and spent her life travelling abroad leaving the Emperor to hear of her whereabouts through the press.

Despite his own intestinal marriage - traditionally the way of English royalty and Tasmanians the Austrian Empire expanded its territories through marriages not war. Maria Antionette, wife of Napolean was the favourite daughter of Joseph. Of course she did not enjoy the same favour in France where she was ultimately beheaded. This marriage did not acquire new land for Austria it did however prevent losing some land.

Other marriages expanded the Austrian borders into Hungary and Bulgaria and saw it gain favour with the British Empire. Whilst Joseph was busy earning the favours with the marriages of his children the Empress was gaining favour of her own, mainly with Bulgarian aristocracy and royals. The death of one Bulgarian prince reportedly caused her much personal grief. Now if only New Idea was in existence then to record the lurid details and saucy photographs of their affair.

The Austrian Imperial family, in its history also played a part in bringing down the Roman Empire, a marriage here a divorce there. Either way you know the Romans blamed it on the in-laws.

Mozart played for the Empress in her private suite, her court, within Schloss Schönbrunn. A grand palace which once housed over 1600 people with opulent interior design and extensive grounds including Europe’s first zoo and a guard tower from which one can see all of Vienna.

Mozart first performed to the royal court at the age of six. At the age of six I had not yet mastered the building of a Lego car good enough to show my own mother let alone compose and perform arias to royal houses.

Embarrassingly I injured my foot within the palace. The balls of the big and little toes on both feet, nothing specific just general soreness and tenderness. Just from walking around the palace and its grounds. Not even extreme power walking, more of a meandering wander. In the last four years I have trekked the Namibian desert and South African savannah and climbed the Inca trail in Peru. I do not own a car so travel everywhere within my home city on foot, all without incident. I spend a lazy afternoon strolling through a palace and am left lame for days.

Roommates

Throughout my holiday I had more than one moment of concern about my own levels of personal hygiene. In the first 48 hours of arriving in Austria I had five different roommates. One of those only shared the room for six hours.

Is there something people are not telling me? Do I have spinach in between my teeth? Do I have BO?

Talking of which I did share with one Iranian man who did suffer from the worst BO I have ever experienced. It hung in the air like ash from an Icelandic volcano and caused just as much disruption.

This man’s BO you could tell when he was in the room from the moment you walked through the front door of the hostel. Despite the fact our room was on the second floor right at the end of the corridor, it was easily detectable. Over the aromas emanating fro the kitchen. Over the stench of stale cigarette smoke from the smokers pit in the foyer. Over the combination of sweat, hormones and cheap deodorant worn by the teenagers on school based ski camps. This man’s offensive perfume was detectable throughout the three storey four winged hostel.

His perfume was a mix of four ingredients; sweat, feet, halitosis and faeces.

I should not complain too much as his BO did have two positive effects. Firstly it successfully replaced my with a feeling of constant nausea, so although not pleasant it was effective in helping me lose a little weight. Secondly as a long time insomniac the gaseous emissions did knock me out. Cold.

I wonder if this is what the coalition of the willing meant when they talked about WMDs? Whiffs of mass destruction.

The other recurring problem I had throughout my vacation was snoring. The antidote to the slumbering affect of BO snoring can keep one awake for hours.

The worst snorer I came a cross was in St Moritz. It was a noise that sounded as though he had inhaled some of his bedding and piece of linen was still stuck in his throat. Ironic considering my head was full of thoughts of forcing the entire duna/quilt/duvet down his throat. I tried making loud noises. I tried lobbing items at his person I even resorted to yelling, all in a vain attempt to wake him up slightly to break the snoring pattern.

It worked to a point. He did wake up slightly and he did roll over. Unfortunately he snored equally loudly whether he be on his back, side or stomach.

I barely survived one night with the one man freight train, asking to swap rooms for the following night. The hostel staff obliged, without telling me the jack-hammer was departing that day. I readily changed room leaving my one snoring companion forever behind me only to move into a room with three snorers.

Interestingly they operated like a gang of schoolyard bullies. The leader snored, and as if in an attempt to intimidate their victim, (me) the other two echoed the snore of their captain. Bullies get their sense of power from the cowering of their chosen victim. Research has shown that if people stand up to the bully there may be an initial elevation in the violence but it soon subsides and the bullying ceases as the leader loses their sense of power.
I did yell and raise the ire of the lead snorer as I woke him. After a few cross words and what I can only assume were profanities – it is very hard to maintain a verbal argument whilst laying horizontal in bunk beds on opposite sides of a darkened room when the two protagonists speak different languages. It worked though. He stopped snoring and very soon after the exhaling rumblings of his stooges also ceased.

Stories and Silliness from the Snow - Back to the future

Travelling from Australia is unusual in as much that to get to most destinations a traveller must travel back in time. Travel west and the time travel is incremental usually in one hour blocks. Even Perth finds itself up to three hours in the past compared to the cities on the east coast. Travel east and not soon after New Zealand and suddenly a traveller loses an entire day as the international dateline is crossed.

On a previous holiday time stood still when I had three flights from three different countries and they all departed at 3pm on the same day. Don’t worry about jetlag, this sort of experience does your head in. Coming back to Australia from the east is no better as a 24hour flight takes up to 48hours by the clock. Coming back across the dateline and a n entire day just completely disappears.

In both examples I am left with the worrying philosophical dilemma “did I actually exist”. If I completely missed a day am I really one day younger. If I take off at 3pm arrive at 1pm on the same day did I have a “Groundhog Day” moment? Did I get a do-over? If a plane lands before it takes off did it ever fly at all?

I suggest this problem of the time-space continuum should be investigated more thoroughly, particularly as part of any carbon emissions debate. If the plane never really flew then it never really emitted any carbon.

On the upside, for business people with poor time management taking a flight to Perth every once in a while is a creative way of getting an extra few hours into your dairy to finish a task or two.

If travel was a classroom, then travelling west is like a teacher who gives you a few extra minutes to finish the page of maths, only to take the time away again (travelling back east) by keeping you in at lunchtime.

Travelling east is more like when the whole class does not understand the concept as so the teacher decides to start over from the very beginning – just before surprising the class with a surprise Saturday detention. Your weekend inexplicably disappears.