Amsterdaming

What does one do for one of their last weekends as a Londoner? Go to Amsterdam, of course. Actually, it was coincidental timing - the purpose of the trip was a huge surprise girls weekend for a friend of mine.

Though it was my fourth time in the city, I had never been there with a local (well, a transplanted Vancouverite, but she has adopted Amsterdam with a vengeance) and it made for a wonderful weekend. We wandered the entire city and I never had to pull out a map. We ducked into little cafes (no, not coffee shops) for the best espresso every half an hour, it seemed. That is, when we weren't sampling the wine list in various bars and restaurants. The best was the Dylan Hotel, a gorgeous little boutique hotel with a large, yet cozy fireplaced bar that we propped up for awhile. (And this week, The Guardian named it the "blow-out" hotel on their list of the best hotels in Amsterdam.)

The shopping was slightly out of control in Amsterdam - I'm obsessed with all the little boutiques with so many small European designers that I'm not familiar with. I love buying clothes that I know I'm not going to have staring back at me on some other girl walking down my street in London. The shopping created quite an appetite which we satisfied in a great North African restaurant, where food was consumed while lounging on pillows and smoking sheesha. I had my tarot cards read - my future card was "ruin" and my friend's was "defeat". This charming fortune telling episode led to hitting the bar after dinner, an old Amsterdam institution called Hoppe.

The flight home was delayed by hail, which pelted the plane as we sat on the runway, watching the pellets fill the window frame. My friend was sitting next to the window and remarked that it didn't look very good, to which I replied, pointing at myself and the friend on the other side of me, "Well, you are sitting next to defeat and ruin. Seatbelt fastened?"

The Perfect London Weekend

You can't plan the perfect weekend, it just has to evolve. This one was particularly special, as I will soon not be a full-time Londoner - and also, I took the entire weekend off. No thesis. I needed it. What does the perfect London weekend involve?

Friday night champagne cocktails at the gorgeous American Bar in the Savoy. Followed by some Gordon Ramsay cuisine.

Saturday sleep-in followed by a good ole' English football game. Watched Fulham beat Reading at Craven Cottage, which included a spectacular walk along the Thames on the perfect autumn weather day. Saturday night was drinks at one of my locals with old friends I hadn't seen in far too long. Much catching up and howling about the indiscretions of our youth. (Something involving Spice Girls costumes, cheap red wine, and being pulled over by the police.)

Sunday - another crisp, fall day. I spent much of it wandering around Spitalfields Market with a friend. It's such a great place to find off-the-rack clothes by young designers for a fairly cheap price. I found a gorgeous little blazer and an equally cute clutch purse during my outing. Shopping was interrupted for the best eggs benedict in London, at Canteen. Now I've just finished an indulgent curry dinner and am settling in with tea and the weekend papers that are piled on my coffee table. And even more indulgent will be the brownie I'm also about to eat, purchased at Spitalfields. Because indulgent just suits this kind of weekend.

Rugby World Cup Final

I love Paris, I do. Couldn't possibly count how many times I've been there. Love the food, the wine, the culture, the shopping, but oh god do I hate French inefficiency. Every time I go, there is someone on strike and this last weekend for the Rugby World Cup Final was the worst I have ever experienced. Trying to get anywhere was a complete fiasco. I could regale you with tales of woe, but you probably wouldn't even believe me. So how about just this one? There were over 80,000 people at the match, most of them using public transportation. Guess how often the RER trains were running to get people home after the match? One per hour.

But the match was good fun - not the best match per se, but spine tingling moments during the national anthems and England's (almost) try. We had a wonderful lunch on the left bank and ate the requisite crepes and drank the requisite wine. Which I suppose, when it comes down to it, will always make trudging through whatever French strike is currently being played out, worth it.

War Photo Limited

Our Balkans guidebook mentioned a photography gallery in Dubrovnik called War Photo Limited, which we decided to check out one morning. It turned out to be one of the best places I visted on the entire trip. Down a small alley in the hustle and bustle of Dubrovnik's old town is this gorgeous photography gallery housed over two floors of a renovated building. The purpose of the works displayed is to show the true nature of war - both the innocents caught in the crossfire and the combatants thrown into the conflict. But the gallery space itself was also impressive to me, and clearly well thought out. The large rooms had crisp white walls that reflected the perfect light in an otherwise dark gallery. The photographs were large and imposing and the explanatory captions were not present next to the individual photographs, but rather displayed all together and out of the way. This made for a much greater impact, which is something I had never previously realized. Also on the wall in the main room was a large flat screen television screen which silently played war scarred images over and over - it was mesmerizing.

I was particularly taken with the photographs of Ron Haviv. His images of the Balkan war, such as the one pictured above, were startling and emotional after having spent almost two weeks travelling through the region and meeting so many of the lovely people affected by the violence. Welcome to Sarajevo indeed.

The Croatian Coast: Hvar & Split

The rest of our time in Croatia was spent in Split and on the island of Hvar. After more than a week of some pretty intensive city exploring, it was awesome to relax on the Adriatic coast and just watch the boats go by with a mojito in my hand. Split is basically just a pretty port, and a major hub for the ferries that troll up and down the Croatian coastline. But it is also home to Diocletian's Palace, which was built by the Roman emperor in the 3rd century AD.

An hour's ferry ride brought us to Hvar and we rented a cute apartment in the centre of Hvar Town. Suntanning on the rocky beach, sampling various restaurants and doing it up each night in the hotel bars along the harbour was basically how we spent our days. One morning we hiked up to the fortress that guarded the town, which provided spectacular views of the island. One moment on the island exemplified the gracious and friendly nature of all the Croatians we met on our journey: arriving back at the apartment, we found two pieces of homemade cake left for us by the landlady. Wonderful trip.

Stunning Dubrovnik

George Bernard Shaw called it "paradise on earth" and Lord Byron named it "the pearl of the Adriatic". Dubrovnik was staggeringly gorgeous and upon an hour of walking into the Old Town, we wished we had booked at least a week in the place.

The "pearl" part of Byron's description stems from the white marble everywhere - the streets, the steps, the buildings. In the day the sun gleams off it and at night the lights make the Old Town shimmer so we constantly felt like we were wandering through somewhere magical. Climbing the walls that surround the city provided one hell of a view and the photo above was taken from the very top of the fortified town. Close to our apartment was a gem of a place called the Buza - a rocky outcrop with steps leading into the Adriatic and a cool bar. Check out the gorgeous ocean in the photograph below - it felt amazing to swim in such clear, warm, deep water. And after our dip, we spent the rest of our day sitting here.

Mostar Bridge Jumping

We took what Lonely Planet calls one of the Great European Rail Journeys through Bosnia into Herzegovina as we left Sarajevo at 7am and meandered to Mostar. It was a very old, small train with just two carriages and huge, reclining seats. Apart from a couple of other backpackers the train was full of fifty and sixty year old fishermen carrying their poles and gear and smoking profusely the entire way. The countryside was gorgeous, though complete with moments of looking at precarious viaducts and thinking, "Surely, we're not going to cross that" and then crossing it a minute later while climbing through the Bjelasnica Mountains.

Mostar is famous for its Old Bridge (Stari Most), which was completed in 1567. From Wikipedia: Charged under pain of death to construct a bridge of such unprecedented dimensions, the architect reportedly prepared for his own funeral on the day the scaffolding was finally removed from the completed structure. Certain associated technical issues remain a mystery: how the scaffolding was erected, how the stone, egg and flour was transported from one bank to the other, how the scaffolding remained sound during the long building period. The Stari Most is believed to have been the largest single span arch bridge in the world at the time it was built. As a result, this bridge can be classed among the greatest architectural works of its time.

Then in 1993 the Croat Nationalist Forces destroyed the bridge during the Balkan War. Much of Mostar was destroyed and remains evident with various warnings posted around the town. The bridge was painstakingly rebuilt over the next decade and re-opened as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It certainly was something to behold and both sides of the Neretva are dotted with restaurants and cafes so we spent almost our entire time in Mostar staring at the bridge. Young men amuse the tourists (and line their pockets) by jumping into the river below. It was quite a production to watch. First, one jumper stands on the bridge clapping his hands and looking like he is about to dive off. As a crowd gathers, he then climbs down and approaches everyone for money. When enough is collected, he makes way for the real jumper who has been standing to the side, pouring huge bottles of cold water over his body so as to ease the shock of the river water when he jumps. Then jumper #2 gets up on the bridge and leaps off it. See the video I took for a quick example.

Falling in Love with Sarajevo

I fell head over heels in love with Sarajevo. The city has one of the best vibes I've experienced - families were out with their kids eating ice cream and wandering the streets at 10pm and the bars were teeming with young people drinking cocktails and Sarajevsko beer. For the first time, the mosque's call to prayer didn't sound like a mournful echo (as I had experienced in Cairo and Dubai recently) but felt joyful and raditated through the city. The mosques were lit up at night, like in this photograph, and the old town (Bascarcija) sparkled.

I would assume that a good part of this vivaciousness felt in Sarajevo is due to the relief that the wars of the 1990s, which so devestated the city, are over. The conflict certainly did not snuff out the spirit of the Bosnians, who we learnt quickly are some wonderful, friendly, engaging folk. When we entered the Bascarcija, where we were staying, we found a maze of alleys and streets with sparse signage and soon found ourselves lost. It was teeming with rain and upon approaching a woman for help deciphering our map, she not only took us directly to where we wanted to go, but insisted on giving us her umbrella.

We spent hours wandering the streets of the Bascarcija, stopping for Bosnian coffee which is always served in a gorgeous copper pot, chatting with locals, and shopping for some copper ourselves in the copper alley where we watched men beat the copper into various objects. A geeky historical highlight was standing on the Latin Bridge where Franz Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated, sparking World War I in the process. A reminder of the more recent war was found throughout the streets of the city in the form of the Sarajevo Rose. Where a mortar shell exploded, killing civilians, the indentations in the sidewalk or street left behind have been symbolically filled in with red paint.

Opera & Bathing in Budapest

I'm sadly back from the Balkans...what an incredible trip. I'll slowly get to everywhere I travelled through, starting with Budapest. The city has been near the top of my European city destination list for years now and I'm glad that I finally got there, yet remained somewhat underwhelmed by the place. Part of the problem may be that I discovered very quickly that I dislike Hungarian wine, but really, I felt sort of sorry for the city. It's economic situation has been highlighted by the riots of recent years and it shows - so many abandoned and run down buildings that look like they should be prime real estate. But the Hungarians were friendly folk and I spent a great day wandering Castle Hill on the Buda side of the Danube. Walking the Széchenyi Chain Bridge was one of those things I have been waiting to do for years and I also took the funicular railway to the top of the hill, which was cute. The photograph is of the gorgeous Fisherman's Bastion reflected in the window of the seriously ugly Hilton hotel.

The two highlights of my stay in Budapest were going in the Gellért Thermal Baths and then spending the evening at the Hungarian State Opera House seeing La Traviata. How much was my centre balcony ticket? $4.60 Cdn.

World Press Photo 07

I was wowed by the World Press Photo Exhibition 07 today. So many startling images - from fiercesome leopard seals munching on penguin carcasses to David Beckham immediately after a Real Madrid game to the preparation of a child's body for burial in war torn Sri Lanka, it was astonishing. I particularly loved the breakdancing shots in Paris by Denis Darzacq - you can see the whole series here. The photo below is by Arturo Rodr’guez, who was shooting one of the most popular Tenerife beaches as boats of exhausted, dehydrated, and dying African refugees washed up on the shore.

It reminded me of Sontag's theory of photography as an act of non-intervention. She writes: "Part of the horror of such memorable coups of contemporary photojournalism as the pictures of a Vietnamese bonze reaching for the gasoline can, of a Bengali guerrilla in the act of bayoneting a trussed-up collaborator, comes from the awareness of how plausible it has become, in situations where the photographer has the choice between a photograph and a life, to choose the photograph. The person who intervenes cannot record; the person who is recording cannot intervene." (On Photography)

Good Morning Humphrey

I'm making a concerted effort to take my camera out and about with me. Today, I actually took it out on my run. I run in Hyde Park most mornings and on my way from the flat to the park, I pass by a house with the loveliest dog who likes to hang out on the balcony. I've been calling him Humphrey for the past few months, as I think it suits him.

The New Forest

I used to live with a girl who nicknamed me "City". As in (and this is verbatim), "Oh you're so painfully city. Do you have anything in your wardrobe that isn't black or from Saks and oh please can I have a double espresso?" I enjoyed the teasing because this girl was a sweetheart and also because it's fairly accurate. Just the other day I was commenting to someone how foreign it would feel to not be able to walk out my front door, stick out my hand, and have a cab stop. Basically, drop me in the middle of Manhattan and I'm in my element. Drop me in the middle of a suburb and I start to get nervous. Drop me in the middle of the countryside surrounded by cows and sheep and I don't have a clue.

That's why the past couple of days have been interesting. I've been meandering around the New Forest, where my father grew up. As a kid, this part of the world both fascinated and terrified me. I loved the idea of wild ponies wandering around but not having a clue, stood directly behind one when I was about ten years old. The bruising from the kick lasted for weeks. I still love the wild ponies, especially now as I know to stay the hell away from them, and this little fellow was actually the pet sheep at the manor house where I stayed.


One other note: I came across this small, handmade memorial in the middle of the New Forest, honouring the servicemen of the 3rd Canadian R.C.A.S.C. On this spot, this battalion held services from April 14, 1944 until D-Day when they went off to land on the beaches. The New Forest was an ideal location to prepare for the invasion - lots of ground cover and easy access to the English Channel. The little memorial was very moving and while I always think that the Canadian government should do more to honour our war dead and veterans, the handmade touch to this little spot seemed just perfect.